Pink of Perfection

On a warm spring day recently, my husband and I decided to meet at the long wooden bar of a neighborhood cocktail joint to celebrate the cherry blossoms. I ordered an Old Cuban, thinking its combination of rum and mint sounded decidely springy. I wasn’t expecting it to arrive on a small square napkin in a tall, elegant champagne flute. Well, swoon…and that was even before I took a sip.

On Sunday night, as I told my beloved book club about my new favorite cocktail, one friend pointed out my pattern of late for liking a drink: “Add this and that and champagne.” You have to admit, though, that bubbly is a far more wonderful mixer than, say, seltzer.

Add so my new favorite spring drink is the Old Cuban. And my favorite spring snack is the same as it ever was: cold, ruby red radishes with a seasoned butter. This year’s upgrade to this snack comes courtesy of Heidi Swanson’s new cookbook (which I know I’ve been blathering on about, but, really, it’s that good): mixing the butter with goat cheese. The creamy, light cheese cuts the “I’m dipping a vegetable in pure butter” richness, making this snack both more virtuous and more delicious. Which is usually hard to do.

And so my best friend in the world came over and one Old Cuban was enough to make us giggle a little harder and get into a very serious discussion of the royal wedding. I only wish we’d had a brass band in the background.

Happy weekend, lovelies! And happy Mother’s Day to the mamas out there! Your kids are so lucky.

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Old Cuban Cocktails and Radishes with Dill Butter” »

When an acquaintance from college moved to New York two summers ago, Sebastian and I offered to put them up for a night as they began their hop from couch to couch. She was more of a friend-of-a-friend than a true blue bosom pal, but I was more than happy to host them. We had shared bowls of cereal together when the dining hall options were subpar, and I have an irrepressible sweetness towards anyone who went to my alma mater.  But more importantly, this woman’s mother had taken me out for lunch years ago when she was passing through an Italian city where I was stationed for a semester, homesick and melancholy. She fed me and gave me some wine, and sent me back onto the cobblestones feeling set right again. So we blew up the air mattress and turned the air-conditioner on high.

The poor things. They arrived carrying heavy bags strapped to every part of their bodies. They’d been searching for our apartment number for a good fifteen blocks, having accidentally gotten off the subway one stop too early. It was June, and very humid, and my heart went out to them. Carrying heavy things in humidity is one of my visions of hell.

We ate sharp cheddar cheese and triscuits and drank a very cold rosé, and when Sebastian asked how well we really knew each other, our guest’s response was a little embarrassing for me. “I know Sarah really likes cocktails.”

Guilty as charged. At the time of their stay, though, I was feeling much too poor to spring for giant bottles of booze. Instead,I would lay out crumbled singles and slide quarters across the wine shop counter to pay for a bottle of wine. Who am I kidding: if need be, I charged it.

Cocktails in summer are dangerous business. I get so wiltingly hot that I can suck something potent down in just a few sips. But cocktails in winter are practically required: a quick warmer, a medicinal antiseptic, a honeyed drop on the throat with a fun extra kick.

My friend Laureen served these at our most recent book club. I wasn’t feeling well that night and I only decided to have one for the––you guessed it––medicinal quality of bourbon and honey on my sore throat. Also, what goes with the steamy heat between Rochester and Jane better than a stiff drink? A gypsy costume! Kidding. Anyway, I am exceedingly glad I drank one (er, two) of these. It gave me the dramatic daring to conduct a stirring reading, complete with voices, of a passionate yet understated encounter between Jane her “her master.” And then, in two weeks time, I rushed out to buy the ingredients myself.

First, you’ll need a bottle of amaro, a kind of Italian liqueur from herbs. It’s commonly consummed as a digestif and is a bit bitter, a bit sweet, and a little syrupy (fernet, also a kind of amaro, is the bitterest). There are many different brands of amari out there, which is always a surprise when you’re introduced to an entirely new-to-you category of spirits. I scanned the shelf and bought the cheapest one, cause that’s how I roll after I’ve purchased a $25 bottle of bourbon.

