Dear Dave Lieberman

British Friday, Crystallized

2011-04-29T09:35:00.003-04:00

Congratulations, William and Kate. Your wedding was absolutely beautiful. In honor of you and your country, which I so love, I'm bringing back a favorite post. It's a humble gesture, but heartfelt. I'm so happy for you both! Cheers.

Two of my favorite people in the world, who I'll call D and B, introduced me to the fabulously British Pimm's Cup cocktail several years ago. Pimm's is an English gin-based liquor that has been popular over there since the mid-1800s. It's recently caught on a bit in America, and a decent bartender here should know exactly what it is. The flavor profile is mostly herbaceous and somewhat citrusy, and since the alcohol level is relatively low, it's really quite refreshing. A Pimm's Cup would be lovely after a polo or tennis match, but to enjoy this drink you needn't play or care about sports. I certainly don't.

Classic Pimm's Cup

Pour one part Pimm's Cup No. 1 and two parts of lemonade into a tall, ice-filled glass. Stir to mix well, and top off with a splash of club soda or 7Up. Garnish with a long slice of cucumber.

May I Suggest Ceviche?

2010-06-25T10:36:00.012-04:00

My dad gave me lots of advice. "Go play in the road!" was a classic (he was kidding). Then there was, "Never go to bed mad," and--my personal favorite--"Never complain, never explain." I can hear him cautioning me with these sage words right this very moment, because all I want to do is apologize for my long absence and tell you that yes, sadly, it's because I've been drinking the bride kool-aid and spending most of my free time trying on dresses, talking to vendors, and having the time of my life.

Oops, there I go again. Dad, I'll work on it.

Anyway, how is everybody doing? Here in DC we're sweltering. It was around 100 degrees yesterday and will be in the upper 90s all weekend. Factor in about a thousand percent humidity, bugs and big hair, and I'm primed for a meltdown. Fortunately, I can save myself--gustatorily, at least.

When the weather becomes unbearably hot, I almost always crave seafood. I like it grilled, or poached and mixed with crunchy vegetables, light vinaigrettes and lots of fresh herbs. This scallop ceviche includes all of those things. My betrothed (I've got to come up with a better name for him) suggested we make it the other evening and I was hooked after one bite. It's a variation of a Mario Batali recipe, so you know it's delicious. The crisp fennel and soft shellfish are texture contrast heaven; the lemony dressing brings everything together. It's sharp, bright and fantastically refreshing.

Incidentally, my dad loved scallops but hated "raw" fish. My advice to him? Don't think of it as raw. Think of it as marinated. Please give it a try. And the same goes for all of you. No heat wave required.

Scallop Ceviche with Fennel
Serves 2

4 large scallops
1 lemon
1 small fennel bulb
2 tablespoons good quality olive oil
1 tablespoon chopped Italian flat-leaf parsley
salt
pepper

Slice each scallop horizontally into three or four coin-shaped pieces, depending on how big your scallops are. Finely shave fennel using a mandoline or very sharp knife and reserve fronds. Mix olive oil and juice of one lemon in medium-size bowl with parsley. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Add scallops and fennel and toss to coat. Let stand about 10 minutes. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary. Serve garnished with fennel fronds.

Don't Forget The Green(s) Today!

2010-03-17T07:18:00.008-04:00

Happy Saint Patrick's Day, everybody! I've got the Irish blood, and I've always felt compelled to acknowledge this day with something green. When I was a little girl and had to wear a blue uniform, that meant wearing green ribbons in my hair. When I was a bit older and in public middle school, I made the possibly unfortunate choice of wearing a green mock turtleneck with my stonewashed Guess jeans. Oops.

Today I'll most likely wear black (because I pretty much always wear black), and the green will instead appear on my plate--in the form of kale chips. If you've never tried these, I hope you'll give them a shot, perhaps this afternoon or evening. They're not exactly the brightest of greens (as you can see in my photo here) but they taste fantastic. These chips are a super-healthy yet surprisingly addictive alternative to the potato kind. Not that I don't appreciate the mighty spud, mind you.

Saint Patrick's Day Kale Chips
serves two

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Spread one layer of cleaned, chopped kale on a baking sheet. Drizzle with several tablespoons of olive oil and toss to coat. Roast kale for roughly 20 minutes, but keep an eye on it because you don't want it to burn, which will make it taste bitter. Once crispy and ever-so-slightly browned, remove from oven and toss with kosher salt. Serve immediately.

Pasta As Pastime

2010-02-06T10:51:00.009-05:00

First things first. I don't wish to be counted as one of those girls who give everything--their time, their friends, their blogs--up because they finally found a fellow and are going to be married. No, I don't wish to be one of those girls at all.

So in case you were thinking that's what happening, it isn't. Granted, I've been a little preoccupied with wedding plans, but mostly I've been working and recovering from the holidays, just like everybody else.

And speaking of the holidays, I must devote the rest of this post to a present I received at Christmas. In my huge family, it is customary to draw names so that we all end up needing only to buy one big present for one person. (That's the idea anyway; usually more gifts appear and for people other than the one whose name you drew.) My brother-in-law got me, and when he asked if there was anything particular I wanted, my answer was swift: an Imperia Pasta Machine.

For me, this is the definition of a shiny object. It's bright red, solid, heavy, and gorgeous. So far I've stuck to making papardelle, but this baby is fit to turn out noodles of all sizes and lengths. I realize that making pasta from scratch isn't for everybody--it's a big undertaking, after all. But for me, it's one of the most rewarding activities I can think of. The last time we made it I was covered in flour, there was pasta hanging all over the kitchen, egg shells crowding the sink, and it was wonderful.

How many of you would give this a shot?

For Snowy Nights and Vegetarians

2009-12-19T11:16:00.006-05:00

It's a winter wonderland here in Washington, DC today. For me, waking up to falling snow on a Saturday and hearing that there's more to come is just about as good as it gets. Well, as long as I have nowhere to go and plenty of food and drink on hand, that is. I was supposed to go to a party at my sister's house this evening, but that's been rescheduled for tomorrow, so now it is time to tell you about a sensational, snowed-in-and-want-something-delicious-dish, courtesy of Lidia Bastianich. It hails from Istria.

Before I share her recipe, let me warn you: This sauce is luscious. There's no meat involved, but the combination of mushrooms and tomato paste is downright meaty. Lidia calls for making your own pasta--called makaruni--with this dish, which we did. But I'm skipping that part since I'm pretty sure the store-bought kind will work just fine. I've also put this over polenta. That was excellent, too.

Lidia's Chanterelle Mushroom Sauce
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, crushed and peeled
1 cup thinly sliced onion
1 tbsp shredded fresh sage leaves, packed to measure (4-6 leaves)
2 tsp coarse sea salt or kosher salt
2 lbs fresh chanterelles and/or mixed fresh mushrooms, such as porcini, shiitake, cremini, and common white, cleaned and sliced
4 tbsp tomato paste
2 cups hot light stock (chicken, turkey, or vegetable) or more as needed
freshly ground black pepper to taste
2 tbsp chopped fresh Italian parsley
1/2 cup freshly grated Grana Padano or Parmigiano-Reggiano

Pour the olive oil into a large saute pan and set over medium high heat. Toss in the garlic and cook until sizzling, then scatter in the sliced onion and shredded sage leaves. Stir well, season with 1/2 tsp salt and cook until the onion is soft and sizzling. Add the sliced mushrooms, sprinkle on one teaspoon of salt, and tumble the mushrooms around with a big spoon and mix well with the onion and oil. Cover the pan and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms are soft and bubbling in their own juices. Uncover, raise the heat, and cook, stirring to evaporate almost all the liquid. Clear a spot on the pan bottom, drop in the tomato paste, and stir it in the spot for a minute or so, until toasted and fragrant. Then stir all around the pan to blend with the mushrooms and onions until they caramelize. Pour in one cup of hot broth, salt again, and stir well and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and cook at a bubbling simmer, stirring now and then until the liquid has cooked down and the sauce is very thick. Stir in another half-cup of broth and stir again until quite concentrated. Stir in remaining half-cup broth and cook to a nice, saucy consistency--dense but flowing. If the mushrooms aren't tender, stir in more broth and cook until tender. Adjust the seasoning to taste, and stir in chopped parsley. Prepare your pasta, and toss with sauce until pasta is fully dressed. Turn off the heat and toss in grated cheese. Serve immediately.

Grazie, Lidia!

Shrimp and a Question

2009-12-13T22:39:00.011-05:00

This was quite a weekend. On Friday night, I drank punch and made brussels sprout sliders (thank you, Mark Bittman). On Saturday afternoon I shopped and made this sensational chocolate bark. Today I had wonderful soft tacos at Oyamel and wrapped Christmas presents. Oh, and on Saturday night I ate shrimp and chateaubriand and I got engaged.

Did I bury the lede?

Well, it was a beautiful, perfect proposal. And the shrimp we shared--minutes before he knelt down before me--were the best I've ever tasted. I'm not sure if this is because they were pristine, freshly caught, and perfectly cooked, or if it's because they were the last thing I tasted before the person I love asked me to marry him. They were exceptionally delicious. There was champagne, too.

On Being Thankful

2009-11-26T09:12:00.002-05:00

Without getting too carried away, I'd like to share with you a few (ok, a lot) of the things I'm feeling particularly grateful for right now. It's been a fortunate year for me in many ways, and my happiest moments have all been accompanied by some good taste, or smell, or both.

So in no particular order, here we go:

- My mother, for her faith, love, and impossibly perfect pie crust
- My dad, for his love of life, food, and literature
- My siblings (plus John, Emily, Justine, and Kristen), for their friendship, solidarity, brilliant senses of humor, and all-around excellence
- My extended family, because it's huge and fun and full of great stories
- My best friends, who I laugh with every day, and who supply me with so much excellent material, I'll always have something to write about
- My boyfriend, who beyond being just a wonderful human being, is also a fantastic cook and has taught me more about food--and life--than he even knows
- My job, which is so much fun because of certain colleagues. You know who you are!
- My laptop, of course
- David Chang, for his pork buns
- Mario Batali, for Otto
- David Barron, for taking me to Otto and for being so gorgeous on the inside
- My nephew, niece, and soon-to-be second nephew, because they have made these last two years full of new life, little smiles, tiny kisses, and hope
- My readers!
- New York, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Virginia, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Oregon, DC, Maryland, Vermont, Florida, and France, because that's where many of my favorite things are found

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Eat well, and savor everything.

Restaurant Wednesday: French Bistro Edition

2009-11-25T07:25:00.006-05:00

For a girl who loves France so much, I sure have been writing a lot about Italy lately. I think clearly it's time for another trip to Paris...or Burgundy for oeufs en meurette. The problem is, Christmas is coming and I must save some money. I'm sure I'll go back to France eventually (I always do), but in the meantime, I can at least trick my taste buds into thinking they're there, when really I'm just having a fantastic meal at West End Bistro in Washington, DC.

Located inside the Ritz-Carlton, this restaurant is the least hotel-y feeling one I believe I've ever encountered. It's at once sleek and cozy, with big booths and low lights. Naturally, the service is flawless and the scene is sophisticated. But it's what comes out of the kitchen that interests me most. I've eaten at West End Bistro twice now--once for dinner on my birthday and another time for a special lunch--and on both occasions I left feeling like Paris had just whispered in my ear.

Chef Eric Ripert, who also owns the famed Le Bernardin in New York, is one of my heroes. First of all, he's a nice person. This is evident in his new cooking show, "Avec Eric," which airs on PBS. And second, he's a culinary master. There is simply no other way to state it. Try the tuna carpaccio with lemon and chives at West End Bistro, and then try to disagree with me. Or order the pristine skate with brown butter sauce, and do your best not to weep when it's gone. If you don't fancy fish, you might consider braised short ribs. It's a decadent dish, but it won't ruin the rest of your day, stomach-wise, the way that a lesser version would. The meat is luscious, the mashed potatoes rich, and the glossy sauce totally absent of grease. I love it.

Much of the food at West End is generally not light, but portions are properly sized. So while plates and bowls may not be overflowing, it is for this reason that I love Ripert's food, and why it reminds me so much of France. Plenty of butter, absolutely fresh ingredients, and no small measure of attention to detail. In other words, c'est formidable.

The Chicken Liver Challenge of Thanksgiving 2009

2009-11-17T07:23:00.006-05:00

When invited to Thanksgiving dinner at another person's home, most will offer a contribution to the meal. A bottle of wine, perhaps. Or extra cranberry sauce or maybe even pie. Me? I volunteer to bring chicken liver crostinis. Yep.

What was I thinking? I'm not exactly sure. All I can tell you is that I've eaten these toasted bread rounds spread with chicken liver pate in Tuscany and well, you know how I feel about that place! But I've never even thought about making them, so when I discussed the conundrum with my Jewish boyfriend, he suggested we turn to the recipes of Joan Nathan or his own grandmother for help. But the days are ticking by, my friends, and as I type this early Tuesday morning, I'm still without a solid plan, yet my family is talking about this the way they talk about my mother's chocolate chip cookies. In other words, they're excited.

So, I'm turning to you. I am positive that some of you have experience with turning chicken livers into mouth-watering, spreadable goodness. Please! Send me your recipes, tips, and suggestions, and I will love you forever and possibly buy you a Christmas present.

Where There's a Mill, There's a Way

2009-11-08T14:52:00.011-05:00

I'm a girl who grew up thinking chicken hearts were a totally normal afternoon snack and that fall is when your dad chops wood and your mom makes applesauce with the food mill. It wasn't until college that I fully understood--and appreciated--the beauty in all of this. Of course, college was also when I didn't get a "Jack and Chrissy" reference and my friends howled with laughter and I realized just how little television I was allowed to watch as a kid.

But let's get back to my mother and her applesauce. She made it all the time for us, and it was just the most wonderful thing. Warm, sweet, and pink. The smell of apples cooking in the kitchen on a cold fall day must be one of the best in the world. I liked everything about my mother's applesauce, including helping her make it. I'd stand on a chair in front of the sink and crank the food mill, mesmerized by the fruit swirling round and round.

I'm not sure how many people make their own applesauce these days, or if anybody even has a food mill in the kitchen anymore. But I do, and so the other day I called my mom and asked her for her recipe. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: So, how do you make applesauce?
Her: Do you have a food mill? Ellen (my sister) doesn't, so I told her to use a potato masher. But you really need a food mill.
Me: I have one.
Her: Good. So first you cook some apples in a pot on the stove, but don't use too much water.
Me: Um, wait, "too much?"
Her: Right. Just enough. You know, the way you'd do potatoes, Cath.
Me: Hm. Ok, so, like enough water to cover?
Her: Yes, and then cook them until they're soft, but not too soft.
Me: Huh. What kind of apples?
Her: Macintosh
Me: Why?
Her: Because that's what my mother used.
Me: OK. Then you run them through the food mill, and...
Her: Yes, and put the skins in, too, because you want the applesauce to be pink. Remember?
Me: Yes. I remember. And what about the sugar?
Her: Oh, just enough so it tastes right, honey. Not too sweet, though.
Me: But, like, how much would that be?
Her: It depends. Just put some in and then taste it. You always have to taste it so you know it's right.
Me: Sigh

My mother's recipes are the best. If you try this one, email me or drop a note in the comments. In honor of her, I'll be making applesauce all through the fall, trying to get the measurements right and hoping that someday I'll have a daughter who appreciates food made with love, and with a mill. I love you, Mom!

A Geography Lesson By Way of Lidia

2009-10-30T07:34:00.008-04:00

I've mentioned before that I enjoy Tuscan cuisine very much. But really, who doesn't? Most people can easily get behind the comforting bread-and-bean based soups, simple pasta dishes, and grilled meats that hail from this region.

What about Liguria, though? Or Calabria, Puglia, and Friuli? I can't say I'm terribly familiar with dishes from these parts of Italy, and suddenly I'm fascinated. In a perfect world, I would take every one of you with me on a fabulous, round-the-country eating trip with all expenses paid. In the real world, however, I take myself to the store and buy Lidia's Italy. It's got to be the next best thing.

Over the next few months, I'll be working my way through this wonderful cookbook, which offers--region by region--straightforward recipes with geography and culture lessons to boot (Ha! No pun intended). It's my valiant effort to understand the nuances of Italian cuisine, yes. But it's also my attempt to ward off winter doldrums and eat incredibly well at the same time.

Even though I'll post occasional anecdotes about this, it is not a Julie & Julia project, I promise. There's no way I'm making everything in this book (though I'd be proud if I did). And anyway, I happen to love my day job.

Reading Is Sexy

2009-10-23T08:42:00.003-04:00

So, quelle surprise, I adored Frank Bruni's book, Born Round. It's a fast, funny, and sometimes sad read that takes you through his life--from very early childhood to right about now. There were points in the book when I felt almost embarrassed for my food journalist-hero, but he writes with such confidence that any worry I had for him eventually turned into admiration. I'm not the only one gushing about this memoir, I know, but it deserves to be touted. Who else but Frank Bruni can talk about weight problems and self-doubt with such elegance? What a man.

Restaurant Wednesday: All I Want Is Pizza Edition

2009-10-14T07:20:00.007-04:00

Ok, so that title is slightly misleading. There are lots of things I want besides pizza (allow me to spare you the long list), but these days I've been eating a lot of it, and I can't seem to get enough. Maybe it's the cooler temperatures and my desire for more carb-heavy dinners, or maybe it's just the plain fact that my boyfriend lives up the street from Comet Ping Pong, also known as My New Favorite Place To Eat.

We seem to walk there at least once a week, he and I. First off, it's close to his apartment. Second, it's the only place in his weird neighborhood that isn't hopelessly stuck in the early 90s. But most of all, it's just really fun, and the food is really, really good. Do not be discouraged by the hipper-than-thou atmosphere. Yes, there is canned beer and yes, there is ping pong, but you don't have to be a hipster to eat here. You just have to appreciate excellent pizza and wonderful sides. Try the spicy, crisp chicken wings and the creamy chickpea salad. The latter is light and lemony, and...well, you know how I feel about well-prepared ceci. As for the pies, I'm partial to the standard tomato with fresh mozzarella, sausage, or smoky mushrooms. My lily-loving boyfriend prefers the melted onions on his pizza and nothing else. He is a purist that way. Those onions are delicious, though, and gloriously caramelized. Comet's crust is yeasty with a good chew, and the sauce is bright and just a touch sweet. Figure two pies for two people, four for four, and so on.

Whatever you do, try to get to Comet before 8 pm, particularly on the weekends. Any later and you'll probably have to wait for a table. Of course, you could always pass the time with canned beer and a round or two of pong. No indie rocker t-shirts required.

Goodbye, Gourmet

2009-10-09T21:44:00.013-04:00

It's not that I'm ignoring you. It's just that I feel...adrift, lately. Is it the change of season? Perhaps. Or maybe it's a universal shift, the size of which is so large it only affects me in subtle and confusing ways.

Whatever it is, I am quite sure that my funk has something to do with the recent death of Gourmet magazine.

I'm sorry if this is dramatic, but there was a small pain in my soul when I learned a few days ago that one of my most beloved food publications had succumbed to this wretched economy. Gourmet! It was classy, beautiful, and delicious.

The blogosphere is currently dominated by posts like this, I know, but I am not ashamed to contribute--even if I'm a little late. My mother read Gourmet to me at night when I was a child, so for me it's right up there with Where the Wild Things Are and Madeline. It was my gustatory Goodnight Moon.

A Little Something Heavy For Monday Morning

2009-10-05T08:20:00.005-04:00

This weekend, we made a dish called Chicken al Mattone. It's an old Tuscan dish that has stood the test of time, probably because it is easy, delicious, and requires using a brick, which is fun. Essentially, you buy a chicken, remove the backbone (or have someone else do it for you), then splay it out on a cookie sheet and slather with a rosemary-olive oil marinade. You're supposed to refrigerate it overnight like this, but we hadn't thought that far ahead and were starving, so we gave it an hour.

