Why is it that the month of March has the worst produce? I live in California, the land of citrus trees, and the central valley, where row upon row of produce sprouts from the fertile soils, (sometimes with the help of genetic engineering). So why is it then, this month, with it’s cherry blossoms blooming, tulips pushing their way through hardened earth, and the first glimpse of bare arms flailing about in short-sleeved shirts, has the lousiest fruits and vegetables of the entire year.

It’s about this time of year that even the citrus fruit looks as if it has seen its better day. I say “goodbye” to the last vestiges of winter mandarins, as they seem to rot even before I can bring them home and tuck them into the fruit basket sitting on my cluttered kitchen counter. The strawberries aren’t quite ripe, as their pale shoulders offer a stark contrast to the bruised tip of the fruit. And I simply won’t pay five dollars a pound for stony nectarines, their skin not even tinged with that lovely peachy pink from Chile.

And so I must resort to my old wintertime standbys, alas sweet succotash of summer, with your corn, sweet niblets of flavor, I must only dream of you for a few more months. To make myself feel better, I spice up the usual standards of winter just a little bit. What better way to spice something up, than a little pork product? And could there be a more bourgie pork product than the salty, the wonderful, pancetta? Cut into lardons, crisply fried, then set free to do their culinary magic on your vegetable of choice. In my case, brussels sprouts.

I know that for some this little cruciferous vegetable is not a favorite. And to these people I say, you have not eaten the brussels sprout prepared in its many incarnations; and you should really give this innocuous, cabbage-like vegetable a try again. There are many more ways to eat this side dish than boiled or steamed. For those squeamish about the brussels sprout, those who break into a sweat from the mere mention of the sulfuric vegetable, give them a try julienned. Slivered into tiny morsels of palatable greenery and sauteed with a bit of shallot, the vegetable turns into a mellow, tender, bit of spring (even if the dish is eaten in the dead of winter). Or how about roasted whole, with a bit of onion and olive oil, everything sulfuric about this veggie gets roasted out, and what you are left with is an intense, hearty adornment to any entree.

Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta

Serves 4-6

6 cups brussels sprouts, halved or quartered depending on size
1/4 pound pancetta, cut into small lardons
2 teaspoons olive oil (optional)
3/4 cup water or broth
pepper to taste

In a large skillet, over medium-high heat, brown pancetta. When brown and crisp, about 5 minutes, remove to a paper towel covered plate to drain. If the pan looks too dry, add a bit of olive oil, and the brussels sprouts. Sautee until the brussels sprouts brown slightly, an additional 5 minutes. Add the liquid, cover the pan to steam and let cook, stirring occasionally for about 10 minutes, or until vegetables are adequately softened. Remove the lid, turn heat up to high to let liquid cook out if any. Add the pancetta lardons back to dish, stir, then taste, seasoning with pepper. I find the brussels sprouts not to need much salt if any, due to salty nature of the pancetta.

The buffet table– a place where the concept of sharing is brought to brazen, and at times terrifying levels. Depending on your guests, the layout of the designated table, and just how many diners you are trying to accommodate, the buffet table can become an obstacle course of spilled food, diners with dirty cuffs dragging them through the delicacies set out before them, and so many germs you want to yell out, “Where is the damn sneeze guard?”

Needless to say, we (my husband and I) are planning a rather large (50 or so people) open house for this coming weekend, buffet included (!), as a sort of wedding reception for ourselves. (My word, that was a lot of parentheses for one sentence.) Although I am a good sharer when given the option of choosing my sharing mate, I am not the greatest at sharing with large groups of people. I cannot help but think of how many times my fellow diners have washed their hands, and how well, who is slightly sick, and whom just has allergies, and then there is the dreaded DOUBLE DIP!

We have a very good family friend, she is a a contemporary of my parents, and I have known her since my childhood. She is a very good cook; not only can she follow a recipe well, but she also knows what is needed to bring the food up to higher, more sumptuous level. However, I do not enjoy dining at her house. Her kitchen is a disaster, dishes piled high on every surface, splotches of week-old sauce decorating the splash guard behind the stove, and old tasting spoons left about, continually used and then reused. And to top it all off, she’s a lick-er. Numerous times I have watched as she licks dressing off of her fingers, then uses those same unwashed fingers to plate a salad, gingerly laying garnish about with those same hands. I don’t care how tantalizing the dressing you are making is, you simply cannot surround your fingers in your own saliva, then expect other to partake of the same liquid!

