To be totally honest, I didn't want to go to my mom's book club. It wasn't that I didn't think it would be fun, or that I don't like tagging along with my mother on her social calls. It was just that it was Friday night, I had been sitting at my desk all day, only to then wedge myself onto a crowded bus to sit for another two hours, and was going to have to drive with my mom for half an hour back in the direction from which I came. To be frank, my ass had had enough. I wanted to sprawl, or better yet, to walk, and I really, really needed a drink.



But stepping into the most perfect house in which I could imagine kids skating on the hardwood flowers in their footed pajamas, I remembered how marvelous it feels to be folded into the warmth of someone else's home, to be welcomed at a table crowded with delicious edibles, and to be in the company of women who are much older and wiser and more graceful than you. I remembered also how proud I feel sitting next to my mom, watching others seek her advice and delight in her company. You take that for granted when you're a daughter and that advice has been given freely all your life, just the way you take for granted how radiant she is when she laughs and just how much she taught you about how to be a woman.



I hadn't read the book, so I listened and gabbed too much about what seemed related -- pictures I'd seen or things I'd overheard once or articles I had read. It was the wine, I think, that made me talk so much, and my desire to have my mom think, See this is my daughter. Isn't she delightful and smart and compassionate? I asked her on the ride home if I had embarrassed her. She assured me no, why, had she embarrassed me? And I think now, how absurd to have asked each other these questions when the happy, tired, chatty feeling in the car driving home said everything. But it was that pang of uncertainty that every daughter feels from time to time -- is she proud? does she like me as a person and not just a daughter? You feel it perhaps even more keenly when you get a real glimpse of her. A mother is someone so close to you, so much a part of you that you don't always really see her. But then, when you get an eyeful of what others see, you get a look at what you know but sometimes forget: that she is very, very cool and that you are very, very lucky. I said no, you didn't embarrass me. I wish I had also added: in fact, mom, totally the opposite.



Potato and Leek Gratin
Serves 6

I am sort of obsessed with potato gratin and collect recipes for it as if they were sea-smoothed shells. It's just one of those dishes that, for me, embodies pure comfort and a particular kind of cozy bistro dining that never loses its appeal. After several tries of different recipes, I think I've found the version I may stick to, a variation on the recipe our book club host made. Studded with leeks, this potato gratin has tastes of brightness in each bite, a nice foil to the milk and heavenly gruyère cheese.

2 pounds peeled Yukon gold potatoes, sliced thinly on a mandoline or in a food processor
2 leeks, sliced into rounds, white and light green parts only
1 clove garlic, minced
2 cups milk
1 1/2 cups grated gruyère cheese
1 tablespoon butter, plus some for baking dish

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Put leeks in a bowl of water to remove any clinging dirt. When leeks are clean, shake dry, and sauté over moderate heat with garlic and butter until soft and aromatic, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat. Butter a large ceramic baking dish and line with a layer of sliced potatoes, followed by a layer of leeks, and topped with a gruyère. Repeat layering pattern, pour in the milk, and finish with a generous sprinkling of gruyère on top. Place dish on a baking sheet to protect your oven from volcanic overflow and bake for 50-60 minutes, until bubblingly hot and cheese is browned in spots.

Posted by sarah at 7:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

I must be getting old, because I can't drink margaritas the way I used to. A little like my once beloved Samoas, the fluorescent green frozen concoctions just seem too sweet to me now, and the sugar gives me a headache. But you know how I feel about Mexican food, and when you're eating fiery salsa, you need a drink to temper that heat.

Enter the very grown-up Paloma. It can be a challenge, I think, to find tequila drinks that don't either send you on a sensory flashback to nights in college you'd rather forget or bowl you over with their super sweet concentrated mixers. Here, the fresh grapefruit juice mingles with tequila in a very grown-up way. The fizzy club soda makes this drink extra refreshing and the salted rim makes it even more lip-smackingly delicious. One of my favorite ladies in the world (and a very sophisticated one, I should add) even asked for a refill. Misson accomplished, I'd say.

Paloma Cocktail
Serves 1

The traditional Paloma is made with a grapefruit soda like Jarritos or Squirt. My Paloma, inspired by one I sampled at a Mexican restaurant in Brooklyn, uses fresh grapefruit juice and club soda instead. Also, an interesting word about tequila: resposado (rested) tequila has been aged in oak for at least two months. Silver or blanco tequila is unaged, while "gold" tequila is a young tequila with added colorings and flavorings.

1/4 cup reposado or blanco tequila
1/2 cup fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice
squeeze of juice from a lime wedge
club soda
kosher salt

Rim a glass with salt. Mix together tequila, grapefruit and lime juices. Pour over ice and top with club soda.

Posted by sarah at 12:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

The Sunday meal, taken together, is a time-honored tradition I'm especially fond of. Growing up we sat around the Irish wake table in chinoiserie-papered dining room for a multi-course meal at the punctuating holidays. Our ritual on a ordinary Sunday evening was a drive downtown to a nondescript Mexican restaurant across the street from a toweringly fancy hotel. I remember gold foil-wrapped pats of soft butter spread on hot corn tortillas that were pulled out of plastic containers like rabbits out of a hat and the ketchup my dad ordered for the kids to dip their chips in. Sunday nights can be achingly sad -- the work week looms, the fun is over, and somehow, it seems the sun sets earlier than any other night of the week. But in the Mexican restaurant where old-fashioned vaquero music played on the juke box, traditional striped blankets hung on the wall, and each meal ended with the ceremonial choosing of a Dum-Dum from the bowl at the cash register, we were happy, and the week seemed held at bay for awhile longer.

