Turkey season is upon us, and for me, that means sweet potato season! I love sweet potato in pretty much any form -- baked, fried, pie'd -- but in this gratin form, it is savory-sweet bliss at its finest.

I first discovered this recipe years ago at a potluck in Brooklyn (thanks, Heidi, for sharing). I've since made it every Thanksgiving. It is the perfect sweet potato side dish for your table. Yes, this means your aunt can stop bringing those awful candied yams with marshmallows on top. Ickk.

The prep is the most tedious part of this dish, but it can be made a breeze if you have a good mandolin or food processor with a slicing attachment. If you are going the old fashioned knife route, I find it easier to nuke the potato just a minute or so to soften it before attempting to cut into thin slices. Don't worry if your slices are not perfect, they will be covered with delicious crunchy topping anyway.

Sweet potato prep

Back to the savory-sweet bliss part. If you're always walking the line between salty and sweet, meet in the middle au gratin, and come with a big serving spoon. The earthy sweetness of the potato anchors this dish, while savory sweet onions add an aromatic dimension. The thyme complements the sweet potato well without overpowering it with herby-ness. Heavy cream and butter make this a holiday dish (don't skimp, it's worth it). And, the topping, mmm…extra crunchiness from the panko offsets the soft texture of the gratin, Parmigiano brings even more buttery, savory, goodness into the picture, and pecans top it all off with toasted nuttiness, tinged with a sweet maple flavor.

Make this dish ahead of time to save on holiday stress. Simply prepare it up to the topping part. That way, come meal time, all you have to do is sprinkle the topping, drizzle with olive oil, and pop it in the oven until heated through and golden on top.

Leaves you more time to figure out what to do with Aunt Ro's marshmallows.

Sweet Potato Gratin

Serves: 8 to 12

Ingredients:

For the topping:
1 cup panko bread crumbs
1 cup pecans, chopped
¼ cup Parmigiano
Olive oil for drizzling

For the gratin:
4 lbs. sweet potato
2 lbs. onions, thinly sliced
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cups heavy cream
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper
½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 ½ teaspoons fresh thyme

Preparation:
1. Heat the oven to 350°F and arrange a rack in the middle. Butter a 13-by-9-inch baking dish and set aside.
2. Melt butter in a medium frying pan over medium-low heat. When it foams, add onion and season well with salt and pepper. Slowly cook until soft and translucent (about 30 minutes); set aside.
3. Peel sweet potatoes and cut into 1/8" slices with a mandolin, sharp knife, or food processor with slicer attachment.
4. Mix the cream, cayenne and thyme leaves in a large bowl and set aside.
5. In the baking dish, layer 1/3 potato slices on the bottom, 1/3 cream mixture, add salt and pepper, and ½ of the onions. Repeat, layering another 1/3 of potato slices, 1/3 cream mixture, salt and pepper, and the rest of the onions. Finish off with the last of the sweet potato and cream mixture, and a sprinkle of salt and pepper.
6. Cover with foil and bake 40-50 minutes (it should be soft and cooked through).
7. Combine topping ingredients and sprinkle mixture evenly over gratin. Drizzle with a little olive oil to help with the browning. Bake uncovered, about 10 minutes, until golden. Keep an eye out to make sure the pecans don't burn.

Shortly after this photo was taken, they were mercilessly vivisected and consumed by me, the author of this post.

I shall be doing the same to their brethren soon on that greatest of all American days of sharing and feasting-- Thanksgiving. I like to think of this as a small step in personal growth. For me, not for the persimmons.

I have historically shied away from persimmons, since my first experience with one wasn't the least bit pleasant on several accounts.

Fresh from college graduation in Southern California, I realized I still had what I referred to as unresolved "living-in-Berkeley issues." So I packed up my Volvo and headed north to live in a large Victorian house with one of my best friends from school, his sister, and four Berkeley graduate students.

It was pretty much a total disaster. None of my roommates were especially welcoming, which may or may not have been due to the fact that my friend's girlfriend, who was not particularly attractive to begin with, was extremely insecure about her hold on him. This may or may not have been due to the fact that he was a former theater major whom she asked out as he was on his way to the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco.

And when I say "not particularly welcoming," I mean cold, passive-aggressive, and downright rude.

One of the small consolations of living with next-to-no-money in a household filled with people who did not like me was the fact that this house was situated two blocks from the old Berkeley Bowl-- a place where one could choose from a mind-boggling selection of produce and come home with a bag full of beautiful fruits and vegetables for, well, next-to-no-money. As a result, there was always a big bowl full of fruit residing on the kitchen table in our happy little home.

One morning, as I was sitting at that table, nursing my coffee and poring over the newspaper, two of my housemates wandered into the kitchen, poured their own coffee, and sat down with me. They gave me a perfunctory "Good morning," and continued the string of conversation that they had been carrying on for days.

"What colour was yours this morning?" asked Helen, the nearsighted English girl.

"Black. Really, really black," replied Marci, who always had a bit of a pinched look on her face and was from nowhere especially interesting.

"You're lucky. I haven't even gotten to black yet," said Helen, who sounded more than a little envious of Marci's fecal matter.

The two girls were on a cleansing diet. All they seemed able to talk about was their bowel movements. I asked if they wouldn't mind changing the topic, since I was just about to make breakfast. Marci shot me a look.

"Those persimmons look beautiful," she said looking at the fruit bowl. "Are they from The Bowl or from the neighbor's tree? Have you tried one yet?"

I told her I wasn't sure where they were from. Surprised and encouraged by the fact that she was even talking to me, I went as far as telling her that I had never, in fact, seen a persimmon before moving to Berkeley, let alone tried one.

"Oh, you have got to try one. Here, take this one. They're amazing. You can eat it just like an apple."

So I took an enormous bite. Having no prior persimmon knowledge, I did not understand the difference between the fuyu persimmon, which may be eaten "just like an apple" and the hachiya, which must first be ripened to near mush before being consumed otherwise, their extremely high tannin levels will suck all the moisture from one's mouth, making for great discomfort and/or great pleasure from those looking on. Three guesses as to which kind were in that bowl.

