What do you do when all of sudden it’s September, and you just feel fall coming? It’s dark now by 7:30, there are no more cherries in the market, nor apricots, and there is actually a chill in the air when the sun goes down. Yes, fall is a-comin’. And I think I am ready for it. I actually love autumn, the change from the sweltering days of summer, to the frosty days of winter. Those nubby sweaters packed away in my closet are looking more and more tempting.

But every summer I feel a little sorrow. As much as I love those hearty autumn squash, and root veg in all its many incarnations, it is tough to say so long to my beloved berries and stone fruit. It throws me into a bit of a panic. And when I get thrown into this panic I begin to cook. Some people need a stiff drink, I just need a Santoku knife and a saucepan. So here I am trying to cook the foods that exemplify the summer, a little late in the season, and that to me means semi-not cooking– or making a salad.

There were beautiful little, pimply Kirby cucumbers at the market, a small bunch of shockingly pink radishes, and a crisp red onion. That spells summer salad to me. Now sure, I could simply make a neatly chopped salad from these three ingredients. But I needed substance. I needed lentils– French lentils to be exact. Substantial, nutty yet mild in flavor, these lentils hold up well during the cooking process, giving the salad the body that I craved.

Simmered for half an hour in some chicken broth and whole garlic, the lentils were buttery and smooth. Mixed in with crispness of radish, the crunch of the cucumber, the punch of the red onion, and the tang of a homemade Dijon mustard-Balsamic vinaigrette, this salad was the perfect antidote to quell my seasonal jitters. If you’re feeling a little jittery yourself, I highly recommend getting into the kitchen, and making this substantial salad before summer is gone for good.

There is a cake in Handler family lore, so delicate and eggy it is only spoken of in delicious memories. Baumkuchen, a peculiar-looking, cylindrical confection, German in origin, labor intensive, requiring not only a special post on which to bake it but a particular oven to bake it in, was a special treat for me while growing up. There was a lone bakery in San Francisco that made this cake of cakes, and we would make the special trip to the city just for this baked good. But alas, all good things must come to an end, the bakery closed down, and Baumkuchen was only a sweet memory.

That is until last week. I spent the afternoon exploring Chinatown. So many amazing shops, fish markets, and nooks and crannies, with labyrinthian streets that only seemed to stretch for miles, I could happily get lost here for hours. And I did. I stumbled into a Japanese shop, and was looking at all of the sweets (as I always do), when there it was. Prepackaged (but still!), in mostly Japanese writing with the lone German phrase of my dreams– Baumkuchen!

With its layers resembling the rings of a tree, hence the name, this delightful vanilla sponge cake is simple in taste though complex in making. I had to buy a small slice, even if I was unsure of the flavor. Prepackaged baumkuchen? But baumkuchen none the less. I raced home, only stopping to buy a pint of heavy cream to whip for the topping.

And how was it…was it all that I have dreamed of for so many years? You know how certain people say that even bad pizza is good, the acid of the sauce, and the goo of the cheese? Well, I guess I’m sort of like that with baumkuchen. Moist, delicately flavored, with a springy consistency, though slightly stale, mounded with cream I could almost imagine being back in San Francisco in that little bakery. Mmm, round cake… stale or not, I will definitely be back for more.

Call it the indiscretion of youth, but as a child, I could be known as an odd eater. It all started with hot dog skins. I ate just the casing, and left the succulent meat behind. I loved fat, and would routinely collect the bits cut off the pork chops my mother made for dinner. (And no, I was not an obese child!) I would never touch meatloaf, telling my family it was unnatural to eat meat molded to resemble a loaf of bread. The list goes on. But now in my advanced years, my opinions of food have certainly changed, and I for one cannot get enough of meatloaf.

And it makes the best leftovers! Stacked into a triple-decker delight, a club sandwich if you will, sandwiching some rich, scallion laced mashed potatoes, meatloaf makes an almost better meal the next day. Yes, it is true that here I am taking the “meat resembling bread” ideology to a new extreme, but with a meal as comforting and simple as meatloaf and mash– why not?

