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.

Haagen-Dazs Blueberry Crumble, You Kill Me (And Not in the Good Way)

The kids can have their halloween candy. My sweet fix needs to be something a bit more comforting, a bit more cold, creamy, and ideally, something that need not be rationed out or, even worse, shared.

I make no secret about my love of desserts. I make it a priority in any special dinner out. And when life can be especially tricky or the mind needs a bit of comforting, my dessert of choice is ice cream. More often than not, dessert often becomes the meal. Which in a way is a good thing, considering that I can easily put away a whole pint by my lonesome. 

Nutritious? No. But comforting, completely. That is, it usually is. 

"Haagen-Dazs" and "sucked" are words I don't usually use together. After all, who am I to argue with their dense offering of Dulce de Leche, Cookie Dough, deeply flavorful Mint Chocolate Chip, Coffee, even a plain but stunning vanilla? It's a go-to. An easy fix when the craving strikes. And it struck hard the night of Halloween. 

Like an addict I made a night time pilgrimage, long after the Optimus Primes, Vampires, and Slutty Cops had retired from public viewing, to my dealer. In this case, a supermarket with a paltry ice cream selection. But there it was, Haagen-Dazs Limited Edition Blueberry Crumble. It was supposed to be so good. "After slowly simmering ripe blueberries," it says, "we fold them into dense blueberry ice crea with rich, buttery cobbler crust and crumbles." They even include a flavor sheet on the side of the pint to prepare for the flavor bomb about to unfold. Flavor bomb me.

I should have figured from the air-light pint something was amiss. The "dense blueberry ice cream" was a cloud, a sad whimper of fruit thanks to high overrun (air churned into the ice cream custard) and slightly freezer burned from bad temperature control. The blueberry crumbles, nothing but texture that left an oily film on my sad sad tongue. 

Oh, Haagen-Dazs Blueberry Crumble, where were my simmering ripe blueberries? Where was my bursting fruit flavor, my top note of bright ripe blueberries? This was supposed to be my treat, my guilty pleasure. Turned out to be a trick. Empty calories never turned out to be more true.

There was nothing guilty about you except for the fact that you sucked. I want my money (and calories) back.

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: Cherry Almond Cake

[NOTE:  Another oldie, but goodie. When I first typed in the title, "cherry" was "cheery" and for once I believe my careless fingers meant this typo for this cake summons up the warmth, sunshine, and pleasant feeling of summer. Which, quite frankly, we could all use considering the wonky state of climactic things around the country. So whether you're shriveling from merciless heat or wondering if fall came early, this cake in its simplicity and straightforward flavor will at least give you the taste of a true summer. Try it with some homemade creme fraiche.]

Yes, I suck at baking. Yes, I've been trying my hand at a few recipes requiring flour, some sort of leavening agent, all manner of seasoning and the suffocating heat of the oven. Call me a masochist, but the last few dishes I've made had me peeking over the oven door to see if things had gotten golden brown.
 

Sometimes, you have to do things that will hurt. In my case, it involves baking. First, biscuits. Now a cake. The inspiration came from a phenomenal woman I know, Susan Massey. This all-around gorgeous human being and food stylist extraordinaire arrived at a dinner party with this cake. Not just any cake. But a Cherry Almond Cake.

A Bit of Beauty: "How to Be Alone"

A bit of beauty for the week, especially for those feeling alone or unconnected. And for my fellow food-lovers, pay special attention to the bliss described between 0:55-1:26. We should all do this more often and be more than okay with it. [Many thanks to RhymesWithSpoon. You are strong and beautiful more than you know.]

Hot Chocolate, Plain and Simple

So much for the promise of spring. After a couple of days of relative warmth and sun, it's coming down like a snowglobe outside. Driving would be suicidal considering my neighborhood rests at the top of a hill. The place where I'd like to go to get some hot chocolate conveniently at the bottom of said hill. I don't want it that much. Wait. I lied. I so do. Luckily, there's a pantry to raid. Thank god for those random bits of chocolate scattered at the bottom of the Ziploc storage bag. Hey, at least I saved $20 (gourmet hot chocolate ain't cheap, folks).

FLASHBACK: Kabocha Squash Risotto

For a shitty week: Kabocha squash risotto with crispy sage, guanciale, and kabocha seeds.

[Blogger's Note:  Cycles rule the universe.  The seasons, good weeks, bad weeks.  This recipe is both salve and sustenance.  An oldie but a goodie.  It's also a good excuse to use the kabocha squash you find in Asian markets and specialty stores.  Just as most people don't touch pumpkins other than Halloween, kabocha doesn't make contact with my knife until the weather turns cold and suddenly, I feel the need for that funky sweetness and the soft silky flesh.  The crunchy topping is essential here.  As comforting as the soft creamy rice can be, a bit of contrast never hurt.  No need to wallow in nursery food.  A bit of salty bite is a good reminder that there's more to life than feeling down.]