As I ran to the kitchen sink to spit out the persimmon and found that no amount of water seemed to replace the lost moisture in my mouth, Marci and Helen howled.

"Oh my god, he fell for it. I can't believe he's that stupid!" is what came out of Marci's still moistened, but thin lips.

Had I known anything about persimmons, this scene could have been easily avoided, of course. Had I understood their medicinal properties, I could have actually participated in their cleansing conversations, sharing with them the knowledge that, in traditional Chinese medicine, for example, raw persimmons are used to treat constipation and hemorrhoids and that, however contradictory it may sound, the cooked fruit is helpful in the treatment of diarrhea. Perhaps, if I had known and shared this informations with them, we might have been great friends and they would have felt comfortable enough to invite me to cleanse with them.

Of course, that did not happen. After a rather dramatic episode in which the girls suddenly became mortally offended by the Mammy-motif heirloom cookie jar I kept on the kitchen counter, I was asked to leave the house. And leave I did. Gladly. My "living-in-Berkeley issues" had finally been resolved.

For years, I had always associated persimmons with the unpleasant chill of my Berkeley housemates. I have since gotten over that. More or less. Today, I prefer to associate them with the much more pleasant chill of Autumn. I still don't have a lot of experience with fully ripened Hachiya persimmons, but I really love the other kind, the ones you really can eat like an apple.

And with that, I would like to end with a little, thankful message to Marci, wherever she is:

Fu yu.

Persimmon Salad with Honey-Orange Vinaigrette

Serves 4

Where I work, we do a fresh fuyu persimmon salad and give it the Greek name Lotosalata, which is unsurprising, since we tend to give everything a Greek name with the possible exception of the Ladies' room. The term lotos is a possible reference to the Lotophagi, or Lotus Eaters, found in Book Nine of the Odyssey, who tempted members of Odysseus' crew with food that causes those to eat it to forget where they have been and where they are going.

I cannot promise that my version of lotosalata will make anyone forget anything. But it's damned good. I can, however, promise you it will be the least fattening thing on your Thanksgiving table, with the possible exception of the napkins and flatware.

Do give it a go.

Ingredients:

2 fuyu persimmons, sliced about 1/8" think lengthwise. Don't bother to peel.

1 medium-sized fennel bulb, well-cleaned and thinly sliced (or shaved) lengthwise

1/2 half shallot, treated exactly like the fennel (minus washing)

The juice of one orange

1 teaspoon of zest from that same orange (Please zest prior to juicing, thank you).

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (This is not a classic oil-to-acid ratio of a vinaigrette. Less oil works better for this particular salad.)

3 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons champagne vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

Pomegranate seeds for garnish

Preparation:

1. Whisk together orange juice, 2 tablespoons of the honey, and a pinch of salt. Place persimmon slices in a wide, shallow dish and toss with orange-honey mixture. Let persimmons marinate for at least 15 minutes. Toss them occasionally.

2. To make the vinaigrette, I typically use a small mason jar, since the days of my brother showing me how the souls of the dead are sorted out in the afterlife with the aid of a free-with-purchase Good Seasons cruet are long behind me. Place zest, olive oil, vinegar, and salt (add black pepper, if you wish) into jar, close lid tightly, and shake vigorously, which is always somehow extremely satisfying. Shake again as needed, whether it is for your benefit or that of the vinaigrette.

3. In a mixing bowl, place fennel and shallot. Pour over vinaigrette, toss, and let sit for at least 15 minutes. Think "slaw" and you might get a clearer picture of where I am going with this salad.

4. When you are ready to serve the salad, pour off and reserve the excess vinaigrette from the fennel and shallots. Place them on the serving dish of your choice as a sort of bed for the awaiting persimmons. Remove persimmons from the orange juice and honey, shaking off any excess moisture as you go, and arrange them atop the fennel/shallots. Drizzle persimmons with some of the reserved vinaigrette and sprinkle with pomegranate seeds.

5. Serve.

6. Refrain from talking about anything fecal while at the dinner table.

7. Enjoy.

Lots of things can go wrong in the kitchen. Anyone who has spent any time cooking has burnt a finger, added too much salt to the sauce, or maybe even dropped an entire pan of food on the floor. Accidents are common and unavoidable and even those competitive souls on Top Chef can completely blow it every once in a while (which really helps ratings). Yet errors can also be illuminating. A few years ago when I added too much salt to a tomato pasta sauce I threw in some leftover mashed potatoes to help soak up the salt. Normally I would never (ever) add mashed potatoes to a pasta sauce, but was desperate. So I was surprised to find that those potatoes gave the dish a uniquely creamy and lustrous texture. It was an enlightening moment.

I was confronted with a similar situation last Saturday. My friend Christina decided it would be fun to have a ravioli-making party with the Italian ladies in her life. What a great idea. So on Saturday morning at 10:00 a.m., Christina, her friend Laura and I congregated in Christina's kitchen to make homemade pasta dough. After comparing methods, we set to work using Laura's grandmother's tried and true pasta recipe (use one egg per person plus a half egg shell of water for each two people and then add semolina and flour "l'occhio" (by eye) -- brilliant!). Laura had also brought over her Kitchen Aid pasta-making attachment, which had Christina and me oohing and aahing as those strips of pasta beautifully rolled through the press, perfect every time.

Once all the dough was made and laid out on the counter, one of us looked at the clock to discover it was noon. Laura had to take her two-year old home for a nap, Christina had to take her son to a friend's house, and I had to dash off to my daughters' soccer game nearby. After a few kisses on the cheeks and promises to be back by four, we all rushed out the door -- our morning's labor deserted.

Dried pasta

After a few hours, we met up again to fill those raviolis, but were horrified to find none of us had actually covered the pasta -- which was still sitting on the counter, most of it dry as crackers and not fit to shape around a filling to make raviolis. After staring in horror at the pasta, we laughed at our mistake. I mean, honestly, what else could we do? Thankfully Christina's husband Marhsall is handy with a shaker and he made us some Manhattans to ease the pain while we put our heads together to find a solution.

