Meal by Meal

The End

2009-11-17T09:23:00.007-05:00

I started Meal by Meal in the spring of 2007. The challenge? To throw bi-weekly dinner parties as a tonic for the isolation that ailed me as a new mother. Too broke to hire babysitters and too tired to go out, my husband and I were becoming TV-addicted recluses. We had worked our way through all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and were midway into the follow-up series Angel, when it dawned on me that I knew more about the inner-workings of shows’ characters then I did most of my friends. Working at home and being a part-time homemaker didn’t exactly leave much time for water-cooler conversation, and while I had met nice parents at preschool and daycare, everyone seemed too busy with their New York lives for any real connection.

In a small, mostly unkempt apartment with a sad excuse for a kitchen, I started to cook. I invited friends, acquaintances, even my husband’s colleagues to dinner. I made twenty-five meals in twelve months that first year––and have continued to cook for others, although not as often, in the remaining two. While the dishes didn’t match, the floors weren’t spotless and sometimes ingredients were store-bought, our dinner parties brought a richness and social quality to our lives that may have not happened otherwise. Cooking for people, then sitting down to eat with them, was joyful, intimate, sometimes messy––but mostly gratifying. Plates were passed, wine was poured, and stories unfolded over the course of the evening. Even our children benefited from our parties––they moved through the world with a greater sense of community and belonging. I guess this is a long-winded way of saying the experiment worked!

Over the past few months though, I have found less and less time to update, and less things to update about. The dinner parties have become so ingrained into the ebbs and flows of our lives that there is less left to say about this particular topic. I hope to begin other food-related projects, both as an advocate for better school lunches in the New York City public school system and through my writing. Thank you all for reading about my adventures and now, you can follow me on Twitter, where I'll post food, cooking and NYC parenting tips.

Finally, I leave you with five of my favorite Meal by Meal posts:

Sunday Night Dinners

Underground Supper Club: One Big Table

Wine Tasting Party: Invite the Kids

Smoked Ribs and Italian Folks Songs

Juice Fast Gone Bad

Mobile Cupcakes

2009-06-11T08:13:00.004-04:00

But wait. There's more.

Introducing Cupcake Stop. Mobile Cupcakes in delectable flavors like triple chocolate, red velvet and oreo crumb.

Check out their truck Tuesdays through Sundays:

Day (9:30am - 5pm):
5th Avenue bet. 13th and 14th Street*

Night (6pm - 10pm):
23rd Street bet. 7th and 8th Avenue*

And of course, you can follow them on Twitter!

Miniature Cupcakes In Soho

2009-06-09T07:32:00.006-04:00

The cupcake craze continues with Baked By Melissa, a tiny Soho shop--a window really--selling utterly tempting tiny-sized stuffed cupcakes. Perfect for when you just want taste of something sweet without the post-sugar hangover, these baked goods are moist, rich and filled with yummy things like cookie dough, s'mores and peanut butter cups. On Spring Street between Mercer and Broadway.

Downtown Dining A La Cart

2009-06-05T16:09:00.011-04:00

For New York City moms and dads out for a day of adventure with their small children, looking for a place to eat can be a daunting affair. Unlike the suburbs, with their vast emporiums of family-friendly "fare" with names like Fudruckers, it is the rare Gotham eatery designed to indulge the screams, cries and various accoutrement (strollers, diaper bags, bottles, changes of clothes, etc) of your little angle. Thankfully, there is another option, particularly during the warmer months. Enter the upscale roach coach.

The latest to join the ranks of these gourmet food trucks is Le Gamin crêpe truck. It serves everything a downtown mama or papa could want--ratatouille crepe anyone?--and what preschooler doesn't love ham and butter on a baguette? My son Sebastien and I spotted the truck on Greene street, just below Prince in Soho last week. According to Maya, one of the truck's cooks, they move locations all the time. To keep up with them, follow them at TWITTER legamintruck, mais oui!

Then, follow up your crepes du jour with an artisinal ice cream from the Van Leeuwen ice cream truck with is also parked on Greene and Prince.

If you are going to Washington Sqaure Park, have a sleeping baby and the patience of Mother Teresa, you might want to attempt the lines for NY Dosa . A southern Indian specialty, dosas crepes made from lentil and rice flours then filled with everything from curried potatoes to fiery hot veggies. The Dosa Man serves only vegan dosas and a few other dishes, all of which are homemade, spicy and incredibly fresh. The food is outstanding; the service and wait-times make you want to kill yourself. Then you pay $6 for the best dosa of your life and you are back again next week.

For more info on street carts around New York City, check out New York Magazine.

A Wine Tasting Party (Invite the Kids)

2009-05-27T11:20:00.004-04:00

The Inspiration
In a tiny fourteenth century apartment in Florence, Steve and I decided to try for a second child. Sydney, our first, was eleven months old, we were broke, and I had a book coming out that would need all of my promotional attention; as my mom would say, we needed another baby like we needed a hole in our collective heads. Still, somehow being in Tuscany convinced us to go against our more rational natures. The Italians, at least in our limited, and probably romantic observations, believed that children, like wine and good food, were meant to be enjoyed within the context of a rich and fully integrated life. In our working class neighborhood, on the wrong side of the Arno, we would hear the chatter of families eating and drinking late into the evenings. When we visited a posh seaside resort, it was the same thing; whole families out eating pizza in the large squares and strolling the streets until midnight. I never got the sense of the rampant consumerist kid culture that exists here, where children have their own TV shows, clothing, bath towels, magazines and restaurants. Instead I witnessed children and parents, aunts and uncles, friends and relatives spending time together, enjoying the simple pleasures of food and wine with other families.

Besides the gift of my second son Sebastien, born nine months after we returned, Italy left me with a desire to resist seeing and relating to my children as completely separate and in need of their own distinct culture. Instead Steve and I attempt to share our passions with the kids and have from a very young age, as they contribute to us. That means we spend a lot of time at the table, they accompany me to the farmer’s market and help prepare food; while we watch “Star Wars: The Clone Wars” with them and take an active interest in their interests.

Because of this belief, we spend much of our free time with friends and other families, eating, drinking, talking, picnicking in the park. Sometimes the kids eat with us, sometimes separately. Sometimes they watch a movie in the other room—but more to the point, we are all together, the get a real sense of community and no one has to pay for a babysitter.

A Wine Tasting
Case in point, last Friday, I hosted a wine tasting for my Steve, Kimberly and Ward and Sue, plus kids (5 in all).

Ward and Sue brought dried soppresatta and this incredible Roomano from Murray’s Cheeses and an olive loaf from Amy’s Breads. Kimberly made a smooth guacamole, with lime, onions and chopped cilantro. I put outside some pita and hummus and a few cheeses I had in the fridge. A simple meal of grazing. A frozen pizza from Fresh Direct was heated up later in the evening for the children and bowls of fresh pineapple sufficed for their dessert.

The Wines
I bought the following white wines, all which were under $20, because quite frankly, it’s all I could afford. Each one demonstrated the very different styles of Chardonnay.

Rully, Sebastien Rous 2007
This French Chardonnay is judiciously, lightly, subtly aged in oak. The result is a very well balanced wine with good acidity. Partial to wines with a French sensibility, with character and personality—a sense of terroir if you will, Steve loved this wine.

Bourgogne Blanc, Clotilde Davenne - 2007
This French Chardonnay from Burgundy is not aged in oak but steel; nothing at all like the rich, buttery California Chardonnays. And yet, it still has a softness and warmth to it. It was Kimberly’s favorite.

Bianco, Cantina Zaccagnini – 2007
OK, so I cheated a little bit here with this white wine blend from central Italy's Abruzzo region. It actually contains Chardonnay, Riesling and Trebbiano grapes, so it’s not a pure varietal, but it is unoaked. With notes of juicy nectarines, yellow plums and honey it’s an enjoyable glass to have on its own or with chicken or fish. I am a huge fan of this wine—it’s complexity belies its 14.99 price tag.

Chardonnay, Wyatt – 2007
A remarkably well-balanced California Chardonnay—particularly at this price-point (I got my bottle from Astor Wines for $11.99), with some oak, but not too much. Notes of tropical fruit dominate. I was surprised at how much I liked this wine.

The Verdict
The evening went by smoothly, without any drama from the kids and the grown-ups had a merry old time (the wine didn’t hurt). I really do believe children benefit from celebrating with adults around the simple pleasures of the table--and that when you do this, the kids feel connected to their community in a deep and meaningful way. Whether it’s on a picturesque 14th century Florentine terrace or in a 1970’s modernist tower in the middle of New York City, the ancient ritual of breaking bread together still matters.

A Few Ideas for Organizing Your Own Wine Tasting

1. Start early, say 5:30, to allow everyone ample time to eat, taste and converse—and still get the kids home at a reasonable hour. Limit the number of invites to five adults and five children. Any more and you might need more than a glass of wine to make it through the evening.

2. Choose one varietal wine to focus on. Chardonnay, Merlot or Pinot Noir are all good choices, but even lesser known grapes could work. Select three to four bottles of your grape, spanning across two or three different countries. I would also go for wines that are similar in price, so that the differences you taste are real—not just a matter of quality.

3. Brush up on some basic facts about the grape and place the wine comes from. Even if you can’t find info on your particular bottle, books like The Wine Bible offers great insight into wine-producing regions all over the world. Have a little something to say on each wine and invite your guests to add their own thoughts.

4. Serve both adult-friendly and kid-friendly food. Even if your own children are adventurous, the other kids might not be. Carrot sticks, chicken fingers, bread and cheese are easy options. For the adults, cheeses, crudite and other finger foods can be prepped ahead of time, leaving you free to do the pouring.

5. Have a few activities for the kids to do that don’t require adult supervision—coloring books and some packets of crayons should suffice, or a special DVD that they could watch together in the next room could work.

6. Wait to start the tasting until the children have settled in, so you have a good thirty minutes to focus on the wine.

7. Print out a list of the wines you are serving to guests, along with a pencil or pen so that they can take notes.

8. Introduce each wine in a simple fashion ie, “This Merlot is from Chile, which is known for producing red wine at a great price,” and allow everyone to taste and comment.

Jean Railla Talks about Underground Supper Clubs on NPR's Word of Mouth

2009-05-26T14:46:00.007-04:00

I spoke about Underground Supper Clubs today on NPR's super-cool show Word of Mouth.

Listen to the mp3 version here.

Special thanks to Heather from One Big Table and Lady Rogue from rogueApron for sharing their brilliance and passions with me.

rogueApron: An Interview with the Host of Atlanta's Most Popular Supper Club

2009-05-25T13:01:00.002-04:00

In searching out supper clubs around the country, I kept coming across articles and blogs talking about rogueApron, a culinary speakeasy based in Atlanta. I contacted the head of this project for a little Q & A. Her responses are very thoughtful and serve as a great model for anyone else out there looking to start their own supper club.

How long have you been doing rogueApron?

Our first rogueApron dinner was St. Patrick's Day 2008. We work with East Atlanta Brewery, pairing local beers crafted especially for our menus. Our first menu was EAB stout-cured corned beef, traditional mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables and the like. Our 30 person dinner featured half friends, and half strangers ... I still have no idea how they found out about us, since we had just a small website at the time. The tornado that ravaged downtown and East Atlanta in '08 just happened to hit the day before the dinner ... we climbed through downed power lines and felled trees in the rain to ice down our precious corned beef. We postponed the dinner a day, and all is well. Now our mailing list is over 1,500 people, and dinners book within minutes ... it's been a remarkable journey, meeting some really great people.

What was the impetus?

rogueApron is a child of the recession in many ways - like many people, we had a good idea, but never the time and space to make it happen. But when circumstances and economies change, all of a sudden a zany idea makes a lot more sense than climbing a ladder that might not exist by the time you get to the top of it.

The motivations are complex and sometimes hard to divine: a love of food and beer, the desire to connect strangers over a good meal and build community, nerdy-fun surprises and puns. Unlike many underground "restaurants" in the States, our dinners are crowdsourced and staffed entirely by volunteers, many of whom meet us for the first time when they show up at a location, knife in hand, ready to take on prep for the day. Our menus are thematic - like the Soup Line which heralded the crash of the stock market in October ... our guests met up in a public park, empty bowl in hand. We also have the privilege of working closely with Georgia farmers - our last event was a workday at a farm, where guests helped clear fields of debris before tucking into a picnic lunch.

Local food means better ingredients for our dinners, but we also hope that it can serve as an introduction to foodsystems for our guests. We truly believe in severing the commercial relationship between cook and guest; where impersonal plates are pumped out factory-style for people you never see.

The unbelievable response of the Atlanta community has lead to several spin-off projects with common threads; building local economies and changing foodsystems. We run an entrepreneur/DIY network (Lady Rogue Business Network (ladyroguebiz.ning.com), a Chef to School program where we cook local vegetables with kids in developing neighborhoods, volunteer on a Georgia Organics board (cultivateATL.tumblr.com), and get involved with fun conceptual food events, like Free Pie (free-pie.org).

What's the connection between underground supper clubs and the restaurant world?

I'm sure that the answer to this question will vary greatly depending on who you speak to. Each supperclub is unique; reflecting the ideas and passions of the organizer/chefs and the community that they live in. Cooking food for people who gather around in a communal atmosphere is ancient - it's the modern restaurant that's a relative artifice. Restaurants can be amazing places - but they can also be table-turning SYSCO factories, with bitter, harried servers, dirty, cussing line cooks just hoping to get through the rush and to their beer - guests can be demanding, petty tyrants with ridiculous demands.

Supperclubs are grassroots alternatives, whatever their motivations, and the difference between codified establishments with EBITDA margins and art forms is profound.

What are the people like who come to your events? Was it hard for people to "get" it at first?

We are lucky that the rogueApron community is uniformly awesome. Something about the process of choosing a dining adventure and being open-minded about what and where you are going to eat serves as a funnel for creatives - our guests are from all age ranges and walks of life, but all are passionate about their lives and eager for experiences.

We have a pretty comprehensive website, with a lot of information on events, and we try to keep it as up-to-date as possible whenever someone asks a question we haven't heard before. But yes, we occasionally get questions from people who are still trying to wrap their heads around the concept.

I noticed on your web site that you accept donations or people can help out? Are you trying to democratize good food?

Of course! Accessibility is a strong political tenant of rogueApron. We accept cash donations towards food costs, but we never suggest more than $20 or $30 (depending on the menu). We have folks who do not give donations as well. For people who don't have the cash, we have all kinds of volunteer opportunities ... but our volunteers tend to be food-loving folks who love to cook for others. It's our sincere hope that everyone feels like they would be welcome at a dinner.

Do you consider what you do political in a small "p" sort of way, of course?

I suppose I've hinted at this above, but yes. A shared meal is a powerful connector of people - our guests build friendships, find lovers, make business connections, have spontaneous conversations, and find themselves involved in their community in new ways. Providing a space for that is considered political in our current culture.

How many people come to each event?

The size of the event varies according to the venue; usually anywhere from 50-150 people. (Really, we cook for 150 in a noncommercial kitchen. It's significantly harder that way :)

Do you make any profit?

rogueApron is a project; no one personally profits from the dinners. Our rA piggy bank helps us to invest in things like folding tables and silverware. Here's a little more about the donations system: http://rogueapron.wordpress.com/events/what-your-donation-goes-towards/

What kind of training do you have.

I do not have formal training; however I do cook for a living. I identify as a cook - not a chef.

I Heart Sriracha!

2009-05-22T10:56:00.005-04:00

Do you know and love Sriracha hot sauce? If not, get thee to a store and pick up some. Tasty, spicy, sweet, umami-rific joy. It's like ketchup for foodies. Plus it comes in a squeeze bottle and who can resist the rooster on the package?

Uses and Recipe Ideas

Like many people, Steve and I use it like ketchup, especially on hamburgers. A quarter-sized dollop on a brioche roll, along with sliced red onion and romaine lettuce makes an unbelievably tasty burger. The best I've ever tasted.

The NY Times has a story on it this special sauce, along with some interesting recipes for it including Rice Cracker Crusted Tuna With Spicy Citrus Sauce.

The blog White on Rice posts a recipe for making your own Sriracha. Seems like a lot of work, but I admire their DIY spirit.

Perhaps not the most mouth-watering of ideas, another blog mixes Sriracha into bread dough for a Spicy Sriracha Bread.

And finally The Washington Post publishes a recipe for Sriracha-spiked Barbecue Sauce, which I will definitely make this this summer when we start smoking meats again.

How do you use the sauce?

Pie-romania

2009-05-22T09:47:00.002-04:00

Believe it or not, groups of people in cities like Belfast, Maine, and Atlanta Georgia, are baking up pies, then going out into the public and giving away slices for free. Want to join the movement? Find recipes, flyer ideas and other inspiration at the free pie web site.

Supper Clubs Around the Country

2009-05-12T20:46:00.003-04:00

The recent restaurant take-over by occasional and underground supper clubs is the most exciting thing to happen to food and dining in decades. Discover the magic for yourself, or better yet, start your own. Below, I have started a list of supper clubs and will continue to add to it.

Overviews: Primers on underground dining
Deep Dish Dreams
Ghetto Gourmet
Solo Dining

Atlanta, GA
Rogue Apron

Austin, TX
Supper Underground

Boston, MA
Love+Butter

New York City
The Whisk & Ladle

Portland, OR
Plate & Pitchfork

Sacramento, CA
The Hidden Kitchen

San Francisco
Cook With James

Seattle, WA
Gypsy Dinners

If you host an underground supper club or know of one, or are starting one, please let me know and I'll write about it at Meal by Meal.

One Big Table: An Underground Supper Club

2009-05-06T12:14:00.008-04:00

Photo by Jacob Pritchard

A few weeks ago while waiting for dinner in an industrial Bushwick loft, I ordered a White Wasp from a nervous twenty-three year old guy at a makeshift bar. The cocktail, which contained cognac, honey water, and half and half, was not the best drink. It was served in a plastic cup; a cocktail should always be presented in a proper glass. Drinks should also be served very, very cold—and this was not. I’m not sure all the ingredients melded together the way they should—the cream felt, well, too creamy, the honey too sweet. The White Wasp was however, an interesting use of local ingredients and a brave attempt at creative cocktailing—something few restaurateurs would dare in this economy. More importantly, it set the pace for what would be a memorable evening at One Big Table, an underground supper club in Brooklyn.

One Big Table is the brainchild of Heather (last name excluded for legal reasons), a statuesque and tattooed twenty-five year old nanny and amateur chef. Heather opens up her apartment once a month to twelve or so diners. For forty dollars, guests receive the pleasure of a four-course meal, wine and entertainment. The food is local, mostly organic and the wine is simple but plentiful. Heather joins a growing movement of gastronomes who are taking back food culture from the staid and pricey world of restaurants and bringing a DIY approach to eating and community.

At first, I admit, it was almost too intimate to stand in Heather’s home and watch her race around, given that i had never met her until this evening. But the closeness also built a sort of excitement, a mystery––what will happen next? What are the rules? Less formal than a restaurant but not as relaxed as a dinner party, supper clubs skate a fine-line between private and public spheres. The blurred boundary entices.

For the first thirty minutes or so, my cohorts Steve, Kimberly and I made jilted conversation with the other guests, a group of strangers a decade younger than us. Steve recognized someone from Think Coffee. I bummed a cigarette from Jon Bozeman, a folk singer. We started to loosen up as the hors d'oeuvres arrived. The collard leaves stuffed with cheese grits were a playful and utterly delicious take on stuffed grape leaves and the black-eyed pea hummus on cornbread was homey and satisfying.

Finally dinner was served and everyone sat down at a simple table adorned with tulips in glass milk bottles. There were some really beautiful moments with the food–– the roasted Jerusalem artichoke salad was lovely, the pea shoots offering an ideal accompaniment to the crunchy sweetness of the tubers. The bread pudding was perfectly rich and spotted with bittersweet dark chocolate. The pheasant, on the other hand, was tough and stringy. And the carrot soup was too heavy; the freshness of the vegetables was lost in the cream. But, strangely, even for such a critical and picky eater as myself, it didn’t matter.

At One Big Table, it’s not that the food is beside the point—it is ethically sourced, lovingly cooked and creatively put-together, but more that the meal is not separate from the whole experience. Not to sound overly taken with Heather, which I am by the way, but eating at someone’s home, and knowing that they’ve been cooking for days, for you, is affecting in a different way than eating at a restaurant. It’s like going to a friend’s house for dinner. If one dish doesn’t work out, who cares? You forgive them in a way you would never a chef, particularly if you are paying forty dollars for an entrée, let alone the rest of the meal. Restaurateurs are out to make money; Heather is trying to break even. For her, the supper club is an experiment in bringing people together and giving back. Her earnest and giving nature infuses the evening.

After three hours at the table and several bottles of wine, everyone loosened up. Kimberly and I tried to talk Jon into becoming a nanny. Steve met a young graduate student studying Cuban history. Someone rolled a joint. Coffee was served. Brian Peck and Jon Bozeman sang sweet folk songs while VJ Sarah played beautiful ambient video clips. The mood was open and bohemian in a 1970’s Laurel Canyon, Joni Mitchell kind of way. Us forty-ish folks were smitten and didn’t get home until two am, a rarity. We all agreed—the best dining experience we’ve had in recent history.

http://onebigtablebrooklyn.com/

The Trader Joes Movie

2009-04-30T10:05:00.001-04:00

Spring In Greenwich Village

2009-04-25T08:16:00.008-04:00

Cooking for the Picky Eater

2009-04-25T07:57:00.003-04:00

I made this dish the another night for my youngest son Sebastien. Like many preschoolers, his taste run the way of simple carbs––sweets, bread, pasta and cheese—a maddening combination for a mom who is trying to raise healthy kids.