I was watching PBS last week, and a cooking show came on, showing Michel Richard making a compacted Napoleon of sashimi grade tuna, and roast loin of veal. It was his take on the classic Vitello Tonnato. The show inspired me, not to make his Vitello Tonnato Napoleon, but rather a slightly less hoity-toity stack of goodies– a layered club of meatloaf and mash. I wonder what Chef Richard would think of that…

Now some of you may be asking yourselves, wouldn’t it just be simpler to spoon the potato onto a plate; doesn’t she have to take this sandwich apart before eating? And I guess I would have to say, where is the fun in that? Sometimes it’s necessary to keep that bit of fancy in your food. Even if it is only for meatloaf and mash.

Tart from the lemon, sweet from the fresh figs, smooth from the cream, and spicy from the chiles. This pasta dish can be described using any one of these adjectives, but I guess I would just call it amazing.


I love fresh figs, the gentle crunch from the interior seeds, the sweet nectar of the juice, even the ever so slightly fuzzy nature of the skin. I love it all. So as I was thumbing through Italian Easy: Recipes from the London River Cafe (thank you New York City public library), I knew that this was a recipe to try immediately. And I’m glad that I did. The play between the sweetness of the figs, and the heat of the chiles was perfect.

As a matter of fact, the entire book looks delightful. Simple recipes, straightforward presentations, and unfussed with food seem to be the hallmark of this restaurant’s cuisine. Although, I did find one element alarming, the amount of butter used in some of these recipes. As I was glancing through the risotto section, I noticed one of the basic recipes called for 2 sticks of butter to feed four people. Now that’s just frightening! Don’t get me wrong, I’m a butter lover, you won’t catch a tub of margarine around my house. But two sticks? That is just plain gratuitous.

But on to more immediate concerns…this pasta sauce. I’m afraid to even call it that. This is not a goopy cream sauce. With only 1/2 a cup of uncooked cream, the cream is there as lubrication, a conduit if you will, to get the toothsome tagliatelle noodles into ones mouth while still piping hot. And it works out beautifully. I can’t say enough stupendous things about this simple pasta dish.

Fig and Chile Tagliatelle

from Italian Easy

16 oz. egg tagliatelle
8 black skinned figs
2 dried chiles
2 lemons
2 oz. parmesan cheese
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 cup heavy cream

Cut each fig into 8 pieces. Crumble the chiles. Grate the lemon peel of both lemons, and squeeze the juice of one. Grate the parmesan and reserve all.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil, and cook the tagliatelle.

While the tagliatelle is cooking, heat a skillet large enough for the figs to lay in one layer. Add the olive oil, and when smoking, carefully place the figs in the pan, turning immediately to carmelize. Season, and add the chiles.

Drain the pasta. Stir the lemon zest and juice into the cream, and mix into the tagliatelle. Add the figs and serve with the parmesan.

When I saw this recipe in August’s issue of Martha Stewart Living, I thought it was one that I would have to try. Some of you may remember that Martha and I have a rather contentious relationship. As I thumb through the pages of the magazine, gazing at the beautifully styled food, and wondering just how one person is supposed to do it all, there is a voice inside my head, forcing me to remember that Martha’s food, though beautiful to look at, never really works out for me. I think it’s a case of a finicky recipe. But Saturday morning, a day sticky with summer rain here in New York, I decided to give it one more go, and tried these Nectarine Shortcakes.

And I’m glad that I did. I had purchased some less-than-ripe, nectarines at the market the day before, with the intention of letting them set and ripen on the windowsill. But come Saturday morning, I had the itch to do some baking, and so I made the decision to put those hard stone fruits to good use. When the nectarines were cut into chunks, macerated in lemon juice, and finally baked in the shortcake, they softened, to the perfect texture: chewy yet soft, with some body left to them.

Reading through the list of ingredients, I realized that the recipe called for very little sugar, and quite a healthy dose of butter. In fact, the recipe appeared to be a scone recipe more than a shortcake one. So I made the shortcakes as a decadent, fruity, morning treat. And they were perfect as that– moist, with a tender, soft crumb, buttery, yet light, and gently flavored with taste of fresh nectarines.

I don’t know if I would serve these baked treats plain for dessert, as they were shown in the magazine; but I would definitely make them again for a special breakfast treat. And I guess I’ll have to thank Martha (or at the very least, her recipe developer) for the recipe.