Make two drinks for you and a friend (or “the master” in your life), nibble a couple crostini––one with blue cheese and fig jam, one with ricotta and pesto––and welcome the weekend. Cheers!

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Italian Manhattan & Blue Cheese Fig Nibbles” »

To say that the little mound of green you see here on top of a toasted slice of bread is a firecracker explosion of flavor in your mouth would not be overstating it. This is a fresh and zingy bite that would the perfect accompaniment to happy hour at home of Lillet cocktails or a glass or rosé; with a hard-boiled egg or a fresh cup of gazpacho, it just might be the perfect summer dinner.

A few words: whatever you do, don’t skip the mint! I nearly did, but having some leftover from my Thai-ish salad the other night, I can tell you that the mint is the stealth winner of this entire affair. In fact, wait until your own summer mint is thick and thigh-high, if you must. The mint is what makes this just dance on your tongue as lightly as a woman on the prairie in long cotton dress, swirling across a raised wooden platform to the summer evening sounds of a banjo, her hand held tight by a man who will try to kiss her later, and for the first time, on the walk home. You know what I mean.

Also: fava beans are, in my book, second only to artichokes as the most high-maintenance vegetable on earth. And between you and me, I’m not sure the pay-off is as great. The reason why they’re so much dang trouble is that you have to peel them twice. First, you slice open the pod. Then, each bean needs to be individually peeled from its thick, waxy skin. A trick to this: put the unpeeled beans into the microwave for a few hot moments and they will essentially steam off their jackets. Despite all this trouble, they are, nevertheless, delicious; but sub them for something else if you’re feeling lazy. Dare I even suggest thawed frozen peas? But I’ll say it again: just don’t skip the mint!

Continue reading “Mint, Fava Bean, and Parmesan Bruschetta” »

Draw closer, dear readers. I’m about to share with you a gem from the recipe treasure trove.

There are some foods I make and write about on this blog that are weeknight-worthy. Simple cooking is very often the most delicious, and putting dinner on the table each night with care and consideration is, in my opinion, one of the most artful acts on earth. But every once in a while, I raise my sight line from ground level to the stars. Perhaps, let’s say, when a friend is coming over for a drink and a nibble. Then I remember something so show-stoppingly delicious, I wonder how it could have even fallen out of my repertoire for as long as it has and moreover, why I have kept it from you for all these years. Forgive me. I’m about to pay it forward, win you admirers, lovers, and friends for life, all with the following recipe.

This chicken liver paté is the reason I wanted a food processor of my own. It has accompanied me to holiday parties and book club (hi ladies!), and it is always met with delight. Perhaps those who don’t like organ meats stay quiet, as they should, frankly. People who like paté will love this. And as you know, I don’t make a lot of high-minded, definitive proclamations, but if I’m sure of anything in this world, it is how truly fabulous this paté recipe is.

As for the kir, need I mention anything more than it is a favorite of Poirot? Together, these two make for a posh happy hour, the ever-so-slightly syrupy kir a perfect match for the rounded, rich saltiness of the paté. I like to imagine MFK Fisher in the Dijon years wearing a pencil skirt and dreaming up ideas while eating sipping and eating in the company of a very good, very wise female friend.

Come to think of it, perhaps this is just what we need to get in the holiday spirit. I don’t think it could hurt.

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Kirs, Chicken Liver Paté and Maple Apples” »

When for awhile you exist in the land of bounteous buffets that offer your heart’s desire — say, on vacation at a resort or on a cruise or at a Sunday brunch smorgasbord — you learn quickly what you would eat when handed the world on a plate. My husband gravitates towards steak at every meal: steak and eggs to start the day, steak and french fries at noon, and ribeye for dinner, juicy and rare. I, apparently, just want to eat homemade tortilla chips and fresh, spicy, pico de gallo. Plate after plate, at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it is one of my most favorite meals. Add a paloma and I’m in heaven.

But the thing about Brooklyn tomatoes in December? Not looking so hot. In fact, it would be an exercise in disappointment to try to recreate the luscious flavors of a ripe tomato-filled pico de gallo. But a girl who needs her fix and is willing to make compromises will perhaps look around to see what’s in season and will find apples — tart, sweet, and crisp. I served this apple pico de gallo alongside sliced rare steak, black beans and rice for a meal that satisfied needs of both husband and wife.

