Pink of Perfection

Lately, most people I know have been hunkering down with a big bowl of noodles at least once a week. And rightfully so: the indignities of making our way through the cold and muscling into boots calls for dinner in a bowl, and preferably one that will leave you in a blissed-out carbohydrate haze. Sometimes, though, those of us who do not excel in the ways of moderation end up regretting it afterward. I like to think that if a healthy dose of cruciferous vegetable gets folded in with a wheaty tangle, the same comfort level can still be achieved and the bloated guilt diminished. At least, that’s the idea.

It wasn’t until recently that I began to explore cauliflower’s charms. I’ve always loved it as a crudité, but when it came into my life as a gratin, a soup, and most recently in Sebastian’s off-the-cuff red vegetable curry, I could feel myself falling in love. I doubt that cauliflower will stir the passion nor the vitriol sardines recently did, but that’s okay. Cauliflower is cool — a laid-back, mellow, vegetable that hangs around in the background until you need it to take center stage. It doesn’t need to live in the spotlight, but when it does, it really steals the show. And in a quietly confident way I sort of love.

Continue reading “$5 Dinner: Sweet and Spicy Cauliflower and Penne” »

At first, I held Thanksgiving responsible. Who would make a grocery store run for perishables that will sit in an apartment crisper when they know four days in the country are ahead of them? Perhaps I bragged too much about my ability to s-t-r-e-t-ch a food dollar over the weekend. As we walked out the door, my mom thrust a brown grocery bag into my hands filled with cheese, crackers, wine (”that’ll take care of tonight”), four cans of tuna, a box of whole wheat penne, 5 clementines and a bag of chocolate chips.

Then, upon returning from the long holiday weekend, I was taken hostage by a cold. My days filled with sleeping and The Up Series, there was hardly time or energy to make it to the grocery store. I did find some mangy looking celery — my first site of greenery in days! — which was thrown into a garlicky chicken soup for the patient. But my desire to make use of what’s at hand has gotten, well, a little out of hand. Adults do not eat repeated dinners of elbow macaroni and butter unless they are nursing a broken heart or feeding the blues.

My devotion to pantry suppers started quite valiantly, I must clarify, with this lovely brown rice risotto. I snagged a 1-ounce bag of dried mixed mushrooms when I saw them at Trader Joe’s for cheap. When you’re watching your pennies, dried wild mushrooms aren’t usually a good bet (they can be priced sometimes between $4-7!), but if you do see them on sale or at a discount store, they’re worth having on hand for nights when you don’t want to brave the grocery store but are feeling too together for a bowl of elbows and butter…again.

Continue reading “Pantry Supper: Wild Mushroom Brown Rice Risotto” »

There is something bittersweet about today. In my part of the world, the morning is overcast and the construction that has been droning away all summer long across the street has taken on a melancholic buzz. As we get the first bracings of fall on the breeze and start to think about coming inside and putting on shoes, this time of year can feel a little nostalgic . But it’s also a cozy time. The idea of turning on the oven starts to sound very appealing.

So too does the idea of hovering over the stove stirring something like this. Granted, it’s not full-blown fall and I’m getting a little ahead of myself and the natural rhythm of things. I just like to be prepared for what’s coming next. It’s the scout in me.

And one thing that makes being prepared a cinch is templates. Don’t you love at the end of recipes where they list a bunch of variations? It makes me feel as if I have a toolbox of recipes, that dinner is only a matter of swapping in and swapping out. This is, in part, why I loved this risotto recipe. Now, while we are smack in the middle of tomatoes and zucchini, this dish is the essence of summer: top with a spoonful of homemade pesto and you’ll be in heaven. But the list of variations means it won’t outlive its usefulness. There’s a season of butternut squash and shiitake mushrooms right around the corner.

Continue reading “Mixed Grain Summer Risotto” »

Yesterday I got caught in a torrential downpour. In what felt like a quintessential New York moment, I hustled into a cafe and spent twenty minutes in their bathroom, the hand dryer turned upside down, airing myself out to acceptability. The good news is that the rain cut the humidity and cooled the streets for 40 seconds and the city let out a collective sigh. Then we were back to New York in July with its hot, stinking subway mouths, steaming garbage, and the thick, thick air.

But, as a sunny girl I know says, “I can’t complain.” Isn’t that a sweet turn of phrase? We could complain, certainly, because we can’t stop sweating and the air conditioner crapped out, but really, why bother? With this heat comes those tomatoes we’ve been waiting for, trips to the beach, and the strings of halter tops dangling down our bare backs. Oh, and lazy dinners for two of cold rosé, a cool green soup sipped out of teacups, and a bowl of pasta with lots of bright summer vegetables. At least the fan still works.

Continue reading “Summer Night Supper for Two” »

As soon as the mercury hits 80°, I want tomatoes. At the farmer’s market, I search for them hopefully, like a girl at the mall in 1992, standing on her tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of Luke Perry’s sideburns.

But alas, it’s not the time yet. We’re still in the thick of peas and strawberries. Still, when a girl can’t get a succulent August tomato — the kind that is heaven simply sliced and served with feta — perhaps she settles for the hothouse variety. Chances are it’s not yet strong enough to headline, but it’s a tomato more than ready to steal scenes as a strong supporting act. Like Emily Valentine. Or Jordan Bonner.

What’s ripe where you are? And what are you making with it? And do you ever wish it were the early ’90s again, when life seemed so simple and every Wednesday, if nothing else, you could at least count on this?

