Out Like a Lamb.

The end of March is nigh, and thus is Easter. Passover is happening right now. It's a big time for a lot of people. And plants. Plants are having a blast right now. And people are having a blast with plants. Or, at least, Fred and I are.

When we last spoke, I had mentioned having chatted around to get a feel as to what food things meant to people with regard to Easter. I ended up settling on chocolate and lamb, though not necessarily together – which might not be a bad idea, come to think of it. So I shared a chocolate recipe.

So you probably know where we will be going with this. Lambville.

Coming from completely non-religious parents, other than the Easter Bunny covertly surprising me with an Easter basket each year at my mom's house, Easter meant little else. I don't even recall a special meal. So after sifting through people's responses to my query about what Easter represented, culinarily, to them, I went about figuring out what it meant to me. And I decided to embark on the most traditional Easter supper I have ever had. First order on the agenda: order a giant leg of lamb.

I like lamb just fine, now, but as a child it unnerved me a little. I think it was just the gamey-ness of the meat. It wasn't on the dinner table too often at home, but I know Dad loved it. He always ordered it at the Greek restaurant in our neighborhood. He loved their Lamb Guvetsi.

As I mentioned, years ago, like 2005, I heard Nigella Lawson interviewedon NPR around this time of year. She was promoting her then new book, Feast, a cookbook devoted primarily to celebrations, holidays and entertaining. I vividly recall her discussing her favorite Easter meal, and the great detail with which she described a saffron roasted leg of lamb and some sticky, crispy garlic potatoes. Obviously it stuck with me if eight years later that was the first thing to pop into my head when I decided to make my first, big Easter dinner. So I started planning the menu, the flowers, the dining room look, and called some friends.

Easter dinner was so happening.

Two days before the event I put the lamb in its marinade and refrigerated it. The day before, while Fred went out to get all of our groceries, flowers and the like, I poked around on the computer to find out why lamb in the Spring, and why lamb on Easter. Why throughout the entire world the most popular Easter symbol is the lamb. I'm sure, as usual in this department, everyone else already knows this stuff, but I'm new here.

The roast lamb dinner that many eat on Easter Sunday goes back earlier than Easter to the first Passover of the Jewish people. The sacrificial lamb was roasted and eaten, together with unleavened bread and bitter herbs (a Seder) in hopes that the angel of God would pass over their homes and bring no harm. As Hebrews converted to Christianity, they naturally brought along their traditions with them. The Christians often refer to Jesus as The Lamb of God. Thus, the traditions merged.

In the 7th century the Benedictine monks wrote a prayer for the blessing of lambs.

A few hundred years later the pope adopted it and a whole roasted lamb became the feature of the Pope's Easter Dinner, and has been ever since.

I wasn't going to roast a whole lamb, of course. Just one of its legs.

Now this lamb recipe involved saffron, which I absolutely love. I know a lot of people do not, however. It seems to be one of those ingredients like cilantro: people either love it or hate it. And I understand. Also, like cilantro, it has an unmistakable, very distinct aroma and taste. The thin, delicate, muted red hair-like strands are fragrant, floral, earthy, and honey-like with a bit of bitterness. Saffron also happens to be the most expensive spice in the world. Use too much and that will be the only thing you take away from that dish. With saffron, the words 'a little goes a long way' have never been more accurate. A little dab will do ya.

It's no surprise that you will find a wealth of recipes with saffron and lamb together. Kind of like chocolate and peanut butter, they just make sense. They are also both prominent elements in a lot of Middle-Eastern cuisine. Actually, it's funny, lamb takes me back to eating Greek food with my dad, and I used Greek saffron with my Easter lamb.

Yesterday, on the event of my Easter dinner celebration, once the lamb went into the oven after two days of marinating, I went about the décor of the dining room. I hand-picked each and every piece of silverware, plate and glass, dug through the linens to find the right napkins – I went for the fancies – and began meticulously arranging the bundles of daffodils and hyancinths into little vintage creamers and jelly jars while listening to my go-to soothing sounds: Explosions in the Sky. All the while the house was filling up with the entrancing smell of lamb, lemon and garlic fusing together in the oven. I dare say it was beginning to smell like Easter. Or, at least, really, really good. The air smelled like family and friends and the promise of festivity and future fond memories.

