dash and bella

FIVE DAYS INTO ONE

2012-02-08T13:51:00.000-08:00

3 a.m.

Dash is horizontal in my bed, dreaming, his feet walking up my face.

And I am brain-churning, teeth-grinding, eyes-wide-open awake.

I press Dash's toes to my lips and imagine, one by one, losing everyone that I love. A car crash, a murder, several kidnappings.

I shake my head from side to side to expel the tragedy fantasies and slide into a more typical middle-of-the-night worry list.

Did I place the battery back into the smoke detector? What's causing the dead animal smell in the attic? Warm cabbage salad with almonds, anchovy vinaigrette, and navel orange? Or bacon and pine nuts? Why did I have that third glass of wine? Did I lock the front door? Who the fuck am I?

6:45 a.m.

Bella hovers. Sighs. Stomps. Shakes my shoulders. Pulls back the comforter. She shrieks, "We're going to be late for school and I hate being late."

"Bella. Please. CHILL. Just five more minutes."

Dash yells from the kitchen, "Mama, don't be mean to Bella. I love her."

Crash. Breaking glass.

Now I'm up.

Bella watches as I pull on yesterday's jeggings, white t-shirt, grey cardigan, and boots.

"Mama. You wore that yesterday. And your pants are so tight."

Dash enters the bedroom. "Mama. Why are you wearing your bathrobe?"

"Dash. This is a sweater. Can't you see that?"

"You need your coffee. It makes you stronger and nicer."

Bella yanks my t-shirt down to cover my belly and then takes a brush to my hair. "You would look so pretty with your hair in a high ponytail."

"I don't like to feel like a cheerleader."

Two sips of coffee.

And I fly.

Zit covered. Dog walked. Sharing toy found. Pork thrown into slow cooker. Field trip waiver signed. Six and seven "times tables" practiced.

8 a.m.

No time to sweep up the broken glass. Milk is left out. Compost never makes it to the curb. Teeth aren't brushed.

We speed to school, avoiding small children and dogs, blasting music, chewing mint gum.

"Daddy comes home Saturday."

Smiles.

"Dash. Bella. I'm so sick of Adele."

"Me too," says Dash. "I prefer Mozart. And Handel is nice too."

Bella looks disgusted and pushes her face further into her book.

"What? Dash? HANDEL? Where did you come from?

"From you, mama. I came out from behind your legs."

Bella would jump out of the car if we weren't moving so fast.

"Okay, lovelies. What's for dinner tonight?"

We decide on spaghetti carbonara with bacon (for Bella), Marcona almonds (for Dash), parsley, garlic, thick balsamic (for me), and three different cheeses.

6:45 p.m.

Broken glass swept up. Maya Angelou poem recited. French dictation practiced. Anchovies pestled. Nuts bashed. Garlic and shallots softened. Wine poured. Pitcher of pasta water reserved. Parsley chopped. Dog tranquilized. Another glass broken.

Pasta tossed, topped, drizzled.

Eat. Clean. Read. Snuggle. One kid down. Threaten to take away all playdates and sleepovers for the next year. Another kid down.

10 p.m.

Pour third glass of wine. Write. Fall asleep in bath. Drag ass to bed. Wish for my husband's hand, to encompass the crown of my head, to gently press me into sleep.

Repeat.

MARCONA ALMOND CARBONARA
printable recipe

Serves 3

This is a very forgiving recipe. Play. Cream or no cream. Or half and half. Or chicken stock. Skip the egg. Replace parsley with chives. Skip bacon. Use any hard cheese. Whatever.

ingredients:

6 slices bacon

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 shallots, peeled and finely diced

1 clove garlic, peeled and chopped or microplaned

1 tablespoon sherry wine vinegar
4 anchovy fillets
1/2 cup Marcona almonds
1 egg

juice/zest from 1/2 lemon

1/2 cup chopped flat parsley

1/2 cup heavy cream
1.5 cups grated cheese (any combination of parmesan, pecorino, romano, piave)

salt

pepper

salt for pasta water

1 pound dry pasta
for toppings: olive oil, balsamic (thick if you have it), salt, pepper, chopped parsley

directions:

Put on a big pot of water to boil pasta.

In a medium-sized cast iron or nonstick pan, fry up the bacon to your liking. Remove cooked bacon and place on paper towel. Pour out most of the bacon fat and reserve for other uses. Turn pan to medium heat. Add olive oil. Add shallots and cook until translucent. Add garlic and cook for one minute. Add vinegar and cook for 30 seconds. Turn off heat and set aside.

Bash anchovies with a mortar and pestle. Add almonds and bash until almost a paste but not quite.

In a large bowl (in which you will serve the pasta) add almond/anchovy mixture, egg. lemon juice/zest, parsley, cream, 1 cup of the cheese, salt, pepper, and cooked shallots/garlic. Whisk together.

Once the pasta water is boiling. add 1 tablespoon of salt. Add pasta. Before pouring pasta into a colander, scoop out and reserve at least 1 cup of pasta water. Cook pasta until al dente.

Add cooked and drained pasta to almond, anchovy, lemon juice/zest, parsley, cream, shallots, garlic mixture. Pour in 1/4 cup pasta water. Use tongs to combine. Taste. Add more pasta water, cheese, salt, and pepper as needed. Taste again.

Serve with toppings on the table: crumbled bacon, pasta water, parsley, parmesan, salt, pepper, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar.

MOVEABLE PARTS

2012-01-27T14:05:00.000-08:00

Dash moves through the world as if he doesn't have any bones, flinging his arms, whipping his leg around into a turn. A beautiful mashup of Release technique, Jose Limon, Capoeira, and clumsiness.

On the stovetop, heat a large Dutch oven or similar heavy-bottomed pot with lid.

When Bella has asthma, I place my hands around the sides of her rib cage and ask her to balloon her inhalation into my hands; as she exhales we visualize the diaphragm parachuting back under the ribs.

Season the beef shank (or 8 cross-cut 2" shanks) with salt and pepper. Add a splash of vegetable oil to the pot. Sear on high heat on all sides. Remove shank and set aside.

"Dash. Stop. You're going to knock Bella down the stairs. STOP!" I grab him hard. "Mama, you broke my bones!"

Add 1 tablespoon olive oil to pot. Toss in mirepoix (1 cup each of diced carrots, celery, onions). Cook at medium heat until vegetables soften. Add 5 anchovy fillets, 2 tablespoons maple syrup, and 2 tablespoons tomato paste. Stir until anchovies have melted. Turn off heat. Preheat oven to 200°F.

"Mama. I used to think that people built people. With hammers and saws and nails. Like a hand was nailed to an arm bone. But now I know that skin keeps everything together. Skin is sticky on the inside."

Place shank back into the pot. Add 15 peeled shallots and 3 heads of garlic, broken apart and unpeeled.

My shoulder blades feel like they're caught in vines. But Dash's still float free, swimming around like little rafts.

Empty an entire bottle of red wine over the shank. Make sure it's completely covered. If not, add water.

I hold my old dog down as he panics, inner thighs squeezing into his rib cage, torso pressing into his spine. I grasp his forearms and wait for the tranquilizer to kick in, for the weight of his bones to drop down into my hands. I press his head down with my chin. He resists. I push so hard my jaw cramps. I sob out, "Shit. Wylie. Come on." Finally, his neck muscles release and he goes down. And I rest, wrapped around him, for twenty minutes.

Place covered pot in the oven. Go to sleep. You may or may not wake up to the smell of disintegrating shallots, sweet garlic, and softening tendons (your hair and everything on the coat rack will smell for days). Check after 10 hours. It's done when the meat is falling off the bone.

If I weren't such a control freak, my bones would fly apart, away from my center, off into the universe.

Remove shank from the pot and set aside. Strain remaining liquid. Save what's left behind in the strainer. Every 5 minutes or so, over the course of 30 minutes, skim off and discard the fat that floats to the top of the sauce. Meanwhile, with your fingers (you might have to dig a bit) pull out and reserve cooked shallots. Do the same with the garlic cloves. Squeeze cooked garlic out of peels into strained/skimmed sauce. Whisk vigorously. Taste. Season with salt and pepper if necessary. Shred meat off of bones and place back into sauce along with shallots. Serve meat, shallots, and sauce over pasta (egg pappardelle works well). Top with chopped parsley and grated pecorino (and maybe some toasted pine nuts and pomegranate arils).

STAY

2012-01-05T14:03:00.000-08:00

You whisk the eggs and then slowly pour in the milk. A squeeze of fresh orange juice, vanilla extract, some salt. You whisk so vigorously you create an inch of foam. You're sweating but your left bicep feels strong.

You pour the batter over the three-day-old bread. You crank some music.

You ask the kids to take the dog to the backyard. They pound down the stairs with the reluctant dog and leave the front door open. You throw a chunk of butter onto the griddle and let it go too long because you love the smell of brown butter.

You close your right eye so that you can't see the pile of dishes from yesterday's oatmeal, last night's chicken, the food photography experiments, the wins, the losses.

You want to run away.

You turn up the song. You move your hips, your rib cage, your arms, twirling your hands like they contain castanets, spatula corkscrewing up to the ceiling.

You lift up the custard-soaked bread one piece at a time, delivering them to the griddle, dripping the egg mixture across the counter. You think, what's a little more mess? The sizzling makes you think you would make a really good short order cook and that it would be much easier than managing this house.

You remember that last night you slammed the bedroom door so fucking hard it cracked like one of those earthquake faults. San Andreas? Hayward? You can't remember which big one lies beneath the house. You sip your coffee and everything goes away. You put your mug down and it all comes back.

The pieces of French toast are lined up in two straight lines like Madeline's friends, steaming on the interior, craggy lines forming on the exterior.

The house is quiet.

You flip each piece. Splat. Splat. Splat. Butter flies onto your apron. You recently started buying aprons, because all your black clothes were stained with grease, but you swear you will never walk out of the house wearing one. No one will see this costume. You empty a bottle of maple syrup into a pot and turn on the heat.

You place the cooked slices onto a warm plate. Powdered sugar, lemon, jam, napkins, plates, and forks all to the table.

You step out of your clogs and bust out a pirouette. You can still do four in a row on the left side but you know better than to try the right side. You slide your shoes back on and you are almost 6 feet tall again. You like feeling tall.

You rise up on your toes, as if you're wearing toe shoes, and lengthen your spine up over the dirty dishes. You peek out of the kitchen window. The kids are not in the garden.

You run down the stairs, out the open door, and call out. Dash! Bella! Dash!

