Feed and Supply

I Can't Wait

2011-04-29T17:02:00.000-07:00

Today I learned how to make fresh rice noodles from one of the cooks at the Slanted Door--it's another recipe we're planning to put in the cookbook. Three ingredients: rice flour, water and tapioca flour, kneaded until it attains a Play-Doh quality, then pressed through a ricer into boiling water. The resulting noodles--silky and tender, perfect in soup--were a total revelation.

It's another example of something I didn't realize you could actually make at home, and it's doubly exciting because the recipe is dead simple. We're still fiddling around with the proportions, but once we have a reasonable home-sized batch of dough, I can't wait to share it with you.

For Breakfast This Weekend

2011-04-25T12:58:00.001-07:00

One of my first food media-related jobs, 15 years ago, was working on a web site PBS produced in conjunction with the re-release of the Julia Child: Lessons with Master Chefs series. It was a pretty thankless gig that mostly entailed watching (and rewatching, and watching again) the series (on VHS, naturally), taking notes so that each video could be time-coded, and writing biographies of the featured chefs.

So the work itself was mind-numbing, but the silver lining was getting to watch hours upon hours of the greats--Zarela Martinez, Daniel Boulud, Madhur Jaffrey--together with Julia Child, who was getting on in years but was still a terrific joy to watch.

One of my favorites, and the one that has stuck with me all these years later, is the episode with Beatrice Ojakangas. Beyond having an amazing name, Ojakangas is a skilled Scandinavian baker, and on the show she showed Julia how to make Danish pastry. I got sort of obsessed. There are some things that you think you can't make at home, and Danish was one of those things. But with Beatrice on my side, I made a flaky, glazed fruit-and-cheese filled Danish bread without breaking a sweat.

It would be years before I realized that the dough is essentially a yeasted puff pastry, and up until this weekend, it had been years since I had made it. But I baked one again this weekend, and it was just as successful and easy to work with as I'd remembered. Also: It is so impressive, and covered with glaze, and the "braiding" looks far more complicated than it actually is.

Click here to read the recipe. I filled mine with lightly sweetened fromage blanc and some tart apricot jam, but the possibilities are endless. And since the dough recipe makes enough for two braids, you can choose two different fillings (or put half of the dough in the freezer).

Green Goddess-ish

2011-04-21T15:26:00.000-07:00

After a week of barbecue, queso and other Tex Mex delights, it's was about time to get the Texas out of my system. Extraordinary though it was (with particular praise for Smitty's, in Lockhart, to Ray's Drive Inn, in San Antonio, and to Papalote and Torchy's Tacos in Austin), after five days I started to casually daydream about vegetables.

How very California of me.

In particular, I dreamed of green goddess, the brilliant, creamy, herb-flecked salad dressing. Except that I believed that green goddess had avocado in it. For some reason, I'd always attributed the lovely hue to avocado, but not so: the tarragon, basil, chives, parsley do the work.

Well. I guess I can't call the dressing I made green goddess, lovely name though it is. Instead, we'll just call it avocado-crème fraiche-anchovy-buttermilk-herb dressing, and we'll also call it delicious. I left mine a bit thick, so it would cling to the leaves of Little Gem lettuce (you could use romaine, too, but this is not really a dressing for those tender young things, not for spring mix or mesclun or whatever it's called.) When you leave it thick like that, it can also be used as a dip, and if it sits overnight in the fridge and thickens even more, it's good spread on a piece of toast.

Here goes into the food processor:

Half of a Hass avocado
A big spoonful of crème fraiche
About a 1/4 cup of buttermilk
2 anchovy filets
1 small clove garlic, chopped
salt and pepper

Whir.

Add the juice of half a lemon, a few tablespoons of olive oil, a few tablespoons of Champagne vinegar (if you've got it, otherwise, more lemon juice). Gather up a good cup of soft green herbs (chervil, parsley, basil and tarragon are nice, but dill and mint aren't invited to this party) and add those to the processor. Whir the whole bit together until the herbs are finely chopped and the dressing is smooth and bright green.

If it's too thick for your liking, thin with a bit more buttermilk or even a small amount of hot water. Season to taste with additional salt, pepper or vinegar.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

2010-11-17T18:19:00.000-08:00

This cake smelled so good when it was baking. The combination of fennel seeds, cinnamon, cloves and honey gave our house that toasty, cozy, wintertime smell. It rose beautifully, the top shiny—I couldn't wait to cut into it.