After your bird has marinated, you take it out of the refrigerator and set your oven to 400 degrees. Then you get a big skillet smoking hot on the stove and add the chicken, skin side down. Next, take your trusty brick (which you have wrapped in aluminum foil earlier), press it down on the chicken, and let it cook until it's nice and brown. Then you toss the whole thing in the oven, flipping the chicken over after thirty minutes to cook the other side. What you end up with is crispy skin, moist flesh, and lots of fat swirling around in the pan. I suggest taking that fat and using it to sauce the meat when you serve. It's a little rich, but not too heavy.

Click here for the Bon Appetit recipe we chose to follow.

Porter Patrol

2009-09-25T08:37:00.015-04:00

After a whirlwind trip to Oregon and a busy week of work, I'm back. And right in time for my favorite season. Fall for me usually means good hair, cute coats, and cozy food. How can food be cozy, you ask? Well you know that's not what I mean. I'm talking about food that makes you feel cozy--things that are warm and comforting and full of carbs. Braised meats and rich pastas come to mind. We'll get into all of that as autumn wears on, but for now, I'd like to discuss a drink that pairs well with many of these dishes: Porter. And it just so happens that I have one to recommend, straight out of Oregon!

There's a place in Bend (a town I sadly haven't visited) called Deschutes Brewery and in my imagination, it is one of the happiest places on Earth. There, they brew handcrafted, seasonal beers with names like Twilight Ale and Buzzsaw Brown. Their flagship brand, though, is Black Butte Porter, a beer so good I had to force myself not to gulp my first one down. My uncle introduced me to BBP when I visited Oregon for the first time years ago, and I was anxious to try it again on this last recent trip. He poured one for me, ice-cold, into a big glass and immediately I decided to cherish this beer: It's dark but not heavy, vaguely chocolatey but not sweet, and just absolutely delicious. Thinking about it makes me want to pull one out of my refrigerator right now. Would 9:37 on a chilly morning be too early for a toasty brew? I bet it would compliment my Quaker Oats quite well...

For those of us on the east coast, the only downside to this story is that Black Butte Porter isn't available west of Colorado, and Deschutes doesn't ship. Of course, I kind of love this because it reminds me that the world can still be small. I hope to travel out there again soon to see my loved ones and drink my beloved beer. In the meantime, I'll savor the three bottles I managed to carry back with me in my suitcase. And I promise, I won't crack one open until 5:00 pm. Maybe.

PS: Stay tuned for more tales from Oregon and find out why grocery stores are more than just places for buying food.

See You Soon

2009-09-13T17:16:00.004-04:00

The time has come for DDL to take a small vacation. I'll be back in a week or so with more recipes, restaurants, odds, and ends for autumn.

Have a great week, everybody!

Birthday Books

2009-09-11T07:04:00.009-04:00

Well, the ol' birthday rolls around again. Today marks the start of my 33rd year and my only wish is for everyone I love to be healthy, happy, and safe. Oh, and I also wish this dang rain would stop because I will be in heels tonight.

Anyway, I'm not a big present person but I have to tell you that I got the best one last night. When I arrived home, I found a rectangular package waiting for me in the storage room. "Borders" was typed across the front of it, so I knew it held something I could read--always a plus. Upstairs in my teeny kitchen I pulled off the wrapping paper and saw the cherubic face of little Frank Bruni beaming back at me. The note read: "Dear Cath, Happy Birthday! Love, Lawrence."

Lawrence is my oldest brother, and he is one of the most well-read and eloquent people I have ever met. He knows how excited I've been to read Born Round, so of course he bought it for me before I could buy it for myself. It's an absolutely wonderful birthday gift. Thank you, Law! I'll post a review after I finish it.

For now, it's time to walk to work and let go of the hope for good hair. Even though it's raining, today will be a nice day for me but it will be a hard one for so many others who remember the loved ones they lost on this morning in 2001. They should never be forgotten.

Give Chickpeas A Chance

2009-09-01T07:26:00.004-04:00

To celebrate the arrival of my favorite month, I'd like to discuss my new favorite bean. Don't say I don't know how to party!

Anyway, the chickpea (also commonly known as the garbanzo bean) has been around for something like 7,000 years, but I just got into it about two weeks ago. I've had them before, but not until recently did I realize just how magical this little legume really is. It's loaded with protein and fiber, but despite its straight-A health food report card, the chickpea is easygoing, fun to cook, and above all delicious.

Currently, I'm using them in a brilliant salad recipe I found--where else?--on Serious Eats. The recipe calls for cooking the chickpeas in a skillet but I prefer roasting them at 350 degrees on a baking sheet with a little olive oil and salt for fifteen minutes. They sort of pop as they roast and they smell wonderful, like nutty popcorn. I like adding cooked shrimp to the salad but it's totally not necessary. Just make sure you use good feta.

The Italian word for chickpea is ceci. It's pronounced CHAY-chee, and when my friend Katherine and I were in Italy (buzzed on Negronis, naturally) we took every opportunity we could just to say the word. One particularly silly night, for some reason I can't recall now, I said to her "Pronto, Prego, Ceci!" and it became our slogan for the rest of the trip. As I said, it meant nothing, really, but now when I'm opening a can of them (I like Whole Foods 365 brand) I feel the urge to say it.

That's really neither here nor there, I know, but this is: Chickpeas also make a fantastic snack that you should try next time you're craving something crunchy. Roast them as directed above, but instead of taking them out of the oven after fifteen minutes, leave them in until they get hard and really dark brown, about thirty minutes or so. Then just toss them with more kosher salt (a sprinkle of chopped rosemary would probably also rock) and tell me that's not one amazing nosh.

The Diary of My Dreams

2009-08-29T14:14:00.009-04:00

When I first typed this title I wrote "The Dairy of My Dreams," but that's another post for another time. For now, I want to address a show I've been watching for the last few weeks and is currently at the top of my list of Food TV Worth Watching.

I'm talking about Diary of a Foodie. It's on PBS on Saturday afternoons, at least where I live. The word "foodie" sometimes bugs me, but in this case I'm cool with it, because the show is mesmerizing. That's a strong word, I know, but I do not use it lightly. I was at the gym today, feeling particularly spent and not at all "pumped up" but thirty minutes on the treadmill went by in a heartbeat because I was watching Diary of a Foodie. The content was so engaging I ran for an extra five minutes and the only side effect was extreme hunger (and a burning desire to eat with Heston Blumenthal).

Now don't get me wrong. Everybody here knows that I obviously appreciate the Food Network and wouldn't have the name of this blog without it. But, PBS really has some awesome food-related programs these days and Diary of a Foodie is one of them. Of course, it helps that the show is affiliated with Gourmet magazine, the editor of which I respect so much I have her picture taped to my bathroom mirror. Don't laugh at me! Ok, fine. You can.

Restaurant Wednesday: Adams Morgan Edition

2009-08-26T07:37:00.003-04:00

Morning, everybody! It's hot in DC today, and it will be hot again tomorrow. This is the kind of weather that really turns me off cooking. It's just not pleasant to stand in my shoe box kitchen, roasting and steaming right along with the food I'm preparing. So, when the humidity--and the circumference of my hair--increases, I tend to eat out.

Tonight, I'm gathering with some of my favorite people at a cafe for pizza. But the last time this sort of heat took over my city, a couple of weeks ago, I could be found at a tiny Adams Morgan joint, eating Mexican. Lots of Mexican. And not the greasy, now-I-feel-ill kind, but the fresh, give-me-some-more kind. The place where such food can be found is called Pica Taco, and if you click here you can read my review of it, published today in the Washington Post.

I have to go dunk my head in cold water now. Have a great day, and remember Pica Taco the next time you're not in the mood to cook. Or just the next time you're hungry for good food.

Serious Props For Serious Eats

2009-08-16T09:34:00.007-04:00

For those of you who are still with me, thanks for sticking around. My summer's been pretty hectic. I wish I could say I've been traveling the world, sunning and shopping my heart out, but really I've just been working a ton. And the "tan" I'm sporting comes from a bottle. Anyway, I apologize for my posting paucity. To make it up to you, I'd like to pass along the most awesome recipe ever.

I found it on Serious Eats, a food blog my friend introduced me to and one that I read regularly. You should check it out if you haven't already. It's entertaining and informative, and every now and then they offer a gem of a recipe.

Case in point, a recent one that begins with this headline: Eat for Eight Bucks: Squid Noodle Salad with Fragrant Garlic Topping. The post instantly caught my eye because a) I'm kind of a squid freak and b) I'm trying to save money. Plus, fish sauce is one of my favorite ingredients. (Don't ever, ever taste it straight-up, though. I learned that lesson the hard way.)

So, my boyfriend and I set out to make this yummy-sounding salad. The first time we ate it, we couldn't stop talking about how good it was. The second time (three days later), we barely said a word to each other because we were too busy slurping and not wanting the delicousness to end. Seriously, it is that good.

Click here for the original recipe. We swapped in crushed peanuts for the garlic topping to set ourselves apart. We also added more cilantro and experimented with different types of noodles. The first time, we used noodles made from tapioca starch. We made the second batch with mung bean noodles. Both noodle types are translucent and lovely to look at, but the tapioca starch ones have a silkier texture and are easier to bite through than the mung bean variety, which are kind of spongy.

The photograph above doesn't do our attempt at this salad much justice, but hopefully the people at Serious Eats will appreciate the homage. Do you have any favorite recipe web sites? Have you found a way to make a dish your own? Let me know! If you're still speaking to me, that is.

On Cowgirls, Picnics, And Yes, More Cheese

2009-07-31T08:42:00.018-04:00

Has anybody else noticed that it's warm outside? I measure the heat by how big my hair is, and how many bobby pins are needed to secure it. Today, the bobby pin index is four. Yes, summer is firmly in place, my friends, and you may now find yourselves itching to picnic.

I like to picnic as much as the next girl, but for me it's not as simple as just throwing some chicken, soda, and chips in a cooler and grabbing a blanket. My picnic preferences run a little fussy, I'm afraid. For one thing, I don't like bugs, so sprawling on the grass is pretty much out. My dream picnic setting is a wraparound porch overlooking the ocean. Cold chicken would be alright, but there's something about duck pate that makes me just a touch happier. A bottle of wine would replace the ho-hum soda in my picnic fantasy. And finally, we will need cheese.

What is a picnic of pate and wine without cheese? Sad, that's what. You don't have to make your own this time, but you should treat yourself to something exceptional. Something like the outrageous Mt. Tam. This is a triple-cream of the highest order. It's rich and decadent but not overly buttery. I discovered it last weekend at Cowgirl Creamery, my new favorite shop. Forget that the name is awesome, this place is a food-lover's heaven. It's filled with the scent of fresh cheeses and bread. Shelves of sophisticated condiments and crackers line the walls. White-hatted ladies and gentlemen stand by, ready to offer a sliver of Manchego or a crumble of Gorgonzola. But the smooth Mt. Tam is my current favorite.

If you can't get to the Creamery you might consider buying their cheese online. Your picnic mates will thank you.

Photograph from Cowgirl Creamery website

The Great Ricotta Experiment Of 2009

2009-07-27T21:11:00.036-04:00

In online dating speak, "enjoys making cheese" would be my variation of "must love dogs." It's one of my deal-breakers. Sorry, but if you don't care for curds, this is never going to work.

Fortunately, I don't have to fret about that anymore because my boyfriend's back, and he is a cheese person. In fact, when I told him last week that I wanted to try making my own he said, "Cool! Like maybe on Friday night?" This is what I'm talking about. A man who wants to stay home on an evening typically associated with parties and bars to take a crack at homemade ricotta. He even took pictures with his cell phone for proof.

I got the recipe from this year's January issue of Bon Appetit (you can find it here). Basically, you add salt and lemon juice to simmering milk and then wait for soft curds to form. It's a simple--if somewhat slow--process, which for us looked like this.

After about ten minutes or maybe even longer, you have a situation that appears a little more promising.

Next, you fish out the lovely curds with a slotted spoon and transfer them to a cheesecloth-lined colander to drain for one minute. Then you plop your creation into a bowl and admire it for another minute because it's so cool to behold. See?

Finally you cover the bowl and put it in the refrigerator, not to be seen until the next morning. You think about taking your homemade cheese on a picnic to eat with toast and prosciutto. You imagine it will pair perfectly with a glass of rose.

But the next day, things seemed different. Our ricotta had lost moisture and acquired a vague chalkiness. We probably let it chill for too long. The flavor was still good, but a little too lemony for a savory preparation. We felt like failures for a moment. Then, we thought about dessert. One packet of cocoa nibs and half a jar of fancy macerated sour cherries later, we had this delicious concoction. A bit of a twist in the adventure, yes, but definitely a good one.

Email me your cheese-making tips! And yes, I am getting my own camera. Soon.

Waiting For The Tide Of Big Summer Tomatoes

2009-07-17T07:40:00.014-04:00

My mom and I went to the farmer's market near my house recently and were tempted by many things: crisp, tiny cucumbers, loaves of fresh, crusted bread, a rainbow of beets and berries, and of course an onslaught of tomatoes. I think I've mentioned before how much I love summer tomatoes, haven't I? Anyway, considering it's July and tomatoes are everywhere at the market, one could easily conclude that the time has come for me to gorge on them to the point of crippling stomach pain (ok, that only happened once. ONCE!) But patience, my friends.

It will be weeks before a bite of big, juicy tomato is worth the $10-a-pound price you'll pay if you're a good little eater and only buy your produce from the farmer's market. They charge a lot for their goods, but I think they are right to do so. Being a farmer is really hard work. I asked one (who'd sold me some beets after a spirited discussion about goat cheese and mint) what a typical day was like and he said he gets up at 5 am to "survey the fields." His hands were coarse and tan and I'm pretty sure he could tell that dirt is not so much my scene. Another farmer--or fisherman, rather--sold us some beautiful clams that day. He had fish, too, and one of them was labeled "Dressed Flounder." My mom asked what that meant and he quipped: "It means it's been cleaned. Not that it's wearing clothes." We felt dumb and slinked away.

Anyhow, this is all to say that I love farmers and shopping at farmer's markets, but I'm holding off on buying big tomatoes for now. They're not at their best yet. Trust me. The little cherry ones are ready to go, but I'm talking about the beefsteaks. The heirlooms. These need more time before they're ready to slice or chop and serve raw in salads, sandwiches, or just with salt on a plate. So give it some time, and if you need a fix, try this recipe from the Muir Glen tomato people. Their yummy bruschetta has been tiding me (and my mother and siblings) over for the past several weeks, and I'm sure I'll make it again before September, which is when it'll be time to seriously talk summer tomatoes.

Tomato-Olive Bruschetta With Goat Cheese
Makes 24 appetizers

1 can (14.5 oz) Muir Glen Fire-Roasted diced tomatoes, drained
1/4 cup pitted Kalamata olives, quartered
1/4 cup coarsely chopped drained roasted red bell peppers (from a jar)
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil leaves
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup soft goat cheese (4 oz)
24 slices (1/2 inch thick) baguette (about 8 oz), toasted

In medium bowl, mix tomatoes, olives, roasted peppers, basil, and oil.

Spread goat cheese onto toasted baguette slices. Top with tomato mixture. Serve immediately.

Recipe and photo courtesy of Muir Glen

Restaurant Wednesday: Suddenly I'm A Food Writer! Edition

2009-07-01T07:46:00.004-04:00

Normally, I know what I'm going to say at this point when I'm typing out a Restaurant Wednesday installment. But at the moment, my mind isn't working properly. I blame this temporary malfunction on the fact that something I wrote is running in The Washington Post Food Section today. As you will see, I wrote a restaurant review. My name is next to Tom Sietsema's in the newspaper. I am so honored!

Even though this is a dream come true for me, I feel a little tacky touting my work. How do you guys feel about self-promotion? While I wait for your responses, I'm off in search of smelling salts. This is the faintest I've felt in a long time...

Oh, and please do visit Chick N' Friends in Columbia if you're over that way. You will not be disappointed!

Aperol, Anyone?

2009-06-27T09:36:00.006-04:00

If a girl is lucky, she'll find herself in the company of a nice gentleman. If a girl is very lucky, she'll find herself in the company of a nice gentleman who knows how to mix a good cocktail.

At the moment, I am very lucky.

My nice gentleman shares my love of Negronis, and we both pretty much always have Campari on hand at home. But, since he's oh-so-cool, he goes one step further and keeps a bottle of Aperol in his liquor cabinet as well. Oh, what's that you say? You haven't heard of it? Neither had I, until Mr. Cool came along.

Aperol is similar to Campari in that both are bitter and citrusy. But Aperol has a lovely burnt-orange flavor and is a touch sweeter and brighter than its more popular cousin. I like it for those reasons. Plus, drinking it makes me feel almost as hip as my gentleman friend.

Here's his recipe for a delicious summertime drink. It serves two, of course.

3 oz Plymouth Gin
1.5 oz sweet vermouth
2 oz Aperol
.5 oz Chartreuse
2 dashes orange bitters

Shake with ice and serve up.

Our Time Together At Bar Pilar

2009-06-20T16:08:00.012-04:00

I've mentioned before that my father read Ernest Hemingway. What I haven't mentioned is that a drawing of Hemingway's house hangs in our kitchen on the wall behind my dad's chair at the table. And that a copy of every one of Hemingway's books resides on my father's bookshelves. My dad brought my mom to Key West several times, and when the three of us went to Paris a couple of years ago, he spent an entire afternoon alone at Shakespeare and Company. In other words, my dad was a die-hard Hemingway fan.

This is why I always told him that on his next trip to DC we had to go to Bar Pilar. "What's that?," he'd ask. "It's this great bar with good drinks and food, but you will appreciate it because the theme is Hemingway," I would say. In less than two seconds my dad got the connection: "Oh, of course! Because the name of his boat was Pilar. Let's go there next time, Cath."

I am so grateful to be able to write that my father and I did go to Bar Pilar together eventually. It was last June, and we didn't have much time because we were meeting my mom and sister soon for dinner. But that didn't ruin our experience. We sat at the bar, ordered a couple beers and some scallops. I pointed out all the various Hemingway memorabilia to him and we talked about A Moveable Feast, which is my favorite book by my dad's author hero. He loved the place, and I felt happy. I was looking at my dad on the stool next to me, enjoying himself at a hangout I've enjoyed for years. It was just one of those wonderful father/daughter moments. And as it turns out, it was our last drink together, just me and him.

It makes me sad to think about that fact, but somehow the thought brings a little smile to my face because it couldn't be a happier memory: Me, my dad, a couple beers, and a fascinating conversation about books. It was exactly our style.

Larry Loved Cheetos

2009-06-15T23:42:00.010-04:00

Here's another thing I adored about my father. He had a taste for good gin but little interest in highbrow hors d'oeuvres. Nope, when it came to snack time, Larry was really only interested in one thing: A fresh bag of Cheetos. My dad kept it real in that way, and I don't think I know anybody else who can strike that sophisticated-yet-slightly-trashy balance quite the way he could. It was marvelous to behold and I cherished this about him.

I can see him now, reading Hemingway on our deck out back behind the kitchen. There's a classy cocktail in one hand, while he turns a page with the other. Next to him is an open bag of Cheetos and maybe a couple of napkins. He reaches into the bag but never loses his place in the paragraph and never acquires an orange-ish tinge on his fingers. How is that possible? Again, marvelous.

Even though I never cared too much for my father's favorite munchie, I would give my left arm to read and share a bag of Cheetos with him now. Of course, my fingertips would turn orange and I'd probably drop my book, but he wouldn't care. He'd just tease me a little and tell me to pass the snacks.

Strawberries For Emma

2009-06-14T18:14:00.013-04:00

Today my brother James and his wife Justine became parents. Sweet, six-pound Emma was born this morning at 9:15, right about the time I was eating sliced strawberries with a spoon. James called to tell me the news, but he had a hard time talking because he was crying. So then I began to cry, which made us laugh because we fancy ourselves "cool" and here we were, two blubbering messes. But it was a happy kind of crying, and my next bite of strawberries tasted even sweeter when we got off the phone. This is one of those times when life suddenly becomes the most precious thing you know, and all you want to do is hug someone. Or go out partying, but I already did that last night.