Your hands fly to your face. You feel your chest turn red and your heart start to race. You yell out to no one in particular. Oh my god! Where are they?

You are wearing red plaid pajamas, no bra, silver clogs, and a black and white striped apron. You are the crazy lady.

You continue screaming your kids' names as you run down the block. Around the corner. And then around another. And then there they are.

"Mama, I thought you'd be proud. We decided to walk Wylie around the block."

You grab Bella too hard around her upper arms and repeat over and over again that Dash is four. Four. Bella. Don't you know that he is four.

"Yeah, Bella. I'm four."

You sit down on the ground and pull them both into your lap, the dog manages to tangle you all up in the leash like you're tied to the railroad tracks in one of those old movies with a fast-paced plinking piano soundtrack.

Bella caresses Dash's check. And then your cheek. "I'm sorry, mama. But you know, I really can take care of him."

But you don't want her to have that much responsibility yet.

Dash was almost run over by a car. Twice. And then there were the hospital stays. The mushroom he ate. The Staphylococcus scare. And the spinal tap at seven weeks. And every second of every day for the first few years of his life when you couldn't turn your back on him for more than five seconds. The days when your heart was in your throat and your chest ached from too many shallow breaths.

"It's okay, mama. Dash is fine. Don't worry so much. How's the french toast?"

Shit.

The maple syrup.

You run as fast as you can all the way home, followed by Dash in his Crocs, Bella in her Uggs, tugging on the dog's leash. All those impractical shoes and no one trips.

Up the stairs, down the hall, into the kitchen. The thick maple foam is hovering right at the pot's edge. You pour the syrup into a pitcher. Dash reaches for it. You grab his wrist. Hardcore scary hot, you say. Don't touch. Please.

You pick him up and squeeze and spin and spin and squeeze.

You sit down and eat French toast with extra thick maple syrup. It turns to candy as it hits the cold plates.

"Mama. It's even better than regular maple syrup. We should do things like this every time from now on."

Okay. Bella. I will try. I will try. I will try.

FRENCH TOAST WITH MAPLE SYRUP GLAZE

printable recipe

serves 4

This is a template. You can add fewer eggs. Or more eggs. You can add Grand Marnier, nutmeg, cinnamon, heavy cream, or half and half. It's pretty much impossible to mess up French toast. You can even replace the milk with eggnog.

(Alternatively, you can soak the bread overnight in the custard. The next morning, sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake at 350°F until cooked through, 25 minutes or so. Broil the top until golden brown.)

ingredients:

16-20 slices stale white bread (challah or sourdough boules are particularly good)

6 eggs

4 cups whole milk

2 tablespoons orange juice

2 teaspoons orange zest

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1/2 vanilla bean, halved lengthwise, seeds scraped out

pinch salt

butter for grilling and serving

1 cup maple syrup

directions:

Place bread one layer thick in a sheet pan or in a large baking dish. Set aside.

Whisk eggs. Whisk in milk. Add orange juice/zest, vanilla extract, vanilla bean seeds, and salt. Whisk the heck out of it. Or just put it all in the blender. Pour over the bread. Let the bread soak up the custard. Flip the slices after a few minutes.

While the bread is soaking up the custard, pour maple syrup into a big pot. Bring it to a boil on the back of the stove. Turn down to medium and boil for at least 5 minutes. The longer you go, the closer it will get to candy. Pour into a pitcher to cool a little.

Crank up your griddle or pan to medium heat. Add some butter. Once melted, place custard-soaked bread on the griddle. Don't turn to high heat or they will burn on the outside before cooking on the inside. Flip when nicely browned. Eat right away with butter and piping hot maple syrup. Or with powdered sugar and lemon juice. Or cook lots of it. Cool. Then freeze in Ziploc bags. When you want a piece, thaw it in the toaster.

OLD SCHOOL

2011-12-23T14:28:00.000-08:00

No time to write, but here are a few things I'm cooking this week.

The first three recipes are from my blog's early early days (two years ago). Be gentle. I'm sure these posts have their share of typos and badly lit photos (I didn't yet know about backlight and bokeh). But the recipes are solid.

My husband will do anything for the gingerbread that's fourth on this list. It's that good. The first few steps involve boiling beer with molasses, throwing in some baking soda, and standing back as the mixture erupts. My kids love it. I love it.

Just yesterday, I found the fifth recipe on this list. I've never made cake with pork and then set it on fire but it just sounds like so much fucking fun.

I created the last recipe on the list for Daily Candy Kids. Cook the lamb chops rare and please eat them with your fingers! The leftover kale pesto works really well as a tomato sauce replacement on pizza.

Let me know what you're cooking. Either in the comments below, on Facebook, or on Twitter. Happy holidays!

1. Marshmallows.
2. Iceberg Wedge Salad with Buttermilk Roquefort Dressing.
3. Lamb Pie.
4. Gramercy Tavern Gingerbread. (With 3 changes. Cut the white and brown sugar amounts in half, strain the batter with a fine strainer, mix in 2 T freshly ground ginger to strained batter. Oh, and blackstrap molasses work great, so don't worry.)

5. Melissa Clark's Flaming Spiced Pork Cake.
6. Lamb Chops with Kale Pesto and Lemon Crème Fraîche.

IDENTITY

2011-11-27T18:08:00.001-08:00

Helianthus tuberosus, sunroot, sunchoke, topinambour, earth apple. I've never cooked a vegetable with so many names.

Last Sunday afternoon, Bella wrote up a list of all the dinners she wanted for the week. Then she handed me a detailed grocery list as I mumbled, "Where do you come from? Are you sure we're related?" I never plan more than a day ahead for meals.

The most common name is Jerusalem artichoke. But they have nothing to do with Jerusalem and they aren't even in the artichoke family.

Having taken care of the meals for the week, Bella looked down at my scrappy boots and took on my fashion sense.

Above ground, the yellow flowers are similar to those of the sunflower (they are, in fact, both members of the Asteraceae family), leading to yet another name: girasole (Italian for sunflower).

"Mama. Really. You would look so great in high-heeled super shiny tall black boots."

The girl I cooked up almost nine years ago is now encouraging me to bring out my trashy side.

If you say girasole ten times fast it really does start to sound like Jerusalem. Just a theory. Try it?

"Mama, can I get streaks in my hair?"

"Like blond streaks?"

"No, like turquoise or pink."

I've always wanted pink streaks in my hair. She will not get them first.

Below ground, the edible tubers are often confused with the ginger root.

Bella sat down to help me prep dinner and teach Dash how to peel Jerusalem artichokes (with a few pauses in there for daydreaming).

"Turn the peeler around. That's right, Dashi. Well done."

"But Bella, this is so HARD."

"Dashi, you're doing it. You're amazing."

The texture is somewhere between potatoes and jicama.

They managed to peel about 20 of them before Dash grabbed Bella's peeler. So she smacked him upside the head. He punched her in the ribs. She told him she would hate him forever. And he took out his cardboard sword and threatened to kill her.

When you peel them, reddish steaks might appear directly below the skin, almost like burst blood vessels.

In a disturbingly calm voice I said, "I'm done with both of you. Done."

Dash looked stunned. His mama can still break his heart. But Bella, unfazed, grabbed her glasses and started to read.

Don't eat too many in one sitting because they're hard to digest and can make you gassy.

I put on my headphones, pretended I didn't have children, and researched Jerusalem artichokes.

For an easy purée, boil 20 or so peeled Jerusalem artichokes in heavily salted water for about 10 minutes (they cook very fast). Drain off water and return them to the pot. Over low heat, mash with a fork but keep it a bit chunky. Add 1/2 stick of butter, 1/2 cup of heavy cream, salt, and pepper. Taste. Adjust. Serve immediately topped with chopped chives and/or parsley. You could certainly skip the butter and cream and use milk instead. But that would be sad.

The next morning, Bella made her own breakfast, helped Dash get dressed, and then reminded me to marinate the lamb chops. I hugged her her so tight she gave me the double eye roll. I ran my fingers through her hair, and considered her request.

"So, Bella. Streaks, eh? I'm open to that. Should I get some too?

"What? Really? No, mama. I don't think they would look good with your clothes. You wear too much grey."

So I went online and researched boots.

OPEN

2011-11-22T10:14:00.001-08:00

For 41 years, my heart has pumped, raced, believed, yearned, hungered, lost, and won.

I wonder what this 2-year old cow heart experienced before getting cut into six pieces, Cryovaced, and thrown into the bottom of my chest freezer.

"Mama, if your head were sawed off by a chainsaw, would you live?"

"Nope."

"Mama. can you live without your feet?"

"What do you think?"

"Um. Um. Yes!"

"This is a fun game, Dash. Can you live without your elbow?"

"Ha! Silly. Of course."

"Okay. What about your heart."

"No, mama. You need your heart to live."

I kicked my husband and kids out of the house so that I could cook cow heart all by myself. I had some crazy fantasy that the heart would taste special. Powerful. Resilient. Vulnerable.

Once seasoned, seared, and sliced, I just wanted to eat this beautiful organ in its purest form. And so did Wylie the dog. We sat down outside and nibbled together, he the fatty bits and I the lean. It was earthy and a bit chewy, but neither of us minded.

I cubed the remaining meat and tossed it with garlic, lemon, Worcestershire sauce, olive oil, parsley, salt, and smoky paprika.

And then everyone came home. Bella went straight to her room, eyes covered so as not to catch a glimpse of what was going down in the kitchen. Dash pulled up a stool to talk hearts.

"Dash, what does your heart do?"

"Mama, it loves."

"Yes. But did you know it can also ache?"

"Yes, like a tummy ache. A heart aches if you eat too much candy.You can even have two heart aches at the same time."

"Feel my heart. it's going boom boom boom."

"And it's this big."

I put my hand to his chest to feel his heart doing its thing. It was reassuring to feel the pulse against my palm.

"And now, mama, I'm going to make a double decker cow heart sandwich."

Bella came out of her room and braved the kitchen.

"Bella? I'm eating cow heart. You want some?"

"No thank you. Dash. No. I don't need any."

Bella is trying crazy hard to be nice to Dash because she wants to watch television again before she turns eighteen.

Bella looked Dash in the eye and said, "Just chew up all the cow heart before you come into my room and play. And wash your hands."

