she craves

The Perfect Poach According to Bon Appetit Magazine

Thomas Keller of French Laundry and Per Se acclaim offers up one way for the Perfect Poached Egg. And for the love of God, do not hard boil the yolk. If you do, Thomas Keller will come to your house and sucker punch you. True story.

Chocolate Can Keep You Slim? Duh. Slim and Happy.

[I use A LOT of chocolate. To put into recipes. And to stuff into my face. Above, chopped dark goodness for a drinking chocolate recipe. 

Gotta love an article that begins: "People who eat chocolate regularly tend to be thinner, new research suggests." At least, so reports this piece on BBCnews.com.

First, it's good for your heart. Now it might be that cathecins (also found in that magical magical green tea) in dark chocolate can help promote lean muscle mass as opposed to weight gain normally associated with higher calorie food like chocolate.

Just goes to show - eat for pleasure. Savor the damn things. And if it makes you feel good, then don't stress about it. Save that anxiety for when you've polished off an entire bag of Dove chocolates by your lonesome, because a.) That's a lot of chocolate, b.) The chocolate was most likely crap, and c.) ew, Dove? Really?!?

When Laziness Pays Off: Pesto Sugar Snaps

 
DISCLAIMER: The following recipe is not seasonal. The stuff did not come from a garden I tended. Nor is it particularly ingenious. But it is simple, fast, and good. Which on certain days is all I can muster. And quite frankly, all I want.

FLASHBACK: Creminelli Sausage, Kale and Cannelini Bean Soup

Leave it to the weather to reveal our most fickle natures. Marinating in 99 degree weather, eating, cooking and food shopping is mostly a cooling affair -- melon and cured meats, refreshing salads, and maybe the purple raspberries dribbling with a bit of heavy cream for dessert.

Then, the clouds swept in. I had forgotten that a sky even existed within the small walls of my "cubice" (neither cubicle nor office, rather an office constructed from cubicle walls) when my friend Jesse beckoned me. "You have to look at this," he said facing out the window.

Before him the technicolor summer had dissipated into a gray gradient. Huge trees swayed like kelp in a strong sea current with the violent wind. Overhead, the clouds stampeded, one on top of another, toward some eastward destination to deliver a thunderous blow of piercing rain. We took this all in for a few moments, our eyes thankful for the reprieve from computer monitors. Even with the shelter of the office, I felt the raw power of the summer storm and it infused me with an energy no vitamins or cups of coffee could've provided.

I drove home with the windows down, letting the post-storm air flush through my car. For once in a long time, I felt like I needed a sweater. By the time I stood in my kitchen, the lights were on. The clouds covered the late sumer sun and even though I knew my calendar read "August," it could've been November for all I cared.

I stared at the melons in my fridge, but even their alluring scent couldn't convince me to do something with them. Salad greens seemed anemic. Even the artisan salami couldn't lift my spirits into motivation.

In the freezer I saw one solitary sausage link. This was made by the same group of artisans that crafted the salami in the compartment below. The sweet, fatty heft, even in little amounts would be good. Then I remembered the half open container of vegetable stock in the fridge.

And so it was that in the middle of summer, I cooked up a heavy, filling soup. With less liquid it could've been a stew. But I say in my defense that cooking was nominal. Weekday cooking can sometimes contribute to the daily drain one can feel. But this was more the meeting of a few good tasty morsels than preparation of any sort. Like all soups, it's even better the next day, diluted with a little water or stock.

Kale Sausage & Cannelini Bean Soup

Water is fine to replace the stock. Either way, it never hurts to add a nubbin of Parmigiano-Reggiano rind or the "butt" end of a prosciutto leg. It goes a long way to deepend the flavors of any liquid. You can obtain those from a very nice cheesemonger or specialty grocer who understands your soup-needs. Frugal cooks and Italian grandmothers keep a stash of their own in the freezer. I wrap mine in plastic and throw it straight in frozen.