Well, you know where this is going, don't you? It just wasn't that delicious. Oh, it was fine and all—mildly sweet, mildly spiced, mildly moist, but it wasn't all that I was hoping it would be, which was a quick-cooking alternative to the laborious pain d'epices I so enjoyed in Burgundy, France, a bread particularly well-suited both to tea time and as a transport vehicle for thin coins of foie gras torchon.

So no recipe, today, either. Not because I don't care about all two of my readers, but because I simply can't bear to disappoint you. And, to show you that to err is human—sometimes I make crappy food, and we use the remaining loaf to hide pills for the dog. I'll be back soon, with something you can cook.

In This I Believe

2010-11-10T16:38:00.000-08:00

I think I've told some of you about this book project I'm working on with Charles Phan, chef-owner of the Slanted Door here in San Francisco. It is taking up a lot of time and brain space, but in the most excellent way. I'm so happy to be here. I'm learning so much (although not all lessons are good ones--yesterday I popped a cube of fermented red tofu into my mouth, having never tried it before. For others unfamiliar, I caution you--bad idea).

Once or twice a week, I head down the Slanted Door kitchen, where we work on recipes, shoehorning our Dutch ovens filled with sizzling pork belly right next to the pastry cooks and their nice, polite, coconut tapioca. I think they love it. Yesterday we worked on this recipe, above, for beef stew fragrant with lemongrass and star anise. We used brisket, cubes of carrot and daikon, and a knob of smashed ginger.

Some of our recipes fail on first attempt. Some fail on the second. Some we decide aren't worth the work necessary to make them great, so we replace them with something better. But sometimes, when the Gods of recipe development are shining brightly upon us, a recipe works brilliantly the first time around. I get so happy when that happens, not only because it means we'll have less work to do but also because I imagine someone cooking the recipe and making a really great dinner and feeling pleased as punch. And this stew will do that. We tasted it, and we loved it, and then we topped it with Thai basil and minced Thai chilies and I loved it even harder.

When this recipe debuts in the fall of 2012, people will be so glad. And there is no sweeter reward for all this work.

Darkness in the Kitchen, Lightness on the Plate

2010-11-03T16:38:00.000-07:00

Is it dark in your kitchen by dinner time? We're getting there. It's feeling less and less like summer, though there are still some tomatoes, peppers and eggplants at the market, and more and more like early winter. For some reason, I'm not minding the change of seasons this year. I feel ready to hibernate.

The next few months are going to be busy, but I love the bustle and excitement of a year winding down. I've got tons of projects going on, and this dish—a modern take on a root vegetable salad—is for one of my assignments. To make it, I combined shaved fennel, leaves of variegated radicchio, fingerling potatoes, radishes, blanched carrots and super sweet golden beets, along with a handful of chopped parsley. I made a warm dressing that is basically bagna cauda, the Italian "dip" for vegetables that is comprised of good olive oil, garlic (sliced Goodfellas thin), a pinch of red pepper flakes and some mashed anchovy filets. It's a nice (and pretty) antidote to all the roasted root vegetable salads that debut this time of year.

Great Food Packaging

2010-07-27T12:46:00.000-07:00

This is in no way a product recommendation, since I have yet to try and of the things contained in these tubes (three types of German mustard and an Italian anchovy paste). And the reason why I haven't tried them yet? Because the packaging is too.damn.cute. I happen to be a sucker for things in tubes. So handy! So space saving! You can use without dirtying a knife or spoon! Given that Americans may well be the laziest cooks in all the world, it seems like tubed condiments would have caught on here like wildfire, but it reality the only tubed thing I see regularly is tomato paste and, occasionally, harissa. What gives?

Incidentally, the packaging is the same reason that I want to plant my non-existent vegetable garden with Franchi Sementi seeds.

Not only does Bergamo, Italy-based company offer an irresistible array of heirloom varieties, the seeds are sold in these simple, well-designed seed packs. Wouldn't an assortment of these be a great gift for someone who does have a "back forty?"

This is what I've been doing

2010-07-21T14:42:00.001-07:00

Lest you think I've just been completely slacking off, or that I was on summer vacation, let me set the record straight. I was working. On this story, about the state of fine dining in San Francisco. Please take a minute to read it and let me know what you think. (photo by Frankie Frankeny).

Whoopie Pies!

