The Warmest Room In The House

The Joy of Not Cooking - The Atlantic

2011-04-19T18:59:00.000-07:00

I've been so focused on the next book that I forgot that people are still interested in the last book (and the namesake of this blog, btw!)

There's a nice little blurb taken from The Warmest Room in the House in this insightful article by Megan McCardle in the current issue of The Atlantic Monthly. Enjoy!

The Not-So-Great Gob Easter Egg Hunt, Or Flying Turkeys & Other Marketing Mishaps

2011-04-13T11:14:00.000-07:00

First allow me to start by apologizing to everyone who tried to order a Gobba Gobba Hey Easter Box in the past few days only to get caught in a tech tangle of bad links and "out of stock" notices! I felt your frustration, and the blame is ultimately mine. If you're wondering what happened, I can start by answering "A lot!" But allow me to say that it all seemed like a good idea at the time. (Cue flashback swirl and dramatic musical interlude here. Might I suggest "harp flourish number 5?")

Easter was fast approaching, and my latest gob box was in need of a theme, so turning the monthly Gobba Gobba Hey sale into a high tech Easter Egg Hunt not only sounded clever, I also decided it was a good way to effectively reduce anxiety for everyone on Team GGH. Besides, with the Giants back at home plate and with tax time looming, there were too many things competing for my clientele's attention. I figured that in order to get my customers to act I had to give them more incentive to buy, or at the very least I had to entertain them in the process. So, what if, I thought, in the spirit of the holiday's most famous game, I created an online treasure hunt? The Easter Gob sale would, like a classic Easter Egg Hunt, have an element of surprise, and even an air of adventure! People always love a good game, right? Right...?

Wrong.

It all started off well enough. After a few promo emails, I sent out a message alerting my customers that the Easter gobs were finally available, but - and here was where the "game" came into play - I added that it might take a little extra effort to find them. Orders began coming in almost immediately. In brisk succession, email confirmations filled my inbox, one right after another after another after another and so on.... only to stop as quickly as they began. Silence followed. I hit refresh and made sure my mail program was working properly. Nothing. I logged into my gob mail account. Crickets chirped. Tumbleweeds rolled through. No signs of orders, anywhere. After a few hours of puzzling inactivity, first one, then two, then three, then four emails arrived from rightfully-frustrated customers who were a little irked at initially being unable to find the Gobba Gobba Hey Easter Gob Dozen. Adding to their irritation was the fact that once their browsers successfully loaded the link to my gob store, they received notification that the box was no longer available. "Out of Stock!"

As I quickly worked to right the wrongs, I thought of what a text book example I had created in how not to sell one's wares. Not only did I make it almost impossible for my customers to order from me, I led them into a store that was also filled with other products to purchase when their attempts to support my business no doubt failed. I couldn't help but think about the classic "WKRP In Cincinnati" Thanksgiving Day Turkey Drop episode.

Lesson learned!

Again, my apologies to you all, and thank you for your continued support!

A Different Kind of March Madness!

2011-03-01T04:38:00.000-08:00

Here's a little teaser for the Gobba Gobba Hey St Paddy's Day Lucky Dozen Gob Box I'll be offering later this month! The box will consist of three flavors including the following; four Irish Coffee Gobs fueled by Green & Black's Organic Cocoa (also known to Gobsters as my weapon of choice) with some nice smoky espresso and a frosting of Bailey's & Whiskey; four Chocolate Gobs with Vanilla Guinness Frosting; and - because I couldn't offer you a St Patrick's Day selection without including something green - four of the Matcha Green Tea Gobs with Lemongrass Ginger Frosting.

Interested? Of course you are. There is a limited supply of these, and I know they are going to go quickly. I suggest reserving them now. Send an email to gobbagobbahey at gmail.com to reserve yours. Shipping, 2 Day via Fed Ex on March 15th, will be handled through Foodzie.com as always. I'll let you know when the store goes live. Local delivery, on March 16th, will be handled by yours truly.

I know that Lent begins on the 9th, but maybe some extra prayers to St Patrick, asking for an extra week of indulging, will result in lenience, if not an outright intervention, on your behalf!

Once again, the talents of Jun Belen shine. Many thanks for the incredible photographs he has taken of Gobba Gobba Hey's Gobs.

From Tray... To Truck?

2011-02-23T15:53:00.000-08:00

We all have our elevator pitches, those thirty second self promos that explain who we are and what we do. Default bios, they usually contain just the facts with one or two catchphrases that define our attitude, if not our intent, when a stranger asks "So, what is it that you do?"

My own bio in the past two years explained that I was a "food-writer-turned-baker," with a reference to the recession, the new wave of San Francisco street food vendors out of which my business grew, and my self-described position in that scene as "a no cart kinda guy in a big cart kinda town."

I said it so much that it became a motto as well as a mantra. I never had a cart, a canopy or even a folding table. I sold my goods from a tray. I kept a cooler stocked with more gobs within arm's reach so that I could replenish my supply when it dwindled. Conducting sales in this manner was cheap and manageable, and as far as health department regulations were concerned all I really needed to prove was that my product was baked in a commercial facility and transported and stored at a safe temperature. Aside from shipping and delivering by the dozen, I built my business - and Gobba Gobba Hey's reputation - selling one gob at a time off of that white plastic tray. I never imagined selling any other way. Baking a handmade product was time-consuming, and unless I hired a staff, there was no way I could possibly scale up enough in production to even concern myself with selling more than a couple hundred gobs at a time. Plus I had a book to write. Between meeting my manuscript's deadline and a maintaining a busy baking schedule, my batter-gooped hands were full enough, thank you.

So I reacted with a bit of surprise and a bit of amusement when, in discussing book signing events for Gobba Gobba Hey: A Gob Cook Book, my publicist from Bloomsbury informed me that a few bookstores "were excited for [me] to bring The Truck."

Immediately I asked "Truck!? What truck? I don't have a truck..."

I didn't have to wait for an explanation, though. I surmised what had happened. In hearing that I was one of the graduates of The Streets of San Francisco's Vendor Class '09, it wasn't too much of a stretch for bookstore owners to assume I had some sort of vehicle out of which I sold my wares. Despite my attempts at telling my tale - see reference to my motto above - stories can take on a life of their own. The origins of Gobba Gobba Hey certainly had.

In an instant an idea I hadn't previously considered started to seem, well, not only possible... it started to seem appealing. I heard myself say, "But that doesn't mean that I couldn't have a truck by the time the book came out."

And there it was. With that sentence, I was on the road to putting myself, and my gobs, behind the wheel.

If you're asking wait wait wait, what about not having a staff, not being able to scale up, and all that business about being a "no cart kinda guy in a big cart kinda town," well, I have an answer. Or I hope to find an answer, here, in the coming months. My goal? To have a truck by the time my book comes out at summer's end so that I can roll into these signing events in style.

The search is underway. I have taken to excitedly scrolling through online ads, and after one or two false starts last week, I took a look at a 1991 Chevy Step Van this morning. After my trusty mechanic asked all the right questions, I took the beast for a spin. Actually, it was more like a lurch. Twenty feet of truck turned out to be more machine than I could manage.

But that's what this is all about. I hope to chronicle the process here. The plan right now is simply to have a truck for promotional purposes. Wrapped in the new book's cover art, it will be a rolling billboard from which I can distribute gobs. As for securing the proper permits to sell from a truck, well, that's something I hope to document here as well. No doubt it's a prohibitive process. Let's see. Let's go for a ride. I've already got Foghat cued up on my iPod.

A quick note of thanks to the lovely and talented Jun Belen for allowing me to use the photo at the top of this page. Also, there is now a Gobba Gobba Hey Facebook page. It's just sort of sitting there right now, but I promise it will be a little more exciting. Soon.

It's All Fun And Gobs Until Someone Has A Book Manuscript To Finish. Part II

2010-09-01T17:03:00.000-07:00

To paraphrase Fran Lebowitz, book manuscripts aren't like book reports. You can't finish them the night before they're due.

So, what have I been up to, you might be wondering, if I haven't been busy putting the spit and polish on my current book's last few pages? A lot, actually, as this rare-self-approved photo to the right will testify. I'll get to that in a sec, but can I just say that while it's always flattering when someone wants to take your photo, the resulting images can sometimes be, decidedly, not. (Impromptu pix shot by the lovely and talented Jun Belen not included.)

So. It's been another fun gob-filled summer here in San Francisco as street food festivals and all around street eat hijinx ensued. When I wasn't standing in front of the 20 quart Hobart, I was seated behind the laptop. On a few fine days in June, friend and fellow food writer Tamara Palmer and I packed up our rigs and drove down the coast to drink booze-laced coffee and work and write from the stucco-sided perch known as the Moss Beach Distillery. As we tapped away at our duties on our respective Macs, I told her I was fantasizing that she was Joan Didion to my John Gregory Dunne, coast side in Malibu, circa 1976. Geographics, subject matter, politics, and orientations aside, of course. The only thing that was missing from the scene was our matching Royal typewriters, Fleetwood Mac on the soundtrack and some, well... Hmm. As memories now serves, seems we had everything we needed.

What else has been going on? Well, a little thing called Off The Grid that started at Fort Mason in early July had turned into a big deal by month's end, and in August, La Cocina's much maligned Street Food Festival from last year came back and this time around showed everyone where the wolf shit in the buckwheat - to use one of my Dad's favorite expressions to describe silencing the naysayers and nudrugs. (That is Slovak for, "pants," but as best as I can translate it as my Dad intends it, it refers to someone who is a stick-in-the-mud. For now I'll just say it's all in his delivery and move on.) So, yeah, lines were a little less long at the La Cocina gig, but the food was just as good, maybe even better as numerous other vendors were added to the event's menu this time out. (See photo above, ahem.) And then there was the reprise of the Eat Real Festival in Oakland where several very kind people wished us well on surviving the legendary first year in business. My favorite comment though came from the guy who said "Last year you were walking around holding a tray of your gobs. This year you've graduated to your own booth. Congratulations!" (Fair is fair, and I have to give thanks as well as some love to Good Foods Catering and The Creme Brulee Cart for helping out with logistics in the case of both of those events.)

Now that my "What I Baked On My Summer Vacation" recap is over I should get back to the business at hand and finish this book. Versions of the cover art have already been coming into my inbox. Phone calls about serif versus san serif fonts, and the use of color (and photos) are now in progress. My wonderful publisher and editor at Bloomsbury USA are doing their parts, so I need to step up and deliver mine.

All of this of course has to happen just as summer has finally arrived here in the Bay Area. So if I'm not on the grid, look for me pool side, somewhere, wrapping up the rest of my manuscript as if I were back in third grade, retelling why "Where The Red Fern Grows" made me cry.

Spicy Kale Slaw: Old Salt, New Flavor

2010-05-05T09:17:00.000-07:00

If you had told me earlier this year that I'd be writing not one, but two posts about celery salt within a few months time, I would have told you to step away from your Don Draper DVDs. I hadn't used celery salt in years. Aside from some kitschy retro appeal, I couldn't see the point of having the green seasoning in my kitchen. With so many incredible sea salts and finishing salts not to mention fresh herbs now available, celery salt was one of those vestiges from a by gone era that seemed quaint, but unnecessary. Its attraction for me was based in nostalgia, not in an actual recipe. But then I came across an exceptional product in the Foodzie Test Kitchen, an organic version of celery salt made from organic dried celery leaves that was simply called All Star Organic Celery Salt. It was, in a word, sublime. A revelation. The surprise was not only in how much I liked this celery salt, but also in my desire to actually look for more ways to cook with it!

After using the celery salt in a tuna casserole with edamame and shiitake for Foodzie, I saw an opportunity to put the seasoning back to work in my kitchen when I needed a quick side for rice-flour-and-beer battered cod. I was baking, not frying, the fish, but I still wanted to serve it with a side dish of crunchy freshness. Eyeing the bounty from that morning's farmer's market, I saw my answer in the big crinkled leaves that were poking out of the bags that I still hadn't unpacked. I would make a spicy kale slaw.

Now, I'd been inspired ever since I tasted the spicy cole slaw made by my friend Dontaye Ball of Good Foods Catering, and I was intent on trying to recreate a version of his excellent side dish in my own kitchen. I already had several slaw recipes in my own repertoire that relied on napa or green or red cabbage, but in looking at the crisp, wavy leaves of the kale I'd purchased that day, I saw an opportunity to make something a little different. I got out the cutting board, the knives, and the colander and I went to work.

Rather than cooking or even blanching the kale, I cut the leaves from their center stalk and then shredded them finely. I wanted these green strips to still maintain their fresh crunch; what I didn't want was for the slaw to seem like it was made from plate garnishes. There was another sensory component I was after: I wanted the thrill of the snap of fresh vegetables that I got with each forkful and bite I took of Dontaye's spicy cole slaw. So in addition to leaving the kale as nature intended, I cut a jalapeno pepper into strips and I allowed its spears to sit in the vinegar dressing for about an hour so that they could quickly pickle.

As for the inclusion of the celery salt in this recipe, it not only added a nice nostalgic flavor to the slaw, it also helped with the crispness of the veggies. I'm always happy when a recipe turns out to be quick and enjoyable. The biggest investment, time-wise, in the making of this dish is cutting the kale greens off of their stems. The carrot and apple you can shred quickly using a box grater. Slice the jalapeno carefully if you want long, thin slivers, otherwise chop away.

Spicy Kale Slaw

For the vegetables...

4 cups loosely packed kale leaves (about half of a bundle from a typical market sale)

2 medium sized carrots, peeled

1 Granny Smith Apple, cored

1 large jalapeno, veins and seeds removed

2 TBS fresh mint, finely chopped

For the dressing...

1/2 cup seasoned rice vinegar

1/2 cup mayo

2 TBS fresh lime juice

1 TBS brown sugar

1 tsp celery salt

cracked black pepper to taste

1. Remove stem, and slice jalapeno in half. Scrape out seeds and veins, and slice into strips. Set aside. Finely chop mint leaves. Set aside.

2. Pour vinegar, lime juice, celery salt and brown sugar into a bowl. Mix thoroughly. Add jalapeno and mint. Set aside.

3. Using kitchen shears, cut green leaves from stalks of kale, and then cut into small strips. (If you want to cut the strips down further with the scissors, more power to you. I simply made a big pile on my cutting board and had at it with a knife.) Add kale strips to large bowl.

4. Core the Granny Smith Apple and then shred on a box grater. Add apple to bowl with kale.

5. Peel carrots if desired, then grate. Add to bowl with kale and apple. Toss. And toss. And toss, until all of the components are evenly distributed.

6. Scoop mayo into the bowl containing the vinegar mixture. Whisky thoroughly. Season with cracked black pepper, adding more brown sugar and/ or lime juice if desired. When dressing is mixed well, pour over kale slaw.

7. Repeatedly toss until dressing evenly coats the apple and vegetables. Refrigerate for at least an hour before serving.

Makes about six one cup side servings.

"Is This Ube?" Or, "Steven And The Purple Yam."

2010-04-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

There's a much-mangled quote that gets attributed to Abraham Lincoln, that goes something like this: "After a certain age, a man gets the face he deserves." The "certain age" part of the adage seems to change from "forty," to "fifty" to "sixty," depending on how many years are hung on the mug of the person repeating the quote. And, no doubt, on whether they feel the aging process treated them, and their face, fairly.

So as you look at the picture of these gnarly tubers to the right, you might wonder why I'm mentioning that quote. Don't worry. I'm not saying that I think my face looks like a yam. At least not yet. No, I've been thinking about that quote because as a kid I often viewed Harold, the cartoon figure of the clean spate and crayon-clenched hand, as a kindred spirit. And now that I'm of a certain age, and headed - no pun intended - toward an equally denuded scalp as Harold, I keep thinking about the books which featured him as I have started to color my culinary world with a variety of purple yam called Ube. (That's pronounced "oooh-bay," by the way.)

Often used in desserts in Filipino cuisine, ube was something I'd never heard of until I moved to San Francisco. But once I saw it, I was instantly intrigued. Its hue was somewhere between royal blue and a nearly-neon purple, and I saw repeatedly in ice cream. Over time, I became determined to bake gobs with it. When OutsideIn - the monthly event organized by chef Roger Feely aka Soul Cocina which takes vendors and food purveyors who ordinarily sell on the street and brings them together, under one roof, for one night - announced it was having a Filipino-themed evening, I knew I had my chance.

Finding fresh ube proved to be a bit of a challenge, but I finally succeeded in securing the frozen variety through the magic of Twitter. Guided by the tweets I received from my followers, I discovered whole ube in a market less than a mile and a half from my house. I dashed to the store and saw two varieties in the freezer. The first was a mass of purple pulp, and quite honestly looked like something a phlebotomist would've drained out of The Phantom. The second bag held several peeled, but whole ube. Peeled, their oblique cuts and facets made them resemble strange gemstones rather than something that was actually edible, but I hurried home with my loot, eager to try them in my recipe.

I prepared the ube as I would any filling that I was going to add to my gob batter. But ube was proving it wasn't just any old gob filling. For one thing, even after boiled down, its starchiness made it quickly coagulate into one gigantic mound. For another, that same tendency for its pieces to become part of a whole again, made it almost impossible to disperse. What I hoped for was a rich, purple batter. When I had, instead, was a gray mix with tiny points of the yam, scattered like drops of violet mercury, throughout.

After the first batch failed, I quickly regrouped in my kitchen, and decided the ube would go into the frosting instead. While that approach was more successful than putting it in the batter, it didn't yield that Prince-worthy color I'd hoped for. But when the coconut gob was filled with the ube frosting, the flavor was sweet and exotic. Not only did it taste good, the Coconut Ube Gob ended up looking foodgawker- and tastespotting-worthy, thanks to the skillful eye of blogger and photographer Jun Belen.

Having worked with the frozen version, I remained determined to find the real thing, so I was nearly speechless when I saw some of the white-skinned roots sitting in a box at my local farmer's market. My favorite organic purveyor was now carrying them! Holding them up excitedly I asked "Is this ube?" The proprietor of the stall looked at the tubers in my hand and said "That's purple yam. What's ube? I don't know ube." I said "Ube, it's um, it's a purple yam used in Filipino dishes." She shook her head knowingly. "So," she said as she weighed bok choy for another customer, "You have a Filipino wife?"

"No," I answered, as I turned each ube over, looking for the smoothest specimens possible. "I just like to cook with a lot of Asian ingredients."

"Oh," she said. "So you're one of those guys."

I stood up. An awkward silence followed. She exchanged glances with her son and then looked back at me as people within ear shot shuffled their feet, waiting for something to break the tension.

"What she means is 'One of those guys who thinks he's Asian,'" her son hurriedly offered.

There was more silence, a few more furtive glances, and then big laughs. And finally a discount on my order.

Yes. I guess I was "one of those guys," I thought. I was happy, and I felt a bit like Harold as I raced home, excited to color my kitchen. The purple possibilities seemed endless.

Many thanks to Jun Belen, not only for his creative eye and kind words in his blog, but also for his generosity in allowing me to reprint his photo of my Coconut Ube Gob.

Testing The Test Kitchen

2010-04-08T09:39:00.000-07:00

With baseball season getting under way it seems like a good time to paraphrase "Field Of Dreams." Again. I know. I've done it before. But I've often thought about its most famous line - "If you build it, they will come," - as I've posted to this site: After all, if you blog it, they will read. Right?

I think that's the assumption that most of us made when we first started to blog, or put anything on the web for that matter. The simple notion that we'd pecked and poured our hearts out into a template was enough. But that was, of course, the exact same thought held first by thousands and now by millions of others.

How do you make your content stand out now? How do you compete for someone's attention on the web, for instance, when there are nearly 50 million tweets per day?

It's a question that I'm reviewing now. In the past few weeks I've been helping the folks over at Foodzie.com add some content to their site in the form of a Test Kitchen. For those of you who don't know, Foodzie is an online grocery store that sells artisan foods. Part of the original plan with the Test Kitchen was to engage visitors to the site. Of course getting them to shop was the ultimate goal - that is what retailers are in business for, anyway - but we also wanted to create a dialogue. By offering people recipe suggestions for different products we wanted to establish a conversation where visitors responded with their impressions, and maybe even shared their own recipes.

People loved it! We received excited emails telling us how much they enjoyed the Foodzie Test Kitchen.

There was only one problem: Instead of posting their comments on the site, they sent their messages directly to us.

So, since most of you are more web savvy than I am, I thought I'd turn to you. I'm including some links to the test kitchen below. If you could, please let me know what you think. On the Foodzie site, por favor.

And if you happen to pick up, oh, say, some of La Mar's Mendocino Sea Salt or some of Napa Farmhouse's Persimmon Jam, while you're looking around, well, that would be swell, too.

Here are the links. Thanks in advance! (Photo credit: Courtesy of Foodzie.com)

http://foodzie.com/blog/2010/03/introducing-the-test-kitchen-playing-with-persimmon-jam/

http://foodzie.com/blog/2010/04/test-kitchen-pecan-encrusted-chicken-mojito-roasted-beets/

http://foodzie.com/blog/2010/03/test-kitchen-fig-balsamic-lamb-chops/

http://foodzie.com/blog/2010/03/test-kitchen-tuna-casserole-all-grown-up/

Gobba Gobba Hey in Fast Company

2010-03-03T08:03:00.000-08:00

The first thing you'll probably notice about this entry is the gorgeous picture to the right of this text. If you're thinking "He did not take that pic with his phone," you are right. All credit goes to Emily Olson, co-founder of Foodzie.com . The next thing you might take note of, depending on the frequency of your visits to this site, is the brevity of this entry. That too, is courtesy of Emily. Well, sort of. You see, Emily did such a wonderful job of talking about Gobba Gobba Hey and in particular the Matcha Green Tea Gob, pictured here, in her recent conversation with Fast Company magazine that I'm just going to include the link and end this post. It's kind of like those days when your history professor pulled the blinds and ran a film instead of actually lecturing.

So, here you are. And here you go: http://www.fastcompany.com/1566132/food-sustainability-with-emily-olson-co-founder-of-foodzie-inc

Love Is Like A Box Of Chocolates. Or Something.

2010-02-03T07:29:00.000-08:00

I hate Forrest Gump. Don't let the title of this blog entry fool you. I am not a fan. Love Tom Hanks. Let me say that now. But if I'm going to read or watch something about how a simple soul is mistaken for a genius, I'll take Kosinski's "Being There" any day. That's just me, though.

So what does "Forrest Gump" have to do with chocolate or Valentine's Day or gobs or this blog? Not a lot really. Yes there is that whole "... you never know what you're going to find," gem, but it doesn't hold true in this case because I'm about to tell you exactly what it is that you're going to find in the Gobba Gobba Hey Valentine's Day Gift Box.

I'll man up and admit that I used that heading simply because the idea of writing something clever about love, gobs, and chocolate resulted in the creation of a big old mental block. A chocolate-covered mental block, mind you, but a block just the same. In trying to think of all of the witty plays-on-words about the most celebrated human emotion, I was stumped. I was reminded of all of the things that love is capable of - Love Conquers All. Love Is Like Oxygen. Love Means You Never Have To Say You're Sorry. Love Will Save The Day. Love Is A Rose.... - yet I came up with an empty page. In this case? Love didn't hurt. But Love did leave me speechless.

So I'll let you write your own inscription when you give your beloved this Valentine's Day Gift Box. Like all good things, it's a collection that's meant to be shared, so you'll find two of each of the six flavors inside. It's an all chocolate set, by the way. (And even that fact tripped me up a bit, as I wondered if I should give it a name that tweaked the contents. At one point I thought of something along the lines of "A Chocoholic Sinsation" but thought that mash up was nowhere near as hot as the great name of my fellow Bay Area baking buds, Cinnaholic. Still, I riffed on it a little. See below.)

Without any further rambling, here it is. The Gobba Gobba Hey Ultimate Chocolate Hers & His, His & His, Hers & Hers, or Mine All Mine Valentine's Day Gob Collection! (Good thing I'm not trying to print that title on a label. Whew.)

There is a very limited run of these through this site. Please order by 10:00 PM on Friday, February 5th. Pick up is on Friday, February 12th. Stake your claim now. Email gobbagobbahey at gmail dot com. Thirty bucks (because I forgot to figure in packaging for the Christmas collection.)

And here they are...

Chocolate Covered Strawberry Gob - We’ve made a Valhrona Chocolate glacage, drizzled it over the top of this Valhrona Chocolate gob and then filled the center with fresh strawberries that have been doused with cream and a splash of Prosecco!

The Triple X Gob - This gob is a chocolate sinsation! Chocolate glacage covers the chocolatey cake while a chocolate butter cream takes the flavor where no gob has gone before!

The Banana Split Gob - Bet you didn’t know that the ingredients in a banana split - chocolate sauce, vanilla beans, bananas - also happen to be aphrodisiacs? You’ll find them all in this gob. And don’t worry. We won’t forget the cherry!

Chocolate Orange Gob with Hazelnut Frosting - Orange zest livens up this chocolate gob, and Frangelico hazelnut liquor adds a perfectly smooth balance to the butter cream frosting.

Chocolate Ancho Cinnamon Gob - Sweet, spicy and full of sass, this gob will help fire up your Valentine’s Day weekend! The almond paste and lemon butter cream keeps things from getting too out of control. One of our most popular gobs!

Chocolate And Vanilla - Chocolate and vanilla are a classic pair, no doubt just like you and your other half! Green & Black’s Organic Cocoa and fresh vanilla beans make this a simple yet sexy confection.

Remember, no substitutes, though kitchen catastrophes could result in a last minute change. Also, no crunchy frogs. (Sorry. How could I write about love from a chocolate box without mentioning that or this. You might have to click and scroll to find the reference on "this," though. Maybe you'll win a prize if you find it....!)

The Case of the Mysterious Greens, Or, That's Not What I Smoked

2010-01-12T12:19:00.001-08:00

"Dandelions!? These aren't dandelions..." I was looking at the leafy stems sticking out of the bag that Lon had just brought back from the Alemany Farmers Market. I shook my head.

