It is a good thing that the whole low-carb lifestyle is coming to a close, not that I ever subscribed to such an extreme form of dieting, I just got tired of hearing about it. For me, and my carbohydrate loving ways, it would be torture. Some people live off of junk food, others subsist on on a diet of whole grains and organic food, others still go munching away on nuts and berries. I could (could being the operative word here) exist on a diet of carbohydrates, of any form.

Lucky for me, or unlucky, it depends on how you see it, I live in the San Francisco Bay Area and there are some pretty good bread shops here. Like any good bourgie, I crave a chewy baguette from time to time, and Acme and La Farine Bakery have the finest baguettes outside of France. La Farine has kept it small, just selling from its two East Bay locations. They sell a variety of breads, some pastry, tarts, cakes, and a select number of cookies, contained in individual, clear glass cookie jars lined up along the pastry case. But for as delightful as their sweet treats are, and knowing about my enormous sweet tooth, some might say my entire mouth is full of sweet teeth, it is the baguettes that keep me coming back.

The Rustic Baguette. Such a holy thing, it deserves a sentence unto itself. Crisp, the crust crackling as I tear it apart, crumbs flying. The butt, the most prized attribute of the baguette for me, peaking out from the top of the bag, beckoning me to release it from the holds of the entire baguette. I bite into it, the almost sweet, yeasty insides tangle with the delicate fissile of the crust.

The thing I love the most about a good baguette, is the one thing that is so difficult to achieve– the notion of nothingness. Simplicity. The exquisite balance that is to be found in plenitude and nullity. Just a few ingredients: water, flour, yeast, how is it possible that they come so close to perfection? Handled properly, expertly baked, dusted carefully with flour, a baguette can be anything you make it. Slathered with Nutella and enjoyed in the morning with a steaming cup of coffee; or a wedge of salty blue cheese, sandwiched between two slices of bread, brazenly torn off the loaf; or simply with butter, cold, creamy, and lightly salted, it doesn’t really matter to me. Bring on the carbohydrates!

Every culture has them, the Americans with ketchup or BBQ sauce, Asian with soy sauce, among others, raita for the Indian culture, the French with pure, beautiful butter, and salsa in the Latino culture. Condiments are going strong. Born and raised in California, salsa, and in turn Mexican food is something with which I grew up.

Going out for Mexican food, Americanized though it may be, was always a favorite. Huge plates were delivered with the warning, “Careful, plate is very hot!” Bubbling portions of refried beans nestled along side heaping spoonfuls of rice, each grain made crisp from cooking in the oven, and delicately flavored with tomatoes and chiles, and the entree of my choosing: tamales, enchiladas, or my favorite, sopitos. The entire plate was sprinkled with cheese, and popped in the oven, making the cheese melt to a runny slickness. Talk about excess, and I loved it.

I would hardly be able to eat my entree, as enticing as it was setting before me, because I undoubtedly filled up on the salty, crisp tortilla chips and the salsa before the meal. Each restaurant does the salsa a little differently: a chunky salsa fresca, a smoky adobo, the vinegary fruitiness of the tomatillo salsa, or my favorite, the subtle piquancy of the roasted tomato salsa. Over the weekend I picked up Mesa Mexicana by Susan Feniger and Mary Sue Milliken, and they had a recipe for Roasted Tomato Salsa, that was quick and easy. I made a batch, and let me be the first to say, homemade salsa is definitely something to try.

Nothing like those jars of salsa you can buy at any old convenience store which are stewed, too salty, and might even have a carrot in there if you can recognize it (!), fresh salsa can be anything you want it to be. This Roasted Tomato Salsa was bright, both in color and flavor. The smokiness was subtle and was underscored by the freshness of the tomatoes, the simplicity of the garlic, and the gentle heat of the roasted jalapenos. Perfect as both a condiment awaiting a tortilla chip, or more substantial as a sauce for grilled shrimp or another seafood (which I will most likely try later this week), this salsa lasts for 5 days in your refrigerator.

This recipe is quick and delicious. The salsa is made in a food processor, but I’m sure it would work out fine if done in a good blender.