Although some of the dough was still pliable enough to make raviolis, most wouldn't make the cut. We quickly used the most supple pasta pieces to make a butternut squash ravioli, but it seemed obvious we would need to abandon our meat ravioli plans as we quickly ran out of dough that could be shaped. The most logical and natural answer was to just make lasagna out of the dry pieces.

Now the three of us are all from Neapolitan or Sicilian families, so are used to preparing lasagna with fresh ricotta cheese and mozzarella (two ingredients we did not have on hand). The situation, however, demanded that we abandon those traditions. So instead of creating the usual cheesy lasagna, we decided to make the most of the perfectly seasoned and slow-roasted short rib ragù Christina had cooked and then pureed the night before as a ravioli filling, along with the light marinara sauce Laura had made earlier that day. We also chose to make a béchamel sauce to round out the flavors and finally added some aged Parmesan cheese. That’s it.

Layering the lasagna

So there we were, making béchamel, lining the dish with sauce and dried pasta, grating cheese, and drinking Manhattans. The lasagna went into the oven and we all sighed, wishing those ingredients had become raviolis instead. When the lasagna came out of the oven a while later, we set the table for the feast and then sat down with the other diners, laughing again about our pasta dough disaster.

But once we started cutting into the lasagna we knew something wonderful had happened in the kitchen that day. We had thought the butternut squash raviolis in a brown butter sauce with fresh sage would be the highlight of the meal, and although they were lovely, they were no match for the cobbled together and impromptu lasagna. Those once-dried noodles, ragù, marinara sauce and béchamel had melded themselves perfectly together. The raviolis were ignored as each person first smelled and then tasted the lasagna. Very few words were spoken -- mostly "Wow!" and "Oh!" interspersed with the noise of forks touching plates. Finally one of the husbands said "Boy I'm glad you guys messed up the ravioli dough." And so was I.

Never in my life had I experienced such perfect lasagna. The once-forgotten dough that had languished on the counter all day was transformed into a thing of beauty when combined with the meat filling and sauces. And that ragù! If we had used ricotta and mozzarella with it, the cheeses would have blanketed our taste buds with their creamy flavors and textures. Without them, the ragù was the diva of the dish -- capturing our attention and mesmerizing us.

So remember that although some kitchen disasters lead to burned fingers, others lead to superlative lasagna.

Lasagna

Superlative Lasagna

Makes: One 9x13 pan

Ingredients:
Homemade pasta dough rolled out into sheets
Beef short rib ragù (only purchase the first 8 ingredients and perform steps 1 and 2 as the remainder of the recipe is for Mario Batali's ravioli recipe)
Béchamel sauce (recipe below)
Marinara sauce (here is Mario Batali's Marinara recipe if you don't have a favorite of your own)
Parmesan cheese (enough to thinly coat each layer of the lasagna, about 1 cup)

Preparation:
1. Make and short ribs and marinara sauce ahead of time and then refrigerate. You can do this the morning you'll make the lasagna or the day before.

2. Make the pasta dough. You can make it a couple of hours ahead of time, but should cover it with waxed paper or dish towels to avoid curling.

3. When ready to assemble the lasagna, make the béchamel sauce.

4. In a large 9 x 13 pan, assemble your lasagna by lightly layering the bottom of the pan with marinara sauce, followed by a layer each of pasta, ragù, béchamel sauce and grated Parmesan cheese.

5. Continue layering until you are out of ingredients, being sure to leave enough marinara sauce to coat the top of the lasagna. Sprinkle on a final coating of Parmesan cheese.

6. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 30-40 minutes or until cooked through.

7. Serve.

Béchamel Sauce

Makes: 1 1/2 cups

Ingredients:
1 stick unsalted butter
3/4 cup all purpose flour (or enough to create a thick roux with the flour)
3 cups whole milk
Salt, pepper and nutmeg to taste

Preparation:
1. In a medium sauce pan, melt the butter on medium low heat.

2. Once the butter is melted, slowly whisk in the flour until the sauce has a smooth consistency.

3. Slowly add in the milk, whisking to avoid lumps.

4. Simmer sauce for a few minutes and season with salt, pepper and nutmeg to taste (I only use a sprinkling of nutmeg, but you can add more of you like a heartier nutmeg flavor).

So long as the chile-garlic sauce stays in the fridge and no pretentious foams materialize, side dishes may be mussed in a respectful fashion. Turkey, whole, however, is a most traditional yet often maligned centerpiece -- flightless, frequently bone-dry, and hard to budge. Every year, food writers fall over themselves trying to convince desperate cooks they've found an antidote -- brining, larding, frantic temperature adjustments -- when they'd better serve suppers by pushing far superior animal proteins -- say, glorious hams, sides of wild salmon, or haunches of venison.

Enter the turducken. Despite its cultish presence in the cozy Thanksgiving lexicon, the turducken is aggressively weird, an unnatural, misshapen, stitched-up Frankenstein-like thing -- something that perhaps resembled a "sneetch" in life -- prior to being butchered and baked. Still, as the steaming mass -- chicken, within duck, within turkey -- all boned and stuffed -- descends on an overloaded banquet table, accompanied by grand quasi-medieval pomp, hearty eaters think nothing of its artificial genus, gathering around to slice through and spill forth the intertwined meaty chunks in varied hues -- reveling in the surreal delicious guts of a very strange beast indeed.

For three years, I lived with a few turducken aficionados in a big house at the edge of the Mission District, close to Potrero Hill. They would stay up the entire night before Thanksgiving, boning and trussing. There were no good chef's knives in that house then, so strings of meat bounced dangerously around the room with every nip and tuck, and the kitchen floor eventually took on a fatty sheen from all the spills. We'd host big Thanksgivings too, with a long table to accommodate a mob of friends. There was always a lot to drink; the living room was always too dark; you usually couldn't even make out the color of what sat quivering on your fork -- that is, if you were sober enough to care by the time all the food was ready. I recall, on one boozy occasion, trying to separate out the excavated components of my turducken slice -- to appraise them each, and assess how their individual qualities affected the flavor of the opulent whole. At this, I failed.