Back to the buffet, my mother and I are doing most of the cooking, so we can guarantee the clean nature of the food, but can we really control how the food is handled once it leaves the kitchen and goes to the buffet table? I guess I will have to gear up not to think about the food once it has left my hands. I will just enjoy my guests, the beauty of the day, and refrain from shrieking, “Jim, don’t you dare think of dipping that asparagus spear back into the dish of aoli!”

More after the party…

Sharing is a wonderful thing; my mother taught me how to do it quite nicely. I love to share desserts in particular. You have just finished a delightful meal out, you’re pleasantly satiated, but could use a little something sweet. Not an entire dessert course mind you, just a nibble. When could there be a more ideal time to share? But not everyone shares well. If you make the wrong decision, you could turn an ordinarily convivial dining experience into a catastrophic nightmare.

There is a fine line to be found in the art of sharing. It requires trial and error, many a meal leaving you either too full, or still wanting more, in order to find your own ideal sharing mate. Take for instance my sister, she is an ideal mate for me, we often want to share (an invaluable desire), and we want to share the same things. She might be such an ideal candidate because of a lesson learned from her own dining dilemma with a friend we’ll call Jake. They each had finished their own entrees, and when dessert came around they decided to split the creme brulee. When the custard arrived, both parties dug in, but while conversation drew to a lull (Jake not being the most interesting of individuals), my sister noticed that Jake was creating a divide in the brulee. Not simply a divide, a what will be forever known as– a wall of creme brulee. Jake, never wanting to blur the lines of platonic friendship, created a wall of cream, that remained untouched not wanting to contaminate the vessel of dessert with his salivary spoon. To this I say, as kind of a gesture, puh-leese! How anal-retentive can we be? Not a good sharer.

As fair and too clearly demarcated a sharing incident as Jake’s was, I have a friend who does not share– she hogs. A slice of cheesecake will arrive at the table from which we are both supposed to partake. My friend will descend on the slice, ravenous, like a hawk preys upon some innocent rodent, scurrying about in a field. In a matter of moments, the entire morsel of cake is devoured, garnish of whipped topping licked clean, and I have only eaten two bites. Speed is an extremely important element to sharing. It just won’t work if a scarf-er is paired with a savor-er.

So let me plead with all of the parents with young children out there; we’re all told how it is important to share with our neighbors, but please, you simply must also show your children the nuances of sharing. Not to be anal, there should be a sort of laissez-faire attitude to sharing. The speed, pace yourself– too fast, and the child will end up with a stomach ache and a gluttonous reputation, too slow– and the child will end up with nothing at all. Sometimes even the smallest of life’s details can end up leaving lasting scars.

It’s cheap, it’s delicious and versatile; it’s the bourgie’s ideal food. Who would have ever thought something so simple, a little dried cornmeal and the liquid of your choice would make such a wholly complete and satisfying food? Now I’m not speaking of the polenta that you buy, already prepared, molded into a plastic tube, and preserved on your grocer’s shelf. That polenta is neither delicious nor particularly versatile. So you can slice it, and do what with those slices? No, I’m speaking of the polenta that is cooked on the stovetop, then dished onto a plate, the perfect maize nest on which to find some scrumptious piece of braised meat.

But this soothing side dish need not simply be relegated only to the dinner table. Try it made with one half milk, one half water. The polenta becomes a pale yellow, and even creamier in texture, due to the addition of milk. With a dollop of butter, and a drizzle of pure maple syrup, what could be a lovelier porridge on a cold Sunday morning? The salty neutrality of the polenta, along with the subtle sweetness of the syrup– a perfect combination.

Perhaps you want your polenta to have a bit more flavor, but remember this is an accent dish not the main event. In these instances, instead of water, I opt for chicken stock. With a sprinkling of freshly chopped sage added towards the end of the cooking process, the stock gives the polenta just enough intensity to stand up to even the most hearty meat entrees.

Maybe you have not had the best luck in making polenta on your own at home. As with many other simple-tasting dishes, the most subtle differences make the greatest deal. The easiest, most fool-proof method I have found is to make polenta a bit like you would make risotto. The general ratio is one part cornmeal, to four parts liquid. This is of course just an estimate; depending on climate or altitude the ratio could be slightly different.

Here is the recipe for the simplest, lump-free polenta that I have found. The recipe can be made with water, half milk-half water, or chicken stock; it all really depends on how you plan on using the polenta. Making polenta is really a ratio, rather than a hard and fast recipe. As I mentioned earlier, the “recipe” can change according to climate, altitude, etc. So I usually have a bit more cooking liquid than needed.