1/4 pound sausage or 1 Creminelli link * olive oil for sauteeing * 2 cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed * 5 big leaves of chard, kale, etc. * 1 teaspoon toasted fennel seeds * 1 dried red chili * 1 quart of vegetable or chicken stock * 1 can of Cannelini beans, drained

Heat a soup pot over medium heat and the sausage and oil. If the meat is in link form, release it from the casing with a twist and squeeze, the way kids like to dispense of toothpaste. Dispose the skin. Saute and stir with a wooden spoon to break up the sausage into miniscule particles. Add the garlic - peel and crush it in one go with the flat side of your knife placed on top of them on a cutting board. Give it a good thwack with your fist and you'll find smashed cloves with skins barely hanging on. Cook for two minutes being careful  not to let it brown.

Meanwhile, rinse the leaves and cut or tear off the tender leafy sections from the center stalk. Chop the stalk as finely as you can and it to the pot. Tear in the leaves. Grind the fennel seeds add this to the pot along with the dried chili, crumbled between keyboard-weary fingers. Stir to combine.

If you have some booze to spare - a glug of ale, a glass of white wine, some dry sherry - pour it in and amplify the aromatherapy before you. Then add the broth (water is fine, too) and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer let it cook until the greens are tender, about 12 to 15 minutes in my case, but it will depend on how big your greens are cut.

When tender, add the cannelini beans. Purists can also add their soaked and boiled dried beans instead of the convenient canned variety. Smugness is not desired. Cook for another five minutes and season it with as much salt and pepper as you (I find sausage salt content varies, so really do taste it before adding salt so you don't overdo it with the sodium).

To serve, drizzle with extra-virgin olive oil and top with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Eat in huge bowls standing by the windows.

FLASHBACK: Creme Fraiche

[NOTE: 07.23.10]  Periodically, I glean from past posts. Writing/blogging is much like cooking, especially from books, recipes, and flavors your like and remember - you always end up coming back to them. This one is particularly simple, useful, and quite nice with the Balsamic Strawberries in this post.]

There are some things on market shelves that confuse me. The other day, at an upscale cooking supply store, I noticed a bottle of "ready made" simple syrup. For about $10, you could buy something you could've made for pennies. Some sugar. The same amount of water. And a pot. You could even spruce it up with herbs and the like.

What confused me more was that people (who apparently have more money than they know what to do with) were actually buying it, totally stoked to see it there in a pretty bottle with cool font, ready to go for their cocktail party.

Creme fraiche is another one of these things. Literally, it means "fresh cream." My disclaimer is that I don't live down the street from a dairy, I live in a country that legally mandates pasteurized milk and cream and what I make at home probably doesn't have the same flavor Julia Child experienced whenever she went to her grocer's to buy it by the small bucketful.

What to Do with Shitty Produce: Strawberries

 
The weather seems to be a bit confused. In our neck of the woods, sunshine was delayed and a grey-green spring seemed eternal. In other parts of the world, the sun came out as fiercely as a scorned and wigged-out Whitney Houston battling with Bobby Brown.

Though you wouldn't know about all this climactic confusion on the grocery shelves. For the most part, the produce section ticked along like clockwork, to its own peculiar rhythm dictated by consumer training and expectation.

Slowly, you know things are starting to sink back into a skewed normality as the raspberries do start to appear, as does watermelon from some place far more searing with its sunshine and thirsty in water, and the inevitable display of blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries. The latter often comes displayed among a mountain of pre-made yellow sponge "shortcakes," brick worked like a pyramid, flanked by the ever faithful and seemingly ever-present strawberry. It's a sight to behold. Summer cookouts, barbecues, and casual neighborly get togethers. It's emblematic of summer.

Too bad then, that they don't often taste like summer. When put together in the suggested shortcake, these gorgeous gems turn out to be no more interesting than a dimwitted, but attractive woman. Bosomy, luscious-looking, but anemic in personality. They take on the personalities of the forces of whipped cream and sugar and industrial cake, losing any characteristic of its own. What happened to tasting sunshine? What happened to tasting an honest-to-god strawberry?

Herein, lies the trouble of much produce we come across today, no matter the season or product. They're just plain shitty. Coming up against these disappointments, in a moment of frustration, I've created a recurring section called "WHAT TO DO WITH ... [insert shitty produce item here]."