Everything was coming together perfectly. The food was on schedule, the room looked great, I had the perfect wines; some lovely rosés from a tasting the day before, and just moments before the guests arrived, as I was lighting the candles, Fred and I got our Easter baskets in the mail! I guess the Easter Bunny is trying to help out the US Post Office in their time of need... Nevertheless, that took care of dessert; Cadbury Creme Eggs!

As we all sat down to the table, we raised our glasses of rosé and toasted to a happy Easter. And as I looked around the room, I took stock. The smiling faces of my friends, the table looked beauteous, the food was delicious, the wine went perfectly with the saffrony lamb, the flowers smelled wonderful, and best of all we were all so happy to be with each other. Good friends, together, on our Easter, eating, drinking, smiling, talking, sharing Easter memories and laughter.

SAFFRON ROAST LAMB WITH STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

(recipe adapted from Nigella Lawson's book, Feast)

Serves 6

1 leg of lamb (4.5 lbs)

1/3 cup olive oil

3 cloves garlic, bruised

6 scallions

2 bay leaves

juice of 1 lemon

small bunch mint, 1 1/2 oz including stalks, torn roughly makes 1 cup

1/2 teaspoon saffron threads, steeped in 1 cup very hot water

1/3 cup rosé wine

 Put the lamb in a large freezer bag, pour over the olive oil and then throw in the garlic, trimmed scallions and bay leaves, squeeze in the lemon juice and throw in the squeezed-out lemon halves too, then add the torn-up bunch of mint. Seal the bag and marinate in the fridge overnight.

Bring the lamb to room temperature before you even think of putting it in the oven, and preheat that to 425 degrees F when you take the lamb out of the fridge.

Pour the entire contents of the freezer bag into a roasting pan and roast for about 20 minutes a pound, or until the lamb is cooked a perfect, à point pink; you will just have to pierce it with the knife to see. Just before the lamb is due to come out of the oven, put the saffron strands in a measuring cup and pour over the hot water so that it can get on with steeping.

Remove the lamb to a wooden carving board to rest. Pick out the lemon rinds, and then place the roasting pan on the stove over medium heat, and stir until it starts bubbling. Stir in the saffron in its water and add 1/3 cup rosé – tasting for seasoning as you go – as needed to let this bubble into a small amount of ungloopy gravy. 

Carve the lamb on to a large warmed plate and strain the saffrony juices, stirring in any liquid first from the carving board, over the pink meat.

Read the sticky garlic potato recipe now so that you can coordinate your movements. And, to go with, I'd want no more than a bowl of green peas, turned in some butter.

STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

Serves 6

1 1/2 lbs small fingerling potatoes

8 cloves garlic (more if you like)

1/2 cup olive or other vegetable oil 

Coarse salt & freshly cracked pepper to taste.

Bring a saucepan of water to the boil and add some salt, add the potatoes and cook for 30 minutes. Drain, and put back into the dry pan.

Peel the garlic cloves by squishing with the flat of a knife so that they bruise slightly and the skin slips off. Put them in the dry pan with the potatoes, and then bash potatoes and garlic  so they are cracked and split. You can do this ahead and leave them in the pan – though with the lid off, so that they don’t get watery – until you want to roast them.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F and slip a roasting pan in to heat up at the same time. Once the oven’s hot, pour in the oil and let it, in turn, heat up for 10 minutes.

Carefully tip the potatoes and garlic into the hot oil and cook for 15 minutes. Turn the potatoes over and then give them another 15 minutes. 

Salt & pepper to taste.

Serve on a platter with the lamb.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Rustic Cremini Mushroom Soup with Chives & Basil Oil
Two years ago: Nutter Butter Cookies
Three years ago: The Grill 'Em All Truck

Inspirato.

Yes, we have all heard that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And, on a base level and on the high-road level, I suppose it is. But, there is a fine line between imitation and inspiration.  Imitation versus inspiration is a perennial discussion in the art world and other worlds as well.  And, it is such valid dialogue.

Imitation:

Okay, so when Julie Esperes got her Coca-Cola shirt and acid washed, tapered, high-waisted Guess jeans in the sixth (or was it seventh?) grade, I really wanted them, too. But let's face it, it wasn't just Julie who had the Coca-Cola shirt or the acid washed, tapered, high-waisted Guess jeans in the sixth (or was it seventh?) grade. It was a trend. And yes, both Paz and I desperately wanted Johnny Depp as our boyfriend after watching the french-kissing scene in Cry Baby for the seventy-third time in a row. Again, I doubt we were alone.  Incidentally, while I do think I scored the jeans, I neither got the Coca Cola shirt nor Johnny Depp.