COW HEART SALAD

printable recipe

You could make this with flank or strip steak. It's not really a salad. But we've been calling it that for a week now so it stuck.

ingredients:

1 pound or so cow heart

salt

pepper

1 tablespoon canola oil

juice/zest from 1/2 lemon

1 teaspoon sherry wine vinegar

1 tablespoon olive oil

splash Worcestershire sauce

1/3 cup chopped parsley

1 teaspoon fresh horseradish (optional)

smoky paprika

chopped chives

shaved parmesan

directions:

Season heart with salt and pepper. Heat a cast iron pan with canola oil until smoking hot. Sear heart on all sides until nicely browned. I removed mine when it was super rare. Check by slicing it open and taking a peek. It will continue to cook a bit after you take it off the heat. Let it rest for 5 minutes or so. Slice it thinly. Then stack the slices and cut into cubes.

Place cubes of heart in a bowl. Top with salt, pepper, lemon juice/zest, sherry vinegar, olive oil, Worcestershire sauce, parsley and optional horseradish. Mix. Taste. Adjust. I like it mighty acidic but you might prefer it a bit less intense. It can sit for an hour or so. Before serving, use a fine tea strainer to top with a light sprinkling of paprika. You can top it with more chopped parsley and shaved parmesan. Serve on crackers or grilled bread.

DEPTH

2011-11-08T22:19:00.000-08:00

"Mama. You talk a lot about cows."
- Dash

I woke up at 2:30 a.m. in a sweaty panic, an unfamiliar weight on my chest, a heaviness of death around me. I had never met him, but his soft face was in my dreams. He had these uneven black and white splotches around large mournful eyes. I wrapped my arms around him like I would a sick child.

The next morning, I drove into San Francisco, sleep-deprived, under-caffeinated, stressed that I hadn't gotten everything in caregiver-order for my kids. Then some goddamn beautiful piece by Bach started playing on the radio and I started sobbing. For the cow.

It had already been a week filled with death and bones.

When is our dog dying?
Did Mozart die?

Mama, I'm drawing a picture of the inside of you — your bones.

I had a dream I was dying.

I arrived at 4505 Meats for a 9-hour cow butchering class. Five fellow students and I entered the restaurant kitchen and met the amazing Ryan Farr: butcher, teacher, owner of 4505 Meats, and author of the just-released Whole Beast Butchery.

And then we met our cow.

He was not the still-warm, shiny-eyed, pink-tongued cow of my dreams. This Angus-Hereford cross, after living the happy life for 2 years at Magruder Ranch in Potter Valley, California, had already been dead for a week. He was skinned, beheaded, and in four pieces. Not very huggable.

"Just cut."
- Butcher Ryan Farr

They hung him up one piece at a time. A hind quarter. A fore quarter. These lovely butchers don't use chainsaws. They use their hands, their intuition, their sharp knives, and multiple bone saws. I was very moved by the delicate balance between their quiet precision and brute strength.

"Eww. Mama! You smell like COW!"

- Dash and Bella

We circled the pieces of dripping carcass like humble vultures, tentatively prodding, smelling, manipulating, questioning. I steadied the swaying rib cage with my hand and dug in deep with my fingers.

I (unevenly) sawed the left front fore quarter, between the 4th and 5th ribs, until it split in half with a crack that reverberated through my body and down into my heels. I tidied up one of the kidneys. I struggled to separate some t-bone steaks as sweat poured down my back. I removed the skirt, the flank, and the flap from what looked like a cow suit jacket.

"How can I eat this? Not, how can I cut this?"

- Butcher Ryan Farr

I brought home 86 pounds of Cryovaced beef parts. One sixth of the cow.

If you come over to my house, I will geek out and offer you a tour of my freezer that's packed with beef grind, bones, chuck roast, flank, flap, heart, kidney, leg steaks, liver. marrow, porterhouse, rib eye bone in, round steaks, shanks, short/plate rib, sirloin roasts, skirt, t-bone, tenderloin, and tri tip.

Round one: SHORT RIBS.

We tossed our ribs into the slow cooker to bring out all kinds of tastiness.

One piece of cow down.

Nineteen more to go.

And I just ordered a bone saw. Because I'm in training.

SLOW-COOKED SHORT RIBS:
According to Kent Schoberle of 4505 Meats: "The short ribs attach to the prime rib section, specifically the middle to upper section of the ribs closest to the rib eyes. The lower you get down the ribs, the closer you are to the plate meat. They work well slow-cooked because there are plenty of connective tissues and fibers that need long cooking times to coax out the flavor."

Season the short ribs with salt and pepper. Add 1 tablespoon of canola or olive oil to a skillet and heat until smoking hot. Sear the heck out of all the sides. Remove meat from the pan and set aside. Turn the heat to medium and toss in 6 or so sliced shallots. Cook until translucent and soft. Turn heat down to low and add anywhere from 1-6 anchovy fillets and 4 cloves of finely chopped garlic. Stir for about a minute until garlic smells nutty and anchovies have melted a bit. Turn off heat.

Place meat in a slow cooker (or place meat in a large ovenproof pot with a lid and preheat oven to 225°F). Add anchovy/garlic/shallot mixture to the meat. Throw in a whole lemon. Pour in liquid to cover the meat (any combination of red wine, water, stock). Cover with a lid. Cook until the meat falls apart at the touch of a fork. Be patient. It can take anywhere from 3 to 6 hours. Remove meat from the sauce. Use the back of a soup spoon to press down on the lemon and release the juices. Stir to combine. Let the sauce sit for 10 minutes. Then skim off the fat that has risen to the top of the sauce. Let sit for 10 more minutes and skim fat off again.

If you can track down some fresh cranberry beans, simmer them in some chicken stock with sliced garlic until tender (you could also use any already-cooked white beans from a jar or can). Use some of the short rib sauce as the base for couscous (1/2 chicken stock and 1/2 short rib sauce). Combine the cooked beans with the remaining sauce. Serve the short ribs on couscous topped with cranberry beans and sauce. Garnish with lots of chopped parsley.

"When do you think we'll finish eating that cow? Because I want you to do a lamb."

- Bella

CONNECTING

2011-10-13T10:24:00.000-07:00

Dash has bursts of energy that can result in television-punching, sister-mauling, and one very pissed off mama.

I'm not always proud of what comes out of my mouth. Find some ahimsa, dude. Settle down. Get it together. Chill out. Control yourself. Shit. You're insane.

But sometimes I manage to meet him at his level and say the right things. Why are you so angry? I want to help you. Where do you feel the intensity in your body? He points to his chest. We knock knock on his sternum. Come out crazies, we plead. Just come out and we'll take care of you.

We channel his waves of fervor into drawings, diaphragm-squishing hugs, and maniacal scooter rides around the block. And when these releases aren't enough, we bust out the tape and the rope.

Dash's intricate tape and rope installations freak out the dog and cause my grandmother to trip. But I think they're beautiful. A chair connected to a hanger, around the door knob, under the sofa, down the hall, and around my favorite boots.

Sometimes a list can stop Dash in his tracks. There's nothing quite like hearing the what, when, where, why, and how of a mama's love.

"Dash. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." As my list builds, you see the intensity drop down and out of his body. He melts. And then he slips into my lap.

And sometimes, I'm the one who gets grounded by a love list.

"Mama, now let ME count the ways of YOU."

"Okay. Go."

"Number one. I love your sparkly shirt. Two I love how you cook. Three is that I love that you let me stay up at night for one minute or two to get out my energy. Number four I love how you match me on Halloween. Number six I love to hold your hand. Number seven I love your feet. And I love your eyebrows."

"One more?"

"Okay. Number 10, right? I love those package things we made with fig leaves and ricotta."

So we make them again.

Place one large fig leaf (or several smaller ones) seam side up. Add a big scoop of fresh sheep's milk ricotta.

Always an anchovy, says Dash.

Always some lemon zest, I say.

A handful of pine nuts. Some salt.

Some garlic confit? Some scraps of prosciutto. A few drops of olive oil.

And then get busy tying.

Your kids can do every step of this process. Have them tuck in all four corners. And then they can just go crazy wrapping, tightening, and knotting.

If you ask Dash, he will tell you that a chocolate and ricotta package would be "exterminably delicious."

Throw them onto an open fire. Or bake them in your oven. Or grill them (just like we did) on a pancake griddle. High heat for 10 minutes or so—just enough to infuse the ricotta with the essence of fig leaves. The flavor of fig leaves, by the way, is indescribable. We all tried to find the words. Herbacious? Green? Disgusting? Sweet? We all failed.

Open the packages up at the table, smear the contents onto some grilled bread, and experience what my brother described as an "awesome savory cheese danish with pig fat."

You heard him right. Pig Fat Cheese Danishes. Bring it on.

A LIST ABOUT RICOTTA PACKAGES:

1. I've tried these packages with leaves from three different kinds of fig trees: Adriatic, Black Mission, and Brown Turkey. They all imparted slightly different flavors—all pleasurable.

2. The old-school ricotta I grew up with was firm and gelatinous. Not appealing unless puréed into pancakes. But more and more cheesemongers and markets have fresh sheep or cow's milk ricotta that's moist, fluffy, and sweet. Make sure to eat it within a few days because sour ricotta is not appealing.
3. Or make your own.

4. Try different flavor combinations with the ricotta. Figs and honey. Pomegranate arils and parsley. Plums and balsamic. Preserved lemons and apricots.
5. These packages can be re-heated in the oven with great success.
6. I experienced ricotta baked in fig leaves for the first time at Oakland's Camino restaurant. Just wanted to send out massive thanks to chef Russell Moore. Wow, can this dude work a fire. His food is such an inspiration.
7. The figs are just ripening on the trees around Berkeley. But I realize that some of you from other areas might need to wait until next summer!
8. Have your kids taste the milky substance that drips out of the stems. And then ask them to describe it. Dash and I need some help.

AMALGAMATION

2011-10-06T14:24:00.000-07:00

My grandmother took 24 hours to get back to me with feedback about my fig tart with blue cheese and honey. I was a bit worried.

"Here's the thing."

Big pause from Grandma Phyllis.

"It was very good."

Phew.

"Grandma, what is it?"

"I'm just not sure if this is supposed to be lunch or dessert,"

I say it can be both.

Or neither.

It's a cheese and fruit course slammed together.

It's a teatime treat (yes, we do tea around here).

It's my kind of sweet and savory breakfast combo.

It's tasty with Sauvignon Blanc.

Or Pinot Noir.

It can be eaten with your fingers.

Or it can be delicately nibbled with my (other) grandmother's fancy ivory-handled dessert forks.

It works with a salad of baby gems and warm anchovy vinaigrette.

And it's a perfect match for a roast chicken.