Polenta

Serves 4

1 cup polenta, coarsely ground corn meal
4-4 1/2 cups cooking liquid
drizzle of olive oil
salt to taste
1-2 tablespoons fresh, chopped sage (optional)

Start off by putting half of the liquid, all of the cornmeal, a drizzle of olive oil, and a sprinkling of salt in a large pan. Put the rest of the liquid in another, smaller pan, and set to simmer. Turn the pot with the polenta on to medium heat, stirring continually until pot begins to boil. At this point, turn the heat down to simmer, and continue stirring until polenta begins to thicken. When the polenta is thick and shiny, add a ladle of hot liquid, and continue stirring. Repeat this process until liquid has been absorbed, polenta is soft to taste thus thickened properly, about 20 minutes. If adding the sage, add the herb with the last few ladles full of liquid.

This has become a mantra for me, words to live by. When I was a kid there was a huge ad campaign by the fruit and vegetable board, telling people, kids in particular, as the commercials played during Saturday morning cartoons, to eat their five servings of fruit and vegetables a day for proper nutrition. Now for whatever reason, some 20 years later, this annoying little quotable has stuck with me, and in a sense, formed the way I eat.

Now I realize the food pyramid has gone through many different changes in years past. This year they changed my good old adage to 4 1/2 cups of fruits and vegetables a day. 4 1/2 cups a day for proper nutrition, not as catchy is it? 5 a day, 4 1/2 cups, how does one girl consume so much proper dietary nutrition? I will admit that it does seem like a lot, and there are days when however good my intentions may be, I fall off the wagon a bit. But there are a few simple ways to get those vitamins into your daily regime of food intake. Have a piece of fruit with breakfast. Not only will this start off your day consuming what you should be consuming, but it’s also so simple to just grab an orange on your way off to work. And the second, most overlooked vegetable option that soon you will be unable to live without, is a little thing I like to call– veggie combo.

It’s dinner, you have cooked a fairly blase, but well-balanced meal, meat, potato, and broccoli again. That broccoli, lying limp on the plate, adorned with just a smidge of butter, a sprinkling of salt, looks so pathetic and lonely. Perhaps you should have tried the veggie combo to make your meal a little bit more appetizing. The veggie combo is truly simple in concept. I have found it to make my meals infinitely more tantalizing, as well as adding yet another vegetable to my 5 a day. For example, let’s say you have just purchased some spinach for dinner that night. Instead of simply wilting and sauteing it alone, try sauteing it with sliced shallots, then walk over to the freezer, pull out that package of peas (I’m not above using frozen products), dump them in, heat through, and viola, one glorious vegetable side dish.

You’ll get the hang of it, it just takes a bit of time; something many of us aren’t willing to devote to our veggies. And besides it’s a very bourgie thing to do, if one vegetable’s good, two, or maybe even three (!) is better. It’s all about redefining what we eat and how we do it. If you are the type of person who is remotely concerned eating a well-balanced diet, make the food you eat interesting, and you will receive so much more pleasure from the experience of eating. Now that I’ve preached at you for four paragraphs, I will kindly step down off of my soap box, and tell you this very simple recipe.

Sautéed Peas and Spinach

Serves 4

3 shallots, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon butter
2 cups frozen peas
1/4 cup water
1 bunch (4-5 cups) spinach, washed and dried
salt and pepper to taste

In a large skillet, preferably non-stick, melt butter over high heat. Add the shallots and brown slightly, about 3 minutes. Pour in the frozen peas and the water, cover with a lid and steam until thawed and evenly cooked, about 5 minutes. Add the spinach, which has been washed and spun dry, and cover the pan one last time to wilt the spinach, about 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and serve.

I have eaten many-a birthday cake in my tender existence. In fact, I have even baked many of those same cakes. All of these baking experiences have brought me to two main conclusions:
1. Baking sort of sucks.
2. I think that cake is best left frosted just on the top and center. Never a side shall see a modicum of frosting.

This week was my one and only, darling sister’s 32nd birthday. We weren’t doing much to celebrate, no party was in order, but most definitely a birthday cake was called for. Forgetting about my taboo against baking, I decided to make the Banana Layer Cake with Mascarpone Frosting from the March issue of Food and Wine magazine, that had been coyly taunting me as the magazine lay poised on the coffee table. Now the story I am about to tell was immensely frustrating to me, but don’t get me wrong, once finished the cake was delightful, scrumptious in fact. It was just that getting there was a good-for-nothing, stressful affair.

The mixing of the batter went off with relative ease. (Except for my forgetting to purchase more sugar, thus having to pause and go out for more; but that wasn’t the recipe’s fault.) It was the actual, interminable baking process. I set the oven to 325 degrees, which seemed low to me, for a fruit based cake. I followed the instructions, set the timer for 40 minutes (which seemed a relatively brief amount of time), and the cake was clearly not complete at said time. It was finally baked 25 minutes later. Now this irritates me to no end. I can understand the 5-7 minute rule, everyone’s oven is different, but 25 minutes– please. This is a recipe!

