Yesterday I had one of those looking-at-myself-from-the-outside moments, when I was wearing my apron and baking loaves of whole grain bread and nice voices were rising from the spot on the floor where my kids were playing together (nicely!) and I had a soothing piano concerto on in the background and my husband was off scrounging for eggs from our co-op chickens and I thought:

How did I come to this life?

How did the high-school me, who never would have covered up a cute shirt with an apron, come to this?

How did the college me, who ate cold cereal and Twizzlers for dinner and was hopelessly devoted to both Chris Cornell of Soundgarden and Lenny Kravitz, come to this?

How did the early-married me, who in her corporate-ladder haste attempted omelets with Eggbeaters that had been in the fridge for ages, come to this?

I have no idea how these things happen, these growing-up things that bring us to care about where our bread comes from, that broaden our tastes in everything from eggs to music, but I admit I think it’s nice. And I’ve saved all the pieces of old me that I care to have around — the me that likes cute shirts, for example. And Lenny, though not my first choice anymore, remains kind of hot.

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I’m a little out of practice. My laptop died in early October — just like that: Poof! — and in the wake of its demise I lost a good year’s worth of my computer-code-encrypted self.

I went through a kind of amnesia. Who am I? And what am I supposed to do now that I can’t tote my little computer companion (computanion, anyone?) around all my waking hours? I’ve had to resort to this dusty old desktop, which groans its way out of hibernation each morning and is rather mean-spirited toward any kind uploading, downloading, or plugins. That has meant that blogging, and especially blogging with pictures, is a little less feasible, i.e., not as fun.

But I’ve found that in lieu of tap-tap-tapping away superfluously on a keyboard half the day, there are many other really wonderful things to do with my time. For instance, I’ve discovered that my girls are pretty dang cute. And I’ve been reading books, those bound materials in which words are printed on paper pages.

And I quote: “Paper (noun): a substance made from wood pulp, rags, straw, or other fibrous material, usually in thin sheets, used to bear writing or printing, for wrapping things, etc.”

One bit of paper I’m going to miss along with many of you is Gourmet magazine. When I heard all the way back in early October that Conde Nast would be ceasing publication, I immediately regretted not picking up, for a mere 25 cents an issue, all the back issues I’d seen at the library recently. My little library, and likely yours too, sells back issues of all kinds of magazines, and when I’d walked past the stack of Gourmets, I’d eyed them with curiosity but not exactly longing.

The next time I stopped at the library, I immediately went to the 25 cent racks, but by that time the rack was selling issues of Bon Appetit. I did a little digging and turned up a single leftover Gourmet, from January 1986. The cover features a stack of straw gondolier hats in Venice, and a quick flip through the issue reveals tiny type and an awful lot of black and white.

The photography was less than stellar back then, and each dish was so tightly and symmetrically arranged, posed in spotless silver serving ware, graced with garnishes that themselves were like little works of art. It makes me glad that my Gourmet-reading years were the Ruth Reichl ones, the ones when the teams of photographers and food stylists and editors realized how much more appetizing a pudding could seem when a spoon had already lifted a bite from it, when tableside crumbs from crusty bread were left to be photographed (indeed, positioned to be in the picture) and dribbles of soy sauce could be seen on parchment.

I know the magazine celebrated high living, but its last several years were hardly out of reach. The travel and some of the ingredients, maybe. But it nevertheless gave me a simple awareness of the world of food that is out there, and that, combined with issues full of accessible recipes, elevated my cooking.

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[Recipe: Whole-Wheat English Muffin Bread]

I know: It’s not pretty. But pretty was not the point. Thankfully, my goals had more to do with substance than with outside appearance.

I just wanted to bake a loaf of bread. I wanted aroma. I wanted a medium-crisp crust that gave way to a springy and delicate crumb. I wanted something appropriate for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up, something that could hold its own equally well with a light slick of chunky peanut butter or a skosh of honey.

Summing it up, then: I was after taste, texture, warmth — all those qualities, yes, but not beauty.

And that’s a good thing, especially since this is often the type of outcome we can expect when we delegate: the results might not exactly meet our unremitting standards. (Take, for example, when you give your kid the job of cleaning the bathroom or making their own bed.)

