A Peas-ful Weekend

I hope you're not disappointed, but I'm not writing a posting on a "traditional" Memorial Day holiday weekend recipe. No ribs, burgers, or hot dogs. Nothing grilled. Cue the rounds of boos.

Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Okay, that's enough. Knock it off. No more booing.

Here's the deal. Nathan and I are celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary a weekend early by doing something we almost never do. We're going away together. Off to Stillwater in Minnesota for a nice romantic excursion. See? Now you feel a little bad for booing at me, don't you?

While it's much more likely that I'll be ordering off a menu this weekend (as I relax on the waterfront, swirling a glass of wine...ah.) rather than slaving over a hot grill, I do have a nice little recipe to share that I tested earlier this week. Lately I'd been thinking about trying my hand at pasta alla carbonara - a classic pasta dish that seems quite easy although I'd never actually done it. All carbonara recipes essentially just require pasta, eggs, pepper, bacon (or pancetta, or similar) and parmigiano. Ingredients which I almost always have hanging around, so why I've never done this dish before is truly a mystery.

I read several different recipes and variations while determining how I wanted to go about this. I was most inspired by Marcus Samuelsson's version, which included peas and basil. This pasta dish is a perfect meal on a day when it's too hot to heat the grill or the oven, or when you just need a break from ribs, burgers, and brats. Plus there are about a million variations on classic carbonara so feel free to take some creative licensing.

Recipe for Pasta Carbonara with Peas and Fresh Herbs (serves 2 with leftovers):

• A fist full of angel hair pasta (about 4-5 ounces)
• 4 thick cut slices of bacon, diced into thin strips
• 1/2 of a small yellow onion, diced
• 1 egg
• 2 tsp heavy cream
• 1/2 cup of peas (frozen works great)
• 1 generous tbsp fresh chopped basil
• 1 generous tbsp fresh chopped parsley
• Olive oil
• Fresh grated parmigiano (or pecorino romano)
• Salt and pepper
• Lemon zest (for finishing)

Bring a pot of water to a boil and cook the pasta to al dente. Drain the pasta and toss with a little olive oil; a couple teaspoons should do the trick. Leave aside. Bring a small amount of water back to a boil in the pot and cook the peas for only a few minutes. Drain separately and rinse under cold water.

Meanwhile, in a large heavy pan (either a fry pan or braising pan - something big enough to toss all the ingredients later), drizzle a small amount of olive oil and cook the onions on med-low heat for several minutes until they start to soften. Add the bacon and cook until done but not crisp. Meanwhile, in a small bowl beat the egg with the cream and stir in a large pinch of cheese, and a little salt/pepper.

When the onions/bacon are done, with the heat still on, add the pasta and combine. Add the peas next and combine. when the pasta has heated back up, pour the egg mixture all over and toss. Keep tossing until the ingredients are combined and the egg mixture has coated the hot pasta. The heat from the pasta will cook the egg, leaving you with a nice light sauce. Taste for salt/pepper.

Transfer to whatever cute serving bowl you'd like to use and mix until it looks nice and even. Sprinkle the fresh chopped herbs all over and add lemon zest (about a half a lemon should do) and fresh cheese to the top.

Farm-to-Table Sunday

The morels (previous article below), fresh spinach, and herbs I gathered on Saturday morning at the Minneapolis Farmers Market seized their destiny yesterday in a zenith of Sunday Dunch (like brunch, but closer to dinner than breakfast) perfection. Fresh food, family bonding, epic meals consequently followed by epic naps - it's the stuff of life.

I had made plans post-Saturday market to meet up with my mom (Bette) and stepfather (Ernie) on Sunday for a post-church meal. Often you don't need a reason or occasion to make plans with loved ones. Sometimes you find several reasons at the farmers market. I think spring produce is an occasion all its own. For those following along with my new stovetop struggles, you'll also understand that I find Bette and Ernie's stove to be an occasion all its own. It's serious business - like something you'd find in a very legit restaurant kitchen. Four huge gas burners, warming lights and racks, more bells and whistles than I can imagine. My husband dreams of owning a motorcycle. I dream of owning this appliance.

Another dream of mine - for the past 3 years - has been to attempt to recreate one of the most memorable dishes I tasted while working at Kitchen Conservatory is St. Louis, and the missing ingredient has always been an abundance of fresh morels. Chef Joe Herbert's popular "Sauce Boss" classes became famous for his amazing sauce artistry and would always sell out fast. As a privilege of working the class, I was able to taste along, and smuggle copies of the best recipes. His recipe for Chicken with Morel and Truffle Sauce holds firmly in my memory of one the best chicken dishes I'd ever tasted. The sauce was rich, fragrant and comforting, and slightly enigmatic given my lack of experience with the mushroom. I'm sure it would be just as tasty if other wild mushrooms filled is as substitutes, but I always wanted to recreate it with the morels.

Bette and Ernie live near a fantastic meat and fish market called Clancy's, and they ordered some chicken breasts (skin on; easy on the bones) just for the occasion. And of course I couldn't leave without also purchasing some deli ham and bacon/chive/Gouda sausage. At home we set the table with farmers market flowers and got to work on the chopping and prepping.

Having never worked with this mushroom before, I sliced them lengthwise, per Ernie's advice. "You don't want to cut rings," he pointed out in his inherent English accent.

Meanwhile, the chicken crackled on high heat in a stainless steel All-Clad pan, a pan with a flat bottom and high walls, ideal for meat-searing-followed-by-oven-cooking-followed-by-sauce-making. I love pans that do all the work.

Despite a brief panicky moment when I thought I botched the sauce, and a minor notion that I may have oversalted a wee bit (a tendency of mine; I adore salt) the final product turned out just as delicious as I remember. Judging by the silence at the table I knew that Bette and Ernie agreed.

Here's the recipe, adapted slightly based on number of people at the table and what I did a little - that is, inconsequentially to the end product - differently.