Continue reading “$5 Dinner: Tomato Leek Quinoa” »

It almost makes this Tuesday after a long Memorial Day weekend more bearable that here in my neighborhood, a gray screen has been pulled over the sky and little brown leaves are scurrying around in tornado fashion when the wind blows. This couldn’t be more unlike the three previous days, days that I can only hope are a harbinger of what’s to come this summer.

Doesn’t it sometimes seem like no expectations are the secret to a really good time? I’m not the biggest fan of hot summer holiday weekends. I never seem to have plans and always end up sitting in a park wondering why I’m not barbecuing for a crowd. But this weekend I had a wee little plan that involved running from the city to a suburban town where the streets are wide and lined with old trees and the yards are lush with azaleas, rhododendrons, and climbing roses. We had a picnic on a wide, sloping green lawn — complete with ants — and watched the clouds move slowly across the sky. We took naps in the afternoon with a breeze coming through the window into the hot upstairs bedroom. We took walks with frequent stops on shady benches and ate drippy ice cream cones. And I sat on the porch in the early evening, reading The Wapshot Chronicle, and drinking a dirty martini.

The essence of summer, though, was a trip to the municipal pool one afternoon. On my short list of favorite activities in the world, swimming is right up there. I can’t quite explain what happens to me in the water — I’m not doing flip turns and cutting through the chlorine like a shark, I just kind of paddle around, smile a lot and get my hair wet. But I feel totally overwhelmed by the purest, most basic form of joy. And then, once I’m tired, I climb out of the water and rest prone with my head on my folded hands, the sun drying my swimsuit, and listen to the sounds of Marco Polo and scolding lifeguards.

This is all to say that it’s a good thing today is a bit dreary or I would be very sad my perfect, picnicy weekend is not continuing with me poolside, reading, drinking a fountain soda from the pool’s snack shack, and eating these cold noodles.

Continue reading “Cool Ginger Sesame Soba” »

My mom has always copped to having a very active imagination. As a girl growing up in the center of a bowl (that’s what the night sky looked like in South Williamstown, MA), she had to have imagination to deal with the isolation of growing up on a farm, the oldest girl, and too smart for her own good. Not unlike one of Pink of Perfection’s patron saint heroines, Anne Shirley, I might add. Perhaps it is not so surprising then that her daughter should have an overactive imagination, too. In fact, it was probably encouraged.

One of my favorite ways of indulging this day-dreamy nature is drawing up blueprints for different ways of living: what a day could look like (a spring day, a week day, a day in Paris), what a house could look like (if I lived in Denmark, if I lived in the woods, if I somehow snatched up a brownstone with crown molding), what my ideal life might be. And again and again, in all of these imaginings, there are familiar tropes: pops of color, cheery fabrics, vintage bicycles, strong coffee, and meals eaten with friends.

But people don’t really pop over for dinner much round these parts. There are dinner parties, which are lovely in their own ways, but then there is just the humble supper: a bowl of soup, a knot of bread, and a friend or two. Those meals make me happiest if only for their sheer simplicity, for the total lack of expectations on the part of either cook or guest. And lack of expectations, in my experience, often leads to something very, very good.

That is why whenever my sister calls to say she will be getting her haircut in my neighborhood and can she come up for dinner, I am overjoyed. It’s not because she never fails to bring Lillet and paté, though those are nice perks — I just wish she ate dinner at my table more often. Katy, consider this, if you didn’t already know you had one, a standing invitation.

And while we are on the subject of my big sister, she said I absolutely had to tell you about the article I co-wrote and researched for the May issue Bon Appétit. I’m loathe to sound braggy, but, well, there it is. My first magazine feature.

Continue reading “Quick, Elegant Spring Dinner” »

My favorite job of all time was at a Mediterranean restaurant in St. Paul, Minnesota. A newspaper review aptly called it a “sunny North African outpost” and that’s exactly what it was. A bright place — both in color and energy — rising up from the Midwestern winter in a cloud of saffron, apricots, lavender, and cilantro. The devilishly charming chef-owner made work an absolute delight for me. We talked about food, wine, and France, he gave me dating advice, and at the end of the night on a weekend, if we weren’t dragging ourselves around grumpy and tired, we danced. His food opened up a world of unfamiliar flavors to me — tagines, brik, merguez — and hammered home to my budding tastebuds the art of agrodolce, that delicate marriage of sweet and savory on one plate. Even before I knew the words to say so myself, he taught me that food was about life, and that the act of eating and drinking with your friends is the most bold, celebratory expression there is of being alive.

But he was also a practical man. At the end of the night, he turned to each dishwasher, cook, and server and asked, spoon in hand, “you want shit?” “Shit” was the staff meal, and its preparation was somewhat of a mystery to me (though the result was always delicious), but was basically a mix of leftover vegetables from the night cooked together in a chicken stock and served over saffron-spiked rice or couscous. I usually tried to sneak a spoonful of a sweet-spicy tomato jam or fiery harissa on the sly. For a college girl far from home, it was the closest I came to a home-cooked meal, and it was divine. And then I would climb on top of a counter, count my tips, and eat shit.

This recipe spoke to me not only for nostalgic reasons but for practical ones: With spring not yet totally sprung and winter still threatening behind every blast of air, this is a tenuous time of year. Long thought of as a wardrobe challenge — too damp for wool, too cold light cotton — this pre-spring windup is also a beast to cook for. You want to taste the lightness of fresh spring vegetables to come, but you also want the warmth and comfort of a bowl of something hearty to take the chill of your bones. For this time of year — and truly, for a pantry meal that is bursting with flavors — this is perfect.

Continue reading “Seven Vegetable Couscous with Chunky Onion Harissa” »