Roasted Tomato Salsa
adapted from Mesa Mexicana

1 1/2 pounds roma tomatoes
6-8 cloves garlic
3 jalapeno chiles, stemmed, seeded and cored
1 small or 1/2 large yellow onion
3/4 cup water
1 teaspoon salt

Preheat broiler. Place the tomatoes whole, peeled garlic, chiles, and onion cut into large pieces, snuggly in baking pan. Garlic should be tucked underneath the other vegetables so as not to scorch. Broil vegetables, turning frequently, until skin of tomatoes is blistered and charred, about 15 minutes. Remove pan from broiler and set aside to cool.

Transfer the roasted ingredients, and any juices, to the bowl of a food processor, fitted with metal blade. Add water and puree until smooth. Season with salt, and serve. Salsa will keep in the refrigerator for up to 5 days, or freeze for weeks.

I’ve been thinking about this question a lot lately, and there seem to be so many answers– for fuel, for pleasure, for survival. It is inextricably bound to the broader question: why do we eat?

Out to dinner last week with my husband and a colleague of his, our conversation kept returning to this one question, and we weighed out the different possibilities. The epicurean, in the truest sense of the word, one who cooks entirely for his own pleasure, never thinking about health, moral ramifications, or weights and balances. Or the marathon runner for instance, who sees food purely as fuel– “If I eat so many grams of carbohydrates, they will fuel my run for approximately so long.” Then there is the chef, often cooking for others, experimenting with textures, colors, flavors– the artist.

Take the organic food movement, a movement that seems bound by many of these concepts. One eats organic produce because it’s fresher, tastes better, the fruit is riper. The quality of produce is generally higher, leading to an epicurean ideology of better taste. But then there is the person who buys organic produce for health concerns. They want chemicals, insecticides out of their diet. Further still there is the person, like Alice Waters, who thinks the quality of food is important, but also believes in supporting local growers and farmers. The type of food one prepares, and in turn eats raises social consciousness. So it is possible to be a part of a movement for one/many reasons. One may subscribe to one movement that is subsisting because of another.

And then there is me. Why do I cook, why has food been such an integral part of my rearing? Why does my sister, just a few years older, raised by the same parents, not find the same joys and comforts in preparing and eating a meal? These questions prove just as difficult when answering them about myself. Yes I enjoy the cooking process, and the feeding of hungry friends and family. But it is not simply an act of altruism. Cooking gives me something to do. But still, there is many a Sunday afternoon, when I am bored yet do not bake a loaf of bread. I am a healthy eater, but I do not stress myself out unnecessarily about eating “properly” all the time. And besides if one was to concern herself entirely with what was “in-fashion” for the moment to eat– one would go insane. And although I appreciate the role of chefs , and I go out to eat often, I have never actually coveted their job, too stressful and taxing. But yet I am constantly thinking about food, what is in season, and how I should cook it.

Maybe you, my faithful readers have a more complete answer to these questions. Perhaps I am thinking too much, inflating this question to unusually large proportions, and it is all rather simple (something that is entirely possible). So, why do you cook?

The venerable matzo ball. The one food that perhaps best sums up all of Jewish cuisine in a spherical, dumpling-like shape. They can be soft, ethereal almost, just barely holding their shape in a globe of glutens. They can be hard, tense almost, pressed tautly into a sphere. Me, I like them to be somewhere in between. A 70-30 ratio, in favor of soft. The matzo ball should offer the slightest bit of resistance as you plunge your spoon into it. The center still chewy, doughy, and delectable.

There are many different recipes, even more preferences. Some people experiment with different spices (curry, I’ve read), others prefer a smattering of freshly torn herbs (parsley or dill are popular), and some still prefer an unadulterated matzo ball (perfectly white). I’m a bit of a purist, no outrageous spices, curry would be sacrilege, a bit of parsley, some chopped onion, this and that, and the perfect matzo ball can be had. In my opinion why mess with a good thing? If you have a matzo ball recipe that is close to being perfect, why try to make it something more or less than it is? I feel the same way about other traditional foods– Thanksgiving turkeys, potato latkes, meatloaf.

I have the ideal recipe, ideal by my standards mind you. And it’s not my mother’s, although it was given to her by a family friend. Mother Wofchuck’s Matzo Balls. Mother Wofchuck, a spritely old Jewish woman from the Bronx, who would come out to California once a year to celebrate Passover with her son (a friend of my parents) and his family. Everyone called her Mother Wofchuck, her daughter-in-law, my parents, and of course my sister and I. Calling her Mrs. Wofchuck just seemed too formal, and no one would have dreamed of addressing her by her first name, too personal, so Mother Wofchuck it was; and she made the most amazing matzo balls. Light and fluffy, loosely shaped, the perfect way to begin the Passover feast. I never really cared what the Wofchucks served at the Seder, just as long as Mother Wofchuck’s Matzo Balls would be an integral part.