So I have my tricks. In the post-school, pre-dinner phase, when the boys are starving, I make a platter of carrots, celery, and cut apples. While they play or watch TV, they can snack on these foods, and then I don’t worry so much that they have eaten all their veggies at dinner.

Dessert is sometimes sweets, but more often I serve fresh pineapple, apples sauce, or frozen berries which they like to top with a little agave syrup and a tablespoon of heavy cream to make their own “ice cream."

I also cook with a lot of multigrain and farro pastas, so even if Sebastien picks around the veggies in any given dish, he is still getting some nutrition. Not that I'm above using white flour pasta, especially when the dish just would not work with a whole grain alternative (see recipe below). Being a good family cook means remaining flexible--and teaching your kids to have a passion for real food means making things that are truly tasty.

And finally, I cook special dinners for each kid, which features their favorite savory foods. It makes them feel special and cared for. When I made this pasta for Sebastien, he ate three platefuls, a record.

Sebastien’s Pasta
(adapted from a similar recipe by Giada De Laurentiis)

This recipes calls for Grana Padano, a hard Italian cheese not unlike Parmigiano-Reggiano, but a little more mellow and a lot less expensive.

Ingredients
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 pound sweet sausage (use bulk, or remove the meat from the casing)
salt and pepper
1 (10) ounce package frozen peas
1 pound dried farfalle pasta (I like Barilla)
1/2 cup freshly grated Grana Padano cheese

Directions
In a large pot, bring 6 quarts of salted water to a boil.

In a large pan, heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat. Add the sausage and sauté, breaking up a large clumps with a wooden spoon, until golden brown. Drain any excess fat beyond 2 tablespoons. Add the peas and heat through. Add salt and pepper to taste.

When the water boils, add the pasta and cook until just done—about 8 minutes. Drain. Combine pasta, sausage mixture and cheese in a large platter and serve.

To Have and Have Not--A Cocktail

2009-04-03T11:05:00.007-04:00

Two nights ago while hanging out Steve (husband) and Hot Pants (BFF), I decided to whip up a night cap with whatever we had on hand—a bottle of top-shelf bourbon, lemons, limes and agave syrup. A little of this, a little of that, thrown over ice and presto—a drink that manages to hit several notes and still be refreshing. When you drink it, you notice only the slightest bit of sweetness, followed by a citrus tang, and finally, a luscious hint of smokiness. Like all my favorite drinks, it takes you on a journey, from an open air bar in Key West to the sweaty decadence of the Mother-in-Law Lounge in New Orleans—all in one sip.

We spent the rest of the evening trying to come up with a name for my new concoction. Something that would embody all the elements. It would need to be an American name, a nod to the distinctly southern roots of bourbon. But also tropical due to the addition of Agave syrup, from the blue Agave flower which grows in Mexico and is used to create Tequila, among other things. But there is also something really sultry to it, in a "it's midnight and the bar is packed and hot and your hair is sticking to the nape of your neck" kind of way.

Steve nailed it when he thought of the Humphrey Bogart in the movie To Have and Have Not. The cool sophistication of the weary, and wary, American. The depression of Bogart's gait. Lauren Bacall and her sleepy eyes. Taken from the book by Ernest Hemingway, screenplay by William Faulkner and directed by Howard Hawks --the film is American at its alcohol-fueled best.

To Have and Have not. The name works because it also seems to capture the current mood—who doesn’t feel like Bogart, distrusting everyone, tired of being ripped off, feeling alone in a sea of deceit? then again, there is a whisp of hopefulness--perhaps good will come from our economic woes. Perhaps the best is yet to come. In one small instance, having no money might force us to entertain more at home, to have more intimate conversations, to learn to have more with less. To feel content having a friend over for an inexpensive meal of cauliflower and potato curry and then coming up with drink names the rest of the evening. To Have and Have Not.

Or maybe it’s just a really good drink.

To Have and Have Not

1 lemon, juiced
1 lime, juiced
4 ounces top-shelf bourbon, like Maker’s Mark
1 tablespoon Light Agave (found out Whole Foods or Trader Joes)

Combined all ingredients in a large glass jar with a lid or a cocktail shaker. Add a few splashes of water and fill with ice. Shake and serve in a large glass with lots of ice.

Makes two cocktails.

Homemade Cupcakes When You Haven't Any Time

2009-03-16T10:13:00.006-04:00

With my on-the-side copy writing business becoming more front-and-center (and surprisingly busy), my cooking, baking, crafty mama job has fallen the way of many of my body parts--down, down, down. But, alas, birthdays stop for no one, especially four year olds, so in addition to bringing home the bacon, I've taken in the tried (and tired) and true working mom tradition of cupcake baking in the wee hours.

It came down to this: either pony up $2.50 per cupcake for 24 cupcakes from Amy's bakery, or save some of the cash, buy a box mix, and make the cupcakes myself. The guilt took over--I made them myself.

Surprisingly, box mixes aren't so bad, especially if you add twice the amount of oil and reduce the amount of water. Since a standard butter cream frosting is easy-peasy, I always make it myself. If you keep extra candy, sprinkles and food coloring around (friends tell me it's important to get the all-natural stuff from whole foods; the regular is apparently very toxic ), whipping up a batch only takes a few years off your life, rather than say, a decade.

Here's how you do it:

Bake up a batch of chocolate cupcakes from a box. Instead of 1/3 a cup of oil, use 2/3. Instead of 1 1/3 cups of water, use 1 cup of water. Cool cupcakes quickly by removing from the pan, placing on a plate, and putting the plate in the freezer. Seriously, this works.

Buttercream Frosting

2 sticks of butter
1 pound of powdered sugar (one box)
2 tablespoons of cream, half-n-half or milk--whatever you have because its most likely too late to go to the store.
1 tablespoon of vanilla extract

Using an electric mixer, mix ingredients together until fluffy. Scoop out frosting into three different bowls. Add different food colors to each bowl, mix with a spoon. Frost cupcakes with different frostings and add candies to each. Go to bed.

Poem for a Snow Day When You Are On Deadline

2009-03-02T14:26:00.003-05:00

blustery snow day
radio says 'school is closed'
parents are bumming

Too Good to Be True?

2009-02-26T13:36:00.003-05:00

My friend Laura Aviva (check out her online trunk show of very lovely artisanal textiles and objects from around the globe) was telling me about this crazy berry that makes everything you eat after consuming its fruit, better, sweeter, more enhanced. We discussed it over a dinner broiled lamb chops and spinach with garlic and dried cherries at my house. My children found it fascinating. I was rather dubious.

I would love to know if anyone else has tried it, and if it was worth the $60.

Caroline's Raw Kale Salad

2009-02-20T06:56:00.003-05:00

My friend Caroline, who when not creating things to do with kale makes incredibly lovely photographs, sent me this recipe for a raw kale salad. While the kids might not eat it--although mine tend to love raw veggies--it's a quick way to make a healthy salad for moms and dads. Enjoy.

One bunch of Lacinto kale, washed well and stems removed. Chop the leaves, throw in a bowl add 3 tablespoons olive oil, two tablespoons fresh lemon juice, a handful of grated pecorino and a dash of red pepper flakes. Serve.

Ceci Beans & Kale with Whole Grain Spaghetti

2009-02-18T07:03:00.005-05:00

It's a funny thing: you can know something, say that eating meat is not great for the environment, and you sort of don't let it register. You keep it in an intellectual place in your mind, one that you can recall, but not one that resonates on an emotional, active level. But then you read something, or have a new experience, and it pops back to the frontal section of your consciousness. That's what happened to me recently. A confirmed meat-eater, I was struck when I read about Mark Bittman's new book Food Matters, in which he draws parallels between diet, health, climate change and basic sanity. He basically reminds us that industrial raising of meat and fish is devastating not only for the animals and the workers, but the planet. This information is nothing new to me, but somehow reading his words, I feel newly committed to more plants, less meat, and get my meat sourced from more ethical outlets.

Before my new found sense of food justice leaves me, I wanted to create a new meat-free recipe, one that utilizes ceci (garbanzo) beans cooked in water perfumed with sage and rosemary and hearty Tuscan kale. Served up with multigrain pasta and a generous amount of freshly grated parmasean cheese, it's hearty enough to satisfy many a carnivore like myself.

Ceci Bean & Kale Pasta
serves 2 adults and 2 kids

1 cup dried garbanzo beans, soaked overnight
2 large sprigs of rosemary
12 sage leaves

1/2 pound whole grain spaghetti (I like Barilla Brand)
Salt

1 tablespoon butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
Salt and pepper

1 bunch Tuscan kale (also called lacinto or black), cleaned and chopped
a couple of splashes of white wine
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, plus more for passing at the table

Cook beans. Drain soaking water. Fill large pot with fresh water, beans, rosemary and half the sage. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until tender but not mushy; about one hour.

Once beans are done, cook pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water until al dente. Drain pasta and reserve 1/2 cup cooking liquid.

Meanwhile, melt butter and olive oil in a large saute pan or pot. Add garlic and cooked garbanzo beans. Heat beans until nicely colored, then add the remainder of the sage and saute for one minute. Add kale, wine and reserved cooking liquid to the pan. Simmer, stirring the whole time until kale is tender. Add pasta, cheese and salt and pepper to the pot. Season with salt and pepper and serve.

Sophisticated Smoothie: Vanilla Bean, Banana & Peanut Butter

2009-02-11T13:45:00.005-05:00

While seemingly pedestrian, smoothies have the potential to be quite delicious, maybe even a bit sophisticated. Inspired by the smoothies offered at my-way-too-chic-for-the-likes-of-me gym--which of course is called simply Clay--I have been experimenting with some recipes. See, I don't always like to eat in the morning, and then there is always a question of what to eat. Eggs and bacon, while filling, are too greasy for my late-to-rise stomach. And toast never cuts it--in two hours I am famished. What I like is some protein, a little fat, some fruit--and make it easy.

Here is my latest, delicious concoction.

1 cup ice
1/2 banana (i freeze mine in slices so the smoothie is extra cold)
1 tablespoon peanut butter
1 scoop whey protein powder (vanilla flavor)
1 cup soy milk (or almond, rice or even regular milk)
1 tablespoon agave syrup or honey
1/4 dried vanilla bean, sliced open and insides scraped out (or 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract)

Dump everything into the blender and blend on highest level until everything is smooth. Drink up. Makes 1 large or 2 small smoothies.

Stay tuned for other culinary sophisticated smoothies, along with some kid-friendly versions.

Recipes for Health

2009-02-10T07:21:00.002-05:00

For years, the New York Times was delivered to my doorstep, and I consumed each of its sections with voracity. But then life got busy and the budget tighter, and like many Americans, I started reading different, more alternative news sources online. I canceled my subscription to the Times.

But still, on Tuesdays, I log in to check out the Health section--to my mind one of the most hopeful and uplifting sections of the venerable institution (see its many articles on the benefits of wine and coffee!). My recent obsession is the Recipes for Health.

Today's recipe is a Spanish Romesco Sauce
A rich, nut-based sauce, it can be served with fish or veggies, and makes a perfect kid/parent dinner. A little Tilapia, sauteed in olive oil, served plain for the kids, and with the sauce on the side for the parents. Totally healthy and a bit decadent--which is exactly the type of recipes I'm looking for these days. Enjoy.

A Gift from the Trash Gods

2009-02-07T07:17:00.003-05:00

In our apartment building, kids leave their unwanted toys in the lobby for other children to pick up. Sometimes its pure crap--dirty stuffed animals and the like--but then an item of such worth and allure will be left, like a working R2D2 Robot, along with a manual, or a large transformer, that our boys will be psyched for weeks. We have also found great toys left curbside in front of our building, or on the streets in Soho. Having found so many wonderful things in this manner, we've developed a name for it: the trash gods.

Now when the boys want something they see on TV, they say, "maybe we'll get it from the trash gods." If only they would be happy with crayons and paper...then I could really feel superior.

Anyway, both Stephen and I have a passion for trash digging, and now we have spread our disease to our children. So I was especially pleased to find this new blog called Trashcollector. Astrid, a Dutch crafty gal, writes about frugal living and giving unwanted stuff a new life in this inspiring blog. Taking apart items from the trash, she makes new items out of them and sells them in her etsy shop. Too cool.

Wild Mushroom Soup & Savory Bread Pudding (and another dinner party)

2009-01-30T06:33:00.010-05:00

As soon as I vowed to stop entertaining or at least to slow down--life had other plans. For the past five weeks, without fail, every weekend has found Steve and I preparing for another dinner party. Six months of casual "we should have dinner some time" mentions turned into firm plans with dates needing to be set. The good thing is we got to see friends we haven't seen in a long while, and over the course of several long, unhurried evenings, we really caught up.

I've been experimenting with healthier meals--as my confidence grows as a cook, I find that I am going outside my comfort zone of roasts and heavy sauces. Last Saturday, I even experimented with a vegetarian menu. It was incredibly satisfying--even to me, the committed carnivore.

Amy Richards and Peter Sloan (and their two young kids Webber and Beckett), whom I had invited to my first dinner party, have since become close friends. (And all because I invited them to dinner that first night). I was happy to see them and catch up on Amy's latest adventures (as I write this, she is on her way to Moscow to take part of a feminist conference, along with Gloria Steinem) and discover some new wines with Peter, who works in the wine business. The evening went by quickly--and the kids drop off asleep one by one (except for Webber, who was still up at midnight, when we finally pulled ourselves away from our conversation and said goodnight). The whole thing felt very easy.

I woke up the next morning feeling very full of friendship and life--and convinced that the whole dinner party project, even with the tiredness and extra pounds, might be worth the dark circles and my ever-present muffin-top. I am seeming to find the balance--by going to bed early the rest of the week, by going to the gym, taking vitamins and incorporating some healthier ingredients into the menus. Plus, I took on another writing project, which for me, after a bit of a writer's block, is as nourishing as a big bowl of chicken soup.

Anyway, enough chatter. On with the recipes!

The Menu

Piave Cheese, Speck, Baguette

Wild Mushroom Soup (recipe follows)

Savory Bread Pudding with Swiss Chard (recipe follows)

Salad

Recipes

Wild Mushroom Soup
(adapted from Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles Cookboo k)

This soup is incredibly creamy and flavorfull--and for such a simple recipe its deceptively sophisticated. It's amazing what 6 tablespoons of butter can do! For a lighter version, cut the butter back to 3 tablespoons and drizzle olive oil on top of the soup right before you serve it.

6 tablespoons butter
1 small onion, thinly sliced
10 ounces button mushrooms (one grocery store package)
3-4 dried porcine mushrooms soaked in hot water for 10 minutes
4 cups chicken stock (water )
1 sprig of flat parsley
Salt and pepper
A couple light pours of high-quality sherry

Melt 2 tbsp of butter into a large sauce pan. Add the onions and cook for a little while, until the onions are translucent. While onions saute, wipe down mushrooms with a damp paper towel, then quickly slice them up. Add to the onions along with the rest of the butter. Drain and chop porcines, and add them to the pot as well. Saute on medium heat for about ten minues. Then add chicken broth or water, parsley and salt and pepper. Bring to a boil. Turn down heat and simmer for about one hour.

Remove parsley and puree soup with a handblender. Adjust salt and pepper and add sherry. Enjoy hot, along with some good bread.

Savory Bread Pudding with Swiss Chard
(adpated from the NY Times "Recipes for Health")
Surrounded by a plethora of exceptional bakeries, we tend to buy a lovely loaf of freshly-baked baguette most days of the week--unlike most of my friends, I have not forgone bread, at least not yet. (Favorites bakeries include Amy's Bread, Blue Ribbon and Grand Daisy for their stirato and cauliflower pizza). But we don't always eat it up right away. Enter the savory bread pudding. I simply save the stale bread and use whatever veggies, herbs and cheeses I have on-hand. Utterly delicious.

For this recipe, I use both the stem and the leaves of the swiss chard. The stems, it turns out, crunchy and quite tasty, with an almost sweet flavor. Sauteed in olive oil and garlic creates a lovely texture for the pudding.

2 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves of garlic, 2 chopped, 1 left whole
1 large bunch swiss chard, cleaned well. Stem and leaves seperated and chopped rather small.
1/2 pound stale bread, sliced about 1/2 inch thick
2 ounces Gruyère, grated (1/2 cup)
1 ounce Parmesan cheese, grated (1/4 cup)
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves
2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary
4 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt2 cups low-fat milk

Preheat oven to 350.

Add 1 tbsp of the olive oil and 2 cloves of garlic to a large skillet over medium heat. Once oil is hot, add swiss chard stems and saute for 5 minutes, stirring often. Add the chopped swiss chard and cook until chard is wilted. Season with salt and pepper. Turn off heat and set aside.

Oil or butter a two-quart baking dish or gratin.

Rub bread slices with whole garlic clove.

Place half of the bread slices in the baking dish and top with half of the stems and greens mixture. Then top with half the thyme and rosemary. Top with half of the cheeses. Repeat the layers.

Beat together eggs and milk. Add 1/2 teaspoon salt and a few twists of the pepper mill, then pour over the bread and greens. Place in the oven, and bake 40 to 50 minutes. Serve hot.

Serves four.

Obama Chicken Soup

2009-01-20T20:16:00.002-05:00

It might seem odd, but while Barack Obama was being sworn in, I was making chicken soup. Too excited to sit still, I did what I always do when I am in a heightened state—I went into the kitchen. When I’m happy, I cook. When I’m depressed I cook. And when I’m proud of our country, I make chicken soup, with the new president speaking in the background.

Like most mothers, I am a multi-tasker; the soup was inspired by my son Sebastien’s sickness, but also by my sense that it wasn’t enough to watch, to view. Obama is calling on all of us to do service. Well, the kind of service closest to my heart is cooking and caring for family and friends, so even though I had work to do and am fighting my own cold, I got my butt in the kitchen and did a little cooking. In honor of Obama.

I bought a pound of organic chicken thighs earlier in the day (I removed the skin but kept the bones) and tossed them in a big soup pot, with an onion, sliced in half, 4 cloves of garlic and a bouquet garni made up of 2 bay leaves, a handful of parsley, a handful of fresh thyme and a tablespoon of herbs de Province (the ingredients are tied up in a cheese cloth in a bouquet garni). I simmered the mixture for 1 hour. When the chicken was cooked through, drained the soup through a cheese cloth and mesh colander into a large bowl. I tossed the bouquet garni, the onion, and garlic and set the chicken aside to cool. I then put the broth back into the soup pot and separated the chicken from the bone, and put the into the pot as well. Added to this were two sliced carrots and a handful of egg noodles. I reheated the whole thing, bringing into a simmer for 10 minutes.

We ate it tonight for dinner, along with a whole wheat baguette from Blue Ribbon Bakery, which Steve picked up on his way home from bringing Sydney back from his school, PS3.

After dinner, we replayed Obama’s speech and I could finally relax—my family was safe and fed.

A Mid-Winter's Brunch

2009-01-12T11:00:00.013-05:00

The weather outside our apartment (notice the slightly cheesy Picasso sculpture--it's actually real.)

New York City winters can be brutal for families with young children. What do you do with two active kids on the weekends, when it is too cold and icy to play at the playground or even in front of our building? Most Manhattan families cope by arranging play-dates, attending cultural institutions including The Museum of Natural History or the knights and armor section of the Metropolitan Museum (but how many times can you look at dinosaur bones and medieval swords?) and going to the never-ending stream of enrichment classes--swimming, soccer, Mandarin, fencing, Spanish, tumbling, chess...the list goes on. Which of course results in smart, educated, cultured children (or so we want to believe), but also in families that spend all their spare money and time running rushing from place to place, and ultimately up feeling utterly exhausted by Sunday night. I try to keep things balanced, to limit the classes and allow for a little downtime in our lives, even boredom. I want our family to know what it means to relax, chill out, and just hang out home--even if it means watching TV together. This matters to me.

Clockwise from the top: Kimberly, Steve, Sue and Ward discussing the intricacies of pitching comic strips to the New Yorker Magazine.

I've also found hosting Sunday brunch a lovely way to pass the time. Less expensive than a dinner party--breakfast foods are always cheap and people tend to forgo alcohol or drink sparingly (which can be a big money-saver)--and more kick-back than a day at the Met, Sunday gatherings are a time when the kids can run around and the adults can sit at the table and catch up, read the paper and mind our children in a communal setting. I like the idea of creating a non-hectic space in our home for us to enjoy with our friends.

Last weekend we had Kimberly and her daughter Chloe ( age 1), Ward Suttton, a comic strip artist and Sue, his wife and business partner, and their children Yineth (6) and Octavio (2) over. New friends, Ward and Sue and Steve and I met because Sydney and Yineth are in the same K/1 class at PS3. After volunteering to help chaperon the children's bi-weekly swimming class, Ward and I got to be friends...and then, like everyone else in New York, it took us 3 months of emailing to finally get together.

Ward told us some hilarious stories about pitching the New Yorker magazine. His political cartoons are exceptional. Check them out here.

The kids frolic around the apartment.

Since Kimberly is a vegetarian who doesn't eat eggs (but loves her some cheese!), I decided to create a vegan menu with a vaguely Mexican theme--a simple guacamole with sweet white onions, piquant jalapenos, a bit of cilantro, a splash of lime and a sprinkling of salt, refried beans, whole wheat tortillas and a big tofu scramble. Then, feeling rather lazy, I simply opened up a jar of Trader Joe's Double Roasted Salsa for the table, and Ward and Sue brought bread and fruit to round out the meal. For drinks, I served up OJ and coffee, but if you wanted to, bloody mary's or a bit of prosecco would be a nice addition to any winter's brunch.

