Creating a Foodie: an honest-to-goodness kitchen experience

Learning to Shut Up and Eat

2018-10-12T10:01:00.001-04:00

Hello, my friends! I'm so sorry for the long silence, but I just got back from a visit to Italy where I spent three weeks just EATING. And drinking. Definitely drinking. Actually, I think I'm going through an Aperol spritz withdrawal...

But really. The trip was incredible. I've gained 6 happy pounds and a slew of new friends, who are all my next-door neighbors' family. So many of my happy memories are of sitting around their tables, eating course after course, speaking horribly bad Italian and learning that listening attentively for hours on end for any word that helps me understand what someone is saying is exhausting. But, man, is it fun!

Perhaps the biggest lesson that I learned on this trip, however, was simply to SHUT UP AND EAT. I mean it. So many times I (and I think you do this, too) tell myself that I will not like a particular food or dish, and so—ooooh, shocker—I DON'T!

At the start of this trip, I decided that I wasn't going to do that anymore. I wanted to step up my food attitude even more after my recent virginal experience with raw oysters,

so instead of negatively prepping my brain when faced with an un-experienced (yes, I made that word up) food this trip, I was going to leave my mind open upon first bite/slurp/lick/etc. and see how my taste buds responded.

And so I ate things that I never would have eaten before.

Like this salad at Garraffo in Palermo, Sicily:

And this steak at Uncle Franco's:

And this snack at Cousin Sebi's:

The first was flash-seared octopus that, if I had been blindfolded while eating it, I would have thought by texture and taste that I was eating a steak. Insanely delicious.

The second was horse. Yes. CAVALLO. So good I had it twice.

The last was a piping hot bowl of sheep-milk ricotta cheese with the whey, eaten by spoon with fresh bread chunks to soak up the whey. I thought I had died and gone to comfort-food heaven.

NEVER would I have eaten any of these dishes if I had followed my immediate reaction of I-won't-like-this. And, oh, what I would have missed out on!

I challenge you to try it: STOP TELLING YOURSELF YOU WON'T LIKE A FOOD.

Just shut up—and eat.

Perfectly Thin, Duck Fat-Fried Potato Crisps

2018-08-11T13:34:00.000-04:00

Oh, dear readers. So much to write about but so little time. This summer has been flying by. It's been a hot one, too, which doesn't seem to jibe. Doesn't heat usually seem to make things drag? Well, not here. Between doing lots of work (I published my second book! Go grab a copy of Reading Toward Success on Amazon!), doing a good bit of travel, and having lots of guests, I feel like I've barely been able to keep up—in a good way. Chef Reiton and I love to entertain, which goes hand-in-hand with having lots of guests. Whether it's for one friend, two friends or 30 friends, we've been cooking up a storm this summer.

One of the things that I've gotten really into making is potato chips. I found a recipe in one of my Alton Brown cookbooks, I believe, and I made them on a whim one night. After our friend Mario's "Dear God!" exclamation after his first bite, I haven't been able to stop making them.

The first time I made them, I cut them with a standard vegetable peeler, per Alton's instructions. These chips were delightfully thin, but they were a pain-in-the-butt to cut. Careful, even pressure needs to be applied to get a whole slice of potato and not a wonky sliver, and for those who know me and my hand-eye coordination, that didn't work so well.

The next time I made them, I hand-sliced them. Using a beautifully sharp chef's knife, this worked out just fine. Except the anal side of me was upset at the lack of perfect uniformity in slice-thickness.

I finally came to a decision: it was time to visit Amazon.

For a long time, I have been wanting to replace my mandoline. No, I do not play a stringed instrument. I'm speaking of a kitchen tool that makes insanely thin slices of just about anything you want. The Norpro version that I have just hasn't held up. The blade has become dull, which means the mandoline has become dangerous to operate, and, frankly, I don't want to be losing any parts of my fingers or hand, no matter how tiny a slice. Bon Appetit magazine has highly recommended the Benriner Old Version Vegetable Slicer, and so that was the one I bought.

Baby, is that thing awesome! When I took my first swipe, the slicing was so smoothly done I had to check to make sure that it had actually sliced (unlike my Norpro that gave my veggie a tug every time I swiped downward. Yikes!). And for about the same price as a Norpro—AND the ability to change blades—I'm never going back.

Another thing I'm not going back on? Duck fat.

Yes, my friends—duck fat. After having a couple jars for a stupidly long time and "being afraid to use them" (MAJOR eye-roll here...), we let our friend, Chef Wilkinson, use them when he came over and made us a French meal the other night that included pomme frites: French fries fried in duck fat.

Potatoes fried in duck fat, once tasted, will change yet another aspect of your kitchen life. Trust me. The taste is full and deep, unlike vegetable fats. It's not a cheap fat, but it is an insanely delicious and healthy one that can be reused over and over again. Just strain it after it cools down and store it in the fridge.

So. Now for another test: I sliced my exquisitely even potato chips using my beautiful Benriner mandoline, gave the slices a good 20-minute soak in some hot water, rinsed them, and patted them dry. Meanwhile I heated about 3 cups of duck fat in a medium saucepan to 355°F. Once the fat was hot, I slipped four or five slices of potato into the fat one at a time, held them under the surface with a spider strainer and flipped them occasionally. When they were a lovely golden brown, I pulled them out, immediately sprinkled them with kosher salt, and drained them in a paper-towel lined bowl.

How did those duck-fat potato chips turn out?

Perfect.

A Drink at Drink and Dinner at Oak + Rowan — Boston, MA — A Bar and Restaurant Recommendation

2018-06-29T08:43:00.004-04:00

Last weekend was my and Chef Reiton's anniversary (WOOHOOOO!), so we decided to do that go-do-a-night-on-the-town thing to celebrate our six years of awesomeness. One of my besties got us a hotel room down in the Seaport district, a section of Boston that used to be SCARY but has recently made huge strides in becoming possibly the hippest neighborhood to play and live in, and with reservations to a new bar and a new restaurant to try, we hopped in an Uber and headed downtown with our overnight bag in tow.

After check-in and a cat nap, we walked over to a bar we had been wanting to try for a while called Drink. We arrived shortly after it opened for the evening and headed down the stairs to be welcomed at the bottom by the hostess. I could see it was already hopping inside, despite only having been open for half an hour—and I mean "hopping" to the point that the hostess asked if we were okay standing at the bar while we waited for a seat to open.

"Sure!" we said. "No problem," and we were led to a private little section of bar that was actually a door through the bar front and only about a foot deep. This, I realized, I liked as soon as our bartender walked up. It was personal and intimate bar service like I'd never had before.

As we waited for our drinks, I took a good look around. A bare-bones establishment of concrete, black pipe, brick and Edison bulbs, Drink's decor vibe is definitely lacking—for some. If you like to go eat or drink at restaurants just because they look pretty, Drink is not for you.

HOWEVER...

if you love a bartender that treats you like an old friend, fries that will blow your mind and cocktails created just for you and your specific taste for...je ne sais quoi, Drink is for you.

I could have stayed at Drink all night, but our dinner reservation at Oak + Rowan was drawing nigh. We thanked Jackie, our bartender, for a wonderful afternoon and headed out the door and up the stairs—which were now packed with a long, long line of people that went out the door and was beginning to wend its way down the block. Note to self: visit Drink at 4:10 PM (and ask for Jackie!).

Oak + Rowan, it turns out, is another minimalist restaurant. Elegant and warm but simple and clean (with windows galore—love!), we were greeted with warmth and welcome and seated in a lovely corner booth. And the warmth and welcome continued when our server, Patrick, approached the table and began what would be an absolutely heavenly evening. Yes, it was a bit pricey. And, yes, you pay for your bread at Oak + Rowan. But you are so SO happy you did once you take your first, warm, homemade, chewy, sourdough-y, date-buttery bite.

And then there is the butter gem lettuce salad sprinkled with flower petals and cherries.

And the gnocchi drizzled with nettle (yes, nettle) pesto and nestled in mozzarella and the prettiest broth you ever did see.

And then...the dessert. THE DESSERT. I don't remember what it was called, but ask for the deconstructed Twix bar sent from the gods, and you won't be sorry. Maybe sick with happiness at this point, but definitely not sorry.

As we waddled our way back to the hotel, oh, the swoons. The sighs! The evening could not have been more deliciously perfect.

The whole weekend could not have been more perfect, actually. And we keep finding ourselves talking about the Seaport and it's lovely inhabitants and saying to each other, "Let's go back. Soon."

Toast-less Avocado Toast: The Paleo Version

2018-06-22T07:55:00.001-04:00

Food fads both fascinate and frustrate me. Being one who loves to learn anything new in the kitchen—whether it be a new taste for something or a new technique—I'm open to most (most, mind you) anything.

And so when I hear that such-and-such is so flipping good, and I see blog posts and magazine articles singing its praises, and menu after menu offering said food, I usually will give it a try. See my post on grain bowls as an example...

What frustrates me, on the other hand, is when something in the food world just gets OVERDONE. Like, there is nothing else. I see this with ingredients, flavors, techniques.