Anyway, all day long today I thought about my baby niece, and how, when she's much older, I will tell her that I was happily eating berries the moment she was born. I also thought about what book I should choose as my first to give her, and suddenly my breakfast made sense and that good feeling about life got even stronger.

Blueberries For Sal is Caldecott Medal-winning Robert McCloskey's brilliant tale of a little girl from Maine and her adventures in berry-picking with her mother one day. My mom must have read it to me a thousand times when I was a child, and I never got tired of it. In fact, it remains one of my favorite children's books of all time, and I think all tiny girls should have it read to them at night before bed.

So while little Emma will always remind me of strawberries, I hope one day, when she's much older, that I will remind her of blueberries, and the first book we read together as auntie and niece.

Restaurant Wednesday: He Always Took Us To Hank's Edition

2009-06-10T07:20:00.005-04:00

My dad was not afraid to spend a little money on his favorite girls. He showered my mother--his most favorite girl of all--with presents and love for forty years. And every time he came to DC, he treated me and my sister like queens.

He never hesitated to hail a cab when we could just as easily have walked to our destination. He always bought another round of drinks when our glasses started looking empty. Lunches and breakfasts were often just a tad more extravagant than they needed to be, and he always took us to Hank's.

I can't remember the first time my dad treated us to dinner at Hank's Oyster Bar, but I do recall the look on his face when the friendly waitress welcomed us with a small bowl of goldfish crackers. He lit up like a kid in a candy store. As much as my dad would rave about the beautiful fish and to-die-for lobster rolls at this tiny Dupont Circle restaurant, he was truly crazy for those goldfish crackers. And that mac and cheese. And those fried Ipswich clams that we always asked for (and you have to do the same) even if the menu didn't list them. For my father, a trip to Hank's when he was in town was like a trip to the White House for other people--totally necessary and a huge mistake to miss if you're visiting DC.

Even though it's strange now to go to Hank's without my dad, and sad to know that I'll never eat there with him again, I believe his spirit will live forever in this lovely little eatery. Yes, I think he's still hanging around, maybe near the bar, looking out for me and my mom and my sister, and munching on some goldfish.

His Drink Of Choice Was Tanqueray And Tonic

2009-05-30T07:37:00.012-04:00

For the next few weeks, I'll be posting occasional stories about my father. He was the kind of man who deserves a little more than a shout-out from an obscure food blog, but I think he'd be pleased since the obscure blogger is his youngest daughter.

This will be my first summer without my father, and while I'm really not sure what I'm going to do with myself without him, I do know what to drink when I'm missing him on long, warm evenings: Gin and Tonic. Specifically, Tanqueray and Tonic.

T & T was my dad's signature drink. Mine, as you know, is the Negroni. He never fully understood my rather potent pick, but he did respect it. In fact, I like to think that my dad was proud of me for being a girl who likes gin. (My sister inherited the T & T affection, so it is true that we are both our father's daughters.) My mother once warned me, as I was measuring out a Negroni at Thanksgiving one year, "Catherine, no man likes a girl who drinks gin!" Well, I know more than a few men who do.

Tanqueray makes me think of my favorite man, my dad. I can see him now, reaching for the bottle on the high shelf in our pantry, and grabbing his silver shot glass. When I was a kid, I'd watch him mix his drink and think how absolutely delicious he made it look, slicing up a lime and squeezing it over the ice cubes. He'd take a sip and say, "Ah. Life is good." Now that I'm older, I understand the beauty in a well-made cocktail and how one (or two or three, but my dad never had too many) can vastly improve the quality of an evening. That's a lesson from my father that I will never forget: Enjoy your life, and have a gin and tonic.

Do you have a signature hot weather drink? Leave it in the comments and I'll post your favorites all summer long!

Restaurant Wednesday: Belgium By Way Of Northeast DC Edition

2009-05-27T06:50:00.014-04:00

When you care about eating the way that I do, you ponder things like "What is the most important food in my life?" You remember tastes and smells the way some people remember mathematical equations and dates. And you ask yourself, "Why do I feel this way when I eat this dish?"

It's all very Proustian, I know, but it's true. The flavor--which is what results from blending taste and smell--of certain foods has the power to trigger certain memories. In my opinion, most people don't pay much attention to that sensation or ask themselves that question, "Why do I feel this way when I eat this?," while the rest of us can't help but consider things a bit more deeply.

For me, that certain food is mussels. They are to me what madeleines were to Marcel Proust. I ate them--steamed, with white wine, garlic, and butter--for the first time when I was sixteen and spending the summer with a family in Belgium. My host mother prepared them in a huge pot for Sunday lunch one afternoon. I remember many things about that meal, including the heap of homemade french fries (the classic accompaniment to Belgian mussels), the slices of cold ham, the little, light green lettuce leaves, and the peculiar-to-me quail eggs that had been fetched from the backyard coop in the morning. But it's the sweet, briny taste of those mussels and their rich, winey broth that is essentially seared in my memory, and now whenever I eat moules mariniere I'm transported back to that hot day in Belgium when I tasted them for the first time, surrounded by strangers speaking French and teaching me how to appreciate food, and another world.

Now you can understand why today I'm recommending Granville Moore's, a restaurant in Northeast DC's Atlas District that charmingly describes itself as "A Gastropub with a Healthy Belgian Fetish." This place--named after a doctor who once lived there and did pro-bono work in the neighborhood--is hip but cozy and does indeed have a "Healthy Belgian Fetish."

You have to sample the mussels at Granville Moore's. I have a hard time straying from the traditional mariniere, but other preparations include sausage, bok choy, and blue cheese. All come to the table steaming in big bowls, with spoons and crusty bread for sopping juices. They're all ten dollars on Mondays from 5 to 7 pm, and beer (Belgian, of course) specials abound. These are some of the best mussels I have tasted outside Belgium. They're fresh, perfectly cooked, and I have to wonder if my Belgian host mother isn't presiding over the restaurant's tiny kitchen, making sure that things are done correctly. If mussels aren't your thing, go to Granville Moore's simply for the fries. They're served salty and hot, and you can choose from a long list of dipping sauces to get you out of the ketchup rut. I like malt vinegar or mayonnaise with mine. The menu is rounded out with salads, soups, sandwiches, and a few steak and fish dishes, but please don't neglect the bivalves.

It's a wonderful thing to eat mussels, and even if the experience doesn't transport you to another time and place in your past, you can be sure that if you dine at Granville Moore's, you'll be making a delicious memory.

New York, New York...

2009-05-22T06:37:00.006-04:00

Have I ever mentioned on here how crazy I am about New York City? My dream is to live there someday, but for now I just take weekend trips. I'm about to head off on one of those in a couple hours, so I'll see you all back here next week. I'll have pictures, stories (funny ones, I hope), and the recipe for something I always eat when I'm in New York: The World's Most Awesome Spinach Dip, as only my Upper East Side-dwelling friend Courtney can make it. A bientot!

The Days Of Drinking Pink Are Upon Us

2009-05-21T23:35:00.007-04:00

Every year around this time, I have at least one conversation that goes something like this:

Friend (or date, if I'm lucky): Hey, feel like grabbing a drink somewhere outside? This weather is spectacular!

Me: Sure, I'm up for anywhere, just as long as I don't have to sit in the sun. Or near flowers. I'm afraid of bees.

Friend/Date: Cool. Let's go to blah blah.

So off we go. Then, at the table, our exchange continues.

Me: Sigh. I don't know what to get. It's too warm for red wine. And beer is so filling. Hmm. Oh! I know. I'll have a glass of rose (pronounced rose-ay).

Friend/Date: Gross! I can't believe you're going to order that! I thought you were like, a "foodie." Pink wine is so sweet, and kind of trashy. I'm surprised.

Me: Oh, here we go again. I'm not talking about white zinfandel (which by the way is trashy, in my book), ok? I'm talking about delicious, simple but interesting, dry rose.

Friend/Date: What?

Me: Basically, rose is red wine that's not allowed to get to the point of turning red. With red wine, the grape skins have contact with the grape juice for a long time. With rose, the skins have shorter contact time with the juice, just enough for the wine to acquire a pinkish hue.

Friend/Date: Oh. Well, does it taste sweet? I tried pink wine once and it was totally sweet and disgusting.

Me: Was it at a frat party? Do you remember how much you had or where it came from?

Friend/Date: Ha, yeah! And, um...no.

Me: That's what I thought. See, rose is everywhere in Southern France - in fact, I fell in love with it when I was in Provence years ago. And it used to be hard to find in the US, but now most decent bars and restaurants here have at least one by the glass during warmer months. Also, you can find bottles of it at any respectable wine store. My favorite shop in DC, Bells, carries a seriously good selection at fair prices. A guy there recently recommended an Italian rose called Ciro Librandi and oh MY. It was just delicious.

Waiter: Hello, you two! Have we decided what we want to drink this evening?

Me: Yes. I'll have a glass of the rose.

Friend/Date: I think I'll try that, but it's not sugary, is it? I really don't want to have a headache tomorrow. Heh, heh.

Waiter: No. The rose is very dry, and quite good. And did you know that all wines by the glass are two dollars off tonight?

Me: Woo hoo! Let's stay for a while.

Friend/Date: Sweet.

Food And Boys, Chapter Four: Saying Farewell To Frank Bruni

2009-05-15T06:31:00.010-04:00

Now I know what football fanatics feel like when a favorite player leaves the team--it hurts, and you take it personally. You want to know why. You want to talk about it and ask what's so great about the other gig. In short, you feel abandoned. Like a lover has left you without saying goodbye.

The news of Frank Bruni's departure from The New York Times Dining and Wine section has left me feeling cold on this warm Friday morning. This is a man whose restaurant reviews--and audio clips--have lifted my spirits every Wednesday for the last five years. Whether he rips a place to shreds or touts its every aspect, his writing is always exquisite. And while he's not leaving the New York Times altogether (he's going to work for the Sunday magazine after a bit of time off for book promoting), I am going to miss his Wednesday byline the way you miss a person's smile in the early morning light.

Frank, I'll get over this eventually, but today my heart is bruised. I'm sure your reasons are good ones, and I honestly wish you nothing but the best. And yes, I know that somebody else will eventually come along, but I'm never going to forget you.
Love,
Catherine

This Might Be My Best Vegetable Saute Ever

2009-05-11T22:06:00.021-04:00

You all know that I'm no vegetarian. But that doesn't mean I don't love vegetables and appreciate them for all their pristine, plant-y goodness. They possess a natural beauty that most animal products just do not have. Vegetables are virtuous, delicious things, and every now and then I get really excited about cooking them.

This past weekend was one of those times. I was at home in Upstate New York with my mom, and on Saturday night my brother and his wife drove from New Jersey to join us for an early Mother's Day dinner. We'd decided on lamb chops but couldn't agree on anything other than salad for a side. So I volunteered to try making something a little more interesting, and everybody was hip to that idea. Bless my family members for being easygoing eaters.

Anyway, I was thinking that lamb goes with mint, and asparagus and peas are in season, and...well that's about as far as I got in my head, so I just went to the store to figure out the rest. For me, this is usually the recipe for culinary success: Have rough but attainable concept in mind, go to store not knowing exactly what I'm after, find the perfect thing, and later feel very smug and popular. (Incidentally, this is also my clothes-shopping recipe for success, but I digress.) I came away from the supermarket that afternoon with a bundle of asparagus, a shallot, a bunch of fresh mint, and a few big handfuls of sugar snap peas. I wish I could have found freshly shelled ones in lovely purple tissue paper as seen in the photo above, but that was taken years ago at a farm stand in Florence. Sigh.

I felt good about my provisions last Saturday, though, and as I walked to the car I pictured a warm saute with some sort of dressing. I also pictured a flirty, parking-lot encounter with my high school crush, my hair looking fabulous. Of course the latter didn't happen, but at least my saute dreams came true that night. This dish turned out surprisingly well and my mom requested it again on Sunday. Here's the basic idea--let me know what you think!

Asparagus and Peas with Mustard Mint Vinaigrette
Serves Four
1 medium shallot, sliced into thin rings
1 bunch asparagus, cut into one-inch pieces (discard the tough ends)
1 cup fresh or frozen small green peas (I bought snap peas and shelled them)
8 fresh mint leaves, chopped
1 generous teaspoon Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/2 cup plus one tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper

In a small bowl, combine the mustard, vinegar, and mint and slowly whisk in olive oil. Season with salt and pepper and set aside. In a wide skillet, saute the shallot in one tablespoon of olive oil over medium-high heat for about a minute. Add the asparagus and saute another two minutes. Turn off heat, add peas, and stir for 30 seconds or so. Toss vegetables with enough vinaigrette to coat. Serve warm or at room temperature alongside meat, fish, or even buttered toast.

File Under: Things I Want

2009-05-06T08:08:00.010-04:00

Being single is great for a few reasons. Your time is all your own. You're free to go out all the time. You can time your evening plans around your favorite TV shows. Yes, "time" is a big word in the single person's vocabulary. Unfortunately, we frequently have too much of it. Some people spend those extra hours running marathons or starting businesses.

I spend them nailing down exactly what I'll register for when I eventually get married. What? It's fun!

Forget Macy's and Pottery Barn, though. I want things from Le Creuset. Sure, it's expensive stuff and possibly not absolutely essential when building one's nest with another person, but I'm sorry. There is nothing as beautiful, lasting, and classic as a Le Creuset dutch oven or baking dish. Or, this new and oh-so-registry-worthy stoneware Sangria Pitcher, which is my second favorite pitcher in the whole world (hello, he comes first).

But back to the new blue stoneware. Have you ever seen anything so gorgeous? It's going on my list. And depending on how much longer this single business goes on, that list might be the one I make in a few months for Christmas.

Reading Is Sexy

2009-05-04T07:11:00.009-04:00

Every once in a while, it's good for a writer to put her pen away and just enjoy the pleasures of reading. And I don't mean reading emails or Facebook status updates or pretentious newsletters you love to mock with your friends. No, I mean real reading. The kind you do with books.

It's no surprise that I love books. Every writer loves books. We like talking about our favorite books and authors the way cartographers like talking about contour lines and cloropleths. We also love libraries and the old card catalog system. Ok, maybe that last one is just me, but you get the point. Books are good, and we should read them.

That is why I'm going to start recommending books, and to kick things off I begin with my favorite one of all time: The Gastronomical Me, by MFK Fisher. I'm willing to bet that at least half of you are familiar with the remarkable Ms. F., but for those of you who aren't, I direct your attention here. It's impossible for me to describe her brilliant work, but words like passion and heartbreak feel appropriate. I read my first Fisher novel ten or so years ago and I've since fallen for Russian, Norwegian, and Indian authors, but only her stories consume me completely. She writes from the darkest and brightest corners of her heart and can make you cry and laugh out loud. Her life was rich and complicated and I find her totally spellbinding. The Gastronomical Me is autobiographical, so if you read it you'll see what I mean.

This is one of her many food-themed novels, but "food-themed" sounds ridiculous and is an inadequate description because MFK Fisher's food writing is magnificent. I love how she gives the topic of eating as much importance and attention as the topics of joy, romance, and loss. In the forward to The Gastronomical Me she writes, "It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others."

This woman speaks to my soul. You have to read her. Oh, and congratulations if you get the reference in the title of this post. I believe Ms. Fisher would have approved.

Restaurant Wednesday: Bargain Thai Food in Dupont Circle, DC Edition

2009-04-29T07:25:00.011-04:00

I was sitting on this very deck at Bua Thai in Dupont Circle last night with some good friends. The sun was shining, the two-dollar drinks (yes, I said TWO-DOLLAR DRINKS) were flowing, and the spicy puffs were salty, sweet and crunchy. It was a lovely scene. As the sun went down, we made our way through the happy hour menu, sampling the small-but-flavorful spring rolls, limey beef salad, oniony larb gai, and refreshing shredded papaya salad. Each appetizer costs four dollars and house wines, mixed drinks, and a handful of beers are two dollars a pop. All of this wonderfulness is available from 5:00 until 7:00 pm, when happy hour ends. But even during normal hours you still can't possibly spend too much at Bua.

Last night my friend Eric cautioned me at first not to write about this sweet little secret, for fear that too many people would come and make getting a seat impossible. But then with a wave of his hand he said, "Oh actually it's probably fine. It's not like that many people read your blog." EXCUSE ME? He quickly backpedaled but I told him he'd have to backpedal to Thailand to make up for that comment. So you guys, check this place out next time you're in Dupont Circle and tell them Dear Dave Lieberman sent you. Bua deserves our business, and Eric deserves to be smacked upside the head. Well, ok, not really...

Photo from Bua's website

Last Time I Checked, It Was April, Not August

2009-04-28T08:29:00.012-04:00

If you live on the East Coast, you're likely sporting bare arms and possibly even sunscreen today. It's going to be 90 degrees this afternoon here in DC. Most people love this kind of early summer weather--I happen to hate it. My allergies make me feel crazy, my sandal selection hasn't been updated, and oh yes, this weather is a total tomato tease.

That's right. You heard me. It's hot enough to be August and I'm craving fresh tomatoes.

But the fact is, it's April, and no matter how many flip-flopped walkers I see on the streets today and no matter how many people invite me to have margaritas outside, that fact will not change. There are no good tomatoes to be had in April. This is asparagus and fava bean time, and baby lettuce and rhubarb time. Those are all perfectly good foods for spring but today feels like summer and I've got tomatoes on the brain, dangit!

Mercifully, Muir Glen Organic exists. This is my go-to tomato nine months of the year. While obviously not fresh off the vine, Muir Glen tomatoes have a firm texture and bright taste. I prefer the classic diced variety, but they offer fire-roasted and herb-laced kinds, too. My friend Katherine and I used a can of these babies recently to make Pappa Al Pomodoro, a chunky Italian soup that traditionally calls for fresh tomatoes. Our out-of-the-can version was pretty rockin', though, and I think you should give it a try. And yes, I realize that soup isn't really "hot weather food," but since the air conditioning is blasting you might as well just go for it.

Katherine and Catherine's (Canned) Tomato Bread Soup
Serves two or three
One large shallot, minced
Two garlic cloves, minced
One 28-ounce can Muir Glen Organic diced tomatoes
One small loaf stale Italian bread, cubed (about four cups)
Olive Oil
Tomato Paste
Water
Salt
Pepper
Fresh basil (optional)
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese

In a large pot, saute shallot and garlic in olive oil over medium heat for about four minutes. Add tomatoes and bread and stir until everything is combined. If mixture seems dry, add a little water and about a teaspoon of tomato paste. The soup should be mushy and thick--not thin and runny. Cook over medium-low heat for about ten minutes, adding salt and pepper to taste. Feel free to throw in some hot red pepper flakes if you like a little heat. Stir in fresh basil (which ok, is also a summertime food but you can buy it pretty much any time of year, and I do). Ladle soup into bowls and serve with freshly grated Parmesan.

Food And Boys, Chapter Three: Baby Cake

2009-04-24T09:37:00.009-04:00

Restaurant tips and warm-weather recipes are coming, I promise, but for today we must focus on a Very Important Occasion: My nephew's first birthday.

As you can see, I'm not lying when I tell people that Jack is the cutest crawling thing in the world. It's hard to tell from the photo, but you should believe me when I say that he also has a sense of humor, and a remarkable interest in washing dishes. He's already quirky!

It's hard to grasp the fact that at this time last year I was in a hospital room with my sister and her husband, holding this teeny bundle in my arms. Sure, it was a bigger moment for the parents, but I felt pretty proud, too, since it was my first official day of Aunthood.

A year later, Jack and I are pals and I'm happy to report that he seems to like all foods. This bodes well for his future girlfriends, since dating a guy who's a picky eater is a drag (I'm sorry but it's true). And speaking of Jack's future, I fully intend buy him his first case of beer. But we have at least ten years to go before that happens.

So in the meantime I will bake him a cake.

I've been told that watching a baby eat his or her first piece of cake is one of life's greatest pleasures. It's too soon to tell what flavor he likes best, so we'll just go with my favorite flavor: chocolate. This cake has been in my family for centuries (ok, maybe not "centuries" but that sounds so much cooler than "years"). The recipe is simple and you'll see that I recommend Betty Crocker frosting to make things even simpler. You can knock yourself out with your own homemade icing, but I'm a girl who appreciates things that come in cans. For now that would be Jack's birthday cake frosting--years from now it will be his birthday Bud Light.