In the 1970′s, I’ve been told, her Matzo Ball recipe made it into Sunset magazine. Just imagine, a squat woman with peroxided hair, hopping a plane from NY to San Francisco to busily cook in the Sunset magazine test kitchens until a faultless formulation was decided upon, and eventually published, for thousands of housewives to see.

After many matzo balls made and eaten in my lifetime, and many more tastings still to come, there are a few helpful hints I can impart to the Jewish dumpling novice. Do not, I repeat do not, compress the dough when making a matzo ball. By handling the dough as little as possible, making amorphous blobs, rather than perfect spheres, you will have a lovely, light matzo ball. It will look rustic, but well, if chicken soup isn’t rustic than I don’t know what is. The second word of advice, is actually just a recommendation. All matzo ball recipes call for the addition of some sort of fat, vegetable oil, shortening, or…schmaltz. And I say, for those of you with chutzpah, schmaltz it up. It’s just a bit of rendered chicken fat, and it will do wonders for your dumplings, making them chicken-y and delicious.

As for the chicken soup in which you submerge your matzo balls, that’s really up to you. Some people prefer just the matzo ball in a clear chicken broth, others prefer a more robust soup with chicken and vegetables. I use a combination of aromatics, with a smattering of freshly chopped dill. Make Mother Wofchuck proud.

Mother Wofchuck’s Matzo Balls

3 eggs, slightly beaten
3 tablespoons schmaltz, or melted shortening
3 teaspoons salt
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
dash pepper
3/4 cup matzo meal, unsalted
3 tablespoons water
3 tablespoons finely chopped parley
2 tablespoons finely chopped onion

In a bowl combine eggs, fat, 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, nutmeg, and pepper. Stir in the matzo meal, until blended. Add the water, parsley, and onions, and mix well. Cover with plastic wrap, and place in the refrigerator for a minimum of 30 minutes. In a medium size soup pot, or dutch oven, bring water (approximately 2 quarts), and remaining salt to a boil. By rounded spoonful drop matzo meal mixture into boiling water. Matzo balls should be about 1 1/2-2 inches in diameter, they will plump additionally when you cook them. Reduce heat to simmer, cover, and cook for 30 minutes. When matzo balls are ready, remove them with a slotted spoon, and add into heated chicken soup. Enjoy!

I love apricots! After months of waiting, 10 months to be exact, they are here. All rosy fleshed, smooth, mildly fuzzy skin– as close to perfection as a fruit can come.

I was doing my food shopping at Berkeley Bowl, a dizzying array of the usual winter fruits, tough skinned citrus in varying colors, a handful of summer fruits from Chile, and there they were– calling out to me. A beacon of early summer appearing in late spring. A lone display, paltry by the Bowl’s standards, one type as opposed to the many which can be found later on in June. I quickly glanced at the poster, $2 a pound, and what I was really looking for, the origin stating these delightful little fruits were from California. Hurray, spring/summer is here!

Each year I forget when the spring and summertime fruit and vegetables actually arrive. I always recall, incorrectly, that I should be able to buy a nectarine in March, maybe early April. I rush to the market every few days, awaiting the lush cornucopias of fragrant fruit: the peaches, nectarines, apricots, and my word– the cherries. Alas, sadly I go home with yet again, more citrus fruit. But then there is the joy, the satisfaction when springtime has finally arrived. It all starts with the asparagus, the harbinger of spring, charming in its varying colors: the green, white, or even the purple. Then slowly (nature is too slow for my tastes) you get the berries, strawberries at first, then tart blackberries and sweet raspberries, and finally the superlative stone fruit.

So the apricot is here, at least in Northern California. The apricots that I purchased weren’t great, but they were good. A solid 7 on a 10 point scale. Firm to the touch, with just the slightest give to my eager thumb, slightly tart, but at the core was the sweetness of summer. And so I say, “Farewell grapefruits, so long oranges, and toodle-loo tangerines, I’ll see you next year. For now I have the delectable apricot, and soon to come the juicy peach, and the luscious nectarine.”