FLASHBACK: Chocolate-Dipped Candied Ginger

Crystallized ginger dipped into melted dark chocolate

[EDITOR'S NOTE:   The words "chocolate-dipped" and "candied" signal special occassion, or more specifically, holidays, in my mind.  This "recipe" is an example of making a virtue out of pantry necessity.  Any dried fruit is worth dipping into chocolate.  And when the chocolate is good, it's hard to beat.  This recipe is perfect for those last its of random chocolate bars and the "bloomed" (white, dusty surface) of chocolate hanging around on your shelves.  Even though it's a simple dip, keep the chocolate quality good.  Bean-to-bar chocolate makers using good beans make a world of difference. And in a recipe like this where glory rests on the shoulders of two ingredients, it matters.  Brands I like:  Amano, Domori, Amedei, Patric, Valrhona and Pralus.  Let them rest on the baking sheet and serve immediately.  Once hardened you can wrap them into a plastic pouch in half dozen batches and call Christmas neighborly gift giving, good.]

One "simple" truth in the kitchen: simple is always good. Easy is not a cop-out. It's just reality. I pump my fist like Tiger Woods everytime I see a food writer put "Shopping is 50% of cooking," into print. Because it's so true. Buy a few good things and something, intuitively, can come together. Even when there are just two ingredients involved. In this case, crystallized (candied) ginger I bought for the holiday's gingersnaps and dark chocolate (because, well, do I really need an explanation for this one?)...

Melon Salad with Herbed Goat Cheese and Fried Olives

My father used to call me "melon head" (rather its Korean equivalent). To this day, I'm not sure if it's because of the sheer size of my noggin or my intense love of the ripe juicy fruit. One of the few photos of me as a kid shows me in a cotton summer dress, fat rolls bulging out the bodice seam, with my hair pulled back after a day playing with the hose. I'm sitting atop the small dark wood dining table, my feet facing my paternal grandmother who under normal circumstances I was dreadfully afraid of. But I called a truce on my fear because we were both feasting on fat slices of juicy watermleon.

Impromptu Kale Sausage & Cannelini Soup

Leave it to the weather to reveal our most fickle natures. Marinating in 99 degree weather, eating, cooking and food shopping is mostly a cooling affair -- melon and cured meats, refreshing salads, and maybe the purple raspberries dribbling with a bit of heavy cream for dessert.

Then, the clouds swept in. I had forgotten that a sky even existed within the small walls of my "cubice" (neither cubicle nor office, rather an office constructed from cubicle walls) when my friend Jesse beckoned me. "You have to look at this," he said facing out the window.

Before him the technicolor summer had dissipated into a gray gradient. Huge trees swayed like kelp in a strong sea current with the violent wind. Overhead, the clouds stampeded, one on top of another, toward some eastward destination to deliver a thunderous blow of piercing rain. We took this all in for a few moments, our eyes thankful for the reprieve from computer monitors. Even with the shelter of the office, I felt the raw power of the summer storm and it infused me with an energy no vitamins or cups of coffee could've provided.

I drove home with the windows down, letting the post-storm air flush through my car. For once in a long time, I felt like I needed a sweater. By the time I stood in my kitchen, the lights were on. The clouds covered the late sumer sun and even though I knew my calendar read "August," it could've been November for all I cared.

I stared at the melons in my fridge, but even their alluring scent couldn't convince me to do something with them. Salad greens seemed anemic. Even the artisan salami couldn't lift my spirits into motivation.

In the freezer I saw one solitary sausage link. This was made by the same group of artisans that crafted the salami in the compartment below. The sweet, fatty heft, even in little amounts would be good. Then I remembered the half open container of vegetable stock in the fridge.

And so it was that in the middle of summer, I cooked up a heavy, filling soup. With less liquid it could've been a stew. But I say in my defense that cooking was nominal. Weekday cooking can sometimes contribute to the daily drain one can feel. But this was more the meeting of a few good tasty morsels than preparation of any sort. Like all soups, it's even better the next day, diluted with a little water or stock.