Recipe for Chicken with Creamy Morel-Truffle Sauce:

• 3 chicken breasts, skin-on
• 1-2 cups chopped fresh morels
• 1 and 1/2 cup of heavy cream
• 1 tbsp white truffle oil
• 1 tbsp olive oil or grapeseed oil
• 2 tbsp chopped fresh herbs - rosemary & thyme
• Dry sherry for deglazing pan (you could also use dry white wine, original recipe calls for Madeira, just don't use anything too sweet)
• Salt & pepper to taste

You'll also need: A deep, heavy bottom pan that can go from stovetop to oven back to stovetop, and time built in after the meal for a nap.

Heat the oven to 350. In your pan, heat the olive/grapeseed oil on high heat. Rub the chicken breasts with salt & pepper and about half of the chopped rosemary/thyme. Sear the chicken skin-side down for 6 minutes. Flip and sear the other side for 3 minutes. Flip the chicken back over to skin-side down and transfer to the oven. Cook in the oven for 10 minutes. After 10 minutes, place the pan back on the stovetop and set the chicken aside on a platter to rest.

Heat the pan to med-high heat and add the mushrooms. When the mushrooms have softened and absorbed the pan juices, deglaze the pan with a couple of splashes of sherry. When the sherry has been reduced/absorbed, add the heavy cream. Keep the heat high while stirring for a while, until the cream reduces by about half and starts looking more like a saucy consistency. Turn the heat down and stir as the sauce continues to thicken. Finish the sauce by stirring in the truffle oil and remaining herbs, and taste for salt & pepper. Serve the chicken with the sauce poured over the top.

Serve warm crusty bread on the side for mopping up the sauce, and a green salad to balance out the richness.

Cue Halleljah Chorus

It's been a cloudy Saturday morning spent at the Minneapolis Farmers Market, where, I am not ashamed to confess, I ate a foot-long corndog for breakfast. I am a glutton of the highest order.

On display: the most gorgeous exhibition of fresh morel mushrooms I've ever seen! Treasure!

Yes. I bought some. It was no foraging, but that's ok.

Someday I will find my own. Today I snatched up 6 in one fell swoop.

ISO: Biscuits

Lately I've had a major hankering for biscuits. The good ones. The ones that are fluffy and warm and buttery and big. The ones I had on a visit to New Orleans earlier this year.

I remember a time in my life where I would never - seriously, never - eat breakfast. It was when I was in college and shortly after where no one was around to make me eat it, so I could just roll out of bed and head to class, and really, I wasn't even hungry because I had probably been eating an entire pizza at 11 p.m. (or later) the night before. Now at this pushing-30-stage, where I am in bed long before 11 p.m. without a belly full of carbs to start my day, I find myself wanting a big fat biscuit at sunrise.

My husband and I ate brunch at a fantastic little spot in NOLA off the beaten path aptly called EAT. **I should disclose that my experience exploring The South is limited to this one weekend in New Orleans before I declare that EAT is where I had the best biscuit I've ever tasted.** Last week I sent an email to EAT begging them for the recipe of this biscuit. They have not responded, so I am left frustrated by unfulfilled craving.

Can anyone point me to a decent - No. No decent. Scratch decent - a mouthwateringly brilliant recipe for buttermilk biscuits?

The Morel of the Story

First, I should reiterate that I am actually thrilled to be living in Minneapolis again. I must make this very clear. It is exactly the direction I have wanted my life to take, and I can't wait for the many, many food adventures I will have here. Including, but not limited to, learning how to effectively go foraging for morels, per my recent Twitter post (morels are in fact the Minnesota "state mushroom," so they must be around here somewhere). The point being emphasized because I am about to whine, just a little, about how desperately I miss New York today. And not because it snowed this past weekend. Well, maybe that has something to do with it. Just a little bit.

Morel photo courtesy of (read: "courteously borrowed without permission") Wikipedia.


I mainly miss New York because one of my dearest friends is there, and she happens to be my foodie soulmate. I've mentioned Genny in previous posts. She is a no-nonsense 100% Mexican force-of-nature who has opened the restaurants of famous chefs (you may have heard of Philippe Chow), speaks rapid Spanish (much to my awe and envy) during margarita happy hours, and can make a kick-ass rack of ribs, along with just about anything else. Not to mention she has guided me to some of my most memorable new food and dining experiences, fed me many comforting meals during movie nights at her apartment, and is just an overall sweet and amazing lady. We are in the process of considering business plans needed to open a taco truck, and travel the country tortilla-style. But that's a whole different story altogether.

We celebrated my last week in New York the best way we knew how - with eating. She took me to one of her favorite restaurants, one that she'd been telling me about for ages but we never seemed to make it there until it was almost too late. Mario Batali's Casa Mono is a place that Genny would frequent with her Spanish boyfriend, Frank, so my lack of ability to fully translate the menu didn't matter because she already knew what to order. It's probably better that I didn't know what I was getting myself into anyway. I'm all about trying new foods, in fact I would say with confidence it's something I live for, and I also trust Genny with my life and taste buds. But when I hear "cow stomach lining," aka tripe, will be one of our main dishes, images from the 2001-2006 TV show "Fear Factor" begin to develop in my mind. However, when Genny explains, 1) the care in the process that the restaurant goes through to clean and prepare it, and 2) that it was a key dish in her childhood, much like meatloaf to me, and how much it would mean to her if I gave it a shot, I am much more at ease with this whole situation.

The entire Casa Mono experience was one of my most exciting dining experiences to date, a perfect way to end my 2-year stint in NYC. I wish I had taken photos of each dish we tasted, but since I had fully embarrassed my lunch date with this very sneaky and quite un-glamorous self-photo below (dining next to signature orange Croc-clad Mario Batali himself) I decided to "play it cool" for the rest of the meal.

We sampled the "Fois Gras with Cinco Cebollas," which tasted like butter. I've never had fois gras that was seared so perfectly; I actually didn't know what it was at first. Paired with the five varied onions and a subtle reduction sauce, it was heavenly. We also tried the "Pork Croquetas with Green Tomatoes" which was warm croquetas served over diced tangy green tomatoes, and some special seasonal additions of cuttlefish (which reminded me of fish french fries, because they were firm and mild, almost like calamari - cuttlefish and squid are Cephalopod Mollusk cousins - but were shaped like french fries and were garnished with a fresh herb aioli) and some delectable little clams topped with fried angel hair pasta.