Menu

Guacamole and chips

Refried Beans

Tofu Scramble

Whole-wheat Tortillas

French baguette

Fresh cut-up fruit for kid-style snacking

Sebastien and Yineth with their swords and armor--way better than the Met.

Guacamole Recipe
I always seem to make my guacamole differently, depending on the season, the guests and what I have on-hand. Given that this recipe was created for a winter brunch, I skipped on the tomatoes (out of season) and went light on the jalapenos (in case Ward and Sue were sensitive to heat).

2 avocados, skin and seeds removed
1 jalapeno pepper, chopped without the seeds or internal membrane
1/2 white onion, chopped finely and rinsed under cold water (this removes some of the onion flavor that can "repeat" on guests)
2 tablespoons chopped cilantro
1 lime, juiced
salt and pepper to taste

Place all ingredients in a medium-sized bowl. Mix all ingredients together with a fork, leaving it slightly chunky.

Refried Beans
Ideally, I make refried beans from dried pintos that I cook in a broth of garlic, onions and cumin, over the course of many hours, and later imbibe with a shot of tequila for a killer flavor. When I haven't thought ahead, I open a can of pinto beans and call it a day. Here is the easiest refried beans recipe I can think of.

1 tablespoon canola oil (or olive, like me, that's all you stock)
1/2 white onion chopped finely
1 teaspoon ground cumin (I usually have whole seeds that I crush with a morter and pestle before adding. Mmmm fragrant!)
1 clove garlic, chopped finely
1 can pinto beans (Goya is a good brand), drained and rinsed
1/4 cup of water
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat oil in a heavy pan (I use my biggest iron frying pan) on high and add onion and cumin. Sautee for a few minutes, then add garlic. About 30 seconds after, add the can of beans and the water. Let it all sit for a minute, then smash it up with a fork or potato smasher until it is creamy. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve warm. (For a truly decadent dish, add crumbled bacon to the top.)

Chloe and Kimberly lounging on the (mostly likely dirty) floor.

Tofu Scramble

1 tablespoon canola or olive oil (or whatever fat you have on-hand)
1/2 white onion, chopped
1 clove garlic chopped
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 pound tofu, cut into 1" squares
2 carrots, grated
1/2 bag cleaned spinach
Salt and pepper
2-3 tablespoons jarred salsa (like Trader Joe's Double Roasted Salsa)--optional
2 tablesoons cilantro, chopped--optional

Heat oil in a cast iron pan, or equivalent. Once hot, add onion. Saute 2 minutes. Add garlic and red pepper flakes, and heat for 1 minute, then add tofu. Let the tofu fry for a few minutes, then flip using a metal spatula. Add carrots and cook for 2 minutes. Then add spinach until wilted. Sprinkle salt and pepper to taste and top with salsa and cilantro, if using.

Stephen and Sebastien's during a post-brunch nap.

Financially Crafty

2009-01-03T13:24:00.004-05:00

I am forever falling in love with blogs. Every other day I discover another online journal that inspires me with its authenticity of feeling, and a real sense of place and time--and individuality that is often missing in more professional media. My latest crush is Udandi & the Craft of Money. The brainchild of crafty lady Udandi, the blog features tips, essays and great advice for living the crafty life, on a budget. Find recipes, furniture make-overs and financial advice from this Cincinnati gal.

My Own Pathetically Small Kitchen

2009-01-03T07:38:00.005-05:00

Mark Bittman writes books, pens a NY Times food column and appears in PBS shows. When he recently photographed himself at his home readers commented on the size of his pathetically small kitchen. My first thought? I wish my kitchen was so clean!

Here is a photo of my husband Steve making waffles Sydney and Sebastien in our own sorry excuse for a kitchen.

The good news? Cooking rarely requires fancy equipment or large amounts of space. Good ingredients, proper technique and care matter more than expensive pots, gazillion dollar stoves and endless gadgets. I'd say the investment in a good Le Creuset pot, a cast iron pan, a couple of wooden spoons and be done with it. Save your money for fancy olive oil or a bottle of 2000 Bordeaux--or something else equally frivolous and utterly decadent.

Obama the Gastronome?

2008-12-30T14:12:00.004-05:00

And if he is a foodie, will it make a difference in actual US food policy?

Kim Severson recently wrote about Obama as the first foodie president at NY Times. Food advocate and guru Michael Pollan wrote an open letter to the pres-elect, also in NY Times calling for Obama to put food policy near or at the top of his agenda. LA native Eddie Gehman Kohan even started a blog devoted to Obama and Food Policy called Obama Food A-Rama. But will he actually make a difference--it's hard to say.

I have dreams (and who doesn't) of a better, more abundant food system than we currently have. By now, we all know the drill: more local options, less chemicals in our food, outlawing the worst aspects of factory farming so that the process is more humane to animals, workers and consumers, etc. But as we unravel the myriad of issues associated with our very complex food system and look for more elegant solutions, it seems restructuring the food system is more complex than just choosing organic or conventional produce at Whole Foods. And I can't but wonder if Gourmet editor Ruth Reichel, Michael Pollan, even the patron saint of eating locally Alice Waters would really be willing to do what is necessary to change the food system.

I can't wait to see what happens in the coming year...

A Winter's Feast with Friends

2008-12-25T13:39:00.003-05:00

This year, most of our friends are staying here for the holidays and not travelling their other homes--be it Tel Aviva, Beirut, Berlin, Los Angeles or London--to see their extended families and friends. We will remain in New York, even though as academics, artists, independent business people and freelancers, in year's past we would have traveled through December and January, escaping the cold dreary winter months of New York City. But this year many of the freelancers, including me, have been hurt by the economy and work everywhere is slow... even full-time folks have had pay freezes and no year-end bonuses. So in New York City, we stay. On the bright side, our Christmas dinner, or winter feast, will be very full.

In a series of emails and cell phone calls, we divided up the tasks among four families. Steve and I are in charge of hosting, supplying the pig, the mac-n-cheese and my quinoa and roasted butternut squash.

My butternut squash is roasting for my Quinoa and Roasted Butternut Squash Salad and soon I will put the ham in, which was procured from our favorite butcher, Pino, and opera music playing Sicilian man who greats everyone at his Sullivan Street shop with a loud "buongiornoa!" and a bloodied white apron. Then I'll tackle one of my favorite recipes from the New Basic Cookbook Baked Pasta and Cheese recipe. In it, rich with a creamy bechamel sauce is tossed with pasta (I like penne), topped with Gruyère and Parmigiano-Reggiano and baked until golden brown. Towards the end, I like to add some homemade bread crumbs made from Blue Ribbon Bakery's crutons.

The other families are bringing wine, cheese, appetizers, winter salads like farro with roasted fennel and braised endives. There are deserts, more kid food, baguettes, mini-carrots. We will eat until exhausted, pass out and wake up at 5am to the sound of our children screaming through the house.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

A French Winter's Soup

2008-12-21T07:51:00.020-05:00

In Traditional Chinese Medicine soup is regarded as an ideal health food--ingredients dance together in the pot making them easier to digest and more nutritious. This particular soup seems especially apropos of this concept. In it root vegetables are cut into uniform cubes and cooked together with some leeks, fennel and garlic. Served in large bowls topped with olive oil and fresh herbs, the dish is surprisingly satisfying; the fennel brings out the sweetness in the other vegetables and you end up with a soup that is both comforting and flavorful. Indeed the ingredients do seem to come together as if they had "danced" in the pot; the perfect antidote to holiday over-consumption.

The most efficient way to approach this recipe is to fill a large soup pot with about 8 cups of water, salt and a large drizzle of olive oil, then get to work chopping the vegetables, dropping them into the pot as you go. This requires fairly fast knife skills--feel free to do all your chopping ahead of time for less stressful cooking.

Ingredients
8 cups water

extra-virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons kosher salt
3 medium leeks, white and pale green parts only

1 bag fingerling potatoes (about 3/4 pound)

3 to 4 medium carrots

3 medium parsnips

2 medium turnips

1 small celery root

1 small fennel bulb

2 garlic cloves

Freshly ground black pepper
A handful of parsley
1 teaspoon of fresh herbs--thyme, rosemary, whatever you have on-hand.

*Adapted from "A New Way to Cook" by Sally Schneider

Directions

1. Start with the leeks. Slice them thinly and then soak to remove dirt.

2. While the leeks soak, chop the potatoes. I used small fingerlings so I didn't have to peel them. For all the vegetables, you want to dice them into uniform pieces--around 1/4 of an inch, give or take.

3. Drop the potatoes into the pot. Then drain and rinse the leeks one more time, and add them as well.

4. Next up, carrots are peeled, diced and dropped in the pot.

Sweet carrots from the farmer's market.

5. Do the same with the parsnips, turnips and celery root.

Turnips become mellow and delicious in this soup.

6. Remove the stalks of the fennel and the tough outer layer, then chop the root into 1/4 inch dice. Drop into the pot, along with a few cloves of smashed garlic. Add pepper.

7. Allow the soup to cook about 20 more minutes, partially covered on low heat.

8. While the soup cooks, take a few handfuls of parsley and a tablespoon or two of stronger fresh herbs such as thyme or rosemary, and place them in a mortar and pestle. Smash up, then add 2 tablespoons of olive oil and salt.

9. When the soup if finished (vegetables will be tender), correct salt and pepper and then ladle into bowls. Top with a few drizzles of the herb mixture and enjoy.

Makes 6 large servings, with leftovers.

La Taco--A Favorite New Blog

2008-12-08T12:32:00.003-05:00

After my recent visits to LA, enjoying its vast amounts of street food, I was happy to stumble upon this blog called LA Taco: Celebrating the taco lifestyle in Los Angeles, Califorinia. Saturated photos of street food and the amazing murals found all over the Southland, not to mention the world-famous taco. It seems like every taco joint, pupaseria and burger stand is covered--even from the flatlands of the Valley (I am an orinal Val, thank you very much). An essential guide for Angelenos, and the rest of us wanna-be's.

Beef Stew with Root Vegetables and Fresh Herbs

2008-12-05T15:18:00.006-05:00

It's been a rough week--Steve has been working almost every night and I am in the middle of a rather boring and tedious copy-writing assignment, plus Sebastien spent Tuesday night projectile vomiting every hour or so. It's amazing how a three year old wouldn't think to barf in the toilet or a bowl like the rest of us, but rather just every place but--like my bed, on the carpet, in the hallway, his own bed, on his carpet, on the couch, etc. I literally slept next to him with a large aluminum bowl in one hand and a towel in the other, waiting for the tell-tale signs of retching. I was thrown-up on twice.

But that is all behind me now. Friday is a day I always look forward to. I get to go grocery shopping and then I volunteer for lunch duty at Sydney's school--which is always rewarding. On my trip to Trader Joe's this morning, I found some organic stew meat and a package of pre-cut root vegetables including butternut squash, sweet potato and rutabaga. Next to the bags of prepackaged vegetables, was some prepackaged sage, which somehow called to me, so I threw it into my cart, feeling slightly guilty about the amount land-fill I was about to produce. (I felt even guiltier about not going to the farmer's market, which is only 2 blocks away, but I digress; at least I brought my own reusable bags.)

Once home, groceries delivered, kids picked up from school, I started thinking about dinner. I had taken some duck legs out of the freezer early in the morning, but they were still half -frozen, so I would save those for Saturday, when we had guests coming anyways. Perhaps chicken curry would be nice, but then I would have to cook something else for the kids and I hate making two different dinners.

Then I remembered I had recently read a recipe for beef stew that didn't require browning the meat first. Normally, I would be skeptical of this sort of short-cut, but it was from Jamie Oliver who rarely disappoints. In addition, I had a half bottle of French red wine in the fridge that was a few days old--and the stew would be a great way to use it up.

I simply switched up the recipe to accommodate my Trader Joe's loot and the dish was thrown together in mere minutes, even with Sebastien "helping" me. Feel free to use whatever root vegetables you have on hand in this recipe--carrots would be an obvious choice to add, or even Jerusalem artichokes. Your children will love this.

Beef Stew with Root Vegetables and Fresh Herbs
(Adapted from Jamie Oliver)

Ingredients
1 tblsp olive oil
1 tblsp butter
1 onion, peeled and chopped
a handful of fresh sage leaves
1.5 pounds beef stew
salt and pepper
2-3 tblsp white flour, for dusting
1 package peeled and cut root vegetables (or 3 cups butternut squash, sweet potatoes, parsnips etc.)
6 small yukon gold potatoes, cut in half
2 tablespoons tomato paste
½ a bottle of red wine (I used a bottle of V-Rac Cotes Du Rhones)
1 cup beef stock

zest of 1 lemon, finely grated
a handful of rosemary, leaves picked
1 clove of garlic, peeled and finely chopped

Pre-heat the oven to 300 degrees.

Heat olive oil and butter in a large dutch oven on the stovetop over medium heat. Once butter has melted, but not browned, add the chopped onion and sage leaves. Cook about 5 minutes. While onions and sage are cooking, sprinkle the meat with flour, salt and pepper, then add it to the pot, along with vegetables, tomato paste, red wine and beef stock. Bring everything to a boil and then place in the oven for 3-4 hours.

Combine lemon zest, rosemary and garlic in a small bowl. Serve stew in soup bowls topped with small amounts of the lemon zest mixture.

The Final Dinner Party Update

2008-12-03T20:27:00.009-05:00

Somewhere between the 15th and 25th dinner party, I sort of lost it. I stopped updating this blog, stopped exercising, stopped reading (!), stopped pitching articles, stopped doing anything but throw dinner parties. I become Mrs. Dalloway--the quest seemed to take over my whole life.

During my year-long journey, I got so into the cooking, the recipes, the wine, the procuring of ingredients, the whirlwind of making new friends, gathering guest lists, entertaining the kids, making the perfect i-tunes mixes, that I just stopped writing about the dinners. But maybe, like my Israeli friends would say, "This is good." I was in the moment, fully. Life is meant to be enjoyed, no? And really, after the first few parties, how much is there to tell? I have many other things to share, believe me.

Here's the important thing I learned: cooking for friends has had untold benefits to my life and my family's life. It's given me a deeper sense of community and helped launch friendships I might have otherwise not have had. I have two kids, a part-time job and a super-active social life. This is the direct result of my year-long quest. I no longer feel isolated, or like "just a mom." By bringing a diverse range of people to my dinner table, I have managed to hold onto some of my old "adult life." For this I am thankful.

On the negative side, I gained ten pounds, increased my wine intake and had less time to actually work on my writing. While the year was brilliant, I need to pull back a bit. Somewhere in all this is some sort of balance; I am trying to feel this out. But then again I've always been a bit prone to extremes.

Recently, I have been entertaining less, exercising more and focusing on our nightly dinners. But I still threw two great parties in the past month--a Halloween party and an election party. I am learning to ask others to bring dishes, wine, cheese. I am learning to let others clean up. This is good.

As I have done in the past months, I will continue to expand this blog to include book reviews (with recipes, of course), food essays and travel guides (with kids!).

Thank you for your loyalty--and staying tuned.

Jean

I Love LA Part 2

2008-12-02T05:57:00.010-05:00

The special's board at Burrito King

When I think about my hometown Los Angeles, I think of driving in the car down Sunset with the windows rolled down and the music turned up. I think of seeing the cops drive by and feeling scared. I think of Santa Anna winds and the feeling of the sun on my face. And I think of all the wonderful things to eat! Hamburgers, burritos, tamales, enchiladas. The list goes on.

As I have written about previously, LA is full of really great cheap eats. From great drive-thru's and burrito stands, to diners and cafes, it seems like every block holds some gem. Here is a list of some of my favorites that are particularly good for kids.

With the motto, “eat now, dine later,” Fred 62 is a diner with a family-friendly, yet punk-rock feel. Started by renegade chef Fred Eric, the menu features great American and Mexican classics served to a rock-n-roll soundtrack.

Sebastien loving the outdoor seating and Hot Doggie Dog at Fred 62.

For breakfast, the kids enjoyed sharing the dime-bag: pancakes, bacon, eggs, tomatoes and hash browns done to greasy perfection. They also liked the mac-n-cheese, a belly-bomb of noodles and crazy amounts of cheese broiled until slightly brown, the “Little Doggie Dog” and fries that must be inhaled, even by moms who are trying to watch their weight. Steve can’t seem to order anything but the Chill-Lee burger, a big juicy mound of overflowing beanless chili, blended smooth California-style, ground beef, crisp iceberg and surprisingly fresh tomatoes (in New York, tomatoes always taste out of season, no matter what time of year you order them) sandwiched between a toasted bun. With a ranchero habeneros sauce which is both spicy yet light, the breakfast enchiladas, made with black beans, egg whites, jack cheese and roasted pasilla chiles tucked into a couple of corn tortillas are my personal favorite.

The staff is always friendly and they have crayons and coloring pages for kids and the vibe is a mix of families, actress-types and tattooed Silverlake hipsters. Plus, the waitstaff wears shirts that say “Barack is Beautiful.” the only downside is the prices can be on the high side. 1850 N Vermont Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90027-4215, (323) 667-0062

The Cheese Burger from In-n-Out

In Annie Hall, Woody Allen's character Alvie Singer said about Los Angeles, "I don't want to move to a city where the only cultural advantage is being able to make a right turn on a red light." My children, ages 3 and 5, have another reason: you can eat in your car! And while I would generally not allow such crude behavior, with In-N-Out Burger it's hard to resist to avoid!

As you might have read in the super-smart and eye-opening Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser, In-N-Out Burger is one of the only fast-food joints which uses real, fresh food and has decent labor practices. Political correctness aside, there is nothing as divine as an In-N-Out Burger--crisp lettuce, fresh tomato, and super light, sweet buns make the difference here. I find the double-double too much to eat, but the cheese burger is sublime. Skip the fries—they are merely mediocre, but go for the delicious and smooth iced tea. For access to secret, unlisted menu items, go here.

I am not a fan of San Francisco-style burritos, huge flour tortillas stuffed with everything you could think of: lettuce, tomatoes, sour cream, rice, beans, cheese, salsa, guacamole and perhaps some protein. It's too many ingredients thrown together without enough thought. So I was pleasantly surprised that Burrito King on Sunset Blvd in Echo Park is still in business delivering Northern Mexican style burritos without a bunch of fussy ingredients. Take for instance the classic--bean and cheese. Simply rich, smoothly mashed pinto beans (with ample amounts of lard I assume) and shredded orange cheese. Or even the odd but delicious chile relleno burrito––a large green chile is stuffed with cheese, breaded then deep fried, and this whole yummy concoction is them placed in a tortilla with the lardy beans. While this is not the best place to order burritos in the area (let's face it, the competition is fierce), but it is very good and decidedly cheap.

The kids really liked their bean and cheese burrito--and one order filled our two boys' and their friend Ankha's stomaches. Steve and I made the mistake of each ordering our own chile relleno burrito--next time we will share. Also try the horchata, a rice milk drink flavored with cinnamin. 2109 W Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90026, (213) 484-9859

Behind the bar at Cafe Tropical

Café Tropical makes the strongest café con leche I have ever sipped. I literally was wired for hours after drinking a medium cup in the afternoon--and I am a coffee addict. When I lived in the neighborhood in my early twenties, every weekend included a morning run to this café, for the coffee and one of their guava and cream cheese pastries—the sweet fruit jam and creamy cheese perfectly balanced by a crisp phyllo dough. The scene is Silverlake cool; a combination of screenwriters, rockers and AA folks (they hold meetings in the back). The kids love the peanut butter cookies and the chocolate croissants. Also try the delicious media-noche sandwhich. 2900 W. Sunset Blvd. L.A., CA 90026, (323) 661-8391

Sebastien, Sydney and Steve enjoying snacks at Cafe Tropical.

Tracking Trader Joe's

2008-11-30T08:18:00.003-05:00

We have declared a new financial sobriety in our household. Even though I am finally earning money again, we are still in debt and with the economy in the crapper we've got to cut back even more. So I have decided to brave the crazy lines at Trader Joe's Manhattan for some cheap food, particularly now that the farmer's markets have less and less produce.

Looking for some tips on the best time to go, I happened upon this very cool blog called Tracking Trader Joe's. Featuring recipes using TJ products like quesadillas, plus other random Trader Joe news, it's definitely worth checking out.

I love LA

2008-11-24T11:13:00.007-05:00

New York may be rich with incredible restaurants, but given the current state of our bank account, we barely get to sample its fruit. Los Angeles, on the other hand, reigns supreme on thestreet food/cheap eats front. Which is why I always look forward to visiting the city I grew up in.

Case-in-point: after arriving Saturday night, we awoke (unfortunately at 4am--the boys had yet to adjust to the time difference) to a weather forecast of 70 degrees. We jumped in the car and started driving to Santa Monica, not really knowing where we would end up, but with a goal of a little beach time and some Mexican food. Driving down Main street, we discovered a farmer's market two blocks from the beach, parked for free (with a validation from the farmer's market) and set up chairs on the enormous beach. I went searching for lunch while the boys set about digging in the sand.

Back at the farmer's market, I bought some strawberries and took my time walking by the stalls lush with several colors of vegetables and fruit. By now, in NYC, our farmer's market is mostly just apples and a few winter squashes, but here, the bounty of local produce was still rich. I could get used to this.

The market also featured several prepared food vendors. I looked for the one with the longest line, a stall named "Gourmet Tamales."