Christian Clarke’s 4th grade birthday party was not all that spectacular. Late afternoon, roller rink, lights dim with the “disco” lights swirling about in a clockwise fashion. I wasn’t even friends with Christian, it was just one of those parties to which everyone in class was invited. In fact, he pestered and teased me horribly, about my robin’s egg blue Chinese pajama pants (unwarranted), and for tapping my fingernails annoyingly against my formica school desk (warranted). So we were not the best of friends, but I went to his birthday anyway. Not being the hugest fan of skating around endlessly in circles, I sat on the sidelines for most of the afternoon talking to his mother, and eyeing the lovely cupcakes that were setting out on the Transformers plates awaiting to be gobbled up by minions of hungry children.

Strawberry Duncan Hines cake mix topped with fluffy white Seven Minute Frosting. They were sweet, delectable, the icing firmly planted with a crisp sugary shell. I loved them. I even asked Christian’s mother for the recipe, she ashamedly admitted it was just a cake mix. Why was she ashamed, cake mixes offer a fine, trustworthy cake? I ran home anxious to procure the appropriate ingredients and try out this delightful treat. My mother remembered 7 Minute Frosting, she said that no one really made it much anymore, but we would give it a try. One hour later, the cupcakes cooled in their individual cups, we piled the icing high atop the cakes. I even waited a half hour, until the frosting got that crackly shell before I dove in, eager to taste the mellifluous cupcake. But it wasn’t the same. Maybe the flashing lights of the disco ball had at the roller rink had been disorienting, making the dessert treats actually seem better than they were. My mother pronounced them too sweet, and the 7 Minute Frosting and Strawberry Cupcakes were filed away, only to be thought of from time to time when my sweet-tooth particularly acted up.

Well, the sweet-tooth acted up this past weekend. I put the same Duncan Hines cake mix (chocolate this time) to good use, and scoured my cookbooks for a 7 Minute Frosting recipe. The only book in which I found a recipe was the trusty old, Joy of Cooking cookbook. I, like many others, have this cookbook but never really use it. In fact, I have an old 1964, tattered, jacketless version from my grandma. But leave it to this book to have not only a 7 Minute Frosting recipe, but also three permutations, an orange, a lemon, and a caramel flavored. I decided on the orange icing, because how can you go wrong with a chocolate-orange combination? Topped with a single perfect raspberry, these cupcakes where not only adorable, but darn good. The crisp shell of the icing enclosed an oozy mess of sugary sweetness, delicately tinged with orange zest. And the cake? Well it was a mix, a good, solid 7 on a 10 point scale. These cupcakes were sweet, but not too sweet, and it is dessert mind you.

7 Minute Orange Frosting
from the Joy of Cooking

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 egg whites
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon grated orange ring
1/4 cup orange juice

Place all ingredients in top of a double boiler over rapidly boiling water. Beat constantly with a wire whisk for 7 minutes. Remove icing from heat. Continue beating with a hand mixer until proper consistency is reached, about 4 minutes. Icing will harden slightly over time.

In honor of Passover, a holiday that has always been more about the food shared than it has been about religious significance to me– I give you Haroset, or Charoses as it may be. Why the difference in spelling, thus the difference in pronunciation? Well its a matter of both transliteration and place. If you are a Jew descending from Western Europe or Africa– a Sephardic Jew, you would say Haroset. If you are an Eastern European Jew, an Ashkenazic Jew, you would soften the T sounds to an S, and the H would be pronounced with a CHA sound, sort of like you were clearing your throat. Whew, its difficult to spell all of those guttural sounds.

I remember the Seders of my youth. Sitting through what seemed an interminable ceremony, the nerves over reciting the Four Questions, ending in the culmination of the Seder, and the sweet, cinnamony flavor of the Charoses piled atop a brittle piece of Matzah. For those that have never been to a Seder, and have never tried Charoses, it is a simple amalgamation of a few ingredients. Uncooked, the item that I would most equate it to is a chutney of sorts.

Sephardic and Ashkenazic Harosets differ in ingredients. The Sephardic, favoring sultry climates, with the prominence of dried fruit such as dates and apricots, combined with nuts, are chopped and macerated. The Ashkenazic having just apples, walnuts, cinnamon, honey, and lemon zest, all brought together with a touch of wine (Manischewitz of course). Very simple, not the prettiest of dishes, but Ashkenazic Charoses was my favorite item on the Seder plate.