2010-06-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

It's a good thing that I take photographs of the things that I cook and eat. Most of the time I forget to look back at them, remembering only when (ahem) I have failed to blog for two straight months. But on those not-so-rare occasions, it's great to have a little trail of bread crumbs to help me recall what I've been doing in the kitchen.

My wife sent me all of the vintage food pictures off our camera, commenting that there was "nothing great" but that maybe I'd be able to work some magic with the images. Clearly she has become jaded, because just look at those miniature whoopie pies that she made for our housewarming party! Those are something great, that's for sure. Since Sarah was raised in the great state of Maine, birthplace of the whoopie pie (and don't let anyone tell you different), I deferred to her when it came to making these. Ordinarily the filling is marshmallow, or some Crisco-stiffened frosting-like business. We thought we could do one better using good, all-natural sweet butter and clouds of confectionary sugar. Without delving into the specifics, suffice to say that it didn't really work—turns out vegetable shortening does have its place. I'm sure some of you are now horrified and distrusting, and let me assure you that I am not the type to use shortening in place of any natural fats. But in this case ...

You certainly could make these full-size, but the petite version is great for a party, a potluck, anytime there will be a lot of food around. The cake is moist in the way that the sandwich part of an ice cream sandwich is moist, sticking to one's fingers. Using good cocoa is a nice idea here, and be sure to err on the side of underbaking, lest you end up with dusty pucks. And the Crisco? Yes, trust me about the Crisco. Now that I have you excited, I must report that Sarah has been a little slow to type up her secret recipe, which was an amalgam of a few different recipes, including one from the Dysart's cookbook, published by a truck stop restaurant in Bangor. (For real. You should buy it.) But once I have Sarah's secret, time-honored recipe, I will amend this post.

Andrew Carmellini's Squid Salad

2010-04-03T14:50:00.000-07:00

It's such an enormous pleasure when a recipe works the first time through. Having written and tested my fair share of recipes, I can't tell you how many times I'll cook something, only to realize midway through that there is no way that's it's going to turn out OK. There is twice as much batter as there is space in the pan. Cooking it for 20 more minutes is going to result in incineration. Holy hell, there are a lot of bad recipes out there. And it's just not fair--if you're going to spend time and money making something, it should turn out right. The first time. No fussing.

Which is why I'm so thrilled about Andrew Carmellini's Urban Italian book. Not only is it filled with recipes that I can't wait to make, the two that I've tried so far have been total slam dunks. A few weeks ago I saw fresh, wild squid at the market (a total bargain for $3 a pound if you're willing to do the inky work yourself, something I find kind of fun). I cleaned the squid, cooked them in simmering (not boiling, as that would turn it to rubber) water, chilled it fully and then combined it with thinly sliced celery and red onion and chickpeas. I dressed the whole thing with harissa, a mess of lemon juice, good olio nuovo and lots of salt and pepper. And then? I couldn't stop eating it. I had it for dinner, then again for lunch, and lunch the day after that. It's the perfect salad for this shoulder season, while we wait for the rest of the spring vegetables to appear but we still need something more substantial for supper.

New Beginnings

2010-03-24T16:50:00.000-07:00

Now that this blog is part of my finally-launched website, I'm going to try and join you all more often. It's spring, the season of fresh starts, and I'm giving it a go. And while some of us are still enjoying the glories of a new season (or waiting expectantly for it to begin at all) others of us have quickly, if lovably, lost sight. My wife Sarah announced three days ago—on March 21—that she was “sick of asparagus.” As in, she’d already had her momentary fill, thank you, and couldn’t we have carrots? Or spinach? Or spring onions? I did what any of you—any of you in places where your yards are flooded, your ground still frozen, your trees still leafless—would do. I ignored her, and I cooked two fat bunches of spears until browned, the tips crispy, and following a recipe from the A16 Food + Wine cookbook, I mixed up some walnut crema to go with them.

But my very favorite way to have asparagus this time of year is to roast it and serve it topped with a fried egg, yolk still soft, and a flurry of freshly grated Parmigiana-Reggiano and lots of freshly cracked black pepper. Though some prefer the pencil-thin spears, I like to choose the fat ones, which you can roast until crispy without worrying about desiccation. With toast on the side, this is a variant on my much beloved breakfast-for-dinner, but it feels more sophisticated then the usual—and in the fleeting season when sparrow grass feels like a special treat, a very fine celebration of the season.