Take the word "umami," for instance. The word "umami" was first used by Kikunae Ikeda in 1908. 1908!!! But it is used now as if it is the newest and most insanely incredible taste that has ever been discovered. If I hear or read the word "umami" one more time, I'm going to take my bottle of coconut aminos and throw it out the window! (Although I do encourage you to read the "Umami" Wikipedia article for a rather fascinating explanation of its meaning.)

So when I keep reading articles about entire restaurants being dedicated to this whole avocado toast craze??? I admit, I've been rolling my eyes. Really? All you serve is toast with avocado schmeared on top and sprinkled with random crap? I mean, come on.

And then, one day last week I had nothing to eat in the kitchen except a perfectly ripe avocado...

So, this is what happened:

Avocado. Fresh squirt of lime juice. Sprinkle of toasted hazelnuts. Drizzle of olive oil. Salt. Pepper.

My brain's response after my first dreamy, creamy bite from my spoon: DEAR GOD, THANK YOU FOR THIS FOOD.

What was I eating? I was eating a toast-less version of avocado toast, and it was divine.

Hand-Ground Meat: A Lesson in Economy—and Deliciousness

2018-04-16T08:55:00.001-04:00

Years ago my mother gave me a meat grinder that she found at an auction. I'm not talking a mixer attachment-kind of meat grinder. I'm talking an OLD-school meat grinder. The kind that clamps onto a table and you crank chunks of meat through it with a big, long handle.

Here...this is it:

So, for years that grinder has sat in my cabinet. Like, in the back of the cabinet. I completely forgot it existed.

And then the other night, as I stared at Bon Appetit's latest photo of larb in their April 2018 issue, the words suddenly came to my head:

MEAT GRINDER.

Seriously. They did. Just like that:

MEAT GRINDER.

Maybe it was the texture of the ground pork in the photo that jarred my brain. I mean, it looked so...meaty. It definitely did not have a smashed-meat-paste-dumped-from-a-styrofoam-tray look to it.

Anyway, regardless of how it all happened, the next thing I knew I was telling Chef Reiton that we should just grind our own pork when we make the larb recipe, and he agreed wholeheartedly. I mean, why not? We had that lonely, ill-used (as in not used) grinder just sitting there, waiting...

So, we did. We took our boneless pork chops, cut them up into chunks and put them through our old-fashioned, crank-that-handle grinder.

How's that for an action shot, huh? And look at that texture! Perfectly sized meaty bits of pork that will still have a tender bite when browned to perfection.

As I was grinding away, I was reflecting on the simple beauty of being able to see the chunks of meat going into the feed chute and knowing exactly what kind of pork I would be eating in my larb. I don't know about you, but whenever I buy ground meat at the store, I have fleeting thoughts that I don't really having any idea what pig parts went into this ground pork package in my hand... The company isn't required to say. As long as it comes from a pig, it's labeled "pork," so—I'll leave you with that thought.

And here's the BONUS big deal that I realized as I was grinding that beautiful meat: when you go to buy ground pork the next time you are at the grocery, take a look at the price of boneless pork chops or country-style ribs vs. the ground pork package. Pound per pound, the boneless pork is typically cheaper. And if you are grinding it yourself, you don't need to buy the pretty pork. You want to buy the cheaper, fattier, ugly, boneless cuts. They will make your ground meat more flavorful. Win-win for you and that ugly pork. I can tell you firsthand: the flavor of the larb with our hand-ground pork was PHENOMENAL.

So now I'm thinking of all the other meats I can grind. Cheap-o, skin-on chicken thighs for my little Middle Eastern chicken patties? WAY cheaper than ground chicken mush. And all that deliciously fatty skin that will actually add FLAVOR to the dish? Oh, heck, yeah!

And how about ground beef for my burgers? Hand me those cheap, nobody-loves-me cuts of beef, baby, and I'll grind them down to a luscious mound of beefy goodness.

All because of the new love-of-my-kitchen-life: my meat grinder.

Sigh.

[Cue sappy music and fade out]

Paleo Plantain French Fries

2018-03-15T13:36:00.001-04:00

When you are limited on where your starches come from in a paleo diet, you get creative.

Ladies and Gentleman, the plantain french fry!

NO, they don't taste exactly like a potato french fry. Of course they don't. They are made from a plantain, not a potato, so don't sit and whine that they aren't the same. They aren't gonna be the same, whiner.

But I'd rather have a salty, crispy-tender plantain fry to munch on than NONE at all.

And I'll leave off the six pounds I've lost in the past two weeks, too.

Thank you, meat and veggies.

Want to make them? We used three plantains for two of us.

Ingredients:

green plantains with no yellowing
coconut oil
kosher salt

Special Tools:

a bowl or colander
paper towel
paring knife
skimmer or slotted metal spatula

Directions:

Place the paper towel in the bowl or colander. It will absorb some of the oil from the fries.
Using a paring knife, cut off the tops and bottoms of the plantains. Score through the skin along the natural ridges of the plantain. Slide your thumb under the end of one of the strips and pop the skin up. Slide your thumb up the plantain to remove the strip. Peel all of the plantains completely.
Start heating the coconut oil in a small saucepan over medium heat. You want a depth that will more than coat the french fry, about 1/2 an inch. (And don't worry about waste. You can reuse this oil to make more fries another time.)
Meanwhile, cut a plantain in half crosswise. Now cut the halves in half lengthwise. Cut the four pieces in half lengthwise again. Turn those pieces on their sides and cut them in half. You may have a few pieces that need turning and cutting in half one more time, depending on the size of your plantains. You should have square-ish fries. Repeat for all of the plantains.
Look back to the oil. You want it hot but not smoking. Test it by tossing in a scrap of plantain. If it immediately bubbles rapidly, it's ready.
Carefully drop in a small handful of fries. Stir gently to move the fries around a bit so they don't stick together. Fry until the plantains are a nice golden brown, stirring occasionally. Remove them from the oil with the skimmer or spatula, tapping the skimmer on the side of the saucepan to allow excess oil to drip back into the saucepan. Dump the fries into the paper towel-lined bowl and immediately sprinkle with kosher salt.
Repeat until all the fries are done. If you want to keep the fries warm in the oven, you can do so, but I liked snacking while I fried...

Enjoy!

A Paleo Puerto Rican Dinner Menu

2018-03-09T12:38:00.001-05:00

What a week. In our second snow bomb storm of the season, the power in our block where "the power never goes out"—went out. Not for thirty minutes. Or an hour. Or the evening.

No, it went out for 24 hours.

Thank goodness it went out after I had pulled the steak tips we were having for dinner from the fridge. AND our stove is gas, so we could light her up and keep cooking. By candlelight.

So, despite the awkwardness of cooking without really being able to clearly see our food, Chef Reiton and I still forged ahead to start our month of going paleo to get these two bodies back on track.

So, here you go, folks: a paleo Puerto Rican dinner, prepared and eaten by candlelight:

Pan-Seared Cumin-Lime Steak Tips
Simple Avocado Salad
Tostones

Recipes:

For the steak tips:

Rinse and pat dry the steak. Sprinkle generously with kosher salt, ground cumin, garlic powder, freshly squeezed lime juice and freshly ground black pepper. Rub it all in. Let meat rest for 15 minutes (while you prep the rest of the dinner).
Cut off the top and bottom of one onion, halve it lengthwise, remove the peel, then slice the onion halves lengthwise into slivers.
Sear meat in a tablespoon or so of coconut oil in a skillet until starting to char. Add onion slivers, and continue cooking steak, turning tips to sear all sides. Toss the onions occasionally.
You want medium-rare to medium in doneness on the steak. Rest under foil on a plate for 10 minutes with the onions. Garnish with cilantro and serve.

For the avocado salad:

Wash and halve avocado(s). Whack into the seed with a chef's knife blade, then twist the blade gently to pop out the seed.
Hold a half in your palm. With a paring knife, CAREFULLY slice through the avocado flesh but NOT the skin, cutting it into cubes.
Take a silverware tablespoon and, sliding the edge of it between the avocado skin and the flesh, scoop the chunks out into a bowl.
Repeat as necessary on additional avocados.
Salt and pepper the avocado chunks, squirt with some fresh lime juice, and toss gently. Garnish with chopped cilantro and serve.

For the tostones:

Heat coconut oil in a small skillet or saucepan to a depth of about 1/2-inch. You can save and reuse this oil several times for this.
Meanwhile, with a paring knife, cut the top and bottom tips off a very green plantain.
Score through the skin of the plantain, following along the natural ridges of the skin.
Take your thumbnail and wedge it under one of the skin strips. Pop up the skin, then slide your thumb up the plantain, peeling off the strip. Repeat the whole way around. Repeat on additional plantains as necessary.
Slice the plantains into 1- to 1 1/2-inch chunks.
Fry the plantain slices in batches to a golden brown, turning once to get both sides. Drain on paper towels.
Smash the fried plantain chunks to about 1/4-inch thick with a plate, tostone smasher, or what have you.
Refry the smashed chunks (tostones) in the hot oil. Remove to a paper towel to drain and immediately sprinkle with adobo seasoning (you can readily find this in your grocery store in the ethnic aisle). Serve.