And it turns out my kids will eat anything that's drizzled with honey. Even figs baked with lots of stinky Roquefort.

FIG AND BLUE CHEESE TART WITH (LOTS OF) HONEY
printable recipe
ingredients:
1 recipe for shortcrust pastry dough
3/4 cup goat cheese
1/3 cup parmesan cheese, grated
1 egg
3 tablespoons heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon salt
pepper
12-14 figs, halved and stems trimmed off
1/2 cup blue cheese (Roquefort, Stilton, Wisconsin, Gorgonzola—any blue will do)
honey for drizzling
directions:
Remove dough from the fridge 10 minutes ahead of time to soften. Preheat oven to 350°F. Roll out dough and press into a 9" tart pan. Pre-bake for 10 minutes. The dough might puff up or slide down a bit. Down worry. Just press it back in. Remove from oven and cool while preparing cheese mixture.
In a standing mixer (or by hand), mix together goat cheese, parmesan, egg, heavy cream, salt, and pepper. Spread cheese evenly into the bottom of the pre-baked shell. Place sliced figs cut side up haphazardly or carefully on top of the cheese mixture. Crumble (if dry) or scoop (if creamy) chunks of blue cheese all over the tart. Bake until cheese base is set and figs are nicely browned (you might need to throw it under the broiler for a minute for optimum color). Drizzle honey all over the tart. Please don't serve it cold. It's icky cold.

UNDER THE INFLUENCE

2011-09-29T23:11:00.000-07:00

Ah. The Solanaceae family. The alkaloids present in this tribe can bring about good, bad, and ugly effects.

Toxic: form of green potatoes or night berries.

Stress-inducing: form of herpes outbreaks or swollen joints.

Intoxicating: form of wild tobacco.

Curative: form of Homeopathic Belladona.

My three favorite Solanums (in no particular order) are melongena, lycopersicum, and tuberosum. Eggplant, tomatoes, and potatoes. I often douse them with some combination of lemon zest, garlic, pepper, heavy salt, balsamic vinegar, and olive oil. Different temperatures and cooking times produce surprisingly diverse results.

Here's what I joyously slammed out one day while Dash and Bella hung out at school. I had a lot to do. And as lovely as my children are, I didn't want them in the way.

Dash and Bella contributed when they came home from school. With chalk. With drama. With excitement. With a punch to the chest (Dash to Bella). With a wow (Dash). A yummy (Bella!). An onslaught of blechs and yucks (from both). And a hella loud and teary I-won't-eat-that-eggplant-for-dinner-no-way-that's-disgusting (Bella to me with hands firmly planted on hips). A balls-out confirmation that I'm not doing this cooking thing in a vacuum. I'm living it with two little explorers who will forever keep me on my toes. Even if I send them away for a few hours during the day, they will come back and get their fingers, and opinions, and creativity into everything. Lucky me.

No recipe links in this post. Just a smattering of thoughts about each dish. There are no right ways to cook nightshades. Play around if you can. That's all I did. Taste, touch, see, sense, hear, smell, lick, feed, slurp, share, freeze.

QUICK TOMATO SAUCE (LEMON + GARLIC): Preheat oven to 325°F. Season cored whole tomatoes with salt, pepper, and minimal olive oil. Tuck unpeeled garlic cloves into tomatoes bodies. Bake until the tomatoes are softened, blackened, and swimming in their own juices. I threw the results into a Ziploc bag along with the contents of each garlic clove (squirted out) and roasted eggplant (see below). Bella enthusiastically pounded and mushed it all together in the bag. It's in the freezer for December.

LEMON, GARLIC, AND ANCHOVY POTATOES: I did a lime variation of this last month. This time I used lemon. Preheat oven to 350°F. Peel and slice the yukon gold potatoes (1/2" wide) and place them in a baking dish. Coat them with lots of salt, pepper, and olive oil. Toss in a few rosemary branches and a lemon (or two) cut into eighths (remove as many seeds as you can). In a small pot, boil 10 unpeeled cloves of garlic and a tin of anchovy fillets (plus their oil) for 2 minutes. The mixture will start to snap, crackle, and pop, so stand back. Pour this oily fishy deliciousness over the potatoes. Toss with a spoon until evenly coated. Cover tightly with a lid or tin foil. Cook until potatoes are tender. 45 minutes or so. You can leave them pale and tender. Or you can broil them up for a few minutes until crispy. Eat right away. Or make a tart with puff pastry + sweet red pepper puree + roasted garlic + potato slices.

ROASTED EGGPLANT: Eggplant takes time. Don't compromise and eat spongy eggplant because it's nasty and depressing. Preheat oven to 350°F. Trim off the stems and then cut the eggplants into lengthwise sticks (about 1" or so wide). Lightly coat with salt, pepper, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. Add a thinly sliced onion and a handful of unpeeled garlic cloves. Turn the heat down if it starts to burn. Add more oil as needed. Roast until eggplant is gooey and sweet (at least an hour, maybe more). You can chop this up and add it to your quick tomato sauce (above). Or serve it over lamb chops with some crumbled goat cheese and chopped parsley. It's also lovely folded into couscous.

3-HOUR TOMATOES: Preheat oven to 225°F. Core and halve a mess of (smaller) tomatoes. Coat with salt, pepper, lemon zest, microplane-grated garlic, and olive oil. After 3 hours in the oven, these tomatoes turn into crispy candy cups filled with caramelized tomato pulp reduction. Tart and sweet at the same time.They keep for a few days in the fridge. Or a bit longer packed in olive oil. Or you can freeze them for months. Or, once again, make a tart! Puff pastry (or shortcrust pastry) + a goat cheese base (1 cup goat cheese, 1 egg, 2 tablespoons heavy cream, salt, pepper) + 3-hour tomatoes.

10-HOUR TOMATOES: Yes, they're oven-dried, but they look, feel, and taste just like sun-dried tomatoes. 200°F. Salt, pepper, olive oil. Check them after 8 hours. Drench them in olive oil immediately. You can season the oil with a few peeled whole garlic cloves and thyme branches. Freeze if you don't use it within about 5 days.

TOXICITY

2011-09-08T00:17:00.000-07:00

The presence of concord grapes ANYWHERE in the house causes my mom, dad, and grandmother to moan and groan and gripe about the nastiness of Welch's Grape Jelly and purple-barfy-cafeteria juice.

The ingestion of too many grapes can cause kidney failure in dogs.

Handfuls of these seedy cultivars give Dash a tummy ache and bring about endless requests for television.

But last Sunday, I said screw them all and made concord grape sauce.

As I plucked, rinsed, and sizzled the grapes in burning sugar, I thought about Heather Ho. Ten years ago, she was the executive pastry chef at Windows on the World.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, as I looked straight down Greenwich Street at the flames pouring out of the North Tower, I didn't know that Heather was back in New York City. I thought she was in San Francisco.

Boom. A plane flew into the South Tower.

I worked with Heather in pastry at Bouley Restaurant. When I saw the strength, speed, and elegance with which she cut through the space, lugging bain maries and passing purées through China caps, I knew I wasn't cut out for restaurant work. At least not at this level. With people like Heather. She kicked some serious butt.

I watched the South Tower fall right out of the sky.

Month after month, I was awed by Heather's ice cream-making skills; she pounded out endless batches of vanilla, chocolate, salty caramel and prune Armagnac. I swear she got faster and faster with every passing day.

29 minutes later, the North Tower slid down. Such a big building. So much to crumble. It looked like a slow motion movie. Windows on the World occupied the top two floors. Pastry chefs go to work early.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god," I ran down Bethune Street screaming. "Those people. All of those people." My husband of three weeks pulled my body into his and held me like I might capture a thrashing and tantrumy Dash or Bella. From the back, arms pinned to my chest.

My best friend, Marianne, was walking around the World Trade Center rubble. I yelled through the phone at her boyfriend, Simon, to get her the fuck out of there.

"She has to be there. It's her job," Simon said. Marianne is a reporter for WNYC. Turns out he was as angry as I was. But someone had to sound strong.

Heather's apron was often covered with concord grape purée. I would wipe the purple splats off her eyebrows. Or pull the dark skins out of her hair. She made delicious concord grape sorbet that I would sample late at night as we finished off deserted bottles of Pétrus (if we were lucky) or Gigondas.

I walked south, tried to help, and was turned away by the cops. A few people busted through the barricades and ran into the eerily calm Ground Zero. I wasn't that brave.

I had coffee with Heather right before she moved to San Francisco to work at Boulevard. We talked about the Bay Area and her excitement about the change.

A silent crowd of onlookers hung out across the street from St. Vincent's Hospital waiting for the ambulances to arrive. We waited. And waited. There was no one to save. Within hours, photocopies of missing people were plastered all over the bus stops and storefronts.

There is a parking lot behind Peet's Coffee in Santa Monica that smells just like the burning World Trade Center. Hot rubber. Acrid. Throat-burning.

The week of 9/11, Marianne and Simon stayed with us every night. Lower Manhattan was closed off from the rest of the city. We were in a bubble of helplessness. At odd hours, I would wrap Marianne in my grey raincoat and send her back down into the ashen sadness.

Unbeknownst to me, Heather had moved back to New York City to work at Windows on the World. She had given her notice before September 11th. Her dream was to open her own pastry shop. But she was sticking around until they found a replacement.

I fed Marianne a pesto lasagna. I made Simon a birthday dinner on September 13th. I tucked them into bed on our living room floor.

We anguished about the missing people, the abandoned dogs, the fumes.

The sound of the sirens from the West Side Highway went all day and all night for weeks.

Three weeks after 9/11, my husband and I moved to Los Angeles. I'll never forget that cold October evening, telling Marianne that I loved her through the Bethune Street gate. I'll never forgive myself for leaving when I did.

I had the grey raincoat dry cleaned but I never wore it again.

If I hear sirens for more than 5 minutes, my brain jumps to planes crashing into Berkeley. I check the online news and then I go up to my attic to look out over the hills for destruction.

I still have nightmares about planes crashing into my parents' house. Into my house.

Marianne spent the past four months working on a radio documentary for WNYC (distributed by PRX) called Living 9/11. In it you will hear stories from then, now, and the ten years in between. Marianne interviews those trying to make sense of what happened, those living with PTSD, and those barely functioning at all. Some have found closure while others don't believe closure is even possible. And a few have a newfound appreciation for every backyard BBQ and every breath. I am so proud of this hour of radio I can hardly stand it.