I was toiling over how to effectively describe the unique look and texture of the tripe dish ("Tripe and Chickpeas with House-Made Morcilla." I asked Genny, "What's morcilla?" She wisely replied, "Eat first. Ask later." Morcilla, also known as "black pudding" or "blood sausage" is essentially sausage made from dried blood. I thought it was morbidly delightful.), and I found the tripe itself impossible to describe. I literally could not think of anything to draw a parallel. Until I was obsessing over morels earlier today! See the morel photo above? That's what the tripe looked like. It was thin and holey, tender and apparently has no real flavor - I could only taste the chickpea and morcilla and whatever the spicy, middle-eastern inspired sauce was. Genny informed me that tripe actually absorbs the flavors of whatever you cook it with. One of her personal favorite tripe dishes is "Warm Tripe 'alla Parmigiana'" on the antipasti menu at another Batali locale, Babbo Ristorante. It's tripe that's been simmered with a robust tomato sauce and topped with fresh parmigiano cheese. She claims it's the best tripe dish in the city.

We also polished off a bottle of wine, and after fighting over the check, we strolled through the Gramercy neighborhood, loopy and laughing, totally blissed-out from the meal. It was a perfect way to spend one of my last afternoons in the city.

I'm looking forward to a lifetime of discovering all that there is out there to try. While I do miss NYC for so many reasons, it doesn't offer everything. Now, who wants to go foraging with me?

New Kitchen, New Challenge: Must. Be. Alpha!

Wow. Cross-country moving. Not for the faint of heart. I finally made it to Minnesota last week with my sanity (top importance), our 2 pugs (also very important), and, eventually, all our worldly stuff. I unpacked the kitchen first, naturally, and I finally cooked something for the first time in almost 3 weeks. It had to be something easy (necessary), warm and comforting (holy smokes, it can get cold here!) and capable of generating leftovers (always good).

The thing about our newly rented home - a lovely little town home near downtown Minneapolis - is that, selecting it sight-unseen left us little room to be picky. We actually did very well for ourselves - we really love the space. However, lurking in the kitchen, I discovered one of my biggest fears nestled in and taking residence between the pantry and the fridge. An electric stovetop. One of those flat thingys that are nice and easy to clean, but I never know what the hell it's doing with those little disks of varying size when I turn the dial to, say, the number 4. Is that hot? How hot is that? What's happening down there?? Why can't you just be a gas stovetop I can get along with? Why must you taunt me with your crazy uneven heat?? We also have a microwave, which I have absolutely no use for, and it's just taking up space where I could be storing my hand mixer, but my husband is thrilled because he now feels empowered to prepare his own food.

As I unpacked the kitchen, I found myself occasionally pausing to glance inadvertently and uneasily at said stovetop as if to size it up. Thus beginning several days of our unspoken dance for kitchen dominance. I knew I'd have to confront it eventually. Hey - watch it, stovetop. What's your problem, stovetop?? Tomorrow night, stove top. Seven o' clock, sharp. You. Me. We tangle.

Thankfully, my first dinner on the flat stove went without a hiccup (even WITH my All-Clad cookware, thankyouverymuch. I refuse to buy special flat-friendly equipment for you, stovetop! You will make it work, I say!). It was a pot of chili so it was pretty easy (again, necessary), but I'm still proud of myself in spite of that fact. Tonight I'm making a pizza (I better go get started on the dough, so it can sufficiently rise) and we'll see how the oven fares. I'm wasting no time giving it the ultimate test of heat - the hotter for my pizzas, the better. I'm curious to see how high this baby goes.



I have a sneaky feeling this isn't over between us, stovetop. It has only just begun.

Full Disclosure

Last week I went back to Curry Hill and tried the Chicken Tikka Masala at Dhaba, and it had all the qualities I wanted: rich and creamy, well-executed chicken, sufficiently spicy. Plus, the lunch special came with naan. Hurrah! I still want to visit Curry Leaf and sample their fare. I suspect I’ll do that sometime this week. I also found a fantastic Middle Eastern Market that I could have lost myself in for hours had I not been on my lunch break. They offered fantastic goods not found in most local supermarkets, including a wide-array of hookahs. Although I find smoking utterly disagreeable, I am fascinated by these devices. I imagine myself lounging on a giant mushroom-esque pillow with slippers, ala the Caterpillar from Alice and Wonderland, puffing away and saying WHO. R. U?

But this was not really what I wanted to get into today. Today I wanted to share my exciting and disquieting news.

I am leaving New York for whiter, colder pastures. Many of my friends and family have been informed, so I must now share the news that I will be moving back to Minneapolis in about a month. I am fully thrilled. I am absolutely freaked out.

Thrilled because Minneapolis is my home. I love it there. Freaked because the whole process of relocating sucks, quite frankly. For me, at least. I don’t find it one bit rousing, no matter how wonderful the destination. My husband’s job is typically the main culprit, which always leaves me floundering to find a new one, and this time around is no exception. So if my writing is/has been a little off, please forgive me. I fully intend to keep up with blogging when I move, which brings me to my top ten reasons I’m psyched to bring Breakfast & Bed to Minnesota:

1- Spending quality time in the kitchen with my Mom/Step dad & my Dad/Step mom
2- The Minneapolis Farmers Market
3- The food at the Minnesota State Fair
4- The local grub. Walleye!
5- The Heavy Table
6- Cooks of Crocus Hill
7- All the amazing restaurants I used to love
8- All the amazing restaurants I have yet to discover
9- Eat Street
10- Above all, cooking and eating with family and friends




I admit it: I'll miss my cute little New York kitchen!

Curry Me Softly

Work has been fairly busy lately, leaving me little time to cook, let alone go on any food adventures. I hadn't gone on a food adventure in a while, until I found myself on one last Friday quite by accident.