And there you have it, folks. A paleo Puerto Rican dinner—by candlelight.

Homemade Fish Stock and Hysterectomies

2018-02-23T22:19:00.001-05:00

This is going to be a quick one because...well, if you can't tell from the title of my post, I'm a bit laid up compared to my usual self. I'm only writing because, after tonight's experience, I thought maybe I should warn any of you out there who are preparing to have a hysterectomy: do NOT plan on making homemade fish stock within the first week or two of recovery.

Why?

Well, the following scenarios might give you an idea why. Imagine experiencing each one of them sequentially while sporting a 6-inch incision on your lower abdomen that has been glued shut and is surrounded by bruising the color of a yellow highlighter marker.

1.) After bringing the salted heads and skeletal remains of two large, species-less fish, two halved onions, a few sprigs of parsley, some fennel fronds and two bay leaves to a boil in a stockpot, I lift the lid to see this:

2.) Upon another stirring of the pot, I lift the lid to see a translucent ball drift to the surface, bob gently in an eddy, then lazily roll over to reveal the iridescent glow of a fish eye staring back at me.

3.) As I get ready to tuck myself into bed in the guest room on the lower level, I get a text from my husband: "It really stinks up here. I think next time we should make fish stock outside."

And now I sit here in bed with an ice pack on my belly because it hurts so much—and I'm still laughing.

So! Just a fair warning to those of you who want to have hysterectomies and then go make fish stock soon after. I caution you: Get that ice pack ready.

A Grain Bowl Recipe for Skeptics

2018-02-01T11:59:00.001-05:00

If you have paid attention to anything food-related this past year, you will know that one of the most popular, healthy, hippie-ish dishes to hit the scene is

The Grain Bowl.

No, it's not your grandmother's bowl of oatmeal, Cream of Wheat or farina. It is a savory dish: a concoction of fiber-full, vitamin-packed ingredients that seem to have absolutely nothing to do with each other that are all piled on top of a base layer of cooked grain—in a bowl.

I don't know about you, but to me that sounds like either an incredibly boring meal or an incredibly healthy-to-the-point-I-don't-want-to-eat-it meal. Was I born in the '70s? Yes. Did my neighbor grow pot in his backyard and eat—right in front of our boggling eyes—the slippery, slimy seaweed that we brought home from the beach? Yes. Did we eat his wife's beans and rice and love it? Yes.

But a grain bowl???

Sigh. It just seems like it's trying too TOO hard to be part of the club, you know?

But the fuss! The number of restaurants popping up and serving these damn things! I mean, seriously.

That means...yup. You loyal readers know me. I decided I needed to give it a try. (I still do have a good three pounds of Italy to come off. And it's already FEBRUARY!!! My male readers will have no idea why I just said that about February. Ladies, you know what I'm saying...)

SO. I decided to start simple. And who did I go to as my guide? My ever-faithful, besties-in-the-kitchen, Bon Appetit mag. (I'm telling you, folks. If you want to learn to cook, subscribe to this magazine. If I could figure out how to get their ad on this blog, that would be the ONE ad I would actually add so you could just click and subscribe. The folks who write it are fun. They are real. They aren't afraid to admit they are still learning in the kitchen, too. They are like US! Woohoo! So, until I can figure out how to get their ad on my blog, here's the link to GO SUBSCRIBE TO BON APPETIT MAGAZINE!)

The picture they put in the magazine that totally tempted me and made me give in can be found on Bon Appetit's website here. I used page 52 of my oh-so-special, January subscriber-only issue of Bon Appetit to guide me and gathered up my bowl ingredients:

pearled barley (it's what I had leftover from beef and barley soup)
bunch of curly kale (one with smaller, more tender stalks)
2 small sweet potatoes
half a brick of halloumi cheese (a Greek melting cheese that has a really nice salty flavor)
slivered almonds
sunflower seeds
coriander seeds
and mint leaves.

I put the barley on to boil in salted water for 45 minutes, then got to prepping the rest of the ingredients so they were ready to layer on after the barley was cooked, drained and cooled.

The sweet potatoes were scrubbed, dried, cut into 1-inch cubes, tossed with olive oil, salt, pepper and a little paprika (I like hot but regular, ol' sweet is good) and roasted for 30 minutes at 400° F in my toaster oven.
The curly kale leaves were cut from the stems (toss the stems), sliced crosswise then lengthwise, rinsed, dried and dumped in a bowl. I sprinkled them with a bit of salt and cider vinegar, then massaged them gently for about 30 seconds to start breaking down their tough fibers. The vinegar would do the rest while I moved on to my next ingredient.
The slivered almonds, sunflower seeds and coriander seeds were tossed on medium heat in a tiny bit of olive oil until they were golden brown and the coriander seeds started popping (about 1 minute), then drained on a paper towel and sprinkled with salt and pepper.
The mint leaves were rinsed, dried, and torn from their stems (stems tossed).
Now it was time for the dressing: In a small jar, I shook together 6 oz. olive oil, the juice of 1 lemon, 1 tsp. Dijon mustard, 1/2 tsp. honey, salt and pepper. This was more than enough dressing, but extra can be used on salad later.
At this point the barley was ready: it had a nice chew to it. It was drained then scattered on a towel-lined baking sheet to dry (I have an abundance of flour sack towels which I use for purposes such as this, not just for drying my hands. I go through a dozen in about three days. Just don't wash them with fabric softener!).
While the barley cooled, I fried the halloumi: I heated up a little bit of olive oil in a small cast-iron skillet (enough to just coat the bottom of the pan), browned both sides of the cheese, then sliced it.

Assembling all the parts into a bowl took all of one minute: the barley lined the bottom of a pasta bowl and was topped with a pile of kale greens, a scattering of roasted sweet potatoes, a few slices of fried cheese and a sprinkling of toasted seeds and mint leaves. It all was drizzled with the lemon-Dijon dressing, and voila!

My own, personalized grain bowl!

I think I had had a bit of wine at this point or I was really excited about my creation because I didn't realize until the next morning that I had gotten REALLY close on this pic. But, oh well. Because after I took my first bite of my first grain bowl EVER, I wanted to get that close and stay that close.

Does that mean it was delicious?

Yes.

A party in my mouth?

Yes!

A marching band of foods that combined into a perfect explosion of flavor and texture symmetry?

YES!!!

I think you know what I'm going to say to the "Will I make this again?" question. And you know what the beauty of this meal is? The parts can all be made or prepped ahead and simply reheated or quickly cooked as needed. A weeknight dinner that will make you happy in, OH! So many ways!

So, hippies! Rejoice! You converted a total skeptic, and I will declare it loudly to the world:

I LOVE GRAIN BOWLS!!!

But Dwight, wherever you are: the raw seaweed?

Hell, NO.

Ready to give the grain bowl a try? Leave a comment and let us know what you did! Go crazy! Use what you have and what you like! You'll give us some more ideas of things to try!

Make the Most of Your Food Budget: A Weekly Dinner Menu and Shopping List

2018-01-16T11:31:00.001-05:00

About a year ago I wrote a post about being smart about how you shop for produce. And while I shop for a lot of produce, there is another way that I learned to be smart about my food (and this I do religiously because it saves me so much time, money, waste and fridge space!)

What is my "brilliant" idea?

I write a weekly dinner menu and

a corresponding shopping list of ingredients.

Okay, when you think about it, it's not so brilliant. It's common sense. Going to the grocery store and standing in the middle of the aisle, thinking, "What am I going to make this week?" (which is what I used to do every week) really doesn't make any sense at all. I would end up forgetting what I was going to make for dinner later on in the week because I never had actually written down the ideas that I had had to brainstorm in the midst of the grocery store. Or I would think I had ingredients that I didn't which I then needed to go out later in the week after work to go buy. Or I would get stuck making the same damn meal over and over again. Or I would end up buying a whole lotta crappy (and I mean CRAPPY) boxed or frozen previously-prepared-and-therefore-processed-with-tons-of-sugar-sodium-and-chemicals foods that literally were hurting me from the inside out. (And, no, I'm not being paranoid. Talk to a chemical engineer about what goes into our processed foods and see what she thinks about processed foods.)

I think I'm not the only one who used to do (or still does) such a ridiculous thing on a weekly basis. I think a lot of us do that very thing because we are pressured for time.

Folks, taking half an hour to an hour to plan is going to save you the same amount of time in the grocery story as well as much, much more. I promise.

SO. Here's what I do:

On Saturday or Sunday morning, as I sit with my coffee, I interrogate Chef Reiton and peruse my foodie magazines/cookbooks to decide what I/we want to make for dinner every single night that week. I write down the meals we decide on in an organized list on my phone. Below is an example. I keep a template in Notes and then update it weekly. (If I want to save a particular week because I love the meals I made and want to save them as a reminder of what to make again, I just copy and paste the whole note into a separate Weekly Dinner Menus folder.)

As I am writing up my list, meal-by-meal, I keep a separate, running "To Get" list where I write down each of the ingredients I need for each recipe (this may require popping up and checking the fridge to make sure I really do have Worcestershire sauce).