I've done it. I've drained myself of words. Or rather, the will to write words for a paycheck; to even string together a thought. As I sit here writing this now, I stop every two words to gather my thoughts for the rest of the sentence. It isn't that I'm completely vacant. Rather the opposite. About a thousand ideas are percolating in this noggin' of mine. Mostly they swim. Sometimes they churn. Other times they collide like tectonic plates, the likes of which have not been seen since Pangea was sick of being one huge chunk of rock.

---

Result of repetitive motion The source of these ideas: work. I make it a point not to dwell in too much detail about the day job. I like it that way—that's the whole point of this blog. I get to write about what I want to write about. Gives me another focus than what I didn't get done in the workday... Without going into it too much (this would require a bottle of wine and a lot of time, which I don't have), the upswing of the deadline curve leaves me with little time and a lot of stress. Not just the chronological sort. There's plenty of the emotional baggage like self-doubt, suspicion, and good old job insecurity to make a girl lose sleep. Even her appetite. This, ladies and gentleman, has never happened before. It partly has to do with the supremely bad meals I've had in town lately and that thanks to roommates with an apparent dishwasher-phobia I can't even cook in my own goddamn kitchen. So everything swims, bounces off of each other, and they are just noisy. Not the thing you need when you're dying to finish draft three of a piece you have completely no faith in. Or do you? Oh the indecision! The cacophony got to be a bit too much when my friend Amber called. "Do you have dinner plans?" I asked. She answered. "No, I'm just staying home." "Good," I replied. "I'm coming over for dinner. I want to make you something. Well, us." So with that, Friday evening turned into The Therapy Kitchen Sessions. It turns out that we were both having supremely shitty weeks. We each took our turns at bitching, just letting a lot of verbal steam that's buit up pressure within our little diaphragms. Such release is so much more effective when you punctuate points with the chop of a chef's knife and throwing bits of aromatics into a pot. Before you know it, you've disemboweled and prepped an entire Kabocha squash and started a batch of some badly needed risotto. When we were discussing what to make earlier Amber, who's a wonderful pastry chef at a restaurant in town, read my mind. "We need comfort food." The creamy rice was a no brainer. But to coddle such stress and fragile egos, there needed to be something else. Slightly sweet. The presence of which would immediately uplift our spirits. Kabocha squash, baked and mashed, stirred in moments before you spike the pot with a chunk of butter and a blizzard of parmesan. The color alone hinted at sunshine and warmth. But we were grown women. Adventurous, sophisticated, beautiful, cool, intelligent, talented, passionate—it's all part of the pep-talk, you see—women. So, there's gotta be something extra to sex it up lest we risk creating a big heap of baby food. Albeit, delicious baby food. A chunk of guanciale caught my eye at the market. Blessed pig. It gives me bacon. Pork chops. Ham. Sausages. Pork cheek sandwiches at Salumi. Hell, even chittlins on an adventurous day. But thank you, thank you, you porcine God-send for your jowls. Cured with salt and spices, it's the most revered part of the pig in Lazio, around Rome. Mostly fat, it's used like pancetta in just about everything. I cubed my stash and tossed it with whole fresh sage leaves, the seeds from the disemboweled Kabocha (time FLIES when you're recounting painful details of the week!), and a little olive oil to get it going. Then you roast the whole thing in a hot oven and hear it sizzle so that it practically talks to you. It sounds angry. It sounds bitchy, what with that constant sizzling and occasional pop from a seed. But the mixture crisps up, cubes of bacon fat, sage leaves, roasting seeds and all. The result is a crunchy aromatic confetti to top the risotto, tableside, with lots more parmesan. Because it's been that kind of week. By the time we were ready to eat, Amber's son, Nick was starving and lamenting that it was 9 p.m. Yeah, I totally believe the emotional osmosis stuff. I worried that all of our stress may have melted into our food and the dish would taste, well, worried. But that intense turmeric yellow pool of silky rice on the tongue was like a hug. The crunchy bits you got every so often on a forkful snapped you back into a here and now only conjured by smoky bacon fat and the oddly medicinal sage leaves. "If you can craft a dish like this," I thought to myself. "Then you can do anything." Yes, ladies and gents, it was a risotto meditation. Kabocha Squash Risotto with Crispy Sage, Guanciale, and Kabocha Seeds I don't remember where I came across this recipe. I didn't find it in any of my cookbooks at home. I suspect it came about during a previous job, also extremely stressful, but luckily supplied with an arsenal of cookbooks that I could bury myself in. There's some charm in using just about every bit of the squash. If you compost the peel, then hey, big karma points to you. You can sub a small pumpkin if kabocha isn't available. And those of you overachievers who have pureed squash or pumpkin lying around, this is SO the dish to put it in. 1 Kabocha squash or small pumpkin * 1/4 pound guanciale or pancetta, diced * a generous handful of fresh sage leaves * olive oil * 1 small yellow onion, chopped * 1 clove garlic, minced * 2 cups carnaroli or arborio rice * a glass of white wine * 6 cups of simmering chicken or vegetable stock * dab or slab of butter * pinch of grated nutmeg * LOTS of parmesan You can prepare the squash ahead, use squash you've got, or prepare it all in go. To do the latter: Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Start with the squash. Cut it in half, scrape out the seeds (save these) and then cut into eights. Using a knife peel the skin from the flesh. Cut the flesh into cubes and place in a roasting dish or aluminum packet, sealed. Place in the hot oven and make sure the stock is still simmering. Now with the lovely crunchy stuff. Combine the guanciale, sage, and seeds in a roasting dish and sprinkle with just a touch of olive oil. Place this in the oven next to the squash and let it do its thing. When you start to smell the guanciale mingling with the sage, check on it and give it a stir. Leave the squash alone. Keep an eye on the crunchy confetti as you tend to the rice. When the bacon's done (about 15 to 20 minutes later) retrieve the chunks out with a slotted spoon and place it all on a paper towel to drain and cool. Let it hang out there until you're done with the rest of the dish. Saute the onion in a bit of olive oil over medium heat. When it's translucent (you're not browning anything here) add the rice and stir to coat each grain with a slick of olive oil. Add a little more if you need to here. When the rice is shiny and warmed from two minutes in the pan add the glass of wine. Stir and keep stirring until the wine dissolves. Now it's time to use that stock. Add a ladleful and stir. At this point, everyone has their theories on when to add the next bit of stock and what to do in between. My way—just don't let anything scorch or the starch stick to the pan. I give it a few stirs, but the risotto is very forgiving when you need to talk with a friend about mean bosses, weird office dynamics, and her crazy work load. Repeat this cycle (conversation optional) until you're out of stock. If you get to this point and the rice isn't quite done just add hot water. It won't kill it. Promise. Have a friend (or you can do this during one of those rounds where you don't stir the rice) mash the now baked squash until it's smooth. Don't bother with the food processor. A fork works wonders. Add this mashed goodness to the rice after the last of the liquids. Grate in some nutmeg just until you smell it and start to feel better. Add the butter and as much parmesan as you'd like. Give it a stir. Cover and just leave it alone for a second. Now's a good time to set the table and open another bottle of wine. To serve, spoon as much of the risotto as you'd like onto your plate. Sprinkle a handful of the crisped sage, guanciale, and seeds. Add more parmesan. NOTE: If you don't want to bother with the seeds you can leave them out. But we're talking bacon fat roasted seeds. Why the hell not?