Like most people who have studied up on the subject, I hold corpulent football personality John Madden responsible for the turducken's first wave of popularity. Until he had a change of heart in 2008, he used to gleefully dole out massive specimens to Thanksgiving Bowl victors. Bestowing credit for the preparation's actual invention, however, is a tougher proposition. Paul Prudhomme got a nod for a while, but his role -- attributed loosely to a 1983 appearance at a festival in Duvall, Washington -- has not been verified. In a November 2005 article in National Geographic, Calvin Trillin presented Herbert's Specialty Meats in Maurice, Louisiana as a long-running, immensely popular purveyor of pre-assembled 'duckens, but avoided making any claims about its involvement in the dish's origins.

The concept of matryoshka-style holiday roasts can stretch further out of the mainstream into relative gastronomic wilds, where history and legend hold a few smoldering lessons. The key to the success of a turducken is the duck. Its essence diffuses through the surrounding layers of stuffing to saturate its inherently less delicious comrades -- the chicken within, the turkey without -- with spurts of fat and heady flavor. Replacing the turkey with its opposite -- a silken, grease-spitting goose -- yields a gooducken, a much richer endeavor naturally quite beloved in England. I like the idea of losing the unctuous goose, retaining the turkey, and adding a fourth bird, perhaps even a fifth -- maybe a wee quail, petite and boneless, buried down in the depths, folded up around a hard-boiled egg, a single chestnut, or a minature wad of stuffing, and then, for the outermost layer, the fifth, an entire emu. Imagine that, an emurckenail. I'm not sure how emu -- fine-grained and somewhat beefy -- would jive with all that paler stuff but someone -- probably not me -- should find out.

After a brief bit of research, my fantasy was steam-rolled by a rough and very real bird-iathon slouching out of the past. The largest recorded "nested" bird roast, or Rôti Sans Pareil took place at a royal feast in France in the early 19th century, and involved a breath-taking 17 feathery creatures, all boned and stuffed into one another, in order, from smallest -- a six-inch-long Garden Warbler with a solitary olive squeezed into its tiny empty cavity -- to largest, a huge, currently semi-endangered terrestial bird with a wingspan of seven feet called a bustard. Fifteen other birds -- a turkey, a goose, a pheasant, a chicken, a duck, a guinea fowl, a teal, a woodcock, a partridge, a plover, a lapwing, a quail, a thrush, a lark, and an Ortolan Bunting -- were pressed, skin to gut, between those two extremes.

What's more, Richard Sterling gave a pretty famous and utterly silly account of a chef friend's even heftier undertaking in his book The Fearless Diner:

"I knew in my gut, in my gastronomic soul, that what I had long hoped was true. That it wasn't just some wild traveler's tale designed to stir the imagination and not the pot. The ultimate cookout was a reality. The only thing that could possibly be greater would be to spit-roast a giant squid. My wildest culinary dream could come true. Sven, Allah bless him and may his tribe increase, had done it. 'I tell you no lie,' he went on, sipping a cold one. 'They wanted camel. I roasted a whole camel on a spit.' 'Yes!' I cried. 'Tell me everything.' And he did. He told me how he stuffed the camel with six sheep, stuffed the sheep with chickens, and the chickens with fish. He told me how it took 24 hours to cook, and that he served it on a silver platter in the shape of a recumbent camel. He related how the tribesmen who were the sheik's guests then attacked it with their knives en masse, feasted with their bare hands, and ate the meat down to the ivory."

If, for you, after all that, mere turducken will still do come November 26th, you can savor it without shelling out for shipping or expending any effort beyond tending the oven. While supplies last, Ryan Farr of the esteemed 4505 Meats is working the local turducken angle, selling 20 pound behemoths -- free range, organic, and stuffed to the hilt with cornbread-sausage dressing -- for $250 apiece, available for order and subsequent pick-up in Potrero Hill. The stuffing between the layers will be made of chicken-and-duck sausage and cornbread. Yours will arrive in a roasting pan, on a bed of root vegetables and herbs, with an electric thermometer and alarm probe already inserted.

Slip him an extra twenty and maybe he'll put a quail in there too.

Photos by Ryan Farr

Listen to Jonathan Safran Foer's reading at The Writers' Block
Purchase Eating Animals at amazon.com

Credits:
Video by Emmanuel Hapsis & Wendy Goodfriend
Photos by Wendy Goodfriend
Pumpkin by Dan Perez

But clearly, I've barely cracked the spine on Foraging for Dummies. At least compared to Seattlite Langdon Cook, author of Fat of the Land: Adventures of a 21st Century Forager for whom a daily forage might involve digging for razor clams at dusk in December, or setting up a spotlight for late-night squid jigging in January. Spearfishing for lingcod within the city limits, hand-grabbing Dungeness crab out of the Sound, dodging homeless guys to harvest choice young dandelion greens near the I-5 on-ramp. . . if you sum it up like that, Cook sounds like a pretty wild and crazy guy.

Except that he's almost always eclipsed in his own narrative by the buddies who show him the ropes. With nicknames like Trouthead and Warpo, these dudes are guy's guys, passionate, risk-loving, obsessive hunter-gatherers who let Cook tag along as they head into their element: to the bank of the Columbia at dawn for shad, into a beat-up canoe on the Hood Canal for shrimp, tramping a burnt-out section of the Okanogan National Forest for morels.

Cook walks the walk, and dives the dive, but hard as he tries, he never quite transcends. Throughout, he remains a game but nerdy writer, less on the hunt for shrimp and sturgeon (the toothy, prehistoric-looking fish that Cook's friend Beedle describes admiringly as "one tough hombre") than for a certain manly authenticity that remains always a little out of his reach, no matter how many times he grabs for his pen to scribble down a colorful phrase.

"What can be said about this river that hasn't already been said?" he notes from the banks of the surging Columbia River, looking up at the power lines swooping overhead. "I try to put myself in a dugout canoe circa 1805, but the wires keep getting in the way."

The book is organized in a way familiar to readers of Mark Kurlansky or Michael Pollan: first an action narrative, then a loop through biology and ecology, a dash through the stinging nettles of climate change and ever-encroaching environmental destruction, a quick end run through socio-cultural history, then a wind-up of the narrative and a triumphant meal and recipe.