When meal time comes, what do you crave again and again? Cheese and crackers? Peanut butter and saltines? Big salads? Soup and bread?

Continue reading “Non-Equatorial Pico de Gallo” »

There comes a time in every woman’s life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne. –Bette Davis

If I were a magician, I would like to bring back into my fold all the friends and fellows who were in my company this past weekend. I would gather up people from all corners of the globe and country and plop them into my living room where I would play Whitney Houston, ply them with herbed goat cheese and French 75s, and encourage dancing and the telling of embarrassing stories.

There is nothing like old friends. And I can’t really think of anything to follow that sentence that doesn’t sound hopelessly trite. But here goes: The best ones can understand what’s going on with you in a near telepathic way that requires no explanation on your part. Picking up with them is to pick up right where you left off, but still somehow managing to include all the realities of now. Whatever makes you laugh in the moment contains the hysterics of something five years prior, and they have the secret, privileged knowledge of knowing you used to wear clothes from Contempo Casuals when you were “dressing up.”

None of this is meant to diminish the the wonder of new friends, which are more remarkable, in a way, for you’re having been able to find them in the real world next to the office xerox machine or at the local coffee shop. But like the Brownie song goes (and sometimes you have to resort to the Brownies to really express yourself adequately), “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.”

I’m wishing for a few more days with the golds.

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: French 75s and Herbed Goat Cheese” »

I thought it best to make my mom’s favorite foods for Mother’s Day dinner, and because she likes aioli, salmon, and coconut, my cooking on Sunday wasn’t so much a labor of love as it was a labor of likemindedness.

We drove together to a farm stand on a hilly stretch of road between our house and another town on a warm and sunny day. The flowering trees and forsythia had their moment the previous weekend, and now potted flowers were laid out for sale on splintery tables outside — gerber daisies and lots of blooms I didn’t know the names of. We grabbed two beautiful bunches of asparagus. The wind was whipping around so wildly, the roadside grasses were bowing deeply at the waist like gentlemen.

Back at home, my mom planted Early Girls in the garden and I stood at the counter in her kitchen, snapping off the asparagus ends, and looking out at her leaning into the dirt. The sun was catching in her short hair, and I thought, with such deep surprise and so much gratitude it nearly took my breath away, the spring always comes. After a winter of doctors and tests, prodding and hospital rooms, it is Mother’s Day and it is spring and it almost seems like a miracle. But it’s my mom.

Spouses and significant others stayed at home, and my older brother and sister and I sat in the kitchen with my mom, the wooden table spread with blanched asparagus and aioli, cheese and crackers, and chips and salsa — all mom’s favorites. Oh, and three of four kids — her other favorites. Salmon was to come, followed by coconut macaroons and a cup of tea. I don’t even remember what we talked about, I just know it was perfect.

Continue reading “Spring Menu for a Mom” »

One of my favorite outcomes of the tightening of our economic belts has been an enforced return to scaled-back fun. Not scaled-back as in “less of,” but instead, a retreat from restaurants and bars and a move onto living room couches, homemade cocktails in hand. Rather than go out for a French lunch recently, for instance, my friend Kim invited me over for wine and cheese, and I have since decided that happy hours at home (as well as Saturday date nights at home, which I’ll write about soon), are my new favorites.

With happy hour at home, you can control the quality of what you’ll be munching on when the inevitable tipsy hunger strikes, you can get up and dance when your favorite song comes on the ’80s playlist, and you can lay down when you’ve had too much. I invited my dear, delightful friend Nazy to come over and celebrate the beginning of spring with gin and tonics and edamame hummus. She brought over her first experiment with no-knead bread (which was great) and some boursin. She also kindly accepted when I asked if she would play her accordion as I walked along a path or grass to get married. All in all, much better than a night on a bar stool, forking over Andrew Jacksons.

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Edamame Hummus and Gin & Tonics” »