A Feast

2010-01-24T21:19:00.001-08:00

It has been so long that I hardly know where to start, but then I found this image and knew that there was a beginning here, someplace. This was taken in Little India, Singapore, in late November, on one of hottest and most humid nights I've ever experienced. Just before we arrived at the restaurant it started raining like crazy, and we ducked under the eaves of an Indian temple while the storm passed through. When there was finally a pause in the deluge we made a break for it, running past dozens of shops selling gorgeous gold jewelry, to the restaurant.

I've eaten plenty of Indian food, but this menu was all new to me, featuring South Indian specialties I'd never seen before (and some, like appam, I have been looking for, without luck, since arriving back home in December). A woman waiting in line to order guided us through the options. We settled on a few things, but then we ordered more when something got our eye. It was a great and glorious feast, and I'm quite certain it cost less then ten American dollars. I owe you more than this, I know, and we'll get to that. I've been cooking some good things in this New Year and I'm looking forward to sharing them with you. But in the meantime, here's a snapshot of a meal I meant to tell you about sooner. Thanks for waiting.

If ever you doubted whether food...

2009-11-03T08:17:00.000-08:00

...can make someone feel very, very special, doubt no more. Behold, the most gorgeous, glamorous, mania-inducing birthday cake of all time. Underneath that glossy chocolate shealth resides a supernaturally moist yellow cake (thanks to this recipe, doubled and baked in 8-inch pans), the two layers sandwiched together with a coconut pastry cream (made using this recipe, halved), topped with toasted, unsweetened large flake coconut. Yes, it tasted as good as it looks. No, there isn't any left.

Ain't No Party Like A West Coast Party

2009-10-08T17:23:00.001-07:00

If there is anyone who wouldn't love one of these limited-edition letterpress posters (printed by Nashville's legendary Hatch Show Print) from SF-based 4505 Meats, marked with owner Ryan Farr's fingerprint in lard, I don't want to be friends with them. There are three different designs, and all of them are fabulous.

All the Single Ladies

2009-10-01T08:59:00.000-07:00

I understand that there is an art to creating a meal for one. I must also admit that I do not know anything about this art. When my wife leaves town for work (these days, frequently), rather than rise to the challenge, creating exciting dishes for the pure pleasure of eating exactly what I want, I get incredibly thrifty, lazy and uninspired. I eat baked potatoes as a main course for days on end. Pasta with butter and Parmesan? Of course. And, this morning for breakfast, the lamest "fruit cup" I've ever laid eyes or money down on. I'm not proud.

Because of the nature of my work, people ask me all.the.time what I eat, where I eat it, and why. And let me tell you the wash of shame I felt recently when I admitted on a panel (where I sat with Tyler Florence, Sara Moulton, Hubert Keller and Michael Chiarello), to a captive audience, that when I cook for myself I just cook eggs. Glamorous, no?

Still, there is a different type of satisfaction that can be derived from scraping the depths of the pantry and the fridge to create a meal. It's sort of like Macgyver meets Survivor, and this is something I'm very good at. So last night, late and tired, I combed the depths and emerged with the last remaining egg, a very sad half-bunch of broccoli rabe, the last cup of delicious basmati rice I bought at Kalustyan's in New York (also know as one of the best places on earth), a tiny chunk of leftover pork chop (from dinner at Sonoma's Zazu on Saturday, the age of which did give me pause) and three scallions. Are you all following me here? I fried up those scallions and pork while the rice cooked, blanched and chopped the broccoli rabe, whisked together the egg and a bit of soy sauce and then threw the whole mess into a cast iron skillet. It can't really be called fried rice, exactly, but it was like fried rice's cousin and I had no trouble polishing off the whole pan. In front of the television. Watching Dog the Bounty Hunter because the Bravo channel (and thus, Top Chef) would not come in. Like I said, I'm not proud. Then again, what's that they say about pride coming before a fall?

Cooking With The Canal House

2009-09-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

While we're on the subject of tomatoes, I'd like to introduce you all to one of the most fabulous cookbooks I've come across in a long time (I have a lot of them--stacks next to the bed, stacks in the living room, so I know of what I speak). Canal House Cooking is a lovely volume put together by Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton. Hirsheimer, a founding editor of Saveur magazine, has shot for scores of cookbooks. Hamilton was the food editor at Saveur and is an accomplished recipe developer and cook (she is also sister to Gabrielle Hamilton, chef-owner of New York jewel-box restaurant Prune).