Here's to Heather and Marianne. One for teaching me to cook my ass off and the other for teaching me how to tell stories. I will never even approach what they've accomplished, but I will continue to try.

And here's my recipe for Concord Grape Sauce.

(And for all you Welch's Grape Juice haters, I've added an alternate sauce made with peaches and vanilla bean.)

CONCORD GRAPE SAUCE

printable recipe

(You can replace the grapes with 10 peeled and pitted white peaches. Throw in some vanilla bean as you simmer the peaches.)
ingredients:
1/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons water
4 cups concord grapes, rinsed, stemmed, and dried
1/2 lemon
pinch of salt
directions:
Place sugar and water in a medium-sized saucepan. Cook over medium heat. Swirl it around by the pot handle to keep it cooking evenly. When it starts to smoke and turn light brown, toss in the grapes. Careful. It might spatter. Don't worry if the sugar seizes up and hardens. It will melt back down into the sauce. Stir on medium heat until grapes have softened and released their juices (about 10 minutes). Take off the heat and pour through a medium or fine strainer. Use the back of a wooden spoon to press through as much of the fruit as possible. Discard pulp and skins. Stir in the salt and a bit of lemon juice. Taste. Adjust if needed. Serve hot over ice cream. Or cool completely and drizzle over yoghurt. It keeps in the fridge for a few days (it will mold quickly because there's not much sugar in it). It will keep for a few months in the freezer.

REALITY

2011-08-24T19:50:00.000-07:00

I don't want to eat dinner with Dash and Bella every night. Sometimes I just crave leaning over the kitchen sink with a peach. I'm sick of bombarding my kids with the napkin-in-your-lap-elbows-off-the-table-SIT-DOWN-mouth-closed-while-you-chew-just-try-something-green-just-try-it-once-please requests. It's harder to cook and eat with my kids than without them. It takes more time. More energy. And all those salt-grabbing hands and incessant questions.

But I'm never frustrated for long because my kids are spilling over with something awesome: a love of the family meal and the feeling that the kitchen is the coolest place to be in the house.

Dash will yank me down to his level, give me a rosemary-scented kiss, and whisper. "Mama, I've picked some herbs. Let's make some salad dressing. My recipe."

Or I'll exhale a "wow" as I watch Bella separate an egg. Such ease as she jiggles the delicate yolk in her hand. And the pride she takes in watching the clean white slip down through her fingers into a bowl.

So we have a little gardening and a lot of cooking going on at our house. But imagine an organization that does this on a national level and reaches out to thousands of kids and their families. Alice Waters (of Chez Panisse) and her Edible Schoolyard Project are doing just that by teaching kids to garden, harvest, and cook. And for all you naysayers who believe these aren't valuable skills (I'm not naming any names), try writing a recipe and notice the direct application of science, math, and English. And, of course, there's the ultimate payoff of giving a kid the tools to feed himself and his family healthful food. And then passing it on to his kids. And so on.

This Saturday, August 27th (in conjunction with Chez Panisse's 40th birthday), you can support edible education by Eating for Education. Eat out at one of the participating restaurants and a portion of the proceeds will be donated to The Edible Schoolyard Project and other school garden programs around the country. Or host your own dinner and gather up some donations.

Or just let this community inspire you. Bring a child into your garden. Pick some mint together. Let him crack an egg. Let her snip some chives. Whisk with his hand on top of yours. Start small.

And if you need an extra push, here are a few things I've learned after cooking with my kids almost every day for two years. And some tips on getting (and keeping) your kids' butts in the kitchen.

THERE'S NO NEED TO REINFORCE KIDS' FOOD DISLIKES BY SAYING THEM OUT LOUD. LET THEM EXPRESS THEIR AVERSIONS. AND THEN JUST SMILE AND NOD.
This month, Dash wouldn't eat corn because "it's so disgusting."

But he really wanted to eat this.

"Mama, we're going to eat the frog's legs AND tongue. But mama, how do we NOT eat their germs?"

I would have asked the same thing. Look at that slimy tongue covered with germs. This little dude had spent the night at the bottom of my grandmother's pool.

EVEN IF THEY WON'T EAT IT, THEY STILL MIGHT WANT TO TOUCH IT.
Bella hates the smell, the look, and the taste of oysters. But she was fiercely committed to learning how to open them. She quietly left the room when Dash started using his front teeth to beaver-scrape the gooey bodily remains out of each shell.

LET THEM PLAY.

Dash's shucking technique was far inferior to Bella's. He didn't protect his hand. He had the wrong angle. But I let him try. The last time he and I ate oysters together, he was not solo-wielding the shucker.

IF THEY MAKE IT, THEY JUST MIGHT EAT IT.

Warm cabbage and potato salad with anchovy vinaigrette?

"Yes, please," said Bella.

LOVE...

2011-08-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

1. Brown Sugar Ice Cream with Butterscotch Chips. The cooled custard tastes like chocolate chip cookie dough (minus the chocolate chips).

2. Jeni Britton Bauer's ice cream book. She will teach you what I can't. All kinds of tricks about preventing iciness (corn starch) and enhancing creaminess (cream cheese).

3. Poetry about onions.

4. Learning how to balance.

5. Eating savory galettes. This one with asparagus, potatoes, and cherry tomatoes was hella coveted. I do like the messy look.

6. Patti Smith's Just Kids. Magical. Hearbreaking.

7. Photographing a bleeding Apricot, Blueberry and Almond Galette.

8. J.J. Sullivan's New York Times Magazine article about pot, Walt Disney World, and parenting. Hilarious. And here's some more of his (Pushcart Prize-winning) writing in case you like it as much as I do.

9. Oven-Dried Tomato Jam + Kefir Labneh cheese = one kick ass tart. (I'm still working on the recipe for the Peach and Almond Tart on the right. It was pretty but boring.)

10. Anthony Bourdain's episode of No Reservations all about Ferran Adrià and El Bulli's final week. Oh, the cocktails alone. Chef Adrià giggles and charms his way through a discussion with Bourdain about the connection between food and emotion. And despite the through-the-roof intensity of his molecular gastronomy, he still manages to stay connected to Spanish comfort food.

11. Ernie and Bert cheese cutters from CB2. Functional and beautiful. Medieval weapons or tart cutters? You choose.

12. Jeff Gordinier's X Saves the World. Couldn't put it down. It's beyond me how he masterfully weaves together athazagoraphobia, Molly Ringwald, YouTube, The Yuppie Handbook, Lauryn Hill's meltdown, Henry James, Nirvana, and Matthew Zapruder. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. And in the final few pages he busts out a conclusive mantra about being brave enough not to suck that made me cheer out loud and laugh (and maybe cry just a little).

13. Blogging. Two years since my first post.

14. My village. It takes one and I've got one.

A PIE FOR MIKEY

2011-08-13T23:24:00.000-07:00

"This shit is da bomb."

Very 1997 of my husband to say. But it was still music to my ears.

You see, I wanted him to love what he was eating. I had made it to honor Jennie Perillo. Jennie is a food blogger whose husband Mikey died of a heart attack last Sunday night.

"I'm waiting to wake up and learn to live a new kind of normal. For those asking what they can do to help my healing process, make a peanut butter pie this Friday and share it with someone you love."

My husband was tasting my Crunchy Peanut Butter Ice cream with Brown Butter Graham Crackers Crumbs. I know. It's not a pie. But this summer, I've been expressing my love with ice cream.

This beautiful storm of food blogger love just might blow your mind.

An explosion on twitter.

Hundreds of photos have poured in.

To Tastespotting.

Foodgawker.

Food Network.

Food52.

And Facebook.

You are so psyched if you love Peanut Butter Pie like Mikey did. I'm not sure there have ever been this many variations of one recipe in the history of food blogging. Or maybe in the history of time (except for Caesar salad and chocolate chip cookies).

I kept it together until I started combining the eggs and sugar. Something about the repetitive circular motion of whisking sent me straight into tears. I understood what I still had. And I felt what Jennie had lost.

So here's to Jennie, Mikey, and their two girls for inspiring such a tremendous gathering. There are no words for Jennie's loss. But there is a strength to social media that is beyond our wildest dreams. Let this inspire us to do even more.

CRUNCHY PEANUT BUTTER ICE CREAM WITH BROWN BUTTER GRAHAM CRACKER CRUMBS

printable recipe
Inspired by Jennie Perillo's Creamy Peanut Butter Pie.
You can dip the top of the cone in melted dark chocolate for some extra excitement.

ingredients:
1/2 stick salted butter
6 graham crackers

1/2 cup crunchy peanut butter

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 1/2 cups half and half

6 egg yolks

1/3 cup white sugar

1/3 cup brown sugar

pinch of salt

1 1/2 cups heavy cream

directions:

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Melt butter. Once it has melted, continuing cooking it until it smells nutty and the milk solids have turned light brown. Take off the heat and cool.

Bash graham crackers in a zip loc bag until they're almost a fine powder (a few bigger chunks are ok). In an ovenproof dish, mix together brown butter and pulverized graham crackers. Spread out in a thin layer and toast for about 10 minutes until it's one shade darker. Keep an eye on it the whole time. Cool.

Whip in a standing mixer (or by hand) the peanut butter and vanilla until softened. Set aside.

Whisk together half and half, yolks, sugars, and salt. Set aside.

Prepare an ice water bath. Place a fine strainer over a medium-sized bowl. Immerse bottom of bowl in a larger bowl filled with ice and water. Set aside.

Heat heavy cream in a medium-sized saucepan. Turn off heat as it starts to boil. Take off heat and slowly whisk into half and half/egg mixture.

Pour back into the pot and cook on low heat. Stir with a wooden spoon until it thickens slightly. It's done when you drag your finger across the back of the wooden spoon and it leaves a trail.

Pour mixture through the strainer into the bowl that's over the ice bath. Whisk in softened peanut butter/vanilla mixture. Leave bowl in the ice bath until the custard is cool. Stir every 10 minutes or so. Place saran wrap on top surface of custard to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate custard for several hours. Churn in ice cream machine according to manufacturer's directions. Freeze for a few hours before serving. Top with brown butter graham cracker crumbs.

DIFFERENCES

2011-08-11T18:28:00.000-07:00

My husband calls me his crazy warrior. I can power through home water birth, Eka Pada Koundinyasana, and refrigerator management. When I'm angry, I throw things (clogs, hardcover novels) with great speed and skill (at the wall, not at him). And I don't give up, slow down, or shut up until an argument is resolved.

