Category Archives: Food

A bit late to the pandemic bread-making bandwagon, I finally decided to try my hand at a basic bread recipe, especially since my friend Marline gifted me with a beautiful bread stone and basket to keep a loaf warm. It was so pretty I had to at least attempt something I’d been putting off because yeast scared the shit out of me. I’m a one bowl/one pan/one pass kind of guy ~ if there are multiple steps for rising and nonsense like that, I’m usually out.

That said, the notion of a warm loaf of rustic bread being broken and slathered in room-temperature butter, coupled with a pretty place to keep it warm got me over my yeast-avoidance. Besides, there was always cranberry juice for an unwanted infection. (I’ve since been told that’s not how it works, but I was taking no chances.)

Between the Beekman Boys and the New York Times, I figured out how to go about it with the easiest and quickest no-knead method. I’m not about kneading just yet. Dough just doesn’t do anything but stick to me, no matter how much flour I throw at it, so the less kneading the better.

The yeast worked – it was alive! – and the dough expanded and I was able to fold it a few times as instructed after the 20-hour rising period (where it nestled in a little dark cupboard that gets extra heat from its proximity above a heating vent). The one change I made was to add a piece of parchment paper to the bottom of the bread to make removal easier, sprinkling it with some cornmeal to also aid in non-sticky ease. It worked out wonderfully, and soon the kitchen was filled with the actual smell of real bread being baked. Such a marvelous thing!

When it was done, I took it out and let it cool before seeing if it would fit in Marline’s Christmas gift, and as the universe will sometimes smile upon our endeavors, it nestled into place neatly, as if made only for this basket. The stone at the base kept it warm, and no matter how hard winter knocked us about, it couldn’t touch us in that moment. 

Cutting off an end and spreading some softened butter over its rough edges, I tasted its simple goodness, basking in what was an unmitigated success – an especially happy result from all that rising and non-kneading. I saved half for Suzie since she gave me some of her last yeast effort (those lemon cardamom rolls from a lifetime ago). Good things are meant to be shared.

Andy made this incredible chicken curry dish a couple of days ago, and it was wonderful for a freezing winter night. Having perfected a chicken-curry-in-a-hurry recipe I gave him almost two decades ago, he has amended it with some lemongrass paste to add a little something extra. In winter, comfort food like this is what gets us through the early dimming of the day. It has layers of sunshine in it, with a full, fresh pineapple cut into little chunks, succulent cherry tomatoes that explode with tartness once their outer skin is broken, and baby ears of corn lending sweetness and a crunchy texture. Snow peas give the dish some welcome greenery, a blast of spring even if it’s still just an abstract notion looming faintly and far in the future. 

We talked of opening the pool early, and that spark of hope will last us through the coldest days. 

I’ve been locked in a comfort food zone for a while now, and it’s the best way to make it through the winter doldrums following the holidays. Cookies and cakes, soups and stews – they’re all a cozy part of finding warmth in winter, through mouth and stomach. This post continues that theme with a somewhat messy attempt at Enchiladas Verdes in a tomatillo sauce, recipe from Pati Jinich. 

This is a perfectly verdant dish that is both fresh and just the slightest bit spicy, and I went heavy on the cilantro as I love it so. The tart tomatillo base lends it the brightness needed to offset the overcast winter, and the heat of the peppers warmed the icy day. 

I made one shortcut that proved troublesome. In an effort to be just a little bit healthier, I tried doing this without passing the tortillas through the hot oil, and like the recipe indicated, they broke and cracked without the resilience which results from that integral step. Fortunately the flavor was the same, even if it ended up being a little messier. A lesson learned. Ms. Jinich knows her way around a recipe, and every little step is there with good reason. 

This is a piece of humble pie. It’s not much a part of my diet these days, for physical purposes as much as taste. And it was never a preferred dish as a child and young adult. In fact, I think I managed to avoid it through the bulk of my formative years. Unfortunately, a proper balance of humble pie in those important years is rather a good way of ensuring a balanced adult. As such, I wasn’t much balanced or perhaps good for many years. I made up for it in recent years, and my belly will attest to that as much as my countenance and attitude. 