The weather in New York on Friday was beautiful. Stunning. So fabulous, that no matter how busy your schedule, you simply had to make time to go for a walk outside. Here's the thing about the neighborhood I work in - the food pickings are not so hot. It's just South of the Empire State Building between Broadway and 5th, next to a McDonalds, Subway, and Quiznos. I don't get out for lunch much. On this lovely particular Friday I decided to "Google Map" the phrase, "New York Restaurants" and zoom in on my little area, within a certain radius. The results were as I expected. Sparse. Blah.* However, I did notice a concentrated cluster of dots at about 28th and Lexington, exactly 4 long blocks East of me. So naturally I decided I had to check it out.

As I reached my dotted destination, it suddenly dawned on me: I found Curry Hill.

Remember several months back you voted to send me to Curry Hill, I wound up with squid, but promised I'd go to Curry Hill at some point? Well, I went. The cluster of dots on the Google map was actually the high-concentration of Indian restaurants in the area, hence the original name, "Little India," now more commonly known as "Curry Hill" (because it's just South of the Murry Hill neighborhood. Ha ha get it?).

Let me quickly mention that I am, at this particular moment in my life, Obsessed (yes, capital "O") with Chicken Tikka Masala. It has become my ultimate comfort food. I adore it and long for it and savor it. The problem with this dish (which also happens to be the wonderful thing about this dish) is that there is no one way to make it, so every place you try it will be slightly different.

This is a problem for me because, being the food adventurer that I am, I really will need to try every single possible version of Chicken Tikka Masala before I am satisfied. So far my favorite has been from Tandoori on the Upper West Side. I have had many others that have been good. But not as good. Will I order from Tandoori again? Possibly. But as long as there are more versions for me to try, I will be out there trying them all. Which is all at once frustrating and exciting and disappointing and exhilarating.

This brings me back to Curry Hill, where I am trying to decide where to sample the Chicken Tikka Masala. I land on "Curry in a Hurry," because a.) that establishment helped give rise to the original neighborhood nickname and b.) I was in a hurry. I had to get back to work.

The dish was good. Still not my favorite. Wouldn't get it again. At least I know now that I am a short walk away from exploring more Chicken Tikka Masala recipes. If I find one that beats Tandoori, I'll let you know.

*I feel I should disclaimer this: There are a few bright spots around for midday lunches. Koreatown is lovely. Shake Shack is delightful. But I usually only have enough time to grab and go. And Shake Shack lines are at least a 45 min wait on a crap-weather day. I haven't even tried it on a nice day.

Pop

While engaging in massive-scale Spring cleaning today, I came across three 2009 issues of Gourmet magazine. I don’t like clutter, so I’m not surprised that only three survived. But I was disappointed. I’ve been feeling very nostalgic lately for this particular publication. The gorgeous, full-page photos. The stories. Ruth. Sigh. How depressing is it that the first thing I thought of was framing the covers for display on my wall, like they are retro pop art? I suppose it's a tribute to the magazine, really – and its elegant art direction and beautiful (IMHO) interpretation of food.

Thank goodness for the wide community of writers and bloggers that keep me informed, entertained, enlightened, artistically fulfilled, and well-fed. A colleague when I was working Kitchen Conservatory, and someone I follow on Twitter, Kelly of http://www.barbaricgulp.com/ is always talking about “crack corn” - an affectionate moniker she uses to describe popcorn tossed with truffle salt. I decided this would make a fantastic cleaning day snack.

I found some black truffle salt at Chelsea Market about a month ago, and I since have been trying to find the perfect way to enjoy it. (Aside from the tip of my finger. Straight from the jar. I’m not ashamed.) Fresh popcorn is a blank canvas to display the subtle truffle taste. I don’t have a special popcorn-popping contraption. Just a stove, a 3 qt. pot, and a lid. That’s all it takes. And the kernels of course. And a little vegetable oil. And, of course, truffle salt.

Here’s how: with a 3 qt. pot, measure 2 tbsp of oil and 1/3 cup of kernels and pour 'em in. Turn on the heat to about medium, and cover the pot so a little steam can escape. Wait for that magical popping sound, and when it starts to wind down to silence, take the pot off the stove. Transfer the popcorn to a big bowl. If you have a heart-failure-induced-death-wish-crippling-weakness-for-butter similar to my own, drizzle some melted butter over the popcorn before tossing with truffle salt. Indulge. You’ll never eat the microwave stuff again.

Impressive

This photo. Impressive.
Right?


Picture yourself, perhaps even in black & white in 50’s-style garb and ruffled apron, smiling effortlessly as you place this roasting pan in your oven. An hour or so later, you pull it out, and voila! Is it Thanksgiving? Is it Christmas? Why, no - it’s just another Fabulous day of being Fabulous.

The best part is that it’s actually not. Impressive. But that can be our dirty little secret.

No, seriously. I’ll count it on one hand: #1 A whole chicken #2 Chopped shallots #3 Grapes (red and green for extra glamour) #4 Chopped thyme and #5 Staples: Salt, pepper and olive oil. That’s all there is to it. No, seriously.

I found this recipe somewhere in a recent Bon Appetit; I can’t remember which issue, but the simple and unusual combination of ingredients caught my attention. Plus, I’m a big fan of #1 Easy-yet-big-impact meals #2 Roasting whole chickens #3 Shopping lists I don’t have to write down #4 Less dishes to wash and #5 Leftovers.

Abridged Recipe for Impressive Roasted Chicken & Grapes:

Place a whole chicken in a roasting pan and rub with olive oil, salt and pepper. Stuff the bird with several sprigs of thyme. In a large bowl, toss the different kinds of grapes with the chopped (quartered) shallots, chopped thyme, and a little olive oil. Arrange the grape-shallot mixture around the edges of the pan. Roast at 400 for an hour to an hour and a half, or until an instant-read thermometer registers 165 degrees throughout the meat.

The Big Black Banana

Do you ever pick items out at the grocery store that you have absolutely no idea what purpose they will serve in your upcoming meal plans? That's my story. I am a total impulse-grocery shopper. Occasionally I'll know what I want, and successfully leave the store with only those ingredients. But it's not likely.

Which is, as I type this now, how I came to have a covered pot on my stove containing chicken, coconut milk, basil, jalapenos, and ginger. And a big black banana on my counter.