The reader tags along after Cook, skimming along through his magazine-ready adventures (it's no surprise to find out that he writes frequently for publications like Outside and The Stranger), learning some nifty stuff about, say, the fruiting cycles of the morel mushroom, or why hunting for Dungeness crabs during their mating season is like shooting fish in a barrel. But, just like those lurking lingcod, the truly captivating stories stay in the shadows.

What does fishing mean for the Asian grandmothers who come down night after night to fish for squid off the municipal pier where Cook shows up one evening, nervous of his status as Anglo newbie amid the bantering regulars from Cambodia and Nicaragua? Or the morel-hunting locals on the edges of a remote mountain town who saw their forest go up in smoke around them during a recent wildfire? Cook can't quite shake the knowledge that what's fun (or at least fodder for a book contract) for him is necessity for others, and neither can the reader.

Still, it's an intriguing read, and a way to take a fresh look at the edible abundance available for the (slightly stealthy) taking even in the heart of a sprawling American city.

And if you're not quite ready to free-dive for abalone yet, you can join interdisciplinary artist Julie Kahn (currently working at the Headlands Center for the Arts) for a feast of wild game and foraged foods in Marin on November 15th. It's a benefit for Swamp Cabbage, which Kahn and her fellow filmmaker Hayley Downs call a "dark and sweaty" documentary in progress tracing their personal connections to the fast-disappearing backwoods traditions of rural Florida. The multi-course menu includes chicharrones from Ryan Farr's 4505 Meats, swamp cabbage pickles, gator bites, locally hunted wild boar from Mendocino, local abalone, acorn bread, truly wild mushroom pizza, persimmon gelato foraged and made by Liana and Michael Orlandi of Mill Valley's Gelateria Ceci, and more.

I'll be baking foraged fruit turnovers for the spread, too--which means I better get up early and start stalking those succulent figs around the corner.

No one eats more ice cream than I do. I know, it's a bold statement--one that some may want to challenge. But I'm pretty confident that it's true. I generally hide the fact from friends until they really get to know me. My family all expects that pints disappear quickly--they hide them amongst the bags of frozen broccoli and peas in the freezer. And one of my favorite parts about going to school in Boston was that it could be 20 degrees and snowing and there'd be a big line for J.P. Licks wrapping around the corner on Newbury St. Those were my kinda' folks.

Thankfully, San Francisco doesn't disappoint either. When I first moved to the Bay Area, I really tried to fight my passion/addiction with a variety of sugar-busting cleanses and tonics. But I've given in. And lately in a few of my favorite scoop shops, I've noticed some seasonal flavors that I can't stop talking about. Fall has definitely arrived and there's no time like the present to get yourself a cone before the season--and these flavors--pass us all by.

Three Twins: How can you not love a local organic ice cream shop that was opened by young native, Neil Gottlieb after deciding to ditch business school and just get moving? Named after their living situation at the time (he lived with his twin brother and his wife), Neil set about to open a sustainable, green business. And it's sustaining me, that's for sure. While pumpkin is not an unusual flavor this time of year, their pumpkin pie ice cream is truly extraordinary. They use real pumpkin that they roast, skin, puree, and infuse directly into the ice cream along with a healthy dose of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. I've had many a pumpkin ice cream cone, but never one with ribbons of real, vibrant pumpkin throughout.

Check out the real pieces of pumpkin!

Three Twins Ice Cream
254 Fillmore Street
San Francisco, CA 94117
(415) 487-8946
Hours: Mon.-Thurs. 12pm-10pm
Fri.-Sat. 11am-11pm; Sun. 11am-10pm

Bi-Rite Creamery: Salted caramel fans, rejoice! You will fall in love with the brown sugar ice cream with ginger crumble swirl. It has that super soft, creamy consistency you're used to, but with flecks of ginger bits and rich, perfect caramel--it's quite something. I've been known to get a cone with a scoop of that and a scoop of their seasonal apple pie, a denser ice cream with streams of cinnamony crust and spiced chunks of apple.

Bi-Rite's brown sugar ice cream with ginger crumble swirl

Bi-Rite Creamery
3692 18th Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 626-5600
Hours: Sun.-Thurs. 11am-10pm
Fri.-Sat. 11am-11pm

Ciao Bella Gelato: While I usually prefer hitting up some of the local shops, Ciao Bella has a luscious cinnamon gelato that you really should try. It is literally bursting with warm, autumnal flavors. The gals at the Marin shop told me that people either love or hate this ice cream largely because there is so much cinnamon in it. I fall into the love category--although a little goes a long way. I've heard rumors that they're doing a lovely fig balsamic gelato although the past few times I've gone to do some first-hand research, they've been sold out.

Ciao Bella's Cinnamon Gelato

Ciao Bella
One Ferry Building
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 834-9330
Hours: Mon.-Fri. 11am-6pm
Sat. 11am-6pm; Sun. 11am-5pm

Humphry Slocombe: Masters of innovative and seasonal flavors, these guys have created something magical in their Guinness Gingerbread ice cream. This one does sell out quickly--folks call, email, and tweet about its whereabouts--so you may want to check that they've got a bit before heading over. What I appreciate about this ice cream is its subtlety. Owner and ice cream magician, Jake Godby, doesn't hit you over the head with a strong ginger flavor nor does it have that occasional yeasty aftertaste that other Guinness ice creams have. Instead, it has that super creamy texture that folks have come to love at Humphry Slocombe and a quick hint of stout flavor along with bits of warmly spiced gingerbread. After a few licks, you'll remember that Jake used to be a pastry chef and a baker before he got into the ice cream world. It's obvious here.

Humphry Slocombe's Guinness Gingerbread

Humphry Slocombe
2790 Harrison Street
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 550-6971
Hours: Everyday 12pm-9pm

"I had such a good time in Paris, and am so inspired to cook! I was thinking about you when I was there, and I almost bought a tarte tatin pan, but they were so expensive, and I realized I probably didn't need to get it there.