Occasionally, I have succumbed to and thoroughly enjoyed some trends and things I've seen my friends, or Madonna, do.  But the thing is, black rubber bracelets and all, I've known what works and doesn't work for me. No matter how many girlfriends of mine did it, I would never have dotted my i with a heart.

As I grew more and more into myself, the Me in me kept growing into more and more of Me.  More often than not I have marched to the beat of my own drum and had my own style, which admittedly has not always been super awesome (I didn't start shaving my legs until I was almost finished with college and I have given myself some truly atrocious haircuts/dye-jobs throughout my life).  My confidence in my passion and "wanting to to it my way" hasn't always worked.  Deciding on Film Noir as a 'major' in undergraduate school, or creating an independent study in roller skating for PE credit did not earn me points or make me too popular. 

Inspiration:

When I lived in Atlanta, I started playing with Polaroid cameras. All sorts. Then it moved into all plastic lens or toy cameras. I was fixated on the muted tones, blurred light, and the ephemeral quality of the prints. I was equally fixated on how what began as happy accidents, with light leaks and light streaks, could become purposeful and designed. Then certain artists began to stand out, almost like deciphering code for John Nash. I became enamored of photographers such as Nan Goldin, Uta Barth, Corrine Day, Terry Richardson and William Eggelston, to name a few. I was devouring publications like Purple, Big, Soma, Blind Spot and sweating publishers such as Steidle and Taschen.

And so I went back to school. To study photography. The funny thing was, though a very good school, it was an institution that focused primarily on advertising and professional photography - not art. From 35mm to 4X5 to medium format, from black and white to color, we studied every technical nuance of the science of light to the camera to the celluloid that went in it. I had to do mock Gap ads and even spent a week in the studio, with a house of cards of scrims and gels and filters trying to light a Michael Graves pepper mill in the style of German Expressionism. I called the final product The Pepper Mill of Dr. Caligari.

The thing is, throughout photography school, being taught technique and control, I really and truly grasped the concept of needing to understand rules before breaking them. And for one of my final projects, I cast aside the Hasselblad and picked up the Polaroid 600. I shot eight images, some of bright flowers and some of me and my then boyfriend nude and/or tangled up with one another. I then very coarsely sewed them together to create a Jacob's Ladder of sorts. I also had to also stand up and present and explain my work to a room full of wide-eyed, speechless classmates and teachers. I don't know that they quite knew what to do with it, or me, but I know they all appreciated my confidence in what I had created. It was the most personal and most beautiful piece of art I have made to date.

And now I have shifted again. For the past five years I have had this little food blog. Now I like to write. Now I want to write. Sometimes I write things that make me feel naked, or stupid, or trivial. Sometimes I write things that I know make my parent's toenails curl (like mentioning that Polaroid booklet). I don't know who's reading or what they think of what they see. But I know I need to do it. Whether it's understanding every frame of The Blue Dahlia, and talking about it, or taking pictures of pepper mills, Gap products or my sex life, or writing about what I eat, drink, cook or think about, I feel I have always had my voice.

And though I may have coveted my neighbors, so to speak, I have never emulated them. Nor could I. But without Nan Goldin, I don't know if I would have found the courage to be naked, be it on film or in words. And without Terry Richardson, if I would have understood the brilliance in the simplicity, and the validity, of a point and shoot camera with a built in flash. Without the publications that gave them a voice, I don't know if I'd keep making mine as loud as possible for so long.

And to be honest, this particular blog post is, in part, inspired by two other blog posts: one with words that are so profound, elegant and straightforward, that I feel I must run off to write every time I read a new post, and another one that had a beautiful and inspired looking recipe, that propelled me straight into the kitchen. I know I don't, and couldn't, write like Ellisa, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Because, as I've said, I am me and I have my own voice. And I had no way to make the recipe Olga posted, because I did not have the time nor the ingredients. Instead, I took the two the parts of the dish that my eyes landed on in the photograph of the food, and the baking method (roasting), and figured out something of my own.

And it was delicious. And what's more, amazing food for thought.


Click here to check out and enter an inspirational giveaway!

