she craves

Midnight Feast at Honey Pig in Vegas

Searing pork belly, kim chi and bean sprouts flanked by an army of ban chan (side dishes).

Midnight, midday, whenever. I'll take it.

Wise Words for Thanksgiving: "Just Put the F*cking Turkey in The Oven"

I love this woman. Take heed to her wise words. Just relax. And make sure you pour yourself a glass of Chardonnay or Pinot Noir when you pour for your friends. Happy Turkey Day, all!

#121 On The Bucket List

[photo: Joachim Ladefoged for The New York Times]

#121:  Eat at Noma. Meet this guy, Rene Redzepi. Swoon. 

The Power of Chocolate Rum Cake

I started a pot of water to cook some pasta. Somewhere, I don't know when, I lost interest and forgot about it until I heard the stove top hiss with the sweat of the hot pot. I let it boil.

I took out a bunch of vegetables, tender, ripe and green and placed them next to my cutting board. With my knife splayed across the top, I stepped back a moment to take in the serendipitous still life. And then I took another step back and left the art to remain art and not become my dinner.

Then, I eyed the box of mac and cheese (the earth-approved kind) and though I toyed with the idea of a familiar fall back, I put the box down after thoughtfully shaking it around in my hands. All the while, I scanned the rest of the pantry for some sort of salvation from this restlessness.

Take-out was one idea. Delivery another. For a split second they both seemed viable, even good. But as soon as I picked up the phone, my mind chimed in with ennui. Again?

A quick run to the store? Or maybe not fix a meal at all. Just a seat on the couch and a date with what's left of network television. I imagined eating raw cookie dough. But that would mean I would have to make the dough which would require me to soften some butter. Apparently, I didn't not have 30 minutes to spare.

In the end, I found myself heaving and sighing. Listless in my dark kitchen, T.V. blaring in the background. This indecision plaguing me not only in the kitchen but in my office, in my car. Is this (whatever it was) really what I wanted? Or was I settling? In my aim to be responsible, planned, calculated, even how did it come to be that the proverbial Plan B became the Plan A?

More than anything, I was hungry for an answer. I really wanted someone to feed me. Console me with a bowl of soup I prayed to no one or nothing in particular. Shed some light on my life with a slice of pie. Guide me with chocolate cake.

Food is more than sustenance. Much to the dismay of therapists and nutritionists worldwide, it is my most powerful prescriptive capable of the greatest good and the greatest damage in forkful. But this night, after listless guessing my mind finally honed in some acceptable form of comfort and its name was chocolate rum cake.

Baking is a loving, yet precarious act for me. I am not terribly good at it, but I am more than willing to try. Loaf cakes and quick breads are allies and stand-bys. Cookies a wary friend. But full-on frosted glory cakes -- those were another creature I hadn't really stared in the face.

It's amazing what social obligations force you to do. For some, it is the petrifying matter of public speaking or a toast. For me, it was baking a cake for Mother's Day, for The Voracious One's madre, a kind lady who despite her Mormon provenance absolutely adores a heady chocolate rum cake.

Truth be told, I went into it a bit punch drunk the night before. Still working through a bottle of wine and the high of fine company only a few hours before, I stood in the quiet kitchen and just went at it. Flour without thinking. Measurements without peripheral worry. And before I knew it I had the beautiful mess of melted Pralus Djakarta chocolate spindled over my countertops and its aroma rising from my oven like a mythical creature, a siren of near-dangerously roasted beans with all its sweet whispers of sweet tobacco. As I watched an episode of Doctor Who, I let them cool enough so that I could saw at them delicately with a long knife into something resembling an even surface. Then a brushing of the apricot rum glaze that made the layers glisten.

Then I went to bed.

The next morning, the mess was less artistic and more horrific. The lovely scene became a chore. Then I remembered there was frosting to be made and a cake to be frosted. At this point luckily, the Voracious One was awake and took the spatula out of my hands. He employed his engineering and carptentry skills to evenly, thoughtfully, precisely frost with the buttercream I had apparently made with copious amounts of rum the night before. Making this cake had turned into some tricked out episdoe of "Lost," with me trying to piece together how these components mysteriously came about. By the time I recollected these moments, the cake was serene in a cloak of cocoa.

