she craves

Tarte Tatin with A Cheddar Accent

Nothing against apple pie, but alone, it never quite cut it for it me. Oh I admire the pairing of crust and fruit and the middle ground of spiced juices that cools into a goo that, when done well, is quite heavenly. But more often than not, the bottom crusts turn out as appealing thickly-spread wallpaper glue and the fruit tastes more of the sugar jar than of the tree and the sun that babied it into existence. And if there were a top crust? That's a whole other story. You don't want to get me started.

Therein lies the appeal to the classic tarte tatin. It's one of those cases where things in another language — especially French — immediately sound more appealing, sophisticated and delicious.

Boeuf bourguignon = red wine beef stew

Sole Meuniere = Sauteed Sole in Butter

[and my favorite ...]

Tarte Tatin = Upside-down apple tart

But there really is no translation for what I ever so monstrously created over the weekend. As usual, it started with a craving. Combined with the task of bringing dessert to a gathering, it required accessible ingredients, fairly forgivable methodology and something easily shared with a crowd. I craved apples an that made me think of cheese. Something exceptionally sharp. Maybe made by someone who loved their cows as much as they loved profit. I craved apples they way one does when images of bronzed, caramelized slices appear in mind and trigger borderline vulgar reactions from smacking lips, excessive drool and rumbling stomachs.

Thus, by way of France, England, Vermont and many points in between (not least of which my Utah kitchen) — Tarte Tatin, with a Cheddar Accent.

Breakfast for Lunch

Try as I might, I am not a morning person. I am known to abuse the alarm, both verbally and physically. My brain doesn't quite work so making a decision such as which fiber-loaded rational cereal should I have for breakfast is on par with should I choose the blue pill or the red one? For the first few minutes of being awake, the coffeemaker is my only friend in the world.

Still, I am a fan of large breakfasts. Starch. Protein. More starch. Cups of coffee. Hard to achieve when you've got a late start and loads of work to do. Even harder when you've procrastinated in your workout clothes, determined (half-assed) to do the next series of weight training and plyometrics.

Solution: Breakfast for lunch.

Breakfast of Champions with a Friend

On the menu: Lemon-Ricotta pancakes * Tomato-Bacon Hash * Chicken-Apple Sausages * Fruit Salad

Nine a.m. Okay, maybe 10. We've established that I'm not a morning person. A groggy Sunday morning and the luxury of lingering in bed. It lasts as long as a rumble in the belly. Hunger sets in and comes the proverbial Sunday morning question: what to eat for brunch? It nags me once a week like clockwork. And it nags my friends, too. We're champion brunch-goers. We've been to pretty much every venue in town that offers scrambled eggs of various quality, stacks of pancakes gluey or perfect, and coffee weak as dishwater or thick as mud. Our options were close to up and the idea of waiting in a crowded front room and fighting for a bitchy waiters' attention wasn't as good as staying in bed. In fact, "staying in" sounded perfect.

But what would I eat? That would be up to me, the kitchen, and my friend, Amber.

Mangoes for a New Beginning

If I could eat this for breakfast everyday...

Truth be told, I never thought much of July 4th. There were the things we were taught about in school a month before we were let go to our lazy days of scorching heat, family barbecues, and endless nights of popsicles and bicycle rides. But I'll profess a new affinity for Independence Day, because I'm celebrating a bit of my own.

I quit my job. Left the banker's hours in a bland office for a year's worth of dream chasing. What's in store? Beats me. But that's a lot more appealing than the thought of half-assing the rest of my career. I decided on this Office Space inspired moment running through rows of Pinot Noir vines. Buzzed from several glasses of Jeriko Brut and Rosé, it dawned on me through the new summer leaves. A chance to take a break from others' expectations and catch up to my own. To geek out as much as I want to on food and wine. To become a more well-rounded person. And, of course, to attend to dear old blog. Won't be the year to get rich. But it'll be the year where I get to like myself a lot more.

 

 

So on this, my morning of Independence, I savor the taste of freedom. One fresh Manila mango, cut into filets the size of my hand, scored and pushed to reveal juicy little cubes, like some surreal little hedgehog. The mango that I picked up the day before at the Mexican market on an impromptu trip. I had a little time on my hands. As you can gather from the picture, it was juicy. And I can tell you the flavor was sweet. But then again, it could've been that new-found indepdence thing.

Baked Rhubarb with Ginger

Rise and shine sourly. That's my unspoken morning motto. I'm not a morning person. Though I often pretend/try to be. Pretend because morning-people seem a happier lot. They get more done. Walk the dog before the parade of rush hour traffic threatens the route. Soak in that special sunshine I've only managed to glimpse after an all-nighter (studying or partying, I leave that to your judgement of me).

But try as I might, very few things, let alone two alarms—a Zen chime alarm for my chi and a cell phone trill for my lazy ass—manage to get me out of bed. Food, though, seems to work. Typical. Brunch is a no-brainer. I get my sleep and a reason to stuff myself with some of my favorite foods. But during the weekday, it's a bit more difficult. I need to look forward to sustenance that's quick and what I crave. And, yes, even healthy. I consider it my redemption for not getting up when I was supposed to and going to the gym.

One Toaster. One Burner. Just One Breakfast.

If you've read a few posts, it's pretty obvious that I live with roommates. Roommates who aren't the best at cleaning. And I don't mean to imply that it's the only trait necessary to join the "great human being" club. But it helps when all you want is a proper breakfast before leaving for work. It's a little disheartening to wake up to a leaning tower of dishes, counters crowded with pizza boxes, groceries yet to be put away, and stray beer bottles. Cooking in something like this is like trying to juice a cold lime. I yield very little.

Angry Crabs and Golden Crescents

grrrrrr

I've always had this habit of playing with my food. Oh, it was never a question of whether I would eat it—not a bite would be left on my very large plate. But not until I had constructed a reality for the portrait in  the mashed potatoes. A purpose for the impromptu puddy of pulverized short-grain rice between my fingers. And even in adult life, a sub-conscious Freudian slip at the table, involving a slice of raspberry cheesecake eaten down to a solitary tower and flanked by two rosettes of whipped cream.

More recently though, a trip to the patisserie sparked the latest inspiration for mental play. The kind that you reserve for gazing at the clouds and sky. A phalanx of petite croissants four deep in the case stared me down with their buttery sheen.

Therapy, Kouing Aman Be Thy Name

Up close and personal with a good friend

Behold, the best mood elevator known to mankind. Well, to Vanessa-kind anyway. Kouing aman (koo-ing ah-mon) doesn't look like anything special sitting in the case. But this unassuming dense pastry puck is a lesson in glorious simplicity. Fellow kouing aman lovers and I call it "crack." Endearingly.