So, I thought i'd ask for your opinion on a good pan. Do you have a recommendation? I'd also LOVE to get your recipe as well. You were always going to teach me how to make one and we never got around to it. So, perhaps, i could at least get your recipe."

I thought for a moment. There he was in Paris, inspired to cook, looking at expensive tarte Tatin pans. He must have been to E. Dehillerin's-- a mind-blowing, intoxicating cookware store that only those with a severe allergy to copper or eating could leave without the purchase of something shiny or, at the very least, without inspiration.

I am delighted and somehow unsurprised that Ron managed to leave the store without the pan. Delighted because I would be jealous of any friend outside of easy borrowing distance who owned one, unsurprised because he's one of the best bargain hunters ever. He also has one of the tiniest apartments in the universe, which I think has been officially documented. He would hang that document on his wall, but he would most likely think it would take up too much wall space.

It is precisely due to this lack of space that I would suggest to Ron that he not invest in a one-use pan. Some folks swear by non-stick sauté pans, others by cast iron skillets for making this upside down apple tart. I happen to lean towards cast iron, because I'm just plain folksy. Either will do, so take your pick.

A Promise is a Promise

I had forgotten my promise of teaching him how to make Tarte Tatin, since it was about two lifetimes ago. I do, however, like to think of myself as a man of my word. So, Ron, though it's about six or seven years after the fact, and you now live on the other side of the continent, I will do my best to answer your questions. By opening this up from a simple email into a blog post, I encourage others with more Tarte Tatin expertise to weigh in, if you like.

I initially hesitated when offering up my recipe, because I thought it produced inconsistent results. It seemed a bit odd that something static-- printed and frozen on glossy paper-- could be inconsistent. It was I who was inconsistent. And the ingredients. Would I be vigilant and make a perfect caramel, with apples well-cooked and brown, but holding together? That is sometimes me. Or would I wind up with what my goddaughter Zelly referred to as "apple mush tart" when I decided to make one for her while trying to keep her 4 year-old little sister away from the knives and hot caramel? That is, unfortunately me, too. I'm glad it was the tart that wound up overcooked and not the child.

And what about the ingredients? I've made this dish at least two dozen times during my adulthood, but never with any sort of regularity. Somewhere along the way, I got it into my head that Granny Smith apples were the best, owing to their tartness and name-sharing with Dame Maggie. I had forgotten the better results I'd had with Golden Delicious and jumped back to the Smiths, which also happens to be the name of one of my favorite bands from my high school days. Unfortunately, while yielding great flavor, the Smiths yield an attractive-but-depressing mush, not unlike the music of the aforementioned band. I vote Jonagold which has inherited the firm flesh of its Golden Delicious mother, but taken on a little of it's father's (Jonathan) tartness.

I hope Ron has fun experimenting with this dessert. Especially in New York where the Autumn apples are better than anywhere I've had.

If he messes one up, it will still more than likely taste good, because how badly can you screw up apples, butter, and sugar? Well, I might suggest he watch Julia Child making one of the biggest goofs of her television career.

Suddenly, mine doesn't look so bad.

Tarte Tatin
Serves 8 to 10, depending on how you slice it.

When I first had this dessert presented to me, I can't remember where I was. Was it at some high school French Club get together? A special occasion restaurant venture with my family? The quaint little Loire Valley farm house where I learned a lot of dirty words from the sons of the proprietress who were trying to describe what they wanted to do with one of my female friends? I don't remember, since I've had it in all of those situations. I just remember the shock I felt at my love for the dish, since I had always been indifferent to apple pie. And I remembered the name thanks to the way I remember most everything-- through word association. "A good Tarte Tatin," I thought, "should be tart and tan."

The back story on this dessert is nearly as quaint as the tart itself. If it is to be believed, in 1888, Mlle. Stéphanie Tatin, owner of L'Hôtel Tatin in Lamotte-Beuvron with her sister either a) was not a very bright woman and accidentally baked her famous apple tart upside down in one of her frequent moments of confusion; b) became distracted during the making of said tart, let the cooking go a little too far, but managed to save the day by throwing a crust over the apples and baking them upside down; or c) was threatened with a smoldering cigarette to the face by a jealous Brett Somers, who suspected the Mlle. Tatin of having an unsavory dalliance with her then-husband, Jack Klugman, and therefore unable to reach the caramelizing apples in time to make a proper, right side up tart until La Somers was finished with her smoke.

I prefer to believe version "c", because it is the most exciting story.

Ingredients:

For the pastry:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon sugar

A pinch of salt

1/2 cup chilled, unsalted butter, cut into pieces

1/4 cup ice water

For the filling:

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

3/4 cup sugar

6 apples, peeled, quartered, and cored. Jonagolds will do nicely. So will Golden Delicious. Go ahead and experiment with different varieties.

A pinch of salt

A dash of vanilla extract

Preparation:

1. To make the pastry, combine flour, sugar, and salt into the bowl of a food processor. Pulse briefly to mix. Add the chopped, chilled butter to the flour mixture and pulse until the the butter has been coated and broken into a million, pea-sized pellets. Sprinkle dough with enough cold water to make the dough barely come together. Turn the dough out onto a lightly-floured work surface and roll out into an 11" round about 1/4 of an inch thick. Transfer dough to a baking sheet, cover with wax paper or plastic wrap and refrigerate.

2. Preheat your oven to 400 F. In an 10" cast iron skillet or non-stick frying pan, melt butter over medium heat. Stir in sugar and pinch of salt until nearly dissolved (about 2 minutes or so). If it's lumpy, don't worry. Add the apple quarters, rounded side down into the bubbling proto-caramel using enough apples to fit snuggly. Reduce the heat to low and cook until the caramel is dark brown and the apples are just tender (about 15 minutes).

3. Place pan in the oven to cook the apples a bit more (5 minutes). Remove pan from oven and raise the heat to 450 F. Perfume apples with a bit of vanilla extract, then gently place the pastry circle over the top of the apples, tucking the excess pastry inside the rim of the pan. Return pan to the oven and bake until the pastry is all brown and flaky-like (about 20 minutes).