"You have tiny hands," TVO said handing me a bowl of toasted coconut (another revealed mystery!). "You coat the cake." And so I did. I held the heavy, dense chocolate cake, the rum smelled just as potent as it did from the bottle. Just the way his mother would like it. Over the sink, I took a handful of toasted coconut and patted it onto the sides, rather like making a sand castle from long ago before I taught myself to think and worry.

When the cake was cut later that night, the heaviness hid a silky softness to the crumb and the melt of the buttercream. It was punchy like a slap to the face, the kind only a bartender can give you in a glass. But it was also welcoming with a maternal, earthy chocolate note that sang in my mouth, "Child, stop worrying. You are loved."

The Promise of Sunshine

I know. The title sounds like a bad '70s easy listening hit. But even now with bouts of sun and cloud duking it out for seasonal dominance, I'm rooting for the sun, betting every single metaphorical and metaphysical buck I have on the warmth and the life giving, soul-drenching sunlight.

My argument:  Sunlight brings me fresh chili peppers from small pots on a patio. Little lightning strikes of fiery reds, yellows and oranges. Some are as hot on the tongue. Others wonderfully mild and perfect for dipping like a carrot stick in something as simple as olive oil and salt or my mom's favorite, a paste of Korean miso paste, Korean chili paste, rice vinegar, sugar and salt.

Sunglight also brings me a basil plant. Strike that. A basil tree. From one lowly plant that managed to outlive the once thriving tomato, it gave me bushels and bushels of fragrant greenery. Some I plucked as I needed for the lazy summer cooking (assembly is more like it) for a salad here and there. Maybe some goat cheese.

When the sunlight started to fade, I rushed all the tender leaves inside for one last good-bye with the help of my food processor and some ice cube trays. Fresh pesto is simple enough -- take basil by the handful (the way Scrooge McDuck would grasp handfuls of his cash), wads and wads of it, stuff it into a food processor bowl that has already in it some fresh garlic cloves, pine nuts and salt already pulverized.

Pulse until the leaves are no longer leaves, but confetti. Slowly stream in a waterfall of extra-virgin olive oil. Something sweet and mild like almonds, versus punchy like a radish and cut grass. Stir in some grated pecorino cheese (I love Fiore Sardo). Season to taste. I kept one jar in the fridge. The rest in tupperware or ice cube trays to deliver some warmer memory in the depths of winter.

 
Sunlight also allows me big ripe tomatoes from friends and neighbors (I am not a good gardener. Thankfully, my friends are) that I stuffed with goat cheese, chopped basil or whatever other fresh herb was abundant. Sometimes I added in some fresh corn kernels to pop like sweet candy with the soft fresh tomato. Olive oil and some sliced zucchini into the same pan before going into a hot oven. To be flashy, I finish it off under the broiler until the cheese reaches this gorgeous cosmetic flourish. It tastes good, too.

I look out my window and imagine these flavors the moment I tasted them. The pesto is almost gone. The chili peppers in my fridge from some other place. And tomatoes? The ones I've come across are more appropriate as blunt force weapons as opposed to seasonal bliss. 

But even as the memories fade like the morning fog, the sunlight usually shows up just in time. I no longer have to rely on memories for the promise of sunshine because it will be here.

I'm not a religious person in any sense. But I can see how people for generations on end prayed for and to the sun. We might not have temples for it or ceremonies to exalt it, but as I look around me the throng of responsible adults look out their own windows and long for the same thing the ancients did.

Bring us light.
 

Fondue

Spring has sprung. A major leak. Though I could frolic among the green and lush life awakening around me my heels would be ruined, my feet absolutely soaked. Foremost, I would be so bloody cold I would surely come down with some sort of ailment. Oh, wait. I already did.

In such times, there's no need for the vegetal lightness we savor in summer. No sunshine in juicy bites. Rather, the heft is still in order. Particularly if you have cold feet.