Later, when I was in Italy for a few months during college, my board did not include Sunday dinner. This was especially inconvenient given that Sundays saw the rattling metal grates firmly shut over the front doors of cafes and trattorias, barring the way to wild boar sausage and cannellini bean soup. At the breakfast table that first Sunday, over the strong coffee that made me happier than any other part of the morning spread, my host mother invited my roommate and I for dinner that afternoon. She made it clear that the meal was not one we had paid for (ahem), but that she would be happy to have us join her family. Their table, a long wooden farmhouse table with a fruit bowl at one end, was in the kitchen. During that meal, the 2 o'clock sunshine would slant through the window and we ate homemade pasta excitedly, its one appearance for the week. For me, aching with a loneliness for what (or rather, who) I'd left behind in Minnesota, Sunday dinner at that table with the sealed pockets of ravioli and a surrogate family was heaven.

Soon after I came back from Florence, my dear friend hosted a Sunday dinner of her own. I sat on the green bar stool at the high ledge in her kitchen alternately sipping coffee and wine as she made a great Caesar salad and two fat roast chickens. She fed eight of us that day, and we crowded around a table pulled out into the middle of her living room floor. I remember being happy then, too, and also, feeling at home.

If I had more pals in this neighborhood I love so much, I'd like to think I'd be cooking up Sunday dinner with them to stave off the Sunday blues. Then again, maybe there's a bit of Field of Dreams at play here: if I cook, will they come? Because there is no better day than Sunday, especially when you do not have a couple hundred pages of Hawthorne to read, or are not walking around a foreign city, addicted to your own melancholy, or are not still heartbreakingly young, completely at the whims of the adults in your life, to sit down with some people you happen to like, even just a bit, and toast one last time to the weekend.



Chicken Provençal
Serves 4, adapted from Gourmet March 2008

1 1/2 pound tomatoes, cut into wedges
2 large onion, cut into wedges, leaving root ends intact
1/2 cup drained brine-cured black olives, pitted if desired
5 large garlic cloves, sliced
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons herbes de Provence, divided
1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds
1 whole chicken (about 3 1/2 pound), washed and patted dry

Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Toss the tomatoes, onion, olives, garlic, fennel, and 1 teaspoon herbes de Provence with the olive oil. Push to one side of roasting pan. Nestle the chicken in next to the vegetables and season with the remaining teaspoon herbes de Provence, as well as plenty of salt and pepper. Roast in oven until the juices from the chicken run clear with no traces of pink, about 1 1/2 hours. Let the chicken rest for 10-15 minutes. Serve chicken with vegetables, pan juices, and some crusty bread to soak up every bit of juice.

Posted by sarah at 8:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Ultimate creative happiness was waking up early yesterday to act out my writerly fantasies -- there was hot coffee in teacup at my side and the sun was shining through the windows on my geraniums -- type, type, typing away and feeling so virtuous and productive.

I trotted off to work feeling as if I were finally living my longed-for secret life of morning creative work, before heading out to my jobby mcjob. I was so excited, most of all because I had something new to share with all of you for the third time in a week. And for a girl who once went the entire month of August posting once, this is a major improvement.

But ultimate frustration was getting home that evening and realizing the dumb and sour truth: I had forgotten to hit save. It was the most profound dope moment I'd had in awhile, and I was in such a funk about it I had to walk away from the computer, sink on to the couch, and watch Rick Steves for the rest of the night. And now, this morning, I think I'm finally over it.

So let's begin again: The story I had written that morning was about my friend Alison. She has a way of putting a sunny spin on even the most treacherous of times with her unfailing humor and affection for the absurd. And so I knew she was the person to call one afternoon last summer when I was acting desperate and dramatic (not unlike how I was behaving last night when my computer woes struck, frankly) about something I now have no recollection of (funny how that works, isn't it?).

Right when I wanted to throw myself on my bed and wail wildly, Alison chirped in with her sweet voice: "If your life were a movie, what would the heroine do?" Like other romantic types, Alison and I wish our time here on earth more often came complete with a score and some choreographed dance numbers. Despite my desire to gulp some NyQuil and call it a night, that's not exactly heroine behavior. A heroine would put on a flippy little skirt, a red and white striped top, and go out into the world for a fresh perspective. And so I did.

I think my heroine would also eat these tartines for dinner. She would click into her little apartment at evening's end wearing shiny red flats, a little weary, and make these quick, toasted open-faced sandwiches in an ancient, creaky oven with the odd bits of this and that rolling around in her icebox. The results, of course, would be miraculously delicious.

And that is the beauty of the tartine. Some good bread and a few tasty nibbles toasted together are all you need to feel sustained again. And I should mention, of course, that I got the idea from all of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The Tartine Way

Toast a slice of country bread, and then spread with a moist ingredient like aioli, pesto, tapenade, or the cheese of your choice, such as goat, gruyère, or comté. If you're craving some real heft, add leftover roast chicken, prosciutto, smoked fish, or a poached egg. Be sure to also add delicious veggies like roasted red pepper, arugula, and tomatoes. If you want your tartine hot and melty, pop in a 425 degree F oven for 15 minutes. If you prefer a cold tartine, just pop into your mouth. The tartine pictured here is a union of goat cheese, tomatoes, and artichoke hearts. The next night we had pesto, roasted red pepper, and these Alfonso olives I'm having a love affair with. There are limitless combinations for your tartines, and that's really half the fun. The other half, of course, is eating.

Posted by sarah at 10:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

This sickness came on hard, fast, and out of nowhere. My sister says the dipping sauces we shared a week back might be the culprit. Damn that fresh spring roll, even if it did have lobster and strawberries, because since last Friday, I've been talking like Kathleen Turner and not wanting to eat a thing. Except maybe ice cream which, in addition to cinnamon rolls, is the only thing that sounds at all appealing.

Which brings me to this: when I am lucky enough to be healthy, I sometimes I get annoyed by my endless love of grocery lists, imaginary dinner party menus, and stash of online recipes. Why aren't I using that energy to write a book? Sew a dress? Cure something?! But when you are sick and food loses all its appeal so, to some extent, does life. Let's face it: living just isn't as much fun without meals you can get excited about punctuating your days. You start settling: oh sure, I'll eat that overripe banana. Whatever. Takeout again? That's fine. I don't care much about food. And that does not sound like me at all.