I just peeked in the pot. Oof. It's pretty ugly in there. And by ugly I mean totally nasty looking. I have no recipe for whatever the hell I am doing.

I just hope it ends up tasting good.
I just hope my husband doesn't abandon me for Chinese take-out.

Last night:

"Is that a big black banana in our fridge?" -Nathan
"No, it's a plantain." -Me

The real question here: What exactly did I think I was going to do with a plantain? All I know is that you grill 'em, fry 'em, whatever. Well, I hope they taste ok with this crazy coconut experiment. I'm making a double batch of rice just in case this whole operation goes South.

So, I just checked again, and it still looks pretty gross, but I think the chicken is about done. I shredded it and now its just sort of sitting in this coconut-ginger-basil-jalapeno swamp. Hmm. Alright pot, step aside; I'm going to fry me some plantains...

Well, that was pretty easy. All I did was heat up some vegetable oil in a frying pan and cook on each side of the sliced plantain until golden brown. Let's taste test this chicken... oops, I dropped a piece on the floor, splashing white coconut milk on my black pug. Well, the dogs seem to like it. Me: chewchewchew. Kinda bland. Needs a little salt.

The verdict: It actually turned out okay. I liked it. Not one of my favorites, but good. Nathan liked it. The dogs liked it. This is why I love to experiment.

How to: Fire-Roast a Pepper

Dear winter, you've gone on long enough. It's time to pack up your miserable freezing rain and blistering wind chill and take it somewhere else. While I do appreciate February's efforts in brevity, calender-speaking, we can move ahead into spring any time now. Annnnnyyyy time now (coupled with a show of checking wrist for invisible watch).

Darn this miserable late winter weather. Let's cook something over a fire, shall we? A tiny fire in my tiny Manhattan apartment on my super-tiny Magic Chef gas stove, but fire nonetheless.

The first time I saw someone plop a pepper directly over a gas stove fire was in a Mexican cooking class a few years ago. The guacamole recipe called for "roasted poblano pepper." I'll never forget the collective reaction of the class as the pepper, assisted by tongs, was placed over a high flame by the bold instructor. It seemed as though everyone for that brief second held their breath, recoiling ever so slightly, as if half-expecting the stove to erupt in a peppery fireball as a result of the lack of cookware to direct the heat. What happened instead, after a few settled moments, were a few hisses and pops, and then we were on our way to a true fire-roasted treat.

To roast your very own pepper, you need a gas stove top, a pair of tongs, and a pepper. Turn up the heat to high, and place the pepper over the flame. Turn the pepper over with the tongs as the skin gets black and when it has blackened all over, remove from the flame. To remove the flakey skin, you can either set it aside in a bowl to cool and then peel it off, or if you're impatient like me, run it under cold water to cool it off and wash off the black pieces. Use your roasted pepper in all kinds of recipes... such as...

Recipe for Easy Roasted Red Pepper Meatballs:

• One pound of ground beef
• One diced roasted red pepper
• One clove of minced garlic
• One small onion, diced
• 1/3 cup of breadcrumbs
• 1 egg
• 1 tbsp chopped fresh marjoram
• 1 tsp chopped fresh oregano
• 1 tsp red pepper flakes
• Salt and Pepper

Mix all the ingredients above together in a big bowl. Roll the mixture into large meatballs and arrange in a single layer at the bottom of a big pot. Cover with a little tomato sauce and cook, with the pot's lid on, over medium heat until meatballs are done. Probably 10-15 minutes depending on size.

Full Disclosure. No, Wait... Partial Disclosure.

Holy shit it's February.

So. I've pretty much abandoned my blog. This "extended lapse," we'll call it, has been carefully justified in my head. I am burned out. I have no creative drive. I'm totally boring. I have no readers. Who cares? If I don't feel like doing it, then dammit, I'm not doing it.

As it turns out, I do have a few readers. Thank you so much for reminding me.

I've still been eating and cooking and having some pretty wonderful adventures. Thoughts and stories that I would like to share, but somehow I have felt overwhelmed at the idea of putting it into words.

The truth is, I do have some pretty major stuff brewing in my life right now. Changes on the horizon that are exciting and scary at the same time. Big events that shake up my cozy little life always freak me out, even the big events that are totally necessary and that I desperately want. Big events tend to track me down no matter where I hide. While I am not quite ready to fully cyber-disclose the details of these events, all will be revealed very soon (Mom, please refrain from posting comments).

In the meantime, I will try to rediscover the words to return to my blog. I've already talked about "me" way too much in this post. As someone who innately celebrates food, doing this was always meant to be a way to live my dream life as someone who shared stories and thoughts and the occasional iPhone-captured photo as a creative outlet on a passionate topic. I'd like my blog to focus on food and my interactions with food, and not be about me, as much as possible. And to be perfectly honest, my thoughts these past couple of months have been extremely self-centered as I get ready to dive into this next phase of The Journey. So there. That's my excuse.

I had one friend request a "good winter recipe." I made these Banana-Black Bean Empanadas from epicurious.com and they were easy, interesting, and fabulous. They make great leftovers, too.

Damn You, Murphy!

Something is wrong. Something is off.
Something is WRONG and OFF.

For the past week or so, for some inexplicable reason, I have been a walking, talking, breathing (cursing, fumbling), tribute to Murphy's Law. You name it, I botched it. My projects at work? Disasters. Something obstructing a path? It's very likely I tripped over it. Something burning-metal hot? I touched it. Something important that needed to be done? I totally forgot about it.

The worst part about all of this is the fact that I can't sleep. I don't know if swirling neurotic thoughts about my work disasters are the culprit for keeping me conscious when I should be pleasantly unconscious, or if it's that damn Murphy, but whatever it is, it feels very apocalyptic. Yes. Apocalyptic. I'll explain: sleeping is what I do. I can always sleep, no matter what. Uncomfortable mattress? Not a problem. Thunderstorm? Kid's stuff. If left to my own devices, I think I would actually sleep for days on end. I'm that good. I don't do very many things well, but sleeping - let's just say if it were an Olympic sport, I'd be preparing my trip to Vancouver as we speak (and yes, sleeping would have to be a winter sport. No question). Not sleeping troubles me. I lay awake, troubled by this. Which further provokes insomnia. It's not pretty.