4. Remove from the oven. Run a knife around the inside edge of the pan, invert a serving plate over the pan and then flip over and pray that the tarte unmolds easily. Lift off the pan. And please, Ron, do wear oven mitts and sensible shoes. I'd hate to hear that someone spent the evening in a Manhattan emergency room being treated for caramel burns.

5. Serve warm with sweetened whipped cream or with vanilla ice cream.

Once the weather starts to cool down a little, and the leaves begin to turn various shades of gold and red, I reconcile myself to the fact that the time for peaches and watermelons is over. Yet as much as I love summer fruits, I shed no tears at their passing season. By this time I've eaten my fill of all those lovely stone fruits and melons bursting with juices and flavors. I've eaten plenty of peach tarts, cherry pies, and apricots fresh and delicious. Sure, I'll miss them at times during the year (and I even have a stash of frozen cherries in the freezer for a holiday trifle I’ll make in about a month), but it is now time to move on. So instead of mourning the summer crops I have thoroughly enjoyed for months, I am embracing the amazing fall harvest. At the top of this list is the Fuyu persimmon -- hands down my absolute favorite fall fruit.

As I mentioned in my Fuyu persimmon post last year, Fuyus should not be confused with Hachiya persimmons. Unlike the naturally astringent Hachiya, which needs to be so ripe it should look like a bag full of goop by the time you can eat it, Fuyus are sweet and firm when they're ready. With Fuyus, you can just peel and eat. They're amazing served fresh in salads or cooked in couscous and tarts. My favorite new fall dessert, however, is a Fuyu and Date Upside-Down Cake.

I came up with the idea for this cake after eyeing a pineapple upside down cake recently. I loved how pretty the pineapples looked on the cake and then began to imagine how slices of Fuyu persimmons, with their natural star inlay, would look. As I had some fresh dates on hand, I decided to throw those in as well, along with some cinnamon and nutmeg to give the cake some spice.

After setting the lovely sliced Fuyus -- which look like orange sand dollars -- in butter and sugar, I added some chopped Fuyus and dates to the cake batter. And of course I used my trusty cast-iron pan so I could cook the persimmons in the butter and sugar first on the stove top and then just add the batter and place the whole thing in the oven. The result was truly something you could only get in the fall months: the chopped persimmons and dates inside the cake gave the dessert a wonderful sweetness while the whole persimmon slices looked quite pretty on top.

Raw or cooked, Fuyu persimmons are a special fall treat that will only be available for a short while. So take advantage of them up while you can.

Fuyu and Date Upside-Down Cake

Makes: one 8-inch round cake

Ingredients:

1 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup butter (1/2 of one stick) softened
1 egg
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup milk (preferably whole milk)
1 1/4 cup flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp each cinnamon and nutmeg
3 persimmons (2 sliced into 1/4-inch slices and one chopped into cubes
1 cup fresh dates pitted and chopped
1/2 cup chopped walnut or almonds (optional)
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp sugar or brown sugar

Preparation:

1. In a medium sauce pan (an 8-inch round cast-iron pan if you have one), heat the 2 Tbsp butter until melted and bubbling. Add the sugar and caramelize until a light golden brown if using regular sugar or until melted if using brown sugar.
2. Lay the persimmon slices in the pan. Turn off the heat and set aside. If using a separate pan for baking the cake, pour the caramelized sugar and butter into the baking pan first and then lay the persimmon slices on top.
3. Beat sugar into butter using a stand mixer or by hand until fluffy.
4. Whisk in the egg and vanilla until fully incorporated.
5. Add the milk, mixing it in thoroughly.
6. Combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon and nutmeg in a separate bowl.
7. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and mix until just barely incorporated.
8. Mix in the chopped dates and Fuyu persimmons (and nuts if using) until the batter is combined, but do not over mix.
9. Gently lay the batter on top of the persimmon slices in your baking pan, being sure not to disturb the pattern you made earlier.
10. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 20-25 minutes or until it is baked through.
11. With a thin sharp knife, separate the cake from the edge of the inside of the pan. Lay a flat plate over the pan and then, using an oven mitt, flip the plate over so the cake falls onto the plate.
12. Let cool and then top with powdered sugar.

I've been eating myself silly the past 15 days -- I know, what's new. But no, this has been a really special kind of silly. The eating-my-way-through Vietnam kind of silly!

Well, to be more specific, not quite all of Vietnam, since an unexpected detour to Hong Kong for a roundtrip price of $150 proved too tempting to pass up, but for sure, through a majority of Ho Chi Minh City (a.k.a. Saigon).

There is a good reason why even hardened eaters like Anthony Bourdain have fallen so in love with the cuisine of Vietnam. It's fresh, vibrant, varied, and satisfying without feeling gluttonously heavy.

And, most often, it is cooked on the spot, right before your eyes, on the street, by someone who has been making that one particular dish over and over, for years, decades, quite possibly, generations.

Since Hua's father and uncles are locals, we had the benefit of zipping about on the back of their motorbikes (amongst the unimaginable number of other motorbikes on the road), being led by the nose to some of the most delicious food I have ever tasted.

That's a big statement, I know, but I stand by it. These local favorites are something special. Purveyors of food so good, so exciting, so complex in flavor yet simple in execution, I ate like I was starved (which is absurd because I don’t think I once felt the sensation of "hunger" the entire trip). I now pass this joy to you. Go seek these places/dishes out:

Cha Gue, Nen Nha Dat

Place: Nen Nha Dat
While I don't think this is the real "name" of this vendor, this is what the sign says above the storefront where this little set-up is situated.
Dish: Cha Gue (pronounced "chow gway")
Translation: Pan-fried Rice Flour Cake with Egg
Address: 91 Ha Ton Quyen (cross street: Tan Thanh) - P.15, Q.5

Awaiting Cha Gue

Located in District 5, sort of like the Chinatown of HCMC, Hua's dad took us here for a snack on Day 1. The bar was set high early.

The dish consisted of thick, rectangular pieces of pan-fried rice flour cake. The perfect golden crisp on the outside is beautifully offset by the smooth, supple texture on the inside.