Soon, my taste buds will poke out from behind their sickly veil. Until then, the only way to get through to them is with fiery hot foods like chips and salsa, red curry, and this turkey soup.



Mexican Turkey Soup
Serves 6-8

This recipe marks my maiden voyage into dry-roasting, which imparts lots of deep, smoky flavor. It also leaves a pot with char marks to be reckoned with, so bring your elbow grease.

10 ounce package frozen corn, thawed
1 pint cherry tomatoes
2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1 pound lean ground turkey
1/2 cup sliced scallions
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 15 ounce can cannellini beans
2-3 finely minced canned chipotle pepper, depending on your fondness for heat
6 cups chicken stock (this stuff is changing my soup life)

In a large pot, dry-roast corn over high heat until lightly charred. Set aside in a small bowl, and then repeat process with tomatoes, removing to a separate bowl. If your pot is super charred and black as the sky on campout (mine was), give it a wash.

Heat 2 teaspoons of oil in the pot over medium-high heat. Cook turkey until white and opaque, breaking apart into small pieces. Add scallions, garlic, chipotle pepper and sauté until garlic is aromatic, a minute or so. Meanwhile, roughly chop tomatoes.

Add chicken stock, corn, tomatoes (along with the juices), and beans to pot and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until flavors have mingled and gotten to know each other, about 10-15 minutes.

Posted by sarah at 7:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

I think spring cocktails can be confusing. It's not yet time to bust out the basil and mint, but maybe you, like me, want something a little more fun and fizzy than a glass of wine. As the temperatures begin to rise ever so slightly, I suppose the most you can ask from your cocktail is that it suggest warmer days. This homemade limoncello is just the right sort of thing.

The first time I had limoncello was in a gilded, rococo-style restaurant in a villa outside Florence. And I know that sounds like the beginning of a story a baroness would tell, but it's the truth. I was on study abroad, and my dad and stepmother had come to visit me and spoil me rotten. I remember feeling quite proud at dinner; my Italian was finally getting passable, so I selected the wine, and posed as a language conduit between my parents and the deft, tucked-in servers. At dessert, our waiter -- a cute, young, sweet sort of Italian boy -- described limoncello to us. It sounded irresistible, and tasted even better: sweet, tart, puckery, fresh. And then, when this charming waiter smiled at the end of the meal and called my accent flawless, well, I was pretty much over the moon that night.

This homemade version is sweet and a perfect foil to spicy, salty snacks. Bottoms up!



Limoncello
makes about 4 cups (and a lot of drinks)

1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice, from about 10-12 lemons
1 1/2 cup vodka
club soda

In a small saucepan, bring water and sugar to a boil and stir until sugar dissolves to make a simple syrup. Let cool, then pour into a pitcher. Stir in lemon juice and vodka. Serve over and ice and top with club soda.

Note: Commenter Ben pointed out this isn't really limoncello, which is made from steeping vodka with the lemon rinds, rather than the juice. I probably should have called this Super Lazy Instant Gratification Limoncello. In any event, if you're interested in checking out the real deal, Ben's blog, LimoncelloQuest is a must-see.

Posted by sarah at 10:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

I can't tell you why exactly (not because I'm being coy, but just because I am clueless myself), but I have been craving peanut butter like crazy lately. Do I need more nuttiness in my life? Whatever the reason, it's a bit of a problem. Peanut butter is one of the things I don't usually keep in the house because when it's there I will find any opportunity to swing by fridge, pry off the lid, and drag a spoon through the creamy stuff to lick like a lollipop.

The funny thing is, peanut butter is not even something I'm wild about. My current state of uncontrollable love for it is just a freak occurrence that happens every once in a while where I inexplicably flip for the stuff. It's like the rare night when, a few times a year, I cannot sleep and instead pretend that I am a terribly deep poetess insomniac, pacing the wooden floors in a long nightgown and thinking grand thoughts.

In any event, you can only eat so many spoonfuls of peanut butter before you want to do something more substantive with the stuff. Enter these cookies. I'd been eyeing them for a while over at Deb's place, and when I found myself in happy possession of a quiet, lazy Sunday afternoon, I knew just what to do.



Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies
Makes about 3 dozen
adapted from Smitten Kitchen's adaptation of The Magnolia Bakery Cookbook (it's like the geneaology of a cookie!)

I learned a really important life lesson in the course of this recipe: brown sugar as hard as a murder weapon is not beyond repair. If you microwave about a cup at a time for 20-30 seconds, it becomes soft and you can break apart the granules with your fingers. Then store in a ziploc bag in the freezer, and you are officially a domestic goddess not to be messed with.

1 1/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup natural creamy peanut butter at room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 large egg, at room temperature
1 tablespoon milk
3/4 cup chocolate chips
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium-sized bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt, then set aside.

In a large bowl, beat the butter and the peanut butter together until fluffy. Next, plop in both sugars and beat until smooth. Crack in the egg and mix well. Stir in the milk. Now fetch the dry ingredients and mix in completely with the peanut butter mixture. Stir in the peanut butter chips.

Scoop up rounded teaspoons and roll between your palms into balls before placing on an ungreased cookie sheet. Gently press each cookie with the back of of a fork before popping in the oven to bake for 10 to 12 minutes. Let cool slightly, then eat.

Posted by sarah at 7:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (0)

I feel bad about the butternut squash, I really do. It doesn't exactly scream springtime. Trouble is, ever since I saw Elise's combination of lamb shanks and butternut squash, I haven't been able to stop thinking about this heavenly-sounding combination. But the moment of truth came when I actually read the recipe (rather than just drooling over the photos): this was purely a Sunday night affair with browning and braising and hours of simmering away. But I just couldn't wait.