Miss V's Ghetto-fabulous Peanut Butter Cups

There are days where I am tired of being a grown up. Strike that. There are days where I am tired of trying to be a grown up.

I've always believed that despite whatever academic transcipts show and the boastings of once-proud parents, I've been quite retarded in my growth when it came to confidence.  People are often disturbed when I tell them that I wet through my teenage years as a pessimistic 20-something. Under the wing of a loving but a nerve-wrecked mother, my M.O. has always been to anticipate the worst from the get-go. Whatever doesn't happen then is a godsend.

Don't believe me? Take an average conversation with my mother. Whether in person or over the phone she manages to turneven the happiest of scenarios into well-springs of worry.

"How's the writing going? They're not going to fire you, are they?"

Variations include: "Hi honey, have you gotten fired yet?" "Be good. Don't lose your job." "Will you ever go to grad school?" "When are you going to buy a house?" "Have you and Andy broken up?"

And so on. I was weaned on this sort of thinking and as a consequence stayed on a safe road of doing whatever someone else says. I still retained a bit of sass with a veneer of mock confidence as well as a significant amount of body mass since my mother and I seemed to agree that feeding insecurity to be a good thing.

But it all crumbled when I turned 22 and realized that everything I wanted to do in life had nothing to do with the past years I spent studying or were things that did not make themselves obvious. I had no idea what to do. No one told me that growing up was going to be this demoralizing.

Then one day, the most obvious of things presented itself. The late night I made strawberry mint custard tarts for a friend, the moments I insisted we cook massive amounts of comfort food during snow days, even the solitary meals I cooked for my unemployed ass in my early 20s came together into an idea, still loose, but appealing.