I've been avoiding my kitchen for fear that I'll continue to burn or cut myself worse than I already have, finding respite in writing holiday cards instead (for some reason, that has not gone wrong. As far as I know. And I'd like to keep it that way). Eventually my love will overcome the fear and I'll make my way back to the kitchen. I just hope it's sooner rather than later, otherwise... "Honey? Are these Christmas Cookies? You know it's February, right?"

One thing that will help get me through to the other side is the memory of the last meal I executed gracefully just before the moment Murphy swept into my life. It was a surprise for my husband's birthday: Truffled Lobster Risotto. He came home from work at 9:30 p.m. only to inform me that he already had a holiday dinner with his co-workers and forgot to tell me. Two night's later, I tried another special dinner to make up for the missed opportunity, only to absolutely destroy the Bearnaise sauce (and it was looking like it was going to be my best EVER!). It was such a sad moment. Only a split second was all it took for the sauce to separate, and then there was no saving it. I haven't cooked anything more than boiled noodles since.

Recipe for Truffled Lobster Risotto:

The beauty of this dish is that it seems very elegant, but it's super-duper easy. Even for those afflicted by Murphy's Law.

• One 1 lb. Cooked Lobster, meat pulled out and chopped into bite-sized pieces (save the shells from the claws and tail)
• 1 cup of Arborio rice
• 3 cups of chicken stock
• 1/3 cup of white wine
• 7-8 stalks of asparagus, washed, trimmed and cut into 1-2" pieces
• 1 shallot, diced
• 1 tbsp butter
• 4 tsp truffle oil
• 2 tbsp heavy cream
• Shaved truffle for finishing (if you are lucky enough to have a fresh truffle. If not, no worries)
• Fresh grated parmigiano reggiano cheese for finishing
• Salt & pepper
  

After you dismantle your lobster, keep the meat in the fridge, and save the claw and tail shells. Bring the chicken stock to a simmer in a small saucepan. Make a "cheater's lobster stock" by adding the claw and tail shell to the simmering chicken stock, and let it simmer slowly while you prep the rest of your ingredients. In a risotto pan or heavy fry pan over medium heat, melt the butter and add the shallots and asparagus. Season with salt & pepper and toss for a few minutes, until cooked and softened. Remove the asparagus with tongs before they get too soft, and set aside for later. Drizzle 2 tsp of truffle oil in pan and add the risotto. Stir it around for several minutes until toasted. Add the wine, and continue stirring until the liquid is absorbed. Strain the chicken stock and discard the shells. You should have about 2 and 1/2 cups of stock. As you continue stirring, add the stock to the risotto 1/2 cup at a time, and stir constantly until all the liquid is absorbed. When 1/2 cup gets absorbed, repeat the process until risotto is al dente. Finish by adding the asparagus back in, and stir in the lobster meat, the cream, and the remaining 2 tsp of truffle oil. Serve topped with truffle shavings (if you have them) and parmigiano reggiano cheese.

No Ifs, Ands or Halibuts

Sorry, I just couldn't help myself.

I recently received a notice saying that with the axing of Gourmet, my remaining subscription will be supplemented with Bon Appetit. And since I also have a subscription to Bon Appetit, Conde Nast says they'll just keep 'em coming. Well, alright. I do enjoy Bon Appetit.

Speaking of which, I also recently tried a recipe from their December issue and it turned out quite nice. It was easy, and very tasty. I am always looking for ways to jazz up fish.

Recipe for: Halibut with Clementine Gremolata (adapted from Bon Appetit) -for 2 people

I actually used a tangerine. So, technically, this is a recipe for Halibut with Tangerine Gremolata. Also, I cheated a little bit on the gremolata. I used zest as opposed to chopping the peel.

Gremolata:

• The zest of 1 tangerine
• 1/4 cup of fresh chopped parsley
• 1 garlic clove, mince or pressed
• 1/2 teaspoon of sea salt
• 2 tbsp olive oil

Fish:

• 2 halibut filets
• Salt, Pepper, Olive Oil, and a squirt of tangerine juice per fish

Preheat oven to 350. Mix all the gremolata ingredients, olive oil last, and set aside. Cut two heart shapes out of parchment paper, about 12-14 inches in diameter, to serve as pouches for the fish. Place a halibut filet in the center of half the heart, and sprinkle with salt and pepper, drizzle on a small (1 tsp?) amount of olive oil and a squirt of tangerine juice. Fold the heart so the fish is covered and the edges meet. Fold the edges up, and repeat several times as you move around the fish, to seal the pouch. Cooking fish this way in a parchment pouch is called "En Papillote." With a little fish and some oil or butter, the possibilities for En Papillote are endless. You can add white wine, herbs, veggies... but I digress.

Bake the fish in their pouches on a rimmed baking sheet for about 15-20 minutes until opaque in the center. Serve the fishes hot with the gremolata on top.

Me and The Turkey

I had never been more conscious of my bladder as I was on Tuesday at the corner of 77th and Broadway. Heck, I didn’t even realize that I had to pee until I walked out of the Fairway Market at 74th and Broadway while cradling a 17 pound turkey pressed against my midsection. How do these women who carry around babies and toddlers all day do it? I went about 5 blocks before I started saying silent prayers to miss the green light to cross each street (complete polar opposite behavior of my typical self) just so I could rest the double-bagged bird at my feet for a merciful moment before hoisting it up again and heaving breathlessly as I pressed onward. I really should start working out.

In addition to scolding myself for being so out of shape, and being in awe of mothers who tow their kids around the city (also in awe of mothers who push these huge babies out in the first place), I wondered if there was anywhere along my remaining 10-block journey that I could pop in for a quick restroom pit stop. Am I really comfortable with the idea of leaving a 17 pound turkey with the baristas at Starbucks just because I couldn’t make it 10 measly blocks? Am I really that weak? No, no, I can do this. One block at a time. Big exhale.

I finally made it all the way home to 89th and took care of business. After some rearranging in the fridge, I slid the big guy inside and collapsed on the couch for a good 45 minutes.