The result of Hamilton and Hirsheimer's collaboration is this slim book, a seasonally-inspired volume (they plan to do four each year). It's filled with recipes that you want to cook immediately, and since many of them call for last gasp vegetables--tomatoes, zucchini, corn, peppers--you should not dawdle. But if you do nothing else, quickly adopt Hamilton and Hirsheimer's recipe for "buttered" tomatoes: thickly slice an assortment of tomatoes, then spread each slice lavishly with mayonnaise (if you've made your own, good for you, but Hellmann's works just fine). Sprinkle with salt, pepper, chopped chives and a drizzle of good olive oil. Serve alongside some toasted slices of bread that have been rubbed lightly with a clove of garlic. For the record, the women also recommend this same treatment for steamed potatoes, a suggestion I can't wait to try.

Can Do Attitude

2009-09-23T20:34:00.000-07:00

All of a sudden I'm noticing the change in light. Northern California may not have the crisp fall days, the foliage, the mulled apple cider, but there's no denying that one season is ending and another beginning. After five years on the West coast, you learn to look for the little things, to observe subtleties.

So even though the days are still warm and the sun is still shining brightly and the markets are positively overrun with all the goods you wait an entire season for, this light tells me to get going, to make the most of it. It was in that spirit that Sarah and I canned 20 pounds of San Marzano tomatoes over the weekend. I don't mess with them much, just blanch, peel, jam into jars with a tablespoon of lemon juice and then hot water process for 10 minutes. There's nothing better than listening to the ping! of each jar as it seals. Well, nothing better except stacking the finished, cooled jars in the pantry...my idea of money in the bank.

Sweet on Stoves

2009-09-13T21:57:00.000-07:00

There's a new woman in my life. After my old trusty Magic Chef finally gave up the ghost for once and for all, expiring dramatically while one layer of Sarah's birthday cake baked within--and after a lengthy wait for a replacement--this little sweetheart took up our residence in our kitchen. I'll admit that I have been swayed in the past by stainless models with high BTU burners. I have fallen victim to Thermador and Wolf and Garland envy. But ever since this O'Keeffe and Merritt came to live with us, Viking only means marauding, red-headed, bearded sea farers.

This solid cast-iron beauty is like the living, breathing heart of our little apartment. I love it. And in the week since we've had it we've canned 20 pounds of San Marzano tomatoes, made a giant pot of lobster and corn chowder and tested three recipes for a Valentine's Day dessert story. Everything has been turning out pretty well (more on that in subsequent posts); I think it may be the stove.

The Simple Best

2009-04-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

The truth is, I've fallen victim. All of a sudden, without warning, I've started craving all that comforting food that people in the thick of a recession are craving the nation over. My fantasy dinner world is now dominated by daydreams about bowls of macaroni and cheese, rolled omelettes, slices of chocolate layer cake, chili.

So instead of elaborate meals we're frying eggs for dinner and eating pancakes at 7 at night with our feet propped on the coffee table. We're making pizza (using this dough) and topping it with whatever is left in the crisper and cheese drawers (asparagus and pecorino, not bad). I had a freelance assignment that involved baking many pies, and Sarah and I both "evened off" slices until half of the crumb-topped apple version was gone.

Lately I've been prone to general weepiness. I cry when I watch Friday Night Lights and I cry when I listen to NPR and my eyes get wet after yoga when I'm lying on the floor face to face with the tufts of pet hair and dust motes. Sometimes life seems like too much--too many decisions, too many choices, too much--and instead of moving forward a kind of paralysis takes hold. The weepiness and the breakfast for dinner, I think, is some sort of defense mechanism. With an unknown future looming in a scary, overwhelming fashion, what can one do but hunker down, all eggs and tears, and wait?

Spring Is Just Around the Corner

2009-03-27T18:08:00.000-07:00

When I walked out the back door this morning I took a deep breath. It's spring here, which means it won't be long until it makes its way to your corner of the world too. I know I've got it easier out here in California than a lot of folks, but still it's a welcome treat to see asparagus and the season's first strawberries at the market after a winter of greens, turnips, greens, more greens and, just to keep things interesting, daikon radish. All things I don't mind, not at all, but as the weeks turn to months even San Franciscans long for spring. And so it arrives, just like that, when you think you can't stand another cold morning, another stir-fry.