"I know dandelions: I've eaten them. I've weeded them. I've smoked them. And I'm telling you, these are not dandelions."

"And I'm telling you that the woman who sold them to me said they were dandelions," Lon replied, as I continued to brush the bushy stalks from side to side. I examined the leaves, baffled that someone who knew food would identify and sell this plant as a dandelion, especially since it looked nothing like the jaggy-edged greens I have alternately loathed and loved over the years.

As a kid my dad drafted me every summer to do battle with dandelions in our backyard. The weed's ability to adapt to any set of circumstances - how the hell was it growing out of the sidewalk pavers? - made it a formidable pest and robbed me of many hours I could have spent playing with my friends in the nearby woods or swimming at our local public pool. I hated dandelions. But during the summer that I was 13 a certain "someone" convinced me that the leaves of the plant that I'd always viewed as a foe could actually prove to be kind of friendly. Quite friendly, in fact. If they were smoked. Or so I was told.

Well, several hours of dizziness, vomiting and tearful explanations to my parents later, the weed had returned to being just that again; a weed. As far as I was concerned the only good dandelion was one that had been yanked from its stronghold, blasted with Roundup and then left to die. By the time dandelion greens were served to me as a salad in a restaurant several years later, it was with a little trepidation - after all, I knew what smoking these things did to the body, what would happen if I ingested them - and a bit of vengeance, that I dug in. Instantly bitterness took hold of my taste buds. I looked up, astonished. I had to admit it. I'd just met a dandelion that I liked. A lot.

The sight of a small cluster of flowers snapped me out of this revelry. "Here! Look!" I pinched the buds from their stem and held them up for Lon to examine. "See these? These are not dandelion buds." I felt vindicated. "Knew it," I said to myself. I know food. I've written about food. I've eaten all over the world, I thought smugly. I knew these weren't dandelions. Pfft. No one was going to tell me anything about dandelions that I didn't already know.

And then, someone did.

"They look like they could be a variety of dandelion." It was a text from my friend Sam. When this whole debate started I snapped a pic of the greens and emailed it his way, asking for help in identifying the mysterious plant. I thought if anyone would know, he might. He owns Zannino's Catering in Baltimore, a business that was built on the family recipes of his Italian ancestors. And I remembered him distinctly talking one time about the dandelion greens his father used to pick. "Italians adore bitter the way Americans love sweet," his text continued. "Bite into a leaf. The taste should give you your answer."

So I did. But I didn't get my answer; where I tasted something slightly nutty, Lon tasted pepper.

The mystery continued. I'd also sent a pic to New York Times columnist and acquaintance John T. Edge. "Could they be dry land cress? Creasy greens?" his email reply asked. Good question. So I googled creasy greens, and then spent a good ten minutes searching the web and looking back and forth between the varieties pictured online and the leaves I held in my hand.

There wasn't a match. But at this point, it didn't matter. I'd already made up my mind that this strange new addition to my kitchen was going to be stir-fried that night and served alongside the Bo Kho I was making from my new copy of Andrea Nguyen's "Into The Vietnamese Kitchen" a recent purchase from Omnivore Books.

While we didn't have our answer, the wok did bring us a little closer to discovering the identity of the greens. Once cooked, their bitterness was released. The flavor was a nice compliment to the star anise and sweet tomato of the Bo Kho.

The point of this post? It's easy to forget that despite the access that most of us now have to an abundance of produce, not to mention restaurants featuring global cuisine, there are still discoveries to be made in our own kitchens. The ultimate enjoyment doesn't really come from the knowing, it comes from the tasting. And the sharing.

I wish I could tell you, definitively, what those greens were. The closest I've come to an answer is that they could be a variety of dandelion. Maybe? Really, though, it doesn't matter. The real joy of discovery wasn't in finding the answer on line but in discovering a new food that I liked. Looking back, I'm a little embarrassed by my hesitance and my need to know what this plant was before I ate it. Did it really make a difference? After all, this wasn't the first time I stuck something in my mouth without knowing what it was. Sometimes you just have to bite and enjoy. Search engines, be damned.

Happy Flu Year, Or, How Did My Grandmother Make That Soup?

2010-01-05T10:10:00.001-08:00

It's official. I have the flu. Not "the Flu," but a flu. Apparently, while the incidence of H1N1 cases has dropped here in the Bay Area, a bug of less famous but nonetheless formidable nastiness has been making its rounds. And I caught it. The worst is certainly over but my doctor advised that I restrict my activities for a few more days. So since I can't bake gobs, or do much else, I've been finishing my issue of Panorama, reading long-neglected books on my shelf - why did I allow Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go to sit unread? - and, now, blogging. I've also googled away hours on the web to see what I could shake loose from the internets in the form of flu recipes. Well, I should clarify, because that previous statement makes it sound like I was seeking out a formula for making a flu, when in fact what I was looking for were recipes to help alleviate flu symptoms.

Surprisingly I came up empty handed. But I was seeking something very specific as this search had two sources of inspiration. The first came from my Chinese doctor whose prescription for my recovery included "steamed fish and rice." But even when I'm not feeling well, I want to do a little more in the kitchen than put an unseasoned slab of fish over a stove-top sauna. But the second, and more significant factor fueling my exploration was my longing for a comforting bowl of what my grandmother made for us when we were sick. She called it Sick Soup, and following her example, we did the same.

Sick Soup's ingredients were few, but its flavors - and healing properties - were miraculous. When we were ill we would sit huddled at her kitchen table, our shoulders draped with blankets while our feet, in over-sized slippers, dangled from the chair. As my grandmother stood at her stove, Tammy Wynette spelled out the tragedies of her marriage in the background on a small plastic radio - a transistor which my grandmother had religiously set to WIYQ, a Pennsylvania radio station whose programming used to feature a "sacred song" of the hour hence her interest - while we waited for the c-u-r-e for whatever it was that a-i-l-e-d us.

Any cook who has ever tried to recreate a recipe for a dish they had in the past knows that memories can get you so far. Then instinct takes over. But, over the years as I've tried to recreate the broth that was made in that blue enamel pot, I've had to restrict myself to the contents Gram, as we called her, would've had in her kitchen and pantry. The list of possible ingredients is frustratingly short. While I originally assumed chicken stock was certainly the soup's base, the notion that my grandmother would have always used her own stock is questionable. She didn't have much freezer space in her fridge for storage. Canned stock could have been an option, on occasion, but because of the expense its regular usage was probably unlikely. That leaves the only consistent ingredient as water.

Eggs, salt and pepper were all added to that soup, but beyond that, the options in my recreation were scant. Even though her kitchen was about as Hungarian as a room this side of Budapest could get, Gram knew enough about food and its possible effects on an upset stomach that paprika and sour cream were tilos.

In the past few days I attempted an approximation of Sick Soup again. And as I had in the past, I failed. What I made this time was basically scrambled eggs in water, in both taste and appearance. It bore little resemblance to Gram's medicinal wonder. Clumps of yellow and white floated in my mustardy colored broth. The eggs in my grandmother's soup, on the other hand, had blossomed in bursts of white and gold, much the same way flowers unfold in Chinese Chrysanthemum tea. The bowl she served was as soothing to the sight as it was to the soul.

Still, I ate the soup I made. And while I can't say its properties were as healing as what Gram used to administer to us, it certainly didn't make me any sicker. It didn't look like much, but illness isn't pretty. In fact it can be downright scary, which brings me to this entry's photo. My doctor's office urges patients who are experiencing flu symptoms to don a surgical mask out of respect for others. I dutifully put mine on, and then as I waited for my appointment, I proceeded to take my picture and send it to friends and family with the caption "Guess where I am?" In hindsight it wasn't the best idea, especially judging from some of the reactions text back to me. If you were one of the recipients of that image, I apologize. Let me make it up to you. C'mon over. I'll play some Tammy Wynette and I'll make you a nice bowl of soup. When I'm feeling better, of course.

The Year In Gobs

2009-12-28T13:46:00.000-08:00

I'm rarely at a loss for words. In fact, I can get so revved up on a talking jag that I often have to apologize for going on what I call "autoblab." I've also been known to utter words that don't even exist. On occasion my left temporal lobe decides that the hundreds of thousands of words in the English language can't effectively communicate what I'm trying to say and, before I can stop myself, I'm speaking gibberish. What's worse? I even conjugate this nonsense. Especially if caffeine or sugar or alcohol - or God forbid, all three - are involved. Throw in my western Pennsylvania accent that I never really lost and at times my speech can be almost indecipherable to the untrained ear. So I'm accustomed to the raised eyebrow or the questioning tilt of the head on the part of people with whom I'm conversing. But even I was surprised when earlier this year I found myself repeating the word "gob" to people who obviously had no idea what I had just said; the fact that I was asking them to buy this thing they'd never previously heard of only made the exchange even more complicated and bewildering.

But what a difference six months, and a certain amount of press coverage, can make. I'd like to think of 2009 as the year San Franciscans added the word "gob" - or perhaps a different usage of the word - to their vocabulary. It's been heartening, but especially humbling, the way the city has welcomed me and my baked goods into its culture since I officially debuted Gobba Gobba Hey Gobs in late May. This time last year, barely two months after my move from Washington, DC, I was scratching my head as I scoured San Francisco's media outlets, trying to find my place professionally and personally in my new hometown. My book The Warmest Room In The House had just made it onto The Chicago Tribune's Best Books of 2008 List - not that that honor made any difference, or brought with it any guarantees, though. With the economy tanking and options for freelance writers disappearing daily, the only thing that was certain was uncertainty. Eventually I found my place at the table not by writing about food but by baking and selling one of my favorite confections from my childhood. Gobs.

Now as 2009 comes to a close, it's the gobs that have been included in some year-end round ups. Author and columnist Karen Solomon gave Gobba Gobba Hey a nod in her "Best Eats of 2009" survey in SF Station and the readers of 7X7's Bits + Bites nominated gobs as one of the Big Eat Suggestions for 2010. There was even a mention of my baking in the December 4 issue of the New York Times, and also in December's Conde Nast Traveler.

There's not enough room to thank everyone here who helped make this past year so wonderfully memorable, but if you're reading this, please know I am extremely grateful for your support. I thank you all, and I especially thank you, San Francisco, for adding the word "gob" to your lexicon. You've left me speechless. (Almost.)

The Twelve Gobs Of Christmas

2009-12-03T09:50:00.000-08:00

Yes, Virginia, there is a Gob Holiday Gift Box Set.

But more on that in a minute. First a few seconds to catch up. I know I said something in my last blog about "if I didn't post now it will be December before I have a chance to write again." Seems I'm surprisingly prophetic in that way. Shame those skills of prediction don't work on anything else, though, like game scores or winning lottery tickets.

So yes, here it is the last month of the year, and the end of the aught decade. October's curtain came down after a wonderful night as I appeared on a panel - along side Mission Street Food's Anthony Myint, Charles Phan of Heaven's Dog and Slanted Door-fame, and the man the myth the legend, Brian Kimball, aka The Magic Curry Cart - at the Commonwealth Club's INforum discussion on Street Food. The evening was presided over by the lovely, talented, and shrewd moderator Tamara Palmer of SFoodie who did her Barbara Walters-best to get me to cry with her first question. (In defense of my waterworks, I'd just learned that a dear friend, and the man responsible for buffing my confidence enough to encourage me to begin this whole recession-driven baking business in the first place, had been incarcerated for violation of his green card status and was facing deportation. But more on that later. We all have to save bits of our story for the film version after all, don't we?)

November saw the gobs bringing a healthy dose of sugar to some birthday parties, and art openings (both Fabric8 and also the Lost Art Salon, which, I for one am happy to have found.) The gobs received some front and center placement on the web sensation, We Eating Dot Com. And our fearless butter-cream-filled confections graced the dessert menu at Mission Street Food's Alcohol Themed Night. Since I know a thing or two about dessert and booze, Anthony Myint asked that I prepare a tasting flight of gobs for the evening. So I offered up Chocolate Raspberry Fennel with Absinthe, Spiced Pumpkin with Buttered Rum Butter Cream as well as Irish Coffee with Maker's Mark Bourbon replacing the traditional Irish Whiskey.

And then it was time to take a deep breath, which leads me to The Twelve Gobs Of Christmas offer.

I was supposed to have my gob-selling Foodzie.com store open by the first of this month, but through no one's fault but my own the store will not be open for business until January 1, 2010.

Sounds so far away, doesn't it? I thought so too. And as I fielded some questions about the store's unopened status with red-faced embarrassment, a marble of an idea began rolling around in my brain. Who says I, or you, dear gob-lover, have to wait, right? People are asking for gobs by the dozen now. Who am I to deny their cravings?

Let them eat gobs!

So, I am currently taking orders for the Twelve Gobs of Christmas Holiday Gift Box Set for limited delivery in San Francisco and the Bay Area. Your loved one, or better yet, you, will receive a box containing a dozen different gobs, a collection which includes twelve of the most popular gobs from this past year. The gift box will feature one of each of the following gobs:

Orange Cardamom Ginger with Saffron

Old School Chocolate and Vanilla

Mocha Almond

Ancho Cinnamon Chocolate

Spiced Pumpkin with Buttered Rum

Matcha Green Tea with Lemongrass Ginger frosting

Ginger Snap with Raspberry butter cream

Strawberry Basil "Shortcake"

Oatmeal Cream Pie Gobs

Lemon Thyme

Chocolate Raspberry Absinthe

Carrot Cake

(Sorry, no substitutes!)

How do you get your hands on such deliciousness? Simple.

Send an email to gobbagobbahey at gmail dot com. Place your order by December 13 and deliveries will take place December 19 through the 21st. Twenty five bucks. Done.

Pretty simple, right? What's the catch? There will only be a limited amount available.

So get crackin' and get gobbing.

Thanks so much for your friendship and support this past year. May the holidays bring you the perfect mix of what you want and what you need!

(And yes, three T shirts after the first of the year. We're doing them. You'll be wearing them. And that's all for now.)

It's All Fun And Gobs Until...

2009-10-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

Well, what d'ya know. Here we are, and it's Columbus Day. August and September sailed by in a whoosh and October is threatening to do the same. It's probably way too late for a What I Baked On My Summer Vacation-style post, but I have some catching up to do, pronto, otherwise it will be December before I post again, and I don't want to risk being called out as a blog squatter.

I've chronicled the happenings of my career here, as well as my kitchen, ever since I kick-started this blog back in the Spring. I just didn't think that two seasons later, they'd be one in the same. But, just as a recipe can often have a mind of its own - more fodder for my "Accidental Kitchen"-entitled memoirs, btw - so can an economy. And to recap, quickly, that's why I turned to blogging, and then baking, in the first place. Underemployment created an opportunity; namely the Gobba Gobba Hey venture. I seized it, thinking it in turn would kick-start my writing career again. But then the gob biz seized me. In a matter of weeks I went from selling gobs near Valencia Street here in San Francisco, to working out of a commercial kitchen and securing liability insurance.

For the most part it's been all fun and gobs, until of course I caught my first glimpse of the gobs in a retail spot where, in a smashed state, they looked as if someone had played whack-a-mole with them. I suddenly saw my product as potential customers were seeing them. The picture wasn't very pretty. Maintaining control of the gobs once they've left my sight was another item to add to the action list. As was updating the logo. I'm still working on both of those bullet points as I type. Again, a lesson in Marketing 101 came my way in what I've been referring to as "Forest, Meet Thy Trees." Seems my Ramones-inspired turn-of-a-phrase in my product's name wasn't the only thing people weren't getting. The stark black and white label, meant to mimic the "Gabba Gabba Hey" placard carried on stage by Joey Ramone, was equally confounding to potential customers. This came to my attention when I saw that a merchant had taken a highlighter to my minimalist design and wreathed it with squiggly pink lines. When I asked why they had decided to change my logo's look they replied matter-of-fact-ly "Because it needed color."

It was appalling to see at first, but as I looked at the smashed gobs with their Hannah Montana embellishment, I saw the newest challenge in peddling my wares.

If the first hurdle was creating familiarity with the product - try standing on a street corner, asking people if they want to buy a "gob" and then wait for their reaction - then the next barrier was going to be enticing the uninitiated with packaging that sold the Gobba Gobba Hey confection when I wasn't there to provide a sales pitch.

I still haven't cleared that, but I have some time, fortunately as festivals, weddings and deliveries are keeping me plenty busy. Since my last post I've had the privilege of participating in the Eat Real Festival in Oakland and collaborating with artists in a Street Food X Street Art event at Fabric8 Gallery in San Francisco. The Commonwealth Club has asked me to take part in a panel discussion about the street food vending scene in SF; Charles Phan of Slanted Door and Heaven's Dog renown will be speaking, as will Anthony Mynt of Mission Street Food and Brian Kimball, aka The Magic Curry Cart. The discerning tastebuddies at Foodzie.com have asked to carry the gobs in their web store and the talented bloggers over at FoodBuzz have requested gobs at an event in early November but before all of that happens, Gobba Gobba Hey will be one of the sweets on the dessert table at a wedding!

Definitely not the path I intended when I first began baking it to the streets (as I've fondly called those early gobbing days.) But it's been an interesting one, and one I should have done a better job of chronicling here.

Speaking of chronicling, the most wickedly ironic moment since this all began came in late July when into the Gobba Gobba Hey mailbox came a missive from none other than Chronicle Books. As I'd pitched my agent on the possibility of a gob cook book in the Spring, I excitedly clicked the envelope open. In the milliseconds that it took for the file to download my mind raced. "Could this all have worked? Did I really draw attention back to my byline by baking the gobs and taking them out on the streets? Was Chronicle actually writing to express interest in my work? The story of food-writer/author-turned-baker-because-of-the-bad-economy had to be a good one, right???"

Turns out they were interested in my work. They'd picked up some gobs from the 4505 Meats stall at the Ferry Building and loved them.

And they wanted to know how they could place a delivery order, for their office, for several dozen.

Gulp! The Gobs Have Been Yelped!

2009-06-11T06:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm touched and honored to say that the gobs have already been yelped! Along with Sexy Soup Cart and Creme Brulee Cart, and maybe some others that I don't know about yet, Gobba Gobba Hey has joined the list of user-reviewed street food vendors in San Francisco and I couldn't be happier!

This is a cheat- post and I promise a fuller update soon. But I wanted to acknowledge how grateful I am of the support everyone has shown Gobba Gobba Hey - from emailed pats-on-the-back to sending in orders for a dozen of gobs to requesting that gobs be delivered to their office - it's meant a lot. I sincerely thank you.

It's been a tough year for a lot of us, and I know many of you are in circumstances that are as bad as my own. I appreciate your support, and especially your ears. It's been a tough time for those of us who earn our living via an unconventional skill. But I know if we all hold on to some positivity and believe in ourselves and one another that we'll get through this period.

Also, don't lose hope. You never know what might happen, no matter how crazy your idea. To paraphrase that old movie "Field of Dreams," "If you bake it, they will come."

Will ____ For Food, or Have a Gob Day

2009-06-04T09:56:00.000-07:00

For the last twenty plus years, my professional motto has been "Will Write For Food." Somewhere in that mission statement you could've added the words "About Food or Music or Fashion." For the better part of the last decade, though, my writing has primarily focused on topics relating to food and the kitchen. It earned me a modest living at best, but I enjoyed my work thoroughly.

Unfortunately, in the last six months or so, my motto, "Will Write For Food" hasn't put very much of it - food that is - on the table. Like many others employed in a variety of industries I've watched as the outlets and opportunities in my line of work became smaller. Newspapers and magazines have been vanishing and those that have survived this recession have cut their staffs, and their publications' page counts, dramatically. With fewer freelance jobs to be had an already-crowded pool is over-capacity as writers and editors who once held masthead positions are now in the same waters as the self-employed.

The question this situation raised for me wasn't "sink or swim," but rather "get out or stay in?" Abandoning a freelance career entirely wouldn't be wise. People need to see your content, and your byline, regularly. (Isn't that one of the top five tips on which even new bloggers are schooled?) Besides, the stories coming back from the front-lines from colleagues who'd ventured into the job market weren't encouraging. After sending in writing samples and a resume, one friend, a well-respected editor, was placed on a waiting list for an interview. At Starbucks.

If one of the busiest franchises in the country was being squeezed by the recession, this didn't bode well for finding employment anywhere. I decided rather than search in vain for something that might not pay off, I'd be better off creating my own opportunities. In assessing my marketable skills beyond the obvious, I started to see some possibilities in my cooking skills (previous post aside, natch.)

An old maxim of marketing advises those with something to sell to find a niche and fill it. So I have. With butter cream, sugar and so far, a lot of smiles.

Dear readers, I have found Gob. And I'm not embarrassed to admit it.

As some of you may recall, earlier this spring I went in search of the recipe for one of my favorite childhood treats, The Gob. I found a recipe, but the resulting confection wasn't quite what I recalled eating as a kid. I thought with a little culinary tweaking, and some fresher ingredients, I could improve upon the wheel. Arrogant? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. And I'm happy to report that I succeeded. But what now? I had these incredible-tasting treats, but as long as they stayed in my kitchen nothing was accomplished. My waistline was becoming more visible but my byline remained unseen.

So it was with some nervousness and even more desperation that I took to the streets to add my two baked cents to what turned out to be - inadvertently, I swear - a highly publicized street food vendor scene. I was hoping to generate a bit of a buzz through the gobs that would then bring my byline back into circulation. Instead, I seem to have succeeded in getting more attention for the gobs than I did for myself.

Where's this leading? I'm not sure. The gobs are enjoying a life of their own, and really, who am I to stop them? In a bizarre twist I noticed the other day that one of their new followers on Twitter was an editor to whom I'd pitched some story ideas to barely four months back. This editor was now unemployed.

Times are tough, but the treats are sweet. Might as well ride it all out on a sugar high. And I know just the place for you to get the hook-up. See you at gobba gobba hey dot com.

(A quick shout out to Amuse Bouche, Sexy Soup Cart, Cookie Wag, Urban Nectar, Creme Brulee Cart, Magic Curry Cart and all the others who've been so welcoming. Thanks for the support and especially the inspiration! Oh. And Free The Soup!)

BBQ Chicken Rubbed and Roasted, or Did You Just Offer Me A Knuckle Sandwich?

2009-05-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

We all know what happens when food is overcooked. It gets dry, or burned, and is essentially rendered inedible. But what about when a cook spends too much time in the kitchen? Do they also run the risk of getting a little crispy around the edges?

Judging from my experience this past weekend, the answer is a loud, cartilage-crunching "yes." I had planned on serving my guests one of my go-to party-pleasers - chicken that is first slow-roasted with a fragrant and spicy rub to the point where it practically melts off the bone, before being dunked into a kicking BBQ sauce. Like I said, that's what I'd planned on serving them. But what I brought to the table instead was something that I have since shamefully been referring to as The Knuckle Sandwich.

Before getting to the meat of the story, so to speak, I should issue a warning now: If you are a cook, what you're about to read might make you gasp in horror. Or maybe it will elicit some empathy and a nod of knowing recognition. If you're a vegetarian, the following could make you gag in disgust, or you just might cackle with vengeful glee. (At my folly, not the bird's fate, obviously.) And if you're someone I've promised to invite over for dinner, this tale might make you think twice about accepting that invitation.

Since there is a recipe below, I'll try to get quickly to the point.

I'd spent most of Saturday and well into Sunday morning this past weekend preparing and wrapping three types of gobs. They were scheduled to make an appearance in The Mission and of course I wanted them looking and tasting their Sunday best. At about 1 AM Sunday morning I'd frosted and fitted the last of the halves, individually wrapped the finished, and now-whole, gobs, and sealed them up in the fridge. Less than five hours later, I was awake, back in the kitchen, diving into the prep work for that evening's Memorial Day soiree that we were hosting. Guests were due to begin arriving at 6:30 or 7 PM.

At around 11:30 AM I ran out to deliver the gobs. By the time I returned it was close to 1 PM. I looked at my prep list, looked at the clock, and decided I was, for once, miraculously ahead of the game. The chicken, which has been slow roasting since about 10:30 AM, smelled intoxicating when I opened the oven door. There was a fiery note from the cayenne, a mellow yet rich aroma from the dried anchos, and a wild, flowery scent from the coriander. Everything was coming together nicely. (The weather was, to quote our local weatherman Spencer Christian, "Fargo-like," over the weekend otherwise the grill would've been fired up.)

Over the next few hours I prepped a black bean salad as well as a slaw. Both were intended for my vegan and vegetarian friends, but the latter was destined to serve double duty. It could easily have topped the pulled, BBQ chicken on the rolls. I was originally going to repeat one of the stars of my Cinco de Mayo meal and make corn blinis and serve the chicken on those but all of the other cooking from the night before had honestly left me a little whisked and sifted out. I opted for, go ahead and gasp if you want, store bought rolls. They were fine.

That quick decision, and my willingness, to alter my menu should have been my first sign that I wasn't my usual hosting self. But I chocked it up to the "entertaining family and friends is its own reward" motto that I try to live by. (And anyone who's seen me nervous and frenetic, rushing around the kitchen, still in shorts and a T.Rex T-shirt, as the first guests start to arrive probably wonders how much masochism is in that "reward.")

I looked at the clock again, and felt confident. I made the BBQ sauce on top of the stove. I blanched the cabbage for the slaw, drained it, quickly tossed it with the carrot and granny smith apples, then lightly drizzled in some fresh squeezed lemon juice. I added some kosher salt and black pepper. It was delightfully fresh. The chill that still clung to the cabbage after its plunge from the boiling spring atop the stove into the ice cube bath made for a wonderfully sensual experience. The sweet cold crispness, along with the tart lemon juice and coarseness of the salt and pepper were all simple and satisfying. Alice Waters would've been proud.

If, that is, she'd eaten it within the next twenty minutes. Unfortunately I was working ahead and the slaw still had another.... four hours before it was going to be served.