Black Devil's Food Cake
2 cups flour
1 and 3/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp baking soda
1/2 cup cocoa
2/3 cup vegetable oil
1 cup buttermilk
1 cup strong coffee
1 can Betty Crocker Dark Chocolate frosting

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Combine flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and cocoa together. Add oil and buttermilk, stir until well blended. Bring coffee to a boil and stir into batter.

Pour into a greased and floured 9 x 13 pan and bake for 35-40 minutes. Allow cake to cool before frosting.

British Friday: Fuss-ay Eat-ahs Edition

2009-04-17T10:06:00.005-04:00

If you've never heard of Charlie and Lola, you need to go here immediately. It's an absolutely brilliant creation and you do not have to be a kid to enjoy it. I love these two rascals so much that I'm tempted to buy a couple of hamsters just so I can name them Charlie and Lola.

Anyway, the show is smart on several levels, but one of the things I love most is how quirky little Lola is. She has an aversion to numerous foods and describes herself as "A Ver-ay Fuss-ay Eat-ah." It's not so much the taste of certain things (tinned to-MAH-toes, fish FING-gahs) that bothers her, but rather how those things look or feel. I can relate to this--certain foods freaked me out when I was a child, too. For example, I was not fond of the way Kraft American Cheese Singles melted into a rubbery, circus-tent-orange mass and oozed out from the side of my grilled cheese sandwich. It was an upsetting sight so I'd pull off tiny pieces of sandwich and chuck them under the kitchen table, hoping my mom would think I'd eaten them. Yellow wax beans also weirded me out and made me think of dead worms.

My friend Katherine introduced me to Charlie and Lola, and since I'm off to visit her for a few days, I thought it fitting to write this post today. Incidentally, Katherine is also a bit of a fuss-ay eat-ah, but that's just one more reason to love her.

Have a happy weekend, everybody!

Ah, Easter

2009-04-12T10:30:00.016-04:00

Happy Easter, everybody. Happy Passover, too. I didn't get my gelfite fish this year, but oh well. That's what happens when you stop dating Jewish boys, I guess.

Anyway, back to Easter. I think it's pretty solid, as holidays go. You have your miracle, the promise of spring and new life, and of course an abundance of sugary treats. When I was a child, we went further upstate to Glens Falls every year for a big buffet brunch with my grandparents. The restaurant looked out on Lake George and I can't remember the name but I do remember that they had the most awesome hash browns ever. My mom gave us tons of candy and overall made the Easters of my youth wonderful. I used to love Easter.

Until high school. And the skunk.

It was 1991 and I was fourteen years old. It was about 9:00 pm and we'd just gotten home from Glens Falls. My mom sent me and my older sister out to walk Molly, our Lhasa Apso. I had the leash as we walked along and then paused at the corner so she could sniff a patch of earth. The next thing I know, her ears go up and she bolts across the street and dives under the bushes in front of someone's house. We run over there, shouting her name and trying to find the leash so we can pull her out. I'm right up in the bushes, desperately calling to my beloved pet, when suddenly I hear a spraying sound. Then a whimper. Ellen is several yards away but hears the sound and shrieks. "Was that a skunk!?" The smell is descending upon me and my dog, who is now by my side with her tail way down. I begin to cry. Ellen starts laughing and turns around to run home, saying she's going to tell mom what happened. Molly and I trail after her, leaving a pungent waft in our wake. When we arrive home, the door has been locked because nobody wants the skunk odor in the house. Have I mentioned that I'm sobbing? My sister, on the other hand, is inside, hysterically laughing. My dad is laughing, too. So Molly and I sit on the porch while the family figures out what to do with us. My brother John is sent to CVS, because the emergency hotline vet said we would need to take a bath of tomato juice and douche. Yes, DOUCHE. If you think that's funny, picture my 18-year-old brother going to CVS at 10 pm to buy it. He may be as traumatized as I am by the whole experience.

That night, I took a tomato-douche bath with my dog. My father took pictures. My sister never stopped teasing me, and perhaps worst of all, my mother made me go to school the next day! Can you grasp how awful that is? The day she made me go to class with a fat lip pales in comparison. All day after the skunk attack I wondered if people could smell me. Nobody ever said anything, but I still worry about it. To this day, I'm pretty preoccupied with how I smell and in fact I just realized that I subconsciously chose the colors of my favorite perfume for this blog. That's deep trauma, people.

So now Easter is inextricably linked to skunks for me. Nice, huh? Well, I'm off to celebrate the day with my sister. She has two dogs of her own now. I love them both dearly, but I will not be walking either one tonight.

Restaurant Wednesday: Boston Boozing-On-The-Cheap Edition

2009-04-08T07:18:00.015-04:00

This RW installment comes straight from the heart of my eloquent, cocktail-loving friend Katherine. I have yet to hit the places she suggests, but I'm going to Boston to see her next weekend and believe you me, there is a seat--right next to hers--at the Silhouette with my name on it. This is what's good about having friends who are fun and as cash-poor as you are. Cheers!

I'm not sure if you've heard about it, but we seem to be in the middle of a major fiscal crisis. As a result, many of my friends and I have started re-assessing our own financial situations. Now, I don't want you to get the impression that I was living in the lap of luxury before this economic recession. For one, I am a social worker, so money is not something that I see a lot of to begin with. I also live in Boston. I love this town, but it is pricey; Boston is apparently 48% more expensive than most other U.S. cities, at least according to my thirty second Google search. And finally, I may or may not have been a little absentminded in my twenties about how and when I spent. I was young. Sue me.

Anyway, now I'm in my thirties and trying to be a little more responsible about how I spend. I have recently put myself on a rather stringent budget, and most of my diminutive resources are allocated to necessities. And for a single girl living in a great city, one of those necessities is a night out once in a while. There are a lot of great places to go in Boston: Drink, a new cocktail bar where the bartenders ask what you like and then whip something up for you; Eastern Standard, for great food and vintage spirits; Bin 26, a cozy enoteca. But they, like Boston, tend to be a little on the costly side. Fortunately, there is a solution--it's called the Silhouette Lounge.

Now, if you're a beer snob, you're not going to like what I'm about to propose. But if you're willing to drink cheap beer, there are establishments in my fair city that will help you, and your wallet. Silhouette is a neighborhood dive, right near my house. It's on a dimly-lit corner and the crowd is definitely eclectic, but I like this. In a city of college students, Silhouette seems to get a smattering of everyone and yet no one is talking loudly, wearing Uggs, or talking on the iphone that daddy bought. Which is surprising because a beer only costs $2- the place should be overrun with co-eds. A pitcher of Miller Lite is $7, and get this: they hand out free popcorn! Sometimes even Oreos!

This little discovery has led my friend and me to explore other dives. We're even thinking of creating a rating system. Silhouette gets points for the popcorn. A place in Cambridge called The Cellar gets points because it's not really dive-y, and they have yummy looking pizza. They both get points for being close to our respective homes. We're planning on checking out other dives to see how they all stack up. For us, it's a fun plan and a relief to know that we can go out, be among the young and living, and not break the bank.

Something tells me, though, that no matter how many we check out, Silhouette will stay close to my heart. If you're in Boston and decide to check it out, be forewarned that it's cash only. You also pay the waitress (if you're at a table) as you go, which helps you to not go overboard if you've only got $6.75 to your name. If you're not in Boston, I urge you to find your own favorite cheap dive to call home. Oh, and did I mention that I just applied for financial aid because I'm planning to go back to school, thus getting myself into more debt? Yep, you'll be able to find me anytime at Silhouette, drinking my $2 beer and having free popcorn for dinner.

Like all legit dive bars, Silhouette doesn't have a website. But here's more info, and the source of the photo shown above.

Don't Try This At Home (Because You Don't Have To!)

2009-04-07T06:57:00.015-04:00

Is it just me, or is demi-glace pretty much the best thing ever? First of all, it is French through and through. That's score number one in my book. Also, what's not to love about a rich reduction of aromatic vegetables, tomato, herbs, and veal bones? (Uh oh. I think I just felt all the vegetarians get up and walk away.)

That might be best, though, because demi-glace is strictly for carnivores. And for this carnivore, it is the stuff of dreams. The problem is, cooking it takes forever. You have to reduce, reduce, skim, and reduce in order to get it just right. This can literally go on for days. I think you also have to have a little French guy sitting on your shoulder while you make it, telling you when to adjust ze salt and remoov ze bouquet garni. I don't know about you, but I don't have days to stand over a pot, or a little French man in a toque telling me what to do.

What I do have, however, is one full pound of frozen Natural Classics demi-glace. It came in the mail from Lakemoor, Illinois, and it is miraculous. (Ooh, I think I just felt all the carnivores draw in closer.)

My aunt Judy ordered a bunch after reading about it in Saveur and last weekend she gave some to me. I'd gone to visit her and my uncle and cousins in Philadelphia because my mother was visiting and also because I really love going to their house. They always serve good wine and really good food. On Saturday night my uncle pan-seared filets mignons in butter but instead of his usual cognac sauce, he topped each tender piece of beef with a spoonful of the mail-order demi-glace (which he had punched up with a bit of shallot and mustard). It was glossy and delicious. I may have swabbed the last of it off my plate with my index finger.

True, I didn't have to order my sauce and in this sense I am lucky. I didn't have to pay for it and I don't have any idea how much it costs. But even if it's thirty bucks a pound I still recommend it. In fact, if you think you have to eat at a French bistro to get demi-glace, I insist you buy this. I sleep better at night just knowing a tub of it waits patiently for me in my freezer. But what about you? Yeah, I didn't think so. Now go order some and thank me later. And if you happen to live in Lakemoor, I need to know if you've been to the restaurant because I might have to make a pilgrimage. It's a lot closer than Paris, after all.

Rooster from Le Vichyssois website

Restaurant Wednesday: Random Pizza Thoughts

2009-04-01T06:41:00.008-04:00

Fine. I admit it. Trying to post a review of a different restaurant in a different town every Wednesday was a lofty plan. So today I figured I'd switch gears and just talk about pizza. I used my traditional "Restaurant Wednesday" headline because I feel guilty (see previous post) and am trying to hang on to my promise. But after today, I will only use it when it legitimately applies.

Now onto pondering pizza. It's one of my favorite things to eat, and I'm guessing it's one of yours, too.

I grew up in the Northeast, where good takeout pies are relatively easy to come by. But I moved to DC when I was 21 and quickly discovered how lacking this city is in decent pizza purveyors. Domino's? Um, I don't think so. Armand's? I'd rather eat my thumb, thanks. For several years I complained about DC: Awful humidity, slow grocery store checkouts, and terrible takeout pizza. But as time passed I gradually quit my grumbling. I think it ceased completely when I discovered Vace.

I guess this does sort of fall under my wanna-be regular Wednesday rubric, but not really, because Vace is a deli, not a restaurant. It's a damn good deli, though, and I think it's the only place in my fair city where you can get decent pizza to go. The Vace sauce is vibrant but not too sweet, the mozzarella soft and not heavily applied, the toppings respectable--homemade meatballs, freshly sliced onions, etc--and the crust chewy yet crisp. People who know good pizza understand what I mean. You can buy it by the slice or whole pie at Vace and believe me, you should buy it by the whole pie. (Bonus tip: Atomic Billiards, a mellow but merry bar a few doors away, welcomes patrons to bring in food from outside. A pizza from Vace goes great with their draft beer, awesome jukebox, and billiards. I am just saying.)

Anyway, Vace is my choice for takeout pizza in DC. Any fellow residents care to chime in? And we might as well discuss the more refined eat-in places while we're at it. Of course we have Paradiso and 2Amys but I want to hear about Pete's New Haven Style Apizza in Columbia Heights. Has anybody been there? How is it? What is New Haven-style pizza, anyway? Even my best friend from Connecticut doesn't know!

I also want to hear from the far-flung contingent: Where do you get your pizza? What kind of crust do you think is better: thick or thin? Why? I've heard that you haven't had a real slice of pizza until you've been to Naples, Italy. I've never been there but I did have remarkable pizza in Siena--it was topped with potatoes and crushed rosemary. What's the ideal topping, in your opinion? Does anybody have an easy recipe to share? Drop your pizza knowledge in the comments!

PS: Photo from Vace's charming website (Tell me that music doesn't make you want to dance a little bit.)

All You Need Is Dove

2009-03-27T10:31:00.017-04:00

Some random facts about me: My job is awesome. I befriend bartenders. I should probably not marry a bartender. I'm guilty of sometimes being overly guilty. Chocolate is part of the solution to most of my problems. I love New Jersey.

But back to chocolate. Yesterday at work, my boss called and told me to get in her office. For most people, this would signal stress. For me, this signals fun. She only calls when something really, really good is going on. So off I went. Turns out, the urgent matter was regarding chocolate. A colleague of ours--a lady who probably cooks way better than I do--was in my boss's office, telling her about a dessert (or breakfast item, depending on how you roll). Here's what you do: Take ten ounces of Dove Promises and one pint of heavy cream. Combine in a double-boiler and stir over low heat until the chocolate is melted and mixed fully with the cream. Remove from heat and beat until fluffy and whipped. Chill in refrigerator. Garnish with broken up bits of Ferrero Rocher. You can use milk or dark chocolate Promises. You can also add bourbon.

As we sat and listened to the magic chocolate lady describe this creation, my boss and I had trouble not squealing. We both decided we would need to make it ASAP. And yes, we talked about how fattening it sounds. And how bad it would be to eat the whole thing by yourself. I vowed to make it for my family over the weekend. We said goodnight to the chocolate lady and thanked her for sharing her brilliant recipe with us. I left work last night feeling excited.

Then this morning I remembered: I gave up chocolate for Lent! Why did I do this? I'm not sure. I guess I figured I could use more discipline. But why did I have to pick chocolate? Why couldn't I have given up apples? Then I wondered why I haven't really missed chocolate a whole lot the last few weeks. I guess it's because I haven't had any dates in a while, and my dates tend to end in an "I need chocolate" situation. No matter, though. I now have a burning desire for chocolate and I'm just glad that Lent is almost over. I am making this for Easter and I am not sharing it with anybody! In the meantime, I think all of you should give it a whirl (assuming you haven't cut yourself off from the good stuff like I have) and let me know how it turns out. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to seek solace in something made with vanilla. Drat.

Photo from Dove's website

Restaurant Wednesday: Logan Circle Edition

2009-03-25T07:10:00.013-04:00

My friends know that I often refer to 14th Street as "My Strip." They also know that I'm referring only to the stretch between U and P Northwest, but oh, what a wonderful stretch it is.

Today I'm highlighting Posto, a smart Italian restaurant that happens to sit right on said strip. Posto is just north of P, on the east side of 14th. You could easily walk by and not notice it. The exterior is all white and pale green and it kind of blends into the block. I'm not sure if they get many "Oh, let's go to that flashy place!" customers because of this fact, but they seem to do pretty well nonetheless.

I'd heard about Posto from friends--an often far better source than any formal review. They had gone for dinner and given a good report. Excellent service. Well-executed specials. Worth going back.

As it happens, my friends were pretty dead-on in their review. I went a couple of weeks ago for dinner and came away with that warm feeling good restaurants tend to produce. You may have to wait for a table--especially if you plan to eat after 6 pm--so do yourself a huge favor and take a seat at the bar and relax. If you're lucky, Sherman will be working and he'll talk your ear off but in a good way.

The menu at Posto is essentially broken into reasonably priced cheeses and antipasti, salads and light seafood dishes, pastas, pizzas, and heartier proteins. This provides an opportunity to structure the size and scope of your meal, but if you're like me, it also presents a challenging exercise in restraint. I wanted one of everything. But I settled on the grilled octopus salad with potatoes and chickpeas to start. That turned out to be a good idea. The octopus was charred on the outside but tender within. That's the main success of the dish, in my opinion, but it also had a perfectly balanced vinaigrette and the frisee was not too hard to untangle.

When your waiter comes by to talk about specials, pay close attention. The night I was there, it was pan-roasted chicken stuffed with mushrooms and sausage and napped with black olive sauce. I'm sorry, but does that not sound almost too good to be true? The dish could easily have arrived dry and salty, but it was moist and carefully seasoned. The creamy bed of mashed potatoes underneath didn't last long under my fork's invasion--they were so full of butter and just lumpy enough. YUMMY.

This was my first and only trip to Posto. I'll need to go back for further reporting, but this is what Restaurant Wednesdays are all about: Find a place you like, give us a couple of reasons (and dishes) why, and hope people will go there. When you head over to Posto, tell Sherman I said hi, ok?

Photo from Posto's website

The Camera Quest

2009-03-20T07:19:00.008-04:00

You will notice that there's no pleasing photograph to the right of these words. It's a little sad, I know. But the lack of visual today is my way of "illustrating" a problem. It's taken me this long to just come right out and say it, so now I'm going to say it--I do not own a camera. This was fine for a while, but I'm starting to tire of pulling pictures off the internet. I want the photos on DDL to be my own, at least for the most part. Also, you need to see the things I'm eating, drinking, and cooking. For example, I really want to show you what my Parmesan Crisps look like.

So I'm asking for your help. I am not a good shopper but I know for a fact that many of you are. I'm also not great at figuring out which camera would serve me best. Please, I beg of you--yes, I said "beg"--tell me what kind of digital camera you have, why you like or dislike it, and how much you paid for it. I'm looking for a fairly simple number, and I'm willing to pay around a hundred bucks. Are there sales or secret discount websites I should know about? Let's hear it! Leave your tips in the comments, and for those of you who are wary of doing so, please summon your courage and help a camera-seeking sister out. Besides, it's Friday and you know you're going to be slacking off at work anyway.

Whoever gives me the best lead gets a huge, whopping batch of Parmesan Crisps. And my lifelong love and affection, of course.

OK, go!

Wishing You A Happy (And Leprechaun Free) Saint Patrick's Day

2009-03-17T12:15:00.006-04:00

Saint Patrick's Day presents something of a challenge for Irish adults like me. Should we wear green or play it cool and wear black or fuchsia? Should we accept invitations to go out and drink beer or dismiss the notion with a wave of the hand and proclaim the evening "amateur night?" And let's not forget leprechauns. Sure, they're cute and amusing when you're a kid, but what happens when you're in your 30s and saddled with a debilitating fear of nearly all things whimsical? They're not so adorable now, those mischievous green little men.

Yes, it's true. Leprechauns make me nervous, but they didn't when I was a child. In fact, when I was a wee lassie I genuinely loved one leprechaun--the one smiling at me from the box of Lucky Charms my mother bought for me and my siblings every Saint Patrick's Day. We weren't allowed to eat a whole lot of sweetened cereal in our house growing up, so seeing that box every year was a Treat with a capital "T."

I still love this holiday, but it was definitely more fun when I was a kid: Sugar was special, wearing green was cool, and leprechauns didn't scare me. Ah, to be young again.

Cheesy Like Sunday Morning

2009-03-15T10:24:00.018-04:00

Ah, Sunday morning. A time to wake up slowly, read the paper, and drink your coffee at leisure. Sunday morning is also a time, for me anyway, to chat with my girlfriends and swap stories about the dates we had--or new boys we met--last night.

That's not going to be the case so much for me this morning. Sure, I'll drink coffee and talk to my girlfriends, but I won't have anything to add to the conversation in the way of boy talk. Rather, when asked the inevitable question: "So Cath, how did your Saturday night turn out?" I'll answer truthfully: "Oh, heh. Well, I made myself some dinner, did the dishes, watched three hours of Iron Chef: Battle Cheese, and fell asleep at 11."

Yep, that was my Saturday night. And now, coffee in hand, instead of pondering the potential for new romance in my future and whether or not the guy from last night will call, I'm sitting on my couch, thinking about cheese. Cheddar, mozzarella, mascarpone, and goat. There's nothing at all wrong with considering the merits of sharp versus tangy and creamy versus hard, but I'll be honest--I'd rather be analyzing the attractiveness of a man's good vocabulary and unruly hair. Instead, I'm trying to remember how Mario Batali made those cheese-infused meatballs and whether or not Laurent Tourondel put ham in his miniature croque monsieur.