For some reason, lemon bars seem to be an appropriate way to celebrate this season. Citrus is still plentiful, but the sunshine requires something a little fresher. I object to some lemon bars that have an aroma I can only describe as "wet dog" and a bland, underbaked crust (I suspect I'm not alone in this ... does that description sound delicious to anyone?). These, a hybrid of two recipes, have a shortbread-like crust and a tart, smooth filling. I like to cut them into tiny fingers and eat them ice cold, straight from the fridge, which extends the life of a 9x13-inch pan for many, many days.

Lemon Bars
Most lemon bars are overly sweet or otherwise disappointing. These combine a shortbread-like crust with a tart lemon custard. They take a bit more time than other cookies to make, but the big pan is perfect for a crowd.

Crust:
1 ¾ cup flour
2/3 cup confectionary sugar, plus more for dusting on top
¼ cup cornstarch
½ tsp. salt
12 tbsp. unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 egg yolk

Filling:
½ cup flour
2 ¼ cups sugar
1 cup lemon juice (from 7 lemons)
Zest of 1 lemon
6 whole eggs
1 egg yolk
Pinch salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9-in by 13-in. pan and line with one sheet parchment, then lay a second sheet of parchment crosswise, allowing for enough overhang to make it easy to lift finished bars out of pan.

Make crust: combine flour, confectionary sugar, cornstarch and salt in bowl of a food processor and pulse to combine. Cut butter into small pieces and add to flour; pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add egg yolk and pulse until mixture comes to together in large, moist crumbs. Turn crumbs out into prepared baking pan and, with your fingertips, press into an even ¼ inch thick layer. Put pan in freezer and chill 15 minutes before baking.

Bake on middle rack, rotating pan halfway through, until crust is lightly browned, 20 minutes.

While crust is baking, make filling. In a large bowl combine flour and sugar. Add lemon juice and zest and stir until sugar is dissolved. In a second bowl, whisk whole eggs, egg yolk and salt. Add eggs to sugar mixture and whisk until well combined.

Remove crust from oven and, while still warm, pour lemon mixture over. Reduce oven temperature to 300 degrees, return pan to oven and bake until custard is just set in the center, 30 minutes.

Let cool completely on a wire rack, then cover and refrigerate until cold, at least one hour. Lift bars from pan by pulling up on parchment “handles” and transfer to a cutting board. Dust generously with confectionary sugar and cut into small squares.

Back to the kitchen

2008-10-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

Friends, I've been busy. And tired. And when I try and think back to what I have been cooking in the many, many weeks since I last posted, I can't think of a single thing before this weekend, when I all of a sudden rediscovered the kitchen. Hello, old friend. Friday night I made arroz con pollo for a hungry group of friends, then gilded the lily with the "Devil Dog" cake from Gourmet. Turns out I will be adding marshmallow frosting to my repertoire straight-away.

Then I was on a roll, and on Monday (Thank you, Mr. Columbus. Though I don't stand by your raping and pillaging of indigenous people, I sure was glad for a day off) I finally tackled the knobby pumpkins that came in our farm box. I wish I could tell you what kind they were, and if I'd kept my latest issue of Martha Stewart Living magazine, I probably could. (I just tried looking at the website but boy, has Martha done a few projects with pumpkins over the years...)

I peeled the pumpkins, removed the seeds and sliced them, then roasted the slices with olive oil and salt and pepper in a 4oo degree oven. The next day, I then smooshed the slices though a ricer to make a smooth puree (you need about 3/4 cup of puree). To that, I added one riced russet potato (a bit one, about 3/4 lb., boiled in its skin until soft then peeled before ricing). I let the whole mess cool before sprinkling it with 3/4 cup of all-purpose flour. Then, in a small bowl, I mixed together 1 large egg, 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, 1/2 teaspoon each of minced fresh thyme, sage and salt, and then a good pinch of pepper and nutmeg. I added the pumpkin-potato mixture to the egg mixture and mixed gently until it held together in a dough, then turned it out on a well-floured surface and divided the dough into sixths. Then I made dough "snakes," and cut each snake into many 1/2-in. niblets.