Now onto the frosting. It was fluffy, light in texture, but dense and creamy in composition, however it did not make enough to frost the cake per instructions. The recipe called for the cake to be sliced into three layers; this seemed a bit excessive, not to mention redundant to me. I opted to make a double layer cake instead; and it’s a good thing I did. Once frosted, I had just enough icing for my amended, double layer cake, forget about the towering triple. But even with all of these trials and tribulation, the banana cake was stupendous. Moist and dense, not too sweet, the frosting a perfect foil for the richness of the cake. My sister loved it, in fact she had another slice the morning after her birthday for breakfast. Here it is, the banana cake from hell.

On to frosting dilemma, or solution as it may be. Now I love frosting, and of course I love cake. But there are times, at the end of my cake consumption, as I eat from the outside portion of this dessert, when the cake and frosting are too much of a good thing, the frosting is overpowering. There seems to be a trend in the pastry baking world these days, to leave the outside of cakes unfrosted. To this trend I say, “Hooray, you are solving the ratio problem!” Never again will the situation arise where I have too much sugary sweet condiment, suffocating my crumby, delicate cake.

I have a bad habit, nasty in fact. It’s not drugs, I don’t smoke, or drink excessively. I’ve never chewed my nails, digits have no appeal to me. To many I might lead what would be considered a boring existence; but I still have a rather gross habit. I hold things in my mouth for entirely too long. Like an expert sommelier would taste and savor a fine wine, letting the flavor bloom on his tongue, I too hold foods in my mouth, but not to let the flavor bloom, just because I enjoy having them there.

Now there are many foods with which I do this; they are usually self-contained. It’s not as if I pause in my chewing, and just leave the steak au poivre to mellow, tucked neatly, pouch-like, in the back of my cheek. A grape, for example is the perfect, self-contained food for this tuck and savor method. The skin of the fruit is taught and tight, just begging me to take a bite. But I don’t, instead I let the slippery sphere mellow, taunting me with its juice, tucked neatly in the depths of my mouth until I can stand it no longer. I take a nibble, releasing the sweet goodness, moist bits of flesh mingling with the nectar of the juice. I crunch down on what is left of the grape, brought down to a perfect 98.6 degrees, the temperature of my mouth and thus the perfect temperature for consumption. It could take me an hour to eat the perfect bunch of grapes.

A grape is one thing to carry with me, I can talk, communicate, proceed as normal, and no one says anything about it (even if they do see the penny-size lump in my cheek). Another favorite item I do the tuck and savor with, unsuccessfully if you ask my husband, who is continually disgusted by my poor behavior, is that favorite morning-time beverage– coffee. We will be scurrying around in the morning, each with a cup of coffee, Good Morning America playing in the background, and Brian will ask me a question, to which I will answer with a nod, appropriately or not, not wanting to open my mouth, letting the creamy coffee dribble down my chin. Finally Brian, disgusted and discouraged by my ineptitude of breakfast decorum remarks in a stern tone, “Swallow!” I oblige, but only until he leaves. If only I could figure out a way to communicate with coffee in my mouth, my day would be a bit brighter.

In our modern world, a world where “hamburgers” are made from soy (ie: fast-food restaurants), tortilla chips are covered in an orange powder and flavored with nacho cheese, and drive-thru coffee shops dot suburban landscapes, is it possible that color has so been so associated with flavor, the two have actually become synonymous with each other?

I love salt-water taffy; it’s like a little taste of summer all through the year. The chewier the better; I like to feel as though the candy will actually yank out my molars as I bite down upon it. Now some taffy is better than others, the sweet flavors are creamier, a greater variety of flavors, and of course the prominence of that texture which I love. But this isn’t a story about one of those greater salt water taffies, this is about the base taffy, from this little, customer-less candy shop, taffy that been sitting in the bin for years.

My husband and I were out getting coffee, and I was munching on my latest sweet treat. He, not having the same sweet tooth, nor really liking the molar-yanking texture of taffy, was refraining. I wasn’t truly happy with this batch of candy setting before me, individually wrapped in wax paper. They were a bit odd. Overly dyed, too sweet, and peculiarly many of the flavors tasted similarly, no matter what color the taffy was. That is most of pieces tasted alike, all but the glistening red, overly dyed pieces of taffy.