A humble pie comes from humility. You can’t make it any other way, and you shouldn’t eat it without making sure the humility is pure. For a long time, it was more important for me to be right than it was to be good. If people got hurt in the process, if my honesty and sound arguments were too cutting, then the fault was not mine. Truth without conviction is a sketchy thing. Truth without honor or decency stands cold and alone. Being right does not mean being happy. Being right also doesn’t mean being perfect. And somewhere in my youth and childhood that got all mixed up. 

Only rather recently have I been able to own up to my many imperfections, to the myriad faults and shortcomings that comprise this forty-five year old human being that some days barely wants to stand before you. The journey to giving up the ghost of perfection – that tricky tease that has haunted me for as long as I can remember – has been a long one, and I don’t really think there’s an end in, or out of, sight. That’s a good thing. 

The moment I gave up the notion of being perfect was the moment I started to feel alive in a way I had never felt before. It came with a thrilling sense of freedom, an untethered joy that I never quite allowed myself to enjoy. I’d have regretted it if that wasn’t such a waste. Instead, I stumble happily along, pausing for pie when the mistakes pile up, sometimes having to gorge an entire one myself, but it’s always worth the calories and the reckoning.

If it’s wrong to find comfort in food, I don’t need to be right. Especially in the case of this Senor Breakfast Sandwich. It’s been quite a while since I’ve made this – I think the last time was for a brunch or a gathering of friends and family here. As I smelled the chipotle bechamel, it brought back that bittersweet memory – bitter for the fact that it’s been so long since we’ve entertained anyone in our home, sweet for the happy notion that it did in fact happen, that it was, once upon a time, our way of life. 

Skip was texting about whether or not this current world is some sort of new normal, and I said it may be. At the time I wrote that, I wasn’t as much bothered by it, but then it started to haunt me. What if this is our new way of living? Distance, no get-togethers, no theater or movies or sporting events in person… it did suddenly weigh the world down. 

At such times, when the winter is dim and dark, when the morning doesn’t quite crack open like a sunny-centered egg, I’ll create this delicious sandwich with its chipotle heat, its rich bechamel, a classic fried egg (or two), some cheese and ham, and avocado and cilantro. It’s a great thing for the Sunday after a party weekend – it extends the festive atmosphere, lending a little extra special something to those moments we don’t quite want to end. 

I believe we’ll have those moments again. Maybe they won’t look the same, maybe they won’t feel the same, but with a sandwich like this, at least they can taste the same. Hold that thought.

Am I the only person who thinks we under-appreciate the bundt cake in this day and age? Call me old-fashioned again. I’m not sure why simply changing the shape makes something instantly better, but in the same way that a diagonally-sliced sandwich is better than its counterpart, I’ve always loved a bundt cake just a bit more for its fancy appearance. 

Here is one of Aunt Elaine’s pistachio chocolate chip bundt cakes, a favorite recipe that (shh!) I modified yet again, but not in any very discernible way, as her daughter Suzie will attest. (This one went to her home untouched or untasted by me, as I was on a bundt cake kick and had an extra.) I have it on her authority that the chocolate chip distribution was even throughout, courtesy of a flour bath and the use of mini chips. Both aid in suspension. 

As for the bundt cake mold, it may stick around on the counter for the moment. Best to let these passing fancies flourish while they’re here, and no one ever complained about getting a bundt cake. 

Regarding the decorating style of this one, it’s not fit for the ears of children. 

A delicious and warming bowl of pho has been the best way to spend a winter’s afternoon or evening over the past several years, but with COVID we haven’t been eating out, so I had to fashion my own bowl of broth and rice noodles, something that’s not that difficult to do. There was also a pre-made packet of spices (star anise, cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, etc.) that I found at the local Asian Market which made things much easier. 

Pho always brings back happy memories of travels – usually in Boston – where a walk in the winter was rewarded with a steaming bowl of this Vietnamese classic, a lovely form of sustenance to see us through the dim season. It’s also not that complicated to make – just takes a bit of time to broil and boil out all of that delicious marrow. 

Noodles are made for winter meals. 

If the past year has taught me anything, it’s that it’s ok to bake from a box, and in the case of pancakes and Bisquick, it’s actually the smarter method (particularly for a pancake-destroyer like myself). Enter these practically-perfect Pfeffernasse cookies conjured from a Trader’s Joe mix that was part of a lovely gift package from Marline. They came out wonderfully, and the ease with which they were done could not be matched by any supposed-satisfaction in compiling all the spices needed for this by my own hands. What would have typically taken fifteen extra bowls, fussy flour fluffing, and clouds of powdered sugar floating through the house, instead took the crack of an egg, some softening of butter, and it was done.