A roll across a gnocchi paddle (or the back of a fork) and then a brief tour in boiling, salted water (just until they float) followed. Transfer floaters to an oiled, rimmed baking sheet and continue until you have boiled them all (try to resist the urge to cook them all at once, as this can get dodgy). Once all the gnocchi have been boiled, melt some butter, let it get golden brown and nutty, then drop in some whole sage leaves and the boiled gnocchi. Wiggle that pan around furiously so the gnocchi don't bond to its surface and so they get fully coated with delicious browned butter. Eat these while they are hot, topped with more Parmesan and, if you have some lying around, maybe some braised chard? Or sauteed spinach? Or fried pancetta or bacon crumbles?

This cake won't change the world, but it might make you feel better

2008-08-26T08:29:00.000-07:00

We're just coming off of a long weekend of parties, finding ourselves facing a very busy week with not quite enough rest under our belts, and all of a sudden it seems like there is an awful lot looking for our attention. Beneath my feet, two dogs (ours and a spare we're sitting on for the week) wrestle around; on the table, a stack of unopened mail and unread magazines towers. And for some reason, in spite of the bright blue sky outside and the secure knowledge that things are really quite good, I find myself a little bit down today.

In order to combat that, I'll tell you about the party we went to on Sunday night. It was a big collection of friends from various restaurants, gathering together to fire up the pizza oven that will be installed at the Slow Food Nation bread pavilion this weekend. And fire it up they did, filling it with pizzas and ratatouille, with slow-roasted goat and crispy potatoes and wild salmon and wax beans and peaches and...well, you get the idea. A whole mess of food. The whole event was held in a metal-work studio a couple blocks from our house, and had the lovely bohemian quality that makes this part of the world so great. Somehow 80 people were fed from that oven, the wine didn't run out, the place didn't catch fire, and a feeling of wellness and plenty rolled over the crowd like a wave. It's too bad you can't bottle that feeling.

I didn't want to show up empty-handed, so Sarah and I made a bunch of nectarine upside-down cakes using our old favorite recipe from The Best Recipe cookbook, put out by Cooks Illustrated. In the scheme of things, this cake is relatively easy to turn out in quantity and it never disappoints (well, it disappointed once, when I accidentally forgot to fold in the beaten egg whites at the end. Oops.). You could make this cake over the weekend, serve it to dinner guests and then eat the leftovers for breakfast. Top it with pineapple or peaches or nectarines or prune plums or cherries.

Fruit upside-down cake

This cake bakes up very nicely in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet, and you can make the caramel topping right in the pan. If you don't have one, you ought to buy one. But if you want to make this cake RIGHT NOW you can use a 9-inch round cake pan, so long as it's got 3-inch deep sides.

For the topping:

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

3/4 cup light brown sugar

fruit of your choice, cut into this wedges or slices

Cake:

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

3 tablespoons cornmeal

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1 stick butter, at room temperature

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

4 eggs, separated and at room temperature

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

2/3 cup milk

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease pan (you don't need to grease a cast-iron). Melt butter in skillet. Once foaming subsides, stir in brown sugar and cook 2-3 minutes. The sugar and butter will clump and look terrible, but don't despair. Transfer to a cake pan, if using, or just proceed with next step if using cast-iron. That's the way it's supposed to look. Arrange fruit over sugar mixture in an attractive pattern and set aside.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat butter and 1 cup of the sugar until light and fluffy. Turn mixer to low and add egg yolks and vanilla, stopping mixer occasionally to scrape down sides of bowl. With mixer on low, add dry ingredients little by little, alternating with milk, beginning and ending with dry ingredients.

3. In a separate, clean, bowl, beat egg whites until foamy, then add in remaining 2 tbsp. sugar and continue beating until egg whites form stiff peaks. Stir 1/4 of the beaten egg whites into batter to lighten it, then gently fold in the remaining whites until there are no longer white streaks in the batter.

4. Pour batter over fruit in pan and gently spread it to evenly cover, taking care to avoid disturbing the fruit layer. Bake until well-browned and a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean (do not poke all the way to the bottom of the pan, as the fruit layer will remain gooey), about 50 minutes if you're using a cast-iron skillet, or 60-65 if you're using a traditional cake pan. Let rest on cooling rack two minutes, then run a knife around the edge of the pan and flip cake out onto platter. Reposition any fruit that may have stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Fish Fry

2008-08-17T21:27:00.000-07:00

A week out, I'm still wishing we were back in Michigan. Michigan, I think to myself, where life is easy. I know it's the rose-colored glasses of vacation talking, of course, because vacation has a funny way of making you want to up and leave your real life. But I stand by it: Michigan is nice.