Yes, it’s true, as odd as it may seem, up until this year, tomatoes were not a friend of mine. I was very picky with my consumption. Cooked were fine, roasted even better, but sliced and put on a sandwich– never! Wedges in a salad– no way! And a caprese salad– well you can forget about that too. But this year, it all changed for me, and it wasn’t that I had finally tasted the perfect, heirloom variety tomato. It was just a test of wills.

In January, that blustery, no-good month, I made a resolution, and this from the girl who never makes New Year’s resolutions. 2006 would be, amongst other things, the year of no more food taboos. Never again would I pick apart a sandwich, push a vegetable endlessly around my dinner plate, or ask a waiter or waitress for a substitution. Now I was not a horribly picky eater to begin with, but this was the year of equal opportunity food consumption. First thing to tackle was my mediocre feelings towards the innocuous tomato. It started out slowly, a slice of a ruby-red beefsteak on the perfect sandwich– a BLT. No problem, it was juicy, ripe, and tasted like grass, like summer. And the very next week, I kid you not, I had a caprese salad, by choice– for dinner.

So I can’t really tell you what transpired over 27 years to make me think that I hated the tomato. Now I eat them along with the best of them, and with the eating comes the cooking, and a simple, luscious, just-right-for-summer, Pasta Pomodoro.

A basic pomodoro with a twist, a double whammy in the tomato department, this pomodoro has both a cooked and an uncooked component to it. Raw tomatoes are seeded, diced, salted, and placed in a serving bowl to exude, and collect their juices. Then a pint of cherry tomatoes, bursting at the skins with juice, are tossed in olive oil, salt and pepper, and placed in a baking dish in a 325 degree oven to bake. While these tomatoes are baking, I minced some garlic, and tossed it in with the raw tomatoes along with a few glugs of olive ol. After about 30 minutes, I retrieve the tomatoes from the oven. They are starting to brown, and have popped, allowing for their sweet juices to carmelize. The cooked tomatoes get added to the raw, along with some drained spaghetti, grated parmesan cheese, and some freshly torn basil– and there you have it. Granted this recipe is hardly rocket science, but with stellar ingredients, it makes a delightful supper. And it may just get those other tomato-haters on the right track.

I’m over half-way through my year of no more food taboos, and I am surprised at how easy it is. I think that many of my reservations were simply childhood recollections. Now you still may not see me gobbling up some mayonnaise-soaked potato salad (I have yet to tackle the mayonnaise phobia), but you will see me ordering a BLT, no holds required.

The Atlantic or the Pacific. Who knew that taters along the shores of one country could produce such different types of fish? Call it naivete, or maybe it was just lack of thought, but it wasn’t until I arrived in New York that I realized the immense variety. Citarella, a lovely market, not far from where I live, has shown me the way. Citarella is known for it’s seafood, and as I gazed at the vast array of countless fish and shellfish, I could see why.

Sure, Citarella had the basics, tuna, sea bass, swordfish, and salmon, but there were fish I had only read about: sablefish, bluefish, pompano, not only red snapper but a glossy pink snapper, scales iridescent and shining brightly. Each lay on slabs of ice, waiting to be filleted. I breathed in deeply and smelled…nothing– just what you want from a fish market, no fishy smell, no disinfectant, just the sea. I took my time deciding what I would buy for that night’s dinner, until I spotted them, next to the skate wings, and directly above the tilapia– sardines.

Come in close, I have a secret for you– until last week, I had never had a sardine. Blame the waters of the Pacific Ocean if you have to, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I simply had never seen them at the fish markets in the East Bay. But there they were, eyes clear and vacant, scales silvery and bright. I snapped up a half dozen or so, grabbed a lemon and headed home.

I knew that I wanted a simple preparation, something that would allow the fish to shine through. I consulted my cookbooks, and finally decided on broiling. Rubbed in olive oil, seasoned with sea salt and a bit of cracked pepper, I broiled the sardines briefly, about 4 minutes a side, before squeezing them with lemon. Now I will admit, eating, and preparing sardines are not for the meek, you are eating a whole fish. I imagine if you’re the type of person who doesn’t like to eat things with a face, eating a food with the head still intact, even if it remains uneaten, is definitely out. And then there are the bones– while I found them to be a pleasant contrast to the meatiness of the fish, the thought of eating a fish, bones and all, might make the faint of heart squeamish.