I'm still not sure what kind of culinary vortex I fell into in the ensuing hours but before I knew it I was scrambling to take the chicken apart, comb through for any bones, skin or cartilage, and get it into the pot of BBQ sauce. It needed to slow cook on the stove so it could continue to break down into shredded threads of meat as it became infused with the flavors of the sauce.

Well, as often happens, I forgot to eat. I think the last thing I taste-tested was the black bean salad before I tossed in the rice vinaigrette.

That vinaigrette, as I discovered later, never got added. I'd completely spaced on it. Making matters worse? Well, in addition to the things I didn't put into the foods were the things that I somehow never took out.

After everyone left I finally sat down to eat something. I just can't eat while I'm hosting, so once everyone was out the door I made a plate for myself. I took a bite of the BBQ chicken sandwich I'd made.... and was greeted by a loud crunch. I quickly spat out the mouthful of food and examined it. There, along with the beautifully shredded chicken, was a piece of cartilage. "Better that I found this than one of our guests," I thought as I took another bite. And immediately heard another crunch. And then another. And another. And, please dear God, make it stop, another.

I think it's safe to say I was apoplectic. I looked at Lon and shrieked, "There are pieces of cartilage all through this!!! Why didn't you let me know?"

"Because I didn't notice it."

"How could you not notice it?" I practically demanded.

"Because there was nothing to notice."

Answered like a truly supportive spouse. Whether Lon did or did not find anything other than chicken in the pot, isn't the point. Sensing my increasing anxiety, the only way to quell what I saw as a horrible problem was to tell me that there was no problem.

"And no one else noticed anything either. I cleared the plates, I washed them, and I didn't see any signs that anybody stopped eating."

I almost didn't even hear that comment. I was focused on the fact that I'd overextended myself in the kitchen the past two days, and as a result I had been a terrible host for the night, possibly serving my guests something ghastly.

If anyone did find anything wrong with the meal, no one uttered a word to me. They were incredibly gracious, sending thank you notes over the next two days. I was still fixated on how I'd somehow let everyone down by not being at my best as a cook, when I suddenly became aware of the lesson my friends had taught me over the weekend: How to be a good guest.

Maybe they really didn't receive anything but decent food on their plates, but to me it's obvious they appreciated the effort. It made me smile. The kitchen, like friendship, really offers its own rewards.

I adapted this recipe from an old, now defunct mag called Eating Well. That this adaptation of it has been used every warm season since 1998 speaks to how well it goes over. Plus it's relatively labor-free - providing of course you thoroughly check the bones!

Rubbed And Roasted BBQ Chicken

For the rub...

1.5 turkey thighs or 2 lbs chicken thighs, preferably skin removed

1 TBS brown sugar

1 TBS cracked black pepper

1 TBS paprika

1 TBS coriander

1 TBS ancho chili powder

2 tsp chipotle powder

1/2 TBS dry mustard

1 tsp kosher salt

1/4 to 1/2 tsp cayenne (to your taste)

For the barbecue sauce....

1/2 cup good quality ketchup

1/4 cider vinegar

1/4 cup apple juice

1/4 cup bourbon (use something with a higher sugar content like Maker's Mark)

1 TBS black molasses

2 tsp brown sugar

juice of half a lime

1 TBS Tabasco

1/2 TBS Worcestershire sauce

1. Preheat oven to 300 F.

2. Put all dry ingredients for spice rub into a bowl and whisk to combine thoroughly. Rub into chicken (or turkey) thighs. Set aside.

3. Place pieces of fowl in a roaster, covered with foil, and slide into oven for about an hour and a half. Remove foil and check. Allow to continue cooking for at least another half hour without the foil cover. At the end of two hours, check a piece for doneness (approximately 180 to 185 F.) If pieces are cooked through, remove from oven and allow to sit, at least ten minutes, so pieces can seal. This will also allow it to cool to the touch so that you can shred it off the bone.

4. In a nonreactive pan place all ingredients for the barbecue sauce, except the lime juice. Allow sauce to build from a simmer to a slight boil, stirring frequently. Turn off heat and stir in lime juice.

5. Add pieces of shredded meat to the BBQ sauce, place back on stove and heat to medium high. Serve on rolls.

NOTES: I've made this with both turkey and chicken and I admit I like the turkey better. It has a more, well, wild flavor than the chicken. The dark meat of both birds is perfectly suited for this slow roasting as they stay moist longer. You can make the BBQ as the meat is cooking and allow it to sit on the stove. The flavors of both the spice-rubbed meat and the BBQ sauce only get better as they meld so there's no rush to get them together unless drying out is an issue.

Gobba Gobba Hey: The Gobs Leave Home!

2009-05-24T13:04:00.000-07:00

Well, the gobs left home today. It was only a matter of time before they outgrew this little "room." They have a site of their own now, and while I'll still post about them here, I'll be writing more about them primarily at www.gobbagobbahey.com .

The original Chocolate and Blonde On Blonde gobs were joined today by a new, as of yet, unnamed carrot cake version. I like the idea of a christening them with a Ziggy Stardust reference since they have a lot in common with that particular Bowie incarnation, but I'm still undecided.

Thanks to everyone who's given them such a warm welcome, and please, don't be a stranger at their new site!

Absinthe Frosted Gobs, or There's Nothing Here To Look At People, Just Keep Moving Along

2009-05-20T12:03:00.000-07:00

Something bad happened in my kitchen yesterday. A good recipe went wrong. Horribly wrong. As a result, sometime between midnight and, what I'll just refer to as "a not so early hour this morning," I passed out.

When I woke up this morning in a happy and well-fed yet admittedly hazy and confused state, I looked around at the sunny, sunny bedroom, spied the clock and gasped "What the hell happened?"

Soon enough my mental circuitry started to snap and spark. It all came back to me very clearly. No wonder I felt like I'd been wrapped in gauze: I was fighting a hangover. A gob-induced hangover. Make that an absinthe-frosted-gob-induced hangover. And that beguiling green bottle was to blame.

Now that I look back at my decision to make an absinthe-frosted gob, countless cautionary tales are coming to mind. Here are just a few:

1. Just because it's edible, it doesn't always mean you should put it in your mouth.

2. Just because it works on paper, it doesn't mean it's going to work on the palate.

3. If something was illegal for nearly a hundred years, there must have been a good reason.

4. Follow directions. If the label cautions one part absinthe to four-to-six parts water, again, there must be a good reason.

5. Don't play with your food.

Why was I attempting to incorporate absinthe into a gob recipe? Like every other great challenge, the answer is simple. Because it was there. But mostly because my gobs are about to start making more appearances on the streets, and in at least one store, in the city where I live and I wanted to have five solid versions under my belt. (I was going to say "under my apron" but that just sounds wrong in more ways than I can count.) And with this being San Francisco, not only does food have to be good, it has to be unique. Like the song says, it's hard out here for a pimp. Or in this case, it's hard out here for a barely-employed food writer who's learned that it's not enough in a recession just to be able to write about food. You have to be able to cook it, write the recipe, make sure it's like nothing else that's out there at the moment, take the dish's damn photo, put it up on line, promote it, take it to the streets, sell it, and then, if you can grow your own yeast, filet your own sashimi plate, create water from air, balance the tires on someone's car or check their oil while you're doing everything else, then maybe, just maybe someone will pay attention to you. Or at least that's how it is in this town! There is always someone better than the best around the next corner.

"Oh yeah, it's definitely a city of producers," a friend of mine who is a lifelong resident of this great city confirmed yesterday when I was sharing how amazed I am at the level of talent contained here in the 7 X 7. That talent, and the inspiration that it offers, is one of the reasons why I wanted to move here in the first place.

Don't worry, this isn't where I break into the Mary Tyler Moore theme and throw my hat up in the air, nor is it where I start singing about "spreading the news." But it is where I'm going to rewind back to yesterday when I was tilting back the bottle of absinthe as I tried to get the balance right in the frosting I was making for this new batch of gobs. I'm not going to disclose all of the ingredients or the recipe since I'm not giving up on it just yet. I will share though that every ingredient was given a lot of thought and theoretically they all should've harmoniously clicked, like yin and yang, when the two gob halves were frosted and then fitted together.

They're not bad. But like anything that's suddenly given power, in this case through a jolt of high octane alcohol, they just don't know their own strength. And I didn't know it - their power, that is - either. At least not until I returned home last night from a certain crowded concert venue and found myself in a ravenous state through no doing of my own. Since this is a family-oriented blog, I'll let you figure that one out for yourselves. Happily standing in my kitchen at around midnight and looking for something to eat, I was overcome with a giddy rush as I remembered the gobs I'd baked earlier in the afternoon. I quickly devoured two of them. I remember washing them down with some milk straight outta the carton. And the next thing I knew it was morning.

So, the moral of this recipe? Know your ingredients. (How many times have I said that to myself in the past few weeks?) And measure them accordingly.

I will probably give these gobs another go, tempering my pour on the absinthe. In the meantime, I have a fridge full of these things over here at the Folsom Test Kitchen. San Francisco peeps, you know where I live! But please, if you come over, bring along a designated driver: You will be eating at your own risk.

Gazpacho Shooters: The Classic Chilled Soup Goes High Octane For Brunch

2009-05-16T15:33:00.000-07:00

I think I'm one of those people who wears their influences on their proverbial sleeves. From my taste in movies and music, to my favorites in fashion and food, I think I'm pretty easy to read: I am a product of my generation. Take my love of gazpacho, for instance. I began coming into my culinary own, so to speak, right around the time that the Tex-Mex and Southwestern crazes were spicing up the American kitchen. I was living in Baltimore back then, and a small restaurant in Fells Point called South By Southwest inspired my palate with a simple side dish of black beans and white corn. In another part of town, the menu at a place called the Cultured Pearl offered an equally-influential gazpacho. Those two dishes set me on a course of personal study. I stayed up late reading books by Diana Kennedy. I combed through recipes in magazines and newspapers, training my eyes to spot words like "ancho," "poblano," and "mesa" at cincuenta pasos. And I faithfully watched PBS series like Southwest Tastes: Great Chefs of the West or Julia's Cooking With Master Chefs, which featured the about-to-be Too Hot Tamales Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger.

I quickly discovered the importance of balancing my spice blends, tempering a fiery patch of peppers with a cooling dollop of sour cream. Before long, I was perfecting dishes. Gazpacho was one of the first. The cold tomato soup provided a great way to learn the subtleties of fresh ingredients and how they can make, or break a meal. A seemingly benign cucumber, for instance, can practically poison a recipe; red onions, if not used judiciously or if used so much as an hour past their prime, can likewise befoul a dish and sentence it to the compost bin. Gazpacho empowered me to follow my instincts. I began to improvise with varying degrees of success. Not all of my experiments yielded tasty, or even edible results. To this day my former housemate Margo will not let me forget my disastrous orange chili chicken. Comparing its flavor to, and I quote directly, "a vomit patch" she blames that meal for putting her off of what she now generalizes as the "meat-fruit-nut combo" dishes.

If TexMex foods were all the rage when I was carving out my kitchen's niche, then vodka was the beverage of choice. Drinking vodka became as much about stylist choice as it was about taste, a trend established by the distiller Absolut. Absolut Vodka ads were everywhere in the mid and late 1980s. The era was all but defined by the images for the company by artists like Andy Warhol and Keith Haring.

Unlike my trial-and-errors with south-of-the-border recipes, my experiments with vodka are probably best left for chronicling elsewhere. But this is one that's safe to share: I've always had a strong urge to wed my early love of vodka with my gazpacho recipe.

I'd always thought a Bloody Mary could practically be served in a bowl, anyway, and wasn't gazpacho really just the unleaded version of the classic cocktail? Well, as I discovered when I attempted to create a gazpacho shooter for an upcoming brunch, the answer is no. The cucumber, once again, is the wild card, as is any chili pepper that you decide to use.

So after a few wretched batches, and one wicked mid-day hangover, I hit upon a recipe for Gazpacho Shooters. Enjoy responsibly, please, and ask if you have any questions.

Gazpacho Shooters

For the soup...

1 can whole peeled tomatoes in juice (28 oz)

1 lemon, sliced into rounds

half a medium-sized cucumber, peeled and sliced into rounds

juice of 1 lime

2 strips of fresh jalapeno, sliced lengthwise

1 cup vodka

2 to 4 TBS lemon-thyme syrup (see Gobs Gone Wild post on this blog)

Tabasco sauce

kosher salt to taste

fresh ground black pepper

chives for "straw" garnish

1. Pour vodka into a shallow bowl or baking dish. Do not use plastic as it will sully the flavor. Place lemon slices and cucumber slices in vodka. Cover and refrigerate for at least four hours.

2. Puree tomatoes in a food processor or blender. Add cucumbers from vodka and puree with tomatoes until smooth. Squeeze lemon slices into tomato and cucumber mix. Puree well.

3. Add at least two tablespoons of the lemon thyme syrup to tomato mixture and puree again. Starting with one tablespoon of lime juice, begin to balance out the flavor. You might find that you want to add more sweetener. (I usually put a bit of strained honey into my gazpacho.) The lime will counter the lemon nicely. Add the lime juice to your taste, but puree after each additional seasoning. (SEE NOTES BELOW.)

4. Add two or three healthy dashes of Tabasco to the soup and puree well again.

5. Using a funnel and a ladle, pour into individual shot glasses, top with cracked pepper and serve with a "straw" of fresh chive.

NOTES: The vodka in the gazpacho was almost overpowering on my first three attempts. If I'd just been a little more patient I would have discovered that with some extra pureeing - and a bit of time - the flavors would meld together wonderfully. Don't give up on this if at first it tastes too strong, or if the flavors seem disproportionate. Balance it to your liking with the lime and the lemon-thyme syrup. And then let it sit for at least ten minutes in your fridge. Taste it again. It will come together on its own. I used canned tomatoes here just because the fresh are still a little too unpredictable. Choose a cucumber that is medium sized and hopefully not seedy and pithy. Also, if the jalapeno smells the least bit acrid when you slice into it, don't use it!

Gobs Gone Wild! Lemon Makes These Blonde On Blonde Gobs Hot!

2009-05-12T17:00:00.000-07:00

You don't have to go too far back in this blog's history to find a post in which I extolled the virtues of keeping food traditions. Fortunately there's also another post somewhere in my blogging past stating that I'm not very good at following rules. Even if they're self-imposed.

Truth is I've always been too curious for my own good. And while I've been tempted lately to see what would happen if I strayed from the recipe for my beloved gobs - one that I was only recently reunited with - I'll admit that I honestly couldn't justify doing so. At least not without good cause. But a recent conversation led me to the conclusion that I could experiment without abandoning my first love, with the understanding, of course, that it was all in the name of culinary exploration.

So with that in mind I gave the gobs a makeover, turning them from brunettes into blondes. I wanted to try to tone down their sweetness by adding a bit of herbal essence and a little citrus-y tang. I infused a homemade syrup with fresh lemon juice, lemon rind and whole sprigs of fresh thyme and then added a small, strained bit of that into the batter, along with lemon zest. I also poured a bit of the lemon-thyme syrup into the frosting, adding more lemon zest and fresh thyme leaves. I also switched out the original recipe's vegetable shortening for butter in the cake batter, though I did leave it in the frosting.

Give it a try and get back to me. And before anyone asks, the answer is no. These still aren't whoopie pies.

Blonde On Blonde Gobs

For the lemon-thyme syrup...

1 cup water

1 cup sugar

5 - 7 sprigs of fresh thyme (if the stalks are really leafy, use less)

4 TBS fresh squeezed lemon juice

rind of half a lemon

For the Gobs...

2 cups sugar

1/2 cup butter, softened

2 eggs, room temperature

4 cups flour

1/2 tsp baking powder

2 tsp baking soda

1 TBS lemon zest

1 cup buttermilk

1 cup water (use sparingly)

1 tsp vanilla

1 tsp lemon-thyme syrup (see above)

For the frosting....

1 cup milk

4 TBS flour

1/2 cup vegetable shortening

1/2 cup butter

1 cup confectioner's sugar (plus more if needed to thicken frosting)

1/2 tsp vanilla

1/2 tsp lemon-thyme syrup

1 tsp fresh thyme leaves

1 tsp lemon zest

1. Make the syrup ahead of time by placing water, sugar, lemon juice, thyme sprigs and lemon rind in a small pan and bringing to a boil, stirring until sugar dissolves. Remove from heat. Allow to cool and steep at least 20 minutes. Strain when cool. Set aside.

2. Preheat oven to 350 F. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper. Set aside. Sift the flour, baking powder, and baking soda together in a large bowl.

3. Cream the sugar, butter and eggs together in a mixing bowl. Scrape sides occasionally to make sure all of the sugar gets thoroughly mixed. Begin adding flour mixture and alternate with additions of the milk, water (see NOTES,) vanilla and lemon-thyme syrup. Start and end the combining process with the dry ingredients.

4. Beat mixture well, scraping sides of mixing bowl. Using a spoon begin dropping small mounds of batter onto lined cookie sheets. The batter should be thick enough that it doesn't run. If it needs smoothed out you can do so by dipping your finger in water and lightly rounding the tops. Make sure your finger is not dripping wet! Space mounds apart so that six large, or eight small, gob halves are on each tray. Cook for 8 to 10 minutes, depending on your oven, until the gobs' domes have raised nicely and a tester inserted in the center of one of the gobs comes out clean. Allow to cool on a rack. Continue in batches until all of the batter is used.

5. Make the icing by heating a cup of milk and four tablespoons of flour on stove top. Stir well and heat until mixture begins to thicken. Remove from heat and allow to cool. Cream the vegetable shortening and butter in a mixer, then add the sugar. Mix well. Add the vanilla, lemon-thyme syrup and milk-flour mixture and beat until almost fluffy. Add the lemon zest and thyme leaves and mix thoroughly.

6. When gob halves are cooled, invert one and spread about a teaspoon and a half of frosting on top of it. Top with another gob half. Allow to set. The frosting should be thick enough to hold the two haves together without oozing out of the sides. Wrap each gob in wax paper or parchment paper, then again in plastic wrap or place in an airtight container. Refrigerate. Serve chilled.

NOTES: The first time I made the gobs I used nearly all of the one cup of water in the batter part of the recipe. Since I was adding more liquid this time as a flavoring - the lemon-thyme syrup - I cut back on the water and only used about half. Also, the first time I used all of the confectioner's sugar that was called for in the frosting, which was nearly 2 cups. This time I only used 1 cup plus maybe another tablespoon of sugar and there was enough frosting left over for another gob or two. I prefer gobs cold and so I keep them refrigerated.

The Hampden Highball: A Cocktail That's Fittingly Spicy, Sassy and Smooth

2009-05-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

When I decided a few weeks back that I was going to fashion a cocktail for each race of the Triple Crown, I knew that of the three, creating a drink worthy of the Preakness was going to be the most daunting task. I'd lived in Baltimore for nearly eleven years. I'd moved there right outta college, and in true poetic form (though not Poe's form) those days were the best of times and they were the worst of times. Since "Baltimore, The City That Reads," was a campaign that was just breaking when I parked my Uhaul at the corner of Cathedral and Center Streets, I'll continue with the literary allusions. What made those years the worst of times proved Tolstoy right: Bad relationships - whether with people, a job, even a town - are unique to each individual. Each person has their own gripe. But what made those years the best of times is something that is fairly universal: The joy we experience from our friendships. And even though I currently live on the other side of the country, the people that I met while living in Baltimore remain my friends to this day. They are still some of the most creative, talented, brilliant and funny souls I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. So I knew honoring those friends in a cocktail created for The Preakness was going to be a heavy and humbling task.

I was set on only one ingredient: The drink had to include one of the soda's made my Stewart's. But what went into the cocktail after that? That's where I was stumbling. Fortunately, I'd just learned a big lesson about mixing drinks. And it came in a very small glass.

We had recently attended a party in honor of "Peep's Corner," the latest print to be released by our friend, the artist and San Francisco fixture, Brian Barneclo (who just so happened to design the banner you see above.) The gathering was at Rye, one of the best watering holes in town, and I figured I'd take advantage of the expertise behind the bar. So when Douglas Williams, the aptly titled Liquid Alchemist, came over to take my order, I shrugged and said "Surprise me." And boy, did he. Doug mixed a drink that I can only describe as putting the "wow" in whiskey sour. He used rye, lemon juice, a little agave nectar, and some bitters. It was sublime. When I expressed my amazement over the balance of the drink, Doug essentially explained that if you have the right ingredients, at the right temperatures, the flavors will develop on their own.

I remembered Doug's words as I went about creating The Hampden Highball, named for one of my favorite neighborhoods in Charm City. As I said, I wanted to use one of Stewart's sodas since the company was a Baltimore institution, but beyond that I was stumped. I'd hoped initially to create something with Stewart's Creme, or maybe Stewart's Key Lime. Why those flavors? Because mixing a successful cocktail out of the famous Stewart's Root Beer just seemed totally beyond my grasp of flavors. (For now.)

In the end I relied on Stewart's Ginger Beer. Many memorable nights were spent with some of my best Baltimore friends drinking Jim Beam mixed with ginger beer (or ginger ale if we couldn't find any of the former.) Starting with that as the base I then added a little vanilla extract to pay homage to Stewart's Creme Soda, and some bitters in honor of the many cocktails I'd consumed at the now defunct-Memory Lane as well as at the legendary Club Charles. I took the first sip. And it was awful. So, I took a second sip. Still just as bad. I decided to pour it over ice. It was then that I turned to my default garnish of choice - a healthy squirt of fresh lime. I gave the juice a quick stir into and under the ice, took a sip, and smiled. I think, though I can't be entirely, I had mixed a drink that would have made Doug - but especially my Baltimore friends - proud.

I'm not going to question how those flavors came together. All I know is that somewhere in those chips of ice, the ingredients enacted an alchemy all their own.

The Hampden Highball

For the cocktail....

4 oz Stewart's Ginger Beer (if you need to use Ginger Ale, that's fine, just know that it won't have the same bite.)

2 oz Bourbon (Jim Beam or Maker's Mark will work best.)

A dash of vanilla extract (less than 1/8 tsp)

2 (or more) dashes of bitters

1 squirt of lime (squeezing out the juice from a quartered wedge should do the trick.)

For the garnish...

Lime wheel

Vanilla bean (if you get these at Costco they are much less pricey.)

1. Pour ice in glass to halfway.

2. In a mixing glass add ginger beer, then bourbon. Add dash of vanilla (use a measuring spoon to get the "less than 1/8 tsp" if necessary) and then a few dashes of bitters. Stir.

3. Pour over ice. Squirt lime juice into glass. Give another stir. Garnish. Enjoy responsibly!

Easy, Pleasing Salsa With A Seedy Twist!

2009-05-06T09:06:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling very Cinco de Mayo my-oh-my this morning so thankfully I have this easy salsa recipe to offer. I hacked this recipe years ago from the very first issue of Chow Magazine. It has since proven quite versatile and its basic elements can be tweaked just enough to turn into a salsa, a dip or a spread. I served it last night with mini cornmeal blinis (instead of taco shells or tortillas) that were slathered with some of this salsa, then topped with crunchy green cabbage, grated carrots, and fajita-spiced flank steak. I also put it in a bowl next to some jicama and carrot strips for dipping. Even more fun than watching everyone enjoying it was seeing the puzzlement on their faces as they swiped stick after stick through the dip in an attempt to guess the source of the beguiling flavor. This salsa gets a triple shot of smoky flavor from roasted tomatoes, toasted pumpkin seeds and ground chipotle. A little vinegar, brown sugar and lime juice then rounds those flavors out. Kosher salt provides the balance.

That's it. This will quickly become a staple in your kitchen.

Without further rambling from me - my morning fog is your concise recipe entry - so here you are. As always, ask if you have questions.

Roasted Tomato And Pumpkin Seed Salsa

For the salsa....

5 tomatoes, roma work best but you can use larger varieties, halved, cored, seeded, with pithy pulp removed

1 cup raw pumpkin seeds

Olive oil

salt and pepper

1 to 2 TBS chipotle powder

1 TBS ancho powder

2 TBS brown sugar

1 TBS kosher salt

1 TSP coarse ground black pepper

1/4 quarter cup white vinegar (or more if desired)

2 to 4 TBS lime juice

1. Preheat oven to 400F. Toss tomato halves in a little olive oil with salt and pepper, place on foil lined baking sheet and stick in oven for about 15 minutes. Flip. Roast another 10 minutes, start to watch for charring of the skins. This is desirable for the rich flavor, btw. When skins of tomatoes are starting to turn brown, remove from oven. Set aside.

2. Toss pumpkin seeds with a light drizzle of oil, spread evenly on foil-lined pan. Place in oven and immediately turn heat down to 250F. Keep an eye on them. In about five minutes you'll get a waft of their nutty fragrance. Make sure they're not burning. When they've started browning, remove. This should happen in about 10 minutes. Set aside to cool, but be mindful that some of them will be popping and cracking open.

3. Place tomatoes and pumpkin seeds in a non-reactive pan over medium heat. Add one cup water. Bring to boil, then turn down to simmer. Add vinegar, chipotle powder, ancho powder, one tablespoon of brown sugar, kosher salt, and black pepper. Stir very well. Simmer about thirty minutes on low or until tomatoes have started breaking down. Remove from heat, stir in lime juice and adjust flavoring as needed. I personally like more lime than vinegar so I went heavy on the lime.

4. When mixture has sufficiently cooled, add to food processor. Watching for rogue exploding pumpkin seeds. Pulse until a chunky puree has been made. Taste and adjust seasoning again. Pulse until seeds are reduced to tiny bits. Refrigerate til ready to use. Makes approximately two cups. Serve with chips, jiacama sticks, or use as a spread on wraps.