One such remedy is fondue. Retro if you have the set. Resourceful if you have nothing but a simple little saucepot. You know the reason why there is no gooey photo heading this post? It's because we ate the whole lot before you could say "April showers bring May flowers." We'll probably be eating another batch by the time the flowers bloom under the sun.

Roast Pork Belly

For as much pork belly I eat, I've cooked very little of it. Partly because up until recently, finding pork belly at the store was just as likely as finding a genuinely ripe avocado. But the bulk of my avoidance was purposeful. Pork belly is a sublime thing. How could I, an imprecise kitchen being, ever come close to achieving the same level of mouth-watering greatness that made me love it in the first place? How could I dare to come so close to perfection, like reaching out your fingers to the most supreme of beings in your mind without the faintest trembling, nevermind controlling the drooling.

My knees shook. My palms sweat. But reality trumped hesitance and fear. The freezer was crammed with things intended. Pie crusts. Sunday roasts. But mostly the huge piece of pork belly supplied by a fellow pig lover who thought I would enjoy a bit of play. If Ben and Jerry were to cohabitate in the new freezer (or anything new for that matter), I would have to cook the damn/blessed thing.

So I did.

Corn on the Cob

We talk passionately about vine-ripened tomatoes and the tender peaches whose juices run down our chins and arms. But what of corn? Especially when it's whole, intact on what we call the cob. Corn for the most part has come up in news and current events in the form of high fructose corn syrup, genetically modified crops for animal feed. Gourmet.com even weighed in, with transcripts from editors on whether or not corn is a bad thing.

For me, it's a no brainer. Corn on the cob is just as valuable to me as the heavy Brandywine, deep purple raspberries or juicy Suncrest peaches. I can't imagine a warm season without it. Along with my love of automotive self-autonomy, my love of corn is rather patriotic. Most of the world sees it as a grain to grind and transformed into delicious flatbreads or simply as fodder for swine and other animals. Speaking purely from a glutton's point of view, they're missing out. If anyone insists on debating corn's ethical place in the food chain, let's talk it over a grilled cob or two.

If there is such a thing as "too much of a good thing," it probably refers to monotony that corn can easily avoid. The trick: change up the slatherings. I love my butter. But there are other things that make the sweet kernels pop, too.

The Fleeting Good Times of Favas and Such

"How thin do you want this pasta?" My friends stood next to the flour-dusted pasta crank, holding up fresh sheets of precariously long pasta. It looked as if they were going to hang up a "Happy Birthday" or "Welcome Home" banner.

"Not too thin," I dictated quickly. The pasta was in capable hands and by now, there were sheets and sheets of stretched out dough, generously dusted with flour and ready to be cut. All the messy effort was for what I was attending to in the pan -- deeply fragrant gems of crisping guanciale -- cured pig jowl -- favas, peas, shallots and ... who knows what else we decided to throw into the pot.

Emboldened by a few glasses of wine and the coaxing of good friends, anything is possible. Take recipes. Most people are slaves to them. They plan. They organize. They worry and fret. But inebriation and hunger are prime motivators to toss the whole regimented lot in favor of some past knowledge, intuition and most importantly, bacon.

Feast at Franco's

Francis sharing some his grappa with Cristiano Creminelli. This along with the previous image proved that the impromptu, unexpected party is the best.

Feast at Franco's Part II: Enrico & Andy

Forgive the fuzzy iPhone snapshot. I'm a lightweight and I hadn't eaten enough of the olives or scoparolo cheese.

Cooking, Andy-style

PART I: Arugula with sherry vinegar, Viola extra-virgin olive oil, a drop of truffle oil, shavings of Fiord Sardo cheese (pecorino), all wrapped in a thin slice of smoky, silky speck.

Cooking, Andy-style part II

He rolls the arugula and cheese mixture in his signature methodical, deft way...

A Definite Splurge: Endives au Gratin

It's one of my favorite dishes. Braised endives wrapped in ham and lined up in a dish. Bechamel sauce smothers the whole lot, as does a healthy dose of grated cheese. Add some oven time and the result is serious comfort. Unfortunately, it comes at a serious price. Belgian endives are worth their weight in crack and never seem to go on sale; if you can find them at all. But this isn't a dish where you take short cuts. So every so often -- like say, for a dear friend's birthday -- you allow yourself a splurge.