Kale Sausage & Cannelini Bean Soup

Water is fine to replace the stock. Either way, it never hurts to add a nubbin of Parmigiano-Reggiano rind or the "butt" end of a prosciutto leg. It goes a long way to deepend the flavors of any liquid. You can obtain those from a very nice cheesemonger or specialty grocer who understands your soup-needs. Frugal cooks and Italian grandmothers keep a stash of their own in the freezer. I wrap mine in plastic and throw it straight in frozen.

1/4 pound sausage or 1 Creminelli link * olive oil for sauteeing * 2 cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed * 5 big leaves of chard, kale, etc. * 1 teaspoon toasted fennel seeds * 1 dried red chili * 1 quart of vegetable or chicken stock * 1 can of Cannelini beans, drained

Heat a soup pot over medium heat and the sausage and oil. If the meat is in link form, release it from the casing with a twist and squeeze, the way kids like to dispense of toothpaste. Dispose the skin. Saute and stir with a wooden spoon to break up the sausage into miniscule particles. Add the garlic - peel and crush it in one go with the flat side of your knife placed on top of them on a cutting board. Give it a good thwack with your fist and you'll find smashed cloves with skins barely hanging on. Cook for two minutes being careful  not to let it brown.

Meanwhile, rinse the leaves and cut or tear off the tender leafy sections from the center stalk. Chop the stalk as finely as you can and it to the pot. Tear in the leaves. Grind the fennel seeds add this to the pot along with the dried chili, crumbled between keyboard-weary fingers. Stir to combine.

If you have some booze to spare - a glug of ale, a glass of white wine, some dry sherry - pour it in and amplify the aromatherapy before you. Then add the broth (water is fine, too) and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer let it cook until the greens are tender, about 12 to 15 minutes in my case, but it will depend on how big your greens are cut.

When tender, add the cannelini beans. Purists can also add their soaked and boiled dried beans instead of the convenient canned variety. Smugness is not desired. Cook for another five minutes and season it with as much salt and pepper as you (I find sausage salt content varies, so really do taste it before adding salt so you don't overdo it with the sodium).

To serve, drizzle with extra-virgin olive oil and top with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Eat in huge bowls standing by the windows.

FLASHBACK: Spring (or Early Summer) Green Pasta

 
An oldie, but a goodie. In honor of those of us in less-blessed and more earnest climates, I offer something to use up the proliferation of greens. As much as one enjoys sauteeing, sometimes, a bit of creamy texture is necessary to break up all that roughage-monotony. A food processor is your friend here - one of the few gadgets I will forever and ever extoll. - Vanessa

The solution for professed vegetable-haters is to make something vegetal appear distinctly not. Case in point, a sauce of broccoli and spinach for a jumble of linguine. Not that I have issues eating any matter of vitamin-suffused roughage, but there's only so much steaming and sauteeing a girl can take on the plate. And given the blossoms on the branches, the warmer temperatures and sporadic rain, it's a nice dish to make on a quiet night-in, to thank the stars it's finally spring.

The Virtues of Radishes & Butter

Let me preface what I'm about to say with "I love creative, adventurous food. Cooking and dining, give it to me."

But after a marathon of 5-page recipes and multiple mini courses of culinary-combination genius, I dare you to find anyone who would say no to a simple roast chicken or a heavy bowl of lentil lamb soup.

Simply put, we underestimate the power of simplicity.

I've often been in kitchens of friends and friends of friends who slather on their impressive skill and relish in a 3-day orgy to create a good cassoulet. I've been asked for recipes for a "complete" dinner. When I hand over a first course of nothing but good charcuterie (awesome cured meats), I get a disappointed frown as if I had let them and every other home cook down. Poser, their looks seem to say.

It is not my job to stress over what I cook for myself and friends. Yet, we've all become rather pros at it. Nevermind the orchestration of technically-challenged and awe-inspiring dishes for your book club. I'm talking even getting a meal on the table to foster conversation flowing around it.

So we "do" take-out. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy my pastrami burger and gyro as much as the next person. But, the stuff is not the sustenance of a life. We think it's easier to commute, order, pick up, and serve. We think if we have to cook, we have to sweat considerably.