In Synch: These Fudge Brownies Are Perfect For Cinco de Mayo AND Vegan Tuesday

2009-05-05T10:06:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. You're going to look at the photo immediately to the right of this text and ask, "Pfft, who are you to judge? You just take pictures of the food you make with your phone." To that accusation I would have to plead, as the Great Dewey Cox once sang, "Guilty as charged." But, I would also have to add that I'm not a professional food stylist, nor am I in the food packaging business. The manufacturers of the box housing the product that I'm about to criticize, however, are. And if it weren't for trusting Lon's judgement on this, I never would've used said product, and I might still be waiting for these vegan fudge brownies to set. So, what's the offending party? The artwork on the front of the box containing the egg substitute that I used. After all, I had to ensure that these brownies could be both Vegan Tuesday and Cinco de Mayo compliant.

If I hadn't seen the Ener-G Egg Replacer - the egg substitute in question - being pulled from a grocery store bag with my own eyes just a few months ago, I would've sworn that it was an artifact left behind when our kitchen was renovated the first time. In 1968. Oddly outdated, and even vaguely foreign looking, the box of Ener-G Egg Replacer that Lon purchased earlier this year looked like something that had sat neglected and covered in dust on the top shelf in a kosher butcher shop; the kinda place that my sister-in-law Amy describes as "having sawdust all over the floor and an 80 year old man behind the meat case who says to the 60 year old woman in line, 'And what can I get for you today, young lady?'"

As I've ventured into vegan territory for over a year now, one of the things I have often noted is how the products themselves don't look very appetizing or appealing. Maybe it's because we don't have any idea of what some vegan foods are supposed to look like? I don't know. But aside from the dishes they're displayed in, I can't tell one food apart from the other on the front of the Ener-G box. The ice cream, the veggie dip, the custards? All the same color.

But as we all know, don't judge a box or anything else by its cover. And while I had my doubts about using this egg substitute in my vegan brownie recipe, I gotta tell you: The results were amazing. The flavor and texture of these fudge brownies could fool any carnivore. You would never know they weren't laden with beaten eggs, butter and cream.

I'll leave the rest of my yammering to the NOTES section of this recipe. The recipe below was hacked from a fudge brownie recipe that Lon found, actually, on Martha Stewart's Whole Living web site. Since it already has an unconventional ingredient - as you will soon see - it was already destined to have a different texture, if not taste, but again, the surprise was solely mine.

I devised this recipe when I realized that Cinco de Mayo was falling on a Tuesday, and since I've been keeping, and writing about, Vegan Tuesday since January of 2008, I had to find a vegan alternative for what I planned to eat today. So the vegan aspects of the recipe will be obvious, as will the inspirations of the Mexican table. I spiced these up with a light addition of cinnamon, cayenne, and almond extract. I never got around to making the avocado cream for them though. Maybe later this afternoon.

Hit me up if you have any questions, I need to get to the recipe as my posts keep getting longer and longer and... well, longer.

Vegan Fudge Brownies for Cinco de Mayo

For the brownies....

1/4 cup vegetable shortening (make sure it stresses "no animal products") and more for the pan

2/3 cup unsweetened, natural cocoa powder

1/2 cup flour (you can use almond flour in this but be prepared as it might be gritty)

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp salt

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/8 tsp cayenne (if you want to rely on a pinch, go ahead, a little goes a long way here.)

1/2 cup sugar

2/3 cup sweet potato puree (see NOTES below)

2 TBS prepared Ener-G Egg Replacer (see NOTES below)

1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 tsp almond extract

1. Heat oven to 350 F. Rub sides of square 8 inch baking pan with vegetable shortening.

2. Melt 1/4 vegetable shortening over medium heat. Remove from heat, stir the cocoa powder in. Mix well. Set aside. It will get very thick and clumpy but that will be addressed below.

3. Measure egg substitute according to package directions. Set aside. (I made a double batch because I wasn't sure how it was going to produce once mixed. I only added the equivalent of one egg, though.)

4. Add flour, baking powder, cinnamon, cayenne and salt to a large bowl. (I dump all of the dry items into a large strainer and tap them through the sieve, into my mixing bowl. I find this works similar to sifting and disperses dry ingredients more thoroughly than whisking alone.) Whisk to mix further.

5. Mix sugar into pureed sweet potato mix. Add egg substitute. Stir well.

6. Add vanilla and almond extracts to cocoa mix. Stir well with a fork. If it still seems to clumpy try adding warm - not hot and not cold - water, 1/2 teaspoon at a time. Mix thoroughly before adding more liquid. This will smooth out.

7. Combine sweetened potato puree to cocoa mixture. Stir well.

8. Combine this potato/ cocoa mixture to flour mixture. Stir well. Try to break up any lumps of flour. Using a wide rubber spatula - one that you might want to coat lightly with canola oil first - scoop batter into baking pan. Spread top as evenly as possible. Bake in oven about 20 minutes but start keeping an eye on them at 17 minutes. Insert toothpick to make sure it's coming out almost entirely free of mix. I had to leave these in for about 22 minutes total. Half way through the baking I noticed that the vegetable shortening was lightly pooling on top of the brownies. I smoothed these out, carefully, with my fingers. They got absorbed back into surface. Allow to cool for at least twenty minutes. They will be very dense and moist. Cut, carefully, into squares, then refrigerate. I found that keeping them cold balanced out the cayenne flavoring very well.

NOTES: For the sweet potato puree, I bought three small sweet potatoes, peeled them, cubed them and par-boiled them. I gave them a whir in the food processor, and voila, sweet potato puree. They help keep the fat content low while keeping the brownies moist. A word about the egg replacer. It is plant-based, and its active ingredient comes from cellulose. It has the very ability to bind and expand when its hot but melt when its cool. So when you're mixing the powder, use warm water for best results and don't let it sit around. I also wasn't sure how the egg substitute was going to work so I doubled the baking powder. The original recipe only called for 1/4 tsp. I added 1/2 and it was fine. As for the cayenne, add as much, or as little, as your tastes prefer. I could see these brownies making an excellent Cinco de Mayo dessert with ice cream - but since the holiday falls on Vegan Tuesday this year, I won't be serving it that way. Maybe next year....? Feedback is appreciated, as always.

Limey Bastards, or How Bitter Citrus Nearly Sunk My First Cinco de Mayo Cake!

2009-05-03T09:10:00.000-07:00

I don't think Cinco de Mayo is a day usually associated with panic - unless of course you were French in 1862 and on the losing side at Puebla - but the impending observance of this week's holiday was cause for some serious chaos in my kitchen yesterday. By the end of the day, all wrongs were righted, but not before I learned a few valuable lessons. The first is never wait until the last minute to test a recipe; the second is don't get cocky; and the last is know your produce.

The trouble started about a week ago when I got all caked up on what I thought was a great idea for a Cinco de Mayo dessert. Go ahead and boo the bad pun, but the only white powder I indulge in, at this age, is confectioner's sugar. Anyway, when some of our neighbors asked if we wanted to get together for the Fifth, I excitedly accepted their invitation. After all, I already knew what I was going to make - a Tequila Lime Glazed Cornmeal Cake! What better occasion than Cinco de Mayo for this cake to have its debut! It seemed festive and fitting, and if everything went well my own kitchen could have a new annual tradition. As of yesterday morning I had yet to give the recipe its test run, and while I had never actually made this tequila glaze before, I wasn't all that concerned. I mean really, how could it fail? I was making a margarita, more or less, on top of a cake. I knew these ingredients fairly well, I was adapting a recipe I'd made before, and as I thought about how complimentary all of the flavors would be, I asked myself again, "What could possibly go wrong?"

If I ever write a memoir, those last five words are going to be the first sentence in a chapter entitled "When Good Recipes Go Bad."

So, what went wrong? The limes. Now, bitter isn't a flavor I necessarily find objectionable, but this... This was unlike any bitterness I'd experienced before. I want to describe its ghastliness in words that should never appear in a food blog. Allow me to interject that I cook with limes all the time. I love their versatility and I especially love their clean, bright flavor. But there was nothing bright about these inedible green gremlins. I wondered how an ingredient I thought I knew so well could turn into such a stranger. And such an unpleasant one at that. A little research gave me my answer.

"A single citrus tree can be turned into a carnival with lemons, limes, grapefruits, tangerines, kumquats and oranges all ripening on its branches at the same," John McPhee wrote in his book, Oranges. And like a lot of other citrus, limes are often grown from branches, or sports, that have been grafted from one tree onto another. For instance, most lemons grown in California are grown on orange tree rootstocks. So in the case of my limes, if their original sport, or volunteer - as a to-be-grafted shoot taken from one tree is called - had any sour orange, bitter lime or even Rough Lemon parentage in their lineage, or rootstock, there was a chance that the fruit the sport produced might be equally bitter in the future.

In the end it seems a little unfair to fault these limes for their flavor. There is, as it turns out, a legitimacy to their bitterness. They didn't ask to sprout from that particular family tree. But still, can I blame the bastards for ruining my cake? Absolutely.

A re-do, with limes purchased from a different store, produced excellent results. What follows is an adaptation from a recipe that appeared in Bon Appetit magazine's April issue of this year. I am providing my version below. I've found this formula to stand up well to almost any flavorings and spices you want to throw at it. Um, except really, really bitter limes.

Tequila Lime Glazed Cornmeal Cake

For the cake...

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

1/3 cup yellow cornmeal (I used Bob's Red Mill, Medium Grain)

3/4 cup sugar

1 TBS plus 1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1 cup buttermilk, almost room temp (see NOTES)

2 large eggs, room temp

1 TBS plus 1 tsp lime zest

3/4 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted, cooled to room temp (plus more for buttering pan)

For the glaze...

1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, sifted (be prepared to add extra if glaze needs thickened)

2 TBS fresh lime juice

1 to 2 TBS tequila

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Butter sides and bottom of a 9 inch cake pan - I use a spring form - and line bottom with parchment paper.

2. Combine flour, cornmeal, baking powder, sugar and salt in bowl. Stir well. (Rather than sifting, I placed these in a large strainer and tapped them through into the bowl. The cornmeal will not completely go through the holes but more on that in NOTES.)

3. Whisk together the eggs, buttermilk, lime zest, and vanilla in a separate bowl.

4. Pour liquid mixture into bowl with flour and cornmeal mix. Fold the two batches into one another. Do not overmix. Stop to occasionally scrape sides and fold back in. Pour into prepared cake pan and slide onto center rack of your oven.

5. While cake is baking, mix together the powdered sugar, tequila and lime juice. The less liquid you use the thicker the glaze is going to be. You don't want it to be clumpy but you don't want it to be runny, either. (I did not add any extra sugar for my glaze on the cake in the pic above.) Set aside. Bake about 30 minutes or until inserted toothpick comes out clean. If you use a spring form pan you won't have any trouble with the releasing and inverting of the cake onto a wire rack, then turning right side up again. If not, slide a wire rack under your cake pan and turn upside down to release the cake. Use pot holders or oven mitts while doing this. Place another rack on top (which is actually the bottom) of the cake, then flip again.

6. Place cake on server. If glaze has thickened, give it another stir. Begin spooning glaze onto the cake. If the cake is too hot, like seconds out of the pan, if your glaze isn't thick enough it can either drip off the surface without adhering or it sink down into the cake. (I had that happen once.) Spread evenly across top to the edge. Some of the glaze will run down the side (no matter what the original recipe might say.)

NOTES: When combining the dry ingredients I tried to, for lack of another description, grate the bits of cornmeal through the strainer that still remained in the sieve. The result looked like yellow dust. Still the larger grains remained and I probably could've pushed all of them through if I had about, oh, an hour, to continue to do so. Now I've experimented with bringing the buttermilk and the eggs almost to room temperature ever since I made this cake the first time and the cold milk caused the melted butter to get clumpy. Regarding the glaze, after I placed it on the cake I immediately sat it in front of a fan to force the liquid to set. It worked, but it also caused small cracks to form on the surface.

I Got Your Horse Right Here: This Kentucky Clover Hits The Bourbonite's Trifecta!

2009-04-30T11:50:00.000-07:00

In describing his already-ebullient nature the "Match Game" panel fixture Charles Nelson Reilly once said, "I'm usually at about a four. But with a little bourbon I can take it to 13."

As a self-described bourbonite, I've yet to find a quote that better captures the spirit of my beverage of choice. Festive and feisty, bourbon can also be smooth and seductive. And, as years of imbibing have taught me, it has an adaptable year round appeal.

Unlike Scotch which seems well-suited for winter, or vodka or tequila which, in my opinion, have an inherent chill making them perfect for summer, bourbon isn't a strictly seasonal pour. In every month on the calendar there are occasions that seem custom-made for the drink. So, it stands to reason that there should be drinks custom-made for those events.

With May about to bloom, and with the Triple Crown at the gate, I wanted to christen a special cocktail in honor of this weekend's Kentucky Derby. In fashioning that drink, I turned to three different classics from the whiskey/ bourbon catalog and set out to create something new. I started with the basic ingredients of the Whiskey Sour, the Mint Julep and the Manhattan, and after a lot of shaking, stirring, steeping and pouring - down the drain as often as down the hatch, I have to say - I hit upon two formulas that made me, and those who shared them, quite happy.

I approach making cocktails the same way I cook. I follow my instincts, marrying flavors and textures that I think complement each other. Just as I've never studied under a professional chef, beyond a few classes here and there, I've never taken a proper bartending class. There are several wonderful opportunities for the latter here in San Francisco, most notably the acclaimed courses offered at Bourbon & Branch. The classes are a little pricey, though, and while I'm not opposed to being taught by a master mixologist, I've already spent a great deal of time and money learning how to drink. It was at a place called Penn State.

Relying on my instincts, and previous imbibing experience, I set out to concoct a drink this week that accomplished three goals: I wanted to enhance the inherent oakiness of the bourbon, reflect a bit of the Triple Crown's tradition, and also give a nod to the bright promise of spring. The result? A little cocktail I call the Kentucky Clover.

I'll give a quick run down of its inception, then I'll get out of your way. I started the recipe with the idea of adding cloves and allspice to bourbon. The roundness of the allspice seemed a good match for the booze as did the bite and heat of the clove, but I was concerned they might be too warm for this time of year. I cooled them down with some ginger, orange peel and fresh-squeezed lemon juice. While all of these elements combined well, the sweetness of the drink was still overpowering. I cut back on the syrup - which I was relying upon for its viscosity - and then tried adding more lemon juice and also a jigger of vermouth. I liked both versions, while my taste-testers threw their votes behind the cocktail containing vermouth.

Please ask any questions and please share your stories. The feedback is always greatly appreciated!

The Kentucky Clover

For the spiced syrup....

2 cups sugar

1 1/2 cups water

13 whole allspice berries

7 whole cloves

peel of half an orange (or more if you prefer)

1/2 tsp fresh, minced ginger root

For the cocktail...

1 to 2 TBS fresh-squeezed lemon juice (I prefer more, than less)

2 oz bourbon of choice

2 oz vermouth

1 to 2 oz of spiced syrup

For the garnish...

Slice fresh lemon

Slice blood orange (or regular orange)

Sprigs of fresh mint

Ice

1. Make the syrup by dissolving sugar in water over medium heat. Stir frequently. Add spices, orange peel and ginger. (FYI: I used a vegetable peeler on the orange, pounded on the strips to help release the oils, then threw them in. I did not go down to the center of the fruit.) Bring to just a boil, turn heat down and allow to simmer for 20 minutes. Remove from heat and allow to steep for at least an hour. Let cool. Strain. (If you prefer a syrup with real zip allow the spices to remain in longer.)

2. Place desired amount of ice into rocks glass. Pour in the bourbon, followed by the cooled syrup, then add lemon juice. Using a bartender's spoon or an iced tea spoon, stir to combine.

* If you're not going to add the vermouth you can stop here. Garnish and serve.

3. Pour vermouth into glass and again, stir to combine. Garnish and serve. Enjoy responsibly!

NOTES: I used Maker's Mark for one version of this and Bulleit for another. I also had some Jim Beam on the shelf but didn't get around to making a version with it. The vermouth I used was sweet, but you can use dry if you prefer. If you choose to leave out the vermouth entirely the cocktail will lean more toward the flavoring of a Whiskey Sour. If you add the vermouth you'll have hints of a Manhattan. I also tried adding blood orange juice in one version but the color of the drink was not appealing and the flavor was a little too acidic. Juice from a navel orange was a nice addition but it boosted the overall sugariness of the drink to a level I wasn't happy with so I left it out in subsequent batches.

A Challenging Meal: Vegan Tuesday Takes The Food Stamp Challenge... And Loses.

2009-04-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

Those of us who enjoy writing and reading about food do so for reasons as varied and as numerous as the edible items on our grocery stores' shelves. But I think it's safe to assume that we've all pulled our chairs up to this particular table because we enjoy having others seated here with us. When we share a meal with family or friends we're nourishing a need to connect with others that is as primitive as it is civilized. As Joan Kohn of HGTV's Kitchen Design show once told me "We're all still sitting around a campfire at the end of the day. It's just that now that campfire churns out 50,000 B.T.U.s!" And at the end of that day we want to share our experiences as much as our food.

But what happens to that experience when we have less food to share? I found out, on a very small scale, when I took the Food Stamp Challenge and tried to feed my house for $12 a day.

Some quick background info: Various food banks and services that assist families and individuals in need encourage their donors to undertake this challenge at different times of the year. November and May are two months with several hunger awareness activities, for instance, in various parts of the country. Even though we live in San Francisco, I followed the guidelines set by the United Way of King County in Washington. I did so in part because I've done some work with Seattle's Rotary First Harvest in the past but also because this information was readily available.

The size of your family dictates how much money you receive, per diem, in the form of food stamp assistance: This meant that Lon and I would both have to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner for $12 per day.

If you know your way around your kitchen, you're probably thinking "Pfft, I can do that, no problem." I know I did. But the rules of this challenge state that you can not use any pantry items that were previously purchased. I was reminded of Barbara Ehrenreich's excellent and eye-opening book "Nickel And Dimed: On (Not) Getting By In America," in which she took several minimum wage jobs and did not rely on her credit cards or savings account. Still, I thought, "Easy." I specifically chose my Vegan Tuesday meal to blog about because I thought without having to purchase meat or animal products, my money - six of the allotted twelve dollars for the largest meal of the day - would go even further. For six bucks? Well, I could produce a veritable feast! Instead? I cooked something that (I thought) was not as good as the dish I usually prepare with more funds, that wasn't completely satisfying and which went 32 cents over budget.

I know I could have stayed within, if not under, my budget by opting for the "value" menu at any one of the fast food joints. I also know I could have purchased packaged, prepared food from the grocery store. But the access and affordability of foods that are harmful are responsible for the health issues in this country today. Besides, I was trying to prove that I could stay as true to my regular diet as possible.

I had decided to make vegan chili since it's an easy, one-pot budget stretcher that's filling and healthy. I figured I would shop the bulk bins at my local Whole Foods and my neighborhood grocer, Good Life. Between the two stores I thought I could buy just enough of what I needed. I even thought I'd have change to spare.

I realized quickly that I'd have to adapt my usual recipe. Since I couldn't use my pantry staples of dried guajillo, ancho and chipotle peppers that I ordinarily grind up and put in my chili, I had to rely on other seasonings. I found an organic chili powder in the bulk aisle at Whole Foods and bought the equivalent of two tablespoons for about 20 cents. That, along with some lime, would provide enough flavor. The lime, also 20 cents, came from Good Life. I bought a can of black beans for 88 cents and a large can of whole tomatoes for $1.49. I was at $2.77 and over half way through my recipe yet still had over half of my budget. I was feeling a little smug.

And then came the process of choosing additional vegetables. I always put yellow squash and zucchini in my vegan chili, along with carrot and onion and garlic. I also thicken it with toasted, pureed pumpkin seeds but I knew the pepitas were too expensive unless I could find them in bulk, which I couldn't.

A large, organic carrot that cost a quarter pushed me over the halfway mark. I found two sizable zucchinis and one bowling pin of a yellow squash, all organic, for a total of $1.25. My tally was now $4.25 and all I needed was an onion. Here's where I will say that the ordinarily good-natured patrons of my local grocer became a little impatient with me as I weighed each vegetable, trying to stay within my means. I was going to offer an explanation for why I was taking such care, but decided not to bother.

But it wasn't the attitudes of the other shoppers that took me most by surprise. It was my own. I caught myself blushing with embarrassment when I noticed that my frugality was not only being watched, it was being judged. Here's where I need to interject that I know what it's like to be poor: I write for a living. Enough said. But as two persons huffed and tsked behind me as they waited for the scale I felt more compelled than ever to turn around and apologize. Maybe if I explained why I was being so cautious, that every ounce translated into cents, that surely they'd understand and possibly even offer a story of their own. I kept my mouth shut.

In the end, it was an onion that broke my budget. At $0.36 it pushed me over my limit by $0.32. I'd already purchased tortilla wraps with the intent to toast them into chips, and at $1.69 for six, they seemed like a good option to stretch the meal even further. I justified the thirty-plus cent overage by thinking I could use four of the wraps for dinner and use the remaining two for breakfast or lunch.

I walked home with my bags of nutritious foods, three quarters of which were organic. Not bad, I thought. I won't say I felt triumphant because it was more effort than I'd anticipated. And then there was the humbling incident at the scale. But I no longer felt embarrassed and I certainly didn't feel defeated by the challenge. Until, that is, I got home. Looking at the foods on my kitchen counter I felt slightly bewildered. These ten ingredients were more than enough to make a meal, but in realizing that I couldn't use anything else in my cupboards I thought "This isn't cooking, this is assembling." Since I couldn't use any oil to saute the onions and carrot, I relied on the juice from the canned tomatoes. I seasoned them with the chili powder - which was desperately in need of some oregano, salt and pepper, all of which were on my shelf but none of which I could use btw - and then added the zucchinis, the squash and then the beans to the pot. I allowed them to simmer and then stirred in the juice of the lime. The tortillas were actually the best part of the meal. I dusted them with the remaining chili powder and zested the lime over top them as well. I toasted them in the oven at 350 F for about 15 minutes.

Lon was at dinner with business associates so I sat down to the meal alone. It was one of the few times that I was happy to be dining by myself. The resulting chili was not bad... but it wasn't good. What could have made it better? More ingredients, certainly, but I had already broken my dinner's budget - adding additional seasonings from my own cupboards would've broken the rules.

At the end of a long day I couldn't call this dinner a satisfying eating experience. This was only one meal, and one I'd made entirely by choice. Yet I couldn't stop thinking about what I could've created if I'd only had a dollar or two more.

NOTE: To my friend, and fellow Leonard Cohen fan, Meredith - I know I keep promising to explain Vegan Tuesday so until I blog about it here, this link's for you!

Metabolism Be Damned! Let Them Eat Frosted Orange Cardamom Cake with Orange Saffron Glaze!

2009-04-23T15:21:00.000-07:00

A disclaimer before I begin: Let me say that I am not here to decry the pie. Love it, in fact. Nor am I here to crumble the cookie's popularity. Where would we be without its portability? And while I am not trying to squash the continuing cupcake trend I would like to ask its proponents to just maybe consider making them a little.... bigger. Please? That said, I am simply here to make my continued case for my devotion to cake. Read on...

When I was a kid I went through a period during which I secretly longed to live in France. Any country famous for a leader who said "Let them eat cake!" was my kinda place. That was, of course, before I knew my history and the meaning behind Marie Antoinette's [alleged] remark and the indifference it displayed. Nevertheless my misinterpretation of that quote was early evidence of what would become a lifelong devotion, nay, obsession, with cake. Yes, let them eat cake. Let them all eat cake! A ruler who would deny their subjects such a pleasure - now that would be one callous despot, don't you think?

As most people who know me can attest, I have lived and eaten as if cake was the wrongfully-snubbed "Fifth" of the original Four Food Groups. As a staunch supporter of its overlooked status, I used to strive to have at least one serving from that group every day. Notice the past tense: Despite the charms, of which there are many, the carb content of a slice of cake can make for a cruel, albeit delicious, mistress. There's no romanticizing the sluggish metabolism of a 45 year old man. There is, however, some warped humor in the idea that after a lifetime of helplessly declaring "I can't bake," upon moving to San Francisco I have totally embraced flour power. It hasn't been without a begrudging sense of moderation, though. As much as I hate to admit it, for the sake of my waistline, and my wardrobe, I've only developed a dalliance, and not a full blown habit.

Why? Because, it seems, the bastards were right. You can't have your cake and eat it too. At least not at this age, and certainly not as often as you like.

Well, you can, I suppose, if you want to lessen the sugar, cream, butter, milk and egg contents. But I'm not so sure that's always that much fun. (Unless of course we're talking about that miraculous concoction of egg whites; the aptly-named Angel Food Cake.)

But if you're one of us, the kind of person that - as my friend Sam of Zannino's Catering so perfectly and succinctly put it - "has a thing for cake," then you know it's all or nothing. If you're in for a calorie, then you're in for the resulting pound.

Whether glazed or frosted, layered or sheet, I am powerless before the confection.

What you will find below is an adaptation of a classic cake recipe from a recent issue of Everyday Foods. It adapts well to substitutes and additions so if there's something else you'd like to try beside the cardamom, orange and saffron that I opted for, give it a go. And if you're like me and you had to buy that Vivienne Westwood cake server from her shop on Conduit Street, by all means find as many reasons to use it as possible! Please ask if you have any questions. (About the cake, I mean, though I can probably answer many of your questions about Vivienne Westwood, too!)

Frosted Orange Cardamom Cake with Orange Saffron Glaze

For the cake...

1 cup unsalted butter, brought to room temperature, and extra for buttering cake pans

2 1/2 cups flour, leveled, and extra to dust pans

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

2 tsp ground cardamom

2 TBS zest from an orange

2 TBS fresh-squeezed orange juice

1 1/2 cups of sugar

2 large eggs

3 egg yolks (save whites for frosting)

1 cup buttermilk

For the frosting...

3 egg whites

3/4 cup sugar

1/8 tsp salt

1/3 cup water

1/4 tsp vanilla extract

For the glaze...

Five thin slices of orange

1/4 cup fresh-squeezed orange juice

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup water

1/8 tsp saffron threads, crumbled

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Butter and dust two 8 inches cake pans with flour. Knock out excess. I added a sheet of parchment paper, cut round, to the bottom of each pan.