I took my time in line debating which tamales to buy. There were several varieties of both sweet corn and more spicy, savory options. I ended up with a chicken and oregano, a chipotle beef, a goat cheese and basil with sweet corn, a cheese and poblano chile tamale and an order of rice and beans.

Back on the sand, Steve and I inhaled the lunch; the boys were too ecstatic from the open expanse of the beach to eat. The tamales were the best we've ever eaten. We unfolded the cheese and poblano tamale first, breaking it in half while the cheese stretched on and on, needing to be broken up by my fingers. The corn was perfectly stiff, the cheese was soft and the pepper piquant; all balanced together and made only better by dipping it into the smokey-but-not-too-hot accompaniment. The chicken tamale was heavy with oregano flecks, which gave it an herbal quality. I was surprised to find that my favorite, by far, was the goat cheese, basil and sweet corn. The cheese was warm with a bit of barnyard funk, and mellowed out by the delicious sweet corn crust.

Our bellies full, Steve and I sat back and enjoyed the view. The boys each went in their own direction, ridiculously happy with the sand and the sea.

Information on the Santa Monica Sunday Farmer's Market can be found here.

a thrifty girl's guide to la dolce vida

2008-11-21T15:29:00.005-05:00

I recently discovered the food/craft/fashion/decor/ blog, Pink of Perfection, by 25 year old Texan-native Sarah McColl.

Along with a frequently-updated blog, she creates super-cute, short videos that show you how to do everything from roast a chicken to make a yoga mat cover. 50's style vintage graphics and a home-spun vibe (I love that she cooks in a regular apartment kitchen on crappy white stove) make it super appealing.

The Idler's Dish

2008-11-18T13:37:00.006-05:00

“Idleness is not the opposite of working hard, but is instead a rare, hard-won mode in which your art is your work, and your work is your art." Joshua Glenn, from The Idler’s Glossary.

I have been carrying my worn copy of The Idler’s Glossary around with me for weeks now, its small volume tucked in a coat pocket or thrown into my tote, where it has lived among banana peels, half-eaten apples, a non-toxic water bottle, an i-phone, various uncapped pens, crayons, notebooks, pages of editing and various other accoutrement of my hectic life.

Written by Joshua Glenn and Mark Kingwell, illustrated by Seth, and published in September by Biblioasis, The Idler's Glossary contains spurts of short, philosophical prose. Covering the A-Z of idleness, including sloth, hedonism and freeloaders it makes an subtle argument for inactiveness.For instance, this entry for Flâneur:

Flâneur: "idle-man-about-town": O, how much is contained in that definition! Contrary to what you may have heard about him, the flâneur does not suffer from ennui, nor is he blasé. Instead he is an engaged aesthete who practices a kind of refined street theater, thumbing his nose at bustling urban crowds by loitering ostentatiously. For Baudelaire--who admired flâneurs like Nerval, who may or may not have walked a lobster on a pale blue leash--the "perfect flâneur" is that urbanite who is neither aloof from the crowd nor surrendered to it, but both at once: this "kaleidoscopic" faculty allows him to perceive the subtle eruptions if the infinite into the everyday. See: DRIFTER, IDLER, INDOLENT.

****

I found myself enjoying the book most when I needed an escape; in spare moments at the playground, waiting for the kids to get out of class, or at the most idle of moments––a stolen hour at a café (“historically, one of the idler’s favorite haunts"). The thing that makes The Idler’s Glossary so ideal for such occasions is that it demands enough of your brain to remind you that you have one, but not so much as to make you feel like a jackass for how little you actually use it. Reading the book requires a certain idleness in itself.

Case in point: the introduction, written by the philosophy professor Mark Kingwell, contains not only references to Aristotle and La Tzu, but my kids' favorite prophet, Yoda.

The true idler knows that using the adjective ‘true’ does not commit him to any special rules of idling, even his own. Try not. Said the impatient Yoda said to Luke Skywalker. Do. Or do not. There is no try.

Exactly. The gift of the idler is that she can just be, without having to scrape out some identity by producing recognition among the larger society, particularly through monetary rewards. What if, the idler supposes, being is enough—and to make an art of this being, to take living seriously is what life is about? Idleness is about circumventing the whole working/not working paradigm. To idle is to engage fully, for engagement's sake.

***

As Mark Kingwell points out there is nothing more idle than this glossary. A glossary, after all, usually comes at the end of a book—in this case the glossary stands on its own, with an entire treatise in the beginning as its introduction. As a conflicted yet considerable idler, as this blog would prove, I find a certain affirmation here and a sense of historical continuance—many writers and philosophers I have always admired, Henry Miller, Baudelaire, among others, were idlers too.

While Kingwell instructs us not to thank Glenn for writing the book––as an idler, creating the book should be gift enough--I wanted to do something for him. So I decided to cook a dish in honor of his achievement. Perhaps one day I will make it for him and his family if they ever come to New York City.

***

But what to create? At first I thought I’d make something decidedly French, like a big piece of beef braised for hours in red wine and herbs, as a reference to the country which has produced and influenced hundreds of idlers. But no merci, that would be too obvious a choice.

Red meat in general, while perfectly suitable for dinner parties, would also be out. It would conjure up too many memories of “meat and potatoes” for a book with intellectual references. Chicken, of course, would be too pedestrian, and pork, while my favorite meat, just didn't seem fitting.

A safe bet, for sure, would be to cook some sort of seafood dish—maybe a paella with mussels and clams or a Bouillabaisse stew redolent of the flavors of Marseilles--orange peel, basil, fennel, saffron, garlic, onions and leeks. Except that I don’t like cooking fish—its delicate nature always seems too precious for me.

After all this deliberating, I realized that Glenn could be vegetarian or follow other dietary restrictions. I paused for only a moment and moved on. I could not be held up by food avoidance (real or imagined).

Then I remembered that I could procure duck quite easily in the city. Rare, yet not necessarily expensive, duck implies a certain cosmopolitanism that matches the tone of The Idler’s Glossary. I mean, Europeans eat duck. The Chinese—overachievers that they are--eat duck. Coming from Long Island and organic to boot, my duck could also be very old world food production rather than modern day factory-farmed, so that by doing very little, everyone eating the duck would feel quite good about themselves. Duck legs being both impossible to overcook and more economical than a whole duck would be perfect.

Now what to do with said duck legs?

I figured the dish would need to be slow-cooked—there is something extremely seductive about having to remain home for a few hours because you have something cooking on the stove. The gym is certainly out of the question, as is any extra-curricular outdoor activities with your children. A deeply satisfying preparation, with just enough richness that it could be consumed with a glass or two of wine and require a nap afterward. (The Glossary contains at least seven entries associated with sleeping).

So I turned to the New York Times food columnist Mark Bittman. His recipe for Slow-Cooked Duck Legs with Olives fit the proverbial bill. Succulent duck legs cooked slowly for a few hours, in a sauce rich with the flavors of garlic, olives, tomatoes, herbs and vegetables. A bit french, a bit new world, sort of modern with a nod to the past. Delicious.

I have included a version of it here. For Josh.

SLOW-COOKED DUCK LEGS WITH OLIVES
Time: 2 hours

8 duck legs
10 or more cloves garlic
2 cups olives, preferably a combination of green and black
3 or 4 sprigs thyme
1 28-ounce can tomatoes with their juice
1 large onion, roughly chopped (optional)
2 carrots, roughly chopped (optional)
2 celery stalks, roughly chopped (optional)
Salt and pepper
Chopped parsley (optional) for garnish

1. Trim all visible fat from the duck legs, then lay them in a large, broad skillet. They can overlap if necessary. Turn the heat to medium, and add the remaining ingredients except the parsley. When the mixture reaches a lively simmer, turn the heat to low, and cover.
2. Check the mixture occasionally. It should be bubbling gently. Cook until the duck is very tender, about 1 1/2 hours. Remove the duck to a warm plate, and cover (or place in a very low oven), then turn the heat to medium-high under the remaining sauce. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is reduced to a thick, saucelike consistency, about 10 minutes. Spoon over the duck legs, garnish with parsley if you like, and serve.

Yield: 4-6 servings.

Impromptu Dinner Party

2008-10-19T08:47:00.005-04:00

Quinoa and Roasted Butternut Squash Salad

When you live in Manhattan with two small children, separated from your relatives by 3000 miles, community is more than a word, it's a lifeline. Your friends become your extended family, the people you call when you desperately need a babysitter, when you don't know how to handle a school bully, or when you just need assurance that everyone yells at their kids once in a while.

I first met Laurie and Michael at Washington Square Park at 8:00am on a Saturday morning. They were there with their toddler twins, I was pregnant with my own toddler in tow. Who else but the parents of young boys would be out and about so early in the morning?

It would take another year or so, of seeing each other every weekend, before we became friends. I started bringing thermoses of coffee to share with them. They invited us to dinner. The four of us went to Lupa and bonded over our love of ideas, books and years spent in therapy offices.

Now we don't really make weekend plans––meeting up in the keypark with the kids and our other dear friends is a given. When it gets cold, we take turns hosting each other for indoor playdates, sometimes made sweeter by a glass of champagne or a Bloody Mary. They give us hand-me-downs for our youngest son. I like to cook for them.

Around 5:00pm yesterday, Michael called Steve to see what we were doing. I think the kids were driving him crazy and they needed to get out of the house and Laurie was at the gym. Since we've been in that state before (children gone wild, too much indoor time, needing another adult around), and Steve was planning on making pizza with our kids, we invited them over for dinner. Laurie would pick up a bottle of wine and come later.

Since Laurie doesn't eat wheat, I decided to make something more grown-up for the adults. I had a butternut squash I needed to use up and some quinoa in the cupboard, and so this recipe came to be. Inspired by a farro recipe I found on 101 Cookbooks, I merely substituted quinoa for the farro and changed up a few other things. For a little extra protein, I roasted up a single pork tenderloin and served it sliced over a bag of pre-washed spinach I had in the fridge that I sauteed for less than a minute in two cloves of garlic and a tablespoon of olive oil. Much more healthy and yet not vegetarian, which would never suit the meat-loving Frenchie part of me.

With it, we drank a 2006 Tres Picos, which is less then $15 and great with roasted squash. We quickly enjoyed our meal while the boys watched Wallace and Gramace in our bedroom. The quiet would not last long--before we could finish, the movie ended, the kids were cranky, the meal ended a bit prematurely. Still, it was a lovely evening.

Quinoa and Roasted Butternut Squash Salad

3 cups of cooked Quinoa, prepared according to package
1 Butternut Squash, cut into 1-inch dice
salt
5 tablespoons olive oil (total)
3 sprigs of fresh thyme, leaves removed and chopped
2 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
2-3 chopped green onions
a handful of chopped walnuts
1 small button of goat cheese, crumbled
a handful of parsely

Preheat over to 450.

Place cubed butternut squash on a roasting pan, and toss salt, pepper, thyme, one tablespoon of balsamic vinegar and 2 tablespoons of olive oil directly over squash. Mix with your hands to combine and roast in the over for 15-20 minutes.

Using a large shallow serving bowl, spread cooked quinoa around the bottom. When squash is finish, pour it over the quinoa, still warm. Top with green onions, walnuts, goat cheese and parsley. Drizzle with remaining olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

Enjoy with people you love.

Autumn Love Soup

2008-10-17T20:52:00.007-04:00

I first fell for my husband Stephen on our second date, although it would take a marriage proposal and several months of anxiety to accept the fact that it was love at first hike. We went on an out-of-the-city-journey together (my idea) with his doberman Bukie, who was named after the Russian Anarchist Joseph Buchanan (he is that kind of guy). We drove slowly up the NY State Parkway to Bear Mountain in his old Dodge Dart, which was rusty but spotless and Steve had installed a beautiful floral frabric to the interior roof. I brought a mixed tape of obscure folk and punk songs for us to listen to (I am that kind of girl). It was fall and the air was New England crisp and when we started hiking, the leaves that lay around us like a crunchy carpet made me feel almost high and very alive. This mixed with the lack of sleep from a previous late night left an almost hallucinogenic haze to the whole day.

Steve was smart and attractive (skinny legs, intense eyes, thick lips), but untrustworthy in his baggy Carheart pants and an old sweater. His reputation (women fell for him, and often) preceded him. As we walked and talked, sometimes out of breath, I fell more and more under his spell. Since discovering postmodern theory as an undergrad, I had been, perhaps naively, looking for others who also saw the world as unfixed, unsettled; someone who would want to question and deconstruct everything, but also who wanted to build something in its place. Not merely stasis and nihilism, but growth in the midst of chaos. Steve was someone who felt the same way. But I had been dissapointed by the young and intellectual before. It was New York, afterall, and well-read, delicate, smart men are a dime a dozen in this town.

Around lunchtime, Steve produced not only a lovely bottle of wine, which we sipped but did not finish, but a picnic of mozzarella sandwiches with tomato and pesto. I was feeling the seduction. We kissed on the top of a hill while the dog tried to tear apart a tree branch. Afterward, full and sleepy, we got lost trying to get out of the forest. Four hours later, we emerged at the car dizzy from talk, the kind of crazy conversations you usually have in your dorm room. (The prerequisite, of course is that you are high on mushrooms or vast amounts of marijuana, but alas, we were sober.) Somehow we ended up actually having that conversation. The one where you take things apart and play with ideas and try to find the meaning of it all. Geeky, you might say. Well yes, I suppose it was. But it was also incredibly romantic. Maybe we've lost that in our world.

Anyways, what we came up with was not really sublime, nor brilliant, just simply that when it comes to love, men and women need to rewrite the script of what we do together. The old dialog, the settings, even the props, they just don't work any more, no matter how many chick-flicks and self-help books say otherwise. Women get pissed off and men sulk and women write books like "The Bitch in the House." The old script is like "the Boy in the Plastic Bubble" TV special. It's not only no longer meaningful, it is boring. We wanted something much more colorful and real, like an Almovodar film. While not ever speaking about each other, or the possible relationship we might begin, we said, love could be contingent, contextual, based on real things and wants and desires, not outmoded ideas of what is right, or what should be. Love could be about people growing and people being messy, not a fantasy of love. Heavy for a second date I know, but Steve and I are both exceedingly dramatic and being writers, well, writerly.

Fall always reminds me of this hike and brings me back to the time when we set out to redefine love and ended up with what amounts to a rather ordinary marriage and family. Life is funny that way. When we met, everything seemed more..intense. Now Steve has less hair and I am carrying 15 extra pounds. We bitch at each other, and pass gass and floss and have bad breath. We stink. We are boring, cranky, neurotic, self-indulgent. Ten years later, the reality is rather mundane. And yet...and yet. We still love to talk to each other, to take things apart, to strive to live somewhat meaningful lives. We still try to--and fail--to make it up as we go, to let go of the right way, to continually rewrite our script. We are indeed, still madly in love.

And somehow I always come back to a meal we share, a bottle of wine, a little conversation, maybe a British mystery to watch together. It feels right somehow, the everydayness of it. Recently I made this soup. Reminds me of the earth, of autumn, the easiness of our life together. Just some dry beans, some herbs, a bit of sausage freshly made by our butcher. When you are young, you want everything to be so grand. As I get older, the simple pleasure of something warm like a beautiful soup shared with the man I love seems quite satisfying. And so I share this recipe with you.

Ceci Bean Soup
Adapted from Mark Bitten's NY Time's Column and Blog

1 1/2 cups dried ceci beans (chickpeas)
5 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced
3 sprigs rosemary or thyme
1 medium to large carrot, peeled and diced small
1 celery stalk, peeled and diced small
1 medium onion, peeled and diced small
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/2 pound sausage, grilled or broiled, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil, or to taste

How to Cook

1. Rinse ceci beans in water. Place in a large pot and cover with water.Cover pot, bring to a quick boil, turn off heat and allow beans to soak for one hour.
Drain beans and discard soak water.
Add sliced garlic and rosemary or thyme to beans and coer with fresh water. Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer, partly covered, for at least 1 hour, or until cecis are fairly tender. Add additional water if necessary, and skim any foam that rises to the surface.
Scoop out herbs and add carrot, celery, onion, salt and pepper. Continue to cook until cecis and vegetables are soft, at least 20 minutes longer.
Using a handblender directly in the pot, blend the soup, but only partially, leaving most of the soup rather chunky.
Add the minced garlic and sausage, and reheat, adding more water if the mixture is too thick. Taste, adjust seasoning and serve, drizzled with the olive oil.

Enjoy with people you love.

müller-thurgau

2008-06-02T10:46:00.006-04:00

Although I love wine, I have neither the personality nor the budget to pursue it to the degree of say my own grandfather, a French restauranteur, or my friend Jalal, a mathematician, who has purchased several cases of hand-selected wines for his three-year-old daugher Suraya, which he stores in a cellar outside of Paris. (My own two preschoolers, both of whom are fond of Suraya, are currently being subjected to sublimal messaging by me whilst sleeping: Marry Suraya, Marry Suraya. It's the only way I'll ever be able to taste such sublimeness).

Instead I go up and down the aisles of the New York City wine shop, Astor Wines, looking for bargains, often with one or two of the kids with me, rushing, and trying to remember recommendations given to me by Jalal, Peter, Laura or any of my other more worldly, wine-aware friends. And even if I had access to some exquisite wine, I would never have the will-power to hold onto to it––in a week, or month, I would crack it open and share it with my friends. I am too mired in instant gratification for collecting.

Jalal, who we just happen to be fortunate enough to live in the building next door to, was explaining wine pricing to me the other day at lunch, while we ate sopresetta, buffalo mozzarella, tomatoes, proscuitto and bread, all procured from Jalal and Suraya's weekly Saturday morning forays into Little Italy and drank little glasses of cold Vinho Verde, the lightly sparkling Portuguese wine. "The difference between a $60 bottle of wine and a $20 bottle of wine is significant," he stated in his lovely cosmopolitan voice, a mixture of Lebanese and thirty years of Greenwich Village dwelling. "It is all in the smoothness that the aging process brings to it, " he declared. His wife, a brit named Debra rolled her eyes and asked if we wanted more wine.

This conversation got me thinking: I never seem to veer past the $15 range, but maybe it would be worth saving up for something special. After the recent articles and studies about the effect a wine's price has on our experience of the vino itself, I was beginning to think I should stick with the $10 and under set, which of course I will have to anyways for day-to-day drinking (and with two boys, ages 3 and 4, believe me, I need my wine). But what about age, nuance and the other care that goes into a really exceptional bottle? I hope to learn more about this.

In the meantime, during my last case-buying expedition to Astor, I bought several bottles of Gazela vinho verde, which retails at $3.99, and splurged on a couple bottles of my new favorite white wine, which is closer to $20. The Graziano Fontana müller-thurgau comes Trentino in Northen Italy, near the borders of Switzerland and Austria; a region I learned this morning in one of the many wine books I have purchased and rarely opened, is celebrated for its unoaked chardonnay and sauvignon blanc wines. Lesser known, is the müller-thurgau grape which thrives in higher altitudes of this area. It’s a lovely, lower alchohol white wine which manages to be refreshing yet still full of character. Popular in Germany, the müller-thurgau grape can turn from aromatic to cloying, yet in the high altitude of Trentino, its dry and not too heavy.

I’ve sampled the 2006 müller-thurgau by the producer Graziano Fontana a few times, and each time I like it more. This winery is quite small (which appeals in a very Mondovino-sort of way)—just ten acres of vines, and according to a distinguished source (ie a web site) the wines are produced with care and a proud of sense of terroir. I’m interested in tasting wine from the nearby Pojer & Sandri vineyard to see how its Müller-thurgau stands up. And next time I go to dinner at Jalal's, I'll bring him a bottle just to see what he thinks.

Recipe: Pasta with Pancetta, Capers and Broccoli Rabe

2008-05-21T12:36:00.003-04:00

Pasta with Pancetta, Capers and Broccoli Rabe

I developed this recipe for Wine Guerilla's new cookbook, which emphasizes dishes that pair well with their California Zins.

Although most people think of pairing Zinfandel with meat dishes like grilled steak or Barbeque, I quite like it with hearty pasta dishes, such as this one. The ripeness of the Zin balances out the edgier flavors of the salty pancetta, the heat of the red pepper flakes and bitterness of the greens. To make a great vegetarian version that works equally well, omit the pancetta and add an extra teaspoon of capers. Enjoy!

Serves 4 as a second course.

1 box farfalle pasta

Sauce

2 to 3 slices pancetta
1/2 medium onion, chopped
1 bunch broccoli rabe, washed, tough stalks removed and chopped fine
1 teaspoon capers
1 teaspoon dried red pepper flakes
1 tablespoons olive oil (best quality you can find)
1/4 cup Romano Cheese

Put water for pasta on to boil.

Fry pancetta in a large skillet. When done, remove from hear and drain on paper towels. Drain fat from pan, except for 1 tablespoon. (Vegetarians: Omit pancetta. Use 1 tablespoon olive oil here.)

Saute onion in skillet until it begins to turn translucent. Add garlic and broccoli rabe and cook on medium heat, adding a few splashes of water if garlic starts to burn. Cook until broccoli rabe is tender.

Return pancetta to skillet and add capers and pepper flakes. Turn off heat, drizzle the olive oil over the broccoli rabe, and cover.

Cook pasta according to the package instructions. When pasta is done, drain, add the broccoli rabe and Romano cheese, and toss well.