But my combat skills are mysteriously absent when it comes to plucking blackberries. I hold my breath when I gather them—even when they are at their sweetest, plumpest, optimum fall-into-my-hands state. I get agitated, my hands start to itch, I feel weak. I can't place them in the jar fast enough. And then I bail and get my husband. He will pick blackberries for over an hour without a single complaint.

So here's a recipe for my husband of 10 years (this week). My beautiful blackberry picker. He's no fridge ninja. But he's mine.

BLACKBERRY SAUCE
printable recipe

2 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon water

3 cups blackberries
pinch of salt

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Place sugar and water in a medium-sized saucepan. Cook over medium heat. Swirl it around by the pot handle to keep it cooking evenly. When it starts to smoke and turn light brown, toss in the blackberries. Careful. It might spatter a bit. Stir until blackberries have released their juices (2-3 minutes). Take off the heat and stir in the salt and lemon juice. Let cool for 10 minutes. Serve over ice cream. Or cool completely and drizzle over yoghurt. It keeps in the fridge for a week. It will keep for a few months in the freezer.

EXPANSION

2011-08-10T15:10:00.000-07:00

San Francisco. The Mission. Saison Restaurant. I had a meal that stretched my mind (pig butter), my belly (14 courses), and my tolerance (6 wines).

The early evening was a blur of Vouvray Brut, caviar, awe, cucumber foam, oysters, radishes, lemon verbena, WTFs, nasturtium honey, and Chablis.

This decadence was followed by a brief walk around the courtyard as I chatted with the babysitter about Bella's earache.

Back to the table to suck the brains out of a wild spot prawn.

Some Riesling, assorted brassicas, oh yeses, foie gras, rabbit, a brief argument with my husband, and lots of Côtes Du Rhône.

Another phone call. And a plaintive voice asking, "WHEN are you coming home? WHAT are you doing? My ear hurts SO MUCH." Tears.

"Bella, we're out of here in 20 minutes. I promise."

Whoops.

Triple-tiered lemon mousse, glee, rice milk ice cream, questions, milk chocolate mousse, port, port, and port.

I thought we were finally done. And then out came the popcorn ice cream.

OMFG. Popcorn ice cream.

I got up at 6am the next morning to try to recreate this luscious confection that hit my tongue tasting like a handful of lightly salted and buttered popcorn and slid down my throat as a cold pillow of aerated cream, eggs, and sugar.

The only info I got from the pastry chef (via our server) was that he infused the cream with popcorn. So that's where I started.

I added 2 cups of popped popcorn to the hot cream and it melted away like biodegradable packing peanuts. I added another cup. Gone. And another. I passed the thick popcorn cream through a medium strainer, allowing miniscule slivers of popcorn to slip through and add a bit of crunch.

When Bella finally rolled out of bed later that morning, she berated me for staying out so late. And then she checked out what was cooling in the ice bath.

"Bella. I made the coolest thing. Popcorn ice cream base. I'm so excited."

"Popcorn ice cream. Huh. Cool. Okay. Great." She is not a good actress but she is always supportive.

"Mama. It needs something. Like a topping."

"Corn?"

"Caramel corn."

Hell yeah.

Don't laugh. Here's my recipe for Caramel Corn.

1/2 cup caramel sauce

3 cups freshly popped popcorn*

Drizzle warm caramel sauce over popcorn. Mix until popcorn is coated.

*Did you know that you can make popcorn in the microwave. And, no, I'm not talking about those prepackaged bags. Instead, take a brown paper lunch bag, add 1/4 cup kernels, and seal the top by folding it over a few times. Full power for 2-3 minutes. Done. RE-VE-LA-TION. I'm keeping my microwave.

If you want something a bit more refined check out yummysupper's beautiful Brown Sugar Caramel Corn.

POPCORN ICE CREAM
inspired by Saison restaurant

printable recipe

ingredients:

1 1/2 cups half and half

6 egg yolks

scant 2/3 cup sugar

pinch of salt

2 cups heavy cream

1/4 cup popcorn kernels (4 cups popped popcorn), popped in a paper bag in the microwave (2-3 minutes on full power) OR in an air popper (don't add salt or oil)

directions:

Whisk together half and half, yolks, sugar, and salt. Set aside.

Prepare a water bath. Place medium strainer (not too fine) over a medium-sized bowl. Immerse bottom of bowl in a larger bowl filled with ice and water. Set aside.

Heat heavy cream in a medium-sized saucepan. Turn off heat as it starts to boil. Whisk in popcorn one cup at a time until it's mostly dissolved. Strain through a medium strainer. Rinse and dry pot and reheat infused cream until just under the boil. Take off heat and slowly whisk into half and half/egg mixture.

Pour back into the pot and cook on low heat. Stir with a wooden spoon until it thickens slightly. It's done when you drag your finger across the back of the wooden spoon and it leaves a trail.

Pour mixture through the strainer into the bowl that's over the ice bath. Leave bowl in the ice bath until the custard is cool. Stir every 10 minutes or so. Place saran wrap on top surface of custard to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate custard for several hours. Freeze ice cream according to manufacturer's directions. Freeze for a few hours before serving. Serve with caramel corn?

GARLIC BABIES

2011-07-21T15:30:00.000-07:00

I hike Dash up on my hip, forearm in line with his thoracic spine, fingers lengthening up his neck and into his hair.

Bust apart 3 heads of garlic. It works well to press down on a bulb with your body weight, one palm on top of the other. It's okay if some of the cloves cling together in bunches of 2 or 3.

His legs dangle all the way down to my knees. Swing. Kick. Kick.

Every now and then a clove will explode in the hot oil and shoot up towards the ceiling. To prevent this, poke a tiny hole in each clove with the tip of a paring knife.

I nuzzle my nose into his hair and say, "I think you grew again. How did this happen?"

Place the unpeeled cloves in a large pot and cover with olive oil. You can add extras like salt, a sprig of thyme, or a rosemary branch. Or not.

Dash sighs. He can't believe he has to explain this growing up thing to me again. "Sleep. Food. Sleep. Food. Sleep. THAT'S how it happens, mama."

Or maybe it's all the garlic. I don't know how to cook without it. My children are composed of garlic.

Place pot on the back burner. Bring to the boil. Do NOT get your face (or your child's) anywhere near the pot.

I peel Dash off my body and secure him on a stool. We lean forward and peer into a pot that's cooling on the chopping block.

The oil will sputter, so reduce the heat to low the moment it boils.

"Dashi. What is this?"

"Octopus?" he smiles, very pleased with his joke.

"Nope, crazyhead. Not octopus."

Gently simmer the cloves.

"Hm, mama. Let me think. Is it garlic con-FEE?"

Check on the cloves after 20 minutes (scoop one out with a spoon and pierce it with a paring knife).

"Dashi. What does confit mean?"

"FAT."

"My love, what if we you cooked YOU in fat?"

"But you love me so much you don't want to get me in confit."

The cloves should be soft all the way through, like plump and oily pillows.

"I think you would be delicious that way."

Cool to room temperature.

"Mama, I would tip the oil on the ground, run, and hide. Maybe outside."

"Dash, what else can we confit?"

You can suck the cooked garlic right out of the skins.

"Animals?"

You can squirt the contents of a few cloves onto grilled bread.

"Yup. Like duck or lamb."

Use the creamy garlic as a base for salad dressing (pestled with anchovy into a paste).

"But, mama, can I shoot the animals first? Can we do that?"

Or mix it with fresh herbs and goat cheese as a topping for lamb chops.

Guns.

The surrounding oil can be used in almost everything.

Lung capacity breath. I get so pissed off when I talk about guns. Or I start to cry.

Drizzle it over pizza. Or make a Garlic Confit, Parsley, and Almond Pesto.

The next breath I take is so deep that it lifts and spreads my collarbones.

The cloves (with skins on) and oil will keep in the fridge for a few weeks. Make sure all the cloves are covered with oil.

Killing a duck and then eating it for dinner? "Okay, Dash. I'm open to that."

"Okay, mama."

THREE THINGS TO DO WITH GARLIC CONFIT (AND ITS SURROUNDING OIL):

1. Corn, Cherry Tomato, Arugula, and Spinach Salad: Cut two ears of corn off the cob. Halve a handful of cherry tomatoes. Heat a skillet. Add 2 tablespoons of garlic confit oil until hot. Toss in corn, tomatoes, and a pinch of salt. Add 1 tablespoon sherry wine vinegar and big squeeze of lemon. Stir over high heat for 10 seconds. Pour over a big bowl of baby spinach and arugula. Toss. (Optional addition: circle salad with Bacon-Wrapped Figs Stuffed with Goat Cheese.)

2. Garlic Confit Vinaigrette: Mash two of the confited garlic cloves and one anchovy fillet with a mortar and pestle. Add one chopped shallot. Top with 3 tablespoons of a combination lemon juice, white wine vinegar, and sherry wine vinegar. Macerate for 10 minutes. Whisk in 2 teaspoons of dijon mustard. Drop by drop whisk in 6 tablespoons of olive oil (or a combo of olive oil and garlic confit oil). Taste. Adjust.

3. Lime Potatoes with Poached Eggs: Preheat oven to 375°F. Peel and quarter 12-16 large yukon gold potatoes. Coat with lots of salt, pepper, lime zest, lime juice, and 4 tablespoons garlic confit oil. Place in a pot with a lid or wrap in tin foil. Throw in a few chunks of butter, the juiced lime bodies and some cloves of the confited garlic. Bake 30-45 minutes (stir and check after 20 minutes so bottom potatoes don't burn). Test with a paring knife for doneness (the knife should slip right in). Remove lime bodies. Serve with poached eggs, grated monterey jack cheese, chopped cilantro, sour cream, and hot sauce.

GARLIC CONFIT

Break apart a few heads of garlic. It's okay to have bunches of 2 or 3 cloves. Poke a tiny hole in each clove to prevent the cloves from exploding. Place unpeeled cloves in a deep pot and cover with olive oil. Add pinch of salt and herbs if you desire (sprig of thyme or branch of rosemary). Bring to the boil. Reduce heat right away to prevent spattering. Place on the back burner and don't get your face anywhere near the pot. Simmer until garlic is cooked through, soft, and creamy (20-30 minutes). Cool to room temperature. You can keep the cloves (with skins on) and oil for a few weeks in the fridge. Make sure cloves are covered with oil. Add more oil if you need to. Scoop out oil as needed. Squeeze garlic out of the skins as needed.

ADDENDUM

2011-07-13T09:28:00.000-07:00

"You have to be a crazy person to just sit there and eat caramel sauce right out of the jar," said my grandmother.