2. Sift flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and cardamom into large bowl. Whisk together. Add orange zest and whisk again, lightly. Make sure zest doesn't clump.

3. In a mixing bowl - I use an old Kitchenaid - cream sugar and butter til fluffy. Slowly add two eggs, three yolks, one at a time - so says Martha - and add orange juice. Up the speed on your mixer to medium and begin adding flour, then buttermilk, flour then buttermilk, alternating until flour is last thing added. Don't over mix.

4. Split batter evenly between two cake pans. Bake at least 30 minutes. You know your oven better than I do, so keep an eye on them. Use the "clean toothpick" trick to test for doneness. I used spring-form pans and didn't have to loosen the cakes with a knife, but if you used a regular pan you might want to run a blade around the outside of the cakes. Turn cakes over onto a wire rack. Mine came right out of their pans. Cool. (I left the parchment paper on until it came time to glaze, and I'm glad I did.)

5. While cakes are cooling, place orange slices, sugar, water and saffron in a pan and heat over low heat until sugar dissolves. If you want to go for the candied slices, cook for about 30 minutes, then remove citrus onto wax paper to cool. Either way, remove fruit, stir in orange juice, make sure all sugar is dissolved and then set aside to cool.

6. When cakes have cooled, take that toothpick that you used to check for their doneness and poke as many holes in the top of each cake as you wish. With a large spoon, pour orange saffron glaze over top of each cake. It will immediately sink into the cake so try to distribute evenly. You don't want one portion of the cake soaked more heavily than another. Set aside.

7. In a double boiler - if you don't have one, you can float a pot or shatter-proof bowl over hot water - stir together three egg whites, sugar, salt and water. Add the water judiciously. When it looks like sugar has dissolved, remove from heat and transfer to mixing bowl. (Be careful. You don't want to create a sweet egg-white omelette.) Beat egg whites til those legendary stiff peaks form. Add vanilla, and beat again. Check the bottom of the bowl to make sure you don't have a weepy sea of moisture under those peaks. If so, quickly place bowl in double boiler, heat slightly, stirring constantly, then return to mixer and beat again just enough to mix thoroughly.

8. Here's where I chilled the frosting and I'm glad I did. It was easier to work with. 20 to 30 minutes should be sufficient, plus it gives the cakes extra time to cool. Lon suggested that I put a crumb layer or crumb guard or some such thing over the first layers but honestly I didn't have the patience for it. (See above comments about near-addiction.) Frost the tops of both cakes, then invert and stack. Frost sides, then top, place on Vivienne Westwood china, then for god's sake, what are you waiting for, slice into it!

NOTES: If you've read this far I'm not going to strain your eyes any further! This was a marathon entry, and I thank you for reading it. I also thank all of you for putting up with the iPhone photos. I am slowly getting the hang of this blogging thing, and hope to have better quality pics soon!

Shaken & Stirred: This Hanoi Mojito Rocks!

2009-04-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

Because I am not professionally trained, I'm more than just slightly hesitant to call myself a cook or a chef. I'm even less inclined to call myself a bartender. Or a mixologist. But I do believe that if you have a general understanding of the way flavors interact you can create a meal out of just about anything. Same goes for a cocktail. And last evening? I came up with a winner, if I do say so myself.

First, let me set the scene by saying that yesterday morning I was a little mopey after learning that Morrissey had cancelled last night's show at The Paramount. And if I'm really being honest I will have to admit that I was still a bit disappointed that we weren't attending Coachella this year. So despite the beautiful weather, I was feeling kinda glum. By the time Lon walked in the door carrying the haul from yesterday's farmer's market, my mind was set: I was going to spend the day dicing, slicing, simmering, chopping, blending and boiling my sadness away.

Like many people, I find great comfort in the kitchen when I'm feeling low. I can log - and lose - hours creating new recipes and fine-tuning old ones. And, on occasion, I've been known to turn my attention away from the dinner table and focus on the cocktail table instead. My endeavors have produced, ahem, mixed results. While I like to create signature cocktails to coincide with different events, it's doubtful that you've ever heard of The Orange Lotus (made in honor of a Chinese New Year's Eve dinner a few years back;) The Gentlemen's Prerogative (created on the fly with a limited liquor cabinet at the beach one summer while trying to recall my friend Larry's creation, The Handsome Gentlemen;) or, my favorite, The Bloody Nose (a horribly-named, but tasty, raspberry-based concoction I came up with when we had friends over to watch Liddell vs Couture II.)

Like I said, it's doubtful you've ever heard of these, unless you were there to partake of them.

Given our grounded status for the weekend, combined with the bounty Lon brought back from the farmer's market, the afternoon looked like a perfect opportunity to experiment. I called my taste-testers and asked them to have their palates, and opinions, ready by 6 PM. I flicked on the "Work In Progress" light over The Folsom Test Kitchen and got to work.

Of all the produce that came in through the door yesterday morning, the thing that really caught my eye was something Lon said the vendor at the market identified as Vietnamese coriander. A little research informed me that it's also called Vietnamese Cilantro, or Rau Ram. (One of my favorite salads has Rau Ram and I now feel one step closer to recreating it, but more on that in a later post.)

There was something about the light texture of the herb's leaves and its clean but slightly peppery fragrance that made me want to use it in a cocktail. It looked and smelled so refreshing. And just like that, my decision was made. I was going to create a variation of a Mojito. Since I was using a classic cocktail template, I decided to call it the Hanoi Mojito (after briefly kicking around the name Hanoi Rox, because once a music geek, always a music geek.)

I made two versions of the Hanoi. The first had lime, the second had lemon. The lime version won out, three to one, but I thought both were good. My vote went to the lime simply because I thought its citrus flavor balanced the other flavors out the best.

The overall verdict? The drink was so refreshing, it just seemed to scream "Spring!" But of course since I hate shouting I had to silence its exuberance by quickly emptying the glass.

OK, without any further rambling from me, here's the recipe! Enjoy responsibly, please!

The Hanoi Mojito

For the simple syrup....

2 cups water

1 1/2 cups sugar

1/4 cup chopped ram rau leaves, loosely packed

1/4 cup lemon grass, chopped, outer stalks removed first

2 TBS fresh ginger root, chopped

For the cocktail...

1 Liter Vodka, chilled (I used Grey Goose just because that was what was on hand)

1 bottle Pellegrino mineral water or seltzer or club soda, chilled

herb-infused simple syrup from above

1 lime, cut into quarter wedges, then cut in half again (or 1 lemon, cut similarly)

1 bunch, approximately half cup, clean ram rau leaves, coarsely chopped (leave some whole if you want to add some drama to the glass!)

Crushed ice

For the garnish

Lime wedges, inner stalk of lemon grass as a swizzle, ram rau leaves left whole

1. To make the herb-infused syrup place the sugar and water in a pot over medium heat, stir til sugar dissolves. Bring to a boil. Stir in the ram rau, lemon grass and ginger. Bring back to a boil and cook for approximately a minute. Turn heat down to simmer, and allow herbs to infuse the syrup for approximately twenty minutes. Turn off heat, and allow to steep for at least an hour. Taste. If the syrup doesn't taste properly infused, then bring back to a boil, and repeat. Be careful not to over boil as the syrup will turn bitter. Set aside and allow to cool.

2. In bottom of a rocks glass place coarsely chopped ram rau leaves. Put lime (or lemon) wedges on top of leaves and pour in one jigger (approximately two ounces) of the simple syrup. Using a wooden spoon, the palm end of a hand-held citrus juicer, or even the bottom of a small shot glass, mash the lime and leaves so that the oils and juice are released from both. You should have a nice pulpy mess in the bottom of the glass when you're finished.

3. Add to the glass one jigger of mineral water or soda water. Add a few pieces of crushed ice. Stir.

4. Top with one jigger of vodka. Stir well. Garnish with lime (or lemon,) a thin stalk of lemon grass as a swizzle, and a few whole leaves of the ram rau. Enjoy!

NOTES: While I used mineral water, I think seltzer or club soda might have actually been better. I think their higher sodium content would have mixed well with the peppery nature of the ram rau and the slight sting of the ginger and lemon grass in the simple syrup. Either way, the effervescence gave a nice buoyancy to all of the ingredients. I called this a mojito because of the similarities in their means of preparation, not because of similarities in ingredients.

Tracks in the Kitchen: Leonard Cohen at The Paramount Theater

2009-04-16T13:14:00.000-07:00

Long before I started writing about food, I used to earn my daily bread as a music journalist. When I noticed in the late 90s that I was losing my hearing - one of the few occupational hazards of an another otherwise exceptionally cool job - it was Lon who suggested that I begin writing about food.

While I have few regrets -food is, after all, relatively quiet - I sometimes miss my old life.

But these days, economic circumstances have required that I broaden my scope. Fortunately, I have my old skills to fall back on. Last night I was fortunate enough to not only see the legendary Leonard Cohen, but to get paid for the privilege as well. My review of his show at Oakland's Paramount Theater appeared today on SF Weekly's web site. I've included the link below. Yes, it's an easy way to put up a post, but it's affording me some extra time to devote to another assignment, and of course, my next blog entry.

blogs.sfweekly.com/shookdown/2009/04/last_night_leonard_cohen_at_th.php

There's History In Every Kitchen... And A Sformata Recipe, Or Two!

2009-04-13T11:33:00.000-07:00

"There's history in every kitchen." I wrote that line in the introduction to my last book, and the sentiment was inspired by the history that had yet to be written in the brand new, never-been-used kitchen into which we'd recently moved. Lon and I were still unpacking boxes in our new condo as I was tending to the book's final edit, and as I pulled out pots and pans, cookbooks and measuring cups, I was excited by the potential that this new kitchen held. The combination of preparing my tried-and-true recipes - both family and personal favorites - with these gleaming new appliances was thrilling, and I couldn't wait to turn up the heat.

Now, barely two and a half years later, we have found ourselves in another "new" kitchen, this time on the other side of the country. I have put "new" in quotations because while this kitchen is new to us, that word hasn't been used to described this room's condition since approximately 1968. In fact its outdated and neglected state can best be described as "one only a cook could love." And even then, let me tell you, nurturing a relationship with this kitchen, since the economy has forced our planned renovations to be placed on the proverbial back burner, has tested the limits of The Love They Call Unconditional.

Yet in the five months we've been here, despite its cosmetic and technical shortcomings, this kitchen has served us well. Thanksgiving was a little rocky but this past week's Seder was flavorful and worthy of Passover's rich history.

For me, though, it was Easter Sunday and the brunch's menu that was presenting a culinary, and personal, challenge the likes of which I had never faced. I was counting on my kitchen to see me through.

This was the first Easter in my adult life when I would be unable to celebrate with my family. The tradition that my parents brought to the holiday's table always mattered to me more than whether I actually liked the food that was being served. Being of Eastern European decent and of the Catholic faith, a number of symbolic, ethnic dishes were prepared year after year. And as this Easter Sunday drew near, I found myself at a crossroads: I could carry on my family's traditions in my own kitchen, and prepare an Easter meal as authentic to the one served by my parents (and my grandparents, and their parents) as possible, or I could leave that history completely behind and venture into culinary territories unknown.

Some aspects of the meal were resolved easily enough. For instance, I couldn't serve kohlbasi simply because it was made with pork. (For better or worse, we try to keep a somewhat kosher kitchen.) And making the traditional Easter cheese that my parents always made was also out of the question. Its preparation involved some logistical aspects that were too challenging so late in the game.

But I didn't want to completely abandon the foods that I felt would help me bridge the distance between my parents' Easter table and my own this year. I wanted to honor their traditions while establishing some of my own. I'd watched as Lon's family navigated their way through this dilemma - how to continue their own holidays' traditions in the years following their parents' passing. For them it's been a process of adaptation. Some dishes have been kept, some have been updated, and some have been left to history.

In the end, I opted to follow that example, and honor traditions old and new. The classic Italian sformata I served was a tried-and-true brunch dish that Lon and I have made for guests ever since we picked up the London River Cafe's "Italian Easy" cook book on one of our monthly trips to Costco years ago. Since beets were a part of my family's Easter Sunday tradition, I made sure that there were roasted red beets in the salad I prepared for yesterday's meal. And, of course, we had Easter eggs. Granted, they were dyed in an eco-friendly way using pomegranate juice, wine, celery seed and the beet's peels for color, but they were there on the table, representing, just the same.

This first Easter Sunday brunch is now already history, just like the sformata, but I think the meal was a success. It had, after all, the most important ingredients - beloved family and friends.

When it comes to family, it's said that we can create our own. The same goes for holiday traditions, I suppose. But I think we are most blessed when both the family with whom we celebrate, and the holiday traditions we honor, pay tribute to the old and the new. As for the food? Well, I'm learning that we just need to step out of the way and let our kitchens write our history for us, one meal at a time. If we let them, they will serve us well.

Sformata di Ricotta (adapted from the Italian Easy: Recipes from the London River Cafe.)

2 1/2 cups ricotta cheese

8 TBS butter, room temperature

1/4 lb Parmesan, grated

4 garlic cloves, minced

1/2 pound cherry tomatoes

6 eggs, room temperature

1 cup creme fraiche

2 TBS fresh thyme

zest of one lemon

1 TBS olive oil

1. Preheat oven to 400 F. Take butter and rub into sides and bottom of a casserole dish, preferably 9 X 13 or larger. Sprinkle the grated Parmesan across the buttered dish. Set aside.

2. Place garlic, tomatoes and olive oil in a separate bowl and mix well. When tomatoes look well-coated with oil, add to casserole dish along with the half of the thyme and half the lemon zest. Season with salt and pepper, and stir to mix with the cheese - I just shake the casserole dish back and forth - and then slide into the oven for 15 minutes. When done, scoop out the tomato mixture and reserve momentarily in a bowl.

3. While casserole is in oven for the first 15 minutes, mix the ricotta and eggs in a food processor. Make sure there are no yellow streaks of yolk left visible. I then add the creme fraiche into the food processor and mix till smooth (though the "Italian Easy" authors advise removing egg/ ricotta mixture and stirring, in a bowl, with creme fraiche.)

4. Pour ricotta mixture back into casserole dish, scoop tomato/ garlic/ cheese mixture over top (it will sink in) and top with remaining thyme and lemon zest. Bake for at least 20 minutes then check. The mixture should rise fully, like a souffle or an egg pudding. If the center is still moist or jiggly place back into oven. Be careful that the browning on the sides doesn't turn into "burning" of the sides! Serve immediately once the sformata appears set.

NOTES: I made two of these for Easter. The first was the one described in the recipe above, but I substituted a Piave cheese instead of Parmesan. I have substituted other hard cheeses in the past with great results. For the ricotta, I would look for a cheese that is not too dry. I also prefer a sweeter ricotta in mine. For the second casserole I substituted two cups of fresh asparagus and two cups of fresh, mixed mushrooms for the tomatoes. (I blanched asparagus first in boiling water for a minute then plunged the spears into an ice bath.) I also replaced the garlic with a shallot. In hindsight, there was too much inherent moisture in the asparagus and the mushrooms and I would advise using far less than the two cups of each that I put into this casserole. I think even 3/4 cup, of each, would do nicely.

Beet This! Beets And Horseradish - My New Favorite Condiment!

2009-04-11T16:02:00.000-07:00

Move over, mayo. There's a new condiment in my fridge. I made this red beets and horseradish dish last week and it has quickly become my new favorite go-to topping for sandwiches and snacks alike.

I need to clarify something, first. I've eaten beets mixed with horseradish during Easter season all my life, and since it's also part of Passover, it's been serving double duty in my house for the last eleven Springs. While I appreciate the poetry of its place at both tables, I've always just liked it for its full flavor.

Prior to this year I relied on the bottled variety, either mixing jarred horseradish with fresh beets, or using canned beats and mixing those with the jarred root that comes in a vinegar-brine. Last week while preparing for the first Seder of Passover, I decided I wanted to make this traditional side dish from scratch. And now that I have? I'll never eat it any other way!

In the days since I made it, I haven't found a food that it does not compliment. I've eaten it with eggs, turkey breast, beef, fish, a variety of vegetables, rice cakes, matzoh and even tofu. Its stingy sweetness is practically addictive!

I followed Joan Nathan's recipe from "Jewish Cooking In America," but switched the proportions of the ingredients a bit.

One warning: I don't care how tolerant you think you are of powerful, odorous raw ingredients, grating fresh horseradish requires some precautions. I know, I know, I admit I too let out a "Pfft, please" when I read Ms Nathan's instructions to wear tight-fitting swim goggles and to make sure the kitchen's windows were opened while grating the root.

But heed the woman's words. She knows of what she speaks. About thirty seconds into grating the fresh horseradish I was nearly gasping. No onion has ever produced tears like these. I turned on the overhead vent of my stove and even set my grater and bowl near two open windows. That provided little relief. Not until I added the vinegar and sugar did the wicked odor stop stinging my eyes. By that point, though, I was honestly concerned that damage had been done not only to my cornea, but to the structural integrity of my house. Or at the very least the varnish on the kitchen cabinets.

Yes. It really, really is that intense. But the result makes any discomfort endured in the preparation so So SO worth it in the end.

Here's the recipe, as I adapted it. Just remember - you have been warned!

Beets With Fresh Horseradish Root

2 medium-sized red beets, scrubbed and peeled

1 large horseradish root, about eight to ten inches long

1/2 cup vinegar (or more to taste)

1/4 cup sugar (or more to taste)

1. Grate beets into a large bowl. Grate horseradish into same bowl. Mix well until everything is a deep rich red. The beets will quickly stain the white root of the horseradish.

2. Dust sugar over top of grated ingredients, and mix again. Add vinegar and stir well. Taste and adjust sugar and vinegar to your liking. Remember that the beets have a fair amount of sugar in them, naturally, so hold back on adding more.

NOTES: Aside from the strength of the sting, there are some other things to keep in mind when making this. The horseradish root will be fairly knobby, and its outer peel goes down further into the flesh of the root than I'd anticipated. I found that the areas of the root where I'd planed off a few more layers grated most easily. In the places where I hadn't gone as far down, and had only peeled off the first outer layer, I ended up with a large sheet of pulp that grew bigger with every attempt at passing the root through the teeth of the grater. Be mindful of this when peeling. If you prefer larger pieces of the beet and root, then a regular box grater should suit you fine. I thought the resulting dish was a little too pithy, so I spun it around inside the food processor until the beets and horseradish looked like a finely chopped relish. Placing it in a food processor or blender will help the vinegar and sugar spread more evenly throughout the dish. You can store this in a tight-lidded container in the fridge probably indefinitely, given the potency of the horseradish, but I probably wouldn't hold on to it for longer than two or three weeks, max. If you become as smitten with this stuff as I have, it will be devoured long before its shelf-life ever becomes an issue!

The Warmest Room In The House Is Moving....

2009-04-10T13:14:00.000-07:00

.... Sort of. This blog is in the middle of a transition, and is moving to a new site. The new address will be www.TheWarmestRoomInTheHouse.com .

All that I'm losing is the "blogspot" part of the address. The transition is already underway which is why some pages might not be available right now.

I apologize for any inconvenience - I know some people have been looking for specific recipes, and hopefully they'll be available again soon!

Thanks again and see you in the next Room!

Passover 101: A Gentile's Guide To Setting A Seder, Lesson 1

2009-04-08T12:43:00.000-07:00

For someone who was raised Catholic, I'm a pretty good cultural Jew. In fact I've got the Tsimmes to prove it. But, eleven and a half years ago? Oy. I didn't know my dibbuk from my pupik. And I certainly didn't know my Sephardi from my Ashkenazi...

It was Spring, 1998, and I was participating in my first seder since Lon and I had become a couple. Eager to contribute to the table I made what I thought was a perfect side dish - a bowl of beautiful peas tossed in olive oil with leeks. To me it said "spring" and "fresh" and "garden." But to everyone else? It said "goy."

"What's that?" someone asked as the dish was passed down the table after the Haggadot were put away and the festive meal had begun.

"Peas and leeks," I said, proudly.

A few people looked at me, then at each other. Dishes were paused, mid-pass. There was silence. And then....

"Peas and leeks?" someone asked. "That's not a Passover dish. [Pause... pause... wait for it... wait for it...] That's a punch line waiting for a joke!"

Laughter all around. I think I heard someone say "I don't get it...?" The meal resumed.

I laugh when I remember that night now, but at the time I was crushed. People laughed warmly, and excused my oversight, but I felt I'd let Lon down by not first asking if legumes were kosher for Passover before I made the dish. It didn't help that my attempts at assimilation continued to fail when, while clearing dishes at the seder's end, I blew out the candles. A few gasps met my blunder.

"Is this your first seder," a guest asked, seeing my reaction. I could only answer glumly: "Isn't it obvious?"

"You did fine," she said as she helped me clear the table. "Didn't I hear you say you were Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Well. You'll pick all of this up soon enough," she smiled, before offering, "You know, Catholics make the best Jews."

I appreciated the sentiment and her kindness. I don't know if I agreed with her then, but over ten years on, I understand what she meant now. And I do pride myself on being a good cultural Jew. I've taken to calling myself a Cashew - a term a friend of mine who is also a Catholic married to a Jew coined for people like ourselves in dual-faith relationships.

If anything I take comfort in knowing the frustration of feeling like you've failed your spouse when you don't immediately grasp the nuances of their holidays goes both ways: One year my brother-in-law Seth told us that his wife, Julie, was disappointed with the Christmas tree he'd brought home to decorate. His response? "Well this is what happens when you send a Jew do a Gentile's job."

And that's what I've learned. When all else fails, laugh. And then eat. Just make sure you let the candles burn out on their own.

Tsimmes Recipe

1 lb carrots, peeled, sliced diagonally

2 medium-sized sweet potatoes, peeled, cut into cubes

1 lb dates, pitted (be careful to remove any stem that might still be attached)

1 yellow onion, chopped

4 cloves garlic, chopped

2 TBS olive oil

4 cups of water

Juice of 2 oranges

Juice of 1 lemon, seeds strained out

1/4 tsp saffron strands

2 tsp ground ginger

1 tsp cardamom

1 tsp coriander

2 sticks of cinnamon

4 tsp kosher salt

2 TBS honey

1. Heat oil over medium flame in pan large enough to hold about 12 cups. When oil is hot, add onion. Saute until soft, then add garlic. Cook for about a minute. Add carrots and cook with the onions, stirring frequently until coated. Add potatoes and cook about five minutes, stirring often.

2. Pour in the water and add saffron. Bring just to a boil. Add cinnamon sticks. Turn heat down to a simmer. Add the ginger, cardamom, coriander and salt. Stir well. Continue simmering to help reduce water. Cook until carrots and sweet potatoes are just easily pierced with a fork, but not completely soft the whole way through.

3. Stir in orange juice, lemon juice and honey. Mix well. Add dates, turn off heat, and cover. Allow to sit for ten minutes. Serve.

TIP: I find that when adding honey to a recipe that it's best to first break it down a little. I usually heat it over a flame with the other liquids that I'm putting in the dish. For instance for the tsimmes, I poured the fresh-squeezed orange and lemon juice into a metal mixing bowl and sat it directly on my stove top. Over a very low flame, I stirred in the honey until it blended well with the juices.

NOTES: This is a mash-up of a traditional carrot tsimmes with a traditional tagine. From the tagine I plucked the saffron, dates and lemon. To the traditional carrot tsimmes I added sweet potato, and left out the prunes and raisins. I like prunes, or dried plums or whatever you want to call them, but I find that they can leave a very specific fermented, earthy flavor that I don't always want in my dishes. But substitute as your preferences dictate.

Vegan Tuesday: Stir-Fried Chinese Long Beans w/ Peanuts and Tofu

2009-04-07T12:29:00.000-07:00

The challenge I've set for myself in the kitchen these past few weeks is to use as many on-hand ingredients as possible. Since I work at home I love the social aspect of making daily trips to Good Life, my neighborhood grocery store. It's a chance to pick up the odds and ends I need for each night's dinner but it's also a nice opportunity to bump into neighbors. While these trips are good for my spirit, they're not always, unfortunately, good for my wallet.

So as I looked at the beautiful Chinese Long Beans we'd procured during the weekend trip to the farmer's market, I hoped I'd be able to prepare them with ingredients I already had in the fridge and on my shelves.

I successfully met my self-imposed guidelines and I managed to make a quick and flavorful dinner for this week's Vegan Tuesday in the process! The meal also gave me a chance to break in my new wok. (It's no longer that beautiful metallic blue color, so this pic was definitely snapped "before" I broke it in.) One of these days I'm going to listen to Tehn at The Wok Shop in Chinatown and graduate to the hand-hammered woks she has in her store.

Well, without any further yammering from me, here's the recipe - I'd also challenged myself to make this post as quick as this dish's preparation!

Stir-Fried Chinese Long Beans w/ Peanuts and Tofu

1/2 lb Chinese Long Beans (or green beans)

1/4 cup dry roasted peanuts, coarsely ground

1 cup dry roasted peanuts (do not grind or chop these)

1 TBS grated, fresh ginger root

5 cloves of garlic, minced

1 tsp fresh lime zest (or more to taste)

1 tsp kosher salt

2 tsp ground coriander

1/4 tsp red pepper flakes

8 oz extra firm tofu, sliced into cubes

1 TBS vegetable oil (I used canola)

Lime wedges

1. Put a medium-sized pot, large enough to hold the beans, on to boil. As water heats, clean long beans and snip off any knobby tips. When water boils, dunk beans into pot and allow to cook for approximately 2 minutes. Plunge the beans into an ice bath or run under cold water to help keep them crisp and also to stop the cooking process. When they've cooled to the touch, cut them into pieces about two and a half inches in length.

2. Heat wok, then add oil. As wok is heating, quickly mix the ground peanuts, ginger, garlic, lime zest, salt, coriander and pepper flakes in a small bowl.