Here is a snapshot of what I have on my "To Get" list today. Not much is on there because I only have a few random things left to get (thanks to crappy selection on earlier shopping trip and a few random things that popped up):

I try to enter the ingredients in coordinating sections to save me time running back and forth in the grocery store: produce section first, meat next, center aisle items next, then the dairy section.

Since the list is on my phone, I never forget it. And as I shop for the ingredients, I delete them from my phone.

On the occasion that something pops up (the neighbors ask us over, we do an impromptu night out, I decide we need to eat leftovers, whatever), I bump the dinner list down a day by doing a quick copy-and-paste.

Planning my menu out for the week helps HUGELY with the following:

I rarely have to go to the grocery store during the week, giving me extra time at home in the evenings.
I always have everything I need to make the dinner I want.
I save time at the grocery store because I already have an organized list of what I need, so I'm in and out as quickly as possible.
I save money and waste because I don't buy foods that I end up not using and throwing away.
I usually buy ONLY what is on the list, saving me money because...it's not on the list, so I'm not buying it—unless it is something I will use later for sure AND it is on special. This way I know that I'm still saving money in the long run.
I save my health because I don't walk down the junk food aisles and buy bad-for-my-bod processed foods that are SO tempting when I walk down those aisles list-less-ly.
I save fridge space (and my sanity). You will be amazed at how streamlined your fridge gets when you only shop for what you need!

I really, REALLY encourage you to give this a try. Not only have I learned how much time, money, etc. I've saved, but it's also done so much more for me as a cook and a lover of food:

I actually try those recipes that I've bookmarked/dog-eared/torn out of a magazine.
I broaden my tastes and try recipes using ingredients from countries that aren't American (no ingredient is hard to find anymore, folks. Shopping on the internet has existed for decades now...)
Cooking has become a fun and rewarding (I get to EAT!) way to explore and push myself to learn new techniques, ingredients, flavor pairings, etc.

If you do take this step into streamlining your schedule and amping up your cooking, leave a comment below. We'd love to hear how you've adopted this strategy and what it's done to help you!

The Wine Kitchen—Frederick, MD—A Restaurant Recommendation

2018-01-14T14:15:00.000-05:00

While I was back visiting my folks over the holidays, my uncle "U.P." had a 76th birthday roll around. Being one of my favorite uncles, I suggested that we spend his momentous day together and just do whatever the heck he wanted.

And so we did. We started the day by driving one of U.P.'s best friends to the Baltimore airport. Doesn't sound very exciting, I know, but if you took 30 seconds to meet Greg, you would quickly understand that the hour-and-a-half drive really was a rollicking good time.

After saying our goodbyes to Greg at BWI, U.P. and I stopped in at Mt. Airy Liquors, his favorite wine store in Mt. Airy, MD. MAL's service was excellent and friendly, and the shop was clean and exceedingly well-stocked for its size. U.P. and I both found some new wines for great prices to give a try, AND I found a 1.75L bottle of Beefeater for $24.00! That will keep my brother and I stocked on G&Ts for months of visits to Mom and Dad!

Next was lunch. Wending our way down a winding business park road, we came to a.k.a Friscos, a sandwich joint that was HOPPING. With everything homemade, including a few beers on tap, I quickly saw why U.P. had frequented this little restaurant in his past to the point of being considered a regular. It was delicious—especially the "Exploded Potatoes."

From there we headed to the old side of town to wander the shops on East Street, grabbing a fantastic coffee at Frederick Coffee Company & Cafe before we began our afternoon of poking around the neighboring arts-and-crafts and antique stores.

As the temperature dropped and the sun began to set, we decided it was time for a light dinner and a glass of wine to warm up. U.P. decided he wanted to take me to one of his all-time favorite places to sit for a glass of wine and talk, and this...this was the highlight of the day.

Along Frederick's downtown riverwalk dubbed "The Creek" sits a simple beauty, the Wine Kitchen. Part French bistro, part American hipster bar, the Wine Kitchen keeps itself trim and tidy, not just with its service and bearded but clean-cut staff but also with its menu and wine flights and somehow warmly spartan decor.

Seated beside a window looking out onto the water, U.P. and I sat sipping our wine and a Manhattan Curve (with Campari ice!) while grazing on a beautifully delectable charcuterie board, one of WK's most popular offerings, and a basket of warm, crusty bread.

I wish we could have sat there all night. And if we had been able to, I think the staff would have let us. Our handful of servers carried out our evening with American verve but European tact. U.P. and I were there to talk, first and foremost. The WK servers felt that vibe and respected it, showing a discreet sensitivity that only seasoned, truly humble servers can do.

The evening could not have been more exactly what was needed: the talk, the food, the drinks, the service. Thank you to the Wine Kitchen for that. I'll be back, without a doubt.

But I just may order that charcuterie board all for myself next time.

A New Year's Kitchen Resolution: Being Okay With Ugly

2018-01-04T13:24:00.000-05:00

The other night Chef Reiton and I sat down to dinner. It was our first full day together after being apart for the New Year. A candle flickered on the table. We swirled the wine in our glasses, smiled into each other's eyes, then turned to our meal set on the table: a chunky Greek salad and a baked, fake-pasta dish (beef and bacon meatballs, simmered in tomato sauce made with our own homegrown tomatoes, and cubed-up and fried Italian eggplant, all sprinkled with a good picante provolone).

It all smelled heavenly.

And, dear lord, was it all SO ugly.

As I took bite after bite of my absolutely scrumptious, ugly dinner, I thought about my ugly meal: Does food being "pretty" keep people from cooking? Do they see all these Glamour Shots of food on food blogs like mine (not that my photos are at ALL glamorous compared to some) and on Pinterest and on TV and get intimidated by the prettiness?

I remember being intimidated by prettiness. I looked at how easily the pretty girl was...well, pretty. And I just thought there was no way that I could ever be like that. So I didn't really even try.

Here's proof:

(A lot of you knew me when. Big dork. But I was happy!)

And now I'm thinking that might be how people regard "being able to cook." It's intimidating. The "pros" make it look so easy to make such a glamorous meal, but when you try, it's not. It looks just plain awful. So you don't even try.

My friends, I'm here to tell you:

It's okay to be ugly in the kitchen.

Was I embarrassed by my ugly baked meatballs that broke up against the fried eggplant with cheese that didn't melt into a gorgeous gooey mess but instead only softened and congealed into a more plasti-cheese shape? Was I utterly ashamed of my Greek salad whose feta cheese chunks disintegrated in the olive oil and red wine vinegar and ended up coating all my beautiful veggie chunks in a murky white dressing?

No, sir! Why should I? Who was I trying to impress? I not only was experimenting with flavors and using what I had in my kitchen, but I was feeding my husband and myself a delicious, fresh, home-cooked dinner. THAT's what mattered. I wasn't doing a photo shoot for a magazine, using fake food. I was creating a REAL meal with REAL food that was REALLY delicious.

Do I like my food to look good? Yes. But the reality is that a good 5-out-of-10 times I forget the garnish, or my food looks lost on the serving plate, or every dish is the same color and my dinner plate looks like it's from a sci-fi movie, or I am just too damn hungry to care!

So, for all you burgeoning (or not-yet-burgeoning) cooks out there: DON'T be intimidated by all the pretty food (the sometimes really beautifully ridiculous food photos that make you wonder whether the cook ever even got to enjoy that warm pie after getting the mood lighting right, the apple blossom branches just so, the perfect bite mark on the perfect apple, and the sweetly drifting confectioner's sugar caught at the right shutter speed).

Don't think you can't cook because of the looks. Screw the looks. Like your momma told you, the looks don't matter. It's the heart and the soul that do.

And you know what? It's the same with your food.

SO. New Year's resolution for me—and hopefully for you: In the kitchen (and maybe sometimes elsewhere...), I'm going to be okay with ugly.

Celebrating with Nathan Miller, the Chocolate Love of My Life

2017-12-05T13:29:00.001-05:00

This past weekend was a weekend of celebration.

I celebrated another year on this beautiful planet of ours with THE love of my life and the people who allowed me to enter into it (I say "allowed" because I've been a difficult one from the start; abortion was an option for my parents multiple times, and they said "No, thank you," for which I am forever grateful).

I also celebrated being given the opportunity to do the very first book reading and signing of my first book, Marley Eats His Vegetables (or you can purchase a physical copy on Blurb.com). The event was planned by my old hometown library, Coyle Free Library, as part of their grand re-opening after a gorgeous remodel.

What an incredible day! The townspeople came out in droves (more proof that the idea of libraries going by way of the dodo is a bunch of hooey), and I got to read my book to a bunch of the cutest little kids I've seen in a long time. I met amazing local authors—Ron Keener, Jennie Brown, Sherri Maret and Esther Jones—and even more amazing townsfolk: Selma Thomson who had just turned 100 and was such a pleasure to talk to. Old friends I haven't seen in decades. A mom who encouraged me in a way I don't think she realized how much it meant: thanking me for writing a book that her daughter who struggled with learning to read loved and could read, and I got to talk to the little girl about the truth that it didn't matter how long it took her to learn; what mattered was that she was being persistent.