Just then we looked up and saw my brother scooping caramel from jar to mouth. To be fair, he was gearing up for a caramel sauce taste test.

My brother declared the one on the right "funky, dank, and luscious." It was the all-around winner.

It's fine to eat caramel by itself. But don't make your final judgements until the sauce has mingled with vanilla ice cream.

And go a little darker with it than you think you should. The caramel you might like encased in bittersweet chocolate is different from what works drizzled over vanilla ice cream. It's all about the contrast between the creamy and the burned.

CARAMEL SAUCE

printable recipe

Makes enough to fill a recycled Bonne Maman jar.

ingredients:

3/4 cup heavy cream

1/3 stick salted butter

1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons water

1/3 vanilla bean, halved and seeds scraped out

directions:

Measure out heavy cream and butter and set aside. Place sugar and water in a medium-sized saucepan. Swirl (by the pot handle) around until all the sugar is wet. Add more water if you need to. Place over medium heat. Don't walk away. Swirl around (by the pot handle) if it's not caramelizing evenly. Cook until it's almost at desired color (Grade B maple syrup or darker). Remove from heat and pour in the heavy cream. Careful. It will rise up and spatter. Whisk until combined. Add the butter. Cool for 20 minutes and then whisk in vanilla bean seeds. Store scraped vanilla bean in the caramel. It will keep for a few weeks in the fridge.

WELL TEMPERED

2011-07-07T13:23:00.000-07:00

Ice cream camp, chemistry class, and pastry school. All rolled into one. That was our June.

"Bella," I asked, "do you think it's possible to get sick of ice cream?"

Her eyes widened in horror. "What? WHAT are you talking about?"

She is my little addict.

And the taste tester.

"Mama," said Dash, "we have to caramelize ALL the sugar next time so it's stronger."

Meet the recipe tester.

I'm Julie McCoy AND the fucking dishwasher.

(photo by bella)

But I'm not complaining. Really.

And now I give you 18 steps, warnings, tips, links, emotional reactions, general observations, and LOTS of unsolicited advice about parenting and the making of ice cream (caramel in particular).

1. In a bowl, whisk together egg yolks, half and half, and salt. Be brave with the salt. The caramel needs it.

2. Measure out your heavy cream and set it aside. This is the fat that you're going to pour into the caramelized sugar. This is not a time for lowfat substitutions. Half and half or whole milk will curdle.

3. If you're a kid in my kitchen and you're not being safe around caramel, I will swear at you, grab you, or push you out of the way. Sugar doesn't even start to caramelize until around 330° F. Just remember that scary temperature. 330°F.

4. Danger aside, don't let the technical aspects of caramel scare you. In a deep pot, coat the sugar with a big splash of water (water gives you a bit more control). Swirl (by the pot handle) over medium heat until the sugar dissolves and the water evaporates. It will boil, thicken, and start to change color. Swirl it a bit more if it's not caramelizing evenly. The burning sugar will smell woody, smoky, sweet. It's ready when it's the shade of Grade B maple syrup (or the color of my Ikea Stockholm coffee table). It will continue to darken even after you remove it from the heat.

5. Carefully pour in the heavy cream.

6. And then stand back.

7. Hitting caramelized sugar with heavy cream brings about quite a reaction. The mixture will rise up, almost overflowing. And then (big relief) it will start to settle back down into a calmer (but still confused) ocean of sugar, curds, and whey. Whisk it vigorously and it will unite into a creamy golden syrup.

8. At this point, Dash has been known to squeal, "Mama, this caramel is un-be-leeeeeeeevable." Caramel makes me feel this way too. It's one of those transformations that astonishes every time. The smell, the heat, the color.

9. SLOWLY pour the caramel into the egg mixture. This allows the eggs to adjust to the change in temperature without getting stressed out.

10. Pour the mixture back into the original caramel pot (so as not to waste any little drips or drops).

11. Set aside your whisk and bring out a wooden spoon. Place back on medium heat. And start stirring.

12. Don't walk away. Or you will have caramel-flavored scrambled eggs.

13. Watch, feel, and smell for the shift in viscosity.

14. As you stir, the thin custard will slap against the sides of the pot like waves against the side of a boat. As it thickens, the gliding spoon will cause the custard to rise up and settle back down without much of a splash. The whirlpools will slow down.

15. To confirm that it's done, do the drag-your-finger-across-the-back-of-the-wooden-spoon test. It's ready when your finger leaves a lovely lingering trail.

16. Pour the custard through a fine strainer and place in an ice water bath.

17. Cool the custard in the fridge for a few hours. Pour the custard into an electric machine. Or hand churn it. Or do David Leibowitz's no-machine method. Whatever works. Scrape finished ice cream into a chilled bowl.

18. Phew.

"Mama, did you know we're masters of making ice cream?"

"Well, Dashi. We're trying."

Over. And over. And over. And over again.

CARAMEL ICE CREAM

printable recipe

feeds 1-6 people

ingredients:

1 1/2 cups heavy cream

1 1/2 cups half and half

6 egg yolks

big big pinch of salt

a little less than 2/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup water

directions:

Measure out heavy cream and set aside.

Whisk together half and half, yolks, and salt. Set aside.

Prepare a water bath. Place fine strainer over a medium-sized bowl. Immerse bottom of medium bowl in a large bowl filled with ice and water.

Place sugar and water in a medium-sized saucepan. Swirl around until all the sugar is wet. Add more water if you need to. Place over medium heat. Don't walk away. Swirl around a bit if it's not caramelizing evenly. Cook until it's almost at desired color (Grade B maple syrup). Remove from heat and carefully pour in the heavy cream. Whisk until it comes together. You might need to place it back on the heat for a minute to dissolve the caramel.

Very slowly whisk the caramel mixture into the egg mixture. Pour combined mixture back into the caramel pan.

Cook on low heat, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon until it thickens slightly. It's done when you drag your finger across the back of the wooden spoon and it leaves a trail that stays.

Pour mixture through the fine strainer into the bowl that's over the ice bath. Leave bowl over the ice bath until it's cool. Stir every 10 minutes or so. Place sarah wrap on top surface of custard to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate custard for several hours. Freeze ice cream according to manufacturer's directions. Freeze for a few hours before serving.

RED, ORANGE, PINK, AND GREEN

2011-06-30T23:07:00.000-07:00

DETAILS + RECIPES:

Summer Squash and Onion Gratin with Garlic Chive oil and Lime. Trim squash and chop into somewhat even chunks (no need to peel it). Peel and thinly slice onion. Use your hands to coat squash and onion with salt, pepper, and lime zest/juice. Finely chop garlic chives (or regular chives). Mash chopped chives and olive oil with a mortar and pestle. Taste. If it's too pungent, add some more olive oil. Generously drizzle chive oil over the squash. Use your hands again to combine. Finish off with bread crumbs, grated parmesan cheese, and quarter-sized dollops of butter. Bake at 375°F until top is crisp and brown and the squash is just tender. Eat right away. OR use as the base for a pasta sauce. OR serve in a pita with yoghurt, cucumber, and garlic chive oil raita (topped with chopped mixed herbs).

These are Bella's summer aspirations involving peaches. The smudged final item on the list is "grilled peach salad." She added it for me. Reluctantly.

Galette of Nectarines and Foraged Plums. Store bought (always) puff pastry. Macerate pitted stone fruit with lemon juice/zest, salt, vanilla, and a vigorous sprinkling of turbinado sugar. Maybe a splash of Grand Marnier? Paint the edges with a mixture of 1 egg + 2 tablespoons heavy cream. For extra crunch, coat glazed edges with more turbinado sugar. Bake at 375°F until fruit is bubbling and puff pastry is crisp and lightly browned. Eat the galette for breakfast topped with crème fraîche. Or ice cream. Ice cream for breakfast. Fuck yeah. It's summer.

INVENTION

2011-06-27T12:22:00.000-07:00

I love coming up with new recipes. And so do my kids. Dash's latest is Supersonic Air Cream Pie. Combine eggs, chocolate, mint, basil, thyme, cream, and ice cubes and then bake at 350°F. It's edible. Really.

Last year, the editors at Real Simple asked some of their favorite food bloggers to come up with 3-ingredient recipes. Dash and I collaborated and made Bacon-Wrapped Broiled Figs with Goat Cheese. 3-year old Dash gleefully stuffed, snipped, and posed.

This year, Real Simple is asking their readers to come up with the 3-ingredient recipes. The winning recipes will be featured on Real Simple's blog: Simply Stated. This is the final week of the competition so head on over right away!

BLACK AND WHITE

2011-06-21T10:35:00.000-07:00

"Mama, what do anchovies do in school?"

Bash 10 anchovies with a mortar and pestle.

"They don't go to school. They swim in schools. With their families."

"Do they have teachers?"

Don't stop until the anchovies are creamy. Two-handed bashing works well for 4-year olds.

"Mama, does everybody love their parents?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I don't know."

"Well, Dash, do you love ME?"

Hearty laugh followed by, "I love you because you're my MOMMY. Why wouldn't I love you?"

Add a stick of soft unsalted butter.

"What do you love about me?"

"Mama, I love gardening with you."

"What else?"

"Maybe only that."

"Do you love making anchovy butter with me?"

"Uh-huh. Mama. I REALLY do."

Mix until butter and anchovies are fully integrated.

"Mama. Hey. What are you writing there?"

"I was writing a story about you."

Taste. Add salt if needed.

"Can you read me the story you wrote?"

"Sure, Dash."

Spoon into a ramekin. Dip. Lick. Repeat.

"Once upon a time there was a little boy named Dash. He loved to slurp up anchovies, just like his mama. He even asked if we could grow anchovies on the back porch..."

In case you need ideas for what the hell to DO with anchovy butter:

1. Use as a dip for carrots, radishes, celery or breadsticks.

2. Smear on grilled bread. Top with peeled and halved 5-minute eggs and chopped chives.

2. Add to cooked pasta with lots of parmesan, chopped herbs, and some pasta water.

(photo by Bella)

SHARING

2011-06-14T14:22:00.000-07:00

When I first had children, there were very few signs that those squirming, pooping, and screaming creatures were related to me. There might have been a familiar eye color or expression, but that was about it. And then as toddlers they just seemed like crazy drunks. There was no time to even think about what we had in common with all their drama and my constant fatigue.

But now that Bella is older, I can't stop seeing myself. There's the arch of my foot, the curve of my shoulder, and the diagonal line of my tricep. When Bella sits, she crosses and then double crosses her legs just like I always have.

