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 »
The East Coaster in me hates the crunchy granola hippie part of me. It’s true. She thinks that the combination of rolled oats, dried fruit and nuts kissed with honey is silly. And weak. The East Coaster in me thinks I should eat egg on a roll. With Bacon. Every day. And I don’t blame her. By most accounts, a fresh Kaiser roll with fried egg, butter and bacon, dusted with salt and pepper, is a very satisfying way to start the day. It can be easily eaten on-the-go, out of a brown paper bag, and goes great with a light and sweet cup of coffee. But I’ve lived in California too long. I enjoy my leisure too much. In the warm California sun I’ve learned to sit quietly and listen as my teeth grind each cluster, sounding like rocks rolling in a polisher. I like granola out of hand on a hike in the winter green mountains of Los Angeles and served with tangy Greek yogurt and a drizzle of local honey at the breakfast table.But it hasn’t always been that simple. Food has always defined me–the urban intellectual battling the laid-back, outdoorsy mountain girl competing for dominance over my brain and stomach. Continue reading »
When I was in college my roommate Jamie and I loved to watch movies. We often bribed each other to stop procrastinating with films: if you write the first three pages of your 10-page paper, you get to watch a half hour of a movie and one cocktail, when you finish the next three pages you get another half hour and another drink. Eventually, we’d sit and watch the end of the movie, tipsy, relaxed and overjoyed that our work was done. The movie selections varied, though kitschy romantic comedies were a perennial fave. Some choices were outright ridiculous and eventually led to additional procrastination, like Pauly Shore’s “Son-in-Law.” There’s a scene in the movie where Pauly Shore enjoys a farm-fresh country meal highlighted by crispy fried chicken. The chicken always looked so moist and delicious, punctuated by the cacophonous crunch of perfectly battered, golden skin that you could practically feel the grease dripping down your hands. The power of suggestion was overwhelming; inevitably, we’d pause the movie and head out of the house for fast-food fried chicken.
While I’ve sworn off fast food these days I still have moments when I can’t shake the craving for fried chicken. 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 »