Fall and deep winter might be butternut squash's high shine time, but would you know you can buy peeled chunks of fresh butternut squash at some grocery stores in March? And isn't March sort of a transition month, anyway, what with the way it blows in like a lion? So please, forgive me the butternut squash. No matter what the fantasy life looks like, we can't all be Alice Waters all the time. Sometimes, you just gotta reach for the frozen pureed squash, farmer's market be damned. And with this knowledge, the lazy girl in me could feel a triumph coming on.

I swapped out affordable lamb shoulder chops for the slow-cooking shanks. I used pre-prepped butternut squash so I didn't have to wrestle with a sharp peeler and bowling pin-size squash in the hours when my hand-eye coordination is waning. I sautéed some zucchini in a flash. But I wanted my supper to have the brightness of spring even if it wasn't dancing with asparagus, ramps, and peas. The lamb chops, at the very least, promised that. So I tried my hand at what I remembered my imaginary boyfriend, Jacques, had whipped up with my gal pal Julia and made look fantastically simple: persillade.

Jacques Pepin has been known to make a lot of things look utterly effortless that just, well, aren't. He can butcher a whole chicken or cut up a fish into neat little fillets in the time it takes me to refill my root beer. But this persillade was no slight of hand. It is just a matter of chopping, is made out of two staples you probably have rolling around in your vegetable drawer at this moment, adds fresh exuberance to your dish, and is perhaps my new favorite thing. Next to, you know, this.



Lamb Chops with Butternut Squash and Persillade
Serves 2

2 lamb shoulder chops, 6-8 ounces each
20 ounce package peeled butternut squash chunks or a 12 ounce package frozen pureed squash
2 zucchinis, sliced thinly into rounds
olive oil
1/4 cup finely minced parsley
1/4 cup finely minced garlic

Place squash chunks in a largish saucepan and cover with water. Bring water to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer for 10-15 minutes until fork tender. Drain, mash, and season with salt and pepper. (Unless you go totally bananas for the stuff, there will most likely be some squash leftover -- 20 ounces is a quite a bit for two people.) If using frozen squash, prepare according to package instructions.

Meanwhile, heat 1 teaspoon olive oil in a small pan over moderately high heat, and cook zucchini, stirring every few minutes, until soft and browned in spots, about 10 minutes total.

Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in another small pan (okay, one drawback to this recipe is that we've already got three dirty pots and pans...) and sear lamb chops, 2 minutes on each side for medium rare. Remove to plate and cover to keep warm. Combine the parsley and garlic and throw into the hot pan. Shake and stir for about 15-20 seconds or just until garlic is aromatic. Serve up butternut squash, zucchini, and lamb, with persillade on top.

Posted by sarah at 7:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

You know when someone embodies all the things you like best about yourself and hope to be, only blown up, and larger-than-life? This person serves as beacon and idol, illustrating just what your potential, if fully realized, could look like. It is, I understand, the way young starlets often feel about Marilyn Monroe, and the way I feel about Nigella Lawson (and Mary Cantwell and MFK Fisher and oh, how the list goes on...).

Nigella Lawson is a lot like driving the winding road that leads to my parents' farm in August when the foliage is dark green and lush, and the air is heavy with humidity. She is also like a winter pear so ripe the white flesh threatens to burst right through the skin. She is, I think, the word sumptuous embodied.

But her luscious earthiness doesn't tell the full story of her appeal. I am a sucker for her seductive elocution and her silver dollar vocab words. I haven't seen her show, but adore listening in when she's a guest on NPR (that way, her dangerous curves don't distract from me from her brainiac tendencies). Nigella is a blast of fresh air in part because she is sexy and clever, and our popular culture seems to have forgotten that this is not such a rare combination.



Nigella is also deeply refreshing because of her admitted laziness. I understand her love of pajamas, her fondness for eating ribs in bed and bowls of ground beef and cheese as comfort food. For all her accomplishments, Nigella still values leisure, and I'm not sure many people do any more.

I will freely admit to having little experience with Nigella's recipes, despite having read four of her cookbooks cover to cover. But you don't have to had made and loved her garlic and lemon chicken to treasure her ethos as much as her aesthetic. So many of the people whose lifestyles I admire -- those who have somehow managed to integrate their passions with their livelihood -- are long gone, but a few of them are around and kicking. And Nigella, of course, is right up there.



Mustard Pork Chops and Gnocchi
adapted from Nigella Express
Serves 2

2 pork chops, each about 6-8 ounces and 1/2 inch thick
2 teaspoons olive oil
1/2 cup pilsner-style beer
1 tablespoon dijon mustard
1 tablespoons butter
8 ounces frozen gnocchi

Season pork chops with salt and pepper. Heat olive oil over moderately-high heat. Cook pork chops, about 2 minutes per side, until they've taken on a golden-brown char and are cooked through. Remove to a plate and cover to keep warm.

Deglaze the pork chop pan with the beer, scraping up any browned bits. Let bubble for about a minute, before stirring in butter and mustard. Pour most of the sauce over the two pork chops, leaving a little in the pan.

Bring a large pot of water to a boil and cook gnocchi until it floats, about 2-3 minutes. Drain the gnocchi before scooting them through the remaining mustard sauce and serving with the pork chops, and an arugula salad, if you like green things as much as I do. A practically instant supper.

Posted by sarah at 6:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

What I'm about to say may shock you. At least, the words shocked me last night when I hardly realized the full impact of what I was saying until it was too late. "I don't want winter to end," I said, and Sebastian looked up at me as if I suggested puppies make excellent appetizers.

I have settled more snugly into this winter than those past, I think, because I've finally gotten down pat the winter arsenal: a good book that's more comforting than challenging, a dowdy, flannel nightgown for particularly bitter nights, regular evenings in a room heated to 105 degrees, and (this is my favorite) a bite of chocolate in bed.

Bed, of course, is always an island of quiet and relaxation. But its appeal in winter, when it beckons, piled-high and cloud-like, is unmatched. The way you hop barefoot across the cold wood flowers and then jump -- safe! -- into bed, kicking your legs around wildly to warm up the cold cotton sheets -- well, is there anything quite like it?