But I am neither squeamish, nor faint of heart, so I loved them. The sardines were delicious, luscious, fatty, tender meat with the subtle crunch of the bones. Mmmm. Now my only dilemma is which fish to try next.

Maybe it is just certain octogenarians I have run into, but most of them do two things: talk about their health, and talk about the weather. And now that I have moved to New York, a place that actually has weather and seasons, I find myself doing the same thing (at least the weather part). I mentioned before that it is HOT, but besides the heat there is the humidity, the sort of humidity that makes you want to run back indoors, to your small, air-conditioned apartment, peel off your sticky clothes, and take a cool shower. I’m from California, I mean: What is humidity anyways?

And so I have joined the ranks of those people, the one’s that talk ad nauseum about the weather, and to me, it is endlessly fascinating. We are mostly unpacked, a household’s worth of goods transplanted from California to New York. Newsprint packing has been scrubbed off pots and pans, baking sheets unearthed, knives carefully unwrapped, and what is the first thing that I “cook?” Watermelon salad, because it is so damn hot.

Now I did turn on the stove to make a sweet-tart balsamic reduction, but I am afraid dear readers that is where the cooking started and stopped. By simmering the balsamic vinegar on the stove, a deep, syrupy concoction is made, turning even the cheapest of condiments into a rich elixir that is meant to be savored. And that is it, some fresh, fragrant basil is torn into bite-sized pieces, cubes of crisp watermelon, a little salt to bring out the juice, a grinding of pepper, and there you have it.

The basil and watermelon are surprisingly similar, perfumey yet delicate, and the balsamic reduction mediates the salad with its pungency. It was perfect, light, summery, and crisp, just the remedy for this fragile, weather-weary transplant. Don’t get me wrong. I look forward to actually having seasons, but I will admit, it is going to take some getting used to. Maybe next summer, the heat won’t even affect me, and you may just be reading about some thick, hearty stew I have cooked in August… Somehow I doubt it.

Well, we are here. And we’re camping. Sort of. No, we haven’t pitched a tent in Central Park, (though it is only blocks away). But we are waiting, my husband much more patiently than myself, for all of our goodies (like our bed, who knew the bed was a luxury item?) to arrive from California. Until they do we are making due on our new click-clackin’ sofa bed. So no, we are not exactly camping and no bits of plant debris must be plucked from my hair.

New York is great, lively, and busy, and HOT, because, well, it’s August. I’ve already explored some markets up and down the West Side, and have been forced to restrain myself in terms of buying, reminding myself that buying Sand Dabs without having a saute pan in which to quickly pan fry them in, would just be a shame. Our computer access is still spotty, so I’m not quite sure when all of the regular postings will continue, so bear with me. I’m already dreaming about cooking something scrumptious.

But until that time, I will leave you with a photo of the last thing that I baked in the Bay Area: devil’s food cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, each topped with the perfect cherry. Mmm, frosting…

Perhaps some of you may have noticed that my postings have been less frequent as of late. Well, I haven’t found a new love, nor have I had a baby, nor have I won the lottery. The big news is that as of August 1st, I will no longer be a resident of the balmy Bay Area. My husband and I will be moving to New York City.

Anyone who has made the cross-country move knows what I mean when I say, “It’s a giant pain in the ass!” With packing up belongings, finding a place to live, waiting for the said belongings to reach NYC, etc., it’s going to be a little difficult to get around to cooking, and to blogging. As I pack away my pots and pans, I think about favorite dishes that have been made with them. Having been born and raised in the Bay Area with a wealth of California produce, I am sad to see the local spherical summer fruits roll away. But I am excited to explore a new city (one as rich and lively as New York), to sample new cuisines, and to buy new groceries.

So until I return to the blogosphere (which won’t be too terribly long, I hope) I leave you with the Dancin’ Man from Central Park. Obviously, he’s excited about the move as well.