I delegated the making of this loaf to my bread maker. It’s an appliance that hasn’t seen a lot of action lately, because I’ve been trying to do the bread-baking thing with my own two hands. But today I was in the mood for this specific recipe, and besides, there was definitely something liberating about dumping all the ingredients into the metal bowl and letting something else do the work for once — and then having it taste really, really good.

Even if the result wasn’t much to look at.

Whole-Wheat English Muffin Bread for the Bread Maker

adapted from KingArthurFlour.com

1 teaspoon vinegar
1/2 cup water
1 cup milk
2 tablespoons butter or canola oil
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 1/2 teaspoons granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
3 1/2 cups whole-wheat flour (I used a combination of white & red whole wheat)
2 1/4 teaspoons instant yeast
cornmeal (optional)

Program your machine for basic white bread, light crust. Midway through the second kneading cycle, check the dough; it should be soft, smooth and slightly sticky. Adjust the dough’s consistency with additional flour or water, if necessary. For a true English muffin effect, remove the dough after either the final kneading or before the final rise and roll it in cornmeal. Place the dough back in the machine to rise and bake.

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Like the rest of America, I’ve reigned in my shopping habit — at least when it comes to clothes (and I use the word “clothes” in the broad sense, to include boots and bags and scarves and cosmetics and the occasional have-to-have-it throw pillow discovered on errand for any of the above).

So while my closet has never been lonelier, my pantry has become quite the diverse crowd: I’ve redirected my shopping energy from boutiques to purveyors of food, particularly ethnic. As far as my bank account and far-off retirement is concerned, this is a good thing; rather than dropping $60 on a t-shirt with a jeweled neckline, I’m dropping $2.69 on enough cardamom for a year of Bollywood film fests.

What’s more, I’ve found that browsing the aisles of Lee-Lee (my local Asian market that also has aisles dedicated to Brazilian, Indian and even Scandinavian specialties), list in hand but open to suggestion, still gives me that shopper’s satisfaction: the heart-thrill of the hunt, the sheer joy that accompanies discovery. For example, today I learned that in other countries, bulgur is sold in grades, from fine (#1, for, say tabbouleh) to coarse (#4, for pilafs, etc.).

But, just as I must when clothes shopping, I’m forced to make hard choices: jumbo green favas or smaller brown ones? I can’t just buy it all; there must be limits. Yes, we need to eat in order to survive, but an entire collection of Vietnamese condiments is to nourishment what a certain supple berry-colored leather hobo is to being clothed.

And so I chose, against my curiosity, not to buy the Long Life Buns* in the freezer section. My sister, via text message, talked me out of it. “Want some Long Life Buns?” I wrote. “They’re hot pink!”

“What is a Long Life Bun?” she shot back. “And what had to die for it to be hot pink?”

*Turns out Long Life Buns, also known as Birthday or Peach Buns, are steamed buns served on someone’s birthday and often peach-shaped, and are supposed to bestow long life upon the eater.

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[Recipe: Oven-dried Tomatoes]

It came, finally. How long did I wait? About one year — one impatience- and anticipation-fraught year. By means I will forever be oblivious to, Amazon.com secured for me and shipped to me my very own copy of Ottolenghi: The Cookbook.

And how do I love it? Well, we might as well count the ways.

1. It holds the directions to a juicy, sweet-sour rendition of oven-dried tomatoes (my new favorite way to use up the last of the summer crop; see recipe below).

2. I now know what nigella seeds are and, by definition, what Labneh is, although I haven’t found any locally yet (to wit: it’s an Arab cheese made by straining yogurt so it loses most of its liquid).

3. It’s one cookbook that’s going to keep me guessing, chock-full as it is of curious ingredients (like the aforementioned, but also Camargue red rice, green tahini, purple-sprouted broccoli).

4. It also prominently features a few of my favorite things, like couscous and feta and pistachios, sweet potato and coriander and rocket (that’s arugula, to us statesiders).

5. It’s got delightful uses for the pomegranate molasses sitting in my fridge that I never know what to do with and the rosewater I bought but never opened. Here I come pistachio and rosewater meringues!

6. It takes me (mentally, culinarily, at least) to far-off places, and stokes that fire we sometimes call wanderlust to actually go to far-off places. Sometimes I feel that if it weren’t for cooking, I’d never get anywhere.

