I’ve often joked that the only differences between Jews and Italians are red sauce and Jesus. The cultural similarities are countless, right down to the cookies. Jewish Mandel Brot (not to be confused with the trippy, mathematical fractal images called Mandelbrot) are a twice-baked, cinnamon and sugar dusted, nutty cookie perfect for dunking in a piping hot cup of coffee. It is almost identical to Italian biscotti, which literally means “twice-baked.” Biscotti are nutty and occasionally chocolate-dipped cookies perfect for dunking in a frothy cappuccino. Continue reading »
If you’ve ever listened Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” then you probably have the jingle for Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie running through your head right now, poking sharply at the corners of your brain as you sing. I first heard of rhubarb about ten years ago, listening to the old-fashioned radio variety show on NPR. The jingle was annoyingly addictive, particularly since I’d never had rhubarb before. When I found some of the slender, celery-like ruby stalks at the Tahoe City farmers’ market I had to try it, if only to get the song out of my head. I loved the way its tartness, when raw, twisted my face like a mop. And I loved how just a touch of sugar tamed its tangy nature, harnessing a quality that was indescribably rhubarb-like. After that first rhubarb experience (I made a pie, of course) I’ve sought out this odd-duck treat season after season to celebrate spring.
My grandpa loved Chinese food. And strawberry shortcake. And hamburgers cooked on the grill, the life squeezed out of them with the back of a spatula. He loved scraping the dough out of the inside of a bagel or bialy and filling it with cream cheese, and he loved bacon and eggs when he went out to breakfast, since my grandma would never cook bacon at home. And he loved his family, so, of course, he loved sharing all of these delights with them.
I have long counted myself among the Valentine’s Day-haters, a scowling anti-cupid. And my hate was the self-righteous kind, the disdain of the enlightened, of someone who didn’t buy into a holiday concocted to sell more greeting cards and chocolate—something like a Valentine’s vegan. But then I fell deeply in love. And suddenly, like someone who had deprived themselves of bacon and butter too long, I fell off the deep end.
Cooking, for me, is generally a solitary task, a moment to meditate. Alone, peeling carrots or chopping fennel isn’t a mundane task, but standing Zazen meditation. It allows me a moment with my senses, captivated by the way an onion’s odor transforms in the pan with a little bit of olive oil, how it loosens its astringent veil to reveal a sweet, earthen core. Cooking alone is like solving a Sunday New York Times crossword or other puzzle—carefully strategizing when to start each component of a dish or meal so that everything finishes hot and perfectly cooked at the same time.
Cooking with friends and family is an entirely different animal. Full of laughter, bumping into one another, tasting and, occasionally, smoke alarms. It’s sharing a delightful secret with the people you’re cooking with. Continue reading »
Delicate and sweet, with a hint of natural spice, the pear is an unbelievably versatile fruit. Its crisp flavor serves as the perfect foil for pungent Gorgonzola or Stilton, while its almost creamy flesh can act as a textural counterpoint to the crunch of candied nuts on a fall salad. Poach or roast them whole and enjoy their structural grace on the plate or eat them right out of the fruit bowl.
I’ve moved a lot over the past dozen years—California, Nevada, Colorado, Oregon, New York and back to California—so I’ve spent a lot of time longing for things comforting and familiar. When I’m stressed out I crave Khi Mao, a spicy Thai noodle dish spiked with chilies and basil, from the Lucky Noodle in Eugene, Oregon. When I’m tipsy and tired after a fun night out, raiding the fridge is rarely as satisfying as the salty sweetness of a culatello panino with mozzarella and noci from ‘inoteca in New York.
Sometimes I forget I’m not a chef. When friends come over for dinner I spend hours planning the menu, littering the floor with so many back issues of Bon Appétit, Gourmet and cookbooks while trying to find the “core” recipe to build my meal around, that getting off my couch is like stepping into a mine field. Shopping becomes an hours-long ordeal—sometimes with the occasional realization that my budget doesn’t always match my palate (three pounds of organic beef tenderloin for $80?). Then there’s the prep, the slicing and chopping and tasting and measuring into ramekins for later. By the time I actually start cooking the meal, I’m imagining myself in a professional kitchen on a busy night of service.
But I’m not in a professional kitchen. I make mistakes. Some dishes are unsuccessful. And unlike a chef, I don’t generally take the time to work the kinks out of a dish before I serve it to people. And that pretty much explains Thursday night’s Sweet Potato Flan from the October 2007 issue of Bon Appétit. Continue reading »
No, I’m not talking about a cartoon rats in toques, scurrying around Paris and chasing truffles and I’m not referring to knife-juggling midgets. I’m thinking of tykes. Kids. Those moldable balls of dough whose eating habits are still pliable—who eat olives and slices of lemon and sushi when given the chance.On a recent trip to Las Vegas to visit my brother, sister-in-law and nephew, we made a rare trip to the Strip for dinner. At Enoteca San Marco in the Venetian, one of Mario’s new Vegas Ventures, my nephew nibbled on prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella, then blew me away when he started telling me about pizza dough— how it’s thin and crisp toward the middle and how the edges bubble up with air and crunch. I thought about how lucky we were when one of the manager’s took us back into the kitchen for housemade gelato, straight from the case. And then my nephew joyfully finished two bowls full of bright ruby raspberries, smiling like you’d just given him a new toy. Did I mention he’s four? Continue reading »