It truly was such a special day, and so to celebrate and keep it local, my family and I decided to go to Roy Pitz Brewing Company, an establishment I would highly recommend to both locals and those of you who pass through Chambersburg, PA, for whatever reason. It's always got great food and outstanding brew, and the waitstaff are always super friendly, too.

As we were finishing our giant mugs of beer, my mother reminded me to save room for dessert, not for leftover birthday cake but for Nathan Miller's to-die-for chocolate, sold in the same warehouse down the hallway from Roy's.

Nathan makes—and I am not exaggerating in any way—the best chocolate I have ever had. Crafted in tiny batches with beans that he sources from all over the planet, Nathan can literally take you around the world through chocolate, right from his tiny shop in good, ol' Chambersburg, PA.

This weekend we tried chocolate from Guatemala, a deep, dark, grassy chocolate. It was absolutely delicious (pairing nicely with his rich, nutty-and-caramel-y coffee), but it was the bite of his Buttermilk chocolate bar that sent me over the edge. So smooth, so rich and ever-so-slightly salty. It was what I always imagined Willy Wonka's bar to taste like—only a hundred times better.

Averaging about $8.00 a bar, NM chocolate bars make an excellent little gift, the kind where you don't want to spend a lot but still want to show a sincere token of your appreciation. Believe me, anyone who receives a gift of an NM chocolate bar will take one bite and know that your "little" token—and your "thank you"—are HUGE.

I know that my appreciation was huge. To end my incredible day with Nathan, the chocolate love of my life, and bites of his incredible chocolate?

Oh, sigh. There just could not have been anything better.

For the Love of Lamb: Yotam Ottolenghi's Kofta Recipe

2017-11-28T08:15:00.000-05:00

I think I may have forever changed my opinion on eating lamb last night.

We take part in the Walden Local Meat meat share program, and I have had a pound of ground lamb sitting in the chest freezer for several months, not knowing what to do with it. I didn't grow up eating lamb, and when I have had it in ground form, it always tends to taste just, so...lamby.

Chef Reiton, on the other hand, has a sort-of fascination for it. If I mention lamb is on a menu or that I bought a leg of lamb to roast, his eyes light up. So I feel kind-of bad that I repeatedly pass the lamb section in the meat department.

Hence the dinner we made last night. We own Yotam Ottolenghi's Jerusalem cookbook. There is not one dish that I have made from that cookbook that I have not positively LOVED. And so when I mentioned that we had ground lamb hiding in the freezer downstairs and Chef Reiton said, "OH???", my hand went to Jerusalem's spine and gave her a little tug off the shelf. A quick perusal of the index led us to "kofta," little lamb and beef logs mixed with pine nuts, parsley, onion and garlic and seared to dark, crusty perfection before they are nestled in and drizzled with a tahini dressing and browned butter. Ottolenghi suggests serving it with a cucumber and tomato salad, which we did, ignoring his direction to not do the fried, spicy chickpeas.

The dinner was incredible. If two of us would have done the prepping, we could have had both dishes on the table in 30 minutes. And when the tahini sauce got mixed into the salad and chickpeas? It was a glorious, delicious mess. I told Chef Reiton after the first bite that I wasn't going to be able to talk to him during this dinner...

A Petition to Change the Thanksgiving Symbol

2017-11-23T09:37:00.002-05:00

As my butter lay softening on the counter this morning, I dug through a pile of old cookie press stencils, looking for anything that could pass for a turkey. The closest thing I could find was an antlerless reindeer. Or wait... Maybe it was a camel.

I eventually decided on a heart. I did a bit of grumbling in my head, hoping people didn't think that a heart was too Valentine-y for Thanksgiving.

But as I continued my morning—going for a calorie-burning run pre-turkey/stuffing/pecan pie; checking out the Black Friday sales in the paper (why do we need all this stuff???); meditating in the steaming shower—I thought of who I was going to be spending the day with and what they mean to me. And suddenly, I thought, We should stop using the turkey for the Thanksgiving symbol and change it to a heart, instead.

Because that's what I feel every Thanksgiving. It's a day that forces me to look not just at one person I love, like Valentine's Day does, but EVERYONE I love. Those who I get to see everyday. Those who I miss because they are far away. Those who have gone before me and who I need to patiently wait to see again.

No. It's not the turkey I look forward to for Thanksgiving. It's the people that I love so much that I wake up thinking of. And even if I don't get to be with them, my heart is warm all day long from thoughts of them.

So, here's my vote to change the Thanksgiving symbol from a turkey to a heart. Color it yellow, orange or brown, if you like.

At least it will be an honest symbol.

Lessons Italy and My Italian Friends Taught Me (Involving a Pizza and a Whole Roasted Scup)

2017-10-16T12:30:00.000-04:00

It's been a reflective week this past week, these days following Chef Reiton's and my return from living in Italy for a month. I say "living" because that's what we did.

We didn't tour. We didn't visit. We lived.

And in those four weeks of first-time everything for me, I honestly believe I was transformed a little bit by the people and the places and lives I got to know while we were there. When you live, that's generally what happens, I guess. You learn from the experience. And I've heard that travel changes you. I guess I just wasn't expecting it to change how I think about so many things.

For one, I need to chill out. I'm serious. I am so much more chill than I was in a past life, but still, this trip taught me I can do way better. I was determined to not let anything stress me out from the moment we walked out the door (flying stand-by there and back, the driving of southern Italy's roads, only knowing a miniscule fraction of the language, etc., etc., etc.). I was pretty damn close to succeeding. Enough so, at least, to really learn that Life is incredibly more enjoyable when you allow fear and frustrations to roll off when they come sneaking into your being. Take a deep breath and a few seconds to look at how much worse something could be. Amounts of perspective and gratitude will shift dramatically in the right direction.

I also learned that I come from a country that really needs to get out more—and that includes out of our comfort zones. Traveling alone with my husband and staying in people's homes forced us to talk to Italians who spoke little to no English. Which meant we were cramming Italian lessons on Duolingo for a month and a half before we left. Which meant we spoke very, very little Italian. But you know what? It was enough Italian to fumble our way through ordering dinner, communicating with our hosts, and carrying on two-hour conversations with new friends who had the patience to let us speak like three-year-olds.

Frankly, I'd rather be embarrassed about my bad Italian grammar than the other incredibly rude behaviors I saw displayed by Americans who came to Italy expecting to get away with learning ZERO Italian beforehand. I'm sorry, but do the people who visit our country expect us to know their language when they get here? And don't give me the crap about the dominance of the English language. Show some respect for a different culture, learn to say and use "Hello!" frequently, and show some humility when you don't understand something. We saw three women hot off the cruise ship get irritated when our awesome friend, Salvatore, kept asking if they wanted 'pomodoro' pizza. They just kept saying louder and louder, "PIZZA." We finally had to intervene with their obnoxiousness and tell them that 'pomodoro' means 'tomato' because not all pizzas in Italy have tomato on them. We also pointed out as Salvatore calmly and coolly walked away down the street after they placed their order that Bar Max was a COFFEE SHOP and didn't sell pizza. But you know what? Salvatore was going to get them their pizza, anyway. Sure enough, a few minutes later Salvatore returned from his friend's restaurant carrying two pizzas for the women. And then he went and borrowed plates and real silverware from his other friend's restaurant. All for three Americans who didn't take the time to read his store signage or learn two words in Italian, namely, "please" and "thank you." Sigh.

Rude behaviors aside, every time we had one of our awkward-turned-awesome experiences of making new Italian friends, I spent the next day glowing and reminiscing of how much I loved these people. Of how delightful the world is when we spend time getting to know each other, laughing together and kissing each other good-bye.

And every time I had one of those experiences, I also had the thought that being on a tour bus would never, ever have given us—no, FORCED us—into those opportunities. Opportunities that were intimidating at first but opened up our world to friendships and memories that, I hope, will last a lifetime. Opportunities to visit towns, homes and places of beauty well off even the road-less-traveled. (Search for "Fiordo di Crapolla" on Google Map 3D; I hiked there from the top of the hill/mountain with two of our new friends, swam there, and then hiked back up, unlike the tourists who motored in on a boat—which is illegal—and only stayed 30 seconds).

We also had opportunities to eat at an insane number of bars and restaurants. Some that we hit were listed in the tourist guides; those tended to be very good. But the ones which we randomly stumbled across or were recommended by our new friends to have owners and servers that would take care of us—those were the restaurants that we went back to over and over again. I don't care that we weren't trying a new place every meal. The people and the food at these restaurants became home after the hours we spent with them. We didn't want to be anywhere else.

With this repeated visiting of the same restaurants came times when we just told our server to bring whatever dish they loved; we wanted to get out of our food comfort zone. What did this mean? It means we got a lot of fish and seafood. A LOT. I mean, we were in southern Italy. We also got the chef to come out from the kitchen one night and teach us how to eat a whole fish because we had absolutely no idea how to do it.