When the rice cakes are nearing the end of their browning, an egg is cracked over them and the rich orange-hued yolk is broken. Throw a handful of minced green onion on the pan to warm through, and add bits of fried onion, fried pork skin (like little precious bits of chicharrones), and garlic. The dish is then served with a side of homemade pickled daikon and carrot slaw, and a savory dipping sauce of sweet soy sauce and a dollop of chili sauce.

Cha Gue, Nen Nha Dat

The Cha Gue, hot off the pan, had this corner bumpin', and even in the rain people were pulling up on their motorbikes and shouting their orders to-go from the street.

Apparently, business is so good that the owner doesn't want to grow his operations because he's afraid he wouldn't be able to handle the volume. Interesting how this kind of success would inspire a very different response back home, as I envisioned a fleet of Kogi taco trucks multiplying like rabbits in the streets of LA.

Wok-fried Snails, Oc Huong Pho Mai

Place: Oc Huong Pho Mai
Dish: Wok-fried Snails in a heavenly sauce
Translation: Bliss
Address: 37/3 Nguyen Cauh Chan - Q.1

After day of shopping in Saigon Square we were carted off to rejuvenate ourselves with a little pre-dinner feast of the most amazing snails I've ever had.
I was skeptical as we turned onto a tiny, dimly-lit, nondescript, side-street. It would have been a little sketchy if it wasn't for the insanely cute kindergarten class that was being held a few doors down.

Cute kids near snails

The set up of the shop was typical -- a kitchen (comprised of a few burners and a grill) that spilled out from the ground floor of someone's home onto the street, a few small tables and chairs along the street, and an extra bonus here, a lady squeezing fresh sugarcane juice right across the street! It couldn't have been better.

Making fresh sugarcane juice

We over-ordered of course, and out came dishes of small snails, large snails, clams, crab, even balut!

For those unfamiliar, balut is a fertilized duck egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and then eaten out of the shell with a spoon. You heard right, a partial chick (please don't hate me). Since it was my first time trying this delicacy, I was advised not to look directly at it (kind of like that adage of not staring into the sun). The texture can be challenging if you're squeamish, and you can't help but look too closely, but the flavor was good. As expected, a combo of an egg and chicken, but all in one bite. A little dish of salt and pepper mixed with lemon juice added a nice kick of flavor, and of course, some herbage, coriander leaves.

That was probably the most exotic thing I tried on this trip, but the snails! Those may have been the best. Boiled first to cook through, then finished off in a wok, seared until some magical sauce evaporated and coated the shells.

Bliss

The snails themselves were meaty and succulent, but the sauce, now that was truly extraordinary: a little creamy and cheesy, with a touch of sweetness, and a tinge of heat that played on our lips. It was caramelized into almost a crust on the shells. We unabashedly licked our fingers clean while still reaching for more. The flavor teased us as we chased after it, wanting to savor it, have more of it, freakin' bathe in it.

Hu Tiu Nam Vang, Tin Phuc

Place: Tin Phuc
Dish: Hu Tiu Nam Vang (pronounced "hoo tee-yoo nam vang")
Translation: Pork and Crab Noodle Soup
Address: 16 Duong Dinh Nghe (cross street: Cu Xa Binh Thoi) - P.8, Q.11

Tin Phuc

Tin Phuc is more of restaurant than actual street food, although, with its breezy architecture, you could technically drive right in if you really wanted to.

Regardless, it is delicious. Only one dish is served so you can't mess up the order: Hu Tiu Nam Vang. (In Cantonese we call it "gum been fun.") You can order it "dry" but the soup is so good that you probably won't want to.

Basically, hu tiu is a noodle soup similar to pho, but more seafood-based and with a light broth. Prior to this meal, I had never tasted it before, so I did some research on its origins. Vietnamese culinary expert Andrea Nguyen had much light to shed regarding this addictive dish. According to Andrea, "At its core, hu tieu signals a Chinese-Southeast Asian style noodle soup made with a pork bone broth and no fish sauce." But, there are many riffs on it, one of which is the Nam Vang style, "Nam Vang" being the Vietnamese word for Phnom Penh (the capital of Cambodia). Thus, Vietnam's proximity to Cambodia resulted in this Cambodian-Chinese concoction.

Herbage

Tin Phuc's rendition of Hu Tiu Nam Vang is divine. The soup is phenomenal, sweet and rich, made from the stock of pork bones and crab shells. The angel-hair-thin opaque rice noodles have just the right amount of springy chew to them. And the toppings are generous portions of pork meat, tendon and heart, crab meat, and shrimp. Tear up handfuls of leafy Romaine, Chinese celery and flat Chinese chives, add some crunchy bean sprouts, a touch of chili pepper, and you good to go.

The result is soul-satisfying. Warm, comforting, full of umami, fresh and healthy feeling. I bet a bowl of this could cure a cold like nobody's business.

The best part? Lunch for 5 people here rolled up to a mere $9.75 USD.

Street Scene

Back in September, Thy Tran wrote a great article on Street Food Beyond Festivals in which she compares the young street food culture in the U.S. to other places where it has been "long embedded into their daily rhythms." Witnessing the street food culture of Saigon brought that alive for me. Daily rhythm is right, it seemed like everyone eats out all the time whether it’s having your morning coffee delivered to your front door from the coffee lady down the street, getting some fruit to-go from the number of fruit vendors rolling around, or popping a squat on a little plastic chair at a tea-party-sized table for dinner. Sure, the convenience, affordability, and quality of product are all great. But it is the daily human interaction, the chit chat, the sense of community that comes with it, that makes this daily rhythm so soothing.

Nen Nha Dat (for Cha Gue)
91 Ha Ton Quyen (cross street: Tan Thanh) - P.15, Q.5
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Phone: 0903380574

Oc Huong Pho Mai (for Snails)
37/3 Nguyen Cauh Chan - Q.1
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Tin Phuc (for Hu Tiu Nam Vang)
16 Duong Dinh Nghe (cross street: Cu Xa Binh Thoi) - P.8, Q.11
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Phone: 3.9627977