Oven-dried Tomatoes, the Ottolenghi way

(from Ottolenghi: The Cookbook)

These are good enough to just drop into your mouth after they cool. They’re even more marvelous in grain salads (like couscous) or on sandwiches.

16 large, ripe plum tomatoes, cut into halves lengthwise

2 tbsp muscovado sugar

2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

2 tbsp balsamic vinegar

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F. Arrange tomato halves on a baking tray, skin-side down and sprinkle with the sugar, olive oil, vinegar and several grinds of salt and pepper. Place in the oven and bake for 2 hours or until tomatoes have lost most of their moisture.

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[Recipe: Smoked Salmon & Chevre Strata]

Oh, to be a mannequin. They’re the ones outfitted in smart layers right now, in cashmere-blend cardis and scarves that float just so, in tight turtlenecks beneath tailored dresses.

Meanwhile I’m still trundling out the long, hot days in desert classics: shorts and tissue-thin tees and flip flops. It’s too hot to even wear sandals, to have more than that slim arch of plastic across the top of the foot.

If I weren’t so interested in survival, I’d go to autumn-fashion town. But since I’d hate to sweat to death just because I prematurely donned my riding boots, I’ve decided to cook in layers.

Yes, we did finally get around to food, didn’t we? A fascination with fashion can only get you so far. Eventually you get hungry.

I’m always looking for new ways to use the bounty of eggs available to me, and here’s a new one: strata. A strata — layers of egg custard, cheese, filling and cubes of crusty bread baked in the oven — is easily among the most elegant of savory egg dishes. It’s got the flexibility of an omelet, in terms of filling choices, but it’s got far less pomp and an attractive rusticity. It may look a little thrown together, but in truth it’s a constructed and considered dish — perhaps a little like your favorite fall outfit.

Smoked Salmon & Chevre Strata

adapted from Gale Gand’s recipe in House Beautiful

5 cups of cubed rustic bread, crust on
1 C grated mozzarella
10 large eggs
1 quart 2 percent or whole milk
1 tsp dry mustard
1 tsp kosher salt
8 oz smoked salmon
4 oz crumbled chevre
1 tbsp chopped tarragon

Butter or spray a 9 by 13-inch baking dish. Spread out the bread cubes in the dish and sprinkle with cheese. In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, mustard and salt. Pour egg mixture over the bread and cheese. Layer smoked salmon on top, then dot with chevre and sprinkle tarragon on top. Gently swirl the fillings with a spatula into the rest of the mixture. Cover and chill for at least 4 hours and up to 24.

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Bake strata for 1 hour, until the mixture has puffed a bit, is golden brown and set (shake the pan gently to check for shimmying uncooked custard, Gand says). Tent the dish with foil and continue to cook for a few minutes if the strata isn’t set and is browning too quickly. Let cool for 5 minutes, then cut into squares and serve.

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Call me determined. Call me stupid. I’m answering to both right now.

I don’t know how it happened, but I ran out of olive oil. I feel like I go through a lot, what with all the vinaigrettes I whip up and the sweet potatoes I roast and the pasta I dress. I often have a couple different bottles on hand to use in different recipes, but somehow, both of my regulars ran out at the exact same time — and at 8:30 in the morning, just as I was in the middle of making a batch of pizzette dough for dinner.

All I needed was 1/4 of a cup. Not much at all in the grand scheme of globally produced olive oil. I dumped both bottles upside down and let the drips ease into measuring cups, crossing my fingers that, between the two, I’d be able to come up with enough. In one bottle, there was barely a teaspoon. But when I peered into this bottle, I could swear I saw a 1/4 cup in there — it just wasn’t coming out.

I dug out my can opener and tried for several long and determined minutes to cut off the metal top, but between the ridge being a little tall on top and the metal being thicker than the usual can, it wasn’t really cutting through. I did what I could with the can opener and then, stupidly, I stuck my fingers in to pry the metal back.

I had a warning, a split-second rush of knowing: If I used my fingers, I was probably going to slit a finger or two open. But in pathetic desperation I did it anyway. Another split-second later, I had a gash — not a mere cut, but a gash — on the lower part of my left ring finger. This was three days ago, and it still looks nasty and threatens to bleed if I just look at it wrong.

But, I had my olive oil, barely enough.