Imagine then, once you are tucked in and reaching for your novel, that on a plate next to your alarm clock, you had a bite -- just a wee little morsel -- of dark, luscious chocolate. Pop it into your mouth, and sink back into the pillow, ready for sweet dreams.



Chocolate Truffles
makes 3 dozen
Messy and hands-on, these would be so fun to make with kids. I have made these with both super high-quality chocolate and Bakers Treat, and both are fantastic. Buy the best you can find, or scrimp on the chocolate to put some pennies away for Paris. Either way you will have made delicious truffles. Oh, and if you can bare to share, I ought to mention these make great gifts.

1 pound bittersweet chocolate
1 cup heavy cream
cocoa powder, for dusting

Chop chocolate finely and place in a large bowl. In a small saucepan, bring the cream to a boil and then pour directly over chopped chocolate. Let stand for 10 minutes. Stir to combine chocolate and cream, and then leave alone for another 15 minutes to thicken.

Pour ganache mixture into a shallow dish or baking pan. Refrigerate ganache has set, and is very cold but still pliable, about 30 minutes.

Scoop out teaspoons and roll between your hands to form ball-shapes. The heat of your hands will warm up the chocolate and cause a big ole mess. You could wear rubber gloves, but what's the fun in that? If the truffles are quite melty at this point, you could pop them in the freezer for a few minutes to stiffen them up again.

Next, dash the chocolate balls through cocoa powder until covered. Crown a plate with one or two, and carry to bed.

Posted by sarah at 10:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (0)

Many people hear the word "entertaining" and seize up with panic. Monthly articles in high-maintenance food and shelter magazine articles have encouraged many of us to think that entertaining is an opportunity for a host to flex her culinary muscles and impress her guests. Throwing a party has become synonymous for many with fussing over canapés, making awkward introductions all night long, and being left with a kitchen overflowing with dishes.

A couple of months ago, geared up from the pre-holiday fervor of stress and perfection, I got the idea into my head to throw a properly French dinner party. This involved, unfortunately, spending too much money, and attempting too many recipes I had never tried before. The night before the party, I was up until 2 AM simmering boeuf bourguignon and wanting to call the whole thing off. When my guests (who at this point I seemed to have forgotten were my dear friends) arrived, I was trying desperately to whip up some gougères, sweating entirely too much for a December evening, and feeling downright resentful. I was a mess and the evening was, to put it mildly, not my finest hour.

I had unwittingly broken all my own rules for having company, which until that moment I didn't realize were my rules: Keep things simple, unpretentious, and comfortably within your budget. Throw the party you would want to go to. Remember that you've invited people you love -- treat your guests dearly. Relax, smile, and most importantly, have fun.

To me, being the hostess means you can surround yourself with the people of your own choosing (no dreading if so-and-so will be there), you eat and drink what you like, and you can wear terribly impractical shoes. Entertaining should be fun, after all, since what's motivated the endeavor is wanting to be with people we love. And without getting totally high-minded about it, entertaining can be a great act of generosity: you create for those nearest and dearest to you an evening of community and pleasure.

I made amends with my friends (and myself) by throwing a cocktail party. There were no cheese puffs. There were however, cookies, brownies, lots of chips and salsa, and a spinach artichoke dip that feels fantastically low-brow to make and vanishes faster than Houdini. I had not stayed up late the previous evening putting together party favors, but I had mixed up plenty of strong, fruity sangria. And I had finished what minor preparations there were a few minutes before people arrived. Which meant I had ten minutes to myself to relax, shake my hips to some bossa nova, and have a drink. Which is, come to think of it, my last and most important rule.



Sangria for a Party
makes 10 cups

1 bottle acceptable red wine
2 1/4 cup orange juice
1 cup triple sec
1 cup apricot brandy
1 cup sprite

Pour ingredients into a big pitcher. Drop in some seasonal fruit (I floated a few thin slices of orange on top). Serve over ice.

Spinach Artichoke Dip
Makes about 4 cups

1 14 ounce can quartered artichoke hearts, chopped
1 10 ounce box frozen spinach, defrosted
3/4 cup sour cream
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese
1 garlic clove, minced
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Squeeze the excess water out of the spinach by placing on a few layers of paper towels (or a dish towel) and wringing. Stir together artichoke hearts, spinach, mayonnaise, garlic, lemon juice and most of the cheese in a ceramic baking dish. Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top. Bake in a 350 degree F oven for 30-40 minutes, until bubblingly hot and cheese on top is melted. Serve with crackers, celery sticks, or tortilla chips.

Posted by sarah at 9:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to treehouses, deeply-cushioned reading chairs, down comforters--hell, let's call a spade a spade--bed, sunny nooks on cold afternoons, and stews. What do all these things have in common? They are cozy, and I, my friends, am an unabashed fan of cozy.

Sure, I love sexy, and also adventurous, and certainly a taste of glamour from time to time. But give me a wisp of a nightgown, a blue and white teacup filled with hot chocolate, and a battered paperback and I will know just what to do.

Which is why last Sunday night I got into my head that I wanted to make a garlicky beef daube and have it simmering on the stove for an hour while I puttered around the newly-clean apartment, flipping through a magazine and tucking-in hospital corners. That is Sunday Night Cozy, a quiet and delicate mix of hands-off cooking and gentle productivity about the house.



But then I realized I am a complete dope: Sebastian would be drinking Mexican beer and cheering on the Giants in a bar on a divey drag of 4th Avenue, and my Sunday night would not see us lingering over glasses of cabernet and pretending we were in an old French farmhouse. Ah, reality. Instead, I decided to let the daube bubble away while I chomped loudly on another favorite meal (chips and salsa) while watching the Law & Order SVU marathon, blissfully alone. I'm telling you, sometimes life turns out even better than you expect.

