Next on the List

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breakfast, Dorie Greenspan, mango, quick bread, spices

mango bread

I am a compulsive list-writer. I live and die by the “to-do” list. Although my home screen is cluttered with those little reminder notes, I prefer making my lists on stark white computer paper in ballpoint pen. I don’t like lined paper; my words can’t fit into those predetermined spaces, their importance limited, obscured by their confinement. I use journals sometimes so I have record of the previous day in planning the next, but I also revel in recycling the printer sheets and starting over — a sign that Day=conquered. I enjoy nothing more than marring the page with my crossouts., moving along like a diligent worker-bee, and adding and rearranging the tasks as the day rolls on.

Take Me Away

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Friand, Pina Colada, Pineapple, Sorbet, Travel, Tropical

pineapple sorbet & rum-coconut friands

I’m not at all well-traveled. Sometimes I foolishly think that I am; my love of food and my cookbooks have been my passports, my tour guides. Although the physical journeys have been few, through self-teaching and reading, I’ve traveled the globe. I’m a curious cook and an adventurous eater (within reason). It may take years to learn Arabic or months to fully understand, to easily breath in and exhale, the cultural mores of a foreign region, but one bite of something new can bring you cheek to cheek with a nameless stranger on another continent. In that bite, you can learn practical things — what crops are fertile, what flavors most popular — but you can also dig a bit deeper, feeling the pulse of the region and what moves its people. Take North African couscous. Not just the mini pearls of semolina, but the dish itself. Large trays of sandy stewed and jewel-like ingredients. It’s a symbol of family, community, patience, care.

The farthest I’ve traveled physically was to France on a ten-day trip with my French class way back in high school. I appreciated it, but I know I didn’t take from it what I would if I were to go today. I was just too young. I can’t help but think it was a wasted opportunity. I couldn’t possibly see the world at that age in focus when I wasn’t even grounded in my own.

Pies & Tarts

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Banana, Banana Cream Pie, caramel, Pies & Tarts, White Chocolate

new-school banana cream tart

I cook for fun, I cook to eat, I cook to discover, but baking makes me feel something. A loaf’s slow rise helps me value simplicity and time, a multi-layered torte grounds me in the discipline it requires. In my heart, though, I am a baker of pies and tarts, as simple as they are in comparison. If I owned a bakery, I would be tempted to limit its offerings to these two things. The pie makes everyone smile. The tart is a canvass for combining classic flavor combinations or experimenting with new ones.

When I read the words of other pie enthusiasts, I usually find adorable stories about “Grandma’s Strawberry-Rhubarb” or “Mom’s Custard Pie.” I cannot reference any such history. In fact, while I have plenty of food memories, they don’t come from a long line of anything in my family, really. My grandmother doesn’t deal with crusts. My grandfather shares my love of pie – eating it, not making it. My mother stopped baking when I started and at that it was always just quickbreads and cookies. And my father can barely tell torte from tart from taco. Oh, and half my family lives 6,000 miles away, across ocean and continent.

Lunchbox Memories

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Around My French Table, Dorie Greenspan, peppers, Tuna

tuna-packed piquillo peppers

tuna salad with mayo, black pepper, and chopped celery. white bread (crusts off, naturally). green grapes. carrot sticks. wheat thins. a peggy lawton cookie

That was my standard elementary school lunch. The memory came to me a couple of months ago when the good folks at Food52 started tweeting and posting “Amanda’s (Hesser) Kids’ Lunch.” Unsurprisingly, twins Walker and Addie eat better than I do on most some days. On a scale from Lunchables to Amanda’s Kids’ Lunch, I think mine sat respectably in the middle. That’s not too bad considering that access to information about “good food” wasn’t as egalitarian when I was that age as it is now (thank you, internet).

A Place for Sharing

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bar, Boston, Burgers, South End, The Gallows

the gallows

I grew up in a family of “sharers.” Dinner was a battlefield; no one’s dish was his own. Ok, that’s a tad dramatic. But in an effort to taste “a little bit of everything,” as my mom would say, we readily employed our bread dishes to share bites of each other’s orders. Sure, I appreciate having something that is “mine” and experiencing a composed dish as the chef intended it. But I still have acquired this neurotic compulsion to experience as many tastes off a menu as possible.

It really wasn’t until college that I found out that normal people don’t always follow this dining code. Even since then, I have occasionally found myself encouraging others to taste my dishes when they’re good and getting no such offers in return. I have dear friends who are strict “non-sharers,” and I respect that. But I certainly won’t take them to The Gallows.