With cheese on my brain, the only thing I can share this morning is a recipe. It's a dynamite one, though--perhaps the equivalent of a dream date. The recipe is not from Iron Chef but from my own imagination. I came up with it several years ago for a cocktail party, although I've seen some similar ideas out there lately. (Hmph! Impostors.) Anyway, it's actually more of a technique than a recipe. I don't remember what inspired me, but here's what I did: I bought a big chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano and grated it on my box grater until the block had yielded a big, powdery pile. I set the oven at 350 degrees and placed small mounds (about a tablespoon's worth) of grated cheese a few inches apart on a nonstick cookie sheet. I baked them until each mound had flattened and started to bubble just slightly. Then I pulled them out of the oven and set them to cool for a few minutes on the counter. Using a spatula, I transferred them to a paper towel-lined plate to rest and degrease. Twenty minutes or so later, I had these intensely flavorful, addictive little crisps. They were surprisingly popular at the cocktail party, and I'm not kidding when I say that my friends still talk about them and tell me no other cheese cracker compares.

The only ingredient you need to make these is real Parmigiano-Reggiano. I buy it pre-grated now because I'm old and tired but whatever you do, just make sure that your cheese is a fine, powdery texture--you don't want coarse little shavings because they won't melt properly. Also, you really need a good, nonstick baking sheet or silpat so the thin discs of cheese peel right off. That's it!

So next time you're having a party or just craving a good snack, give these a shot. You don't have to tell anyone that the idea came from a blog. Or that you spent Saturday night alone with your television.

Photo from Wikipedia

Restaurant Wednesday: Dirty Jerz Edition

2009-03-11T00:29:00.014-04:00

This review was written by my little brother, James. He fell in love with a Jersey Girl. You'll see what I mean.

Growing up in Upstate New York, I knew New Jersey for basically one thing--the beach. However, my childhood memories of the beach itself are always preceded by the long, unfortunate drive on the Turnpike and Garden State Parkway through Northern Jersey, punctuated by Newark, the greater New York Harbor area, and who could forget beautiful Trenton? At the time, I didn't realize the limitations of this view. I remember stiflingly hot days in August when my sister and I would gawk at the congestion outside our parents' car, the raw industry and infrastructure, the liberal use of expletives and ahh yes, the smell. How were we to know that our New Jersey education began and ended within a very small portion of what we now lovingly refer to as "America's Underarm."

New Jersey gets a really bad rap. But did you know that 90% of it is considered rural? Neither did I...Ok, fine, in the interest of full-disclosure, a local barfly who was attacking his vodkas with a certain amount of gusto one night told me that. However, I would argue that there is a reason why it's called the "Garden State," and I learned that lesson fairly quickly when I married a girl from Morris County.

My in-laws hail from Jersey City (I'll allude to this perhaps not so subtly at the end of this post), but they've been living in Morris County--aka "the country"--for at least the last 30 years, and this is where my wife Justine grew up. I moved here a few years ago before we got married, so now I get the whole "rural" thing. There are farms selling produce and raising livestock everywhere around here. Also, I have never seen so many deer in my life.

But forget nature; what I really like about this area is the fact that there are amazing restaurants in all these sleepy little Morris County towns.

One such town is called Peapack-Gladstone. It's a quiet place with a 25mph speed limit, punctuated by homes boasting wraparound porches, fly fishermen trying their luck in the tributaries of the Raritan, and some pretty solid restaurants. Toward the end of this old town whose rails were built to accommodate the commuting needs of families like the Johnsons and the Macys, Justine and I found the Limestone Cafe.

This restaurant is located in an old Victorian home, and still retains much of that era's charm. The steaks are great (try the "512") and so is the grilled Caesar Salad (that's a personal favorite), but what makes the restaurant memorable are the prices (a "recession menu" is available), the BYOB status (save some dinero), and the possibility of a celebrity sighting--we saw the dude from Office Space [movie] and his girlfriend there. The Limestone Cafe prides itself on bringing country cooking to your plate, and while the service leaves a little something to be desired, I would further recommend the meatloaf, better known as "Main Street."

But what would a quick review about an obscure restaurant in New Jersey be without a little "Dirty Jerz" authenticity? With that in mind, I'm going to take a page out of my father-in-law's lexicon and encourage the readers here to..."Do me a favah. Go down Peapack-Gladstone way, you know, in Somerset County. Stay on Main Street, no, not dat Main Street, de utta Main Street. 'Bout, eh, one, maybe two miles on da right (insert aggressive hand gesture here), you'll find the Limestone Cafe. Go inside, get a good seat, ordah tha grilled romaine hawts salad ta stawt, and da NY Strip for de entree. Top it awff with the chocolate mousse cake, and you'll be sittin' pretty. Oh, and it's BYOB, so you know, you can go nuts on the cheap-like."

A Trip Down Tuscany Lane, Part II

2009-03-10T00:57:00.005-04:00

Considering my current lame rate of posting, I wouldn't be surprised if you've forgotten about part one of this series and are mad at me by now. But I think we can move forward if you'll just please pop over here and then forgive me for being out of touch, because now I'm back, and I come bearing treats!

So, I was talking about Tuscany and the beautiful Florentine drink my friend Katherine and I happened upon when we were there several springs ago. Did I mention that we also happened upon a couple of Florentine boyfriends? Ah, Danilo and Alfonso. We had so much fun with them, singing Italian Top 40 hits in the moonlit streets of Florence and essentially acting like teenagers. I still have the bracelet Alfonso gave me when we said goodbye, but I'm digressing impressively now.

Anyway, before any boys came along, Katherine and I had this great day, wandering around in search of shoes and jewelry. We found tons of great stuff, and the man who sold us earrings thought that we were British--a moment I of course found thrilling given my thing for the old UK. Eventually, though, it started raining so we decided to duck into a bar for a snack and a rest. We ended up in some nondescript cafe full of odd characters, but it was there that we discovered Negronis and what we both agree is basically the best food in the entire world. It is called fettunta.

I'm not sure how it translates (Alfonso didn't speak much English) and recipes for it vary, but suffice to say that fettunta equals magic. It's so simple and I'm sad for those of us who have never thought to combine the three ingredients: toasted bread, olive oil, and salt. Honestly! Who doesn't have all of these things on hand right now? I know I do, yet apparently I need to go to Tuscany in order to figure out that to put them together is to perform an act of culinary glory.

Fettunta is hard to find outside Tuscany but there is absolutely no reason you can't make it at home, even if you live in a tree in South Dakota. I am serious. Just toast or grill slices of quality Italian bread and then, on a plate, practically drench them with good olive oil (use more than you think you should--trust me). Now sprinkle your shimmering toasts with salt and take a big, messy bite. Once you've finished licking your lips and fingers, pour yourself a Negroni or crack open some wine and just try to tell me that you're not in some kind of heaven. Katherine and I do exactly this every time we visit each other and it's like a taste bud transport to a cafe in Florence. If only our Italian boyfriends could join us. Sigh...

Restaurant Wednesday: Kalorama, DC Edition

2009-03-04T07:08:00.013-05:00

Lots of you have sent me letters (ok, text messages) telling me about restaurants you love and what I need to order when, not if, I go there.

So, I've decided to do something with all of these suggestions. Since I can't get to every restaurant you recommend, I invite you, my dear readers, to write up your own mini-reviews and I'll post them here on Wednesdays. Don't worry, you don't have to channel Frank Bruni (who is, by the way, one of my idols). Just write something simple. Something you would like to read. Focus on one or two dishes and tell us why we need to go there when we find ourselves in your town. I'll write reviews of my own beloved places, too, and I promise not to use too many lame metaphors.

To debut this column, I'm featuring my favorite restaurant, Cashion's Eat Place, and their signature sweetbreads appetizer.

Cashion's is pretty much the best overall neighborhood restaurant in DC. You could argue that I'm only saying that because it's in my neighborhood, but if you've ever eaten there, you understand. If you've been to Cashion's, you know that I am extremely fortunate to live down the road from it. I had my first meal at Cashion's about six years ago and I've had a crush on the place ever since. The lighting is beautiful and the food is high-end, but the general feel is casual. The menu changes regularly, and while original owner Ann Cashion has moved on to other ventures, the current sous-chef is the same one she hired when they opened, so it still has its heart in the right (delicious) place.

To my mind, there is one appetizer you are not to miss when you go there: Veal Sweetbreads with Catalan Spinach. Every time I order this dish it is precisely as amazing as it was the last time. The sweetbreads are crisp on the outside but creamy inside. The spinach is perfectly wilted and dotted with bits of apple and pine nut. The salty/sweet contrast is brilliant. The serving is small, and you'll find yourself pressing your fork into the last piece of nut, cursing the fact that there isn't more of your sweetbread appetizer--it is a glorious thing to eat. And absolutely worth its ten dollar price tag.

I realize that I may have lost my vegetarian readers at "veal," but I hope you guys are still with me, because there's something at Cashion's for you, too. Now I can't recommend a favorite meatless appetizer because the chef tends to switch them up frequently, but I can tell you that there's presently something on the menu called "Sampling of Extra Virgin Olive Oils." So there. Now you have no excuse not to go.

OK, get writing, people! Oh, and send photos, too, if you can. The one above is from the Cashion's Eat Place website.

When Life Hands You Lemons, Just Make Lemon Linguine

2009-02-28T08:25:00.009-05:00

Perhaps you've noticed that it's been a while since my last post. For those of you who haven't noticed, a request: Please read this blog more often, would you? Sorry if I sound cranky, but it's been a rough week, everybody.

Last weekend a very good friend of mine and I found ourselves in the Emergency Room at GW Hospital. There had been an attack involving an ill dog and a frightened girl (that would be me). It all turned out fine, but some physical injuries were sustained--hence my absence--and emotional states have suffered, too. It's a sad story that I won't bother to tell because this is the weekend and I'm not trying to bum you out. In fact, I'll tell you something funny: At one point, I believe it was when the Codeine kicked in, I became very flirtatious with my doctor and I asked him if he wanted my phone number. Then I asked him if there was any way he could possibly rustle up a couple of martinis for me and my friend. Wouldn't it be awesome if there was a cocktail wagon rolling around the ER? Who cares about being shot up with Novocaine and tetanus when you've got a nice cold drink in your hand? I thought I was hilarious. I don't think the cute doctor was as amused.

Fortunately I'm mostly better now and my friend and I have never been closer or more thankful for the strength of our friendship. Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling awfully sorry for myself these days. I am bandaged! I am bruised! I look like a tomboy or an athlete and anybody who knows me knows that I am anything but a tomboy or an athlete! Like Marcia Brady, bruises aren't really my scene--for one thing, they don't go with any of my outfits.

Yes, I've been handed some lemons. I suppose I could make actual lemonade, but it's winter and anyway I prefer carbohydrates--particularly pasta--when I'm feeling low. And wouldn't you know that one of my new favorite pasta dishes actually calls for lemons. It's my sister's signature dish, and since she's the one who took care of me after the accident, I dedicate this post to her. The recipe is simple to follow, but you could even eyeball most of the ingredients if you want. The taste is bright and peppery, yet really comforting. You can omit the shrimp if you're not into crustacean, but don't skimp on the spinach--it's packed with protein and vitamins, and also it makes this dish so very pretty. And pretty makes me happy.

Ellen's Lemon Linguini
Serves Four

1 pound linguine, uncooked
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 pound uncooked shrimp, peeled and deveined
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon tabasco sauce (or to taste)
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 pound fresh spinach
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper
Parmesan or Pecorino cheese

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook pasta according to package directions. The pasta should take about as long to cook as it takes to make the sauce.

Wash spinach if it needs it and chop into small pieces. If the leaves are already small, leave them whole. Cut off any tough stems. Heat olive oil over medium heat in a 12-inch skillet. Add onion and saute for a few minutes, then add garlic and continue to saute for one or two minutes. Season shrimp with salt and pepper and add to skillet, spreading out in one layer if possible. (You don't want them to overlap too much because then they'll just steam and they won't develop much color or flavor.) Turn shrimp after two minutes and let the other side sear for one minute.

Add lemon juice, lemon zest, tabasco sauce, and tomato paste. Stir to combine. Add spinach, a handful at a time, folding in with tongs, until all spinach has slightly wilted and is thoroughly combined with the shrimp and other ingredients.

Drain pasta and transfer to the skillet. Toss all to combine, adding a bit of the pasta water if the sauce needs thinning. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve with grated Pecorino Romano or Parmesan cheese.

Image from Bon Appetit online.

Foil Is My Friend

2009-02-19T08:32:00.017-05:00

I'm fairly certain it's not benefiting the environment, but aluminum foil does amazing things for my culinary repertoire. I wrap bread with it for long storage in the freezer and also for gentle, even reheating in the oven. I line brownie pans with it for easier release. And now, I tuck fish into it for a little piece of steamy seafood heaven.

The latest issue of Cook's Illustrated Magazine features a recipe for "Fish En Papillote" that calls for using foil instead of the traditional parchment paper. It's not a new idea, but it's a brilliant one and I'm glad CI has reminded me of it.

As we all know, my kitchen is, shall we say, modest, so dishes like this are music to my ears (and stomach). There's minimal cleanup since you throw the cooking vessel away, and because the food is steamed in the oven, your stove and counter tops (which are prime real estate in my apartment) are available for other tasks like slicing bread and pouring wine. Another bonus is that baking fish inside a foil pocket means little to no odor--hooray! The best thing about this dish though, is the fact that the results are really fantastic. I made this for my mother a few days ago and we were totally impressed. Not all recipes deliver the goods they promise, but this one does.

Basically, you place a small piece of cod or similarly-textured fish over a little mound of vegetables and seal it all up in an envelope fashioned of foil. A mix of white wine, butter, and herbs gives everything rich flavor and, in the end, makes for a damn luscious sauce. This is my modified version of the Cook's Illustrated recipe, but I encourage you to buy the magazine and read the well-informed article on this preparation. Also, there are other recipes in there that you might seriously want to have on hand at home. One is for creamy French mashed potatoes made with two kinds of cheese. I'm just saying.

Fish Baked In Foil (adapted from a recipe in the March/April issue of Cook's Illustrated Magazine)

Serves Two

Two 1/4 pound pieces cod
Two carrots, shaved into long ribbons using vegetable peeler
One medium-sized leek, thinly sliced lengthwise
1/4 cup dry white wine
Four tablespoons butter
One teaspoon grated lemon rind
One teaspoon chopped fresh Italian parsley
One teaspoon chopped fresh lemon thyme (or regular thyme if you can't find lemon)
One pinch dried Herbes de Provence
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Tear off four squares of foil--just eyeball it but make sure they're bigger than the pieces of fish. Place a small mound of vegetables on two of the squares of foil. Pull edges up to create a rim, and pour in half the white wine. Season fish with salt and pepper and place over vegetables. In a small bowl, combine butter, lemon, and herbs until well mixed and divide evenly, spreading over tops of fish. Cover with remaining foil and seal the edges tightly. Now you have two, shiny little parcels. Place the parcels in the oven and let steam for about 15-20 minutes, depending on the thickness of your fillets. Remove from oven and unwrap carefully since the hot steam will rush out and can burn you. Transfer fish, vegetables, and yummy sauce to plates (bowls work, too). Serve with lemon wedges and crusty bread.

British Friday: My (Pimm's) Cup Runneth Over

2009-02-13T13:09:00.011-05:00

Two of my favorite people in the world, who I'll call D and B, introduced me to the fabulously British Pimm's Cup cocktail several years ago. Pimm's is an English gin-based liquor that has been popular over there since the mid-1800s. It's recently caught on a bit in America, and a decent bartender here should know exactly what it is. The flavor profile is mostly herbaceous and somewhat citrusy, and since the alcohol level is relatively low, it's really quite refreshing. A Pimm's Cup would be lovely after a polo or tennis match, but to enjoy this drink you needn't play or care about sports. I certainly don't.

Classic Pimm's Cup

Pour one part Pimm's Cup No. 1 and two parts of lemonade into a tall, ice-filled glass. Stir to mix well, and top off with a splash of club soda or 7Up. Garnish with a long slice of cucumber.

A Trip Down Tuscany Lane, Part I

2009-02-11T07:14:00.006-05:00

Something about this time of year makes me crave a cocktail. No, it's not because
Valentine's Day is looming, ok? It's because it was this time of year, many moons ago, that my friend Katherine and I started planning our trip to Florence. And when we were there, we discovered a drink.

Oh, Tuscany. What is not to love? The rolling vineyards, the fields of farro, the art, the gelato. I could write a different post every day about this part of Italy and not be done for weeks.

I won't be doing exactly that, but I can tell you to be on the lookout for a second Tuscan-themed edition very soon. That one will be about food. This one, however, is about a cocktail--a strong, classic, Florentine cocktail.

The Negroni dates back to 20th century Florence and is named for its supposed inventor, Count Camillo Negroni. It fell into relative obscurity for years, and in the spring of 2005, when Katherine and I ordered one at a cafe near the Duomo, it was just beginning, ever so slowly, to experience a renaissance.

Now it's become rather trendy, and you'll see it in bars and restaurants all over the place. To my mind, though, a Negroni is perfect for serving at home because the recipe is straightforward, and you don't need any fancy shakers or spoons.

Composed of equal parts gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari, it does not involve rocket science. (If it did, I wouldn't be writing about it, believe me.) A "girly" drink it is not, but I wouldn't call it "manly" either. I might, however, describe it as seductive. On paper, it sounds intimidating, and the first sip can definitely be rough. The alcohol asserts itself right away, forcing you to pay attention. But if you give your Negroni time, it will mellow and reveal a subtle sweetness that only gets more interesting as you quaff. If served in proper Florentine fashion--on the rocks in a simple tumbler--its strength relents as the ice melts and the gorgeous herbal citrus notes come through.

The Negroni is definitely a very special drink. It's also an intense one, so if you're going to give it a try, you should consider serving it with some kind of snack. I know the perfect accompaniment, but you'll have to wait until Part II to find out what it is!

British Friday: Scotch Egg Score

2009-02-06T07:06:00.027-05:00

Remember when I wrote about Scotch Eggs and promised to come back with a recipe? Well, here I am.

It turns out that Scotch Eggs are of English, not Scottish, origin. That's the first thing. The second thing is that they don't sound too hard to make, but you can't be afraid to fry. Note, these eggs are not vegetarian, so if you want a meatless treat this weekend, go here to see something else I am currently touting.

Antonio Burrell, the Chef de Cuisine at CommonWealth, emailed me his recipe and then my friends and I stopped by so I could introduce myself and thank him. Of course we ate some eggs, and I assure you that they really are as scrumptious as they look in the photo above, which was taken by my friend Whit that very evening.

Now without further delay, here's the recipe in Burrell's own words. The one thing he doesn't explain is the "standard breading procedure," so I need one of you -- chef friends, are you listening? -- to post a comment telling us what that means, exactly. Enjoy, and let me know if you have any questions!

Catherine,
The Scotch Eggs are very easy to prepare, it's just the prep work that takes time.

1. Boil and peel eggs as if you were making egg salad. Do not cut them up.
2. After the eggs have cooled, take some prepared pork sausage, we make ours in house but Jimmy Dean or some other brand would work just as well, and make 1 oz. balls.
3. Using two 5 inch by 5 inch pieces of plastic, place your sausage ball in the center of the first piece of plastic and using the second piece of plastic, flatten out your sausage ball into a thin round.
4. Remove the top piece of plastic and place your egg in the center of the sausage round.
5. Gently bring the edges of the sausage up around the egg, using the plastic wrap as an aid.
6. Gently tie the package closed by using the excess plastic wrap. If you have done this right, your egg should now be wrapped in sausage and plastic wrap, do not remove the plastic yet.
7. Repeat 1-6 until you have as many eggs as you want.
8. Place the wrapped eggs in a steamer (preferable) or into a pot of simmering water for 6-8 minutes, remove the eggs from the water and allow to cool.
9. After eggs are cooled, remove the outer layer of plastic and then bread the eggs using a standard breading procedure.
10. After the eggs are breaded they can now be deep fried til GBAD (golden brown and delicious) and served with any manner of sauces.