My delcaration to you all now:  THAT. IS. SOOOOOOO WRONG.

The best cooks I know are the relaxed sort. They aren't harried when you come over. They take their time in the kitchen and dig it when you join them there as they prepare cheese and dried fruit plate for the sliced baguettes. Voila. An appetizer.

They don't tarry about finding toothpicks to secure neatly rolled bacon dates. They're aren't half-assed in listening to you bitch and moan about the latest batch of middle-class troubles.

They are fully invested in the moment of having you around. Fully invested in their glass of wine and still mindful of the cauliflower roasting alongside an untrussed chicken.

They believe that a good meal can be nothing more than a piece of fruit with all the ripeness nature can truly muster, a hunk of good bread, and perhaps some cheese or prosciutto.

To them and those who have inspired me in my lazy eating, therefore lazy cooking, I owe every dinner party and self-indulgent meal.

I cannot even begin to tell you about the bliss of radishes, fresh from my friend's garden and their greens still rugged and wrinkled, simply washed and piled onto a plate. Serve them with another small plate of room temperature, cloud soft butter, the best you can get your hands on, and a mound of coarse salt. Dip, sprinkle and crunch. If this is the bulk of your meal it's nice to have a baguette around. My friend, the pastry goddess known as Amber, likes to thinly slice hers and shingle them daintily atop a sliced baguette already slathered with butter. Sometimes there is herbage involved. Sometimes not. But always, the sandwich is enjoyed.

If you insist on some sort of gussying, a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt before going into a hot oven revealed a treat I have only recently known -- roasted radishes.

Radishes and butter are the most unusual and satisfying pairing, the herald of a season characterized by lazy cooking. Assembly is more like it when you have the bosomy vine-ripened tomatoes, just snapped beans and ears of corn that should really be categorized with candy. When we proceed to eat these things there should not be a trace of shame for not having done a step 1, 2, or 3 in order to enjoy it.

Some things are so simple, so pure and too good to embellish with flair and ego. Food tastes better without anxiety, even if it is nothing but a meal of fresh radishes and amazing Italian butter.

A few other such virtuous recipes ...

LENTIL LAMB SOUP * simple summer joys * PANDORO FRENCH TOAST * german pancake * SOFT BOILED EGG & BUTTERED TOAST * spicy anchovy greens * corn on the cob slathered with feta and many things * CREME FRAICHE * feta biscuits * ROASTED APRICOTS WITH BRIE * ajvar cracker * CHOCOLATE CROSTINI

Lentil Lamb Soup

The lentil and the lamb. The humble and the meek. Or at least, that's what they have supposedly represented. But to me, the lentil has long been the stuff of easy luxury. Hearty, filling, but a lot more elegant than boiled potatoes. Likewise, lamb has a distinctive gait across my tongue. The good stuff has trodden green, green pastures under the sun or trampled the cold-packed dirt of a milder winter pasture. It tastes of the earth in cycle and I love any cut of it. The obvious loin chops, shoulders for sauteeing or braising. But I have a soft spot for the shank.

This is a cavegirl's cut (they had to eat, too, right?). The centerpiece being a sturdy leg bone fat with marrow that along with the meat around it can be coaxed into the most unctuous tenderness.

Often, I do just that. Lentils and lamb shank into a pot. Add water and simmer. It is a lazy means to a luxurious result. And it is ideal for weather that straddles the line between heavy wool sweater and light pink cardigan/

I make this with Laurie Colwin in mind. How many times she literally made her beloved lentil soup. Always with onion. Sometimes with bacon. But yes, she, like me, extolls the addition of lamb. It is because of her I have no problem sousing my soup right before serving with a good glug of cognac, brandy and even dry sherry. It is because of her I have tried this soup at all.

The most appealing virtue about it is that it is entirely personalized according to your mood, pantry and disposition. Add some tzatziki (cucumbers shredded into thick yogurt), pita and perhaps a plate of fresh radishes with crazy good butter, and well, I call that my Monday night feast. Mondays are days where I often make the time to spend at home at my table. Usually there's the Voracious One and a good friend or two (they always show up at dinner time). The friends are even better when they arrive with a bottle of wine.