Tell yourself it's for the greater good -- the dish doesn't just serve you. It serves a whole party. And if you're lucky there are leftovers to look forward to. Leftovers are always a value, right?

Goat Fest 2009

[WARNING: Gratuitous talk of flesh below. Vegan, vegetarian and other unhappy people readers' discretion advised.]

It started with a plan. A group of ladies, many of whom were Capricorns, dreamed of a winter goat fest. They talked it over with friends. But work and life got in the way; and most importantly, there wasn't a goat to be found.

Then one day on the cusp of winter and spring, one of the ladies (yours truly) got an email from a rancher she met at the local farmers' market. He said he had a goat and wanted to cook it and enjoy. This lady told him there were many others who would enjoy it with him, so he sent this reply:

                   

"Ok, so you want to have some weird spring equinox carnivore festival?                                                    Cool, I am all in. Tell me where and how much flesh to bring."

Plans were made. Recipes were sought. And the night before the big Goat Fest, the rancher, Russ Taylor, arrived on my door step with a box. Behold, the beauty of 35 pounds of fresh, young Boer goat meat.

Just days earlier over the phone, Russ told me the goat was still outside enjoying the grass. And now, its flesh was carved into various cuts for us all to savor -- legs, ribs, chops, shoulder, shanks. We divided up the bounty with bold ambitions and met up the next evening.

Goat Fest 2009 officially kicked off with a buffet line of extraordinary dishes. Salads. Cheese with guava paste. Shrimp with southwestern-style corn. Green coconut rice. And of course, goat. Moroccan roast leg. Rendang -- a traditional goat stew from Indonesia served with sticky rice. A goat chop fricasee with wild mushrooms. Broiled ribs. And an elegant Moroccan b'steeya, sheathed in thin layers of fillo and dusted with powdered sugar. Goat replaced the traditional pigeon and we all approved of this variation.

Our inner carnivores emerged. We ate. And then ate some more. We drank. And then drank some more and got louder. We licked our fingers. We laughed. Some of us cried. Such are feasts where fears subside.

The group of ladies, their partners, husbands and boyfriends agreed -- this was no ordinary feast. The rancher and his wife did, too. In fact, they enjoyed it (and the wine) so much, they forgot their cameras and didn't really take any pictures of the actual meal. So please, use your imaginations when it comes to envisioning Goat Fest.

And for those who did participate and are reading this post, please feel free to leave your recipes and comments in the comment boxes below.

Until then, we're planning for Pig Jam ...

Below is a recipe for goat ribs I more or less improvised. It's a mutt of a marinade with influences from parts of the world and would serve chicken, pork ribs, beef ribs, etc. equally well. If you happen to have a favorite goat recipe, by all means, share with me!

Goat Ribs with Mutt Marinade
1 cup soy sauce * 1/2 cup dark sesame oil * 1/2 cup molasses * 1/2 cup sherry vinegar * juice of 1 grapefruit * 1 bunch green onions, coarsely chopped * 4 fresh red chiles, chopped (seeds and all) * 1/2 cup honey * 1 cinnamon stick, broken into pieces * 1 star anise pod * 2 slabs of goat ribs (chicken drumsticks, pork ribs work well)

Combine everything but the ribs in a bowl or container large enough to hold the ribs. Mix well. Place the ribs (or desired meat) into the container and make sure they make enough contact in the bowl. Think of how you'd like to fit into a nice relaxing bath. Let sit for at least four (4) hours. Overnight is best.

To cook: Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Remove meat from marinade and place into a roasting pan. Cook for about 35 to 40 minutes, occasionally basting with the leftover marinade. About half way through cooking, turn the ribs to evenly brown on all sides. When done, remove meat from pan. For the ribs, let them rest 10 minutes before you cut them into serving pieces. The marinade will make a dark glaze to go with the earthy, savory meat. It'll make your fingers sticky, but that's the whole point of such a thing.