Is This Love?

2009-02-04T21:14:00.032-05:00

For years, I've been looking. At times I think I've found it, but then something goes wrong or I get bored. So I keep searching for that thing, that elusive thing that I know will make me happier, will fill a void, and won't send me into fits of tears, analysis, or anger. It will just feel natural. It won't stress me out. Rather, it will set me at ease and make me wonder how I ever got by without it.

I'm talking, of course, about the perfect hors d'oeuvre.

When you live in an apartment the size of a doll house and your kitchen counter is the size of an airplane tray, cooking can be tricky. If you have guests, cooking can produce actual anxiety--when the sink gets full, where do the rest of the dishes go? On the floor? And when the meat needs to rest while you chop the vegetables, where do you put it? Out in the hallway? Yep, making do with a mini-kitchen is frustrating to say the least. However, turning out good food is not impossible. You just can't play outside your league.

While perusing the internet for cocktail snack ideas yesterday, the lovely photo above caught my eye on Eric Ripert's fantastic website, Avec Eric. My initial attraction was purely based on looks. Then I took time to read about these gorgeous Goat Cheese Truffles, and I basically fell in love immediately. But then came the inevitable questions: "They seem so right for me, but am I just excited because I always fall for cheese?" "I don't have a toaster oven, so will they be able to deal with my regular one?" "And what if they burn?" "Will I have to start over again?"

The hemming and hawing could go on for weeks, but life is short and I want to try these truffles (and every other dish in Ripert's Get Toasted series, for that matter)! After all, they seem very much in my league, and as long as my oven's not a problem, everything should work out like a charm. So, when my mother comes to visit next week, I'm going to surprise her with some when we break out the wine.

Honestly, I've never expected to find perfection in any hors d'oeuvre, but this one seems promising. I will let you know if it really is love.

Chef Eric Ripert's Goat Cheese Truffles
Serves 4

4 ounces goat cheese, slightly chilled
½ cup plain breadcrumbs
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon herbes de Provence
2 teaspoons fresh cracked black pepper
1 teaspoon fine sea salt

1. Heat toaster oven to Broil.
2. Slice goat cheese into 8 pieces and roll each piece into a ball, set aside.
3. In a small mixing bowl, combine the breadcrumbs with olive oil, Herbes de Provence, cracked pepper and salt and mix thoroughly.
4. Roll the goat cheese truffles lightly in the seasoned breadcrumb mixture.
5. Place the truffles on a toaster oven tray and drizzle with olive oil.
6. Broil for 2-3 minutes.

Food And Boys, Chapter Two: Go Steelers!

2009-02-01T11:19:00.019-05:00

Superbowl Sunday conjures a wide range of emotions for me--nostalgia for the times I've spent this day with a boyfriend; annoyance that it's all everyone talks about for the week before; longing for my college days when my girlfriends and I would order Chinese and watch it, clueless as to what was going on; and finally, excitement if a boyfriend or brother's team is playing.

That's the case this year. My 37-year-old brother John has been a Pittsburgh Steelers fan since the day he learned to walk, I think. Now he describes his team as "wicked awesome," and since I'm not a huge fan of any team in particular, I'm standing by my bro and rooting for the Steelers tonight. Don't ask me what I'd do if I had a boyfriend and he liked the Cardinals. Whew, good thing I don't have to worry about that!

Last year, my father's team, the Giants, made it to the Superbowl and I cheered them on with all my might. They ended up winning, and I'll never forget watching the game in my DC apartment while the rest of my family watched it together at our home in Albany. I was missing them all like crazy, but we would send text messages with every touchdown (the long-distance equivalent of the high-five) and it was exhilarating to watch my father's New York boys power through.

That was my Dad's last Superbowl, and I'm missing him more than usual today. So, I'm dedicating this post to him and his beautiful memory, and also to my brother Johnny and his promising future.

Now I'll be honest--I'm not going to be whipping up any big pot of chili or frying up any huge batch of wings tonight. I think I'd rather just order Chinese and talk on the phone with my friends and reminisce a little bit about college.

However, since I'm excited for my brother and I'm thinking about my father, I'm offering up my recipe for guacamole. I've made it many times for both these special boys, and it's what I'd be making today if we were all together. I hope you try it.

Cath's Guacamole

2 Ripe Haas Avocados
1 Lime
1 Plum Tomato
1 Tablespoon Fresh Cilantro, chopped
Kosher Salt
Freshly Ground Pepper

Cut the avocados in half, length-wise, by piercing the skin with a sharp knife and running it all around the pit. Then twist the two halves in opposite directions and pull apart. The pit will remain in one of the halves, and you can get it out easily by doing this: Take a big chef's knife and whack the blade right into the center of the pit so it sticks. Then twist the knife until the pit loosens from the flesh and pull it out, still attached to the blade. Throw the pits away.

Once both avocados are cut and pitted, drag a paring knife diagonally through the flesh (being sure the tip reaches all the way through to the skin but doesn't pierce it) of each half. Then do the same thing in the opposite direction, so that you have a criss-cross pattern of slices through each. Then take a spoon and scoop the flesh--which should come out in chunks--into a large wooden or glass bowl. Discard the empty avocado shells.

On a cutting board, cut the tomato in half and discard the seeds and pulp. Dice the tomato and set it aside.

Now cut the lime in half and squeeze the juice of one half over the avocado. Sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Using a fork, mix all of this well, breaking down the avocado until you have a semi-chunky, semi-smooth consistency. Add the tomato and cilantro and mix together with a spoon. Taste and add more salt, lime, and pepper if you like. Serve with your favorite tortilla chips. My family is ashamed to admit that we're kind of addicted to those freaky lime ones. They're not natural, but damn, they're good.

A Wine For All Seasons (And Recessions)

2009-01-31T09:34:00.012-05:00

The amount of money in my bank account is always small. But I understand that there are other people out there experiencing this feeling for the first time, so please allow me to help you.

I've been poor most of my adult life (hi, don't be a writer) but that doesn't mean that I haven't been happy. It also doesn't mean that I haven't had fun and enjoyed my fair share of wonderful food and wonderful wine. There are lots of inexpensive ways to eat and drink well--you just have to pay attention.

Enter Santa Isabel Malbec, my new favorite wine. It is available at Whole Foods for about six bucks. SIX BUCKS. Yet I swear to you it tastes more like a ten-to-fifteen dollar wine. I love it when this happens.

Malbecs are big, dark, robust reds from Argentina. They tend to be traditionally paired with beef, but I think they go great with anything that has rich flavor and lots of fat. I urge you to pick up a bottle of Santa Isabel this weekend and try it out. Of course it would taste awesome with some gorgeous roasted meat, but who has money for that these days? I say forget the beef for now and just bust out some cheese or chocolate. Your mouth will thank you immediately, and your bank account will thank you later.

Dude, Look How Much Bacon I Can Eat

2009-01-29T07:45:00.005-05:00

There are some things you shouldn't eat in excess, and bacon is one of them. Damon Darlin's recent article in the New York Times reminds me of this simple truth.

I love bacon as much as the next girl, but come on. This thing, this Bacon Explosion is just wrong. Even the name grosses me out. Why so much bacon all in one place? Why? It's not like it's in short supply and you must gorge before it disappears forever. Seriously, you'll get more bacon at breakfast tomorrow. Or even at lunch--just order a BLT and relax. You might also consider that it often shows up as an option for dinner, say, with scallops. I think I said this already but, why so much bacon all in one place?

Oh, and certainly you noticed that the bacon--two pounds of it, by the way--is woven, basket-like, around two pounds of sausage. That is one heavy hunk of greasy meat. Also, it's got barbecue sauce all over it. Messy. And, ew.

But I'm sure it had to happen eventually: Wrap pork with pork, slather with sticky sauce, add fire, and beat chest in manner of Tarzan or caveman. Ok, that last part probably isn't fair, but you can't tell me that this creation doesn't scream "Dude Food."

No matter what your gender, though, eating so much fat, salt, and sugar (have you ever looked at the ingredients in barbecue sauce?) simultaneously just seems like a really dumb idea.

Because bacon overdose would be a bad way to go, man.

The New York Times story features several photos, including this one. I chose it for this post since it seemed the least likely to offend my gentle vegetarian friends and readers.

Truffle Salt: Totally Splurge-Worthy

2009-01-28T07:33:00.016-05:00

Salt is a funny thing. Some people say it will kill you; others say they'd rather be dead than eat food not seasoned with it. I guess I fall somewhere between these two camps--I use it every day, yet I've always been able to appreciate the occasional vegetable or what-have-you without it.

Until now, that is. Now I know about truffle salt, and from this day forward, nothing I eat will ever taste right until liberally seasoned with it. This salt is extravagant, and it's only meant for special times, I know. But ever since the other night, my food seems naked without it.

Allow me to explain.

I started a book club for foodies several years ago. At our height, we were probably about eight or ten--now we are four. However, it's a great four, and all of us love to eat. Of course we also love to read, and our books are always food or drink-related. But it's mainly the promise of dining well and talking about cooking and food news that brings us together over and over.

This week, we met for dinner. We didn't have a book to discuss, but it had been months since our last gathering and we just wanted to catch up, have some wine, and eat some good food together. My friend Ellen offered to host us at her house in Arlington. She made a main-course lamb stew, and lemon panna cotta with blackberry sauce for dessert (yep, these are my friends). Elizabeth, who lives near Ellen, offered to fill in the gaps--pasta for the first course and green salad with a soft, Swiss cheese for the third. Chris and I, the two city-dwellers with small kitchens, brought wine like city people always do.

The whole meal was luxurious and I'll post every part of it eventually, but for now I must focus on the truffle salt component. Has anybody ever had this stuff? Elizabeth found it at The Curious Grape, but I've seen it online, too. Anyway, this salt is really special. It smells like hot, damp earth (in a good way). If that doesn't make sense, then think of the pungent scent of dried porcinis. It feels and looks like fine white table salt, and the little flecks of black mixed in might bear a striking resemblance to pepper, but that is not pepper. You know exactly what those tiny black bits are.

Truffle salt is fancy, dressed-up salt. It would make eggs taste amazing. I also want to try it sprinkled over fries or roasted potatoes. YUM. But the other night it starred in our pasta course, and I really can't put into words how outrageously delicious it was. Instead, I'll just give you the recipe and tell you to make it at home and be warned: This pasta is not low-cal so don't send me hate mail if your pants are too tight tomorrow. Also, this salt is relatively very expensive and not for the frugal-minded. However, it is awfully alluring, and it really does go with just about anything savory. Also, sometimes you simply need a salt splurge. So fork over the twenty-five bucks, have fun, and enjoy. Consider it the Manolo Blahnik of the seasoning world, OK?

Elizabeth's Truffle-Salted Pasta (as seen in photo above)
Serves Three or Four

9 ounces fresh fettuccine
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
Half of one lemon
Dry Vermouth
1 cup heavy cream
Truffle Salt
Black Pepper
Parmesan Cheese

Over medium heat, place butter in a saute pan. Allow to melt while squeezing in lemon juice to taste (up to half of one lemon) and add a splash of dry vermouth. Turn up heat and let boil until alcohol smell goes away, stirring with wooden spoon all along.

Add heavy cream. Boil until it starts to get thick, and then stir in truffle salt bit by bit to taste (ie: truffle-y enough, but not too salty). Grind in some fresh black pepper.

In a separate pot, boil the pasta until al dente and then drain well. Using tongs, add hot pasta to cream sauce and toss until all strands are coated.

Serve hot and pass around a chunk of fresh (real, Italian) Parmesan to grate over top.

For Your Weekend Toast Or Radishes

2009-01-24T08:50:00.029-05:00

A reader asked me a very simple question: "What's up with margarine?" And now all I want to write about is butter.

But let's address the query. First, I hope to heaven that all of you already know that margarine and butter are not interchangeable. Yes, they both come in stick or spreadable form, but that's where the similarities end. Seriously.

Margarine was invented, way back in the 1800s, in France of all places. Did you get that? FRANCE. I bet they're embarrassed about that. Being a Francophile through and through, I'm kind of embarrassed about that. But what's more embarrassing is the fact that it's still so popular in America. Basically, margarine is made by taking vegetable oils and hydrogenating them. Please don't write in and ask me to explain this in detail because it involves chemistry and chemistry is hard. Suffice to say that hydrogenation renders those oils solid, giving margarine its vaguely butter-like consistency. But hydrogenation also creates a fiendish thing called trans fat, which is terrible for you and is blamed for raising bad cholesterol. Finally, artificial yellow color is often added to margarine to help its masquerading game. To me, though, it does not taste nor feel nor look like butter. In short, margarine is fake food and fake food, in my opinion, is one of life's true horrors.

Butter is better. To make butter, you beat heavy cream until it's thick enough to spread. You don't add anything to it, except a little salt (or honey and orange zest if you want something special). It doesn't get more pure and lovely than that! If you're not into making your own, though, pick up some Kate's and try it on your toast this weekend. It's available at Whole Foods, and I think it's the best.

It mystifies me that people still put margarine on the table, and that some people actually believe it's healthier for you than butter. Of course butter is fattening, but so is olive oil and so is peanut butter, and most people have no problem consuming those on a regular basis.

So eat butter, just don't eat it with reckless abandon. Unless you're having a really bad day, in which case I suggest obtaining some good, fresh country bread, warming it in the oven, tearing off big hunks and spreading them liberally with butter. Eat this while watching something you love on TV and don't feel bad about it. Nobody will know if you never tell them...

And on days when you're feeling more fabulous--this is particularly fun to serve with drinks for friends--put out a plate of cleaned radishes (cut them in half if they're big) with a pot of butter and a little spreading knife. Offer kosher salt on the side. Slather some butter on a radish, sprinkle it with salt and pop it in your month. The combination of sharp, sweet, crunchy, smooth, rich, and bright is wonderful. Try it--I promise, it's delicious. Oh, and also? It's very French.

Not-So-Hasty "Inauguration's Over and Now I'm Depressed" Post

2009-01-23T08:11:00.007-05:00

I think I'm the only person in DC who actually felt depressed on Tuesday.

Don't get me wrong--I'm happy Obama's in the White House. I'm excited about the possibility for good change, and about the fact that he has captured the hearts and minds of millions, and that he seems willing to fight and work hard for what's right and decent in the world.

However, I still felt depressed on Tuesday night.

Sure, inauguration weekend had some highlights. Take Sunday brunch at Saint-Ex with my friend Liz. We had a great time, and I lucked out with my order--a hunk of terrifically rich strata made with eggs, ham, and swiss cheese (and probably tons of butter and cream). Big, toasted chunks of brioche jutted out from the creamy mass providing perfect texture contrast, and a well-dressed side salad balanced out the meal. The scene in the restaurant was jovial but not overwhelming, and we managed to get the last available table for two.

So that was really cool.

But, we drank bloody marys, and they were strong. They made us lazy and the next thing we know it's almost 2:00 and we're missing the free concert at the Lincoln Memorial. Of course, we did hear that it was impossible to get anywhere near the venue, so we decided we'd just shoot over next door to Bar Pilar and watch the show on TV. But when we got there, we found out they weren't broadcasting it live, and so instead we had to watch football with the bored staff, because the rest of the world was down on the mall rocking out to Bruce Springsteen. Shoot.

However, there was a thrilling moment on Monday night at Black Squirrel. The owner, a lovely woman named Amy Bowman, recognized me when I walked in and thanked me for writing about them! I felt like a bona fide blogger, and I enjoyed that feeling immensely. Of course chef Gene Sohn's food was awesome as always, my friend AD and I had the perfect table, and the wait staff was charming as ever.

All of that was definitely great.

Unfortunately, I also spent a lot of money that night and kept ordering beers instead of water. So not only did I wake up significantly more broke the next morning, I was also monumentally hungover. Um...I'm supposed to know better by now.

Tuesday afternoon, though, was just magnificent. To be a part of the energy on the mall, to see history being made, to stand in a crowd of almost two million people and watch our new president take the oath of office, was an experience I'll never forget. It was humbling, exciting, and inspiring. When Aretha Franklin sang "My Country, 'Tis Of Thee" I had tears in my eyes.

Or, were they just watering because I was FREEZING? I wasn't properly dressed and, per usual, I didn't have a boyfriend to keep me warm. And while Liz managed to take some great pictures, like the one posted here, we thought for sure we'd have gotten one of Rahm or maybe one that captured the fabulousness of Aretha's truly amazing "church" hat, as the gay boys we met were calling it. Also, the sound was messed up so we couldn't hear everything, and then of course there was the whole FREEZING thing.

But, I suppose I should focus on the overall good--the hope, that hat, and the fact that Liz led us out of the massive crowd before we were trampled to death. And perhaps above all I should reflect on the comfort I take in knowing that even in a sea of new men, many of them potentially straight, I still attracted only the gay ones. You may laugh, but for this I am forever grateful, because at the end of the day--Inauguration Day or any other day--those boys always know how to make me feel better.

Hasty "It's Inauguration Weekend And I Should Really Be Out Having Fun" Post

2009-01-18T09:33:00.011-05:00

DC is presently the coolest place on earth, and since I live here I'm finding it a little hard to focus on anything except what's going on outside my apartment. I mean, helicopters are hovering, black limos seem to be idling on every corner, and there's a free concert today within walking distance from my home that I would be an idiot to miss. Hello, Stevie Wonder? Beyonce? BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN? Everything's feeling awfully festive and if I'm not out and about in the excitement, I might as well be sitting around eating this and wearing sweatpants that say, "I give up."

Obviously, that's not happening.

So I'm heading downtown with my friends and taking advantage of the opportunity to be part of the history being made in my city, a place I love and would marry if girls and metropolises could mate.

OK, I need to get ready to go now, but in the spirit of bragging just a little, I leave you with these two awesome tidbits:

My friend Katherine's unlikely boyfriend hits DC Monday night at 10:00 on Bravo...

And, as if I really needed another reason to like the Obamas...

Now off to try my best to meet Bruce. Wish me luck!

British Friday: Possibly Scottish Edition

2009-01-16T07:27:00.011-05:00

Before I get started, take a look here if you're not familiar with British Fridays. I admit it's a tad silly, but I don't care. It's Friday, after all. Plus, this one's about bar food.

The topic of today's discussion is something I ate for the first time last week at CommonWealth, a local gastropub I love for its humble mission, jolly vibe, and bathroom mirrors that make you think to yourself, "I so could have been a model if I'd really wanted to..."

Most of all, though, I love CommonWealth for its splendid bill of fare, which runs the UK gamut from garlicky sausage to meat-filled pies. I like the toasty Welsh Rarebit for its ultra-comforting soft bread and rich, cheesy topping. The potted pork is fun to say but also fun to eat, and not just because it comes with mustard. But my favorite dish of all is a naughty little number with a simple, lovely name. The nice waitress recommended it, and I never knew something so plain-sounding could taste so glorious. It's crunchy, creamy, salty, and delicious. I refer to the Scotch Egg.

Ubiquitous in pubs across the pond, this savory treat is currently hard to come by here, but I'm hoping that will change. I'd much rather order a couple of Scotch Eggs--essentially whole, hard-boiled eggs coated with sausage and breadcrumbs and fried to a golden crisp--than a heap of blah nachos or a mound of bad fries. This is why I think Jamie Leeds, the chef owner of CommonWealth, is kind of a genius and worthy of our attention. Also, she presents hers with a trio of dipping sauces; the herby one is most delish.

As for the origin of the Scotch Egg, I'm confused. Internet information is spotty, so I haven't figured out for sure if the recipe hails from Scotland or England--I plan to hit the library to try to learn more. In the meantime, I'm hoping it's the former, since, as many of you know, I tend to develop crushes on things that are Scottish.