A few simple rules must be abided by when making Charoses. Even with the advent of kitchen gadgets such as the Cuisinart, the apples must be chopped by hand. This adds to the rough and tumble texture of the apple bits, some tiny, so they practically slip down one’s throat, others larger, requiring a careful chew or two before swallowing. A mixture of apples is best when selecting for Charoses. Sweet-tart, like Fujis or Pink Ladies are perfect when it comes to flavor; but similar to when one is making a pie, a Grannysmith or Pippin, thrown in for good measure, adds a tartness and body that can’t be beat.

Like Matzo Balls, each Jewish person that you meet will swear they have the ideal recipe. It’s their grandmother’s, sister’s, cousin’s by marriage, third child, right? That may be so, but I have a damn good recipe as well. It comes from my mother (a convert–GASP!), who got the recipe from an old spiral bound community cookbook from Modesto, CA.

This recipe is adapted a bit from the original recipe which is by Vi Wernick circa 1974. The recipe comes from one of those spiral bound community cookbooks; a true through-back from the not so distant past. I usually double the recipe. Thanks Vi.

Passover Charoses

1 cup finely chopped apple, a mix of sweet and tart
1/4 cup chopped walnuts
2 teaspoons honey
grated zest of 1/2 lemon
1 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoon red wine (approximately)

Mix all of the ingredients. Add enough wine to bind the mixture. Charoses can be served immediately, or hold in the refrigerator until ready to use.

A peculiar thing is happening to Bay Area farmer’s market, and I’m not sure that I like it. They are becoming very much in fashion, in vogue, and not always in a good way. In other parts of the country a farmer’s market is a place to get wholesome farm fresh produce, much better than what you would get at the grocery, for rock bottom prices. The farmer’s market cuts out the middle man; they are a place where the farmer is also the purveyor. But in the Bay Area the farmer’s market is a place for a stroll, sipping your organic coffee, a place to see and be seen, they are dripping with folksiness, not a place for everyone, but a place for those who can afford their organic (sometimes) produce. Not every Bay Area farmer’s market is like this, but the weekend farmer’s market at Ferry Building surely is.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning, warm and sunny, so my husband and I ventured to SF for our very first visit to the Ferry Building. First visit! I know the Ferry Building has been open how long, what type of bourgie does this girl think she is? Well, I will tell you, not the type who gathers together my empty satchel awaiting fresh produce early on a weekend morning, only to listen to some dude’s rendition of Andre 3000 played on the acoustic guitar a la Simon and Garfunkel. Thank you very much. My experience at the SF farmer’s market can be best summed up with this analogy: the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market is to the classic farmer’s market as Disneyland is to a county fair, a good premise that has lost sight of its original goals.

I should temper this post by saying this farmer’s market was not all bad. It was vast. Row upon row of stalls, each with their different wares: produce, oil and vinegars, chilis, breads, smoked fish, and leeks, there were a lot of leeks. And inside the Ferry Building, the portion that is open daily, was really quite lovely. Cow Girl Creamery has a shop filled with artisinal cheeses and housemade ricottas, fetas, and fromage blancs; the purveyors were more than happy to answer my often times thick questions and offer a taste of their creamy cheeses.

I can honestly say that I was shocked by the prices of all of the foods at the farmer’s market. EX-PEN-SIVE! I am not one to scrimp when it comes to food; I believe in paying the just price for goods. But I will not pay astronomical prices for the same foods that I can buy either at Berkeley Bowl or Monterey Market for a fraction of the cost. It was interesting to note that I saw some of the same farmers at the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market as I see at the Jack London Square Farmer’s Market in Oakland, where they sell the same produce for a fraction of the price. I guess the only difference is that they know the “foodies” that frequent the SF farmer’s market will pay the exorbitant prices. CA-CHING, all hail capitalism!

But on to dinner, I wanted something light and fresh, something that displayed the little bit that I bought at the Ferry Building (yes, I too succumbed to the call of capitalism). So I made some scrambled eggs, adorned with crisp asparagus and meaty wild mushrooms. Taking advantage of the fresh ricotta cheese that I purchased at Cowgirl, I blended it into the scrambled eggs. Placed on top of grilled levain bread, it proved to be the ideal supper to end an exhausting day.