But back to the daube. As I reluctantly pulled myself away from the television Sunday night, the daube was ready, wonderfully aromatic with thyme, garlic, red wine, and vegetables, and the meat was tender. I let it cool, then stowed it in the fridge before it would reappear on Monday night as a quick supper. And here we have yet another lesson learned in the book of "How to Eat a Decent Supper Most Nights": let something cook slowly on the stovetop or in the oven while you have time to amble languorously about your home and admire the late afternoon light. And then stow it away for later in the week when you will have burst through the door, harried and hungry, looking for something wholesome to eat. Something that will restore your humanity when the world has taken it out of you. Something cozy. This is it.

Why does it take so long to learn the simplest lessons?



Garlicky Beef Daube
Serves 4-6, adapted from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything

Here's what I love about this recipe: you don't have to brown the meat. You get to skip that whole troublesome, splattery step. And while I find beef bourguignon to be quite a pain in the rear and perhaps not worth the time and effort (though I'm glad I tried), this is marvelously simple. Just chop everything up, let it marinate for a good long while, and then let it simmer a good long while more.

8 garlic cloves
2-3 pounds beef chuck or round, cut into 1-1 1/2 inch cubes
1 large onion, chopped
2 carrots, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch thick rounds
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 1/2 cup dry red wine
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1 bay leaf
1/4 cup minced fresh parsley

In a large dutch oven, combine six peeled and minced garlic cloves, beef, onion, carrots, vinegar, wine, thyme, and bay leaf. Stir, cover, and refrigerate for 1-24 hours.

After the desired period of marination, place dutch oven over moderate heat and bring to to a boil. Then lower the heat, cover, and let simmer for 1-1 1/2 hours, until the meat is tender. Remove cover and reduce liquid slightly, if necessary.

Peel and mince the two remaining garlic cloves, and add to the daube. Simmer for another five minutes and scatter parley over top. Serve with buttered egg noodles and something green, like green beans with caramelized shallots.

Posted by sarah at 8:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

I think we all have a certain type of recipe we clip again and again or ingredients that sing out to us, convincing us of yet another way to approach brussels sprouts or chicken sausage we must try. My mom, for instance, rips out one recipe after another for black bean salads flecked with grape tomatoes and cilantro and big, triple-tiered snowy white coconut cakes. I, on the other hand, am seduced time and again in my search for the perfect potato gratin and cannot pass up anything that includes white beans or kale, preferably together.

And so I stumbled across this recipe one weeknight. Though it can't be made ahead of time, I think this would make a good fancy dinner party main course for the thrifty host; you can really stretch one tuna steak between two people. And though the ingredients and preparation are simple, the flavors are quite complex.

I learned my tuna lesson the hard way when I cooked Sebastian a tuna steak in the provencal style and watched it turn from bright red to gray-white on the stovetop. He prefers his tuna, he gently told me, utterly pink inside. And though the chef who taught me a thing or two would be loathe to know I served it forth at this state ("all fish should be medium!"), I might be on Sebastian's side on this one.

And you? Do you notice your recipe file has one page after another of croque monsieur or German chocolate cake or just about anything with fennel?

Rosemary Tuna with White Beans and Kale
Serves 2 with lots of beans and kale or 4 if you split the tuna steaks
adapted from Martha Stewart.com

2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
2 garlic cloves, 1 thinly sliced and 1 minced
1 teaspoon dried rosemary
2 6-8 ounce tuna steaks
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper
1 cup thinly sliced kale
3/4 cup water
1 15.5 ounce can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1 1/2 teaspoons red wine vinegar
salt and pepper

In a skillet over moderate heat, add 1 tablespoon olive oil and the sliced clove of garlic. When the garlic begins to sizzle, turn off the heat, pluck it out of the oil and discard, and stir in the rosemary. Then pour rosemary oil into a bowl to cool.

Season tuna steaks generously with salt and pepper, rub with half the rosemary oil and let sit for at least fifteen minutes. Pour a glass of wine and check your horoscope.

Heat remaining tablespoon oil in skillet over moderately-high heat and add tuna steaks. Cook until taking on a beautiful golden color, about 1 minute per side. Remove to a plate.

Turn the heat down to medium, and add crushed red pepper, thyme, and the minced garlic clove and cook just until the garlic becomes aromatic, about 1 minute. Add kale and cook until wilted, about 2 minutes. Add water, raise heat, and simmer for 5 minutes. Stir in beans and simmer for two additional minutes (and yes, I set timers), before turning off the heat, and stirring in the red wine vinegar and more salt and pepper, if you think the dish needs it.

Slice the tuna and serve atop the beans and kale mixture, drizzled with the remaining rosemary oil.

Posted by sarah at 8:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Perhaps there was a part of me that thought washed and chopped bags of lettuce were a cop-out, something Julia would never do. So I belabored my authenticity, really driving the point home that I am oh-so-old-fashioned, buying heads of lettuce, washing them, spinning them dry, and wrapping them in embroidered tea towels before stowing them away in the crisper.

Well, no more, my friends. Now I'm all about the short-cuts: peeled and steamed baby beets, smoked meats, frozen gnocchi, sacks of washed arugula, and trimmed hearts of romaine. These, I think, may just be the key I've been looking for in the preparation of the weeknight meal. Sure, in an ideal world, I'd head out to a garden where I'd pull carrots out of the ground by their fronds. But things aren't always exactly as we want them to be; and that, at least, gives us something to dream about. For the day to day reality of living, all that matters is that when I sit down, I don't want the meal to feel as if it has sprung from the freezer or a tin can. For supper to feel truly restorative, the food must be vibrant. It must feel voluptuous, simple, and relaxed, the way the best meals are.

And look at this. Does this seem in any way like a meal of cut corners? I promise, it doesn't taste like it either. So when my sister was coming over on a Wednesday and I stepped through the door only a few moments before her, this was the perfect thing to piece together in 20 minutes. Forgive me if I sound a little too pleased with myself, but I believe I may have just made a major breakthrough. But chances are you were steps ahead of me, so do tell: what are your go-to quickie but vaguely, you now, fancy meals? I'm dying to know.