If you are a loyal reader, you've probably noticed that I don't cook a lot of seafood. And when I do, it's pretty basic. Shrimp. Clams, once in a blue moon. Swordfish even more rarely. That's about it. So this eating-seafood-on-a-daily-basis was really new for me. Like, REALLY. And regardless of the fact that I gained seven pounds in a month (some of it was muscle weight, I swear!), I felt better. I really did. And I really liked all the fishes that I ate. Who knew fresh sardines were out-of-this-world?? (Super bummed they aren't native to the New England waters. Because I would be making them weekly. For real.)

And now we are home. Italy and our new friends are in my dreams every night. I am comforted only by the fact that at least the food we can (mostly) replicate here. We do live with the Atlantic lapping the shore at the end of the block. The unfortunate thing: all this seafood available to me that I learned to love in Italy? I don't know how to prepare it or cook it. Except for sardines from our cooking class with the Duchess. But, we can't...get...

Crap.

So, two days after we get home, we get an email offering cooking classes with Boston Public Market and Red's Best, a retailer for a network of local fisherman. The class promised to teach how to prepare not just one but THREE different seafood dishes: steamed razor clams, roasted whole scup, and bouillabaisse. DUDE.

Well, I signed us up. We went. We loved it. And we each came home with possibly one of the easiest and most delicious, healthy, not-fishy-at-ALL dinners I've ever made, even if it does sport tiny, razor-sharp teeth:

(How did we prepare it? Roasted it on a baking sheet at 350° F for about half an hour after we stuffed it with some lemon slices and fresh herbs of choice, sprinkled it heavily with salt, and rubbed it with olive oil. That's it.)

NEVER would I have made (and subsequently loved) this dish without Italy. Never.

I'm afraid I might have actually been annoying during the class because I kept remarking of how things reminded me of Italy. Like how the fennel in the bouillabaisse was so Italian. And how our friend, Andrea, had showed us how to clean and trim tuna that his fisherman friend had landed one afternoon. And how we learned to stuff and roll fresh sardines for a gorgeous dish in Palermo and now we are wanting to know what other fish to replace them with...

I'm currently wondering how long this obsession will last. I tend to do that with new things; I get obsessed. A year from now, will I still be telling everyone about the delectable spaghetti con vongole Patrizia's husband made for us in Atrani or of that crazy walk we took to Ravello or of that one time when we were in Trapani and I asked those two men if I could take their picture...?

But honestly, I don't want the obsession to end. I want it to go on and on and continue teaching me the way the past month taught me. As long as I am able, I want to continue living the way that Italy taught me to live: with a full heart, a full belly, a full glass of wine and a full appreciation for the fact that Life hands all of us all kinds of customers. Help each other out in the times of need, share in the goodness when it lands on your plate, and for heaven's sake, EAT.

Learning to Cook Like Grandma: Blanching and Peeling Peaches

2017-08-30T05:01:00.002-04:00

Can someone please do me a favor?

The next time I poopoo some "old-fashioned," "time-consuming" technique that our grandmas and their grandmas have done for centuries...

TELL ME I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M TALKING ABOUT.

Like, seriously. Geez Louise.

Backstory: my stepson is coming to visit. I want to make him his favorite dessert of all time: fresh peach pie. This entails peeling and cutting up eight big, fat peaches.

In the past, I've "known better" because "the-newfangled-way-has-to-be-better," so I've peeled the peaches with one of these (called a "vegetable peeler"):

(No, I don't know why it is on a chain, either.)

Peeling peaches "my way" resulted in:

mangled peaches
peaches being shot across the counter or into the sink after slipping from my grip
a dramatic loss of perfectly good peach flesh that did not end up in the pie (or anywhere else delicious and purposeful)

Clearly, my way is better than Grandma's, right???

Sigh. I'm such an arrogant ass.

Thank God for waves of "you-know, maybe-I-WILL-try-that-blanching-thing-that-all-the-old-recipes-tell-you-to-do..."

Folks, this is what you get when you blanch and ice peaches before peeling them:

I KNOW, RIGHT???? The skin peeled off in sheets like paper! No loss of deliciousness! And it would have taken me the SAME amount of time to mangle the peaches with a vegetable peeler than it did to blanch and peel them.

What did I do? Well, by gum, I'll tell you, even though I'm no grandma!

Boil a small pot full of water that is deep enough to cover the largest peach.
While you are waiting for the water to boil, take a paring knife (in the picture above) and carefully score a big 'X' in the bottom of each peach (opposite the stem side).
Now get a big bowl of ice water.
When the water is boiling, gently drop in a peach. Slowly count to 30 as you gently move it around to evenly boil all sides. Remove the peach and drop it in the ice water.
Drop another peach in the boiling water. Count to 30. Remove the peach and drop it in the ice water. Remove the previously iced peach and put it on a plate/cutting board.
Repeat until all the peaches are blanched.
Pick up the first peach you blanched. Take the tip of your knife blade and slide it under the peach skin where it comes to one of the points on the 'X.' Place your thumb on top of the skin (so the skin is sandwiched between the knife blade and your thumb) and gently pull downward. Ta-daaaaa!!!! Repeat all the way around the peach.
Repeat with all the peaches.

Oh my word, my world was changed. My arrogance was duly spanked, yes. And it did smart a bit...

But now there will be PIE.

Open-Faced Tomato Sandwich on Griddled Sourdough Bread

2017-08-22T08:46:00.002-04:00

The high point of my summer is finally here: my tomatoes are starting to come in in earnest. And you know how I CAN'T STOP eating them???

Alright, everybody, follow me:

Get yourself a slice of good, hearty bread. I like using Pigs Can Fly Sourdough.
Place 2 Tblsp. of good butter in a small skillet and melt over medium heat until it just starts to bubble and sizzle.
Place the slice of bread in the pool of melted butter, kind-of mopping up the butter as you do so. Move the bread to the center of the skillet and just let it sit for about 3-4 minutes.
Flip the bread over, mopping up any browned butter still in the skillet, and let it sit for another 2-3 minutes.
Remove your griddled bread from the pan and place it on a plate.
Slice a thick slice (or two) of beefsteak tomato and lay it on the toast.
Sprinkle the tomato with a bit of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper.
EAT.

Right???? OMG.

And you are welcome.

The True Definition of a Foodie (According to the Reynolds' Dictionary)

2017-08-16T17:30:00.000-04:00

I was in the middle of a very random, non-food-related activity the other day when all of a sudden—like, out of totally nowhere—the thought passed through my mind:

I really miss sitting down to a meal with the Reynolds.

There was a momentary pause in the random task I was completing. The timing of the thought startled me, but upon further reflection, the thought itself did not. It did, however, give me cause to ponder. Ponder for days, in fact.

The Reynolds have been wonderful friends of mine from the moment we first met, but they became a total lifeline to me during my separation and divorce—answering phone calls made out of loneliness and confusion, driving to pick me up so I could join their dinner party, calmly pouring me a glass of wine while willingly listening to my tears and ramblings (totally allowing me to ruin their previously fun evening) and providing me with sage advice.

And when the madness was all said and done, they followed my journey onward: drank countless martinis and bottles of wine with me as I experienced my newfound self and true independence for the first time in my life; met my new boyfriend (Chef Reiton) with open arms; kept the communication lines and last-minute dinner invites open after I moved from Chicago to Wisconsin; and celebrated every single joyous minute of Chef Reiton's and my backyard wedding celebration (like, literally; the Reynolds were the last ones to leave).

The Reynolds have been the truest of friends to me; that is a fact. But it was my week-long pondering that made me realize it was the stage on which the development of our relationship was set that made that exact thought pass through my consciousness. Truly, almost every single interaction that Cyndy, Perry and I have ever had has been set around sitting down to a meal together and just being. For hours at a time we carry on real talk about our real lives while we enjoy real food (and drink. Lots and lots of drink.).

Food for the Reynolds, I now realize, is a gift. It is a gift magnanimously given over the course of an evening during which, somehow, you feel that you are the main event. No matter how many times I have sat down with the Reynolds to a meal—and many of those times started at Cucina Paradiso, a fabulous little Italian restaurant that was a few blocks from our homes, and ended on the Reynolds' balcony in the wee hours of the morning—I have been made to feel enjoyed, cared for, listened to, respected, loved. Loved through the food and loved through the attention given to me and what I had going on in my life at the moment.

And it wasn't just evenings spent at Cucina where I felt this way. Many of our evenings spent were small get-togethers at their home. Traipsing up the stairs to their flat, I would be greeted by Perry who would lift me off the floor in a hug before leading me to the kitchen to find Cyndy. There she would be, masterfully finishing the touches on the food prepared by her own loving hands and artistic eye (I say "artistic" because it is not uncommon to hear Cyndy use adjectives like "gorgeous," "lovely" or "beautiful" as she is describing food). There I would be greeted with her own hugs and smiles. Then would come the barrage of questions about my life...the further questioning as the wine was poured...the laying out of a simple but beautiful appetizer board...

And that was the start of the evening.

I wish you could experience it. Cyndy and Perry don't just "have a way" of making you feel like the world's greatest guest. For that evening, you really are.