Roasted Chicken Thighs with Blood Orange

*inspired by Sassy Radish's Roasted Chicken Thighs With Clementines

which was inspired by Jerusalem, by Ottolenghi and Tamimi

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 tablespoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 pounds (approximately 6) bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs 

1 medium shallot, thinly sliced

3 cloves of garlic, chopped

3 tablespoons fresh sage, coarsely chopped

1 medium blood orange, cut into very thin slices

3 tablespoons of blood orange juice

A splash of champagne

The juice of 1 Meyer lemon

Directions:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl combine the olive oil, blood orange juice, lemon juice, champagne, shallot, salt, and pepper with 1/4 cup of water.

Add chicken to bowl and give everything a nice stir, so that the chicken is well-coated in the marinade, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight. If you didn’t plan ahead and don’t have a few hours (or overnight) making this on the go works out perfectly fine.

Position the baking rack in the middle and heat the oven. Divide the chicken and all the marinade across (9x13x2-inch) roasting pan, so that there is enough room to accommodate everything comfortably in a single layer. Make sure the chicken skin is facing up. Wedge the blood orange slices among the chicken, throughout the pan. Sprinkle the sage and garlic equally over the chicken. Roast for about 45 minutes or until the chicken is nicely browned and cooked through, basting 3 or 4 times during the first 30 minutes. The edges of some of the clementines will start to look burnt. Check on the chicken about 35 minutes into the roasting process and if you think that the liquid is beginning to dry up add a splash more water (or use your judgment).

Serve chicken with some of the caramelized orange slices an a drizzle of the drippings from the roasting pan.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony, Buttery Sauce

Two years ago: Avgolemono Soup

Three years ago: Lasagne Bolognese

Five years ago: Angelini Osteria

Coming Clean

While I was certainly no angel as a child, next to my childhood friend, Ben, I was definitely perceived as one. But he was a little boy and I was merely a little tomboy. Ben got into far more trouble than I ever did; invariably he would get caught.  I would often get caught but, clearly, far less.  Most of the Ben stories I have heard have come from our parents and these stories are based on incidents that took place circa the mid-1980's. 

One story, from the mouth of my dad, is one I not only recall well, but one in which I was a player. A sweet, little, innocent bystander, of course. So here's the story...

I guess it was around about 1985, and Dad had just done some work on the kitchen. Most notably he replaced the counter with an all new butcher block top. It was all shiny and new, with nary a cut mark in it. Ben's mom, Susan, was out for the evening and and so Ben was over at my house. We were just noodling around, goofing off, watching TV and whatnot. And honestly, it was so long ago, I don't know the how or the why, but I do know that I took the butcher knife and hacked a chunklet out of the edge of the new butcher block counter. I don't even remember if Ben was in the room at the time or not. I don't even know if Ben knows anything about this story, either.

Well, needless to say, the next day when Dad noticed the rather obvious, shall we say, blemish, on his new countertop, he went through the roof. And let me tell you, that man does not visibly agitate easily. When he actually erupts, you know it's really bad.

So clearly I blamed Ben. 

It seemed obvious that a rambunctious, rascally little boy who was always in some sort of trouble anyway would be the irrefutable culprit. Plus Ben wasn't there to defend himself, and we weren't hanging around as much in those days, and who would care or remember about a little nick in the counter for very long? Right? And my dad has a terrible memory to boot. Right?

Well, jeez. Who knew Dad was such a harborer? Yes, he stayed pretty irritated about the butcher block situation for a good long while. Cursing and mumbling under his breath as he ran his fingers over the disfigured area of the countertop. So I just kept quiet.

Then Ben and I went to separate middle schools, high schools, colleges, grew up, moved away, and I literally cannot even think of the last time we saw one another. So it hardly mattered anymore. To me.

Here is a glimpse of the countertop, but not the defaced part.

The last time I went home, Dad and I were standing in the kitchen, assembling a cheese plate and sipping on our glasses of crisp white wine, as I jokingly pointed out the nick in the countertop. Although it was something I had seen every time I did anything in the kitchen, it had become so much a part of the landscape, I had pretty much forgotten about its lore. But not Dad. He said every time he looked down at the aberration in the now, well-worn countertop, he cursed Ben's name. Though, he said, he never said anything to Susan or Ben about it.

I then realized it was time to come clean. He was shocked when he heard my story, but not more than just a little vexed thanks to time and that glass of wine. Plus, it's much more forgivable when it's your dear, sweet, innocent only child daughter...

And now we laugh about that funky little spot in the kitchen. It has a story to tell. It's part of the fabric – a sweet, anecdotal, minuscule imperfection.