3. When oil is hot add the peanuts and spice mix to walk and stir-fry rapidly. Make sure your kitchen is well-ventilated and don't put your face directly over the wok! The fumes from this mixture are going to have a sting to them! When the bits of garlic and ginger look like they've begun to brown, scoop the mix out of the wok.

4. Add more oil to wok if needed. Make sure excess water is shaken off of the long beans, then add to wok and stir-fry. When the beans begin to get black on the ridges, add remaining 1 cup of peanuts. Stir to heat through. Add the peanut and spice mix back to the wok, and toss over heat to mix well. Add the cubes of tofu to the beans, peanuts and spice mix and quickly stir-fry. Extra firm tofu will stand up well to this kind of heat, and handling, but I would only cook for about a minute or two, just enough to heat. Remove wok from heat source. Serve with lime wedges over rice or noodles or simply eat as is!

NOTES: If you can't find Chinese Long Beans, green beans will work just as well. If you do opt to substitute them, I would advise blanching and stir-frying them a little longer since they're thicker than the long beans I used. I keep an extra coffee bean grinder in my kitchen for grinding dried chili peppers, nuts, that sort of thing. You could also use a small food processor to grind the peanuts, or you could chop finely if you're that skilled with a knife. (I am not!) Also, I love lime juice and lime zest, so if you want to add more lime zest go right ahead. I love its clean, bright flavor. I used canola oil for the stir-fry but I gave some thought to using the sesame oil on my shelf. I decided that I didn't want that heavy flavor so I opted for the canola.

Gobs: In Search of a Lost Recipe

2009-04-05T11:11:00.000-07:00

I'm not uppity when it comes to food. But that doesn't mean I can't get defensive when talking about the things that I eat. We're all inclined to protect the choices we make when deciding what we put on our plate. In those decisions we're not only asserting who we are, as Brillat-Savarin would attest, we're also reaffirming our sense of place. A. H. Maslow - the sociologist best known for identifying our hierarchy of needs - used the word "belongingness" to refer to our attachments to certain foods, especially the dishes that we ate when we were growing up. It's belongingness, for instance, that makes me continue to pronounce "paprika" with the same inflection that my Hungarian grandmother used. And it's belongingness that nearly brought me to tears when I thought my parents' recipe for my beloved gobs was possibly lost forever.

I doubt that outside of western Pennsylvania - where you can find gobs for sale in nearly every grocery store, wrapped in cellophane, somewhere near the cash register - few people even know what a gob is. In fact, I would be willing to say I'm nearly certain. I've only ever met one other person in my adult life who was familiar with the confection, and he was born and raised in West Virginia, just across the Pennsylvania border.

What is a gob? Well, it's almost easier for me to tell you what a gob is not: A gob is not a whoopie pie no matter what the New York Times says. And it's not a moon pie either. (Though both of those are perfectly respectable treats, this is where I get defensive.) A true gob is something like a cross between a cookie and a cake. Like the latter, it is layered, with frosting and airy. Like the former it is ideally something you can hold in your hand and polish off with just a few bites. (Never mind that the gobs I tried to make this past weekend ended up as big as softballs.)

A perfect gob should be chocolate-y and beguiling. It should be so moist that it leaves traces of its goodness on your fingertips. It's filling should be white, fluffy and bright in flavor. It should be charming without being cloying. It should come dangerously close to being almost too sweet. Lastly, you should want a second gob immediately after finishing your first - and you should never, ever call it a whoopie pie.

Why my devotion? It's addictive properties aside, along with my Great Aunt Mary's lemon meringue pie and my Mom's kefli (a Hungarian cookie filled with raspberries or apricots) the gobs that my Dad used to bake rounded out my trinity of favorite desserts. Gobs were one of the reasons I always looked forward to Palm Sunday. Not only did that day's arrival signal that Lent would soon be drawing to a close, which meant in a week's time I could eat whatever token item it was that I'd given up for the season, it also meant that my Dad would be baking gobs for our church's annual Palm Sunday Bake Sale.

In the years of my adult life that I'd gone back home for Easter, my parents always saved a few gobs for me to take back to Washington, DC with me. One year I promised to bring a half-dozen back for the before-mentioned friend from West Virginia.

Those six gobs never made it inside the Beltway.

Now that I'm living on the other side of the country, it's only the second time in nearly thirty years that I won't be visiting my parents on Easter Sunday. Knowing that I would not be returning home with gobs this year, I decided to try to make them on my own. But when I called my Dad to get the recipe, I knew I was in trouble when he started to read me the list of ingredients.

"Sixty boxes of Duncan-Hines Devil's Food cake mix, 12 dozen eggs...."

He was giving me the recipe for the way his men's club at his church had made them the past few years. But I didn't want instructions for something that used boxed cake mix. I wanted the real thing. Flour, cocoa, and butter. Not something pre-packaged. I didn't want to assemble items. I wanted to bake. I wanted a real recipe. I wanted my Dad's recipe. But what he said next caused my heart to sink: "Oh, geez, Steven, I'll have to try to find it."

I realized then that I might not ever have the gobs that I'd had growing up again, and if my Dad couldn't find that recipe now, it might not be found at all. Ever.

My parents are in their late seventies, and like many people their age, they're downsizing. They're selling the house that I grew up in, and moving into something more manageable. They've already started the process of going through the things they no longer need, or want.

And I was afraid the gob recipe had been tossed out in the process.

My Mom called me a few days later to tell me she'd found one gob recipe that did not call for a cake mix. "That's the one I want!" I shouted. I excitedly scribbled down the instructions as she dictated them over the phone.

Maybe something was lost in my transcription. The gobs I made were good, but they weren't my like my Dad's. I'm not sure where my interpretation of the recipe went wrong, but I want to think that what was lost could be easily replaced with another phone call. I want to believe it's something that was lost over the miles, rather than over the years.

Here is the recipe I used. I'm not quite sure my results are worthy of being called "gobs." But I can certainly tell you this: I'd never call them whoopie pies.

Gobs

For the gobs....

2 cups sugar

1/2 cup vegetable shortening

2 eggs

4 cups flour

3/4 cups cocoa

1/2 tsp baking powder

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp vanilla

1 cup buttermilk

1 cup water (used as needed)

For the icing...

1 cup milk

4 TBS flour

1/2 cup vegetable shortening

1/2 cup butter

1 tsp vanilla

2 cups powdered sugar

Makes two dozen medium-sized gobs, one dozen large gobs.

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Cream the sugar with the vegetable shortening and eggs. Set aside. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and cocoa. Add dry ingredients to creamed sugar mixture. Alternate the dry ingredients with the buttermilk, water and vanilla. (Use all of the buttermilk, and use the water sparingly.) Beat well.

2. Line baking sheets with parchment paper and using a 1/4 cup measuring cup drop batter onto paper, spaced about two inches apart. The batter will rise and spread slightly so don't crowd the gobs.

3. Bake for approximately 10 to 13 minutes, depending on the size of the gobs and the finickiness of your oven. You do not want the edges to get even the least bit brown so keep an eye on them. Allow to cool on wax paper.

4. Make icing by first heating milk and stirring in flour. Over low heat, whisk until thick. Remove from heat and set aside. Cream together vegetable shortening and butter until smooth. Add sugar, mix well, add vanilla, mix well and then add flour. Beat until fluffy. Watch consistency of mixture. If the frosting is too runny it will not hold the two gob halves together.

5. When gob halves have cooled, spread enough frosting on one half to hold two halves together. The amount of frosting will depend on the size of your gobs.

NOTES: You can use butter throughout instead of vegetable shortening. The icing is traditionally white, and butter will color it slightly. You can also make an egg white and confectioner's sugar frosting. Notice I said "you can." I can't! Well, I should add that I haven't tried. The gob halves should look like the most beautifully-raised cookies that you've ever made. You might want to encourage their shape by rounding them slightly with a damp - not wet! - finger tip once you've spooned the batter onto the cookie sheet. Their size will depend on the amount of batter you use. Good luck!

Tikka Turkey Burgers w/ Raita "Mayo"

2009-04-02T20:01:00.000-07:00

Every cook has their Kitchen Wish List. A mix of the practical and the posh, my list of "I wish I had..." changes daily depending on that evening's menu, and of course, that night's mood. For instance, yesterday morning I woke up wishing I had a tandoor in my kitchen. But by the end of the evening when I was once again faced with a splattered cook top, a cluttered counter and yet another pan that required "special care" to clean, my priorities were focused elsewhere. All I really wanted at that moment was a kitchen clad in Corian, from top to bottom, a spigot on the wall where I could attach a hose, and a drain in the floor so I could power-wash the whole thing down.

But, getting back to that tandoor. Years ago when I was fortunate enough to be traveling to London somewhat routinely, I would have at least one meal, every trip, at the excellent Red Fort. The gracious staff tagged us as regulars - well, as regular as trans-Atlantic customers could be - and on one unbelievable night we were asked to sample new dishes that hadn't been placed on the menu yet. And if that weren't honor enough, we were given a tour of the kitchen. I could write an entire post just on that alone, but for now I'll just say it was the tandoor and its aroma that left me smitten. After seeing and smelling - and tasting - this oven's output, how could I ever attempt to approximate tandoori at home again? Any cook who's gone to epic lengths to recreate a meal will understand how, for one brief moment, I'd convinced myself that I could indeed install a tandoor in my own kitchen and arrange to have regular home delivery of fresh shipments of clay from India to reline the oven's walls.

Well, for obvious reasons, I never got that tandoor. I haven't stopped, however, trying to find ways to recapture that flavor to the best of my, and my kitchen's, ability. And yesterday was one of those days when I woke up craving Naan and tandoori chicken. But I'd already decided I was going to make turkey burgers, having been inspired by a recipe posted by bellalimento for Asian-flavored turkey burgers that I'd read earlier this week. I figured since ground turkey was such a great conduit for flavor, that I might be able to dress it up with some Indian influences. I opted to take a tikka tack.

The result follows. I started with a recipe for a Tikka Citrus Chicken dish from my beloved "1,000 Indian Recipes," split it in two and then changed some of the spices. I dismantled a traditional raita, as well, then took its key ingredients and fused them with some of the ingredients from the tikka marinade. I used the dry ingredients from the tikka's marinade in the burger mix, and used the liquid in the preparation of the raita.

I prepared the turkey burgers in my cast iron skillet and served them tucked inside of store-bought whole wheat pitas. (I was really hoping, though, to have them with Naan.) I topped the burgers with salt-and-pepper turnip chips that I quickly oven-fried, with some of the riata dabbed on top.

The pic doesn't do them justice, but for being captured by the camera in my phone, I don't think it's all that bad. It was the flavor I was going for, and this meal definitely delivered.

Tikka Turkey Burgers w/ Raita "Mayo" and Turnip Chips

For the burgers...

1 1/2 lbs ground turkey

5 spring onions, chopped

2 tsp garam masala

1 tsp coriander

1/2 tsp dried oregano

1/2 tsp ground ginger

1/2 tsp garlic powder

1/4 tsp cayenne pepper

1 tsp kosher salt

For the Raita "Mayo"

3 TBS fresh lime juice

2 TBS frozen orange juice, not reconstituted

1 TBS olive oil

1/4 cup greek yogurt, plus another 1/4 cup greek yogurt

1/2 cup sour cream

1/2 English cucumber, peeled and sliced into coins

1/2 cup loosely packed fresh cilantro

1. Thoroughly mix all dry ingredients together first in a small bowl so that spices will be evenly distributed through burgers. Add to ground turkey, along with spring onions. Mix well. Form into patties and set aside. (You should get about six burgers out of this amount.)

2. First combine frozen orange juice, fresh lime juice and olive oil together. Stir well. Whisk in 1/4 cup yogurt. Set aside. (Any unused portion can be used as a salad dressing or marinade base for chicken.)

3. In a food processor, blend the sour cream, cucumber and cilantro. Stop occasionally and scrape sides. When pureed, add 1/2 cup of citrus and yogurt mix. Mix well. Add remaining 1/4 yogurt. Blend. Check consistency. It should be closer to a thick dressing than actual mayonnaise. At this point you can continue to add more of the citrus mixture, sour cream, and yogurt in 1/4 cup increments until flavor and texture suit your tastes.

4. Heat cast iron skillet. Add burgers and cook, flipping every five minutes until done, depending on the size of the burger and the intensity of the heat on your stove top. I cooked mine for a total of 22 minutes.

Serve burgers on whole wheat pitas with raita "mayo." I topped mine with turnip chips. I pre-heated the oven to 425, then peeled and sliced the turnips into 1/8 inch thick rounds. I tossed the slices with some olive oil and kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper. I baked them until they started to get crispy, about 18 minutes, turning them over after the first ten minutes.

Chock Full Of Nuts

2009-04-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

I try not to limit what I eat. I learned a long time ago that being a food snob only makes you look arrogant, foolish, or both. And who wants to sit down to a meal with someone like that? Besides, watching the way my parents handled the tough economic times while I was growing up in the 1970s taught me a lot about how to make the most out of a little in my kitchen today. From that experience I also learned that even the most meager offerings taste better when shared with people you love. (Well, at least most things do!)

So I try to approach food with an "Eat fearlessly" motto. And that's why I ate peanuts yesterday. I admit that after the salmonella scare I avoided them for a few months. After all, my credo is "Eat fearlessly," not "Eat foolishly." But I had an idea for a recipe mash-up, and peanuts were an ingredient essential to its success - I wanted to put a Thai twist on Chinese long beans. In addition I wanted to break in my new wok.

The peanuts I had were contaminant-free, and the recipe came together nicely. I'll post it in the near future. In the meantime, this seemed like a good opportunity to segue into posting my article from the Progressive Populist that ran in the previous issue.

Here's the link. And here's the text. (Hopefully the text will only appear once. It seems to keep doubling up in the template's preview.)

Peanut Butter and Privatizing Food Safety

By Steven Gdula

“The trusting confidence of the American public in the efficiency of laws was never more clearly shown nor more grossly betrayed than in the matter of food inspection.”

So said one George W. Wickersham of the National Civil Service Reform League when asked by journalists to comment on his investigation of the habits of U.S. food inspectors — in 1933. Wickersham’s quote came from the best selling book 100,000,000 Guinea Pigs, an exposé that warned the American public about the dangers lurking in the food it was eating. The authors, Arthur Kallet and Frederick Schlink, became heroes for blowing the whistle on the lax performance by people who were supposed to be watchful of the foods packaged and sold to the American people.

Schlink and Kallet later had even greater success with their periodical, Consumer Union Reports, a precursor to Consumer Reports. With the country facing tough economic times, Consumer Union Reports garnered trust by scrutinizing packaged foods in a “test kitchen” through “scientific means,” and then warning consumers of potential hazards of ingesting the preservatives and additives they found. Each product was assigned a rating of “Best Buy,” “Also Acceptable” or “Not Acceptable.”

The authors picked up the fight for food safety at the point where they believed the government had failed, most notably in the implementation of the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. Schlink and Kallet called the Act “feeble and ineffective.”

The law’s aim was that by holding companies accountable for the contents of their packages — by forcing them to label each package’s ingredients—the food industry would refrain from selling potentially harmful foods to the American public. The ever-present threat that the government could inspect the disclosures of the labels for accuracy would force food manufacturers to police themselves.

Schlink and Kallet saw how futile such a law was then, and as the recent tragic deaths and illnesses caused by salmonella-contaminated peanut products have shown, food inspection laws and the agency that enforce them are ineffective now. Even inspectors from the private sector often overlook the actual food products, focusing on the cleanliness of the machinery that packages them. As a result, a plant can receive a high score giving the impression of an immaculate operation even when dangerous bacteria are present.

Certainly Stewart Parnell, the top executive at The Peanut Corporation of America, who according to documents, knowingly sent out the tainted peanuts, didn’t fear the efficiency of any of these inspection entities, otherwise his salmonella-tainted products would never have shipped.

Coming little more than a year after salmonella-tainted jalapeno peppers sickened over 1200 people, the peanut fiasco has again shifted attention in Washington to the call for a single government agency to oversee the inspection of foods. Ten years ago, in 1999 the General Accounting Office (as the Government Accountability Office was then known) authored a report the title of which succinctly stated the problem: “US Needs A Single Agency to Administer a Unified, Risk-Based Inspection System.” Sen. Richard Durbin (D-Ill.) and Representative Rosa DeLauro (D-Conn.) have proposed that a new, single entity take on the combined authority and regulatory enforcement that is currently split between the Food And Drug Administration and the Department of Agriculture.

The creation of such an agency would have made great use of some of the moneys in President Obama’s economic stimulus package. But while some of that cash has already put furloughed police back on the streets, a lag time in other cases of anywhere from three months to over a year exists before the financial aid reaches its intended recipients. With that type of window, the question of “if” further contamination occurs becomes “when.”

Historically, laws regulating food safety have been created in response to a loud public outcry after a tragedy or scandal. The Food, Drug and Cosmetic Act of 1938 was signed into law when Schlink and Kallet showed where the government had failed. The Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906, which the 1938 Act overhauled, only came about after investigative pieces in Good Housekeeping Magazine, among others, informed readers of the germs and filth characterizing so many meat markets. (The horrific conditions of meat-packing plants and slaughterhouses described in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, also released in 1906, have been said to have influenced then-President Theodore Roosevelt’s urging of The Pure Food and Drug Act and the Meat Inspection Act.)

With lives at stake, it’s time to reexamine the proposal by Durbin, DeLauro and the GAO to eliminate two existing agencies by creating a new one, and one of the first places to start would be looking at the cost; not of forming such an agency but of what the agency would charge for giving a food product the all clear. The government needs to make the process of receiving certification more affordable. And that process has to include not only the manufacturing plant but the food supplier servicing it as well.

Private auditors can charge as little as $1,000 to inspect a plant while the F.D.A. charges $8,000. Now, when faced with that type of disparity in fees, and when food-manufacturing plants have contracted the private auditor that is inspecting them rather than being assigned one by a government monitoring agency, and when they’re writing the check for the inspector’s services, we’re expecting a high degree of integrity from both parties. There’s no placing of value on a human life, but it sure seems like the going rate is somewhere around seven grand.

Steven Gdula lives in San Francisco, Calif.

From The Progressive Populist, April 1, 2009

Vegan Tuesday: Another Day, Another Daikon Rice Cake Recipe

2009-03-31T07:50:00.000-07:00

Don't let the ho hum vibe of this post's title fool you. As I was preparing this recipe yesterday for today's Vegan Tuesday, I was convinced I was going to have to channel the legendary Johnny Cash and title this entry "Folsom Kitchen Blues." It seemed my attempt to create a vegetarian, if not vegan version of a daikon rice cake was eluding me once again. But, as can happen on occasion, the alchemy of the kitchen worked its magic. The batter rose, the flavors merged, and the result is a recipe I can happily share.

A quick bit of background and then I have to move on to the main attraction because this really is one of the more involved recipes I've endeavored so far. After ordering the daikon rice cakes on the Slanted Door's menu several years ago I was inspired to try to make these in my own kitchen. My first attempt was a spectacular disaster. I'd made the mistake of being too literal in my culinary interpretation. I tried to make a batter out of daikon radish and cooked rice. I spent hours forcing cooked rice through a food mill that we'd picked up at E. Dehillerin in Paris. I grated, then pureed, the daikon into pulp. I think I tried to add an egg white before dousing it all in soy sauce. Then I stuck the whole thing in a Pyrex dish and shoved it into the oven. At four hundred degrees. For forty five minutes.

The results can be described in one word: Styrofoam.

That was nearly nine years ago. Since then I've learned two valuable cooking lessons. The first, when in doubt, ask the chef. So, on a subsequent trip to Slanted Door I simply asked "Is there rice flour in these?" The answer was yes. The second bit of kitchen wisdom I've picked up is, if still in doubt, ask Jeeves. Or Google. Or the search engine of your choice. And then survey Google again.

What follows is a vegan version of daikon rice cakes. I wanted to make these cakes without using sausage or shrimp and I knew that replacing all of that lost flavor was going to be a challenge. I opted to make a rich vegetable stock and some sauted vegetables and use those as my flavor source. Does excluding those items make this recipe traditional? Hmm. I'm going to say no. Is it easy? Um, sort of. It's more time-consuming than anything else. Is it tasty and worth all of that effort? You bet.

A quick FYI, you will not need a food mill for this recipe, but you will need a bamboo steamer and a food processor.

I'm still rambling and there's a detailed recipe to write, so, I'm done. If you have any questions, and if you're having trouble leaving a comment here, hit me up on Facebook or Food Buzz.

Vegan Daikon Rice Cakes

For the stock...

6 cups of water

2 heads baby bok choy, chopped (separate the stalks, and set leafy greens aside)

2 cups young shiitake mushrooms, sliced (the stems of young shiitakes are tender enough to use)

2 medium-sized carrots, chopped into 1/4 inch rounds

2 stalks celery, chopped

1/4 cup white miso paste

For the "cake batter"...

2 cups daikon, grated (two medium, or three young daikon)

5 scallions, chopped, excluding green stalks

1 cup young shiitake mushrooms, chopped

leafy greens reserved from baby boy choy (see above)

1 TBS dark sesame oil

1 1/2 cup brown rice flour

1 1/2 cups, plus 2 TBS vegetable, stock (again, see above)

Non-stick cooking spray

For frying...

2 TBS peanut oil

Sesame seeds

1. Set a pot on low heat, large enough to hold a 10 inch bamboo steamer. Spray the bottom and sides of an eight inch spring form baking pan with non-stick cooking spray. Set aside. (You want the water to be ready when the batter is finished so keep an eye on its temp.)

2. Place six cups of water in a medium-sized pot over medium heat. Add stalks of baby bok choy, 2 cups shiitakes, and the chopped carrots and celery. Bring to a boil, then turn flame down, and allow to simmer for at least 30 minutes and up to an hour. When vegetables are soft, add 1/4 cup of miso into stock and stir until thoroughly mixed. Allow to simmer for ten more minutes, then remove from heat. Strain stock into a large mixing bowl, pressing liquid (and flavor) out of vegetables. This should leave you with about five cups or so. Set aside.

3. Heat sesame oil over medium high heat in a non-stick pan. When hot, add scallions, stirring frequently until nearly crispy (about two minutes.) Add shiitakes, grated daikon and leafy green parts of bok choy. Stir well so that all ingredients are mixed in pan. Add 1/2 cup of vegetable stock and cook daikon mixture until liquid evaporates - about 15 to 20 minutes. Keep an eye on it so it doesn't burn, stirring frequently. Remove from heat and set aside.

4. While daikon mixture is cooking, in a medium-sized bowl whisk together rice flour and one cup of vegetable stock. If the mixture seems too doughy carefully whisk in additional stock, half tablespoon at a time, until smooth but not runny. (I wouldn't add more than two tablespoons. If the mixture looks too runny, add more rice flour, a teaspoon at a time, until balanced. You want a smooth consistency that's not grainy, lumpy or runny.)

5. Place daikon mixture into a food processor and pulse until well-blended. Be careful not to puree too enthusiastically; you don't want to liquify this. When ingredients look well-distributed, add mixture to bowl with rice batter. Stir until thoroughly mixed.

6. Pour rice-and-daikon batter into prepared spring form pan and place in steamer. Place lid over steamer and turn up heat so that water comes just to a boil. Allow to steam for about 45 minutes. Check water levels frequently. When cake is cooked it will be springy to the touch. Remove from steamer and allow to cool. (You can set it in your fridge over night. I allowed mine to cool on the counter for three hours and it was fine.)

7. Release cake from spring form pan when properly cooled. Slice into 2 in X 3 in rectangles. Heat peanut oil in a non-stick pan. When hot, add pieces of daikon rice cake and fry first on one side, then the other, until brown and crispy, about 1 minute and a half to 2 minutes per side. Dust with toasted sesame seeds. Serve with favorite Asian dipping sauce.

NOTES: I opted for brown rice which is why the pic of the cake above looks like a slice of whole wheat toast. Also, after making these I was a little burned out so instead of whipping up a dipping sauce I just drizzled some plain old soy sauce on them. It was a perfect compliment. Since I had to replace the sausage-and-shrimp goodness of the regular version, I had to come up with a flavorful substitute which is why I made the stock and used it instead of regular water when mixing the rice batter. A word of caution: The rice batter will seem grainy, almost sandy, when it's first mixed. Do not worry. It loses that texture when it is combined with the veggies and steamed. I opted to fry these in a little peanut oil because I like the flavor it imparts. You could use canola oil if you prefer. Lastly, since daikon is a radish, it can get awfully pithy. Seek out younger specimens. They'll have a nice bite to them but they won't have the bitter aftertaste. I suggest avoiding the large, knobby roots. If anyone knows if salting daikon - as you would eggplant - helps remove some of that bitterness please let me know. Oh, and before I forget, these are also gluten-free! Some rice flours are apparently not. I used Bob's Red Mill Brown Rice Flour. Look on the package to assure you're buying a gluten-free product if this is of concern to you.

I Aint No Challah Back Girl....

2009-03-29T09:11:00.000-07:00

... and I'm not a baker either. In fact, these beautiful loaves of challah are one of the reasons baking intimidates me, as do bakers. These incredible loaves were baked, on the fly, by a woman we met Friday night. The fact she was moving the next morning, and still had boxes to pack, didn't deter her from getting into the kitchen and creating these masterpieces.

Yes, I'm gushing, but you would've, too. Still warm, they gave off a slight scent of citrus as they were placed on the cutting board.

"Is that lemon?" one person asked, leaning in and taking a whiff. "Did you make those?" asked another.

"Yes, the recipe called for Meyer lemon. And yes," answered Jessica, the woman responsible for these creations.

The nonchalance of her replies, and the seeming ease of her efforts astounded me. I pictured her, surrounded by flattened cardboard and rolls of packing tape, grating lemon zest in her kitchen as the clock ticked out the final hours in her apartment. That image made me smile. I immediately liked her. So what if a Uhaul was coming at ten o'clock the next morning. So what if dishes and glasses and mixing bowls and measuring cups were still sitting on their shelves. Movers? Shmovers. There was bread to be baked.