Should you find yourself in Ludington, Michigan, sometime between Memorial and Labor Day, you owe it to yourself to make a pit stop at Bortell's Fishery. We were lucky to be traveling with our friend Chad, who grew up just down the road from this place and who wisely steered our car there in time for a late lunch. Here at Bortell's you can get fish to go (fresh or smoked), but you can also order fish by the pound and wait while the owner, Kris Bortell, fries it up for you right then and there, just as the four generations of men before him have done. Take a minute to check out the black-and-white photos on the wall and it's almost as though time has stood still--the Bortell men all look remarkably similar, with blond hair, broad faces and strong shoulders.

We ordered a smorgasbord of smelt, perch and whitefish, all caught in Lake Michigan, took the whole fried lot of it out to a picnic table and then chowed down. My favorites were the smelt, which are headless but otherwise whole. Even though (in this case) it was a misnomer, I couldn't resist calling them by a name I saw on a San Francisco menu: Fries with eyes.

Was it sunnier in Michigan? Does Kris Bortell possess some kind of frying expertise no other cook has mastered? I doubt it. But somehow, that afternoon, everything seemed pretty close to perfect. Vacation will do that to you.

Shake it don't break it

2008-08-13T20:53:00.000-07:00

I have been dutifully documenting meals and recipes these last many weeks, with plans to share lots of images and stories with you. Wholesome things, mostly, summer squash, farm eggs, raspberry lime rickeys. But let's face it, sometimes you just want the money shot. So that's what I'm going to bring you today. We just returned from a too-short trip to Michigan and have returned with a new motto: Michigan-who knew?

Who knew, for example, that Lake Michigan is like a salt- and shark-free ocean, with waves and tides? That heartlanders really are as nice as is reported? That Northern Michigan really is the cherry capital? Some of you surely did, but you were wise to keep it a secret. Otherwise, you'd never have the place to yourselves. But we crashed the party and I'm glad. Because if we hadn't, I wouldn't be able to tell you about the cherry shake at Don's Drive-in in Traverse City.

Don's cherry shake brings all the boys to the yard.

And though you might be able to guess at the sheer glory of good vanilla ice cream blended with ripe, just-picked Bing cherries, now you know for sure. Best of all? Don's offers a real, true small size, 10 ounces of creamy goodness that's just enough to satiate, but not so much it sickens. After all, I had a lot of research left to do to find the state's best tart cherry pie, so I couldn't let my appetite be hampered by too much cherry shake. If you happen to be in this part of the world during cherry season, make a bee-line to Don's (2030 N US Highway 31 N, Traverse City, MI 49686, 231-938-1860).

Why tri-tip sandwiches are better than houses

2008-07-18T09:29:00.000-07:00

Whew, boy, what a cliff-hanger that was, huh? Were you all on the edges of your seats? We were, too, for a day or so in there. But then we got the call from our realtor, and I knew by the mournful sound in his voice that we were not moving into a Berkeley bungalow, that we wouldn't be enjoying the fruits of the persimmon, fig, banana and lemon trees in the back yard.

I think I'm OK with this. The house was never really ours, of course, so losing it didn't hurt too much. Just a little. And we all know that most hurt can be covered up with food, with cooking and with dinners out and with good friends. Isn't that true? So I made pesto and I made pie, braised brisket, tested recipes for sticky toffee pudding and made big salads of corn and tomatoes. But my best recent discovery, the one I forgot to tell you about because all this house stuff got in the way, is the tri-tip sandwich from Dunneville Market in Hollister, California.

We were down there the weekend before the house situation, visiting a friend's family (they have a lovely walnut, cherry and apricot orchard, and we made ourselves positively sick on the fruit). On our way out of town, we stopped at this unassuming little spot for their tri-tip sandwich, advertised on a sign in the parking lot. Now, imagine this: a length of griddled garlic bread (made from extra-soft rolls) topped with perfectly tender tri-tip. Wrapped in paper, handed over with a tub of tangy barbecue sauce for dipping, this could well be one of the best lunches around. Having come late to the glory of tri-tip, I fell doubly hard. No lettuce to muck it up, no cheese or tomatoes. Just the bread, the meat and an icy beer, all enjoyed in the shade of a fruit tree. It made me feel happy, and was about $529,994 dollars cheaper than a house in Berkeley.