When Susan was in LA recently to help Mom move back to Richmond, I decided to come clean to her, too. Although she never knew anything about the butcher block, I thought she should hear the tale. If nothing else to sort of exonerate Ben from his mischievous rep as a child and to fess up about my angelic one (or lack thereof). We laughed, but she did agree, Ben really did take the heat for a lot of stuff: some valid and some, maybe not so much.

Only one person left: I must confess to Ben and receive his forgiveness. So I emailed both Ben and Susan to find out what Ben's most favorite dish was. They both said broccoli casserole. I then emailed Susan and got the recipe. She emailed me back promptly with the recipe that she unearthed. It was her grandmother's recipe in her mother's handwriting. The recipe was as one would expect; ingredients like mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, Ritz crackers, and the like. My mission was to make the recipe as authentic as possible without using mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, or Ritz crackers. I wanted to keep the integrity of the dish but try to vamp it up for 2013.

I began by making a roux and adding fresh mushrooms, and then slowly adding cream until it was about the consistency and quantity of a can of cream of mushroom soup. I also added a splash of sherry for good measure. In lieu of the mayo, I simply used cream. And finally, to substitute the Ritz crackers, I used fresh bread crumbs. Now, I'm sure it would be way more yummy and fun, and would totally satisfy that like-grandma-made-when-I-was-a-kid thing most of us have, to use mayonnaise, a can of cream of mushroom soup, and Ritz crackers, but this turned out beautifully. Fred and I basically ate that, and nothing else, for dinner last night. And later as a snack.

Later this week, we will be traveling up to Northern California for a little respite, and plan on staying one night in San Francisco, where Ben now lives with his wife. And so in person I can share the story of The 25 Year Long Mystery of The Butcher Block with him. And hopefully we will laugh together over it. If not, Ben, here is the recipe your mom shared with me for your favorite, cozy, homey food, exactly as your grandmother wrote it and made it. That makes it all right, right?

Mimi’s Baked Broccoli

(Mimi is Sara in this instance)

(in Mother’s handwriting, so I know this is the one Ben likes)

Serves 4

Ingredients:

2 large heads of broccoli, if using fresh (2 packages chopped broccoli, if using frozen)

1 can cream of mushroom soup

½ cup mayonnaise

1 small onion, minced

1 Tablespoon lemon juice

1 egg

½-3/4 cup cheddar cheese

½-3/4 cup cracker crumbs (can use cheese crackers, saltines, or Ritz – I used Ritz)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Make sauce by mixing 1 can of undiluted soup, mayonnaise, onion, lemon juice, and egg.

Add a little salt and pepper.

Steam the broccoli for a few minutes if cooking fresh florets with short stems (don’t cook it until soft, but until it softens a small amount). If using frozen chopped broccoli, thaw only.

In casserole, put a layer of broccoli (one-half of it), then a layer of the sauce (one-half of it). Next, put in a layer of remaining broccoli topped with remaining sauce. Put ½ of crackers on top, the cheese, then ½ of remaining crackers.

Bake for about 30 min. at 350 degrees.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony Butter Sauce

Two years ago: Celeraic Soup with Sunchoke 'Croutons'

Three years ago: French Red Pepper Soup

Five years ago: Yang Chow

Rainy Clouds

It all started in the second grade at John B. Cary Elementary School. Our class put on a school play. It was a production of Close Encounters of The Food Kind. Spencer was the Swiss cheese, Kelly was the Riboflavin, Laura was the fish, and me, I was the alien visitor narrator. I'll never forget my closing lines, “So, remember folks, when you want a snack that's nutritious and dandy, have a carrot instead of candy. Vegetables, fruit, bread and meat; these are the healthy things to eat. It's time to go, and now you know about the good things that make you grow.”

And curtain.

In high school my crew, my super crew, consisted of four people, Paz, Sam, Spencer and me. We were inseparable. I have so, so many wonderful memories. We loved each other but we were tortuous and cruel to one another. We all made each other do terrible, terrible things in Truth or Dare. I'm pretty sure I made Spencer lick the under side of a toilet seat. But he and Sam threw me out of the car, on the side of a busy road, screaming loudly for everyone to hear - that I was a prostitute, at lunchtime the day before.