And there is more to it. You know how I said that Cyndy has this artistic way with food? It's something that I noticed about her the first time I went to their house for dinner. Food, for Cyndy, isn't just made to taste good. It's prepared to look good, too. And in eating my first lovely meal at their home, I noticed something about myself as a gorgeously arranged platter of food was set in front of me: I felt honored. Cyndy's meal was so simple yet so obviously created with love and care for the visual and culinary experience of her guests.

It's the combination of both those things—the warmth and sincere curiosity that they have about you AND the beautiful presentation of a delicious meal so lovingly prepared—that made me realize that is what makes me miss my meals with them. I miss the activity of their friendship and I miss feeling loved with their laughter, wine and beautiful food. Because that—all of it—is their love language.

Upon that realization, a secondary thought hit me:

I want to be like that with my heart and my food.

I want people to know that I love them because of the straight-up, honest-to-goodness food I prepare for them. I want to set that stage and then take the time in an evening to demonstrate true, sincere care in getting to know my guests. Because I'm realizing that is the true definition of a foodie.

It's not about taking great food pictures or being able to go out to this restaurant or that restaurant and enjoying someone else's amazing food, or even about writing a food blog.

Being a foodie is about learning how to make your own delicious food, no matter how simple, and sharing it with people you love while providing them an evening to relax, talk about themselves, and be heard, honored and cared for.

Cyndy and Perry, my true foodie friends—you are missed.

And thank you.

How to Hand Your Heart over the Fence (or, Love in Arancini)

2017-08-01T14:01:00.000-04:00

I'm working in my garden with Chef Reiton the other morning, pruning the insanity that is my tomato patch (in a good way), when I hear my name said in the most perfect Sicilian accent you could possibly imagine. I look up to find Paola, my next-door neighbor, standing on her upstairs balcony, waving.

"I have something for you," she says. "Wait five minutes. I come down."

If you've read my blog long enough (soon entering its 9th year!), you will remember when I moved to Boston two years ago and wrote about Paola and her proffered peaches in my post, Brandied Peaches and Cream at Midnight (which I just reread and realized that not only did I spell Paola's name incorrectly, I also haven't made that dessert again and I want to! A cool, creamy, low-sugar dessert that uses summer fruit and liquor! YUM).

Well, since that post, we have had Paola over many times. We have gotten to know her very well, and let me tell you: everything my gut told me about her back when we first met was true. I'll finish my story, and you will understand.

Back to me in my garden: I wait five minutes. Soon I hear the downstairs screen door open, and here comes Paola, carefully navigating the porch stairs with a foil-covered plate in hand. We both walk toward the low cedar fence that divides our yards. I don't know what's under that foil, but already I'm smiling.

"This is for you," she says as she hands the plate over the fence, she smiling, too.

I accept the plate with a "Thank you!" and hold it to my chest.

"Well, don't you want to see what it is?" she says. "Open it!"

I laugh because I don't know how to explain my love of suspense as being the reason why I hadn't unwrapped the plate—but then I cautiously lift the foil.

Set squarely in the center of the plate are three golden brown, piping hot, perfect arancini.

For readers like me, who—oh, about two years ago—had no idea what arancini was, I will educate you: in its basic form, arancini are rice balls that have been stuffed with some type of filling and then coated in breadcrumbs and fried. Like practically every food, there are different interpretations of what its filling "should" be, but mine—the ones sitting on the plate in my hand—were made by a Sicilian home cook who uses her experience and what she has on hand to guide her. "Meat, egg, scamorza cheese. There are usually peas, but I didn't have any," she says, "so I used some basil instead." With her years of practice in a Sicilian kitchen, they were shaped into cones that would make any art teacher proud.

Paola goes on to tell me that she had made them and fresh "gravy" (a simple tomato sauce that Italians use with pasta and meats) for her grandson to take to work for lunch, and she decided that she wanted me to have them for lunch, too.

And so we do.

As Chef Reiton and I sit and eat, moaning over the delicious simplicity of this food we were experiencing for the first time, I almost yell out, "Paola, I love you!"

And as I sit and sip my wine and savor the lethargic effects of all great Italian cooking, I realize why I wanted to yell such words.

It was because those words were what she was telling me when she handed the plate of arancini over the fence.

This aracino, this little creation I had just consumed, had been made with thoughts of me. And it wasn't just any old food that had been shared: it was a food that was a part of Paola. A part of her story. A part of her repertoire of ways she expresses her love for others.

When that plate came over the fence, it wasn't just arancini on the plate. It was also Paola's heart.

Sidney at Willoughby Run — Gettysburg, PA — A Restaurant Recommendation

2017-07-26T15:25:00.000-04:00

When my siblings and I visit my parents in southern Pennsylvania, we tend to have the tradition of going out to eat at least once at my parents' favorite restaurant, Cafe D'Italia, located on the square of downtown Chambersburg. It's a delightful little place that offers real Italian cooking by a young chef who loves what he does.

This past visit, however, Cafe D'Italia was closed for renovations. My sisters and I wanted to take my parents out to celebrate their anniversary, and so we were a little bit stumped. What was close by but worthy enough to honor my parents for their anniversary dinner?

After some research, my eldest sister came up with a solution: Sidney at Willoughby Run in Gettysburg, PA. The reviews seemed to be pretty good, and so we took the plunge.

After living in Chicago and Boston more than half my life, I have to admit, I've become pretty accustomed to having my pick of super-great restaurants. I no longer fear reheated frozen vegetables on my dinner plate at the local "nice" restaurant. But when I'm back in my small hometown in ol' PA, it's pretty hard to find a place that doesn't serve just that.

So that is what I was honestly expecting when we drove up to Sidney's. It was located on a golf course, so that right there meant weddings. And when we walked in, the decor was nice, but it still had that "hotel" feel to it. You know, large rooms with "elegantly" patterned, wall-to-wall carpet. And wainscoting. And draperies. Which was all translating to "canned gravy+slices of dry roast beef" in my head.

And I was wrong. Dead wrong.

Let me just put it this way: I was shocked—SHOCKED—at not only the homey hospitality that was exuded by the staff of Sidney's but also by what the chef was cranking out of the kitchen. Every single dish we tried was delicious, beautifully presented, and accompanied by the sincerest charm of our server. I was so engrossed, in fact, that I actually forgot to take pictures!

I take that back. I did snag a shot of my parents toasting each other with the champagne that our server graciously provided to help them celebrate:

And I did get a shot of the glorious dessert we all shared, a creation composed of sour cherry sorbet, baby panna cottas, cilantro flowers, torn and dried cake crumbles, and crisp, piped meringues.

It was a spectacular end to a spectacular evening, an anniversary celebration that we all were looking forward to, and none of us expected to be so special.

Will we all be going back? Heck, yeah. Cafe D'Italia has got some competition finally, I believe. Anniversary or not, I think we'll find an excuse to go back to Sidney's. It's chef and it's staff have done what every restaurant dreams of doing: they completely won over our hearts.

Keep it up, Sidney. We expect to see you next time.

A Childhood Classic or A New Classic Cocktail?: The Baldwin Bar's Take on Encyclopedia Brown

2017-07-15T15:08:00.000-04:00

Ran and Company have done it again.

After spending the entire day yesterday impatiently waiting for evening to arrive, Chef Reiton and I drove to Woburn and spent the dinner hour with some friends, sampling dishes and creations from Volume 2 of the Trading Company's newest menu.

May I suggest, based on our completely destroying all five dishes brought to our table, the Cucumber with Garlic Sauce as an appetizer? It will leave your mouth singing, but your tongue will get used to it, I promise. We also loved the House Special Eggplant, one of Sichuan Garden's chicken dishes that will not leave your nose running (Ran's father runs the restaurant portion downstairs; it is the best Sichuan food you will ever eat. For real.). When it comes to the beverages, I also highly recommend that you just let the staff pick what you drink. Trust me.

We had the great pleasure to be served by Luteh, who can not only read minds but also has the uncanny ability to see into your past. How do I know? Because at the end of our meal, at my request to "just have one more," I was delivered this:

What you see is a little box disguised as a book. Tucked inside are a frosty flask full of the dreamiest (yes, dreamiest) bourbon cocktail I've had in a long time—if ever; a frosty glass with a wedge of lemon peel clothespinned to the rim; and a "library" card printed with the recipe for the cocktail: The Encyclopedia Brown.

(Pardon the imperfect picture, but it's romantically dark in the bar, and I was using my phone. One of these days I will take an Uber and my good camera and go crazy.)

I'm tempted to provide the recipe here, but—I'm a librarian and a violent opponent of copyright infringement, so.... I think you will have to go yourself. If you read the Encyclopedia Brown books as a kid, you'll remember that Encyclopedia Brown would never have stood for such injustice, either.

So. Instead of going to that truly God-awful Chinese restaurant down the street, make a reservation online for the upstairs section of The Baldwin Bar. Savor every bite of your mind- and tongue-numbingly good dinner, every divinely drinkable work of art that are the cocktails, and at the end of dinner, ask to check out "Encyclopedia Brown." It's a "read" you will never forget.

The Delicate Nasturtium Flower...and How to Eat It (and Other Lovely Blooms)

2017-07-12T08:30:00.000-04:00

This...

is a nasturtium flower.