I emailed CommonWealth and asked if Chef Leeds would share her recipe with us, but as of today, nobody's written me back. Keep in mind, though, that life is kind of busy right now in DC, so we should give it some more time. I'll let you know if I hear from anyone, and don't worry, you know I'll ask for a non-meat version, too, because I never forget my vegetarian friends.

For now, though, have a happy weekend, and if you happen to see Scotch Eggs on a menu while you're out and about, let me know! I feel a food trend coming on.

HOLLA!

2009-01-14T10:29:00.019-05:00

I've been saying it for years. DC RESTAURANTS ROCK, and the New York Times is finally acknowledging it in the form of a big, awesome shout-out.

The story, written by Kim Severson, says it all way better than I ever could (and I tried, remember?).

In a nutshell, Severson brings to light the fact that my city--the capital of this country and now also the most exciting place in the world as far as I'm concerned--is hip, smart, diverse, and delicious.

Read it, and then get thee to DC (if you're not already here, of course)!

When A Girl's Fancy Turns To Mustard

2009-01-12T07:36:00.005-05:00

Oh. It's Monday. Super. Well, I guess the only proper thing to do is write about mustard. (Hey, you explain yours, I'll explain mine.)

So, I cleaned out my refrigerator this weekend, and I'd summarize the experience as your basic nightmare. First off, there were only nine things in there--water, jam, a couple apples, butter, one grapefruit, and three kinds of mustard. (And the answer is yes, it actually is as pathetic as it sounds. But my excuse is I was away for two weeks...um, two weeks ago.)

Anyway, the butter, grapefruit, and water made the cut, but everything else had to go. This means I had to bid farewell to my mustards, and that's where the really bad part comes in. I love mustard. I mean strong, sharp, French mustard. I have a little crock made just for mustard that I bought in Paris. It has a lid. And a tiny wooden spoon so you can put the perfect tiny dollop of it on your pate, ham sandwich, or toast with cheese. I once had to break up with someone because he insulted mustard. I mean it.

Now you can see why throwing mine away was upsetting. What made it horrifying, though, was the fact that all of my mustards were purchased on my last trip to France, and THAT WAS MORE THAN A YEAR AGO. I didn't realize how long it had been since I'd used one! Have I really not made salad dressing in six months? Wow. What has happened to me? Seriously, sacre bleu. Yet there I was, throwing them out, one by one. Bye-bye moutarde au basilic. Au revoir moutarde avec champagne. Adieu moutarde a l'estragon.

Obviously, I need to restock right away (and get back to making sandwiches and salads, geez), but it's not that simple. Yes, I suppose you can find decent mustards in the US, but those aren't what I'm talking about. Also, I don't want to buy online; it's not the same. No, what I want is to wake up in Montmartre, put on my scarf, take the Metro to my favorite "grocery store", drop the little jars into my basket, and say bonjour! to the lady behind the caisse. But tragically, for the first time in a long time, I don't have a trip lined up because I can't afford it and now I'm really starting to panic. So, I need your help.

Can somebody please buy me a ticket to Paris? Please? I'll bring you back some mustard!

Oh. I see. Well fine, then all I can think to do is take a crack at making my own. I've actually always wanted to try doing this, and it would be a pretty fun New Year's project. Ooh! And I'll post my results! To be clear, though, I'd still rather go to France than be housebound. But I guess you've got to find a way to make lemonade. Or, in this case, mustard.

Make This For Dinner

2009-01-11T11:38:00.006-05:00

Ugh. Sunday. Everybody already knows one approach I sometimes (sometimes!) take to deal with them. Here's another: eating polenta.

A reader recently asked me if I have any recipes involving this comforting starch made from corn and beloved by Italians. As it happens, I do, and since I think it's the perfect antidote to the Sunday blues, I'm offering it today in hopes that you'll try it for dinner tonight. This recipe is way easy, partly because the polenta is premade and all you do is add water, milk, or stock to soften it up. You'll need to go to Whole Foods, though, to find my favorite brand (has anybody seen it anywhere else?), so get thee to the market! Oh, but read the recipe first because you'll probably have to pick up some other stuff, too.

Catherine's "I Hate Sundays Sausage Ragout with Polenta"

(serves 2; double it for 4)

1 tube traditional San Gennaro polenta
1-2 cups stock (chicken or vegetable), water, or milk
2 links mild or spicy turkey sausage, removed from casing
1 small white onion, diced
1 average-size carrot, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 8 oz can tomato sauce (I like Muir Glen)
1 14.5 oz can diced tomatoes (Muir Glen again)
olive oil
salt
pepper
fresh flat-leaf Italian parsley, chopped

Cut open the polenta tube and dump about half of it (don't be afraid of its odd texture) into a small saucepan. Turn the heat to medium-low, and start kind of breaking it up with a wire whisk. As it starts to crumble into dry-looking pieces, start whisking in your liquid, and add as much as you need to get the polenta to a cream-of-wheat consistency. Turn the heat off and leave it alone while you tend to the turkey.

Pour a couple tablespoons of olive oil into a dutch oven (I use my le Creuset because I use it for EVERYTHING) or large saucepan and turn the heat to medium high. When the oil starts to shimmer, add the sausage, working it apart with a wooden spoon until you have several bite-size chunks. This should only take a few minutes and it's ok if some of the meat is still pink--you're not finished cooking. Now add the onion and carrot and saute with your wooden spoon. After a few minutes, when the onion starts to soften and smell delicious, add the garlic and stir for another minute. Then turn the heat down to medium low. Add the tomatoes and tomato sauce, mixing everything together and noting to yourself how easy that was. Once everything's combined, take a little taste and add salt and pepper to your liking. Let it sit over low heat while you get ready to plate...or bowl, in this case.

Check the polenta for seasoning, and add salt and pepper if you think it needs it. (If you used stock as your liquid, it's probably plenty salty, but add more if you want--I like salt, too.) If it seems too thick, whisk in a bit more liquid over low heat.

Now, get two bowls (get big ones). Ladle in some polenta, and make a little crater in the center of the lovely soft pile. Over that, spoon as much of the ragout as you want, and then sprinkle the whole with a little fresh parsley. Grab your spoon and eat up. It's yummy.

Note, if you don't eat meat, you can make a mushroom ragout and still have just as pleasurable an experience. Follow the polenta recipe, but in your dutch oven or saucepan do this (over medium high): Add olive oil till shimmering. Add two chopped shallots and saute with wooden spoon until they start to soften, about two minutes. Then add two tablespoons of butter and a pound of cleaned and sliced mushrooms. Saute for several minutes, until the mushrooms start to soften and get just a touch golden-brown on the edges. Add two minced garlic cloves and saute another minute or two. Taste and add salt and pepper to your liking, then turn off the heat and stir in a tablespoon or two of fresh parsley. Serve as directed above. This is yummy, too.

I Heart Honees

2009-01-10T08:58:00.023-05:00

I've been sick for a few days, and yesterday my ever-thoughtful and all-knowing boss said to me, "Catherine, I have something for you." Now she's said this before, and it usually means I'm getting a treat, so I was excited. "What is it?" I said in my stuffy (and not sexy, after all) voice. "Here," she said, handing me a rectangular stick resembling a small candy bar. "Honees Honey-Filled Drops." I took them, thanked her, and moped back to my office for more Kleenex.

Back at my desk, I looked more closely at the packaging and thought it looked familiar. She has given me these before! Probably the last time I was sick! How could I have forgotten? They're made by an Italian candy company called Ambrofoli, and one of the listed ingredients is butter. How awesome is that? (Oh, and I should note that these actually are candies and not technically cough drops, but they really do work wonders for a cold. So, they are not only delicious but also magical.)

I popped one in my mouth and instantly remembered: I WANT TO MARRY THESE DROPS. It all came rushing back as I knocked the small, hard golden cube around with my tongue and felt the first layer of honey coat my throat and I swear my nose stopped running on the spot. (OK, so it started back up again later, but still.) As the drop disintegrates in your mouth, it sort of shatters slowly and reveals a wonderfully gooey little dollop of honey within. This is the point when you just start crunching away, licking your lips, and eyeing the package because you want another one as soon as this one's over.

Honees Honey-Filled Drops are marvelous and you should look for them wherever you go and buy them, in sickness and in health. They are to the cough drop/candy world what Gevrey Chambertin is to the wine world. And what my boss is to the boss world. In other words, they rule.

One (Monument) Free Saturday In DC

2009-01-05T13:57:00.051-05:00

My fun friend Winona recently received an inquiry which she feels I'm better suited to answer since it's about DC and that's where I live. Ooh! A chance to run with the cool girls in the blog world! The question goes:

So in January my family is going to DC for the burial services of my grandpa at Arlington. While it is a sad occasion, my brother, sister and I never get to be together in the same place and we want to make the best of the one free day we have while there. I have visited DC before and saw some of the sites but was wondering if you had any advice...if you had one Saturday in the city, what would you do? Let me know when you get a chance!
Thanks,
Cal of Sidenote

Dear Cal,

When I first started writing this I was at least 500 words in before I even got to lunch, so I'm scrapping the idea of giving you fourteen different ways to spend your day, and just giving you one itinerary--the one I tend to follow on free Saturdays with visiting friends. To minimize stress and maximize entertainment, I've left monuments off the list. Feel free to email me if you have questions, or if you hate museums or are offended by my high-calorie and potentially spendy dining suggestions. Now then...

Start with breakfast at Teaism. There are several locations in DC, and I'm pretty sure that all of them have the same basic menu. Order cilantro scrambled eggs, smoked chicken and apple sausage, ginger scones, and buy some salty oat cookies for later. Drink whatever tea floats your boat, and go to Starbucks afterward if you're like me and can't begin a day without some smack...I mean, coffee.

After breakfast, take the metro (or walk, if you're close enough) to Gallery Place/Chinatown and go to the National Portrait Gallery. Admission is free, as is the case with most of our city's awesome museums, and I think it's pretty much the coolest place ever. Go. Wander. You'll see what I mean.

Other cool options in this part of town (which is called Penn Quarter, by the way): The National Museum of Crime and Punishment, the International Spy Museum, the US Navy Memorial, Ford's Theatre, and the Shakespeare Theatre. And FYI, there's a certain humongous sports bar-type place nearby, so make sure your brother doesn't see it.

When you're done getting your culture on, you'll need food and and you must not go someplace stupid like Subway or eat something gross from a street vendor. There are tons* of restaurants I want to suggest, but since I don't know what time it will be, how tired you'll feel, or how many salty oat cookies you'll have consumed, there's really only one course of action I can recommend without hesitation: the glorious small plate. Happily, there are two spots nearby that do a good-to-terrific job of making them.

1) Jaleo There are a few Jaleos in the DC area, but the one in this 'hood is the flagship, and it's my favorite. If you like fried seafood, you're in luck because the calamari and cod fritters are always on the menu, and always done well. Also delicious are the fried potatoes and pretty much everything that comes with cheese. ORDER ANYTHING INVOLVING PORK, and do not miss the tomato bread or the Catalan spinach. Oh, and get a carafe of sangria if you're of age and enjoy adult beverages.

2) Zaytinya Yes, I suppose I'm touting Jose Andres (the chef behind both of these restaurants) but come on! He makes good food and understands the importance of atmosphere. Zaytinya (which is Turkish for olive oil) is another small-plates kind of restaurant and it is wildly popular, so you might get a buzzer slapped in your hand. Don't worry, though, because you can hang out at the bar and order some hummus to tide you over, and the rest of your meal will be worth waiting for. The food is Mediterranean, so think grape leaves, spiced kebabs, crunchy falafel, vegetable and cheese salads, and pita bread so warm and pillowy you'll kind of wish you could take some home and snuggle with it.

After your repast, you should hightail it to National Geographic. I know it's museum-y, but you can't come to DC and not go there! It's free, it's famous, and your friends will be jelly (jellie?) when you show them the picture you had taken in the seriously one-of-a-kind photo booth. Also, the store is a great place to buy stuff, and I mean more than just maps and bug books.

Now you'll be tired (and possibly chilled--this is January, after all). But take heart, because a warm respite is just two blocks away. The Tabard Inn is arguably the coziest game in town, complete with French-accented ladies at the desk and a sitting room with a real fireplace to warm your toes by while you sip a hot drink. There's a restaurant if you're in the mood for a full dinner, and a bar menu if you only want a snack. Or, you can just order a scrumptious dessert, and have that be the denouement to your day of freedom in Washington, DC. If you decide to go that way, please get the creme brulee. It's ever so lovely and luscious.

At this point, you guys will probably be full and happy, and getting on the metro could be a major buzz kill. So I say hail a cab. And on the way back to your hotel, should you suddenly feel like something's missing, just take a look out the window. You'll see a monument eventually.

*More DC restaurants I love:
Bar Pilar
Belga Cafe
Black Squirrel
Brasserie Beck
Cafe Saint-Ex
Cashion's Eat Place
Central
Commonwealth
Cork
Creme Cafe
Good Stuff Eatery
Granville Moore's
Hank's Oyster Bar
Marvin
Matchbox
Palena
Sonoma

New Concept: Transition Toffee

2008-12-28T16:15:00.009-05:00

For some of us, the holidays mean warm fires, plenty of presents, mistletoe-covered kisses, and frosty windows in big rooms smelling of pine.

For others, the holidays mean stressful travel, freezing weather (and the bad hair that comes with it), cracked skin, and anxiety so strong it forces you to eat three times the calories you should.

This year, I'm in the latter camp. In fact, I think I've been in the latter camp for the better part of my adult life, but I bet that's true for most people past the age of twelve.

Anyway, over the last couple of days, I've eaten a lot: pizza, filet of beef (in the end, we decided to have it), creamy dressings, hunks of cheese, all manner of cookies, nuts, chips, and chocolate. These are things I typically eat in abundance at this time of year, in an effort to distract my emotions and attempt to keep warm. Of course, all I'm really doing is making myself sick, but this is how New Year's resolutions are decided upon, isn't it? As in, "I shall never eat three pieces of mushroom pizza plus half an eggplant parmesan in one sitting, ever again."

I think I'd be ok if the majority of this eating excess ended with Christmas. Unfortunately, for me, it seems to continue until February, which is when I feel that the "festive times" are finally over. So as I pass from one holiday to the next at this time of year, I tend to cling to some edible vice along the way. And like beers on Sunday, this food becomes the balm I need to make the transition - from Thanksgiving to Christmas, from Christmas to New Year's, and from New Year's to Valentine's Day - a little bit more palatable.

This season, my transitional vice is toffee. Sweet, magical toffee. Some angel or elf brought it to our house a few weeks ago, and now it's all I can do not to eat the whole tub. It's buttery and crunchy, with a touch of chocolate and a little salt. I am completely addicted. I bet it shoots 300 calories into my body with every bite but I don't care. And yes, I am worried that offering this recipe will cause you to hate me for the weight you're going to gain, but here it is. And remember, this is what New Year's resolutions were made for. We can all start salad-and-diet cokeing it in March.

Merry Christmas, Daddy

2008-12-25T18:41:00.006-05:00

My Christmas post is perhaps not quite as light as my others, but I could think of nothing else to put up here today. I wrote this story a few months ago, hoping I could get one of the big newspapers to publish it. Sadly, I was "dissed and dismissed" (as my friend Winona would say) by all of them. So it seems to me that it must have been meant to go right here all along. Merry Christmas, Daddy.

My Father's Christmas
By Catherine L. Barker

If he had to choose, I bet my father would have said that party mix was his favorite Christmas treat. Even though he loved the filet of beef that we had every year – not a Christmas dinner went by when he didn't say, full of pride at the head of our big table, "You can cut it with a fork!" – it was the party mix I made for him that lit his face as bright as our tree.

My mom always protested. "Cath, try not to put too much butter in it. And don't use any salt! It's already got too much with the pretzels." I would nod dutifully to her out of respect for her wishes, but I always managed to rationalize that a little extra butter slipped in for my dad would be ok. After all, it was Christmas.

This was my father's favorite time of year. It always left me bemused to watch him haul out every last tree decoration and seasonal bibelot, wondering how, with all of his kids grown up, it could still be to him the most wonderful time of the year. To me, it felt a little strange to get up in the morning and unwrap presents in my nightgown as an adult. My siblings – especially the older ones - felt the same way I did, but we always played along because there was nothing like the look on my father's face when he handed us a gift and watched us read the tag: " To Catherine. Love, Holly." This was a game he never grew tired of, and it never ceased to make me love him even more. The gift that time was a picture of Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany's.

The abundance of presents and grown-up "children" in our pajamas embarrassed me more and more every year, but last year I felt a little bit at ease. My sister was pregnant, and her rounded belly reminded me that next year, there would be a baby in our house – a little boy my dad could hold while he read The Night Before Christmas and prayed for snow.

But while we hoped for the joy that the baby would bring, we quietly worried about my father's health. He was diagnosed with cancer at Thanksgiving, and his heart was in need of an operation. Still, we celebrated as always – with presents everywhere, at least two trees, filet of beef, and of course his party mix. We were brave, and we prayed for better times next Christmas, when my father would get to see it through the eyes of his grandchild.

But he died in July of a heart attack, and was gone before any of us had a chance to ponder the thought.

Now as Christmas approaches, the thought of presents and pajamas is almost too much to bear. But his grandson, Jack, is eight months old, and he needs all of the lights and stories and magic that my father gave to us. So we will laugh, and we will cry, but most of all, we will remember my dad and how special he made Christmas with his little games and unwavering excitement, year after year.

I'm not sure that we'll have filet. It seems too celebratory, somehow, and too sad without him here to slice it with a fork. But I will make my party mix. And I'll sneak in extra butter, knowing that he would want us to smile and dance, and wear our pajamas and allow the anticipation – of snow, of presents – to warm our lonely hearts, and remind us that he's near.

Larry Barker's Party Mix (adapted from the original Chex Party Mix recipe)

3 cups Corn Chex cereal
3 cups Rice Chex cereal
3 cups Wheat Chex cereal
1 cup mixed nuts
1 cup pretzel sticks
1 cup Cheerios cereal
6 tablespoons butter or margarine
2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
1.5 teaspoons seasoned salt
3/4 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon onion powder

Heat oven to 200 degrees. Place butter or margarine in large, ovensafe pan (I use a glass lasagna dish) and set pan in oven on middle rack. Once butter or margarine has melted, remove pan from oven and add Worcestershire sauce and seasonings and mix well with a spoon. Add cereals, nuts, and pretzels and mix well so that everything is coated with the sauce. Return to oven and bake for 15 minutes, then stir. Repeat this process three more times, and then pour party mix onto paper towels laid out on the counter. Allow to cool for about an hour before serving.

PS: Photo from the Chex website

My Less-Than-Perfect Hanukkah Post

2008-12-22T20:28:00.012-05:00

Look, I'm Catholic. But anyone who knows me even marginally well knows that I have a crush on all things Jewish, especially the food (Hi, have you noted the name of my blog?).

So naturally, I wanted to write the perfect Hanukkah post. But there were some problems. Number one, I didn't go to the latke-making demonstration last night that was supposed to be the subject of this segment (which also means I don't have my own photo and had to borrow one from Zabar's). Number two, I wanted this perfect post to be up, shining bright as candles on the menorah, on the first night of Hanukkah--oops. Number three, I am prone to guilt (see first sentence) so nothing I write to commemorate the Festival of Lights will ever be good enough.

DARNIT!

However, I'm going to feel even worse if I don't write something to acknowledge one of my favorite holidays, so here we go.

As I mentioned before, I was supposed to go to a latke-making demo last night at what is arguably the coolest synagogue ever. And on top of that, the chef running the show is semi-famous. But no, I decided I was too tired, too busy to fit it in to my Sunday evening, and so now here I am--feeling bad about my inability to commit, and about the fact that I don't have a latke recipe to share with you.

But...anyone who deals with guilt on the level that I do knows about the magic secret that saves the day and gives you a way out, and a way forward. It's a word. One, beautiful word that begins with R. That's right, my friends. RATIONALIZATION. And I came to mine about five minutes after I decided to skip the event last night. Here's what I said to myself: "How cliche to go watch someone make latkes on the first night of Hanukkah and then give away his recipes, pretending to know what I'm talking about. It makes much more sense to just write about how much I love them, and how I crave them every year at this time, and then ask you to send in your secrets, because I have much to learn." Ahh, that's better.