In high school, Spencer moved to Brazil for a foreign exchange program. When he returned he had a serious staph infection on his thumb. Of course it was our duty to taunt him and make him feel like a leper: we chanted that he was bitten by a Tsetse fly. He almost lost his thumb. God, we were so evil. In addition to coming back with that thumb issue Spencer had fallen in love. With Brazil. He was obsessed. And one evening, after countless shots of a mixture of every single thing in my dad's liquor cabinet, and perhaps smoking a little of that devil's lettuce, Spencer professed he was going to move back to Brazil and marry a Carnival queen. I'm sure we laughed, pointed and made fun of him.

While Paz, Sam and I were in College in Ohio, Spencer noodled around doing this and that in Richmond. Then, when Sam took a quarter to study in Brazil, Spencer went to meet him. They travelled around together for awhile, and then Spencer found Eva. Though she was not exactly a Carnival queen, she was pretty close; she was a trapeze artist in 'Circo Escola', a government program to help kids get off the street via art. Spencer fell in love and married Eva. From Brazil to Richmond to New Orleans back to Brazil and then to Peru and then finally landing back in Richmond, where they have settled with their two beautiful daughters, Spencer and Eva are an enviable team.

And now, together, they have launched something very cool in Richmond, VACLAA: The Virginia Center for Latin American Art. It is a non-profit arts and culture education organization. Here is a great article outlining the organization in Style Weekly.

It is my honor to present my guest blogger, Eva, with a recipe close to her heart and home.

Rainy Clouds

I was born in rural Brazil and grew up with many cousins. You see, my grandmother had eleven kids, each of those kids had at least three kids of their own. My cousins and I treasured the countless adventures we had together on the surrounding land: climbing trees and hills, crashing watermelon fields, floating in the river of brown reddish waters of my state, Parana.

At age nine, I was already working picking coffee or cotton. I never thought of that as a job- I loved the touch of the cotton. We would walk miles to get to the fields.

So we were always moving.  Some of us would stop at the end of a long day.  We would lie down on the fields and observe the clouds. We played a game of finding forms in the clouds: “the first to find a bunny-like shape will be the first to be kissed…” and other ones like that, created out of the clouds shaped on the open blue sky. But there were rainy days; and on those days we were all stuck inside my grandmother’s house around her wood stove. She would shoo us away like cats or chickens to get us from under her feet.  She would often make a big pail of Rainy Cloud Cakes.  My grandmother would deliberately leave the mixture a little bit moist so it would create strange forms when fried and then toss them in powdered sugar so they resembled clouds. “It’s a heart,”  “It’s a bunny; I will be the first one to be kissed!”  We would play this way.

I made my own search in the clouds and rainy cakes… I believed that if I could find a male shoe, or perhaps a bus, or even a horse, it would mean my father would be coming home. I still look for that shape.

Rainy Cloud Cakes

Ingredients:

1 egg

1 cup of milk

1 cup of all-purpose flour

1/3 cup of sugar

1/4 teaspoon of salt

1/2 teaspoon of baking powder

1 quart of oil

Granulated and/or powdered sugar to sprinkle on top

optional: a pinch of nutmeg and/or cinnamon

Place dry ingredients in a bowl, stir together with fork.

Lightly beat egg; add egg and milk to dry ingredients and stir.

Mixture should be loose; add a little more milk, if necessary, to get the proper consistency

Scoop heaping spoonful of mixture and drop into hot oil:  fry, turning once, until golden brown.

Drain and sprinkle generously with powdered sugar, nutmeg & cinnamon.

For strange shapes let the mixture fall in any way- have fun.


Printable recipe.


One year ago: Creamy Green Garlic Soup with Bacon & Black Garlic Chips
Two years ago: Relate
Three years ago: Scallops & Shrimp over Linguini with Baked Feta
Five years ago: Tasca

Lighting Up My Life.

I very recently went on a mini vacation to New Orleans. Fred and I were celebrating our one year anniversary. We had a really wonderful time - ate A LOT of food. I had fully intended to write and tell you all about it. I even started on the returning flight.

But then I returned home to some staggering and devastating news about someone very significant to me: Breeda had finally succumbed to a long battle with Cancer. And then Newtown happened. And then my trip really didn't seem relevant, interesting or important anymore.

And so I thought. I thought and I felt. And I cried. Mostly by myself, in my studio.

And here's the thing: I have decided that my trip to New Orleans is actually very relevant right now. New Orleans embodies and exudes a spirit that I have rarely seen anywhere else. Interestingly, here's the only paragraph I had written about my trip on the day I was returning home. Before everything.