The Joys of a 1000Square Foot Rental

2008-01-29T14:40:00.000-05:00

Our Building (In Center). Photo by Ivan Gilkes

I admit, living in the middle of Manhattan, in a rather small apartment with two rambunctious boys, a husband and a home office, does get tedious at times. There is the fact that I work mere inches from where I sleep, and that there is only one bathroom, which often offers a nice whiff of urine, as the boys are not yet adept at getting the pee in the bowl--Sebastien, our youngest, just started potty-training (today he even "dropped a duce" in the toilet, go Seb!)--and that our kitchen is so tiny two people cannot operate in it simultaneously. And the living room is strewn with toys and about 2000 books belonging to my husband and all they do is collect dust.

But don't feel too bad for me. Because small can be grand. When I vacuum the house, which I admit is more rare than it should be, I can reach every corner of our space without unplugging the cleaner. How's that for convenient? We never have to do yard work and if the toilet is clogged or the sink won't drain, our maintenance men come within the hour to fix it. We don't even own our refrigerator, so when that broke down, they brought us a loaner fridge until ours was fixed. There are five other families in various forms on our floor, so if we ever need a cup of milk or someone to watch the kids for five minutes while we run to the store, we just knock on the door. Our carbon footprint, living in the city, in a large building like we do, without a car, is smaller than if we lived upstate on some idyllic farm. Call me crazy, but I think raising a family in a high rise in the middle of a big chaotic city is where its at.

I know, I know, the poor children never get to play in the backyard. Instead we go to our local park when its warm, and the kids get to actually socialize with their neighbors. Or they play soccer on the grass in front of our building or ride their scooters around the fountain at Washington Square Park. While our apartment is heavily subsidized by Steve's employer, NYU, I don't know that the suburbs would be a less expensive option. Factor in the car payments, insurance, mortgage, transportation costs, extra childcare needed because of the commute and the additional alcohol and drugs we'd take to counterbalance the alienation, and I think it would cost us more money to move to a nice house that we owned.

Look, I know there are cool people in the suburbs and great families and that opening your door and letting the kids run around outside is a very good thing. And, I know there are those that will be offended by my suburban slagging (my mother included) and will remind me that not everyone can afford the city. I accept all your criticisms. The city is too, too expensive. But what isn't these days? And yes home ownership is a great safety net, until the bank forecloses on your mortgage. I get that. But answer me this: why oh why does every middle class family in America need so much freaking space? What do you do with all those rooms? Are you avoiding your children? If so, how? My children like to be in the same room as me, even when I go to the urine-scented bathroom, so even if I could go in another room, my two would just follow me around telling me that so and so stole this or demanding juice boxes or begging for TV or telling me their butts itch. What's the benefit in that? All I can think of when I see large living spaces is "Ugh, can you imagine cleaning that humongous place?" and "Damn, what are the heating costs?"

Now of course, sometimes, I worry I might be missing out. Like when I visit my family in Los Angeles, where all my relatives live in stunning homes filled with light and tasteful decor and more than ample space for gardens, multiple TV's etal, accept for my sister Denise, who is a life-long renter like myself, but her apartment is still nicer than ours and almost as big, even though she is just one person. And when I visit them in their suburban splendor, sure I get jealous of the pools and their smug homeownership. And when I come back to NYC, I miss driving to Target and Trader Joe's and filling up the rented SUV with all the stuff, and throwing the kids in the back and listening to KCRW's morning becomes eclectic as I drive around burning fuel at the drive through of In-and-Out Burger.

It's what I know. I grew up in a lovely house, designed by my architect father, in the San Fernando Valley, where family upon family lived out their middle class dreams. My grandparents saved and saved to own a home, their proudest achievement. And here I am, living in rental sin, and loving every minute.

Super-Wonderful Wine (under $20)

2007-12-23T11:42:00.000-05:00

My friend Peter is most definitely not a wine importer--he has chided me many times for describing or introducing as such. Rather he works for a wine importer. He prefers beer to wine, doesn't drink coffee, and unlike everyone else in Manhattan, he does not boast nor brag about himself. He is humble to a fault. At first I found his slackadasical attitude towards the grape (and everything else really) confusing; he knows the restaurant and wine worlds quite well, has an excellent palette, and yet he seems quite bored with it all. He actually says things like, "Oh, it's so hard going on all these wine tours in Italy. I get so tired of eating and drinking." He would rather talk about indie rock harpist Joanna Newsom than argue terroir. But his whatever attitude is actually quite refreshing and it means that when he actually likes a wine, it's very, very special.

Enter a layered, fruity, complex white wine from Valle Isarco in Northern Italy. I recently order a mixed case from Peter,letting him do the selecting. The first bottle I opened was this little dream--Cantina Produttori Valle Isarco EKK Kerner Della Valle Isarco Sudtirol-Alto Adige Eisacktaler DOC - 2006. It is made in a more German or Austrian style than you'd expect from an Italian wine, with a nice amount of crispness. Apples, peaches, a bit of cream, it's utterly delicious, with just enough acid to work amazingly well both on its own or with food.

I served it with Thai food--a super-fast "shrimp in coconut sauce" I made last night. I heated coconut milk with a teaspoon of curry pasted, added some meyer lemon, broiled the shrimp, steamed some broccoli in the microwave and threw all of it on leftover brown rice. Topped with chopped cilantro and green onions, it was a perfectly OK weeknight meal. The wine made it very Friday night.

We finished the bottle watching the Grinch Who Stole Christmas with our two boys, feeling less Grinch-like than usual.

And Now for Some Good News

2007-12-04T08:50:00.000-05:00

Photo by KatieW

We've all read the articles about the benefits of red wine and moderate drinking. Now I found a blogger who claims that it works to ward of illness. Brilliant for me, then that I drink a half bottle of vino each night. Maybe I'll be illness-free this winter.

I Love Rachael Ray and I Feel Fine (sort of)

2007-11-05T15:35:00.001-05:00

To make ends meet, I moonlight as a beauty writer for a British perfumery. While in the office one day for a meeting, one of the art directors noticed a copy of Rachael Ray’s Everyday in my bag.
"What!" She cried. "Whose magazine is that?!?!" with a look of horror on her face.

Now, granted, this young woman is thirty, single and more prone to standing at a bar downing shots than over a hot stove. Still, I had a moment of hesitation and embarrassment. Because I live in Manhattan I delude myself that I am somehow immune to the truth of my life: I rarely leave my apartment save to pick up the kids from preschool in the East Village, grocery shop or go to Pilates. This hot young thing led me to once again face reality: I am not the hipster I was ten years ago.

Clearly, Sydney, age four, Sebastien, who is two and a half, and I are the only ones of our social set who admittedly love the queen of cute, Rachael Ray. But I must stand by my woman––I love her recipes—they are fast, flavorful and healthy. When you cook seven nights a week and eat lunch and breakfast at home almost everyday, you need ideas to get you by. Compared to the almost pornographic Giada and the somewhat dunderheaded Emeril and the rotund Mario, Ray is a calm, solid force. Yes, I know she has dumb sayings (EVOO anyone?), but I can forgive her these. Alton Brown is equally quirky—and also helpful—but no one goes on and on about how annoying he is. Plus it is the ONLY show my kids will watch with me and her recipes always delight everyone in the family. The funny thing is, I cook her dishes for my refined food-and-travel-world friends (the very ones who look at me with sympathy when I mention I love her: “the poor girl has gone not only domestic but dumb as well”) and they LOVE the meals I make.

The other thing is, as a graduate of the prestigious Food Studies program at NYU, I should know better. Our graduate program used cultural studies texts like Consuming Geographies by Bell and Valentine and French theorist Jean Baudrillard, not to mention Mark Kurlansky’s Cod and Fast Food Nation, by Eric Schlosser. Even in the food and pop culture class, Ray was never discussed. She was indeed almost unmentionable.

Paradoxically, it is because I studied food from a sociological, historical and cultural perspective, enough to make me a certified foodie, that I can embrace the appeal of Ray, who manages to marry the joys of the culinary without the pretentiousness of high-end of food culture. Ultimately, what you discover when you look at the worlds around refined food, is that what you eat tells stories about who you are. In New York, where, how and what we eat helps defines our status. People mention restaurant openings and reservation lists like some might mention a Hermes bag.

How does a recipe from Thomas Keller define a person differently than one from Ray? The Keller recipe takes two days, expensive ingredients and may or may not have been properly tested. Not so Ray’s recipe. She thinks about real working women’s lives and how to make them easier so that they can enjoy food.

But maybe the truth is: I just like her, in all her silliness and what-not, the woman hits something in me that feels wholesome and bright and good. Now this might make me dumb, delusional, and square, but at least I am well-fed.

Slate defends Ray.

Next Time Order Pizza, Too

2007-11-02T05:17:00.000-04:00

While I woke up this morning slightly bleary, our Halloween party was, on the whole a a ruckus success. There was chaos, and more chaos, intense feasting on candy, pink champagne, a pint-size dance party to New Order's Blue Monday and trick or treating through the bacchanalian halls of our 30-story building. And most of the party had cleared out by 7:30, leaving us to catch up with our good friends who stayed on for another glass of red wine and a bath for the wee ones. I even cleaned the oven before I went to bed.

There were no goodie bags, no chicken fingers and no organized activities. I figure there is so much about our kid's lives that are kid-ized and bastardized to fit a rather narrow--and dare I say commercial--viewpoint that children must always be ENTERTAINED or worse, EDUTAINED. Our parties cater towards parents having a good time, engaged in community, not just standing around awkardly watching our children in some lame activity.

Next time, however, I will make a concession. Being the smug bastard that I am, I'll remind you, dear readers, that my children eat a wide variety of food, mostly because I only make one meal each night for the family, which they can either eat or go hungry. So they eat sushi, noodle soups, kale, pork roast, pad thai, whatever is not spicy or strangely made of potatoes or squash (go figure). But at a party with extreme mayhem, even my kids need easy finger food so they will actually eat something. My brilliant, "let's be healthy!" idea to serve beans and rice and whole wheat tortillas on plates for the kids, wasn't the greatest. The kids did end up crazier than perhaps warranted.

Dinner for 25

2007-10-31T08:37:00.000-04:00

After an extended hiatus, I am once again entertaining. We have invited all the families we know to come to celebrate Halloween and go trick-or-treating in our 30 story building.

Steve wanted to just order pizzas...but I just couldn't bring myself to serve it. Not that I don't love a good slice, but not for a party. So, I'm slow-cooking a large chunk of pork shoulder dusted with cumin to shred for tacos. I'll serve it with corn tortillas and a fresh salsa. For the vegetarians, I'm boiling up a huge pot of black beans, and doing butternut squash cut into chunks, roasted with a fennel-oregano rub. I also ordered samosas, phyllo squares and those little franks in blankets from Fresh Direct.

It's 9am. I have to finish an article, clean the house, cook all the food and pick up the boys at 3:00pm. Triple espresso here I come.

Roast Your Own

2007-10-22T08:22:00.001-04:00

My friend Dan sent me this exceedingly cool recipe for roasted cashews from the blog Fanatic Cook.

Must try this at home. Maybe to add to my squash-curry soup...Going to update my recipe later this week.

Juice Fast Gone Bad

2007-10-17T15:47:00.000-04:00

Photo by abbyladybug

Note to self: Never go on a juice fast. Will result in maddening headache, extreme hunger mixed with a large dose of the grumpies, followed by the need to strangle husband and toss children out the window.

Steve and I had high hopes for our juice fast. We bought a juicer, about twenty pounds of kale, carrots, beets, and apples from the farmer's market and hired a babysitter to come over at 5:00 so that we could take in a movie and forget about our hunger.

We started the day with a cup of miso and some green tea. For snack, we downed kale, ginger, carrot and lemons, juiced down to a small glass.

We took the children to the key park and distracted ourselves catching up with our friends as the kids played and fought. Then, Sebastien had a tempter tantrum and I started really needing a cup of coffee.

Once home Sydney began to cry because we weren't eating lunch with him. I wanted to cry too. Steve stomped around the house, banging dishes and grumbling about stupid detox plans.

Around 1:00 I started feeling extremely lethargic and, after cleaning up the kids lunch dishes and putting Sebastien down for a nap and plopping Sydney in front of a tivo'd Scooby Doo, I fell into a restless, sweaty, miserable sleep. By 3:00, Steve and I were counting the minutes until the sitter arrived and downing more juice, followed by green tea in an effort to clear our heads and rid ourselves of the pounding pain in our temples.

We argued and bickered about who cleaned what when. We juiced. We drank miso broth.

By 5:00, when the sitter arrived, we were about to rip each other's hair out. A night out alone together, for the first time in over a month, was too precious to spend hungry and pissed off. So we ditched the fast, feeling slightly guilty, and headed over to this vegan restaurant in the East Village called Angelica's Kitchen for some steamed veggies and brown rice and corn bread with this crazy-good spread. Fasting just isn't for us.

Afterwards, with our bellies filled and our sanity restored, we went to see that new George Clooney movie that I can't remember the title of. It was great.

The Miso-Tahini Spread That Brought Us Back From the Edge

Recipe from Angelica's Kitchen Cookbook

1/3 Cup mellow barley miso
1/2 cup water
1 1/3 cup tahini

Combine the miso with 1/2-cup water in a food processor. Puree until creamy.
Add tahini and process until smooth.

Cover and refrigerate. It will keep up to 5 days.

Pumpkin Soup Recipe

2007-10-10T16:57:00.000-04:00

Trick your children into eating more vegetables with this “pumpkin” soup recipe. You can use a combo of any winter squash available. I used acorn squash ( “green pumpkin”) and a red kuri squash, which I roasted for an hour then blended with coconut milk and a teaspoon of mellow curry paste. Curry paste can be replaced with the warm spice of cinnamon and nutmeg if your little ones veer towards the fussy.

1 small acorn squash
1 small red kuri squash or pumpkin
2 tbsp Olive Oil
Salt
1 can coconut milk (my mom tells me coconut oil is very beneficial for the skin and vital organs so I go with the full-fat kind)
1 tsp mild curry paste or curry powder to taste
OR 1/2 tsp cinnamon and a pinch of nutmeg
1/4 cup cilantro
Hot Sesame Oil

Preheat stove to 400 degrees.

Slice each squash in half. Scoop out seeds and discard or clean and roast pumpkin seeds for a pepita topping (I’m too lazy).

Sprinkle half a tbsp of oil into each cavity and spread with clean fingers. Sprinkle with as much salt as you can handle (I’m such a fan of salt) and then place them, skin side down, onto a roasting pan and bake for about an hour (check after 45 minutes if squash are small).

When done cooking, let cool for a few minutes on the counter while you heat up coconut milk and curry in a large soup pot. Carefully remove flesh from the skin of the squash and place into coconut milk mixture. Add about two cups of water for a smooth texture. Turn heat off and have your children help puree soup with a hand-blender if you have the patience. Ladle into bowls and top with chopped cilantro. Dot adult soups with hot sesame oil, found in the Asian food isle.

Serve with goat cheese or cheddar cheese quesadillas.

Dinner Party Update

2007-10-10T11:24:00.001-04:00

"Hey Jean, How are your dinner parties going?" was how my former food studies professor Amy Bently, who happens to live in the same NYU faculty housing as we do, greeted me the other day. Bently was dressed in running attire, haired pulled back, headed back home after a jog.

"Ugh, well, I'm kind of taking a break for a little while." I stammered. I was slightly nervous, as book proposal on the same topic was part of my final thesis, and I had failed to sell the book.

"The other day I was cooking for friends and wondering how you managed to do it. It's completely exhausting"

"Yes, well, you should see what happens when you invite the heavy drinkers over," mainly referring to myself and my penchant for a nice Cotes du Rhone.

"Well, good luck with everything." She walked purposefully off to her next important meeting or event and I was left to think about my life on the street. Am I going to abandon the project?

Which of course got me thinking: why haven't I thrown any dinner parties since we got back from White Salmon, WA? Was is the weight gain, the wine, the three big dinners cooked for friends and family each week? Was it the transition to being home again after such an extended time? Getting back to real life now that both boys are in school?

Probably yes to all the above.

The good news is that the experiment worked. Cooking for other people at least twice a month, definately made me feel like I was a part of a larger community.

On the negative end, all of my pants are extremely tight and my self and my bank account are yearning to refocus my energies on my writing career. I feel like I need to be burried in a mudbath at Canyon Ranch, not elbow-deep in butter, preparing my next 3-course meal.

When I was in junior high I won two awards for my class: best dressed and most dramatic. And while my wardrobe may have suffered as the years have continued, certainly the drama label still applies. So how do I do dinner parties and at-home entertaining without feeling burned out and bloated?

Like any good self-help addict, I turn to the step system:

1. Do a 3-5 day cleanse recommended and lead by the acupuncturist to the beauty industry gals, Laura Kauffmann.

2. Lay off the wine and cheese.

3. Take it one dinner party at a time. We are throwing a large Halloween party this year. For now, that is enough.

Union Square Farmer's Market

2007-10-05T08:39:00.001-04:00

How Did I Get Here?

2007-09-26T10:40:00.001-04:00

One day you find yourself searching for something to make for dinner and the next thing you know you're whipping up some one-dish quick-fix meal that requires fish, condiments, ginger, snow pees, mushrooms and grated carrots...and a microwave oven.

You once thought microwaves were for losers. At one time not so long ago, you hardly ever used your stove, save for storing plates and other unused items.

There was a time you never took short cuts. Never fell asleep at 9:00. A time when you went out more than you stayed in.

Then you had two kids, credit card debt, New York City preschool tuition and Television became your friend. Next thing you know, you are cooking a recipe found on the Internet which calls for 6 minutes of high-powered nuking and a bunch of that brown sauce Chinese restaurants use for Moo Shui Pork.

And the worst part is: you like it.

A Day in the Life

2007-09-18T09:38:00.000-04:00

The afternoon unfolds like this: finish up any freelance work I’ve been writing all morning in bed. Eat lunch (cold-cuts and a large salad), consider, then decline, taking a shower, change out of pajamas, make a list of things to do, half of which will never get done. Wait for bus on Housten while putting fingers in ears to block out the noise of workers tearing up the streets. Figure I have enough time to buy a coffee. Run back to bus stop just in time for the 2:29 bus. Fold stroller, struggle onto bus, spill coffee, get yelled at by bus driver. Fifteen minutes later, enter preschool where Sebastien is still asleep and Sydney is showing me the “house” they painted out of boxes.

Put kids in stroller and sing songs as we walk to Whole Foods to search for lavender and flax seed to make eye pillows for the school’s yoga classes. Don’t find lavender and only buy half the seed I need (too expensive), but kids convince me that we need two boxes of cereal, fruits bars and a couple of apples.

Walk home with groceries, lunchboxes, jackets and stroller for fifteen more blocks. Have a picnic with the boys on the living room carpet. Laugh and cuddle and try to get stories of their day from them. Give into endless begging for TV. Turn on Tivo’d episode of Scooby Doo and retreat to my bed to finish a pitch to O Magazine.

At 5:20, Steve comes home and we start our evening. I make Picadillo (a Cuban version of sloppy joes, without the bun) served with white rice and broccoli. Manage to feel guilt pangs that we are not eating brown rice. We sit down to dinner. Sebastien screams at us. We “excuse” him from the table. Time to make a collage about our family for school. We cut and paste words and photos and images from magazines. Steve and I make sure Sydney includes a bottle of wine on his portrait. Glue and tiny scraps of paper litter the floor. I leave it to put the kids in the bath while Steve does dishes. Sebastien and Sydney fight and scream over who gets to sit in the front.

I leave kids in bath to clean up the collage mess (I know, I should watch them, but who has time?) while Steve measures and cuts the fabric for the eye-pillows I signed us up to make. Both of us curse me for volunteering to do this.

Drink a half glass of wine, while reading to Sebastien in his bed. He starts yelling at me. I say, “Good night Seb. I love you but you may not scream at me.” Hand him a bottle of milk before running out the door. One down.

Sydney wants a bagel after he gets his pajamas on.

Set up sewing machine and sew eye pillows, leaving an opening for filling. Drink another half glass of wine. The thread doesn’t exactly match the bright orange poly-blend fabric donated by the school, but by now, I don’t care. Sydney and Steve fill eye pillows with flax seed infused with lavender oil. When we run out of flax seed, we use sushi rice. It smells nice but I hope it doesn’t sprout. The end product feels nice. But boy is it ugly.

Put Sydney to bed, after cajoling him to brush his teeth and take a pee.

Clean up flax and rice mess. Feel good about making something and contributing to preschool community. Go to bed. Start a New Yorker article, fall asleep after one paragraph.

Wake up and do it all again.

Chicken Broth and Other Distractions

2007-09-12T10:47:00.000-04:00

Feeling like the ever-bitter writer these days. Having the defeated-what’s-the-point-want-to-quit-and-get-a-day-job-moment. Of course this is after day one of working on my novel, the one I started this summer and have been talking about for four years. Read over the chapter I worked on when we were in the Northwest. I go back and forth between feeling brilliant and worthless about the work, even though I’ve only completed thirteen pages and I have yet to see where the story takes me. But instead of writing, I piddled with it a bit—then start thinking about how messy the house is and whether or not I should take the fiction workshop or start a writing group and the next thing I knew I was skimming the fat off the chicken broth I made on Monday and pouring it into small containers to freeze. Somehow I always end up back in the kitchen.

The kids are at preschool and now I have to figure out what to do with my life, other than be a mom, throw ruckus dinner parties and get fat and into more debt than we already are ––start a small business? get a job? continue freelancing with evil and demeaning creative director at the beauty corporation? Said beauty corporation has offered me two days a week writing for the online division, but working from home, which is brilliant, except.. I’m not sure that being alone all day with my computer is a good idea, given that I’m prone to excessive brain picking and solipsistic over-thinking. My shrink says I should take the job and figure out how to see people more. Maybe I’ll join a gym! Teach a class! Start a meditation group! Go running with friends!

