she craves

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Pork Belly Redux (AKA That Rocked My World)

 

My beloved pork belly was reincarnated thanks to a mixture of my laziness and curiosity. The gargantuan pork roast we made one weekend was still lingering in the fridge a couple of days later, albeit in a smaller but no less formidable chunk. Hesitant to just slice and re-heat I opted to test my ingenuity and exhaust other leftover bits and bobs.

The result was superb. Cooking like this makes me think sometimes we take recipes and our attitudes in the kitchen way too seriously. Don't misunderstand, this isn't about not thinking about the food -- quite the contrary. You think and care so much about the time you took into it, you feel obligated to respect it to the very last morsel. This is serious passion. Worrying is an optional addition. Gratuitious waste is an all too accepted sin.

Most talented cooks I know stand out for two reasons: 1.) They usually don't cook with recipes. And 2.) They are sorceresses with leftovers.

But the true success of this recipe -- and a certain degree of vindication -- only comes when The Voracious One actually eats the damn thing. He-who-normally-eschews-and-curses-leftovers downed every shred of braised pork LEFTOVERS.

He even ate the leftovers of this reincarnated leftover. Victory. It tastes mighty fine.

Braised Left-Over Pork Belly in a Cupboard Sauce

Thankfully, this is the type of dish that really doesn't - shouldn't - come with a recipe. The name doesn't allude to the taste of the dish, rather the contents of. I literally looked in my fridge and added it to my chunk of pork belly I placed into my enameled cast iron pot:

approx. 2/3 cup stale Virgil's Root Beer * 1 cup of cold black coffee from earlier that morning * the last bit of life squeezed out from a tube of tomato pasta * a lone yellow onion peeled and cut in half * a tablespoon each of Domori Apurimac cocoa powder and ground almonds * a teaspoon each of ground cumin, coriander seed, sichuan peppercorn and a touch of ground cinnamon * a bay leaf from my little potted tree * and some of the remnants of the packaged chicken stock sitting for God knows how long in my fridge (it passed the smell test)

I mixed it up as it came to a boil so that the liquid was somewhat uniform, reduced the heat and covered it to let it do it's thing for about three hours. Then I forgot about it for another hour. And when I remember it again, I uncovered the pot and used a fork to flake away the tender strands of meat into the deep, earthy sauce.

The moral of my leftover story:  Every little bit can contribute flavor, especially in a braise. I have a feeling that what we know as mole (forgive me, but I cannot figure out how to get the accent over the "e" on my new keyboard) is a result of frugality, an interesting pantry and a love of flavor.

The ingredients are only OPTIONS, not the rule. Play around with some liquid, some seasoning, maybe something for texture. Have it swim up half way up a piece of meat, bring it to a boil, cover and give it a steam room treatment. The aromatic bubbles should appear only once in a while -- no vigorous boiling however small the bubbles.

I've had great luck with a small hunk of beef, onions I caramelized and some veg broth mixed with water to create enough volume in the pot. After a few hours, I had what I can only call French Only Pot Roast. Heavenly with buttered noodles. Remind me to tell you about that one ...

So, tell me. What are some of your leftover tricks?

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.

Roast Pork Belly

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

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

So I did.

Lemony Roast Potatoes

We take for granted the lemon. Without thinking much of it restaurant kitchens strategically place a slice for no reason other than cheap looks. Waiters garnish someone's Pellegrino because that's what she's seen everyone else do.

Completely underrated my favorite fruit is. Yes, it is a fruit. Albeit an aromatic one that we use more as a condiment to enliven and invigorate a recipe or a food instead of biting into it whole and raw. But I cannot imagine my kitchen life without it.

A squeeze from the fresh fruit can elevate a dank lentil soup into a balanced, nourishing bowl. The kind of food that staves off winter chills but reminds you of the upcoming promises of sunshine. My Microplane grater I use mostly for grating cheese and also zest. Usually, I'll add both to a pasta that I've made too bosomy with cream. The whiff of delicate zest strands somehow makes my carbonara actually seem somewhat healthy.

I'm a fan of all things tart and sour. I've been known to go on Sour Patch Kids or sour rope binges at the movie theatres because that's the only place nowadays I can find the flat, ribbon like type instead of the shoelace strings. I love tart fruits - passion fruit, beguiling and flamboyant, pink grapefruits. But I have to have my lemon. It's sunshine incarnate, the friendliest way to stare at the sun. And the only way I know how to actually lick sunshine.

I'm not ashamed to say I put it in just about everything I cook. I consider a half juiced lemon, crusting away on the counter, or molding silently away in the fridge a felony. Throw away a lemon that's hardened because you used the zest in a tea cake, but forgot to squeeze the juice into some sub par tap water, and you've just committed second degree solecide. At the very least, skin-conscious people can rub the juicy pulp onto elbows for a quick "exfoliation" thanks to citric acid and other things you might find in an Aveda treatment.

In the winter, it's a salve, balancing out the cold and dark. And in spring, it's the harbinger of the flavors to come. Both the workhorse and the purebed that always elicits compliments, especially when it's cooked. Preserved lemons, salted and cured until the rind is soft and briny, are something more people should use and adore. Sliced and roasted with chicken until the schmaltz and acid are one -- the easiest gravy known in kitchendom.

When I found myself chicken-less, I threw the lemons into the roasting pan anyway. Only this time, there were large chunks of potatoes to keep them company. Roasted tender and fluffy, it's comfort food spiked with a smile. The greenery came about thanks to a friend and her amazing grow box whose abundance guarantees me a special delivery when the sun first starts to peak through. The lemon cooks to an oozing softness. The edges caramelize a bit, blunting the sharp acerbic character of the fresh stuff. Like going from Doris Day to Lauren Becall.

How appropriate then to marry the comfort of starch with this sunshine and the coming green of warmer times? I eat this alone, no meat necessary. But it's completely at home in the company of a spring roast chicken or the Easter roast lamb.

LEMONY ROAST POTATOES WITH SPRING GREENS

You can adjust the cooking temperature just by changing the size of the potato chunks. If you've got a leg of lamb in the oven for a few hours, it's worth it to have the potatoes in large chunks (I love cutting into them with a knife and fork as if they were a steak) transforming slowly but surely with the meat. But if you're in a hurry, a fine dice works just as well.

Serves 6 to 8

6 to 8 large potatoes, peeled and chopped (russets or the gargantuan Yukon golds I've seen at the market lately; figure one potato per person if you've got more folks to feed)  *   4 cloves of whole, unpeeled garlic   *   1 to 2 lemons, washed well and sliced thinly   *   4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil   *  fresh herbs like rosemary, thyme, marjoram (optional)   *   3 big handfuls of washed spinach leaves   *   salt and pepper to taste

 

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Put the potatoes, garlic, lemons into a large baking dish (glass and ceramic ones are ideal), in a single layer, if possible. If not, it's just an excuse to spy into the oven every so often to rotate the jumble with a fork. Drizzle with the olive oil and toss to coat the pieces. Add the herbs. Place in the oven and let cook about 30 minutes (for larger chunks). Press on the spinach leaves and use a piece of foil to now cover the pan. You're steaming the spinach with the lemony juices. Return to the oven and cook another 10 to 15 minutes until spinach has completely wilted from the gentle aromatic steam and the potatoes are cooked through. Season with salt and pepper and serve with a spring roast chicken, a leg of lamb, or even with a hunk of your favorite stinky ceese.