As I fly away, over The Big Easy, to return to the City of Angels, I am choked up. I am. Although always, when I visit other cities I very seriously consider whether or not I want to live there, and this visit to New Orleans was no different. I don't think this is where I will necessarily land but there is a love, a friendliness, a kinship and a spirit that I am extremely sad to be flying away from. And I rarely feel this sense of freedom and community, this spirit, in my town. Not as a city. 

Love, spirit, kinship, friendliness. We need those things right now. I really need those things right now. 

In the cab on the way to the airport, on my last morning in New Orleans, I had an extremely chatty driver. I had nary a sip of my coffee and was not exactly in the mood for the banter at first. But then I started to really listen to what he was saying. First he told me about the ubiquitous Cajun-French phrase all Louisianans are familiar with that is literally translated as 'Let the good times roll": "Laissez les bons temps rouler". He talked about the strength and power of the spirit, the joie de vivre, that exists in New Orleans. He told me about his wife and their kids. He told me he has been married for forty years and is still madly in love with his wife. He told me that the very night before, the two of them sat on their front porch and shared a bottle of wine. He told me they uttered only a few words to one another as the sun set, sipping their wine. And he told me that, "although it wasn't anything fancy, mind you, that was one very special bottle of wine". He and his wife were both career school teachers, had retired but lost their pensions during this economic downturn. So, with the kids long grown up and moved away, to make ends meet, his wife picked up a real estate gig, and he started driving a cab. And he was so damned happy.

And while clutching my too-hot-to-drink coffee, under my hat and sunglasses, I cried a little. That same guy that wouldn't stop talking and caused my eyes to roll out of my head in exasperation, now seemed a sage. I never wanted that ride to end. 

I forgot about him until I started doing all of my feeling and thinking and crying about other things. I am so glad I remembered, though. Because yes, there is loss and tragedy and darkness. But there is also so much love, and comedy and light. So, so, so much love.

This is for my Breeda, my third parent, and one of the brightest lights to ever shine: thank you so much for everything you have given me throughout my life - from the 8X10 portraits, to Fictionary and The Infamous Rum Cake, to The Runes, to all of my wonderful boxes, to countless hours of giggles, for your beautiful, lasting friendship with my mother, and for your song. I'm not sure if I ever told you, but you light up my life, too. Laissez les bons temps rouler…

While I was making dinner last night, I became fixated on a pile of pomegranates that have been hanging around since Thanksgiving. I'm not a huge fan of pomegranates, but I didn't want them to go to waste. And then it hit me; pomegranates are supposed to have Cancer fighting properties and are a key element in the Greek myth about how we got our four seasons. Hades and Zeus make a deal; Fall and Winter for Spring and Summer. The pomegranate seemed life-giving and death-dealing. And to top it all off, we can look to the stars, in the story of Orion. Hera, the supreme goddess of women, wears neither a wreath nor a tiara, but clearly the calyx of the pomegranate that has become her serrated crown. What then could be a more perfect item to top our main course, seared duck legs. Though she'd probably pour it over chocolate rather than duck, Breeda would dig it.

This reduction was lovely poured over seared duck legs, but would be beautiful with turkey or pork as well. It would just as nicely work drizzled over an olive oil cake or some creamy vanilla ice cream. Go figure!

Pomegranate-Sherry Reduction

Serves 6

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium shallot, finely diced
1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns
1/2 cup cream sherry
3 cups home-made chicken stock
2 cups pomegranate juice 
2 tablespoons maple syrup
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup pomegranate seeds

Melt the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat, and sweat the onion until tender, about 3 minutes. Add the peppercorns and cook another 3 minutes.

Add the sherryand cook, stirring, until most of it has evaporated. Add the stock, pomegranate juice, syrup, raise the heat to medium-high, and reduce slowly to a sauce consistency. The sauce will turn brownish red. Season, to taste, with salt and pepper. Remove from heat and add pomegranate seeds.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Cassoulet

Two years ago: Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce

Three years ago: Aunt Babe's Mashed Potatoes

Thanks and Giving.