A sweet, delicate specimen, it grows from long and leggy stems, protected by lily pad-like leaves.

Loved by bees but hated by garden pests, I plant them amongst my veggies in my garden boxes in order to deter bugs that will destroy my tomatoes, zucchini and cucumbers.

But I have to admit: I also plant them because I like to EAT THEM.

There is nothing more beautiful on a summer dinner table than the bright splash of flowers on your cool, green salad.

And there is nothing more delicious than the peppery bite of a nasturtium flower crunching between your teeth.

Okay, well, maybe this garlicky, paprika-y, finger-sucking-good chicken we experimented with last night:

Chef Reiton and I intend to experiment further on wings, instead. (We'll get back to you.)

The next flower we intend to devour? These babies:

Squash (or zucchini) blossoms. When I can't take eating one more damn zucchini this summer, I will be plucking these gorgeous blooms then stuffing and frying them in an attempt to mimic one of the jewels of our Besh Restaurant Honeymoon. (This, too, we will keep you informed on.)

Also waiting to be eaten in my garden? Violas.

Time for a crash-course in sugaring flowers for a cake? I think so! (Aaaaaaand, I'll keep you posted on that, too.)

God bless summer, right?!?!?

The Awesomeness of Dinner Leftovers: Breakfast Barbacoa with Eggs

2017-07-05T15:53:00.003-04:00

What to do with leftover chipotle barbacoa from our amazing Latin dinner?

Breakfast barbacoa, baby.

Heat the chipotle beef in a skillet on medium with a bit of cotija (or whatever you've got) cheese sprinkled on top. Crack in a few eggs and sprinkle with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Simmer away for a few minutes until the egg whites are mostly set.

Broil for a couple more minutes until whites are all white but yolks are still runny. Sprinkle with more cotija cheese and chopped cilantro and serve.

A gluten-free, primal, protein-packed breakfast with a kick. Dig in!

A Latin American Dinner Menu—and a Few Reminders of Why I Cook (and You Should, Too)

2017-07-01T10:33:00.001-04:00

I woke this morning to dreams of last night's dinner—the dinner I emergency-posted last night in a fit of delirious food love. Our kitchen still held the faintest smell of smoky chipotle as I came downstairs for our morning coffee. If we had been hungry, I would have pulled out a bit of the barbacoa, heated it up in the skillet and cracked an egg on top for Chef Reiton.

But we weren't hungry at four in the morning, so instead I uploaded our dinner photos from last night and dorkily reminisced over how fantastic it was.

Our menu? It was an eclectic compilation of Latin American foods:

Puerto Rican tostones with mayo-ketchup
Mexican barbacoa served on homemade corn tortillas
Caribbean cucumber and mango chow

I definitely can't say the dishes we served were all 100% authentic, but I can say that, holy cow, I didn't want to stop eating!

This dinner, believe it or not, was actually super simple and quick. The barbacoa is made in the crockpot; the tostones fry up (twice!) in about 5 minutes total once the oil is hot; and the chow takes about 10 minutes to assemble before it chills in the fridge. The longest part is the tortilla preparation, but that—that I will get to. Save the best for last...

First, the chow. I may have already mentioned this salad-of-sorts in a previous post. I've certainly made it several times already since it was published by Bon Appétit in their April 2017 issue. The recipe is from Miss Ollie of Miss Ollie's in Oakland, CA. It has an easy-to-find list of ingredients and can be made in about ten minutes. The best part is that it can be made a few hours ahead and chilled in the fridge while you are making the rest of your dinner. I love it for its sweet but peppery mango, the heat of chiles, the coolness of cucumber, and the tang of lime. The cilantro allows you to serve it with a variety of ethnic foods that love cilantro: Thai, Mexican, Caribbean. It's simply fantastic.

Next, the tostones. Tostones are thick slices of green plantain that have been fried, flattened, fried again, then sprinkled with adobo seasoning and served with garlicky mayo-ketchup. We learned how to make these babies when we recently had our friend Chaz (JetBlue's BEST flight attendant!) over to cook a Puerto Rican dinner (yes, I will blog on that soon!).

Not only are these just flat-out fun to make (no pun intended, really!), they are absolutely delicious and healthy, with about 2 grams of dietary fiber for half a green plantain and a low glycemic index. And as for the frying, if you still think fried food is horribly unhealthy, that's because—sorry—you are doing it wrong. Food properly fried barely absorbs any fat; the water in the food immediately starts to steam when the food is dropped into the screaming hot oil, pushing water out of the food so that the fat can't soak in. Don't believe me? Read the transcript of a Good Eats episode by Alton Brown, one of my favorite food scientists, who explains it in a more entertaining way. You can also do a bit of research on this. You'll find that science is right. Thank you, science.

Now for the barbacoa. I have no idea who Queen To Y'All is, but I want to thank her for posting this recipe on Recipezaar.com years ago and making me and my friends extremely happy. It was a required party staple during my years in Chicago. Now you can find the recipe under "Chipotle Roast for Tacos and Sandwiches" on Food.com. It's awesomely simple. Dump all the ingredients into the Crockpot in the morning, set her on low, and walk away until it's time to prep the rest of dinner. It will sit and simmer happily, silently taunting you, wafting smells of cumin and spice all day long. When it's time to eat, stir it all up with a slotted spoon and put it on the table. That's it.

We are now left with the best for last...

I've never in my life eaten a fresh corn tortilla. Even the Mexican restaurants that I've visited use prepackaged. You can tell: they are rubbery, pretty darn tasteless, and absolutely perfectly round. It's actually kind-of too bad I made these (in a good way) because after eating them, I don't know that I'm ever going to be able to eat another commercially made tortilla again.

Corn tortillas may somehow look complicated (like anything does when you've never made one) but in reality are super simple to make. They are made with a fine corn flour called "masa harina" (I used Bob's Red Mill—totally gluten-free, by the way, and you can find it in most grocery stores), salt and water. I used my stand mixer to blend the ingredients into a smooth paste, then Chef Reiton formed them into little balls.

We experimented with different ways to roll them out. Chef Reiton started by rolling them on a sheet of parchment

but we decided that they tore less and came out rounder if they were flattened with my palm between two sheets of parchment and then rolled gently.

We also learned that the little balls need to be kept under a damp towel while the tortillas are being rolled out. They started to dry out rather quickly, making them break and tear when they were rolled. Because of this learning curve, I ended up actually dipping the last several balls of dough into a bowl of water twice then rekneading them to soften them back up again.

With our cast iron skillet smoking hot, we cooked up the tortillas, one minute a side, finishing with a final thirty seconds after the second flip. Later we realized we should have had two skillets going at a time. Duh. It would have gone faster.

The recipe for these tortillas came from a wonderful cookbook by Marilyn and Luis Peinado called Bienvenidos to Our Kitchen: Authentic Mexican Cooking. The book is loaded with every single authentic Mexican dish you've ever eaten plus some.

You are in luck, too! New copies are still available on Amazon.com as well as used copies on BarnesandNoble.com and eBay.

As Chef Reiton and I sat sipping our rioja at the end of the meal, we couldn't stop oohing and ahhhing over our empty plates. I do not mean this as a boast, but how could we have made probably the best Latin meal I have ever had in our North American kitchen?

The answers are simple:

We are willing to experiment making new foods.
We are willing to mess up and learn from our mistakes for the next time we try it.
We are into saving money while eating food that is usually better than a restaurant's.

Do you want to know how much our dinner for two last night cost us? Actually it's probably closer to three dinners for two, thanks to the leftovers. Let's assume that going out for an average Mexican dinner costs $60 for two people. Sound reasonable? Maybe even a little cheap if you throw a few margaritas into the bill?

Well, here's what I spent at Market Basket on the ingredients that make three full meals for two (and I'm even going to assume you don't have staples like cumin, garlic, chile powder or oil). I'll even throw in the bottle of wine we had with dinner:

2 lb. chuck roast from Walden Local Meats, my pasture-raised meat share: $20.00
can of green chiles: $.99
can of chipotle peppers: $2.69
onion: $.43
can of salsa verde (even though mine was free because I used my own): $1.29
beef consumme (used my own, again, so technically free): $1.89
garlic head: $.40
cumin: $1.59
chile powder: $1.29
adobo seasoning: $2.79
green plantain: $.33
corn oil: $3.09
masa harina: $2.99
hothouse cucumber: $.99
mango: $.99
cilantro: $.99
shallot: $.25
bottle of wine: $18.00

TOTAL: $60.99

So, for a more expensive, pasture-raised roast, a good bottle of wine and ALL the ingredients for the meal, I spent the same as the cost of a Mexican dinner out—and I'll actually get THREE dinners for two out of last night, not just the one. AND my homemade dinner was SO MUCH BETTER than the food you get at a restaurant.

And it's not ME who is awesome! It's the FOOD!!!

Sigh.

I'll calm down. But, folks...this is why I cook. And it's why you should, too. It's cheaper. It's healthier. It's waaaaaaay deliciouser. (I know.)

So. Think about what foods you love. Find the recipes. Buy the ingredients. Make the meal. Even if you "screw up," it's going to be good.

Promise.