On Wednesday I called my mom to ask her opinion on brining. Brining is essentially soaking your bird in a saltwater bath for moisture and flavor. I brined my bird last year but I wasn’t sure if it made a difference. How do you know when to brine or not to brine? She said if you have a really fresh bird you don’t need to brine. My stepfather Ernie’s solution was much simpler: always brine. So brine I did. Also per his advice, I followed the recipe in The Joy of Cooking, which, for overnight brining, called for 1 cup of kosher salt per gallon of water. I stuck my bird in a bucket with the brining water, and tucked him goodnight in the fridge.


On Thursday morning, The Turkey (I never did decide on a name for him this year) was ready to take his place on the giant roasting pan throne. I left a stick of butter out at room temperature covered it in white wine. I took out the neck and stuffed him with onion, carrots, celery, sage and thyme. I was just getting ready to give him the butter-wine spa pack treatment, when I realized I needed to tuck the wings under. I pushed, I pulled, I tried forcing unspeakable positions upon The Turkey. I could not, for the life of me, get the wings under. Do I really call my mom again? No, no, you can figure this out. Try it again. Push. Pull. Unspeakable. Dammit. Where’s my phone? Oh hi Ernie, you can help me with this. Are there any tricks to tucking the wings under? Try tying them? Ah yes, of course! Thanks gotta go!

I’ll try to describe the scene: me, wrestling with a large (approximately 1/7 my size) bird carcass trying to get him breast-side down so I can force his little turkey arms backwards to tie behind his back. I always feel a bit insensitive when I stuff a bird body cavity with vegetables, but yanking that string as hard as I could around those little bird elbows was utterly guilt-inducing. The real problem here is that at this point, I’ve had a couple of days to bond with The Turkey. I had to keep reminding myself that a.) It’s just a turkey, not my pet, and he’s already dead, and b.) I’m planning on doing much, much worse by cooking and eating his flesh.

After that unpleasantness, I rolled him back over and began the all-over butter massage, under the skin and over the skin. With the oven preheated to 425, I tied the legs (much easier than the elbows) and let him get brown for about 20 minutes before basting him and turning down the heat to 325. I spent the next several hours basting, tenting the breasts with foil, basting, taking his temperature, basting, temperature, basting, temperature, basting, and so on.

The breasts are done at 160 degrees. The thighs are done at 170 degrees. When it was all over, and the time came to eat The Turkey, after all that we’d been through together; the end result was amazing. The turkey was delicious. I don’t know if it was all the basting, the butter massage, the brining, or the bonding we did as I held him close on the way home from the market, but everyone loved The Turkey.

Big Day Countdown

The BIG DAY is almost here. I've been so giddy and preoccupied with what to cook that I haven't even thought about what to write.

Luckily, I have Mark Bittman. Author of a few of my favorite books, including a book that every chef should have in their library, How To Cook Everything, he also writes for the New York Times. His "101" features have become somewhat famous, and are always on the list of the "most emailed" articles on the day they are published. Most recently, 101 Head Starts On The Day offers readers 101 simple recipes to complete in advance of the BIG DAY, before the bird takes over your oven.

While it's true that preparing the sides dishes ahead of time will ultimately make your life easier, there are other things that can come up that may need your attention. Like any big event (or like the Boy Scouts) you should always be prepared. Here are 10 other things to think about now that will make your life easier come the BIG DAY:

1.) Check your meat thermometer. Make sure it works properly. The bird is the main event, no matter how many sides you make ahead of time. An overdone or underdone bird will add unnecessary stress to you, the chef.
2.) If you're like me and you use your gigantic roasting pan once a year, wash it. It's probably a tad dusty.
3.) Do you have a gravy separator? You still have time to get one. You'll be glad you did.
4.) Do you have a potato ricer? You still have time to get one. You'll be glad you did.
5.) Get your knives sharpened. Do it now.
6.) Iron your cloth napkins for your guests. Class things up a bit. Last year I forgot about this detail until I was setting the table and the guests were arriving. Whoops.
7.) There are football games on Thursday. Set your fantasy lineup on Wednesday.
8.) Are you brining your turkey? Do you have a large, clean bucket? You can't use the same one that you currently use to mop the floor. Well, I guess you can, but do you want to?
9.) Have you ordered a turkey yet? Do you need to? Now would be the time.
10.) Do something relaxing. Take a bubble bath. Read a book in bed. Don't stress about the BIG DAY; everything will be delicious and everyone will be happy.

Fully Capable of This Shepherd Business

I am trying to enjoy this streak of warm weather. I really am. It’s just that…I’m completely in fall-mode and there’s no way around it. I can’t do summer anymore. Not in November. I’ll be ready for summer again sometime around February. I can be robbed of my winter and be forgiving. But not my fall.

Fall is the best time to eat a fantastic meal then snuggle under the covers. It’s when your bedroom is finally cool enough that you never want to untangle yourself from your down comforter; when you get all nice and toasty in one spot, and then roll over onto the cool spot of the bed, catching a small breeze from the chilly air outside of the bed so you burrow even deeper under the covers. Fall is always the time of year that I wish I could morph into a bear and hibernate for the winter.

So, even though it was 65 and sunny the other day when I ventured to the store, I was longing for cool-weather food. Something warm. Rich. Dark. Filling. Flavorful.

I had every intention of making some sort of Philly Cheesesteak-style dish until I stumbled across some ground lamb and decided on shepherd’s pie instead. I’d had shepherd’s pie before, so I understood the gist of it as I stood there with the lamb in my basket, trying to remember what other ingredients I might need. This is the kind of moment that cell phones are for, right? I’ll simply call my stepfather…who happens to have a killer shepherd’s pie recipe… I’ll just reach into my purse here… wait, what? No phone? Great. Perfect. I forgot my phone at home. Oh well, no big deal, I’ll just look up a recipe on… my… phone. Hmm. I didn’t realize how I much I rely on that little thing to get me through the day.

I let myself get flustered for about 2 seconds, and then I remembered that I am Fully Capable of Figuring Shit Out.