Red Lentils and Beets with Smoked Duck
Serves 4

1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cups red lentils
1/2 an onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
1 teaspoon thyme
1 cup thinly sliced kale
1 8-ounce package peeled, steamed beets, or 8 baby beets, peeled and steamed
1 smoked duck breast about 3/4 of a pound, trimmed of fat

Heat the olive oil in a sauce pan over moderate heat. Saute onion, garlic, and carrots for about 5 minutes. Stir in lentils and cover with five cups cold water. Add thyme and season with salt and pepper. Raise heat and bring to a boil, then lower heat to simmer. Cook until lentils are tender and water is absorbed, about 15-20 minutes (you may need to add more water). Just before the lentils are done, stir in the kale to wilt. Serve lentils with thinly sliced duck breast and steamed baby beets.

Posted by sarah at 4:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

My friend Amanda is one of those people who is totally together. She works out every morning and makes dinner every night, her shoes are never scuffed and her curls are always shiny. I suppose this could be annoying on someone who wasn't the funniest person ever, but Amanda is, so it's not. And hello, she's one of my favorite people on this green earth, so she could pretty much start eating small children, tell a rationalizing, funny joke about it, and I'd be on board.

But she doesn't eat babies, of course, she eats rice and beans. Not just any rice and beans, but rice and beans with the right accoutrement to really make them sing as a meal. Amanda uses short grain brown rice and tops the whole affair with homemade guacamole (mash up cilantro and a bit of garlic in the mortar and pestle and then mix with an avocado) and pico de gallo. And, scene. Learning that this easy-breezy bowl of peasanty deliciousness is a go-to meal for my personal model of togetherness helped a lot of things fall into place for me.

Namely that, on a weeknight, after you've come home from your kickboxing class, and the clock is fast-approaching a number dangerously close to your bedtime, you can hardly expect yourself to pour over a new recipe and measure homemade chicken stock. Rather, I should say, I cannot expect myself to do this. Deb, another personal model of togetherness, definitely can.

But after 12 hours out in the world and six hours since my last meal, I confess my mental functioning starts to break down a bit. I like to pour a glass of wine (another trick learned from Amanda), chop a couple things, stir something, and be done with it. The whole process should take no more than 40 minutes and hopefully a lot less (and that time allotment includes digging around in the cupboard for the salad spinner and washing out the saucepan I left in the sink the night before).

I like brown rice in my rice and beans, but I also confess to really loving the Goya yellow rice. I sauté one small chopped onion and two fat cloves of chopped garlic in a touch of olive oil until they are soft and translucent. Then I add two cans of black beans. I fill up an empty can about 3/4 full with water and add that to the beans along with a heaping teaspoon each of cumin and chili powder and let them simmer while the rice cooks. Sometimes I'll mash them up a bit. I stir in salsa, or whip up my own pico: juice of a lime, 1/2 purple onion diced, 2 cups grape tomatoes, quartered, a jalapeño, and a whole lot of cilantro. If I'm feeling really decadent, I'll top with some chipotle sour cream, and then I'm mmm-ing all the way to the bottom of my bowl, sanity saved and weeknight time constraints be damned.

Posted by sarah at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

To go go through a New Year's Day in the South without eating black-eyed peas or Hoppin' John (with rice) would just be asking for trouble. The traditional dish is thought to bring luck and prosperity in the new year, and you're not going to pass up an easy chance for added wealth and good times just by eating something delicious, are you? I am drawn to rituals and find this one, entering on the first day of the new year, a fine way to usher in good things to come. But why play hard and fast about the New Year's Day rule? As much as I am a lover of tradition, I'm not much of rule-follower. Cook these up within the first week of year, and I bet you'll be just fine.

This is the kind of "recipe" that is utterly unintimidating, since this is a dish cooked in a thousand homes in as many different ways. In other words, you can't go wrong. Add collard greens for extra wealth, use a jar of your favorite salsa to spice things up more, use a ham bone, salt pork, or bacon for a rich saltiness, or make yours vegetarian-friendly. I rocked mine out with a Southwestern flair, topping them with sour cream and lime juice. Even with just a sautéed onion, this earthy dish ushers in a sense of cozy well-being so welcome on this first cold day of the year, whether or not it will actually usher in bags of cash in the coming months.

New Year's Day Black-Eyed Peas
Serves 6

1 lb dried black-eyed peas
6 slices of bacon, chopped
3 fat cloves garlic
2 stalks celery with leaves, chopped
1 jalapeño, minced
sour cream and lime wedges

In a large pot, cover the beans with about 8 cups of water, turn the heat to high, bring to a boil, and let bubble furiously for two minutes. Then turn off the heat and let the beans sit for an hour. Take an alpine hike.

Next, drain the beans and set them aside, and use the same pot over medium heat to cook the bacon until it gives up its fat and is beginning to turn brown. Add the garlic and celery leaves and sauté until soft and translucent. Return the beans to the pot and add enough water until just covered. Raise the heat and bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer. Add jalapeño or other desired flavorings. Cook until the black-eyed peas are tender, about 15-25 minutes. One wise man I know says you can blow on a bean and if it's ready it will crack open; see for yourself. Serve with sour cream and wedges of limes and get ready for a super awesome year.

Posted by sarah at 10:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

One Christmas, too many years ago to count, something (I can only guess that it was an appeal to her imagination) possessed my mother to buy a buche de Noel from our local French bakery. Is there anything more delightful to a seven year old girl than the gleaming pastry case in a bakery? Perhaps the only thing better is when the glass case opens and a fanciful Christmas cake come home in a white box tied with twine. As a girl with a particular fascination with gnomes and cozy forest creatures, this yule log captured every ounce of my imagination. Covered with lichen and mushrooms fashioned out of meringue and carved with bark and rings revealing its age, it was like a toy you could eat, and it was pretty much the coolest thing I had ever seen. But for some reason, probably expense, there was only one year of buche de Noel at the McColl house until we fell back on the tradition of cranberry crunch.