As I unwrapped the sticky glob of sugary sweetness, I remarked just how red this red piece of taffy was. I popped the glob in my mouth and began to chew, slowly at first to soften the taffy and begin to release the flavor. Then my chewing accelerated, as I tried to isolate just what this flavor was. I swallowed, but I still could not decide, strawberry, cherry, watermelon, it seemed to be many different flavors all at once. I dove into the bag of taffy setting on my lap, desperate to find another glowing, bright orb in order to define that illusive flavor. Many minutes later, my tongue now temporarily dyed red, and all of the solid red taffy eaten from my sack, I came to the conclusion that the flavor was simply– red.

Perhaps the maker couldn’t decide just how to flavor his newest red concoction, and combined all the red flavors he knew. Perhaps he was just lazy. Or perhaps he was just succumbing to this new fang-dangled, fast-food nation. Whatever the reason, I’m not sure if I like my foods (even if they are artificial, like salt-water taffy) to be flavored like colors.

I don’t really like mayonnaise. Maybe it’s the Jew in me, but there seems to be so many other condiments that aren’t globby, white, gelatinous messes to use than mayo. I almost never eat mayo, not even a light smear on my bread when making a sandwich. Now I said almost in reference to the one food on which I would eat the otherwise foul ingredient– artichokes. I know, it seems absurd, how could one who detests mayo so much consume the dreaded condiment on its own, as a dipping sauce for an otherwise pleasant vegetable. And the answer is, I just can’t tell you.

Actually I think I can; it may not be a good reason, but here it is. Let’s go through our other options. Butter– too slick, almost greasy, and not enough flavor. Lemon juice– too tart, almost dietetic in nature. And the final reason, mayonnaise was the dip of choice in my family. A little ramekin was set before me as a child, the artichoke lay next to it, and I was told to eat.

So eating artichokes was always a tumultuous experience for me. I loved the leafy green texture of the vegetable, the subtle sweetness of the meat, but I was horrified that this one vegetable could make me partake of the dreaded condiment. That was until about one year ago, and my discovery of the delightful Mediterranean dip, Bagna Cauda.

Bagna Cauda is a wonderful amalgamation of minced garlic, chopped anchovy, olive oil, and butter, simmered and served warm. Traditionally it is to be served with a crisp crudites platter, but I have found it to be the perfect accompaniment to steamed artichokes. Really Bagna Cauda is more of a ratio than a hard and fast recipe. Equal parts garlic and anchovy to almost equal proportions butter to olive oil. Simmer the garlic and anchovies in the olive oil, until the anchovy begins to melt and fall apart, and the garlic begins to brown. Then butter is added and melted, and what you get is a pungent, salty, briny, gooshy mixture of the four most simple, yet truly wonderful ingredients out there. I mean I could bathe in this stuff!

With this discovery, I can now lay to rest the use of mayonnaise once and for all. Never again will I have to rely on that fatty, globulous condiment in which to dip my artichokes! Long live Bagna Cauda!

This recipe can easily be altered, more or less garlic, etc. it’s all to taste. This is for a smaller batch, for dipping artichokes in, but the recipe doubles or triples easily if you’re making the dip for crudites. In that case, it’s really best if served in a fondue pot or warm ceramic dish, to keep the dip warm and amalgamated.

1/4 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
1 1/2 tablespoons minced anchovy fillets
1 tablespoon minced garlic

In a small saucepan, over medium heat, melt the garlic and anchovies in the olive oil. Stir frequently and watch to make sure you do not scorch the garlic, it should just begin to brown. When the anchovies have melted, fallen apart, and the garlic is slightly browned add the butter, tablespoon at a time. Mix well to incorporate. The dip should be an emulsion, with each component of the dressing well incorporated. Pour into ramekins and serve with steamed artichokes.

Here’s a recipe for a lovely soup I made over the weekend. It is especially nice to curl up with this cup of warm soup when it is cold and dreary out, much like it has been here these past few days.

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 leeks, white and light green parts, cleaned and sliced
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, peeled and grated
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
4 cups butternut squash, peeled and cut into one inch pieces
2 green apples, cored and cut into one inch pieces
1 pear, cored and cut into one inch pieces
4 cups stock, vegetable or chicken
1 tablespoon, white wine or apple cider vinegar
salt and pepper, to taste

In a large pot, melt the butter, and sweat the leeks until half their volume, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger, and continue to sauté for 1 minute. Season with salt and pepper, add the cinnamon and toast for 2 minutes. Add the squash, apples and pear, stirring well to ensure they are evenly coated by the spices.

Pour in the broth, bring to a boil, and taste for seasoning. Partially cover the pot and continue to simmer the soup until apples and squash are well-softened, about 25 minutes. Remove the soup from the heat. Puree in batches in a blender until smooth. Add vinegar, taste again for seasoning, and return the soup to the pot to heat through.