she craves

What to Do with Shitty Produce: Pineapple

 
It's a familiar scenario. You walk into a market (most likely of the "super" variety), see a display of pineapple. In its alien, armadillo-like state it might conjure up some sunny memory of a Hawaiian vacation. Or it might strike a bit of fear. What the hell do I do with that? You buy one, utilizing some rule or another as to gauge ripeness. You tug on a leaf. You check its bottom where it was once attached to a cactus-like base. Or you give it a sniff.

Chances are, the leaf gave way not because it was ripe, but because it's old. The bottom is about as appealing as a forgotten piece of fruit in a garbage bin. And the fragrance? Is that fermentation I detect? But it's too late. In your enthusiasm or self-loathing, you bought it with dreams of serving some kitschy fried-rice dish in its bowels. But here you are with a shitty pineapple. 

Here's what you do.

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.

My Current Kitchen Soundtrack: Beirut, "Forks and Knives"

Usually, I like to post what I'm listening to while I'm in the kitchen - cooking, eating, alone, en masse, laughing, being pissed off, etc. In the right column of the page is something called KITCHEN SOUNDTRACK. With all due respect to Mr. Reinhardt, I've always had room on my playlist for Zach Condon and his work in Beirut. And this is one of my favorites, not least of which is because of the song's title.

It's the soundtrack for a slapdash cooking session or a casual meal when the sun is out and you are in the midst of a happy spell. I'm still waiting for someone to create a wonderful song entitled "Three-Pronged Fork," because it's one of my favorite things on earth.

Until then, this will suffice.

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.

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]."

Hurray for Lazy Sundays: An Omelet and a Stack of Pancakes

It's a bittersweet thought. The sheer pleasure of lazy Sunday mornings. So lazy that the morning seeps into the afternoon. Pajamas are suitable all-day attire. The paper or an unfinished book must be finished, with each page savored. There's always a pot of coffee or tea ready to be poured. And perhaps most importantly, breakfast can be served at any time of the day.

It's a bittersweet thought, that this feast of an omelet and a stack of homemade pancakes, this joy (like so many other sources of joy) is a luxury nowadays. It is rare, which makes its occurrence so sweet, like the appearance of the first strawberry blossoms on a long-given up plant or finding or the weekday cocktail before you even think about dinner.

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?

Cool As A Cucumber - Cuke, Chili, Peanut & Coconut Salad

There's the saying that you eat with your eyes. Nowhere is it more true in times of self-imposed ascetism, balancing out the bouts and binges of all the things we love to love in excess.

Some call it a diet. Others doll up the word "diet" with intended feelings of well-being and call it a "cleansing." Whatever the title, often, it's an integral part to eating and living. The spring clean was a long time ago, as my kitchen attests. But every so often between my lusty affairs with bacon and butter, my heart calls out for crisp precise bites of verdant things.

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 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.