My weight since having kids, and then even more since I started cooking all the time, has ballooned. Mostly I've been feeling sorry for myself and looking at pictures of me as a skinny 20-year-old. With this as my torture, er, inspiration, I have signed up for a 5k in central park. I’ve got 5 weeks to train. And I’ll do more pilates! I’ll eat less fat! More fish! And more low-fat yogurt! And I’ll drink less wine! Even though I just want to go get a massage, then drown my sorrows in a bunch of $12 cocktails and eat grilled chicken livers over at Savoy. Instead I’ve got a one pm Pilates class and then I’ve got to pick up the boys from school and entertain them until daddy gets home. Usually their kooky sweetness breaks me out of whatever ails me. It’s hard being depressed around preschoolers, unless they are beating each other up or throwing a fit, which of course, my my two, is always a possibility.

Pregnancy Pasta

2007-09-11T11:47:00.000-04:00

Kimberly is pregnant and living in a sweet West Village apartment with her dog Fanny. And brilliant for me, she's allowing me to be her labor coach instead of Luis, her personal trainer-cum-baby-daddy. It's probably a wise choice, although Luis might think otherwise––the first time he met me was the one night in the past four years that I've been out past 9:00 (it was Kimberly's 41st birthday)––and I drank one too many glasses of champagne and while dancing in my very tall heels in small apartment packed with people ala Breakfast at Tiffany's and, well, let's just say I had a rather large fall into the coffee table, knocking over at least twenty-five champagne glasses and causing quite a stir.

Labor coach may be too narrow of a term. I consider myself an all-around pregnancy-new mom-gestation advisor, consulting on things like whether or not she should drink a glass of wine (of course) and how not to get caught up in all the craziness surrounding baby-growing. Hint Number One: Don't read What to Expect When You're Expectingg. Hate that book; it's an anxiety-laden medical freak-out, detailing every single thing that could go wrong.

My other job, is to cook for her and keep her feeling loved. Saturday she came to dinner. Since tomato season is almost over, I bought a big bag of them from the farmer's market to enjoy before they're gone. With tomatoes as my starting point, I made whole wheat pasta with a sauce recipe from the patron saint of pasta, Marcella Hazen's. There's a lovely crunch to this sauce with the addition of little bits of carrots and celery that are simply simmered and finished with a bunch of super-fruity olive oil.

Tomato Sauce with Olive Oil & Chopped Vegetables
Adapted from Marcella Hazan

2 pounds fresh, ripe tomatoes, skins removed and hand-chopped
2/3 cup chopped carrots
2/3 cup chopped celery
2/3 cup chopped onion
Salt
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 to 1 1/2 pounds whole wheat spaghetti

Place vegetables in a sauce pan and simmer gently for twenty minutes without the top on. Add olive oil and cook for another fifteen. Toss with cooked pasta and Parmesan cheese.

Delicious.

Back Home & Busy: Calls for Simple Pleasure

2007-08-29T17:41:00.000-04:00

It's actually wonderful to be back in NYC. The crowds, the excitement, the fashion. Walking everywhere. Picking up ingredients for dinner on the walk home from work. Wearing high heels and a good outfit to work. It's the little things, no?

We arrived home late Sunday evening and I went right to work, doing a freelance full-time writing gig for the next two weeks. I'm writing beauty copy for a fancy face cream and fragrance descriptions and online copy for a perfumery. I'm sad not to have time to go to the farmer's market, but I'm happy to have income.

Tonight Steve and I, both exhausted from work, threw together a quick meal--pan-fried pork tenderloin, which was frozen in a maple/mustard marinade, corn, stripped from the cob and sautéed in butter with salt and fresh pepper, and steamed broccoli with soy sauce. Simple food but the kind I love on a weeknight. I'm such a fan of the protein and two sides.

The wine, a french white crisp with a nice finish and lots of minerality, tasted so good when I sipped as I cooked, winding down from the day.

At dinner we raised a toast to my dear little Sebastien, who just started preschool. Steve and I dropped him off yesterday morning without a fuss and he's so proud of himself to be there. He is no longer my wee baby. Sigh.

Cheers!

Kid Food: A Recipe for Chicken Soup

2007-08-13T19:27:00.000-04:00

Cooking for my children gives me more pleasure than is probably healthy. Like most things about parenthood, it's ultimately more about me than them, but still, I feel a deep satisfaction when I get them to eat something warm and full of veggies and I’m not afraid to admit I sometimes feel a bit smug about this. But then I feel them pizza three nights in a row and I’m humble again.

Over the four years since I’ve had children, I have developed some rather good recipes that appeal to little ones—plain, but flavorful, small bite-size pieces, and a large amount of veggies snuck into the mix. Oh, and ideally the recipe should be fast--nothing like starving children to give you a migraine or sending you hitting the booze harder than normal. This soup actually uses boxed chicken stock, but if I have time, I usually make my own from left over roast chicken bones and old veggies and then freeze it for soups whenever I need it. (See, I *am* a little smug). I also added an optional half-cup of leftover pasta, which I always seem to have in the back of the fridge, in this recipe, but you don't need it.

Ingredients
2 boxes organic chicken stock (Imagine brand is decent)
I large organic skinless, boneless chicken breast
5 carrots, chopped into small rounds
3 celery stocks, chopped into small pieces
1/2 onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, peeled but left whole
1 large handful of parsley, tied with kitchen string
1 cup of any or any combo of the following frozen peas, fresh or frozen corn, fresh or frozen broccoli chopped into bite-size pieces, zucchini chopped finely, or any other veggies you have on-hand that your kids might like.
1/2 cup of leftover plain pasta, any shape, already cooked (optional)
Salt and pepper
Time: 30 minutes, from start to finish

In a large saucepan, add chicken stock, chicken breast (no need to chopped in yet), carrots, celery, onion, garlic and parsley. Bring to a boil and simmer until chicken is fully poached, about 20 minutes.

Remove chicken breast with a slotted spoon and place on a cutting board. Remove parsley and discard. Chop chicken into very small pieces and return to pot with vegetables and pasta, if using. Simmer everything until veggies are cooked through. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Serves 4-6 kids. Especially good served with grilled cheese sandwiches.

More Smoker Photos

2007-08-09T13:49:00.000-04:00

I just can't get enough...

Smoked Ribs and Italian Folk Songs

2007-08-09T12:24:00.001-04:00

Dinner Party # 12
Smoked beef and pork Ribs
Purple and white cabbage coleslaw with apples and jalapenos
French-style potato salad with parsley and chives
Cherry tomato salad with parsley, salt and olive oil

I take full responsibility. I was fixated on finding an old door which I could turn into a table so we could eat outdoors. I’ve never understood why my in-laws, who have a large yard with an incredible view of the Columbia River and Mount Hood, have no real lawn furniture or outdoor tables. Where are the big lounge chair and the side table for holding magazines and cocktails? Where’s the picnic table and benches with the umbrella?

Apparently, in my search for a table-like substance, I had turned off the power source in the garage that was igniting the hot plate that was heating the wood chips that produce the smoke that would cook our pork and beef ribs. As I was nursing a beer and entertaining Sydney and Sebastien by letting them play naked with the water hose, Steve woke up from his nap and noticed there was no smoke coming from the smoker. Chaos ensued. Plans to pick up steak were made. The oven was heated.

The secret to understanding my husband is to know that once a problem enters his little WASP brain, he must, no matter how little or inconsequential or big and seemingly impossible, solve it. He paced around the burned-out lawn. The boys and I watched on as he moaned and groaned and went in the house and came out of the house. Finally he had the idea to test the electricity—and sure enough it was discovered there was nothing wrong with the smoker per se, but rather that I had shut off the power source. The switch was turned on, the power sparked up and the smoking continued. The delicious odor of the smoker filled the air—it smelled like one of those WPA lodges built in the depression, with four or five giant fireplaces going at the same time.

Meanwhile I searched for a table. We found something suitable that my father-in-law uses for a desk and set the table outside. We started smoking the ribs around noon, after they had sat in a dry rub of brown sugar, onion powder, garlic powder and chili powder over night. With power outages et al, they were ready to slice around 6:30.

Our guests were a couple we met at the hippy church where Steve’s dad is a pastor. Paolo is from Lucca, a tiny hill town in Tuscany. He met Jennifer, his wife, when she was teaching English in his village and, after six years in Italy and having two children Allesandro (1) and Jean Lucca (3), they decided to move out West to help Jennifer’s sister run a restaurant in Bingen called Solstice. We’ve met them two or three times and I just knew they’d be people I’d want to sit around the table with, so one day we stopped by their house and left an invite to come to our smoke out.

We greeted Paolo and Jennifer on the lawn with Prosecco, which I feel is the best thing to drink with Bar-B-Que. We set up the four boys with various cars and trucks and things that go while Steve and I made final dinner arrangements, slicing the ribs and putting everything on the table. Dinner was served!

Easy. There are some evenings that just flow. Jennifer and Paolo were gracious guests and they both ate heartily, which I especially appreciate in women. Paolo told us about his first marriage and child, about growing up in Italy. Jennifer and I analyzed cultural differences between Italians and Americans, particularly around domesticity. We compared notes on our lack of childproofing and willingness to drink wine while breastfeeding.

More wine and the conversation turned to writing. Like many mothers I know, Jennifer yearns for time to write, time for herself to be creative. She asked me how I do it. Unfortunately, I don’t have answers. I find it uncomfortable to be a writer and currently have no idea what I am doing. Steve is calling it my mid-life crisis. I’m just not sure how to handle the whole career thing, but mostly I am letting go of the whole fantasy of becoming a famous writer, where your career is handed to you on a silver…you know how the cliché goes.

Until I figure out the whole writing thing though, I’ll just keep cooking and having people over and talking and trying, in these extremely trying times, to be as decently human as I can be.

As the Northwest sky turned very black and I actually noticed stars, Paolo began singing Italian songs to the children. The boys each found a parent’s lap to sit on and the evening unfolded. I led everyone in “If I had a Hammer” and “I Had a Rooster.” The ended on a sweet note.

Coffee Daze

2007-08-06T14:47:00.000-04:00

I was up until 4:30 this morning, buzzed out of my mind on Northwest coffee. The drive-thru latte shacks are dangerous to my sanity. Thankfully I had a good summer read—Marion Keye’s Is There Anybody Out There? to keep me company all night long. I had checked it out from the local library and not just condemned myself to reading Ernest Hemmingway’s Complete Collection of Short Stories, which of course is incredible, but not exactly the kind of thing you want keeping you company while your mind is racing and you’re contemplating your career and questioning your goals and considering whether or not motherhood is perhaps reward enough and then you're thinking about whether or not you should spend the money to get a massage to undo the damage of a short bed with a-hundred year old mattress. Hemmingway is definitely not the person to turn to at these sort of moments

Exhausted as I am today, I feel like it was such a treat to indulge like that—staying up all night to think about life, worry and read, cry a little, and dive into the drama of my own self indulgence. The consequences are small out here on the Gorge. We had no where to be the next day. Steve got the boys up and dressed, Christie, our babysitter we found at Steve’s Dad’s hippie church, came at 7:30 to mind the boys while I slept in and Steve went to our local café to get his writing done. At 10am, I drove the 3 blocks to Grounds, for the free wifi and more strong coffee (it’s a hopeless addiction). And in a not-so-strange coincidence—White Salmon where we stay out here is a small town and both the gay-loving/peace-making Christian church and the deer antler, 80’s rock playing, concrete-floored, local-wine/strong coffee café are within walking distance of our home-base––Christie, the babysitter works at the same café, so when she has to go to work, she drops our two boys off with us and starts her shift, and Steve and I, ostensibly end our writing days.

Food Update

I have invited the Italians, who moved here from Luca, one of those incredible hill towns in Tuscany, whom we met at the leftie church, along with their children Jean Luca (3) and Alessandro(1.5) to sample the American delicacy of smoked meat. Last summer, Steve and I made our own flower-pot smoker and besides a pork shoulder made just for the immediate family, we have not shown the Columbia River Gorge what we are really about. As you can see from the images below, it’s a pretty simple contraption, our flower smoker is. Just a hot plate, a large flower pot and bottom, a meat thermometer and some wood chips.

This is the whole contraption...

Here's what it looks like when open. The grill is where you place the meat, underneath are the wood chips, and the hot plate slowly heats the chips so they smoke the meat.

Columbia River Gorge Guide Part 1

2007-07-31T11:18:00.000-04:00

All day and all night, the sounds of trains—steel wheels along steel tracks, whistles loud and warning—fill the soundscape of the Columbia River Gorge, a little section of the Pacific Northwest at the border of Oregon and Washington. With its big skies and evergreen trees, framed by two enormous volcanos – Mt Hood and Mt. Adams, and a virile River—the Columbia—it’s one of those almost mythic Western locales that look almost too postcard-like to be real.

Hood River, the area’s epicenter, boasts some of the best wind surfing in the country and Mount Hood has snow all year long (read four season skiing and snowboarding), making it a sports-enthusiast’s mecca. But if you’re like me, taken more with reading and eating then careening across a river or down a mounatin, there is still plenty to enjoy. Like a brew pub/movie theater, a knitting shop, multiple cafes, wineries, and more than a few kid-friendly activities.

Things to do:

Drink Copious Amounts of Coffee
God, I love the Northwest. Even the gas stations sell espresso and cappucino and the tiniest towns sport drive-through latte shacks.

Dog River Coffee
Fantastic coffee, big couches, free WiFi and a big basket of toys for the wee ones.
411 Oak Street Hood River OR

Grounds Espresso
Great breakfast sandwiches for under $4, decent coffee, free wifi, it's the working cafe of choice for Steve and I during our stays.
166 East Jewett, White Salmon, WA

Eat

Fresh, local produce and a growing Mexican population means delicious food and reasonable prices throughout the Gorge. (As I visit more restaurants, I'll update the site.)

El Riconcito Burritos
Huge, San Francisco style burritos, complete with rice and shredded cabbage – the only way to eat them.
Hood River. 541 386-9435

Skylight Theatre & Pub
Decent pizza, fantastic beer, plus a toddler play area, which means you can drink your Ice Ax Lager in peace. And for those without children, or with a babysitter, you can eat your pizza and drink your beer in the movie theater which features first run movies and ledges in front of all seat -- to hold your meal, of course.
109 Oak St, Hood River, OR
13 mi N - (541) 386-4888

Drink

The area is home to both small wineries and excellent breweries. Keep checking back for more reviews.

Mt Hood Brew Company
To me, there are no kinder words in the English language than “family-style pub.” The Mt. Hood Brewery, located at 4000 ft., makes a great day trip, with an apres hike or nap to sober up before driving down the mountain.
87304 E. Government Camp Loop, Government Camp, Oregon 97028. 503-622-0724

Thrift
Check out nearby the Dalles for two great thriftstores (read: cowboy boots and great vintage finds) and a decidely Western vibe. The Salvation Army 623 E 3rd St The Dalles
St. Vincent de Paul. 505 West 9th Street The Dalles

Stay
Hood River Hotel
Right in town, this super-quaint hotel is relatively inexpensive and boasts a busteling lobby with live bands and a decent bar. 102 Oak Avenue, Hood River, Oregon 97031, Phone: 541-386-1900, Toll Free: 800-386-1859?Fax: 541-386-6090

North by Northwest

2007-07-30T14:06:00.001-04:00

There is something about the Northwest––words that might seem empty anywhere else, like frontier, manifest destiny, new beginnings and ruggedness actually make sense here. Its very Westerness is so present, it’s almost shocking to my New York City self. It’s like when you go to Paris for the first time and you realize the songs and stories are right––it is romantic and sophisticated and lovely. Before you experience it firsthand, you would never believe the myth could be so accurate. That is how I feel about the Pacific Northwest. And although I don’t feel like a part of it, I find it intoxicating none-the-less.

For the past four years, Steve and I have come out to stay with his dad in an area an hour outside of Portland known as the Columbia River Gorge, a wonderful piece of America which lies between Mount Adams and Mount Hood, two enormous snow covered mountains. The Columbia River is the center of it all, with its wind surfers and kite boarders, creating a boundary between Washington State and Oregoon. It is, in a word, spectacular. Add to this about 30 small wineries and a burgeoning foodie scene, and you have something close to paradise.

Produce from Hood River Farmer's Market...

The Perfect Aperitif

2007-06-27T12:14:00.000-04:00

When my husband Steve and I rented an apartment in Florence a few summers ago, we got in the habit of having this exquisite cocktail each night our local outdoor café. In my humble view, it is the season’s most sophisticated drink. Cold, sweet, bitter, a touch of sour—all add up to something beyond refreshing.

The Americano

Ice
One shot of Campari
One shot of sweet vermouth
Soda water
Slice of orange

Place lots of ice in a large glass. Add Campari and vermouth, fill the remainder of the glass with club soda. Stir. Add orange slice. I like to serve it with a straw.

Memorial Bliss and a Whole Lotta Hot Dogs

2007-05-28T17:31:00.000-04:00

While most of my friends are out of town for Memorial Day weekend––Jo and her family are in Big Sur hot-tubing naked, Kimberly is upstate in the Catskills relaxing and Laura is sunbathing in Mexico’s Mayan Riveria––Steve, Sydney and Sebastien and I are having our own sort of holiday––the Stay-cation.

Too broke to travel but still adventurous, we have traveled near (our local keypark, which we visit at least once a day and see many neighbors who have become friends) and far (the Hudson River Parkway). We have eaten hot dogs handcrafted from local, organic, ethically raised hogs and cows, and we have eaten Nathan’s hot dogs from a vendor on the Christopher Street Pier. We have picnicked on triple crème got cheese, sopresseto and Sauvignon Blanc with our neighbors in the courtyard of our building, the kids running around on the grass that houses a giant Picasso sculpture and multiple “Keep off Grass!” signs. And we have served dinner at home on two occasions over one long, lazy Memorial Day weekend. Lovely.

Raising children in the city requires patience and perseverance. There is the crowded housing and the outrageous cost of living and the craziness of preschool admissions. And yet, there is also the possibility and, for us, the reality of community that is as easy and natural as breathing. Other than dinner invitations for a Friday night supper that went out a month or so ago, the entire weekend of plans and fun and hanging out were all spontaneously planned. Everyday, when we go to the park in the morning, we run into other families and from there we make plans for impromptu expeditions to the water-park or dinner at our house or lunch for 12 at a kid-friendly restaurant near-by. By design, humans are meant to be together, to share tasks and to live among each other. It’s in our DNA. How strange then that this happens so easily, so naturally, in such a man-made, cosmopolitan, very “unnatural” place like Manhattan.

There were two dinner this long weekend which I think count towards my goal of 25 dinner parties in 12 months. Friday night was spent with an old friend of mine from the San Fernando Valley. Ethan and I met at Teenage Drama Workshop when we were 12. Later, we found out, his mother was my mom’s boss; our mom’s are still friends. Ethan is a playwright and the bandleader/singer/songwriter of the Ethan Lipton Orchestra. His music is strange and wondrous and old timey but also a little dirty. I like it a whole bunch. You can listen online here. His wife Heather is a lovely photographer. Inspired by the new bounty of farmer’s market produce I cooked a simple dinner for them.

Spagettini with Fresh Local Scallops, Cilantro and Red Pepper
Frisee and Baby Greens with Feta, Grape Tomatoes, Asparagus and Mint
Sauvignon Blanc, Wellies, New Zealand 2004

Fresh Strawberries with Crème Fraiche
Blue Plum Brandy, Clear Creek Distillery, Portland, Oregon

Sunday evening we had Jan, one of Steve's NYU colleagues and his wife Allison and their two children Theo and Harlin to dinner. It was so hot that I ordered a roasted chicken from fresh direct and kept it simple and easy:

Roast Chicken
Saffron Rice
Steamed Broccoli
Sliced Avocado
Fresh Salsa (recipe follows)
Pinto Beans
Whole Wheat Tortillas
Prosecco

The children got along beautifully and Theo, age 4, ate broccoli for the first time since he gave up green veggies a year ago. I probably talked too much, but I always do that. Hopefully the food and conviviality compensated for my chatter. All in all, it was a weekend that more than made up for a terrible week of me fretting about my writing career and feeling like a bit of a loser. But let’s not get into all that now. It’s still Monday and I want to hold onto some of the weekend’s bliss.

Fresh Salsa

1 large Tomato or 2 small
1/2 white onion, chopped and rinsed under cold water (creates a more mild flavor)
1 jalapeno pepper, with seeds if you like it hot
1/2 lime squeezed
1 squirt of ketchip
1 handfull chopped cilantro

Mix together in a large bowl and serve as a condiment to any grilled or roasted meal.

Pregnancy Salad

2007-05-23T17:15:00.000-04:00

Le Menu

Fresh watermelon margaritas
Guacamole and chips

Black Bean Soup with Crème Fraiche and Corn Tortillas
Watermelon, Ricotta Salata and Mint Salad

Strawberry Sorbet and Madeleine Cookies

************

“I’m so bloated,” says Kimberly over the phone. “And my boobs are killing me.”

“I bet you’re pregnant!” I exclaim.

“No, I’m always late.”

“You never know….”

“Enough,” she says. “Stop trying to get me knocked up. I’ve only been dating the trainer for a few months. Besides, I’m 41, I live in a tiny apartment––and let’s face it, one high-needs pit bull is enough for me.” For three years now, I have been trying to talk Kimberly into having a baby. I think she would make an incredible mom. Plus, children bring so much to a life--they genuinely make you a better person in a very drastic, but necessary way. Kimberly has always seemed to me, someone open and available for that kind of commitment, man or no man.