Springtime Scrambled Eggs on Toast

Serves 3-4

6 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup fresh ricotta cheese
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup sliced green onion
1 1/2-2 cups asparagus, cut into bite-size pieces
1 1/2 cups wild mushrooms, torn or sliced into bite sized pieces
butter and olive oil
salt and pepper
slices of country bread

Blanch your asparagus, until crisp tender, about 2 minutes. Drain and reserve. In a medium skillet, melt equal parts olive oil and butter. Add the garlic, mushrooms, and green onion, and saute until mushrooms have exuded their juices, and pan is just about dry, about 5 minutes. Remove mushrooms to a dish and reserve. In a bowl, whisk the eggs and milk, seasoned with salt and pepper. In the same skillet, again melt equal parts butter and olive oil, add the eggs and cook over low heat, stirring the contents of the pan constantly, you are looking for very small curds. When eggs are just about dry, about 5 minutes, add the ricotta cheese. Stir well to blend and continue cooking the eggs. Add the asparagus and mushrooms back to the egg, and heat through. Place scrambled eggs on top of slices of toast or grilled bread and enjoy.

Maneschewitz wine, the Boone’s Strawberry Wine of sacrament beverages. It is syrupy sweet, fortified, mustache-staining purple, concord grape. What more can be said than, it’s a twist-off top? I love the stuff, it’s the Passover beverage of my youth. I didn’t come from one of those up-tight American families where drinking before the age of 21 was frowned upon, but generally the youths in my family were not boozing it up. But there was an exception. At the Jewish holidays, a little glass of ice-cold Manischewitz wine (we were simply following the “refrigerate after opening” instructions) was set before me. All of the adults had the real stuff, but the kids were allowed a modicum of Manischewitz.

To this day, I still hold a place in my heart for this beverage. In fact now that I am in my 20′s, and am allowed to consume any alcoholic beverage of my choosing, during the Jewish holidays Manischewitz is still my drink of choice. It wouldn’t be Passover without it. For those of you who have never tried the nectar, I can’t say I would honestly recommend it. Sort of reminiscent of cough medicine, overly sweet, the wine actually burns one’s esophagus a bit on the way down. But the burn only causes me to think of the suffering of the Jewish people when they were enslaved in the land of Pharaoh. LET MY PEOPLE GO!

Just as reciting the four questions (because yes, I am still the youngest in my family), the drinking of the sacharine-sweet sacrament drink, is an activity in which I will masochistically partake. The first sip is always the best/worst, the concord grape most pungent. Then as my glass comes down to room temperature, and the wine lingers longer in my glass, the medicinal quality becomes redolent. With each taste I wince, and prepare myself for the next gulp. This is not a wine to sip and savor, to enjoy the bouquet, to swirl about your glass to see the legs, but rather to drink as heartily as you can, protecting your skin from the horrid purple stain, and waiting until the next Jewish holiday when it all begins again.

(Stay tuned for further posts this month as I celebrate Passover, and all things Jewish.)

Sometimes it is the simplest meals that are the most delicious. A soft-boiled egg, small and self-contained, proudly standing tall in its porcelain cup is the perfect brunch-time antidote to a weekend filled with too much wine, hearty foods, or both. An ideal vessel in which to dip a slice of lightly grilled rustic country bread, or better yet, take advantage of the spring season and dunk an crisp, lightly salted asparagus spear.

I am not the hugest fan of savory egg breakfasts, but there has always been something about the soft-boiled egg that just does it for me. Perhaps it is all of the accoutrements, the delightful little cups, mimicking the shape of the food that they hold, and the diminutive spoons just large enough to get into the shell without shattering it. By the time you prepare your egg just so, a pat of fresh butter, a sprinkling of salt and a twist of freshly ground black pepper, it is as if you have to dip into this breakfast treat. How could you leave it alone?

Springtime is a particularly delectable time of year to partake of the soft-boiled egg as the accoutrements only extend farther from the simple toast, to that harbinger of spring– the asparagus. Your egg is instantly transformed into a petite pot of sauce, slick with butter, becoming translucent hollandaise, egg-y and rich.

The perfect way to start a weekend morning, fuel for the day ahead, and just easy enough to help you remain in the haze of the night before. Just boil some water, carefully place eggs in, making sure not to overcrowd, and wait 3-4 minutes. Simplicity at its finest. If you would like a full rundown of my Sunday brunch, check the Daily Specials page.