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.
 

German Pancake

Cooking while in your pajamas is something we should at some point in our lives all experience. The reason you're even in your pajamas should be one of ease and leisure. A Sunday morning sleep-in. Or any day off.

During the freelance life, I learned to make the most of my flexible mornings, planning a bit of coffee, a bit of work, a workout and then a langurous morning meal to enjoy while multitasking with my Google dashboard.

Then it was good. But if you observe what I've heard referred to as a "tech sabbath," it's even better. The digital radio is just fine to catch up on podcasts or "Weekend Edition on NPR." The only multitasking you should be doing is minding the first batch of coffee and the German Pancake batter that will go along with that sweet, sweet caffeine.

Some people call it Dutch Baby. Others swear to God it isn't anything more than a less-beefy Yorkshire Pudding. I'm happy to stay out of the debate for the sake of just enjoying the damn, blessed thing. For all the dramatic height you achieve in presentation, there's relatively little work. A little flour, eggs and milk mingle with hot fat from a hot pan heating in a hot oven the chemistry does the rest to give pancake it's bouffant.

Maple syrup is always good. Butter would be overkill. For something really different (for those who insist on slathering dairy somewhere in the equation), I love creme fraiche and a good dousing of Lyle's Golden Syrup -- a sugar can syrup that's intensely sweet with an echo of molasses. I acquired a bottle to replace corn syrup I've seen in some confection recipes and let me tell you that the golden syrup does a wonderful job.

GERMAN PANCAKE FOR A LAZY MORNING

You can make this for one in individual ramekins. You can serve a brood if made in a large Pyrex glass or ceramic lasagna/baking dish. For two, I used my little red ceramic gratin. Actually, I made two batches in the little dish. Once we polished off the first round, there was batter left for another batch and we couldn't find a reason why to deny the runny batter it's proper, full life as the big steamy pocket of morning glory.

1 cup all-purpose flour, sifted * 1 tablespoon sugar * 1/2 teaspoon salt * 1 tablespoon melted unsalted butter * 1 cup milk * 2 eggs * butter for coating

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees with your baking container in it. Use 8 ramekins, a large Pyrex or ceramic baking dish or make a couple of batches from a small gratin dish. Be sure to have a pat or two of butter in the dish heating up with the container.

Combine the dry ingredients in a medium mixing bowl. In a small bowl or measuring cup combine the butter, milk, and eggs. Pour this mixture into the dry ingredients and whisk together until the batter is smooth. If there are a few lumps, you probably didn't sift. And that's okay. It'll still taste good. [This whole step can be done in the blender, too.]

Remove the heated container(s) from the oven and pour the batter directly in. The batter should come up no more than 2/3 to the rim of the container, whatever it is. Plop it back into the oven and reduce the heat to 400 degrees. Keep the door closed -- as tempting as it is to spy on the chemistry in action -- you want the temperature to be stable for the sheer volume last seen on '80s hair bands. This recipe is far more tasteful ...

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes for a small gratin dish, about 10 to 15 for muffin tins and up to 35 minutes for a larger dish. Remove from oven and serve immediately with maple syrup or Lyle's Golden Syrup and creme fraiche. Great with salty pork like bacon or sausages.

Grapefruit Honey Cocktail for a Monday

Around the age of 25, my body lost the ability to heal itself from alcohol-induced merry making. I discovered in college the beauty of human physiology and how one could subject it to so much wear and tear and still be able to function fully and completely the next day.

No more.

Nowadays, my drinking abilites place me firmly within the "cheap date" category. And quite frankly, I'm fine with that.

The bottles of Effen vodka and Plymouth gin last longer in my larder than they do in my friends'. This plodding pace has always meant that I knew what levels of alcohol I had an when I needed to replenish which in turn guaranteed that I never found myself home ona Monday night and without anything to make a cocktail.

I might not drink a lot. But, by God, I need my tipple. Particularly if it's a Monday evening and my whole day has been as hazy as the dreams I had the night before.