I am a firm believer that you don’t really need a husband to have a baby. I know plenty of women who have to do it all, married or not. These women make money, clean and take care of the emotional health of the family. Yeah, yeah, there are a ton of great dads out there too. But still, I’d say there is a 50/50 ratio––guys who contribute equally and guys who are just dead weight. Luckily, my husband is part of the former, not the latter.

Anyways, after two weeks of being late, feeling big and perhaps a bit emotional, Kimberly rang me again from her office in Soho, where she works in the beauty industry as a writer.

“I think I’d better bring a pregnancy test when I come over for dinner Saturday night.”

And so my next dinner party, which was on Cinco de Mayo, began with me sending Steve and the boys to the park, while I made margaritas and Kimberly went to the bathroom to pee on a stick.

When the two minutes that the test requires to do its magic were up, I jumped up to get it. Kimberly looked at me strangely. Of course, I let her check it, even though it took everything in my willpower not to run into my urine-scented bathroom (ah the joys of toilet training little boys) and take a peek.

I took a gulp of margarita. She took another test.

Two tests in a row stated what I had hoped: Positive.

The boys came home. We all cheered. Steve and I drank to her happiness. Kimberly looked shell-shocked. The dinner was fantastic. Afterwards, we put the boys to sleep and Steve, Kimberly and I did something we rarely do. We watched TV. Nothing like five back-to-back episodes of Entourage, curled up on your best friends sofa, under the weight of an antique quilt and sipping herbal tea to take your mind off things for a while. Perhaps Kimberly was comforted.

Recipe for Watermelon Salad

Two cups of watermelon cut into bite-sized chunks
1/2 cup Ricotta Salata crumbled
1/2 bunch of mint leaves, torn

Place all ingredients into a bowl and toss.

Watermelon Margaritas

Two cups of cut watermelon
1/2 cup tequila
1/2 cup lime juice
1/4 simple syrup
Handful of ice
Mint garnish

Place all ingredients but mint into the blender. Serve immediately with mint garnish.

Makes 4 margaritas

$200 dinner

2007-05-07T09:11:00.000-04:00

Here’s what I want to know: when did a night out in New York City become a two hundred dollar commitment?

Take for instance the other night. After a month of no dates, no time spent just the two of us out on the town, my husband Steve and I decided to get a babysitter and go to dinner. We chose Lupa, which is two blocks from our apartment in the village, mostly because it’s close and it has an excellent wine list with many decent bottles under $30. The chaos of Lupa, the brilliant music mix—from Elliot Smith to Beck to Aimee Mann, the great cocktails, the organ meats, the vegetables. OK, there is a lot to love about Lupa, even if it is owned by Mario Batali, who seems less like a chef these days and more like a franchise, but I digress.

We ordered a twenty dollar bottle of ice-cold Rose, Cerasuolo ‘Vigne Nuove’ Valle Reale 2005 ~ Abruzzo, which was one of the cheapest on the list, four appetizers-- the escarole and pecorino salad, Radichio with Anchovy, roasted Brussel Sprouts, Sweet Breads—deep-fried and served with lemon, and one primo- a pasta with pig jowels. We finished with one grappa each. The bill, with tip, was $150. Our babysitter, brilliant and all, charges $15 an hour. So $50 for her. In three hours we spend two hundred dollars. We laughed and said it was cheaper than couple’s therapy.

I remember a time when this was not true--working full time and eating out most nights. Before I was more schooled in fine-dining and the thrill of settling in for a night of performance—of great waiters and multi-courses and decent wine and after-dinner drinks. As a single New Yorker, part of my evenings revolved around meeting a friend or two for dinner at one of the cheaper restaurants of the East Village. I spend at least one night a week at Mee Noodle Shop, often alone with a book, slurping big fat noodles in duck broth, boney duck parts floating on top. I could eat for under ten dollars, tip included. Or I’d venture down to Chinatown for Vietnamese Pho for 3.99. Or up to Hell’s Kitchen for Peruvian. Somehow I could afford it all. And if a meal was bad or dissapointng, no problem. There was always tomorrow night.

Now, I rarely eat out. We don’t have the budget for either the babysitter or the check. So when we finally do get out, every couple of months, the need for a guaranteed experience always wins out. I want to feel taken care of. I want the food to be not just good, but perfect and exactly what I expect. I want a great bottle of wine, music that is good. I need nice lighting. And so we pay. Maybe we’ll never be one of those couples with a healthy nest egg, or a car or a country home. Maybe home ownership will never be ours, we’ll stay here in our rent-subsidezed apartment in the Silver Towers forever. We’ll hobble over to Salt or Balthazar or Babbo, sit down at a table for two and spend our social security check on something tasty and satisfying, if fleeting.

Here's the thing: I don't want a car, nor do I yearn to own a home. But I crave excitement and food and presentation and the unfolding of time spent around a table with someone I love. Maybe two hundred dollars is a bargain for all this. Even if I can only afford to do it once ever three months.

Most Recent Tally

2007-04-27T07:38:00.000-04:00

I realize that I have not updated my count of dinner parties. My weekend of three dinners in a row has left me not only 3 pounds heavier and a bit bloated, but with a bit of a conundrum. Only one dinner was properly planned, and again it happened on a Saturday, not Sunday as my original quest had outlined. I am considering changing this part of the challenge. Entertaining with two little kids is hard enough; I don’t think a day of the week restriction is realistic. But the vibe of Sunday, the relaxed, shoes off, family aspect must remain. An almost religious attempt at community has to be central to this challenge, even though I don’t believe in god. If there is anything I do believe in, it’s the power of food, served any day of the week, in a thoughtful way and shared with others in an act of friendship. Sunday was merely a metaphor for this aspect of my quest. Screw Sunday.

The other issue I have in defining the parameters of this challenge is whether I am required to cook. My most recent dinner party fed four children and five adult––on a Sunday no less––but we ordered in Indian food. Although I am tempted to count this dinner, I think cooking must be a requisite for a dinner to count. So the ordered-in dinner will not count. This leaves my current count as the following:

Three dinners served
Twenty-two more to go

The Entertaining Trifecta

2007-04-26T10:29:00.000-04:00

Thankfully, our weekend of back-to-back dinner parties, although exhausting, helped me feel reinvigorated about this crazy quest of mine. We didn't plan on entertaining non-stop, but simply forgot that Steve's sister Betsy, her husband Ladd and their 11-year-old daughter Elle, were coming to New York from Maine on Friday to stay with us for the night and we had already arranged to have our dear friends Stuart and Liz to dinner. It had taken no fewer than seven emails and three cancellations to make the dinner-date and there was no way we could reschedule. Then, to make matters more hectic, our best friends, who had recently moved from New York City to Charlotte, North Carolina, planned a last minute visit to the city, so we had no choice but to see them as well.

Betsy and family arrived Friday afternoon and we spent a few hours just laying around the house, catching up while we waited for Steve to get home from work. For dinner we ate family-style at our big table, kids and adults both. I made a huge batch of whole-wheat pasta with Portobello mushrooms and toasted hazelnuts and a mixed green salad tossed with super-fruity olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. The children ate plain pasta with broccoli and freshly grated parmesean. We finished the meal with cupcakes and brownies from Amy’s Breads. Lucky for us, our houseguests keep the same hours we do, so everyone was in bed and asleep by 9:00.

The next day, we said our goodbyes to Betsy, Ladd and Elle––and Steve and the boys went shopping in one direction, while I went in the other. From our butcher Pino, Steve bought six beautiful short ribs and from Grandaisy Bakery, chocolate tartlettes, barely sweet with a rustic density and a stirato baguette.

By the time I arrived around noon, Murray’s Cheese shop was packed with tourists and I could barely make my way through the store. I love living in New York City, but sometimes the hoards of people, both local and from out of town, can make me feel incredibly grumpy. I grabbed a Brie, some sliced salami and a Piave, paid, and then rolled my eyes at the people around me as I huffed out the door. At the overpriced quasi-ghetto grocery store next door I picked up a bag of mixed baby greens.

The menu ended up being:

Cheeses and Salami

Braised short ribs with gremolata of horseradish, parsley and lemon zest on top of pumpkin Orzo cribbed from Mario Batali

Salad

Chocolate Tartlettes

Stuart and Liz, our friends who, among other projects have co-written the book Typecasting: The Art and Science of Human Inequality and started the web site Rejected Letters to the Editor brought champagne, wine and cigarettes (Steve and I smoke very occasionally, but enjoy the rare cigarette.)

We had a fabulous time. We had them come over late, and had bathed and fed the kids first, so by the time we sat down to dinner, the children were already in bed dreaming about Thomas the Tank Engine. Over the next few hours, we ate—the short ribs were fantastic—and drank and gossiped about the academic who always wears a headband and dresses his model-perfect wife in crazy-miniskirts and Dick Hebdege, the cultural theorist who was stalked by Chris Kraus, who then documented the whole thing in her book I Love Dick. (The book, by the way, is one of the most intimate and revealing descriptions of women’s anger and I highly, highly recommend it for anyone who is the fan of memoir and/or feminist theory.) You can also listen to the This American Life story about how Chris Kraus's crush on Dick impacted her marriage here.

Although Stuart and Liz are decades older than Steve and I, as couples go, we get on remarkably well. We share a love of food and ideas––although our reference points are different. Stuart was Steve's mentor in graduate school and Liz gave him his first job at Suny Old Westbury, so they share an intellectual history. But all of them are more interested in being in the world of ideas than the reclusive world of academia, so I don't feel left out. The talk is easy and careens from pop culture to TV to wine to Lacan to the New York Times without pause.

At 11:30, we smoked our last cigarette and sent them off in the elevator, where they would fetch a cab on Housten street, headed back to their apartment on the upper west side. We went to sleep happy.

The next morning we lay low, watching TV with the kids while it poured rain outside, waiting for our tummies to settle from all the rich food and wine the night before. By 3:00, our house was once again full of people. Our friends from out of Charlotte —Perrin and Jim––came by with their two children, another family whose grandparents live upstairs from us stopped in and then Perrin’s sister called to see if she could drop by By 4:00, Steve was mixing a pitcher of Bloody Mary’s, the children were giggling and running about and it felt all warm and fuzzy. This is why I’m doing this, I thought, drinking my drink and watching Perrin breastfeed Levi as Clyde, Mason, Sydney and Sebastien started dancing to salsa music and Marcy announced she was pregnant again and the guys sat on the couch, engaged in deep conversation about what? Cars? Politics? I have no idea. But I felt full in the mix of people and chaos and friends and food and drink.

I thought of making pasta with a creamy vodka sauce, but was talked out of it by Perrin and Jim who insisted on order in Southern Indian food from Surya and paying for it.

We ate an early dinner and then Steve and I kicked everyone out––other families always understand. By 8:00 the house was empty, the dishes done, the kids asleep and Steve and I were curled up together with a Netflix DVD. Tired? Yes. But in a good way. Monday was hard, but it was worth it.

A Simple Soup

2007-04-19T07:32:00.000-04:00

After three dinner parties in three days (stay tuned for a full report), all I could think of was sleep and something soothing for the stomach. Sleep, unfortunately was not on the agenda, but soup was.

My grandmother Meme would often make a simple vegetable soup with leftover supplies from her backyard garden. As a child I spent a lot of time with my grandparents and our weeknights together, were centered around dinner. A soup. A piece of meat, sautéed in s small amount of butter. Beet greens from the garden. Noodles with Gruyere.

Tuesday night, I did the same for my family. A quiet dinner starting with soup. A baguette. Grilled chicken. A serving of Kale. Brown rice. We felt restored.

Vegetable Soup

Some chopped onion (about one medium size)
A couple of chopped carrots
A couple stalks of celery
2 bay leaves
1-3 potatoes, peeled and chopped into cubes
A couple handfuls of whatever other veggies you have in the fridge
Herbs such as rosemary, thyme, either dry (use 1 tsp) or fresh (a few stalks)
A handful of parsley
Lots of salt and pepper
Olive oil

Put all ingredients except for olive oil in a large pot. Cover with about ten cups of water. Simmer for one hour. Puree with a handblender. Ladle in warmed bowls, top with a few drops of olive oil and serve with bread, preferably a whole grain baguette, and good quality butter.

Family Affair

2007-04-05T09:37:00.000-04:00

Zoe and Rob, our good friends, have had two children back to back (the crazy fools), just like Steve and I. Susanna and Ron, another couple we know, also did the same. Maria and Mario, have just one child, Sabrina, but still, when we get together, that makes 5 kids under 4. Of course, extreme chaos ensues. However, there is safety in numbers and having other parents around feels oddly comforting. Perhaps you yell at your children a little less. And if your kid has a temper tantrum or breaks something, everyone will automatically understand.

Last night, we all went to Rob and Zoe's Soho loft (a loft which, I should note, Zoe grew up in) for dinner. We ate in two stages: children first, then once, fed, we put the kids in front of Baby Einstein, and then the parents ate. Zoe made an amazing meal, especially since she had worked all day and she is still breastfeeding her youngest, one year old Maya. (Zoe is pro at simultaneously cooking and breastfeeding, which quite frankly, should be an Olympic sport.) Maria boiled the Barilla whole grain pasta, which is the best pasta in the entire world, topped with string beans, walnuts, potatoes and pesto. A huge salad came with it. Plus, of course, wine.

After the kids were fed and before the parents sat down to eat, the moms huddled around the wine, like it was a warm fire on a freezing cold day.

As I opened bottle number 2, Susanna said, "Jean, that's why I like you. Always willing to go that extra mile"

"Glad I could be of usefulness," I laughed, as we clinked our glasses.

Somehow we got into the conversation of your kids driving you crazy, and how isolating motherhood can be, particularly in New York City, where market capitalism and its subsequent competition seeps into our emotional lives as well. Parenting becomes a sport, something to win at. The truth is, childrearing can push you to the precarious edge of sanity and sometimes the only thing that can save you is talking with a group of other parents about the craziness of it all.

"I once grabbed Sydney's arm and dragged him into his room," I confessed, feeling relief wash over me to say it out loud.

"I bit Maya one day after she twisted my nipples," said Zoe. We all laughed.

"I fantasize about giving Rita up for adoption," claimed Susanna.

"It's hard," I said.

From here the talk veered towards therapy and "good-enough" mothering and books and techniques all designed to make us better. The funny thing is, we are better. We are loving mothers who read books and thoughtfully fret about our children and interview at countless preschools and desperately want the best for our kids. We sometimes make mistakes and if we can support each other, over a few glasses of wine and a bunch of pasta, then we might just make it through.

By 8:00, everyone was fed, dishes were getting washed, and Steve and I packed up the kids into the stroller and walked home. Damn, I love having a family.

Passover Accomplished

2007-04-04T08:00:00.000-04:00

Last night we attended a Passover Seder at Laura's apartment, a floor-through tenement on the outskirts of Soho, just skimming the crowded streets of Chinatown. It's a rare three-apartment building and her friends, Jiye and Bill live upstairs, which gives it a very homey, almost "Friends" quality, but of course they are anything but cliched sitcom characters. She also has access to a roof-top "terrace," that she has astro-turfed and dolled up a bit with lights and a Crate and Barrel picnic table. Never mind that the ventilation from the Thai restaurant next door blows is MSG-infused air onto the terrace from 5-10 each night. Not that it was warm enough to eat outside, but still, I wanted you to imagine the space.

Too bad developers will be destroying the building next door to build million-dollar condos in 6 months. But let's not talk about New York real estate. Last night was like no other night...

I fed my two kids leftover roasted Cornish Hen and white rice that I had cooked with shallots and finished with lemon zest and parsley, topped with a bunch of frozen peas, my secret weapon of toddler vegetable consumption (another pea standby is pea omelet.) Then, I took them to Spring Street park, a dirty playground in what used to be Little Italy, to run them silly, hoping that would calm them before attending the Seder. We had tried to get a babysitter, but our lovely college student Annette, was sick with Bronchitis, an illness that she most likely got from my two petri dishes of disease. Steve was doing a reading of his book, Dream (New Press) on the upper west side, so it was just me and the two boys, at an all-grown-up Seder in a small apartment that houses lots of glass.

At 6:30, we were the first to arrive. We settled in with our arsenal: bottles of milk, M&M's, 20 trains and a Heffalump DVD. Tobi and Omar, Sydney and Sebastien's godfathers came next, as did Peter and Nilou, Jiye and Bill and Alan, without his wife Susan. We took turns running after the kids and cooking and talking. By the time the Seder finally started, the kids were getting really antsy, meaning I spent the entire time coaxing them and trying to get them to sleep on the couch. Still, the ritual effected me. There was something quite sweet about a group of young (youngish?, under 40?) people, only three of whom are Jewish, taking part of this ancient ritual, going through all the sections, saying the prayers, talking about Elijah, even with the jokes and the irony and multiple glasses of pre-Seder wine. Warmed my atheist heart.

I was holding out until 9:00 when I thought Steve would be done and might come relieve me so at least I could sit down and eat. Everyone had contributed to the meal (except for me: I took a mother's exemption). Matzo Balls from some Westchester County deli that is supposed to be the best in the tri-state area were heated. I had been salivating over the baseball-size globes for the past two hours. There was also chewy, meaty, lamb shanks that Laura had pressure-cooked to great results.

Alas, Steve was delayed, Heffalumps had been watched, M&M's eaten, and the children wanted to go home. I pushed them back for as long as I could, but finally, Tobi and Omar helped me carry the rugrats down the stairs and get placed into the stroller. As I walked home through the cobble streets of Soho, its store-fronts gleaming well-dressed and hand-detailed consumerist fantasies, my doggie-bag of food weighing on my wrist, I was happy. Even though I didn't get to eat with the group, or say any of the prayers, even though I don't believe in God, the night was sweet and I felt like I belonged.

Dinner Number 1 March 22 2007

2007-04-03T16:17:00.001-04:00

“I feel terrible.”

“My throat,” mutters Steve.

“Why didn’t we cancel last night?” I sniffle, clearly sick.

“Why did we drink that last bottle of Lambrusco?”

“I feel terrible.” I moan once again. “I need coffee. Shall we get up and get caffeinated before the savages awaken?” I ask. It is 5:00am.

“OK."

Steve gets up and puts on his a navy blue Addidas track suit bottoms and a Lower East Side Collective T-shirt and moves towards the kitchen as I curl up under our old comforter.

“Oh, you mean I should make the coffee and you should lie in bed and wait for me to serve you.”

“Exactly.” I rasp to him and start coughing.

Steve sighs.

As Steve goes to the bathroom, I can hear Sebastien mumbling “mama, dada, doo, doo, pee, pee” in the next room. I ignore him, waiting for my coffee, thinking about the dinner party night.

There were signs, early on, that my first stop on this quest to serve twenty-five Sunday night dinners in twelve months, would not go as smoothly as I would have liked. Firstly, Sunday didn’t work for Steve, so we had to host our first Sunday Night Dinner on Saturday. Not a good omen. Secondly, I was planning to launch the whole quest with a meal for my two best girlfriends, Kimberly and Laura, right around the beginning of spring. So perfect! So in tune with the season! So new! But alas, as my sister, the new age guru would say, it wasn’t meant to be.

The beauty, the genius, of having Kimberly and Laura as my first guests would have been that, because we speak almost daily, they understand the intricate details of my life and, as we do with those we love, they work around my eccentricities. For instance, they will travel to the far ends of the West Village/Soho region where we all live, to procure for me, say, fresh horseradish when I call at the last minute desperately pleading into the phone: “There is no way that I can complete the braised short ribs without it!” They will not call and ask if bottled will do or question my need for fresh ingredients. They will dutifully hit Gourmet Garage, Dean and Deluca, and every deli along the way. They also understand that I like to eat with my children, and the kids like to eat early, and that I have a deep fear of not getting enough sleep, and so will endure coming over at 5:00 for dinner at 6:00, and know that when they get in the door, they are going to have to entertain the kids. In exchange for this, I will feed them good, solid food, the kind they rarely have, what with take-out and dinner reservations the standard fare for most people of their class and professional obligation. I will serve them very decent wine, something light and easy––a Dolce de Alba, for instance, or a nice crisp Las Brisas Spanish white that belies its 9.99 price tag. Finally, I will kick them out and send them on their way around 9:00, which, at least the next morning, they will appreciate.

Laura is the godmother to my boys. Kimberly baby-sits our children, even though she always puts the diaper on backwards. They have listened to my endless monologues based on the following themes:
Bowel movement stories: “You should have seen it!”
Self-questioning moments: “Am I a good mother if I don’t spend every second with my child feeding them organic, whole grain, overpriced snacks and making sure they never them watch TV, no matter how sick, tired or hung-over I am? Have ruined them for life?
Tirades against the system: “How can they judge a three-year-old? How can we not be good enough for preschool? Is it worth 20,000 dollars a year to teach your kids to finger paint?”

They have endured my inability to edit myself during my annual night-out with the girls, into the glittery world of New York after-dark, when at some invariably fabulous function, I get overly excited by being out of my apartment and then drink a bunch of cocktails and talk nonstop, either insulting someone without meaning to or, gasp, talking about my kids. All this is to say that these two women, are dear, dear friends. But here’s the problem with single girlfriends: they have disposable incomes, which allow them all sorts of fabulous things that are out of bounds when you are a part-time writer and your husband is a college professor. Kimberly and Laura have exquisite wardrobes, dine at all the best restaurants and jet off to exotic locations just when you need them.