The waft of fresh bread went through the party, and so did the buzz: "Is that challah?" "Did she make that herself?" "Oh my gawd, it's homemade challah!"

When the first loaf was sliced a quick taste test proved the hype was justified. While it was not as eggy as the challah I'm used to, this bread had major star-power. The Meyer lemon was perfectly balanced by a large, coarse-grain finishing salt. (It could have been rock salt, it was definitely too big for kosher salt. I'm kicking myself now for not asking.) It was perfection.

People started congregating, having followed the aroma into the room where the bread, and not the wine that we came to taste, was now the main attraction.

"Have you tried the challah?" I said to my neighbor Joey. It was more of a directive than a question. As he reached for a sliced he looked over his shoulder and asked "Are you Jewish?"

I didn't know how to answer. I didn't want to be called out as a poser. But the truth is there are times I wish I could answer "Yes, I am Jewish." Just like there are times when I wish I could answer "Yes, I am an Arab, North African in fact," or "Yes, I am Asian, well, sort of, on my Mom's side, Japanese, four generations back."

The unifying theme in all of these Walter Mitty-ish daydreams of mine involve food. I dream of serving dinner guests a shabu-shabu pot, or making the perfect harrisa, or setting the perfect seder.

I was yanked out of my culinary revery by Joey, who was still waiting for an answer.

"No," I admitted sheepishly. "I'm just an Honorary Heeb. And I have the shirt to prove it." (I do, really, thanks HEEB magazine.)

"Sure sure, I get it," was Joey's reply. He took a bite of the bread, and his eyebrows raised. I nodded knowingly. "Amazing, isn't it?" I asked, but he couldn't answer. His face said it all: He was on a challah high.

As everyone dug into, and clearly dug, the challah, I got a giddy rush witnessing how something like food can unite people. Or at least bring them together. On this particular Friday evening, at a house party in San Francisco, you couldn't have asked for a more diverse group. As people hovered near the cutting board, I could hear conversations starting, and introductions being made. "Is this your first time here?" "Which wine have you tried" "By the way, my name is..."

The proverbial ice was being broken. Strangers were breaking bread.

Edamame Dip

2009-03-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

Edamame dip is one of those foods that I will admit to over-thinking in the past. The flavor of the beans themselves is distinctive and appealing, but not so unique or overpowering that it can't be approached as a blank canvas or a conduit for other flavors.

And that's where I got into trouble.

I always made the mistake of taking a "more is more" approach when trying to come up with a good edamame dip recipe. I added ingredients like sesame oil and soy sauce - which I thought were more in line with the dip's Asian flavors - to ingredients that at first felt counter-intuitive, like Greek yogurt or sweet ricotta. The resulting dips were either too thick or too smoky or too, well, too, for lack of any other description. Especially when made with the yogurt or the cheese. I'm not saying dairy and edamame don't mix, or that they shouldn't be mixed, but when I tried blending them the resulting dips had too many flavors and too many textures. Or, as Emperor Joseph II said of Mozart's compositions, "too many notes."

I decided to dial it back. I chose two flavor themes and made two dips. The first relied on roasted red chili paste and seasoned rice wine vinegar; the second, wasabi and fresh squeezed lemon juice.

I was pleased with both, though I admit I liked the one with vinegar more. Both dips received equal accolades at the party I took them to last night so they passed the O.P.P. - "other people's palates" - Test.

The recipes are below. They are fairly easy to make. The most taxing part of each process was the frequent stop-n-start of the food processor as I adjusted the flavors.

Edamame Dip with Chili Paste Recipe (Vinegar-based)

2 cups edamame, peeled and cooked (I use the frozen variety that are pre-peeled.)

1/2 cup rice wine vinegar (seasoned or unseasoned, it's your choice)

1/4 olive oil (add more if needed)

1 TBS brown sugar

1TBS red miso paste

1 TBS fresh, grated ginger root

1 tsp roasted red chili paste (I prefer the Thai Kitchen brand)

Cucumber slices, rice crackers, pita chips, baby carrots - for dipping

1. Set a pot of water to boil and follow instructions for cooking frozen edamame. (Here in the Bay Area we are trying to conserve water so ignore the "six cups" required in the directions on the bag of frozen edamame. You can get by with half of that.) Drain, and set aside.

2. In a bowl whisk together the rice wine vinegar, brown sugar, miso, chili paste and ginger.

3. When edamame have cooled slightly, place them in a food processor and using the pulse function, blend, stopping occasionally to stir any bits of the beans that haven't been pureed back into the mix.

4. Begin to add the vinegar mixture into the pureed edamame. Pulse and check frequently for its consistency. After you've added a quarter cup of the vinegary mix, begin to add the olive oil. Again, using the pulse function, blend, stopping to check the consistency. If you have a big green ball that's being rolled around by the blade of the food processor add more of the vinegar mix. Keep checking and tasting. If you think it needs more oil, add accordingly. You will probably have a little less than a quarter cup of the vinegar mix leftover. You can use it as a dressing on a small salad.

Edamame Dip with Wasabi (Lemon juice-based)

2 cups edamame, frozen, cooked according to package directions

1/2 cup fresh lemon juice, pulp strained out

1/2 cup red miso paste

1/4 olive oil (more if needed)

1 TBS + 1 tsp brown sugar

2 tsp wasabi powder (I use the Sushi Sonic brand.)

1. Cook frozen edamame according to directions on package but use less water. (See recipe above.) Set aside to cool.

2. In a bowl whisk together fresh lemon juice, red miso paste and brown sugar. Taste and adjust sugar as needed. You can add water, a teaspoon at a time, if the lemon - or the miso - is too overpowering. Blend well. Whisk in the wasabi powder. Again, adjust flavors according to your taste. Keep in mind that the intensity of this mix will be subdued once it's blended with the edamame puree.

3. Puree edamame in a food processor. Using the pulse feature, add about a quarter cup of the lemon and miso mixture into the food processor. Add olive oil, blend to combine. Scrape off any confetti bean bits that have been flung to the top of the food processor or onto its sides. Continue to add olive oil and lemon juice until consistency is thick but easily scooped. I used approximately 2/3 of a cup of the lemon juice mixture in the edamame puree to achieve a consistency and flavor I liked. Adjust accordingly to your preference.

NOTES: One bag of frozen edamame will yield about three cups, cooked. In these recipes I only used two cups so you'll have a little left over. You can try sesame oil, grapeseed oil or canola oil in these recipes as well, but I think olive oil works best. You can use white miso, red miso or brown miso in these recipes. The white will be the most mellow of the three. Whisking the vinegar, or lemon juice, mixtures separately before introducing them to the puree in the food processor makes a big difference in the distribution of the flavors. Save any remaining liquid mix as a dressing for a small salad, a marinade, or serve over soba noodles.

Whipped Cauliflower (with Roasted Garlic and Chives)

2009-03-26T09:33:00.000-07:00

I wanted to post "Whipped Cauliflower... with Pleasure" but that just sounded too lewd.

But they were indeed very good, and ridiculously easy to make. Lon brought home two gigantic heads of cauliflower from the farmer's market last weekend, and I while I don't know the exact weight of each - for the purpose of the recipe - I would say each one was just slightly smaller than a volleyball.

They were easy and quick to make. Sorry I didn't take a pic. They looked like mashed, or whipped, potatoes. Because we didn't add any dairy, the result was a nice vegan side dish.

The same can't be said for the rest of our menu, though. For our main we had chicken with a quick pesto. The sides included wilted rainbow chard (also from the farmer's market) and the cauliflower prepared as follows.

Whipped Cauliflower with Roasted Garlic and Chives
5 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons fresh chives, chopped
1/4 olive oil (remember, this is for two heads of cauliflower so you might want to add more)
1 lemon, zested, juice reserved
Fresh ground black pepper, to taste
Kosher salt, to taste

1. Put a large pot of water on to boil. Cut florets off main stalk of the cauliflower, and rinse off any grit or dirt. When water comes to a boil, drop the florets in and allow to cook until easily pierced by a fork - approximately 20 minutes. While you're waiting for the water to boil, though, wrap the cloves of garlic in foil and toss in your oven at 400. Or you can do them on top of the stove in a pan, as well. If you're heating the oven for cooking a main dish, I'd simply throw the garlic in the vault, that way you don't have to worry about constantly turning it if it's in a pan over a burner.

2. When the cauliflower is soft, turn off burner, drain into a colander and shake off any excess moisture. I was surprised by how much water they retained in those little branches, so be mindful of this. Take the garlic out of the oven and set aside so it can cool enough to touch.

3. Place the cauliflower, several florets at a time, in a large food processor and, working in batches, whip the florets so that they're reduced to the consistency of mashed potatoes. There might be a few lumps. With the food processor on pulse, drizzle in the olive oil. Add the juice of half of the lemon, add the zest, and taste. Continue blending and add the chives and garlic. Taste to see if it needs more olive oil, more lemon juice, or both. Adjust to your preference with salt and pepper.

NOTE: We found that the brightness of the lemon played off the inherent pithiness of the cauliflower so if you're a citrus fan don't hold back. It also kicked up the bite of chives nicely. The mellowness of the roasted garlic really rounded out the flavors. Serve immediately!

You Choy With Shaking Beef *

2009-03-24T08:31:00.000-07:00

"What is that?"

I was pointing at the yellow-flowered green stalks sticking outta the bag that Lon had brought back from the farmer's market.

"It's You Choy," he replied, holding up the greens that looked suspiciously like rapini to me - one of the few foods I have an allergic reaction to - hence the cause for my concern. "The guy at the market said to use it like bok choy, just cut off the bottom inch or two and stir fry the rest."

"And you can eat the flowers?" I asked. "Yep, you can eat the flowers," Lon answered, knowing that little bit of info was the deal maker for me.

Being a fan of the edible flower - who isn't? - I was quickly warming up to this you choy. I examined them myself. Hmm. Their fibrous stalks reminded me of asparagus, another veggie I love but which unfortunately doesn't like me. I had my doubts. I was eager to try them but didn't want to risk getting ill. But I also didn't want to pass up the chance to try something new, especially if it came from the local farmer's market. So, I did what I always do these days when faced with a culinary conundrum: I checked the Chow site.

Following up on some other web sites I soon learned that lots of kitchens were trying you choy - pronounced like "yo" as in "yo-yo" - for the first time right about now, and most of the suggested means of preparation were the same: Blanch the greens in boiling water for about a minute, then plunge into an ice bath. Stir fry with your favorite recipe. Several cooks warned that if the bottom stalks are too thick, they need to be peeled. Fortunately the you choy that I was working with was still pretty young.

I decided I'd give it a test drive in one of my favorite stir fry recipes - an adaptation of Shaking Beef.

The first time I had Shaking Beef was at Slanted Door (before they moved to the Ferry Building but after they'd moved out of The Mission.) Uncertain as to how to pronounce the name of the dish I hesitated when ordering and asked, "I'll have the... is it Shaking Beef or "Shaw-King" beef?"

"Ah, yes, Shaw-King Beef, from the historical Shaw King provence in Vietnam," our server deadpanned. I stared at her flatly.

"It's shaking, rhymes with baking," she smiled.

I had the Shaking Beef that night and on several return visits as, with each tasting, I tried to memorize the dish's delicate balance of spicy, sweet, savory and sour flavors. I likewise set out in search of a reasonable approximation. The closest I have come is Beef With Oyster Sauce and Lime Dipping Sauce. The recipe, as I've tweaked it for my own kitchen, is below.

As for the photo above, I'm apologizing now for all past and future blurry pics. Sometimes the macro doesn't reveal its flaws until the upload.

You Choy With Quivering Beef (because I can't call it Shaking Beef in all fairness!)

Ingredients...

1 bunch fresh you choy

1 TBS canola oil

4 to 5 cloves garlic, chopped

2/3 lb of flank steak, cut against the grain and sliced into pieces suitable for stir-frying. (Slanted Door's Shaking Beef uses Niman Ranch filet mignon. If you can afford it, go for it.)

Dipping sauce...

1 1/2 TBS fresh squeezed lime juice

1 TBS fish sauce

1 TBS brown sugar

1 to 2 Serrano peppers or 1 Thai bird chili, diced (When I made it this weekend I forgot to get peppers. I had some Sambal Oelek in the fridge and stirred in a teaspoon or two of that. The results were excellent.)

Marinade...

1 TBS Oyster sauce

2 tsp Soy sauce

Garnish...

Fresh pineapple chunks

Diced red onion

Fresh scallions, chopped

Diced tomato

Extra lime wedges

Thai basil leaves

Soba noodles or rice

1. Put a pot of water on to boil with just enough water to blanch the you choy. Clean the you choy as you would any other type of greens. Chop off the bottom, pithy part of their stalks (about an inch or two.) Cut the remaining stalks into two inch segments, careful to leave the yellow flowers and buds intact. When the water comes to a boil plunge the greens in. After about a minute, remove from heat and either dunk the you choy into an ice bath or run under cold water to stop them from cooking. Drain and spin out excess moisture in a salad spinner, or blot dry on paper towels or clean dish towel.

2. Mix together oyster sauce, soy sauce and sliced beef in a large bowl. Toss to coat evenly. Set aside. (You can prepare this ahead of time and let this marinate for up to two hours if you like.)

3. Combine fish sauce, lime juice, sugar and chili peppers. Set aside for later.

4. Heat canola oil over medium heat in wok. (Follow the wok's instructions as some call for heating the wok first, then adding the oil.) When oil is just on the verge of smoking - trust me, you'll know how to catch this before it goes too far - add garlic and stir fry until fragrant.

5. Carefully add the beef. Cook quickly until outside is seared and inside remains slightly red, approximately three minutes. (Take a piece out and do a taste test if you're uncertain as to the doneness of the meat.)

6. Scoop the beef out of the wok. At this point you can, if you wish, add the beef to the bowl of lime dipping sauce. The wok should have enough moisture still in it, but if not, add a drop of canola oil and allow to heat. Add you choy and cook quickly just enough to heat through. You don't want the leaves to turn to mush, and you certainly don't want to lose any of those beautiful golden flowers.

7. Return beef to wok, stir with you choy to heat through. Serve immediately with any or all of the garnishes above. NOTE: If you choose not to place the beef in the lime dipping sauce serve it in small ramekins along with the plated food.

* Doesn't "You Choy With Shaking Beef" sound like a line-up of bands? "Tonight at The Independent, The Presets and You Choy With Shaking Beef. Doors at 7. Show at 8."

Rockin' The Stove? Like An Avalanche!

2009-03-23T08:26:00.000-07:00

As I've told some people recently, I am a Blogger Come Lately. I am quickly trying to get up to speed after nearly a year of allowing this site to idle. Actually, I let it stall. But it's all about moving forward.

Now that I've got several test drives under my belt, I thought it was time to handle the trickier stuff, like actually writing entries that direct people to other sites.

And I could think of few people I wanted to give a shout out to more than my dear friend Chef Shirle Hale Koslowski.

Shirle and I have known each other for over 15 years now. Back in the day, when we were both living in Baltimore, the house that Shirle shared with her now-hubby David was the go-to place after the shows at Memory Lane - the bar where we saw our favorite indie and punk acts, from Girls Against Boys to Brainiac to Gas Huffer to Supersuckers.

I will always have the fondest memories of Shirle, standing in the doorway of her kitchen, surveying the group of people hanging out in her living room as the clock inched toward 2:30 in the morning. As someone who also likes to cook and entertain, I knew what was going through her mind as she looked around the room: "How many people are here? And what should I feed them?"

After a minute or two of taking sights (and taking sites) Shirle would ask, "Who wants some... hummus... or potstickers... or [insert any snack food here.]" With very little effort, and in very short order, she would whip something up and, before you knew it, a "hot passed tray" was making its way around the room. People would stop talking about the show we'd all just seen long enough to comment on the deliciousness that the chef had created on the spur of the moment.

None of us had much money, or many resources back then, but we were fairly resourceful. And Shirle was by far the most resourceful of us all. In fact, next to my parents, she was one of the people who came to mind when I interviewed Anthony Bourdain for "The Warmest Room In The House" and, in referencing the leaner years in the American Kitchen, he said "We ate more heroically in this country when we had less."

The way Shirle could feed so many people, so quickly, and with such ease at a time when - for most of us - paying rent could be a huge challenge, always impressed me.

Today she's still rockin' her stove. She's got an award-nominated blog, a successful career as a personal chef, and apparently another band in the works. I'm convinced she clones herself because I have no other explanation for how she gets so much done in one day.

Many thanks to David K for the tutorial on writing code - I hope I did it correctly and that the links work! And much love to him and Shirle for their years of friendship and inspiration!

So, without further ado, here's Shirle's site: Rockin The Stove .

TCB 2

2009-03-22T22:18:00.000-07:00

Taking care of more business. Tech savvy, I am not.

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TCB

2009-03-22T18:35:00.000-07:00

Just taking care of some business here.

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Dig this... too!

2009-03-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

OK, so much for a cut and paste of the actual text from that article.

Here's the link for "On The President's Plate" : www.populist.com/09.04.gdula.html

And here's the text.

On the President’s Plate by Steven Gdula

When Thomas Jefferson said to understand a society you had to “drive the people out of their hovels… look into their pots… and eat their bread” - an observation many historians associate with the French Revolution - he was drawing parallels between politics and the dinner plate. The foods eaten by a country, a state, a city, a town, and even a family of five are all indicative of what’s happening in a culture at any given time. Jefferson knew the hard times befalling the French, or any country’s citizens, were reflected by the contents of their kitchens. Ever mindful of that end, Jefferson sought to find ways to better the lives of his constituents. Monticello curator Susan Stein has said that for Jefferson there was no thing more beneficial to a society than the introduction of a new plant. When dispatching Lewis & Clark on their cross-continental journey, the president gave them specific instructions to make meticulous notes on the edible plants they encountered. Jefferson’s own land was planted with over 250 varieties of herbs, vegetables and fruits, all of which he cultivated with an interest in improving American lives.

Had he held office today, Jefferson’s epicurean pursuits would have branded him as a “foodie.” Famous for setting an amazing spread in the White House, his interest in food went far beyond simply feeding the people he’d gathered round his table. Borrowing from Brillat-Savarin, the French gourmand immortalized for opining that people are what they eat, Jefferson knew that the contents of one’s larder had an enormous influence on the quality of one’s life.

I was reminded of Jefferson’s love of food when then-president elect Obama showed up at Ben’s Chili Bowl, a Washington, DC institution. It was a smart move on the future leader’s part. By choosing Ben’s, Obama showed that he wasn’t fussy about what he ate - a good meal is a good meal, period, whether it’s served over a counter or served on white linens - because if there’s one thing some Americans distrust its elitism when it comes to food.

And this distrust might prove to be one of the biggest challenges in overhauling the way the country thinks about farming and agriculture, even if the suggestions are ultimately in the best interest of both the people growing, and the people eating, the food. Many of us would like to see rules in place that benefit the environment as well as the economy without hurting the already struggling American farmer. But with so much suspicion and resistance surrounding the push for Americans to eat local, let alone organic foods, President Obama could use the White House lawn as a way to lead by example. The organization Eat The View has been seeking signatures for its petition that asks the new president to break ground on a new, organic garden within his first 100 days in office. The reason? To show the rest of the country his love of good food includes eating responsibly, which translates to a commitment to the environment and to sustainable farming practices. As envisioned by Eat The View, the food grown in the Obama’s new backyard would not only feed the White House, it would also provide food for local food banks that help the needy. The folks at Eat The View have called upon the president “to replant” a “Victory Garden,” adding that the “White House is America’s house and should serve as a model at a time of crisis.”

While no one is expecting President Obama to add Farmer In Chief to his list of duties, it should be noted that the White House grounds have been planted in the past. The Carters and the Clintons both had gardens that quietly served their kitchens, and Eleanor Roosevelt’s famous Victory Garden inspired a nation during the dark times of World War II. By referencing the Victory Garden in their petition, the people at Eat The View are signaling that the way we eat and grow our food is as much a responsibility of the patriot as any other type of national loyalty.

With responsibility being the hallmark of Obama’s inauguration, the issue of the president’s kitchen becomes very important. If we are to change how we think about food we need more than just words. We need action and we need example. How the policies of this administration will address the issues facing America’s farmers, grocers and homemakers is a work in progress. But as he calls upon all of us to serve our country as best we can, President Obama could influence millions with something as simple as what he eats for dinner. We’ve already seen that: Lines stretched out the door of Ben’s Chili Bowl and down U Street in DC days after pictures of his visit hit the media. A similar photo of our President tending a small family garden could really plant the seeds for change.

Dig This!

2009-03-20T11:45:00.000-07:00

So it's Friday and I'm going to take the easy way out by posting something of mine that had previously this year appeared in the Progressive Populist.

One of the most emailed articles from The New York Times' web site this week is the one about the vegetable garden that the Obamas are going to plant on the White House lawn, so it seemed like a perfect time to reprint my op-ed piece from the Prog Pop.

Also, I'm going to spend part of today and tomorrow at the school in my neighborhood where I'm a volunteer on the Greening Committee. We're trying to establish a garden that will help teach the kids about healthier eating habits. It's going to take some time, but we're off to a great start. I will try to post pictures in the future of our progress.

In the meantime, here's my article from earlier this year.

Hot Clafoutis! Bless My soul!

2009-03-19T09:18:00.000-07:00

There are two rules I follow in my kitchen: I don't bake. That's the first. And I don't cook anything that I can't pronounce. That's obviously the second. This doesn't mean I won't eat things I have difficulty enunciating, though. As long as the reason for my mangling has everything to do with accents or umlauts - or tricky clicks of the tongue - and nothing to do with multi-syllabic, multi-chemically-based words printed in half-point type on the side of a package. I was taking this last cautionary step long before the Gospel According to Michael (Pollan) was written.

Where my first rule and my second rule often intersect is at the corner of French and Pastry. This is a shame, too, since anyone who knows me can attest I never met a dessert I didn't like. (Well, rarely.) Also, as most people who've shared a table with me are aware, there was a time when my consumption of cake was so high that it was practically its own food group.

Like all staunchly held patterns, culinary or otherwise, the rules that dictate my kitchen's output have their roots in my formative years. My mental block about baking was firmly laid when, as a kid, I decided to surprise my parents by making eclairs. They'd gone out shopping one evening, so I went in search of a recipe. I cracked open the copy of the "Joy Of Cooking" that seemed to be the go-to-guide my Mom and Dad used when they couldn't puzzle a recipe together on their own. I figured by the time they returned they'd walk in the door to see their ten year old son offering them the most beautiful confections they'd ever seen, and certainly the most delicious they'd ever tasted.

Instead they came home, nearly dropping their grocery bags on the floor as they surveyed the damage. An egg beater, several wooden spoons and spatulas, and measuring spoons and cups were scattered about the kitchen counter. Slimy trails of egg whites and powdery speckles of flour dotted the stovetop, the floor, and even the window above the sink.

And the eclairs themselves? They remained on a baking sheet in the oven. The dough never properly rose. The would-be pastries were nothing more than limp, elongated patches of wet flour with a large hole at each end where the creme would've been piped in.

"What did you do?" my Mom asked, looking around at the kitchen that had been immaculately in order when she'd left it a few hours before.

My Dad, who had bent over to look into the oven, was peering inside at my flat, failed creations.

"What the hell are those?"

"Eclairs," I said, somewhat proudly, thinking I'd get an A for effort if nothing else.

Instead, my Dad scowled.

"They look like slippers," he grumbled.

Of course at the time I didn't realize that from my parents' point of view my kitchen experiment was not merely a Good Recipe Gone Bad; it was the mid-seventies, a recession had stalled the economy and there was a serious clamp on our household finances. I'd essentially wasted ingredients at a time when my parents were doing everything they could to stretch their budget as well as their pantry's contents.

I didn't understand the impact inflation was having in our kitchen any more than I understood the intricacies of yeast in my recipe.

Also, I think it was the first time I tried to follow a recipe that wasn't printed on the back of a Jello box.

I tried baking again in my mid-twenties, convinced I could surmount any culinary obstacles. I found success in a recipe for a lemon pound cake from the "Great Chefs of the Southwest" cookbook. Unfortunately my triumph was short-lived. I offered to make it as a dessert for a potluck gathering with fellow employees at the time. When everyone began quickly reaching for a beverage after taking their first forkful, I knew something was wrong. Once again, the oven door had hit me in the ass. Instead of the beautifully moist cake that the recipe had delivered on several previous takes, this time I had succeeded in creating a giant ring of yellow styrofoam.

It took two more decades before I decided to give baking another go. I am proud to admit that I did have recent success with a Lemon Cornmeal Cake from the April issue of Bon Appetit (page 100.) When I read the description of it as "rustic" I figured I couldn't go wrong. If it turned out a little on the dry side I could just say "It's supposed to be that way. It's rustic." Fortunately it was moist and much lighter than I'd anticipated.

Since I've started making peace with my Inner Baker, I might consider tackling French again sometime in the near future. I would certainly help expand my menu. For now I leave all of the French pronunciations, and most of the baking, to Lon. The Clafoutis that he made this past weekend did indeed live up to Gourmet's assessment of the dessert as being "between custard and cake." The previous weekend's attempt had been undone by a strawberry that had gone bad and that had sneaked into the finished product. Just like the time my coworkers' expressions told me something was wrong with my pound cake, so I could tell by the look on Lon's face that something was amiss with this Clafoutis. I took a forkful and had an immediate flashback, this time to the Boones Farm Strawberry Hill wine that we used to secretly swill in high school.

For anyone who is as challenged in all things Franco-phile as am I, you can get the proper pronunciation of Clafoutis here: http://forvo.com/word/clafoutis/ Even if you know how to pronounce it, it's still so much fun to use sites like this. Ah The Web. How did we ever live without You?

As for my failures in French, and why I had to first turn to Forvo to get the proper enunciation of the dish, I blame it on a freshman semester in college when I was more concerned with dissecting the liberties described in the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" soundtrack. (Hence the homage in the title of this post.)