Goodbye, Love

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chocolate, ganache, Pies & Tarts, Pistachio

chocolate pistachio tart

I cannot say that I’m a “chocoholic.”

I eat chocolate in some way, shape, or form everyday. I’m known to top off my lunches with a small chocolate treat. At night, a square of 85% dark soothes my stomach after a day’s eating. I find the taste of straight dark chocolate to be divine — toe-curling, even — in its rich, fruity complexity. I love that perfectly tempered, snappy milk chocolate melts into creamy submission once it touches your lips. It’s difficult to savor; it’s gone in an instant. And sure, some white “chocolate” can be cloying on its own, but its high cocoa butter content makes it a luxurious pairing with more piquant ingredients.

But, no, I’m not a “chocoholic.”

Happy Pockets

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breakfast, Dorie Greenspan, grains, muffins

great grains muffins

I hate to start this way, but I’m writing this post with a massive headache. I suffer from frequent headaches, and each has its own personality, its own beat. Sometimes the throbbing is constant, my head becoming a marcher’s drum. Sometimes it is latent, and a cloudy haze takes over my brain. Sometimes the eye of the pain is situated directly between my eyebrows, taunting and teasing me to close my lids as I work, fighting it. Sometimes, it spans the back of my head to my neck, as if my brain is sending endless neurological messages of hate down to my feet.

I would never wish chronic headaches on another person, nor would I wish to have more moments of pain than I do, but there is always a silver lining – a pleasant side to the pain. Today, it’s a re-recognition of radiant color that’s putting a smile on my face. While my vision is blurry, the brilliant sheen of the softball-sized red onions and the candy apple red of the scattered grape tomatoes in my vegetable bowl pop today. Usually, their contrast is far less obvious when the other tones of my kitchen are not as blurry and bland.

A Feast of Plenty

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beans, New Year, Persian, Plenty, saffron, vegetables, Yotam Ottolenghi

saffron cauliflower, chard omelettes, & fried lima beans

I am in awe, folks. Complete awe. I came here with a story in mind – something I’ve wanted to share in this space for a while. I pictured words streaming from my fingertips as I reminisced about an enjoyed meal, a Persian New Year feast. But I can’t do it. Not today. That meal deserves to be the only thing that is shared today.

I said I would report back on the food I ate on the thirteenth day of Nowruz, the Persian New Year. I promised it would be delicious, as I’ve made some of the dishes before. I didn’t, however, think it would be enough to leave me, quite literally, speechless. Long story short, Persian families traditionally celebrate and picnic on that day to squelch all evil that is associated with the number thirteen. Since there would not be any literal picnicking going on, I thought I would serve some mezze plates that used Persian flavors with some fluffy and buttery basmati rice and the requisite Shirazi salad.

Nowruz

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baklava, middle eastern, pastry, persian new year, spring, Tabrizi

persian new year & tabrizi bakery

Although I already posted a rambling, springtime soliloquy last week, the first day of Spring holds a little more meaning. The vernal equinox marks the Persian New Year, Nowruz, which translates to “the new day.” There’s something very beautiful about that, no? I’m very much accustomed to our calendar and will always associate the official new year — you know, the changing of the date — with January 1st. But I love the idea that every year, out of the frost and out of the dark comes a rebirth of sorts. After winter winds have adequately cleansed the earth (ok, maybe not so much this year), a new year, and more importantly, a new life can begin.

Nowruz is celebrated with fanfare and all of its traditions revolve around food, family, and a little abstract mythology as well. I’m especially fond of Persian families’ emphasis on cleaning in the days preceding Spring. The compulsion to start fresh, to start with a clean slate, to start on the right foot is universal. We all want that, we all need that sometimes. It’s that mentality that contributed to the pure optimism of my last post.

Spring Awakening

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asparagus, cheese, custard, pancetta, quiche

asparagus and pancetta quiche

The forecasted high for today is 81 degrees. 81. I’ve been opening the windows for a couple of weeks now. It started with a hesitant crack. Always cold, I’m typically wary of the weatherman’s coos of warm breezes. But today the windows will be open wide. I’m embracing the change of air. It’s remarkable how light it feels — how light I feel. Out with the dank, in with the light.

These words aren’t surprising. Who doesn’t feel a little better when the first signs of life creep through the cracks of the drab concrete? But spring is never my favorite season. There’s something calm about winter, and spring — especially in New England — seems like a mere blip on the radar, an atmospheric tick that marks the transition from dead to lush. It’s not a pleasant blip like fall with its changing leaves and clean air. It’s often damp and humid, windy and grey. It clogs noses and sends tears to eyes. This year just feels different.