Stung richly through with the taste and scent of Christmas, these were the cookies I wanted so badly for our last Children’s Holiday Hour, so they come with some happy memories, and even happier hopes for next season. That’s the kind of sentiment only the best cookies can bring.

One of the happy gems that appear around this time of the year is the precious pomegranate. The ritual of removing its seeds is a fabled process, and every time I try something different, promised to be the easiest and best method, and I have yet to find any that works consistently. I’ve culled them underwater, I’ve scored the outer rind in all sorts of geometric madness, and I’ve hexed them with all kinds of incantations – all to no avail. 

In the end, I resort to messily and painstakingly removing the seeds with my fingers, plucking the fruit in groups, pulling out bits of the papery membrane that separate the compartments of jewels. Sometimes I find joy and peace in the process, slipping into a Zen-like trance as I methodically work toward a bowl filled with the purest extraction of the gems from their torn and ravaged carriage.

Sometimes it’s just a pain. 

The perfectly imperfect simplicity of a pink macaron. 

Skip says it must be pronounced a certain fancy way, so as not to mistake it for a macaroon. 

At times, Skip is fancier than me.

I’m less fancy than I pretend to be. 

But I digress from the simple macaron at hand. 

This little jewel was a rose tea variety I found on my last day-trip to Boston. More on that in a bit – for now let’s just enjoy the sight of this tiny treasure, so temptingly perched on a plate procured from Chinatown many moons ago. A brief moment of happy whimsy before the holiday madness ensues. 

Pati Jinich introduced the guajillo pepper to me, and since then it’s been favorite addition to fall and winter soups, adding just the sort of humble heat necessary to warm the stomach on the coldest days. I didn’t fall any particular recipe for this casual mix – just added some tomatoes (the last from the garden), a few tomatillos, an onion, some garlic, and a dried guajillo pepper. Boiled and blended with a couple of garlic cloves, salt and pepper, then added some fresh cilantro and tortilla chips for dipping. It was a perfect – and quick – dinner for a dreary fall day. Keeping things simple, flavorful, and just a bit spicy is the best recipe for a gray world on the verge of winter. 

It isn’t so much the soup itself that provides solace – though its warming properties and savory sustenance do provide physical comfort – it is the act of making the soup that renders it a practice of peace. When done correctly, a good soup isn’t created instantly – it takes time and care and time and practice and time. Soup is all about time. So are dreary fall mornings when the rain won’t let up, and overcast days are all that’s in the forecast for the next few days. 

Soup has a certain magic to it as well – the way a big pot of plain water can transform into something wondrous with some carrots, celery and onion. A holy trinity indeed. Add a few pieces of chicken (bones and skin for glory), some salt and pepper, and a trio of bay leaves, and you’ve got yourself a perfect fall meal. A slow boil for an hour or so, or maybe more if you like it falling off the bones like I do, and that’s all it takes. As it gently works to extract the flavor and fat from the chicken, and the magic of the bay leaves permeates the liquid as it grows more golden in color, a simple chicken soup takes shape. 

The pocket of time in which it comes together can be used to read or write a blog post or simply ruminate  on the passing of fall. I topped it with some fresh cilantro because that’s my business. Like so and like that.

After a few rough days of non-stop news-watching, I awoke just before my work day at home was about to begin, checked my phone, and saw that my friend Lorie had sent a message that her husband Cal had dropped off doughnuts. Rushing to the front door, I saw the bags from Bella Napoli and my heart jumped with joy and gratitude. My stomach rumbled as I hurriedly brought them in, setting them out on a plate for these pictures before devouring one in giddy glee. 

The initial flush of excitement and happiness was tempered, however, and not in a totally bad way, as I thought of all the dinners and gatherings with Cal and Lorie that we normally would have had over the past few months were it not for the Covid state of the world. A brief pang of melancholy came over my quick sugar high. The sweetness still on my tongue, I was touched that Cal had stopped by to leave breakfast – a reminder that friendship can still hold true and steadfast even in the tenuous times of connection in which we are currently immersed. 

It was a sweet start to the morning, a flavorful souvenir from dear friends, and a happy pause for memories of our time together. I sent up a silent wish and prayer for the chance to do it again someday soon. Thank you Cal and Lorie!