The very weekend I had planned as my kick-off Sunday Night Dinner, both women, through some sort of weird cosmic white-hipster convergence designed to upset my precarious sanity, planned to be in Brazil, staying at the same = jet-set boutique hotel, missing each other by eight hours. Laura was going with a group of good friends who happened to be travel writers and food editors and the they would hit all the best, undiscovered spots, and Kimberly was going to some fabulous Brazilian all-night wedding, having been invited by her trainer-turned-lover, the likes of whom I had not yet met, but had discerned over many phone conversations that he was indeed a decent guy. With flights, stopovers and whatever other weird time zone things I never fully understand, it means that they will both be absent. Now, not only was I going to have to listen to each of them talk about how much fun they had, both individually and collectively, they would not be here for my kick-off dinner.

So while frick-and-frack were getting bikini-waxed and drinking sophisticated and fruity, but not too sweet, drinks poolside, I was sweating in dirty yoga pants and an old t-shirt, getting the house organized, ingredients procured and children napped, with a sore throat, gulping generic Ibuprofen and preparing for my dinner guests: another preschool family. I figured it was time to branch out. Make new friends. Afterall, the whole point of this quest, which I had felt so exuberant about only a few days ago, was about that seemingly clichéd, but all too important, idea of building community. Although magazines and politicians and leaders talk about “It takes a village,” what does it really mean? In a world of fast food and cell phones and blogs and 24 hours news—all things that I indeed like and partake in, but none-the-less can be alienating in their own ways—perhaps this simple act of cooking fresh food for others, for returning to the table, to sit and talk, to commune, if you will, could be my own way of giving back. And yes, political action is important. The environment is important, but in some ways, these ideas are abstract, outside of the day-to-day activities of my life. I am blessed with enough space to host a dinner party in a city where almost no one has them. My family has imparted in me a deep love of cooking and an almost obsessive tendency towards the preparing and consuming of food. These Sunday Night Dinners are my small way of giving back.

There is, of course, another, less selfless motive. As I enter further and further into the world of mom, of soccer, babysitters, Bob the Builder and playdates, these dinner parties are also my safety net to the world of adults and ideas. I don’t want to let the part of myself, the intellectual side, the part of me that is part flamboyant hostess, part provocateur, part social-mixer, die out now that I have children. While some women and men get that type of satisfaction at work, I don’t. As a freelance writer, I work alone, usually at the Israeli café across the street from my apartment, where the only other people there are the strange, slightly anti-social, relatively un-bathed freelancers like myself. We do not form a community.

The family we had invited consisted of Amy and Peter, and their two sons Webber (age 3) and Beckett (age 1). Amy doesn’t eat meat, which was another sign that things might go askew. We had gone over the confines of her vegetarianism in a series of emails where I had to ask my least favorite question: Do you have any dietary restrictions? When she answered yes, however politely; I was crestfallen. See, I am a person of the flesh, in particular, the pig. I come from people of the pig. The French, we like our pork, our ham and our bacon. The reason is simple: pork makes anything tastes incredible. Pinto beans with a ham hock go from good to unbelievable. Broccoli rabe, which is green, a little bitter, and a little crunchy, becomes even electric, greener and fresher, with the addition of a wee bit of pancetta. Call me piggish, but I can think of nothing better for a Sunday night dinner, even one held on Saturday, than pork loin, slathered in Dijon, and roasted with apples. It is cheap, easy and delicious.

On the other hand, I never cook fish, which is the one meat Amy eats. It seems fussy, makes the house smelly (and with four people living in 1000 square feet and an unventilated kitchen, stink is always a factor). I know it’s good for you, what with the omegas and fatty acids, but we take a fish oil supplement, add flax seeds to breakfast cereal, and mostly avoid sea creatures. However, part of this year-long quest is about hospitality, about creating community by serving others. Afterall, the party is not supposed to be about me, but about “we.” Fish would be served.

Peter works for a wine importer so I had sent him the menu a week ahead of time for wine pairing. Changing the plan, one of my favorite pastimes, was not an option. This also meant, that although I was sick, I would still be drinking, because this was the whole point of the night, and let’s face it, I really don’t have the personality to say no to a wine tasting.

So there were some things to feel if not anxious about, well then tentative. The other thing, the real thing, is that Steve and I barely know Amy and Peter. Our kids get along, though, and we seem to move in almost-similar worlds. Amy is a feminist organizer and a writer. We have been at book readings together. Steve, who has been a community organizer in the East Village and Amy know some people in common. As I mentioned, Peter works in the wine industry, which is ostensibly why we had invited them over. I was looking forward to talking about the business with him, hoping to pitch a freelance article on wine importing.

Two hours before they were supposed to come over, I looked around our apartment, which at that moment had about one hundred pieces of Thomas the Tank engines and train track pieces around the living room. I scanned the toys scattered on the carpet. What would they think of the obnoxious Lightening McQueen cars that make loud noises? (Very un-cool in the East Village preschool mindset where wooden, silent, educational toys are de rigueur.) What would they think of our Neo-Victorian, dark-library-style decor and the copious amounts of floorboard dirt we live with?

That’s the thing about having people over—it strikes a chord of vulnerability. In New York, you could know someone for ten years, and never once see the inside of their apartment. They could be hiding a toy soldier collection or chopped bodies—and you would never know. Maybe there is a reason for all this secrecy. Maybe bars, restaurants and cafés help us portray an ideal version of ourselves, one without the self-help books and dirty toilet seats and carton upon carton of Chubby Hubby in the fridge. All I could think about, on the eve of my first dinner party, is that I don’t know if I want to open up our own imperfect lives to Peter and Amy, who to be perfectly honest, I felt a little intimidated by. Amy has an Ivy League education and two hit books and started a feminist foundation and gets paid to jet around the country to lecture at college campuses. Peter is quiet and sardonic, to my loud and needy. They own instead of rent. They have a car. She has a personal assistant. Their children are better behaved then ours and their homemade Valentine’s day cards trumped our homemade Valentine’s day cards, even though I am supposed to be the famous online punk rock crafter and she is the big feminist organizer. I was feeling more and more sick and overwhelmed, and decidedly un-community-like.

At 6:00 the dishes were not clean. Steve was organizing the ingredients for his risotto with asparagus, peas and mint, a recipe from Jamie Oliver, which I thought would be great, but Steve seemed unsure. I was still in my yoga pants.

“Chicken broth? Can I use it?” Steve asked.

“Hmmm,” I stopped what I was doing, wiping a dirty hand on my dirty yoga pants and wiping a few dirty hairs from my brow. A conundrum.

“How about we don’t tell her,” said my husband, the ethicist.

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, the whole point of this quest is about hospitality, serving others,” I answered. “I don’t think we should lie about these things.”

“But,” I continued, knowing the chicken broth would add a richness that water never could, “She did mention she eats the occasional steak, henceforth, the chicken broth is in.” Moral dilemma resolved.

I arranged the cheeses I had purchased at Murray’ s Cheese Shop on a special platter so that they could come to room temperature. Cheese, especially cheese from Murray’s Cheese Shop, is one of my secret weapons for a good dinner party. Murray’s combines a European appreciation for milk fat and bacteria with an American obsession with conspicuous consumption. It was one of the first shops in American to take cheese-making seriously and has imported artisanal cheeses from around the world for the past ten years. Three cheeses, one soft, one nutty and one slightly funky, are perhaps the ideal way to end any meal—and leave guests feeling taken care of.

I love going to Murray’s. Oh, the cheeses, the delicious, delicious cheeses! Earlier that morning, I had made my pilgrimage down Bleecker Street. In the store, the selection process was difficult, as it always is, with hundreds of cheeses to choose from, but with two kids along about to break a forty-dollar bottle of extra virgin olive oil, I had to be quick and decisive. Since the menu we were serving veered towards the Italian, I went for a creamy, hardly-sharp Gorgonzola, a nutty Piave, and a wine-soaked Ubriaco.

After selecting the cheese I had gone to the fish store, where the live lobsters entertained my boys and I deliberated over the fish. Steve doesn’t like scallops. Mussels didn’t look fresh. Wild salmon was out of our budget, which I should note; I had already blown at the cheese shop. Finally, with the impatient fishmonger staring me down, I went for the scrod. I would roast it with some herbs and call it a day.

Later, waiting for our guests, we were starting to think bad thoughts. No longer was our couples-only dialogue full of hope and promise, the possibility of a new, cosmopolitanism with our dinner parties. We had drifted from: “OK, we can do this, we really shouldn’t cancel. We always cancel. It’s why we never see anyone.” And landed squat into: “Shit, we already bought the fish, it’s too late to cancel! Why didn’t we call this off earlier! We’re too sick! It’s too much! I just want to watch the new season of MI5!” (For those of you yet to discovered it, MI5 is a fantastic British spy series; a more intelligent, dark and subtle 24, if you will.)

There is a feeling I have when sick and tired, one that has been much more pronounced since I’ve had kids and suffered the sleep deprivation that occurs in the early months with newborns where you never get more than two hours of sleep at a given time, which can only be described as feeling underwater. It’s as if you are floating through your life, watching things go by, but unable to access the part of your critical mind that you desperately need to. And then it is too late. The kids are crying, or the roast is burned, or the laundry wrinkled, or the writing assignment late. This was the feeling I had at 6:15, when I realized we had no parsley, and my children were circling me in the kitchen, like hungry sharks, reminding me that they had not eaten.

For some reason, I had asked Amy and Peter to come at 6:00 or 6:30, which is strange, because I always serve dinner at 6:00, in order to placate my children, knowing that they, intense creatures of habit, will not eat unless the whole family sits down together for dinner and without food, they are prown, as I am, to temper tantrums and melt-downs. We run a tight-scehdule in my perhaps misguided attempts to avoid all psychotic emotional outbursts. However, in my eagerness to be liked, a quality I am ashamed to admit dictates more of my activities than I would like, I had asked them over later because I knew this suited their lifestyle. I wish I could say it was hospitality but clearly it wasn’t, because no one in our family does well at night. We are an early to bed early to rise kind of clan, and without strict attention to these rules, the whole system breaks down, which can be good for no one, guests included.

So in the midst of cooking and getting dressed and wrangling children, Steve and Sydney had to go out for I sent for parsley. I opened a bottle of white wine, and as it slid down my very sore throat, I felt its magic begin to work.

For a little apertivo, I put out salami, olives and a loaf of stirato from Grandaisy Bakery, the most chewy, crunchy, outrageously delicious bread in the world, as good as any we had in Florence. (“This is why we live in New York,” says Steve every time we visit the bakery a few blocks from our house.)

I chopped one small orange chili pepper. Jamie Oliver’s recipe for roasted cod called for the addition of red Thai peppers, but the overpriced, slightly dirty, grocery store next door was out, and I was feeling too sick and overwhelmed to handle the throngs of tourists and black-clad Soho regulars populating Dean and Deluca, perhaps the most fetishized grocery store in the world. (It is white and steal, full of imports, with opera playing, models lurking around with non-fat lattes and milk selling for six dollars a half gallon.) So I settled for the tiny, round Scotch-Bonnet chili at my quasi-ghetto grocery store.

Just then the doorbell rang. They had arrived.

Immediately, Amy offered to help. Like good guests, they brought wine and desert. Steve came back with Syd and the parsley. We opened a bottle of Cascina Morassino Langhe Nebbiolo 03, which was red and smooth, with just the right acidity to cut through the fat of the salami and olives. Exhausted, Steve and I sipped our wine and took a minute to actually talk with our guests. One glass and a few slices of salami later, we realized that it was almost seven and our children still had not eaten; instead they were refusing salami and running around the apartment like a bunch of wild wildebeests, in behavior I would have never dreamed of performing as a child when my parents or grandparents would throw one of their formal dinner parties. Clearly I had to do something. I got up to heat up some leftover pasta for the four boys. Amy, ever-the brilliant organizer, helped out telling the boys it wasn’t that they weren’t eating with us, instead they were having a picnic!

Steve and Peter retreated to the kitchen. Steve started the risotto and Peter to began to handwash the dishes in the dishwasher and dry them because, we had discovered, we didn’t have enough clean ones. The men talked about building stuff and other man-talk while Amy and I shoveled pasta into our kids’ mouths. Somehow, the gender division already began to take its place. I was meant to talk to peter, but more pressing concerns, like warding off evil unfed child spirits became more important.

The problem with our dinner menu, was two-fold: there were not enough appetizers to tide everyone over and both the first and second courses both required last minute work. So while the kids went off racing with their cars and started to throw leggos at one another, the adults ate risotto, and I left mine to go back to the kitchen to rub the oregano, chile and parsely mixture onto the fish, slathered it in olive oil and roasted it for 12 minutes. While I was doing this, Beckett started screaming, needing a diaper change, Sebastien stole Sydney’s train and they started crying and I yelled at Steve to “Go help out the kids, will you!!!!!!”

Finally, diapers were changed, tempers were mellowed and the adults were seated once again. I served the fish with an aioli I had made from scratch earlier in the day, and salad. I took a bite of the fish, excited to finally eat. It was the most spicy, burning, fish I had ever tasted. Peter and Amy politely gave their compliments. I slathered on the aioli and suffer through the fish, while gulping the wine, a lovely white Vigneti Massa Derthona 05' which at this point, I can’t even taste because my taste buds are fried. Amy and Peter are totally relaxed and low-key. They go with the flow, but I still feel uneasy and nervous.

I served the cheeses, my last hurrah. At this point, when I waxed on and on about the gorgonzola, it felt a bit forced. If Laura or Kimberly were over, we would talk about the cheese for at least twenty minutes. The ratio of creamy to funk would be analyzed, and ways to pair gorgonzola would be discussed. I felt as if I was talking too much. Peter opened an amazingly light Sorelle Bronca Proseco, which was cold, effervescent and clean. Steve and I talked about our time in Bologna, the waiters at that one trattoria, the pasta, the sparkling white in carafes.

Then the kids started up again. I suggested a bath, and Amy went to administer it. I tried to remember the last time I cleaned the bath-tub. Steve started the dishes. I went to the fridge to get the Lambrusco I had been saving for a special occasion. I opened the sparkling, super-grapey, red wine and served everyone, including Amy, who was confined to the bathroom on kid-drowning patrol. Finally the kids came out in their jammies, looking so cute, and I turned on the TV for them, asking Amy and Peter first, if it is OK. Wallace and Grommit seemed the most sophisticated thing we had—it’s British afterall––and the parents settled into preschool gossip.

Then it was 11:00, three hours past my kids’ bed-time and two hours past my own. Peter and Amy started packing up the kids, as I sat in my chair, feet up, exhausted.

One down. Twenty-four dinner parties to go.

Edited to add: As of September 25, 2007, we have now become good friends with Amy and Peter. I really had no reason to be so intimidated! They are quite lovely.

April 2, 2007

2007-04-03T15:45:00.000-04:00

The antibiotics have kicked in and we are finally recovered from our first dinner party. Last weekend, we did nothing. No social plans, just big dinners with the family and MI-5, season 4, which I have fallen asleep to for the last few nights now. This challenge is going to be harder than I originally thought.

Our next dinner will be for old friends of Steve: his grad-school mentor Stuart Ewen and Stuart's wife, who was Steve's first boss in the American's Studies department at Suny Old Westbury. They've had us over a couple times a year in the past decade, and this is the first time we've returned the invite. Usually, we head up to their large three-bedroom Upper WEst Side apartment, crammed with books and memoriabilia of a life of left-wing politics and New York intellectual life. We drink vast quanitites of great wine, smoke marlboro reds with Liz, eat STuart's signature dish--Osso Busco-- argue and gossip, and jump in a $20 cab back downtown, worse for the wear, but we always have fun.

Stuart and Liz, are like many of our friends without young children, night people, so an early dinner with them is out of the question. Note to self: hire a babysitter for the morning after. Since the four of us share a special love for Italy, I am planning a Roman menu, based on Mario Battali's short ribs braised in red wine, topped with horseradish, parsley and lemon zest. I'll ask them to bring the wine, since they might know more than we do, and are sure to bring some great ones.

Tonight Steve is giving a reading uptown, so I have the two little ones all day and night. We're going to Passover at Laura's apartment, which is always daunting because A. there are no other kids or parents, 2. It's a 3rd floor walk up, bad stairs, and hardly any lighting in the hallway, and my stroller is enormous. And again, with the cosmopolitan eating style of dining late, we probably won't eat until 7 or 8. But Laura, being an ex-caterer and a current party planner, has exceptional taste and I know the food and wine will be excellent. If only the babysitter hadn't called sick with Bronchitis! Game-plan: feed the kids early, bring DVD's.

Sunday Night Dinners

2007-03-20T14:26:00.001-04:00

Why would an overextended writer and mother of two take on the additional task of throwing 25 dinner parties in 12 months? At this point, I'm not entirely sure, but it has something to do with wanting to combat those seemingly cliched, but ultimately important issues: community, family, human connection.

My tale begins just four years ago. My husband and I used to lead wildly social New York City lives, going out most evenings and being involved in various communities, organizations and social groups. Now in just a half of a decade, we’ve become virtual recluses, going to bed at 9, getting up at 5:30am, and rarely leaving our apartment after dark. It’s gotten so bad that last night, I decided I would stay up, drink a glass of wine and catch up on my magazine reading. Ten minutes later, I was asleep in my chair with my Sangiovese anchored precariously in my hand and my three-year-old standing in front of me asking: ”Daddy, why are Mama‘s eyes closed?”

How did this happen to me?

In my twenties I started the web site getcrafty.com. I knit, I decorated my crappy apartment, and I met with girlfriends every Friday night for drinks. I was a member of a writer’s group, an outer-borough dinning club and a stitch-n-bitch. Even when I was married, a typical evening might include attending a yoga class, meeting up with my husband for dinner around 9:00 and then catching up with friends for drinks before getting home around midnight. We had wide circles of friends and there were dinner parties, rooftop parties, salons, reading groups, art openings, champagne escapades and the like.

With our first child, Sydney, we were still quite adventurous. When he was one month old, we drove across the country in a rented car, eating pulled pork sandwiches and staying at motels that allowed babies and dogs (our fourteen-year-old Doberman also joined us). When Syd was one, we took out a student loan and went to Florence for six weeks to live out our own ex-pat fantasies. While neither trip was particularly prudent, they each had their own charm. With Syd, we still did most of the things we used to do, only with a baby in tow.

In Italy, our life was pretty terrific, save for the fact Sydney refused to sit through a meal--and that we were completely broke. Not that either mattered. Camping out in a studio apartment in the scruffy San Frediano district we lived out our own Fellini film, albeit one on a shoe-string budget and with a tiny dictator as our director. There was wine at lunch. There were hikes through the Renaissance city and quick visits to museums (Sydney screamed through Botticelli, wailed through Brunelleschi and laughed, loudly, through Francesca). Mostly we shopped at local markets for the bounty of summer in Tuscany: Porcini mushrooms, tomatoes, basil, fennel, fresh pasta, truffle oil, Pecorino and the unsalted breads of the region. Afternoons unfolded into early evening strolls for cocktails at our local outdoor café, where everyone knew Sydney by name. Once home, we would cook elaborate meals and share a bottle of wine. Often, we invited new friends to share in the bounty on our balcony table. Life, you could say, was almost too good. Two weeks after we returned, I discovered I was pregnant. Sydney was merely 12 months old.

There is nothing like two babies born back-to-back to squeeze out every last drop of adventure left in your system. With two, you give up trying to have it all and reconcile yourself to the chaos. There are babysitters to manage, preschool to go to, freelance writing assignments to juggle, and Steve’s academic career to fret about. There are tears and tantrums and toys strewn about and lunches to pack and a home to clean. It’s so exhausting that even though I wrote the book on modern crafting, I rarely have time to craft! This Christmas, instead of all handmade gifts that I usually send out, wrapped and packaged in unexpected ways, I merely knit one scarf for my father-in-law and gave up. Everyone else received gifts pre-wrapped by Amazon.com. The only remnants of my former crafty self is the quick and easy crafts I do with my kids in the afternoons––magic wands, bath-tub paints, making our own play-dough––and, the overly intricate dinners I make for our family each night. And yes, I love, adore, worship my family. But the adult part of my life has to be more than a cheap bottle of Shiraz and a few saved episodes Grey’s Anatomy.

I have decided that if we can’t afford a babysitter (nor the restaurant check at the end of the night), and I’m utterly obsessed with cooking, we’ll bring the party home. It’s what my family has always done. For my French immigrants grandparents, dinner parties were the focal point of life; it was the reason they toiled as waiters and chefs. They worked to pay the rent and to have enough money to eat well, plus spend time with friends, drinking and eating and arguing politics and philosophy. Somehow, this art—and it’s not just cooking, but community of the table––seems to have become lost in the shuffle of my own family life. So, against the better judgment of my weary girlfriends, the trepidation of my slightly misanthropic husband, and the warning from my therapist that it “sounds like a lot of work,” I’ve decided to take on this quest. I will cook 25 Sunday night dinners over the next year, starting now, Spring 2007. I will not cancel at the last minute, even though the house is a mess and the two-year-old is tired and throwing a hissy-fit. I will build community, even if it kills me.

In the end, the reason for my quest is simple. As the world becomes more global and technological and fast, we have become less connected to centuries-old tradition of communing over a meal. And while Meal by Meal is not necessarily about Slow Food, or against Fast Food, or decrying the loss of the family meal, it is about the possibilities of the table—of making time and space in your life for eating and enjoying with friends and family. Mostly it is about my attempts, as a thirty-six year old mother of two, a writer, and a citizen, to create meaning and share something of myself with the people around me. Over the course of one year, by throwing dinner parties a couple times a month, I hope to gain a better understanding of what it all means, or at least to have eaten a bunch of food, drank a lot of wine and enjoyed my friends.