And the bottle, which came out just better than my finger, was a perfect start to a fun little game that Camille at Croque-Camille tagged me with: Find seven blue things in your house (or thereabouts) and carry out a little show-and-tell.

So here are my seven: 1) the coasters I bought with my sister the day we drove to Ottawa from Montreal 2) the withholding bottle of Nicolas Alziari extra virgin that is responsible for the fat gauze around my finger 3) the picture on the calendar that came with my shipment of Rancho Gordo heirloom beans 4) a bag of all-purpose flour that gets used once in a blue moon 5) the Van Gogh sunflowers representation by Quinn three years ago in French preschool 6) some shimmering cookies I made last Christmas and 7) the blueberry scones I made for my birthday, courtesy of the Rose Bakery cookbook

I’m tagging Claire, Julianne, Brittney, and Tiffany.

I’m glad I experienced the bagel boom of the ’90s. You know: When bagel shops with their 32 flavors exploded onto the scene, sort of like the abundant cupcake bakeries of today (although, if I have to read about yet another cupcake-crafting phenom who left investment banking to make bank with their entrepreneurial flair for frosting, I’ll plotz).

Nowadays, of course, bagels are pretty much verboten. Even though we’re over our carb-fear affliction (at least the more reasonable among us are — you, with the sirloin, put that steak knife away and go toast something), shop bagels remain the size of small children’s heads.

During the ’90s, of course, this was not a dangerous thing, calorically speaking. I was young and newly vegetarian and so considered bagels a core food group. And my then-raring metabolism was more than happy to oblige.

This day and age — well, if I’m using phrases like “this day and age,” I’m probably not young enough to metabolize a regular bagel. Unless I make the bagels myself.

It’s part of why we cook and bake, right? We take things we normally wouldn’t feel good about consuming and make them fit more realistically into our efforts toward mindful eating; we take things that might otherwise be indulgences and make them nutritious.

Bagels, for me, fall into that category. Made in my kitchen, they can meet my oh-so-demanding specifications, a) that they be whole grain, through and through, b) that they be about the size of a small child’s kneecap, not head, and c) that they have the crisp-chewy texture and malty taste of a bagel — not a hole-in-the-middle squishy roll.

Naturally I used Peter Reinhart’s recipe. Find it here.

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My husband to me: “Hey, you know that weed you like to eat that you wrote about?”

Me: “You mean purslane?”

Brian: “Would you know it if you saw it? I think it’s growing in our front yard. The rabbits [wild, but cute, visitors] have been eating it.”

And so it is: Purslane! It’s moved on in, taken for its own a tiny patch of dirt, uninvited but totally welcome — in my front yard. It picked me!

I have my very own Portulaca oleracea! [sigh]

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I don’t know tomatoes. I suppose I know them enough. I eat them and love them and know not to buy them in January, when their bright waxy redness is a little too Stepford.

But I don’t know tomatoes, at least the be-all-end-all heirlooms. I have no academic knowledge informing me of the distinctions between Mortgage Lifters and Cherokee Purples, between White Wonders and Green Zebras. I’m not a hands-in-dirt kind of person (I have yet, as a card-carrying adult, to grow a single vegetable), the type who might be handy at identifying Brandywines or Black Krims. (And what might those of esteemed tomato knowledge be called anyway? Tomateys [following the pattern of 'wineys']? Tom Snobs? They’re out there, self-importantly tomato-name dropping.)

I may be ignorant, but I’m blissfully buying these tomatoes anyway. The girls and I wandered head-on into a great jumble of heirlooms in giant cardboard bins at the market the other day. Of course we stocked up, making our selections based on this quirk or that lump, this variegation or that dottiness. We bought more than we thought we could eat, because how could we choose? This petite yellow pointy one or this weighty burgundy one?

And, even though we don’t know the names of what we’re eating, we’re being rewarded for our dauntless sampling of these tomatoes in all their ornamental and flavor diversity.

The remarkable thing, the thing I can’t stop marveling over? Each tomato tastes different, and none taste just plain ‘tomato.’ One had a rich, winey taste. Another was almost beefy, if that’s possible. One had a definite sour punctuation.

So although names have poetic and practical place, who cares what these tomatoes are called when they taste so good? I’m not about to stop dripping tomato slush down my chin to check my heirloom tomato flashcards.

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