Thanksgiving has come and gone for 2012. This one was probably one of the best in my (not so great) memory. It wasn’t huge and crazy, and it wasn’t teeny tiny, but it maintained both social and intimate qualities, friends and family. I didn’t go too far overboard with the menu (some may argue that), but there was still enough for the all-important turkey sandwich fixins leftover. Most importantly, I was - and still am - quite cognisant of all that I am thankful for. During the toast, I looked over the room - the beautiful, beautiful room, filled with some of my favorite people in the world, filled with wonderful food and wine, our dogs, a fire in the fireplace - and tears welled up in my eyes. I was warm with love and happiness. And a calm that I rarely experience.

Of course there were minor dramas. Of course some people wouldn’t or couldn’t eat or drink certain things on the menu. Of course there was that frenetic energy in the kitchen right as all of the food was coming out to the table. Of course some people didn’t want to be seated next to certain guests and there was also that mysterious adjustment to the seating chart. Of course there was a monumental mess to clean up. 

Of course, of course, of course. 

But then there also were these moments: The moment Maggie showed up, before she began to decorate and turn the living room into a dining room - we both plopped down and took a breath to reflect on our previous Thanksgivings together and toast with a glass of sparkles. The moment Fred made me take just thirty seconds of time to dance with him in the hallway before we went to sit down at the table to eat. The moment I looked across the table, all decked out in my grandma Janie's ruby china, and felt so proud. The moment my mom was so into our game of charades that she was excitedly shrieking her guesses for both teams. The moment Nadia traded her five-inch black Gucci heels for my knitted socks and Crocs to go on an after dinner hike with the gang. The moment we all sat down in the den, after the meal, after charades and after the hike, to bask in the pleasure of a wonderful day and finish it off with Home For the Holidays and one more glass of lambrusco.

The turkey, the stuffing, the potatoes, the gravy, the pie - yes, they were present and delicious. But what I will remember about this Thanksgiving, what stands out from the turkey, the potatoes, the gravy and the pie, are those moments shared with those people. And that can never be duplicated. Not the moments.

And for that, for what we all gave one another, I am so very thankful.

*In addition to the very traditional menu we served this past Thanksgiving, there were a couple wild cards in there. A couple of dishes where I felt the urge to flex a bit. Usually this comes in the form of a soup. And though I heard a little hemming and hawing about this soup being on the menu, and how it would make everyone too full to truly appreciate the presumed star of the meal, the turkey, I made it anyway. As we all began to eat something pretty awesome happened: I immediately got three or four shouts from the other end of the table about how amazing the soup was. And the praise kept coming. Go figure.

I’ve already got the Christmas menu pretty much planned. The soup for that one will be an oyster stew, but this chestnut soup would be just perfect for your Christmas dinner.

Chestnut, Celery & Apple Soup with Sage Oil

Makes 6 to 8 servings

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium onion, peeled, trimmed and thinly sliced

1 shallot, peeled, trimmed and thinly sliced

3 small McIntosh apples, peeled, cored and cut into 1/2-inch cubes

4 celery stalks, chopped

1 bay leaf

1 sprig thyme

Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg

Salt and freshly ground white pepper

3/4 pound peeled fresh chestnuts (from about 1 1/4 pounds chestnuts in the shell) or dry-packed bottled or vacuum-sealed peeled chestnuts

2 quarts chicken stock 

1/2 cup heavy cream

2 tablespoons of cream sherry

8-12 fried sage leaves

2-4 tablespoons sage oil

Heat the oil in a stockpot or large casserole over medium heat.  Add the onion, shallot, apples, celery, bay leaf, thyme, nutmeg and salt and pepper to taste and cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes, or until the onions and leeks are soft but not colored.  Add the chestnuts and chicken stock and bring to the boil.  Lower the heat to a simmer and cook, skimming the surface regularly, for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the chestnuts can be mashed easily with a fork.  Add the heavy cream and sherry and simmer for 5 to 10 minutes more, then remove from the heat and discard the bay leaf and thyme.

Puree the soup until smooth using a blender or a food processor, and working in batches if necessary, then pass it through a fine-mesh strainer.  You should have about 2 quarts soup.  If you have more, or if you think the soup is too thin -- it should have the consistency of a veloute or light cream soup - simmer it over medium heat until slightly thickened.  Taste and, if necessary, adjust the seasoning.  (The soup can be cooled completely and stored in a covered container in the refrigerator for 3 to 4 days or frozen for up to one month.  Bring the soup to a boil before serving.)

Serve topped with a couple of fried sage leaves and a drizzle of sage oil.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Divinia's Tea Sandwiches

Two years ago: Sausage over Creamy Lentils

Three years ago: Bouchon Beverly Hills