The yule log had to come back this year, I felt. Roughly twenty years is long enough to keep a cake in hibernation that embodies such childlike fun and whimsy. Or maybe I was just hoping to bring some of the wonder back to Christmas. The kids in our family are too old to lay awake in the dark of morning debating whether or not it is yet an acceptable hour to pad downstairs in their pj's to empty out the stockings and see what Santa has brought. And Christmas, I now think, is a holiday truly for children. The people I know have everything they need and treat themselves to the things they want. There's not much I can imagine wrapping up and placing under the tree that would excite them the way our Hot Wheels, Casio keyboards, and Care Bears once did. Children bring a bright-eyed wonder and rosy cheeked brilliance to Christmas morning that we just don't have in us anymore.

But if my eyes danced with bright-eyed wonder this year, it was from the deep thrill baking this cake gave me. I don't have the patience for baked goods made to resemble people or things -- but holy baby Jesus! This buche de Noel looked just like a log and really wasn't fussy at all. A quick, deft rolling of the slim, flat cake with only one brief moment of panic. From there it was all light and dreamy, covered with a deep dark frosting, and I was hopping around the kitchen proud as a new mother.

The origin of this traditional French and Quebecois cake is debated, but some say that Napolean once ordered Parisian households to shut up their chimneys one winter due to a popular conception that cold air would cause medical problems. Unable to gather around a fire for traditional Christmas merrymaking, clever French bakers fashioned a mock log to serve as a hearth centerpiece. To this day, the fires may well be roaring in your living room, but I promise, if you make this cake, people will delightedly gather 'round it.



Buche de Noel
adapted from Feast by Nigella Lawson
Serves 8

for the cake
6 eggs, separated
3/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

for the icing*
6 ounces semisweet or bittersweet chocolate
2 cups confectioners sugar
2 sticks butter
1 tablespoons vanilla extract
additional confectioner's sugar for "snow"

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line a jelly roll with parchment paper leaving a generous overhang at the ends.

In a large bowl, whisk the egg whites until foamy and thick. Then add 1/2 cup of the sugar and continue whisking until the whites hold peaks.

In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks and remaining sugar until pale yellow and thick. Add the vanilla and sift in cocoa powder before gently folding to incorporate. Next, fold a few tablespoons of the egg whites into the yolks, before gently folding in the remaining whites in thirds.

Pour the cake mixture into the lined cake pan and bake for twenty minutes.

While the cake is in the oven you can make the icing. In a double boiler (or a bowl placed over a pan of boiling water), melt the chocolate and butter. Stir in the vanilla and confectioner's sugar.

When the cake comes out of the oven, let it cool for a few minutes before trimming both long and short ends (this will make it easier to roll and give a neater look). Spread on a thin coat of icing. Then, starting at the short end, tightly roll the cake into a cylinder. Slice one or both ends at a gentle diagonal -- you can use these pieces to make a craggy log. Cover the log in frosting and then drag a toothpick or fork through the icing to make bark and age rings. Sift on confectioner's sugar for snow. Gather 'round, and after appropriate oohing and ahhing, eat!



*I found that I had a lot of icing leftover over -- about twice as much as I needed. Next time I would probably halve the icing measurements for less waste.

Posted by sarah at 4:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

"Can I make guacamole any more fattening?" said Nigella Lawson, "Why yes I can!" I was asking her about her recipe for Roquamole--an avocado dip with blue cheese. And her answer was so animated that when she leaned over, the coral-colored lace of her bra edged up into view. My, she's marvelous.

Roquamole
adapted from Nigella Express

1/4 cup blue cheese
3 tablespoon sour cream
1 jalepeno, minced (she uses canned; I prefer fresh)
2 avocados (slice into halves; then make cross-hatching marks with a knife--to dice before scooping out of its skin)

Blend the first 3 ingredients together in a bowl, mashing the blue cheese with the back of a spoon. Then fold in the avocado. Blend well.

My love of simple, sincere guacamole is well-established. But since Nigella has such brilliant ideas about how to spend a Saturday--she visits galleries with her husband, goes out for lunch and then comes home in the early afternoon to take a bath and change into her pajamas--I approached her variation with curiousity and an open mind. It's delicious.

My all time favorite guacamole recipe, however, is the one I've been eating lately. It's inspired by the sexy Condesa hotel in Mexico City--they use pomegranate seeds in theirs--only I've added tomatillos, which cut through the richness of the avocado and make the whole thing taste super-fresh. Paired with soup or canned black beans and toasted tortillas, it makes for a lovely weeknight supper. Enough with the commentary.



Guacamole, evolved

2 avocados, diced
3/4 jalepeno, minced
2 large tomatillos, diced
1/4 cup pomegranate seeds (plus more for garnish)
juice of 1/2 lemon
fresh cilantro

Stir all ingredients together in a bowl and sprinkle with additional pomegranate seeds. Oh, and waffle makers excell at toasting tortillas (to make tortilla chips).

Posted by sarah at 11:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Mondays have a tendency to chew me up and spit me out, so that when I arrive home, tired and worse for wear, I want life to feel easy. Soup, with its bare requirement of casual stirring, and its gentle steam bringing the flush back to your cheeks when you finally lean over a bowl, spoon poised, fits the bill quite nicely.

This is not only my favorite soup but my favorite kind of recipe. I call it Alchemy Cooking. The list of ingredients is so humble that I am always somewhat astonished at the flavors that burst forth in the end. Better still, the satisfaction of making something is only magnified when its beginnings are so unassuming and its final form so great.

A couple Mondays back I decided to take the the subway to the far reaches of my neighborhood. I thought some French-style exercise would do me good, and few things put me more at peace than a chance to enjoy the charms of Brooklyn. It was the perfect