The Lemon Cornmeal Cake I described above called for buttermilk, and since I'm all about using up leftovers, and I need a convenient outro to a recipe, I'm including a chicken dish that uses not only the buttermilk but also some of the chick pea flour from the battered cod I made last week.

In keeping with today's theme of tweaking song titles from the seventies, I'm going back to the first album I ever bought as a kid, Aerosmith's "Get Your Wings" (even though this recipe calls for chicken thighs.)

Lord of Your (Chicken) Thighs

1 to 2 pounds chicken thighs, boneless if you can find them

2 cups buttermilk (use the 1% fat version - it only has 2.5 grams of fat per cup)

1/4 cup Tabasco sauce

2 cups chickpea flour (plus more if you necessary.)

1. Mix buttermilk and Tabasco together in a large bowl. Whisk thoroughly to keep it from separating. It's doubtful that it will curdle. Place chicken in the mixture and then refrigerate, allowing pieces to marinate for at least two hours. Try to use thighs if you can. This will work well with chicken breast, too, but the dark meat of the thighs is naturally moist. It's also a great buy and horribly undervalued as a dinner alternative.

2. Preheat oven to 400 and place a baking sheet, rubbed with Canola oil, inside to heat as well. Make sure it's large enough to hold the pieces of chicken.

3. Remove chicken from fridge. In a zip-lock bag, pour chickpea flour. Placing two or three thighs at a time in the bag with the flour, shake to coat. Knock excess flour off pieces as you pull them out and place them on the baking sheet. Work quickly. You want to take advantage of the searing that occurs when the chicken hits the hot surface of the baking sheet. Continue with remaining chicken. You might want to add some more of the flour if it's getting gunked up inside the bag.

4. Place chicken thighs back in oven. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, depending on your oven's temperature. Serve with lemon wedges.

2009-03-17T11:24:00.000-07:00

"You Can't Tell Me This Is Yogurt?"

I love the way family mythologies develop. Apparently the first time Lon's Mom saw a TCBY shop, she assumed - being originally from Minneapolis - that the acronym stood for "Twin Cities Best Yogurt." But somewhere along the line in the numerous retellings of the story, I got it in my head that she went into the shop and, upon sampling their wares, declared "You can't tell me this is yogurt!?" I've called it that myself ever since.

Forget the fact that the story, as I remember it, doesn't even make sense as the name of the business is not YCTMTIY. I think I just like the image I had of her taking a taste, then with the spoon suspended in mid-air, making that exclamation, a stunned expression on her face.

I would like to think that if I were to offer someone a spoonful of my typical morning breakfast that they would have a similarly incredulous reaction, at which point I would reply somewhat triumphantly, "You are correct! That isn't yogurt. It's tofu!"

Tofu isn't as alien as it was in America's kitchens a few decades ago but I'm surprised by how it is still met with suspicion. Even mentioning it can really bring out the food-a-phobe in some people. Its constant presence in my refrigerator has so spooked a certain friend of mine that she immediately asks "What's in this?" every time I offer her something. Granted she was unknowingly a tofu test subject years ago when I was still figuring out how to use the stuff. The dish in question was a blueberry creme brulee, made with tofu, that tasted, and looked, like Kaopectate.

I've learned many lessons in the kitchen since then, and of them is do not try to substitute something for which there really is no substitute. Sure there are a variety of dairy-like products on the market now, and I understand that calling a creme brulee made with tofu "curd brulee" sounds rather unappetizing on a number of levels.

That's why I prefer to say that I have a smoothie for breakfast, instead of saying "I have a sort of tofu yogurt-like thing." Besides, when I describe it that way, I occasionally get asked, "Oh, you mean Tofutti?"

My breakfast smoothie is made from extra firm tofu and whatever fruit and fruit juice I happen to have in the house at the time. I like the fact that I can vary its consistency by letting the whole thing whir around in the mini-food processor longer, or by adding more banana slices.

Forgetting flavor for a second, I just have to say that the longer it mixes, the better it looks.

That's a picture of this morning's version, above. I usually don't have sliced banana resting on top but I thought I'd gussy it up for its photo shoot. Incidentally, someone asked me this past weekend, when they learned that I had written a book about kitchen history and occasionally wrote about food-related topics if I "got to work with food stylists."

As the iPhone-snapped photo above clearly displays, the answer is obviously "no."

Without further ado, here's my recipe for my morning smoothie. It's also my first official posting for a Vegan Tuesday. I'll write more about why I keep a vegan diet on Tuesday each week later in case anyone has ever considered making the switch, one day a week. But until then, here's a quick way to help you get started.

The "You Can't Tell Me This Is Yogurt" Breakfast Smoothie

1/2 cup soy milk (I prefer the light, vanilla-flavored version.)

1/2 cup pomegranate juice (I've been using this juice because the gigantic bottle of POM from Costco is so damn cheap, but any fruit juice that doesn't have extra sugar added will do.)

1 cup extra firm tofu, cubed (If you buy the small box - the $1.29-priced size - of tofu this will be the equivalent of about a quarter of the slab.)

1 medium banana, sliced (This entire recipe can be adjusted to your personal tastes but I would leave the banana in as it helps with the smoothie's consistency.)

1/4 cup strawberries

1/4 cup blueberries (Any fruit will do, but if it's an apple or plum or peach just remove the seeds/ pit/ core.)

1. Put all ingredients in a blender or small food processor and let 'er rip. I advise blending thoroughly otherwise you can end up with little grainy bits of tofu. I don't mind them, but they have an annoying habit of sticking to your glass and to the mixer and they're difficult to dislodge.

NOTE: If you want something thicker, something that you can eat with a spoon, cut back on the amount of soy milk or fruit juice and add more banana slices. You can also add 1/4 cup of walnuts or almonds to thicken it, but just remember to chew for god's sake. I don't want someone choking before they even get out the door in the morning. If you want something that you can carry around in a glass as you get ready to start your day - as opposed to sitting at a table and eating with a spoon - I suggest adding more liquids.

2009-03-17T10:20:00.000-07:00

This is a test. This is only a test. This is simply to see if I can finally get photos to post without too much effort.

Obviously, this process has not been without its trials, requiring an apparent truce to be negotiated between my computer and the blogger program. I have no other explanations if it works, because I certainly haven't downloaded new software.

Let's see if everyone has agreed to make nice.

I'm about to pull the chute....

Here goes.

If It's 3 AM, That Must Be The Refrigerator Calling

2009-03-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

I have been stress-eating (which now that I type those words, it sounds like I'm identifying myself as a stress junkie, shoveling as many anxiety-inducing experiences into my life as possible.)

Not the case. I suppose I could say "I have Stress Eating," because it is indeed a condition. In fact it was a much-publicized, very trendy condition that was all the rage about a year ago. It's been most recently associated with the type of nocturnal binging that is a reaction to certain sleep aids and anti-anxiety drugs.

My stress eating and nighttime cravings are not related to any sort of drug reaction.

No, this is Recession-related Refrigerator Foraging.

We all handle stress differently and I have been finding comfort in my kitchen, usually sometime around 3 AM. Armed with two spoons - one for the jar of almond butter, the other for whatever jam or preserves or jelly is on hand (which this week has been the incredible pomelo marmalade that Lon made) - I dip and dive into each container until I am fully sated, then I twist lids and snap covers back into place, put the spoons in the sink, and head back to bed feeling euphoric and giddy. It's only in the morning when I see the remnants of my overnight dining that I cringe (and mentally add another fifteen minutes on to the tread mill that day.)

The past two nights, though, I added another item to the menu: Semi-sweet chocolate chips. So it was a spoonful of almond butter, followed by a spoonful of pomelo marmalade, followed by a handful of chocolate chips. And then I washed it all down with - I kid you not - a swig from the container of Half & Half.

I am powerless against my condition: My name is Steven, and I am a stress eater.

Stress eating is caused when levels of cortisol are raised by our body's reaction to prolonged periods of stress. To counter that we crave foods - like carbohydrates - that will dope our systems with a soothing rush of Serotonin.

This is probably why I'm posting another recipe that is anything but heart healthy for the second day in a row: I'm craving fat, and the deeper the fry, the higher the high.

Actually this recipe isn't that bad, all things considered. And it's simple. The time investment to enjoyment ratio is off the charts in my opinion as it is ridiculously easy to execute. The most energy you exert might be searching for chick pea flour a.k.a. garbanzo bean flour at your grocery store. (I suggest Whole Foods since they seem to have an array of hard-to-find flours and meals.)

I started using chick pea flour around the holidays this past December and was instantly smitten. I credit the indispensable "1000 Indian Recipes" by Neelam Batra for turning me onto it and the secrets of its sweet, nutty goodness. I was looking to make fritters when I found the recipe for Pakora Fritters (pg 113 in the book.) I've adapted this and have used it to coat fish, chicken, vegetables, and I've even served deep-fried dots of the batter itself (called Boondi) over salads.

You can use frozen cod fillets for this recipe, just thaw them and wash them off before dropping them in the batter. I don't even bother with a flour-to-egg-to-batter dredging. I simply plop them into the bowl, coat them, and drop them in the oil.

I don't use a deep fat frying thermometer. I test the oil by putting a drop of batter into the oil and when it floats immediately upon being dunked, then I know we're cooking with gas. So to speak.

Finally, make sure your oil is hot. If it is you'll be gifted with golden crisp fish. If it isn't you'll have a greasy waste of good food.

Without any further yapping, here's my recipe for...

Oh My Gawd Battered Cod

The fish....

1 1/2 lbs Cod fillets (frozen or fresh), cut into 2 inch pieces. Think chicken tender-sized portions and you have the right idea.

The batter...

1 cup chick pea flour

1/2 tsp salt

1/4 tsp baking soda

1/2 cup of water (or more as needed. A splash of beer - like a tsp - wouldn't hurt either.)

The oil...

16 oz Canola oil (plus more as needed)

1. Heat your oil in a dutch oven or cast iron skillet. (The latter might absorb the fishy smell and flavor for a few weeks afterward, so be careful.) Line a baking sheet with wax or parchment paper, preheat the oven for 250 degrees Fahrenheit, and place the pan inside the oven. You'll want to transfer the cooked pieces of fish onto here as the other pieces are frying.

2. Mix your batter by sifting the chick pea flour, salt and baking soda together into a bowl. Thoroughly mix the dry ingredients, then begin adding water, stirring to form a smooth batter. If it's too wet, it won't stick to the fish. If it's too dry you'll end up with gummy lumps. Add extra flour or water as needed. When the mixture plops off of a dipped spoon, you're ready.

3. Place the pieces of cod into the batter and toss to coat, using your fingers. Allow the fish to sit in the batter as the oil heats.

4. With a spoon, drop a small bit of batter into the oil. If it immediate bobs to the surface and begins sizzling, the oil is ready. If it's not hot enough the fish will sink so make sure you've reached a temperature somewhere close to 375 (if you're using a thermometer. I don't know.)

5. Using a slotted spoon or pair of tongs, place the fish in the oil. Allow it to cook two to three minutes then turn over. It should be a gorgeous golden brown. Remove pieces and place on pan in oven as remainder of fish is fried.

Blot the fried pieces of fish with a paper towel if necessary, squeeze a lemon over them, and serve with a slaw of cabbage, granny smith apples and carrots tossed with rice vinegar. You'll want something on the astringent side to cut the fried batter.

Tuna Casserole: NSFCT (Not Suitable For Cholesterol Tests!)

2009-03-12T12:59:00.000-07:00

Technically, it's still winter even if it doesn't feel like it here in San Francisco today. But last week it was damp and rainy and I found myself craving comfort food. I'd been thinking about trying to make a homemade tuna casserole, from scratch, and what with it being Lent and all, it seemed liked a good time to give it a go.

I checked online for recipes and I came across plenty of the "add one can cream of mushroom soup"- variety. I have nothing against that kind of cooking. It has its place, especially in the American kitchen's history, but I wanted more of a challenge than the one presented by digging through my utensil drawer looking for the can opener. I also wanted a different flavor. I know purists will protest that I wasn't really craving "comfort food" then if I was looking to make something more involved. My attitude is that we take our comfort where we can find it. End of conversation.

I never found one complete recipe that I liked, but I did find two that had enough good stuff in them that I figured I could tweak them accordingly to suit my tastes. I'm not very good at following rules, anyway, which is why I'm not a very good baker. But more on that in a future post.

What follows is a mash-up of two recipes. One was found at Epicurious.com and the other was at Chow.com. I did some mixing and matching and improvising of my own ingredients and the results were excellent. Of course a lot of what made the resulting dish taste so good was the creamy, cheesy sauce which is also, unfortunately, the same stuff that makes this casserole no friend of the cardiologist. Don't make this if you have any blood work scheduled in the next.... week? Month? It's pretty decadent. It's more "Lent: In Denial" than it is "Lenten Denial." But as long as you're not eating this way every day, a little indulgence is, in my humble opinion, OK.

A quick shout out to Lon's friend Sarah who inspired the use of the Panko crumbs.

Another goes to Lon for his Creole seasoning mix. The Chow.com recipe that I nicked from called for Old Bay Seasoning in the casserole. I didn't have any on hand, so I used the mixture that Lon had made instead. It was perfect. If you make this you will have plenty of seasoning left over. I suggest using it in stews, gumbo, even scrambled eggs. It's a winner.

Lastly, a warning about the state your kitchen will be in afterward: The mash-up of these recipes resulted in the messing up of my entire kitchen. You will probably use a minimum of three pots and one pan before you even get the ingredients into the casserole dish. Fortunately you can use the time that it's in the oven to clean up.

Enjoy! Plan on making this on an evening when you have about an hour to devote to straight hands-on time in the kitchen. Just make sure that you have an hour, or two, to devote to doing cardio at the gym the next day.

Tuna Casserole

Ingredients

For the veggies...

2 TBS olive oil

1 bunch scallions, chopped, white parts only

2 stalks of celery, chopped

1/2 pound of fresh mushrooms, chopped (I used a mix of shiitake caps and white button. I saved the stems from the shiitakes and let them steep in the milk for the bechamel.)

2 cups frozen peas

For the roux and bechamel...

2 TBS butter

2 TBS flour

2 cups milk (I used whole but I've made a bechamel with skim before and it has worked.)

Cheese....

1/2 cup grated Gruyere

1/2 cup grated Cheddar (As Martha Stewart would say, please try to use "best quality.")

1 cup sour cream

1 TBS grated lemon zest

2 TBS fresh lemon juice (or more, or less, to taste)

For Lon's Creole Seasoning mix....

1/4 cup kosher salt

1 TBS cayenne pepper

2 TBS freshly ground black pepper

1/4 cup garlic powder

2 TBS onion powder

2 TSP celery seed

For the casserole...

6 oz egg noodles (I used the packaged No Yolks variety.)

2 cans of tuna, 6 oz each, drained and flaked with a fork.

1 cup Panko breadcrumbs

1 TBS butter

Butter for casserole dish

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Prepare pot of water for egg noodles, according to package directions. Butter all sides of casserole dish. (I would use a vessel that can hold 2 to 4 quarts.) Set aside

2. When water is boiling, cook egg noodles within 1 or 2 minutes of package directions.

3. Pour two cups of milk plus stems from shiitake mushrooms into a pot and begin heating over a low flame. Do not let this boil.

4. While noodles are cooking and milk is heating, heat olive oil in medium pan over medium heat. Add scallion and celery. Cook until celery is just tender, about four minutes. Add the mushrooms and cook, stirring frequently. The mushrooms will begin to lose some of their liquid. When they seem soft, but not limp, add the frozen peas and stir until they're thawed but not completely cooked. Remember: This is all getting thrown into the oven. Remove pan from heat and set aside.

5. In a medium saucepan, preferably one with tall sides, melt the 2 TBS of butter over medium heat. Add flour and stir frequently. Cook til mixture bubbles and begins to brown, about 2 minutes. Begin adding the heated milk, half cup at a time, making sure the mushroom stems don't plop in. Whisk after each addition. When all milk is added, continue stirring until liquid becomes thick and starts to bubble like a cauldron. Remove from heat and stir in grated cheese until smooth. Add 2 TBS of Creole seasoning and the lemon zest. Add one cup of sour cream and blend in with sauce. Taste and add additional lemon juice and/ or more seasoning to your preference.

6. Add mushrooms, scallions, celery and peas to cheesy sauce. Stir until all the veggies are well-coated and mixed. Set aside.

7. Open and drain two cans of tuna fish and, in a bowl, flake apart with a fork. Add tuna to cheesy sauce. Mix well.

8. Pour drained egg noodles into casserole dish. Toss to pick up some of the butter that's coating the sides of the vessel. Pour cheesy sauce, tuna, and veggie mix into casserole and toss well with noodles until everything is evenly coated with sauce.

9. Melt butter in sauce pan and stir in Panko breadcrumbs to coat. This will help them form a nice crunchy brown topping. Distribute breadcrumbs evenly over top of casserole.

10. Place casserole on rack in middle of oven and cook until breadcrumbs start to brown and sauce is bubbly, about 25 minutes. Remove from oven, and let the dish stand for about five minutes before serving.

11. Serve with lemon wedges and a crisp salad. The slight bitterness of endive would counter the richness of the casserole very well.

12. Enjoy, but remember to consume responsibly - and don't blame me after your next blood test!

Is this thing on?

2009-03-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

"Is this thing on!?"

In comedy that phrase is usually the punch line to the punch line - you know, the follow up to the zinger that didn't deliver the zing that it promised. But the circumstances under which I was asking that question a few nights ago were hardly a laughing matter.

After dinner we'd cleaned up the kitchen as usual, then went downstairs to the TV room to watch ABC's World News Tonight with Charlie. After that, we forwarded through our local Channel 7 News broadcast to see what Spencer Christian's forecast held for the week. All in all, thanks to TiVo and the >> button on the remote, we were able to watch about 40 minutes of real time news in about 28 minutes.

I've been thankful for the ability to record shows before, not only for the convenience of watching what I wanted to watch, when I wanted to watch it, but also for the convenience of not having to watch commercials since I could zip right through them.

But now I'm even more thankful because those few extra minutes probably saved our lives: I had walked out of the room after seeing that the week was looking good, with sunny skies and highs nearing 70, when I caught a whiff of natural gas as I headed upstairs. Within seconds the odor was so strong that I was starting to feel queasy.

"Is this thing on!?" I ran toward the stovetop. In cleaning up after the meal, I apparently had nudged one of the burner knobs enough to turn it on. A slow stream of gas had been filling up our kitchen for nearly a half hour before I detected it.

Adding to my horror was that our old refrigerator has been known to light up the dark kitchen with flashes of blue sparks when its compressor kicked in.

Fortunately I'd left the kitchen window open after cooking dinner. That, along with the open vent on the skylight, created enough of a draft that the gas had not been allowed to build up to potentially explosive levels.

Disaster averted. House still intact.

It seemed like a fitting event to fire this blog back up after abandoning it over a year ago.

Why haven't I written for over a year? I think a lot of it can be explained by the fact that I was spending so much time talking about my writing, specifically my book The Warmest Room In The House: How The Kitchen Became The Heart Of The American Home (the Bloomsbury USA title from which this blog takes its name.)

Plus it felt like a good time to revisit this blog. Our lives have taken a different turn in the past six months. New state, new city, and of course new kitchen.

Actually, it's a really old kitchen, and that has also inspired me, as this new galley has challenged every notion I've had about the kitchen as an inviting and welcoming room.

Needless to say a redesign is in the works. I'll be posting pics and blogging about its progress.

I'll also, finally, post recipes.

My interview with NPR's "A Splendid Table" airs today!

2008-02-23T10:30:00.000-08:00

Short notice but my interview with Lynne Rossetto Kasper airs today at 2 PM on NPR's "A Splendid Table!"

"The Warmest Room" is "literary comfort food," says The Very Short List!

2008-02-21T09:49:00.000-08:00

Here's a very cool review of "The Warmest Room in the House" from the folks over at The Very Short List! You can check it out at VeryShortList.com/vsl/daily.cfm/review/391/Book/the-warmest-room-in-the-house?tp

Also, The Washington Times did an interesting piece on home kitchens featuring yours truly and some good pix of my kitchen. The article is here www.washingtontimes.com/article/20080220/FAMILY/912835041/1016

Warmest Room In The House Signings in Seattle and San Francisco

2008-02-05T12:45:00.000-08:00

I will be signing copies of "The Warmest Room in the House" at the following locations.

On Sunday, February 10th at 2 PM I will be at the Elliott Bay Book Company in Seattle. In anticipation of sales I have made a donation to Rotary First Harvest, a food bank which serves the Seattle area and beyond. Follow this link for their latest newsletter.

www.FirstHarvest.org/download/newsletters/RFHNewsletter_Jan08.htm

Elliott Bay Book Company is located at 101 South Main Street in Seattle, WA.

On Sunday, February 17th at 2PM I will be at Book Passage at the Ferry Building in San Francisco.

I hope to see you there!

And a special thanks to the family and friends who came to my signings at the Smithsonian in Washington, DC and at Barnes & Noble in New York City last month!

The Atlantic Monthly reviews The Warmest Room In The House...

2008-01-11T06:43:00.000-08:00

This short but sweet review appears in the current issue of the Atlantic Monthly (Jan/ Feb 2008.)

"Forget heart and hearth, argues the author of this inviting study of domiciliary evolution - home is where the stove is. Tracing the American kitchen's century-long rise from lowly back room to glowing center of domestic life, Gdula scours the historical pantry, illuminating the development of food preparation, scullery technology, gastronomic design and culinary celebrity. The decade-by-decade survey he serves up is a delight, rich but restrained."

Warmest Window...

2008-01-10T07:36:00.000-08:00

Here's a shot of my book, "The Warmest Room in the House," in the window of Barnes & Noble on the corner of 6th Ave and 8th Street in NYC!!!

East Coast Book-Signing Events for "The Warmest Room"...

2008-01-10T07:23:00.000-08:00

I will be signing copies of my book, "The Warmest Room in the House," as well as doing a reading at the following stores. I hope to see you there!

Thursday, January 17th, 7 PM

Borders

80 E Wynnewood Avenue

Wynnewood, PA (on the Philadelphia Mainline)

Saturday, January 26th, 2 PM to 4 PM

Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum

National Mall, 6th and Independence Avenues, SW

Washington, DC

The American History Museum is closed but the signing will take place outside the American History in Treasures Exhibit!

Tuesday January 29th, 7:30 PM

Barnes & Noble,

396 Ave of the Americas (at 8th Street)

New York, NY 10011

Hope to see you there!!!

Share What You Have...

2008-01-09T08:46:00.000-08:00

In my book I write about how the American kitchen has benefited from the kindness of neighbors, and strangers, over the years. In an attempt to continue that tradition I am making donations to local food banks in the cities where book-signing events for "The Warmest Room in the House" are taking place. Below I am listing two upcoming signings, along with a link to the charitable organization I've chosen as the benefit in each city. Statistics show one in two children is at risk for hunger in the Washington, DC area, and one in five children facing similar hardships in the Maryland and Virginia suburbs. Please share what you can.

Please help in anyway you can, and I hope to see you at the signings below!

Saturday January 26th, The Smithsonian, Washington, DC at 2 PM. Signing for "The Warmest Room In The House." A portion of the proceeds will benefit Capital Area Food Bank. Please visit their site at www.CapitalAreaFoodBank.org .

Sunday February 10th, Elliott Bay Book Company, Seattle, WA at 2 PM. Another signing and reading from "The Warmest Room In The House," with a portion of the proceeds benefitting Rotary First Harvest. Visit them online at www.FirstHarvest.org.

Some of the reviews for "Warmest Room In The House"...

2008-01-05T04:37:00.000-08:00

REVIEWS FOR MY BOOK "THE WARMEST ROOM IN THE HOUSE"....
Here are some of the things being written about my new book. It's official publication date isn't until next week so if anyone has had trouble finding it in stores please let me know. Thanks for your interest!

"Gdula demonstrates in... vivid, funny and absorbing detail.. that kitchens are warm is a case of mind over material. [He] begins with a charming description of family meals during his childhood... and charmingly evokes the accents and aroma around the table of his family. Gdula's childhood kitchen as well as the one he has created in his adult life is indeed the warmest room in the house. He has carried a childhood lesson into the way he lives now. 'The simple act of sharing a meal is its own reward,' he writes." "He demonstrates in ample and fascinating detail... the evolution of the kitchen decade by decade through the 20th century." - The New York Times Book Review, Sunday December 30, 2007

"Yes, of course, you are what you eat, but you may well have to cook whatever it is you are eating, and the tools and techniques for doing so can say as much about you as the food itself...[Gdula] is interesting when he outlines the rise of Julia Child, the abiding tension between diet books and cookbooks, and the appearance of appliances as faddish as the fondue pot and as durable as the microwave...[He] does an especially good job on the food-related double consciousness of Americans in recent decades." - The Wall Street Journal, Saturday December 29th, 2007

"Well-researched and entertaining...Gdula successfully personifies the American kitchen." - Publisher's Weekly, November 5, 2007

"In a more than 100-year odyssey, writer Gdula documents more than 10 decades of progress (or not) by American manufacturers, food producers, food experts, the government, and, yes, the consumer in the effort to transform the kitchen into the heart of the home...Gdula makes a strong case for the constant and continuing role of food and its associated topics…Fascinating." - BookList, December 15, 2007

.... almost forgot!

2007-12-27T08:06:00.000-08:00

Here's the book's cover!

The book is out, but not yet in stores!

2007-12-27T07:43:00.001-08:00

The big cyber stores, and I think you know who they are, started shipping the advance orders for "The Warmest Room in the House" yesterday, but I haven't seen a copy in my local retailer yet.

It was with surprising nervousness that I went in search of the book, as well as an issue of one of the magazines that is supposed to be carrying a review.

This blog will serve as a way to keep folks updated on signings and other events related to the publication of the book.

That's all for now!