So come on. Tell me how you prepare these symbolic, golden patties of fried potato-y goodness. I like them with sour cream, but is applesauce more authentic? Please, help me out--I want to make some for Christmas!

PS: Did I spell Hanukkah right? I never know...

Food and Boys: Chapter One

2008-12-20T15:34:00.011-05:00

Food and boys are two of my favorite things. I like them both separately, and sometimes, when I combine the two, the results are off the charts. (Occasionally, the results are not so good, but that's another chapter.) I have found that the best way to achieve that off-the-charts effect is to date a chef.

At least for a little while.

For a foodie girl like me, going out with a chef is major coup. You can talk about food for hours and nobody gets bored. You eat and drink together all the time. You watch cooking shows. You shamelessly geek-out about the merits of squash and expound on the pleasures of parsnips. It is glorious. And then, he bakes for you.

My chef and I dated years ago, and the relationship was over before it really got started. But we kept in touch, and then last winter we had a little rerun. And it was during that short spell that he made me the most delicious pie I have ever eaten. It involves a custardy cream, chocolate, graham crackers, and loads of butter--all things I would take a bath in if I could.

But then, when the pie-haze wore off, things got rocky again. There were talks, there were tears (mine), and then there was the question--the most feared one of all to someone frantically trying to salvage a busted relationship: "Can we just be friends?"

Of course I said yes. He is, after all, a good person. But I had one condition--he was to perfect the recipe, modify it for normal (read: non-chef) people, and fork it over so I could publish it. I also asked him to take a picture of the finished product.

So here you go, everybody. This is the best pie in the world. It is rich, creamy, and crunchy. And you will lie about how much of it you really ate.

I call it, Let's Just Be Friends Pastry Cream Pie.

Graham cracker crust:
20 graham crackers
6 tablespoons butter

Preheat the oven to 350F. Break the crackers roughly with your hands and place them in a food processor. Pulse until finely ground. Add the butter until well incorporated then pack firmly in a 9" pie pan. Bake until golden brown, about 12-15 minutes. Allow to cool to room temperature.

Pastry cream:
Whole milk- 2 cups
Sugar- 1/2 cup
Cornstarch- 3 tablespoons
Eggs- 2
Unsalted Butter- 3 tablespoons
Vanilla extract- 2 teaspoons
Salt – 1/4 teaspoon

Place the milk, salt, and 1/4 cup of sugar into a saucepan and bring to a boil. In a heat-resistant bowl place the remaining sugar with the cornstarch, stir to combine. Add the eggs and stir until smooth. Slowly add 1/2 of the hot milk mixture to the eggs while whisking to prevent the eggs from scrambling. Add the egg mixture back to the saucepan and return to a boil while stirring constantly. Remove from the heat, stir in the butter, place in a clean container and place a piece of plastic film directly on the pastry cream. Allow to cool.

Chocolate ganache:
Heavy cream- 1/2 cup
Chocolate (65%) - 2oz

Bring the cream to a boil in a heavy-bottom saucepan. Break the chocolate into small pieces and place in a heat-resistant bowl. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate, allow to rest for a few minutes. Stir gently until well combined.

To assemble the pie:
Pour the hot ganache into the cool graham cracker crust. Place in the refrigerator and allow to set. Add the vanilla extract to the pastry cream and stir to combine. Pour into the pie on top of the ganache. Cover with plastic film and allow to set in refrigerator before serving.

A Spicy Hotline Question

2008-12-17T19:34:00.009-05:00

I stayed home from work today, and spent the afternoon sick and feeling extra sorry for myself. Fortunately, I made it through with a little help from my friends Television and Internet. They took amazing care of me all day long.

Now I'm feeling better so without further delay, I bring you...another installation of The Hotline is Open!

This email comes from my lovely sister, Ellen:

Dear Catherine,

It’s your brilliant sister here hoping YOU become a star and I can help. I have many questions to email you just about every month, if not once a week. My first is: how long do spices keep in the cupboard? I was making a Triple Chocolate Pumpkin Pie this Thanksgiving and the recipe called for ground nutmeg. I had the kind that you can grind from the little jar but I am fairly certain it’s going on 5 years old. Of course, I still used it and I couldn’t even taste it. I wondered, are you not supposed to detect the nutmeg in the pie, or is mine just dead? Thanks for shedding some light and perhaps proposing I clear out my spice cupboard.

Thanks,
E

Dear Ellie,

First of all, since when do you make such delicious-sounding desserts? It's just so my luck that the one Thanksgiving we're not together (I missed you so much!) you make a chocolatey pumpkin pie. Um, can you shoot me the recipe? THANKS.

Anyway, on to your question. The short answer is that spices, like hamsters, do not live forever. So you have to enjoy them and play with them while they're alive, which is generally only for a few years.

Now I know someone out there is shaking a fist and screaming, "Spices do not last for years, lady!" But I think they do, so, hmph! Ok, just calm down fist-shaker and listen. First, you have to keep them in a dark, cool, pantry-type place. Second, they'll last longer if you store them in an airtight container--this is an excellent idea for whole spices like cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I'm not a big fan of dried basil, so I'm going to suggest right now that you throw that one away (I know you have some!) and never speak of it again. Nothing needs dried basil that badly. But other dried spices--well, we're kind of in herb territory now but whatever--like thyme, sage, and rosemary are wonderful, and they'll work fine for a year or two, particularly if you rub them in the palm of your hand before adding to the dish. That wakes the flavor up a bit. Plus it's kind of fun and weird-feeling.

Bottom line: If you have a cupboard full of oldies, start pitching. Anything that makes you go, "Huh. I wonder how long that's been there?" belongs in the garbage. Just start over and restock, but don't go crazy and buy a spice just because the jar is pretty. Oh go ahead. I love pretty jars, too.

As for the taste of nutmeg in your pie, I'd really need to eat a piece to say for sure (this is a hint to make it when we're home for Christmas), but I bet it's supposed to be subtle. Nutmeg is a pretty powerful spice, and a little goes a long way. So, be careful not to use too much, and do make sure that what you use hasn't been in your cupboard since before we had the internet.

Love,
Catherine

Thanks for the Shout-Out, Rory!

2008-12-16T17:11:00.007-05:00

Yes, her name is really Winona but to me she will always be Rory. (She knows why, and if you're curious, go here to learn about our favorite show, also known as THE BEST SHOW EVER.)

No matter what her name is, though, she should always answer to Fabulous. Winona inspired me to get this blog off the ground, and now that I see she means business, I promise to start posting like a normal person.

Thanks to all of you Daddy Likey lovers who came by today. And, at the risk of sounding like a needy chick, please come back again! Make sure you drop in on my makeup girl and my shiny things girl, too

I love you more than chocolate cake, Winona! That's saying a LOT, you know.

Kisses to all,
Catherine

PS: Thanks for letting me borrow the picture, Hershey's.

My New Favorite Fruit

2008-12-11T21:17:00.016-05:00

What's funny is that I fancy myself the all-knowing food girl, yet my makeup girl knows more about it than I do.

At least when it comes to citrus.

And my, what a citrus she showed me. Has anybody ever heard of the cocktail grapefruit? I hadn't, until makeup girl brought me one and said, "eat this." It's a cross between a pummelo and a mandarin and my first thought was that it looked like a giant key lime. Same grassy green color, same smooth shiny skin. I held it to my nose and sniffed. Hmm. The scent is subtle and hard to define, but it's promising and pulls you in. (The proper way a man should!) I waited a while to have at it because I was kind of in love with how pretty it looked on my desk, a bright spot among heavy bird books and dictionaries.

Later in the day, though, I decided it was time. I tore away the pretty green peel (hmm, that zest would be great mixed into custard, showered over seafood, or hell, sprinkled on my morning oatmeal) and noticed that the white pithy stuff is minimal and the seeds inside the sections are easy to extract. The flesh itself is a pale yellow and it snaps and bursts when you bite in. My first reaction was "Oh! It's sweet!" and that was quickly followed by "Oh! But it's grapefruit!" I know that sounds stupid, but what with the green exterior and the initial sweet taste, I sort of forgot I was eating a grapefruit. Yet it does have that sour, getting-at-the-back-and-sides-of-your-tongue vibe which eventually hits and reminds you that this is in fact some sort of relative or off-shoot or SOMETHING of that fruity orb the French call pamplemousse.

Since I've only known about cocktail grapefruits for about four days, I haven't yet had a chance to cook with (or bathe in) them, but I do encourage all of you to try one--I know for sure you can get them at Trader Joe's. I tell you, it's the most interesting winter fruit I've ever found.

Not that I found it. Merci, makeup girl!

The Hotline is Open!

2008-12-04T07:22:00.006-05:00

OK. My sister has been hounding me for years to start a food hotline. The idea is, people with food and drink-related questions call me up and I give them perfect answers and save the day. Brilliant, right?

Well, instead of using my phone, I have now decided to use my blog as the place to take questions. So email me at catherinegolightly@gmail.com and I will do my best to rescue you from food and drink-related trauma.

Let's start with a question I just got from my buddy AD:

Dear Catherine,

I was wondering what you might suggest for an after dinner activity in Cleveland Park. I know I am taking the very lucky young lady out to Alero for Mexican food and margaritas, but wanted to know your thoughts on after dinner fun?? Thanks and let me know.

AD

Dear AD,

I'm tripping over the phrase "the very lucky lady" but I'll resist commenting since that's not what I'm supposed to be focused on. So, let's get to your question. Ah, Cleveland Park. I lived there once upon a time, and I enjoy going back, mainly for after-dinner activities. So, here's what I'd suggest if you want to woo the special girl.

Atomic Billiards: Yes, it's underground (something I generally bristle at) but it's also great fun. You can play pool, rock the jukebox (which I think is one of the best in town), drink beer (if she hasn't had too many margaritas), and I think they have darts, too. Or you can just lounge around and talk. Girls love to talk.

Aroma: There are no games to be played at Aroma, but it's a cool space and the bartenders are friendly. The lighting is low - something many girls appreciate - and the scene is laid back. One thing about Aroma that may not please some people is that you can smoke there. So make sure to factor that in to your extremely careful decision-making process.

The Uptown Theater: Right, this is not a restaurant or a bar, so what's it doing in my hotline response? Um, because a movie after dinner is always a fun idea - great for snuggling if you like each other - and anyway, they have popcorn and chocolate. Both of those count as food in my book.

Nanny O'Briens: I'm Irish so of course I have to recommend going to the local place that begins with O'. (There's pretty much one in every part of town.) While Nanny O's is a bit...untidy, it's also charming. The jukebox is one of those digital kinds and full of awesome tunes, both new and old. Of course the beers on tap are plentiful, and if you get hungry again, the cheeseburger is not bad. And sometimes they have live music, which can be totally fun or wildly annoying, depending on how many drinks you've had.

Hope this helps, AD. Let me know how it goes!

Love,
Catherine

PS: Photo is from AD. FYI, ladies, he is not a doctor. But he is a doll.

Transition Beers and The Black Squirrel Bar

2008-12-01T21:43:00.013-05:00

Who loves Sundays? Nobody! OK, well maybe football (the American kind) fans do, particularly if your team is the Giants, but I have proof that even those people feel uncomfortable as the dreaded "day of rest" dawns and promises that Monday morning is what you have to look forward to next.

Enter transition beers! My brother - a Mega Giants Fan - invented this convenient coping mechanism years ago and I have to say from...um...experience, that it works pretty well. Especially when you're depressed! The idea is, you have a couple beers on Sunday evening while you're watching the game or the Simpsons or reruns of Gilmore Girls, and it's supposed to help ease your mind and trick you into feeling like the weekend isn't really O.V.E.R., even though it obviously is.

Now maybe it's because I'm a girl, or maybe it's just because I seem to like to spend money, but I prefer to take my transition beers away from my home, away from my TV.

For me, the place to go for TBs is my new favorite neighborhood bar, The Black Squirrel. It's on "the strip" in Adams Morgan. I was reluctant to go the first time. I was tired, it was cold, and I was in a blah mood--it was Sunday, after all. But my friend said I should try it, and when he told me they had a pretty good beer selection I remembered the TB theory and said OK. We walked in, took a little round table by the bar in back, and ordered Baltika beers. Yummy! After two of those, I left feeling buzzed and better. The lady who served us was so nice, and the heat worked. Major points. But I hadn't tried the food...hmm.

Since then, I have been back too many times to count (I don't do math so much), and I have eaten every time. To my mind, the best things on the menu are the fried calamari and the duck spring rolls. I know fried calamari is cliche, but The Black Squirrel makes it special. The "rings" are about an inch thick and they don't taste like tires. The chef makes them magically crisp with the addition of Parmesan cheese, and he tosses in fresh snow peas for color and a welcome cruciferous crunch. The spring rolls are filled with marvelous duck confit that is so juicy you don't need the uber-citrusy, chunky sauce that comes on the side. Bits of celery in the meat brighten it up and make your mouth think it's not as rich as it really is. Mmm. The fries are good but all fries are (or absolutely should be) good at a bar, and the french onion soup was deemed "ok but too much roux" by my friend who's a chef. I think it's tasty (if a little thick) but who doesn't like a bowl of beefy, onion-y goodness topped with a blanket of melted cheese? The burger is solid--less bun, more beef. The house-made bratworst is homey and delish if you don't mind gaining five pounds at one meal. But if you have that kind of attitude, you may not have the best time at The Black Squirrel, because this is a place where the food is made with real stuff like butter and salt and the beers are big and meant to be drunk and enjoyed.

So, people, here's what I say: Go to The Black Squirrel, and go on Sundays. The atrocious weekend crowd is gone. The food is good. The games are on if you care, and transition beers - I'll take mine from Russia - await.

PS: Photo from The Black Squirrel website

Obama on Food Network? I Betcha!

2008-11-21T20:06:00.005-05:00

Why so long since my last post, you wonder. Well, if you must know, I got cable. And I emphasize the word "got." I didn't order it, ok? All I asked for was high-speed internet (so that I could spend every night at home working on this blog, obviously) and then suddenly the nice cable man is telling me that I've got access to ninety nine channels, because it just makes his job easier.

The little drawers of thoughts and information in my brain started opening and closing at great speed. Oh, happy day! This means I can watch the History Channel! This means I can talk Project Runway at work (thus feeling more a part of things)! This means...oh man. I. Have. Food. NETWORK.

So, people, that is what's been keeping me. Cable. I'm ashamed, alright? But I have lived in this apartment for four years without the stinking invention, and I've decided I deserve to indulge a little. I plan, ok I hope, to begin serious posting next week. Or certainly after Christmas.

Oops, Alton Brown is coming on so I have to go. But I leave you with this to ponder--will Barack Obama make an appearance on Food Network? I think so. I think Sarah Palin would have done it, too, had November 4 taken a different turn. After all, what are politicians if not people who want to reach out, hit home, and make you feel comforted? Honestly, no matter who's in office, I have a feeling that if he or she showed up on my TV whisking cream or slicing carrots, I'd feel sort of inclined to stay tuned.

Discuss.

PS: Photo from wikipedia

Upstate New York: Eat Here

2008-11-10T09:12:00.008-05:00

Yes, it's where I grew up and yes, it's where many of my happiest memories were made, but still. Even if you're not from here and you have no emotional attachment to certain stretches of highway, certain types of trees, and certain types of people, I'm willing to bet that if you came here, especially if you came here in the fall, you would kind of love it.

My hometown is near Albany, but my parents grew up even further north, so it's basically a given that for me and my family, Upstate New York is where it's at. It's gorgeous and full of people with peculiar accents. And in my opinion, it's where you'll find the best food.

I came home this weekend to visit my mom and to be reminded of my roots. (And also, apparently, of the fact that a ton of my high school classmates got married, had kids, and still live here. Weird.)

Anyway, we went to the Troy farmer's market on Saturday and the array of offerings was dizzying. I don't have time to get into the maple syrup or the Hudson Valley cheese, so I will for now focus on my current favorite local treat--the Northern Spy apple. It's a beauty and still wonderfully off-the-radar.

Northern Spies were first grown in Upstate New York in 1800, and while they're as familiar to me as Macintosh, they're pretty hard to find once you leave this area. They can be kind of splotchy and rough on the surface, but the sparkling light yellow fruit on the inside is gorgeous. And the taste is lovely. The apple flavor is delicate and fine, not too sweet but just enough to make you want more after every bite. I'm not a good baker but if I were, I'd throw them in a pie or wrap them in dough and make apple dumplings. But actually I think they're so cool and special that they're best eaten just as they are, straight out of the wooden crate at the market, or even better, straight off the tree. That is, of course, if you're lucky enough to find yourself in New York at an orchard in autumn.

Orchards! That's another post for another time. Right now I have to go pack and get ready to fly back to DC. I'm taking some Northern Spies with me.

(Note: The photo is from the Watertown Daily Times. I'm not sure if it's the right kind of apple, but my mom grew up in Watertown, so I couldn't resist the shout-out.)

It's British Friday!

2008-11-07T09:25:00.002-05:00

I'm not British. I'm not even European. I am a proud American...who on occasion finds herself saying things like, "I'd rather be in Paris." Ok, I say that all the time, but who wouldn't rather be in Paris? I ask you!

Anyway, back to the British thing. A few years ago, I shared an office (which was actually just a dank depressing closet) with my friend Raquel. Our job was to "push pictures around" as she once put it, and while it was hard work, we managed to pack a serious amount of fun into every day. At one point, rather out of the blue and for no real reason, we started speaking to each other with a British accent. I think we thought we were really good at it, and we recruited our tall friend Evan to join in the bit. We even gave ourselves new names. Mine was Holly Hagglesworth. Raquel's was Pepper Lockbottom. And Evan's was Rupert. I'm not sure why he didn't get a last name, but he didn't. Anyway, at some point, I pointed out that we really ought to act normal and try to be more professional and cut out this profoundly immature behaviour (note how I spelled that). But it was kind of sad to give it up completely, so I decided we should allow ourselves one day of the week to act like we were twelve. And that's how British Friday was born.

The best thing about British Friday (aside from the accents) was tea time. Some days, we had scones--very un-British, uncivilized, huge chocolate chip ones, but they were darn tasty. Other days, we'd get a little more into it and have tiny crustless sandwiches made with tomato, herbs, and tofu mayonnaise (Rupert is a vegan). My mother sent us a special British Friday care package once, and while I can't remember most of what was in it, I do clearly recall the dainty napkins and doilies she felt were essential to any sincere tea party effort.

I realize that all of this reveals a side of me that I should probably try to keep under wraps. It's really weird for an adult to start such games, I know. But hey, if you've ever had to work in a closet with no heat, you'd probably get creative, too.

Pepper and Rupert are still my friends, but we haven't celebrated British Friday in forever. So, here's hoping this will bring it back, or at least remind us how fun it is to be ridiculous every now and then. After all, who doesn't want to speak with a fake accent and pretend to be somebody else, just a little bit, especially these days? If you don't, then I'm really sorry but I can't be friends with you.

PS: Future British Friday posts will, I hope, be much more serious and devoted perhaps to the history of scones, or why Jamie Oliver had to get married and have a perfect family before I got a chance to date him. Hmph!

About Dave

2008-11-01T11:40:00.020-04:00

For those of you who don't know, Dave Lieberman is a chef. He has a show on the Food Network. He is adorable. I like his recipes, and his green Le Creuset.

I don't have cable anymore, but a few years ago, when I did, I was so inspired after watching him cook one day that I decided to write him a letter. "Dear Dave Lieberman, my name is Catherine." It went on, probably a little too long, and while I never mentioned my mini-crush, I did allude to the fact that I found him fantastic.

Fortunately, I had the good sense not to send the letter. Or maybe my Mom had the good sense to talk me out of mailing it. I can't remember. But I know I threw it away, and that was probably for the best.

So, the title of my blog refers to a letter I never sent to a boy I never met. It's a tribute, really. And Dave, since there's an ever-so-tiny chance you will read this note, hello. I hope you aren't completely freaked.

PS: Photo from Le Creuset website