With the words warm/rich/dark/filling/flavorful, along with the mental image of an actual phone-less shepherd, serving as my inspiration, I grabbed potatoes, an onion, garlic, an eggplant, and a Portobello mushroom. After a quick internal run-through of my at-home staples (Red wine, check. Butter, check. Thyme and oregano, check. Tomato paste, check.), I ushered my herd of groceries home. I then proceeded to pour myself a glass of wine, reference a few shepherd’s pie recipes in my cookbooks to make sure I wasn’t totally out of my mind, spread my flock of ingredients out on the counter, and figure it out.


The beauty of a dish like shepherd’s pie is that you really can’t screw it up, so you might as well just throw whatever you want in the pot. You’ll be O.K. There is no one authentic recipe that you must adhere to; there are no strict rules. Every shepherd is different. Here’s the way this shepherd made her pie.

Recipe for Pseudo-Chic-Urban-Shepherd’s Pie:

• A pound of ground lamb
• One medium onion, diced
• One Portobello mushroom, sliced
• Eggplant, diced into small cubes, about ½ cup
• 2 cloves of garlic, minced or pressed
• 2 tbsp red wine (aka, a generous splash. Seriously. Don't actually measure this.)
• 2 tsp thyme
• 2 tsp oregano
• 1 tsp tomato paste
• 2 tbsp butter
• Salt and Pepper
• Potatoes, butter and cream for mashed potatoes

Make mashed potatoes by boiling cubes of potatoes until tender; drain, then mash with cream, butter, salt and pepper.

In a heavy pot with a lid, melt the butter over medium heat and sauté the onions until soft. Add the garlic, mushroom and eggplant, and cook for several minutes. Stir in the tomato paste. Season with salt, pepper, one tsp of thyme and one tsp of oregano. Stir in the wine, and let simmer for a minute or two. It should smell reallllllly gooooooood. And it should look warm/rich/dark/filling/flavorful:

Add the ground lamb to the pot and mix. Add the remaining tsp of thyme and oregano, and season with a little more S & P. Once everything has been combined and the meat has started to brown, cover the pot to let the meat finish cooking.

Heat the oven to 350. Spoon the lamb mixture into a pie plate and spread out to fill the bottom. Spread the mashed potatoes out over the top of the meat, and score the edges with a fork. Bake in the oven for about 30 minutes. Drink wine, eat the pie, and then pass out under a down comforter until next spring.

Sinful Soho Treats

The weather was so nice this weekend, we just had to get out and go walk around. Wanderlust and curiosity drove us to Soho, where, after devouring cheeseburger spring rolls at Delicatessen, we rambled into Rice to Riches.

Before I discuss Rice to Riches, I must describe the cheeseburger spring rolls. It's cheese, plus burger, wrapped in wonton and deep fried to a crisp. It's a heart attack waiting to happen, so naturally, I absolutely adore it.

There's not much of a story behind Rice to Riches (essentially an ice cream parlor, but instead of various flavors of ice cream, it serves various flavors of rich pudding) other than the fact that I had seen it in some movies and was curious about its existence. Also, my husband happens to love rice (and tapioca) pudding, while rice (and tapioca) pudding happens to be one of my biggest fears. No, seriously. Snakes. The Ocean. Dark tunnels. Pudding-that-I-have-to-chew.

So, I figure, if I am ever to over come my fear, it would be more likely to happen over a bowl of rice pudding with a snappy name like "sex, drugs, and rocky road" or "the edge of rum raisin."

The shop itself is really fun - heaven if you love rice pudding - but it wasn't enough to convert me to a fan. I'll stick with paying $6 for a cup of ice cream, thankyouverymuch. Although I might return closer to the holidays for their limited-time flavor, "I'll take eggnog for $200 Alex" because I really like the name.

Recommendations

Knowing how to cook, at least possessing some basic knowledge, is so empowering. One of the best aspects of knowing how to cook, in my opinion, is when you reach that point in your development as a chef where you can decide exactly what you want to eat and create it for yourself. When you are able to flip through a cookbook and say “I think I’ll make this,” and know that you have both the skills and tools to make it.

I have not always been able to do this. I remember, not so long ago, the certain cookbooks on my shelf that I would never open because everything in there scared me half to death. Fish sauce? Braising? Boning a duck?? English, por favor! Don’t get me wrong, I did learn many kitchen basics by growing up in a foodie household, but I never really had the confidence to wield a 10” chef knife with authority until I participated in cooking classes.

I highly recommend taking cooking classes. No matter your background or experience, everyone can benefit from cooking classes. To be able to take a few simple ingredients and magically transform them is a skill that will enrich your life. Obviously my favorite place on the planet for classes is Kitchen Conservatory in St. Louis, which I have mentioned before, but if you can’t make it to Missouri, do a search of classes in your area and pick out some that interest you. Most places offer Culinary Skills courses that take a comprehensive approach to knife skills and meal prep, which is a great way to build a lot of know-how in a short amount of time.

I also recommend good knives.

If you happen to have a particularly stubborn, thick-skinned pumpkin on your hands, I recommend a hammer. This was the scenario I faced on a recent Sunday afternoon. Me vs. the 5 lb sugar pumpkin that just wouldn’t break. I ditched my good Wusthof knives early in favor of a hammer that still had my name and college dorm room number scribbled on the handle in black sharpie. I finally beat the pumpkin in half. Not quite the peaceful afternoon of cake-baking I had envisioned. It was more like an afternoon of a vicious, unmerciful beating, but at least I got my cake.

Like I said – one of the best aspects about knowing how to cook is when you can decide exactly what you want to eat and create it for yourself. For my birthday cake (a few weeks late; who’s counting?) I flipped though my favorite dessert cookbook and said “I think I’ll make this,” while pointing at a recipe for pumpkin cheesecake with a gingerbread crust, topped with spiced pecans.

And guess what? I did.



Know what else I recommend? Buying the cookbook, Classic Stars Desserts, by Emily Luchetti. I give up enough of her recipes from that book on this blog that I’ll probably start to owe her royalties soon. That book is chock-full of amazing goodies; not once have I made something of hers that I didn’t love. The recipe for pumpkin cheesecake is on page 189.