Then writing popped its head up from the messy realm of possibilities. And suddenly it all made a little more sense. But again, no one told me that growing up would entail fighting the same battles with insecurity -- in every sense -- with yourself and with others who insist you build a better life for yourself on their terms.

With my ample childhood training, I take the chorus to heart. Anticipating the worst, why wouldn't I buy a house? Why wouldn't I give up on writing, on food, on any whisper of a dream or goal I had?

It's as if the volume has been turned up in my head and even two ideas are overwhelming. I soak in the residual stress. I contemplate possibilities and options. I pace. I lose sleep. I fester.

Then, finally, I cook. For no one else but me, however delicately or messily I want to execute it. It started with a handful of Valrhona feves (not the literal translation of "seeds," but thin ovals of single-origin chocolate) and an exasperated reach for a jar of peanut butter. I dipped the chocolate as if it were a tortilla chip in salsa. As a testament to me being an emotional eater, each bite calmed me alarmingly so, that eventually, I gave it up and decided to make something of the moment.

So, I present here the most ghetto-fabulous, serpendipitous recipe for anyone seeking refuge in the kitchen. You can draw out the process as long as you need. Melt and chill the chocolate. Then the peanut butter. Then finally another bit of chocolate. But if you're mood is such that you need a flurry of activity, the freezer is perfect.

And yes, despite the name, these are suitable for those without said fatigue. Just be sure to use good ingredients. I've long given up trying to console myself with crap.

 Peanut Butter Cups To Soothe Grown-Up Fatigue

1/4 cup dark brown sugar * 1 cups confectioners'/powdered sugar * scant 1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened * 3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons creamy peanut butter (please please please please NO corn syrup or hydrogenated fats in this one, it's supposed to taste like peanuts, remember?) * About 1 cup of milk chocolate pieces (Valrhona Tanariva is great) * 1/2 cup dark chocolate pieces (Valrhona Tropilia is decent, Caraibe is better) * 2 tablespoons of butter * muffin tin and liners

Melt together both chocolates and butter in a double boiler. Let it cool slightly before spooning 1 tablespoon's worth into each lined muffin tin. Let set in the fridge or in the freezer.

Meanwhile, iIn a stand mixer, with a hand mixer or a good old-fashioned wooden spoon, cream together the suars, the peanut butter and butter. It'll seem stiff at first, but be persistent. It'll yield into a smooth, velvety, uniform mass.

Remove the muffin from the fridge or freezer and dollop spoonfuls atop the chocolate layer. Use the spoon or your fingers to spread it around. If you're feeling really ambitious, wet your hands and roll the PB into a little marble and flatt it down slightly and place these gingerly over the set chocolate. Either way, just get the PB there.

Spoon the remaining chocolate over the peanut butter, so that you have an even layer. Depending on your PB distribution, some might be thicker than others. But who cares? They'll still be accepted graciously by you and lucky recipient. Just make them without the worry. Place back into the fridge or freezer to set.

To serve, place one on the counter to come to room temperature or if you're a fan of frozen peanut butter cups, go for it straight from the freezer. Peel back the muffin liner. Admire the marvel of chocolate. Bite down through the chocolate - thick or thin - and let it break and melt on your tongue. Make sure you have peanut butter in your mouth as well. Savor. Repeat.

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.

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."

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.
 

Pandoro French Toast

Most people - myself included - have one or two dishes that they hold close to their hearts. These dishes are considered the markers of big events like family gatherings, post-recital dinners or holidays.

For my folks, there's nothing more indicative of their successful American dream like a steak dinner (at a screaming good value, even better if a salad bar is included). Nothing screams Dickensian holiday like roast beef and a tray of steaming hot, bouffant Yorkshire pudding. Serial dieters dream of their first taste of cheesecake.

My special occasion dish - French toast. Mom was always magical with a toaster, margarine and her cinnamon sugar. But rare was the morning when the smells of eggy batter and sauteeing butter would lull me away from Saturday morning cartoons.

Cooking for myself I've revisited dishes my mom used to make, things that have caught my eye and ego and things that I wished I had enjoyed more. It wasn't until I was an adult did I truly understand the joys of French toast. Especially when it's made from leftover holiday bread like say, an Italian Pandoro. Hey, you never know.

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.

Tropical Banana Bread

[As seen at the SLC Share Our Strength Bake Sale.]

Banana bread and I have had a tumultuous past. On the few occasions my mom broke out the Betty Crocker quick bread box, I experienced the sweet, downright intoxicating smells of bananas (pre-mashed in a pouch). Eating was more of an obligatory ritual. The Country Crock spread slathered liberally over the too-moist, rubbery slice.

Even now in life, the supermarket versions are rarely up to snuff. Banana bread to me is what my Mormon friend says coffee is to her. She LOVES the aroma. Hates the taste.