When I was Bella's age, a crazy hormonal monster used to wake me up early in the morning. So I would read to pass the time. This same monster has been visiting Bella for about 6 months. Thank god she loves books or she would just be staring at the wall until the sun came up.

Early yesterday morning, I went in to kiss Bella and she had already been reading for an hour. I stroked her hair, rubbed my finger against her check, and said, "Happy summer." And then I got all goofy and full of pride and excitement about her love of reading and I told her that something really exciting would happen if she read 100 books this summer.

"Like what will happen?" Bella asked.

"Um. Like something hella awesome." I hadn't had coffee yet.

"Mama. Wait. 100 books is a lot. How about 60?"

"Deal, my love."

She skipped lunch and finished A Wrinkle in Time by dinner.

Oh how I love Bella's ability to focus. It's just like her daddy's.

And I love summer. Dash's optimism. My husband's support. Anchovies. HBO's Treme. New York City. My kids' faces when I give them ice cream (intake of breath, huge smile, pink cheeks).

A few months ago, babble.com asked me for an original recipe. I decided it was time to explore ice cream. We haven't stopped churning batch after batch of eggs, cream, half and half, and sugar.

Over-the-knee boots. Harold McGee. My husband's sense of humor. Michael Ruhlman's Sex and Chicken article. Ina May Gaskin. Warm ice cream base.

The enhancements (flavorings, chunks, toppings) vary, but our base is always the same. And that base—just thickened, poured through a strainer, cooled in an ice bath—is one of the most comforting things I've ever spooned into my mouth.

My mortar and pestle. Parents as grandparents. Avocados. Truly Madly Deeply. Heirloom tomatoes. Pergolesi's Stabat Mater. Writing. Caramelized onions. Crimes and Misdemeanors. Homemade chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

We made some mistakes in those early batches. Too much cream. An overcooked custard. Not enough sugar. But now we've got it down.

My camera. Adele's voice. James Joyce. Pandora. Nigel Slater. Annie Hall. Yoga. My nephew. My old dog. Martinis. Cooking for my husband. La Tur cheese. Vanilla bean ice cream licked right off the mixing paddle.

"You learn from mistakes" is one of those expressions that no one wants to hear. Recipes are a really safe way for kids to explore this annoying message. Trial and error. Sometimes entire batches of ice cream are thrown out. It's okay. We start again.

Sardines. Birth. Pizza. Sardines on pizza. Writing recipes. Crème fraîche. Chocolate.

Check it (my new favorite expression from my friend Jen). My recipe for Creme Fraiche Stracciatella Ice Cream is over at babble.com in a feature called Meals for the Family: Over 50 Best Recipes from the 100 Best Food Blogs. Thank you babble.com. You brought ridiculous amounts of ice cream and joy into my home.

NEW WORDS

2011-05-18T10:36:00.000-07:00

Dash and I listen to music while we cook. If he likes a song, he'll place his hands on the upper crest of my pelvis, hoist himself up, and say, "Mama, let's dance." He likes the slow songs.

Last week we experienced Ke$ha's "Tik Tok." This song is not slow. We did not dance. Instead, we listened to the words.

"Mama," Dash cackled, "What a silly song. I love it. WHAT does she brush her teeth with?"

"Jack Daniels."

And then Ke$ha started rapping about getting crunk. And then she said something about her junk. I turned the radio off so crazy fast.

"Wait. Mama. She brushes her teeth with someone named Jack?"

"Nope. She brushes her teeth with a grownup drink called whiskey."

We agreed this was a bad idea because it doesn't kill the sugar bugs. And oh my god my kids have a ton of sugar bugs on their teeth right now because of all the fruit butter we've been making (AND ice cream, french toast, and pancakes—but those are for another post).

Last year, a quarter of Dash's lifetime ago, we made strawberry butter. This spring we've taken on blueberry butter.

Caramelize one tablespoon of sugar. Carefully drop in a big handful of blueberries.

The blueberries sizzle and seize up with caramel. After a minute, the hard sugar dissolves and the berries start to bleed their beautiful purple juice. Dump them on a plate to cool until room temperature. Be patient. If you add warm berries to the butter it can split. Blueberry butter is hardcore ugly when it splits.

Beat the heck out of some super soft butter and one tablespoon powdered sugar. Add half the berries. At this point you're coloring and flavoring the butter. Add the rest of the cooked berries and mix until the softened purple spheres just burst open. Serve it right alongside some strawberry butter. We had it on toast, pancakes, waffles, french toast, and even in oatmeal with warm milk.

"Mama. One more thing. What did Ke$ha mean when she said the party doesn't start until I walk in."

"Ke$ha THINKS she is the life of the party."

Long pause from Dash. "Okay. I think I understand her now."

BLUEBERRY BUTTER
printable recipe
Don't mix the cooked berries into the butter until they're room temperature. Don't put the berries in the fridge to cool because you also shouldn't add cold berries to the butter. All these steps prevents the butter from splitting. If it does split, place the bowl over a low flame to loosen the butter up and then mix vigorously until the butter comes back together.

ingredients:

1 tablespoon granulated sugar

1 tablespoon water

3/4 cup blueberries

1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, room temperature

1 tablespoon powdered sugar

pinch salt

directions:

Mix granulated sugar and water in a medium-sized saucepan. Swirl around until sugar is dissolved. Keep watching the sugar. When it just starts to caramelize (light brown), turn off the flame. Toss in blueberries and coat with the caramelized sugar. But back on a low flame, stir with a wooden spoon, and cook until blueberries just start to release their juices (1-2 minutes ). Take off the heat, pour onto a plate, and cool until room temperature.

Combine soft butter, powdered sugar, and a pinch of salt, in the bowl of an electric mixer. Mix together really well (2 minutes high speed). Scrape down the sides. Add 1/2 of the cooked blueberries. Mix really well again on high speed (at this point you're coloring the butter by mashing the cooked berries). Scrape down the sides. Mix in the other 1/2 of the blueberries until they just burst open (about 10 seconds). Scrape blueberry butter into a ramekin. The butter tastes best served right away. But you can refrigerate it up to 5 days. And it freezes really well and stays a beautiful vibrant color.

INHALE, EXHALE, GREENS

2011-05-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

Bella shares my love of necklaces, Nutella, novels, and flavored lip gloss.

She does NOT share my love of green vegetables and deep breathing.

Hearing "deepen your breath" is as natural to my kids (and I'm sure as annoying) as "find your inside voice" and "put your napkin in your lap."

I'm also a broken record about the importance of eating green vegetables.

Last week, I bought a ridiculously large bag of pea shoots from the farmers' market. Bella was disgusted. She has perfected that swallow-grimace-holding-back-vomit look.

"Ooh girl, I'm going to make you some pea shoot pesto that you will eat and like."

"Fine. Try. But I'm not going to like it. 'Cause those pea shoots are green."

Chlorophyll is what makes plants green. This pigment is powerful in flavor (parsley juice, blech!) and in function (photosynthesis). The chlorophyll helps plants absorb energy from the sun. Plants use this light energy to convert carbon dioxide and water into sugars (plant food). Then these green plants spit out oxygen as their garbage. Their garbage is the precious oxygen I'm inhaling deeply as I try to get my children to eat green vegetables. Full fucking circle.

I thought about this pesto for a few days. These pea shoots would need a lot of transformation to please my Bella. So I roasted garlic until it was soft and sweet. I bought goat cheese, picked lemons, and toasted some almonds.

After softening the pea shoots for 30 seconds in boiling water, I shocked them in an ice bath to stop them from cooking.

Some friends told me they had just experienced gnarly stringy pea shoot pesto. No way Bella was going to eat anything stringy. So I pulverized the hell out of the shoots.

Dash came in and started heaping spoonfuls of pea shoot purée into his mouth. He is one of those strange children who will eat anything. And then he pushed me aside and took over the pesto-making.

"More cheese. I want to squirt in the cooked garlic. Gimme the lemon. Salt, mama? Yeah, salt." He kept tasting the pesto and narrowly missing the sharp blade with his little fingers. So I handed him a tasting spoon.

I found my Bella curled up in a chair with her book. I slid a big spoonful of the pesto into her mouth.

She kept her eyes glued to her book, waved her hand at me like she was Brando in The Godfather, and said, "Fine. I'll have it on pasta."

Normally I don't let her talk to me this way. But she knew that I so totally told her so with this one. She could talk to me any way she wanted.

I cooked some farfalle and then watched her eat a whole bowl of it coated in pea shoot pesto—eyes still glued to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

I tried to get her to look up from her book and laugh, "What planet did Dash come from? He's sure not from earth."

Silence.

I continued. I told her I had a theory about Dash's boundless energy and his crazy love of green vegetables. I've been reading about these sacoglossan sea slugs that scarf up algae and actually perform photosynthesis within their bodies. Pea puree plus California sun. We have a solar-powered Dash performing kleptoplasty in our very own house.

Bella was not amused.

She's also not going to be amused when I tell her that tonight we're having nettle and walnut pesto on rack of lamb. I can just hear her now, "Mama, why would you ruin a perfectly good lamb popsicle with NETTLES!" And then she will eat it. And then, I'll bet you a hundred dollars, she will like it.

PEA SHOOT, ROASTED GARLIC, GOAT CHEESE, AND ALMOND PESTO

printable recipe

4 cloves garlic, unpeeled

1 tablespoon salt, to blanch pea shoots

6 cups pea shoots

1/2 cup goat cheese

1/3 cup parmesan, grated

1/2 cup blanched almonds, lightly toasted

juice/zest from 1/2 lemon

1/2-3/4 cup olive oil

salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350° F. Wrap unpeeled cloves of garlic in tin foil. Bake until garlic is soft. 30-45 minutes.

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add salt. Blanch the pea shoots in salted boiling water for 30 seconds. Shock the shoots in ice water. Pour shoots into a colander. Use your hands to squeeze out most of the excess water. Pulverize pea shoots in a food processor until smooth.

Squirt cooked roasted garlic out of the skin into the pea purée. Add goat cheese, parmesan, almonds, juice/zest of lemon, and 1/2 cup of the olive oil. Pulverize for 10 seconds. Scrape down the sides. Pulverize again. Taste. Add salt, pepper, and more of any ingredient that's lacking. If it's too thick add some more olive oil. This keeps in the fridge for up to a week. Cover the top with a thin layer of olive oil to prevent browning. Or you can freeze the pesto in an ice cube tray and then store the cubes in a ziploc bag.