If the Ball Rolls...

The venerable matzo ball. The one food that perhaps best sums up all of Jewish cuisine in a spherical, dumpling-like shape. They can be soft, ethereal almost, just barely holding their shape in a globe of glutens. They can be hard, tense almost, pressed tautly into a sphere. Me, I like them to be somewhere in between. A 70-30 ratio, in favor of soft. The matzo ball should offer the slightest bit of resistance as you plunge your spoon into it. The center still chewy, doughy, and delectable.

There are many different recipes, even more preferences. Some people experiment with different spices (curry, I've read), others prefer a smattering of freshly torn herbs (parsley or dill are popular), and some still prefer an unadulterated matzo ball (perfectly white). I'm a bit of a purist, no outrageous spices, curry would be sacrilege, a bit of parsley, some chopped onion, this and that, and the perfect matzo ball can be had. In my opinion why mess with a good thing? If you have a matzo ball recipe that is close to being perfect, why try to make it something more or less than it is? I feel the same way about other traditional foods-- Thanksgiving turkeys, potato latkes, meatloaf.

I have the ideal recipe, ideal by my standards mind you. And it's not my mother's, although it was given to her by a family friend. Mother Wofchuck's Matzo Balls. Mother Wofchuck, a spritely old Jewish woman from the Bronx, who would come out to California once a year to celebrate Passover with her son (a friend of my parents) and his family. Everyone called her Mother Wofchuck, her daughter-in-law, my parents, and of course my sister and I. Calling her Mrs. Wofchuck just seemed too formal, and no one would have dreamed of addressing her by her first name, too personal, so Mother Wofchuck it was; and she made the most amazing matzo balls. Light and fluffy, loosely shaped, the perfect way to begin the Passover feast. I never really cared what the Wofchucks served at the Seder, just as long as Mother Wofchuck's Matzo Balls would be an integral part.

In the 1970's, I've been told, her Matzo Ball recipe made it into Sunset magazine. Just imagine, a squat woman with peroxided hair, hopping a plane from NY to San Francisco to busily cook in the Sunset magazine test kitchens until a faultless formulation was decided upon, and eventually published, for thousands of housewives to see.

After many matzo balls made and eaten in my lifetime, and many more tastings still to come, there are a few helpful hints I can impart to the Jewish dumpling novice. Do not, I repeat do not, compress the dough when making a matzo ball. By handling the dough as little as possible, making amorphous blobs, rather than perfect spheres, you will have a lovely, light matzo ball. It will look rustic, but well, if chicken soup isn't rustic than I don't know what is. The second word of advice, is actually just a recommendation. All matzo ball recipes call for the addition of some sort of fat, vegetable oil, shortening, or...schmaltz. And I say, for those of you with chutzpah, schmaltz it up. It's just a bit of rendered chicken fat, and it will do wonders for your dumplings, making them chicken-y and delicious.

As for the chicken soup in which you submerge your matzo balls, that's really up to you. Some people prefer just the matzo ball in a clear chicken broth, others prefer a more robust soup with chicken and vegetables. I use a combination of aromatics, with a smattering of freshly chopped dill. If you would like the recipe for Mother Wofchuck's Matzo Balls go to the Daily Specials page, and make Mother Wofchuck proud.

TaaDaa, We Are Here

I love apricots! After months of waiting, 10 months to be exact, they are here. All rosy fleshed, smooth, mildly fuzzy skin-- as close to perfection as a fruit can come.

I was doing my food shopping at Berkeley Bowl, a dizzying array of the usual winter fruits, tough skinned citrus in varying colors, a handful of summer fruits from Chile, and there they were-- calling out to me. A beacon of early summer appearing in late spring. A lone display, paltry by the Bowl's standards, one type as opposed to the many which can be found later on in June. I quickly glanced at the poster, $2 a pound, and what I was really looking for, the origin stating these delightful little fruits were from California. Hurray, spring/summer is here!

Each year I forget when the spring and summertime fruit and vegetables actually arrive. I always recall, incorrectly, that I should be able to buy a nectarine in March, maybe early April. I rush to the market every few days, awaiting the lush cornucopias of fragrant fruit: the peaches, nectarines, apricots, and my word-- the cherries. Alas, sadly I go home with yet again, more citrus fruit. But then there is the joy, the satisfaction when springtime has finally arrived. It all starts with the asparagus, the harbinger of spring, charming in its varying colors: the green, white, or even the purple. Then slowly (nature is too slow for my tastes) you get the berries, strawberries at first, then tart blackberries and sweet raspberries, and finally the superlative stone fruit.

So the apricot is here, at least in Northern California. The apricots that I purchased weren't great, but they were good. A solid 7 on a 10 point scale. Firm to the touch, with just the slightest give to my eager thumb, slightly tart, but at the core was the sweetness of summer. And so I say, "Farewell grapefruits, so long oranges, and toodle-loo tangerines, I'll see you next year. For now I have the delectable apricot, and soon to come the juicy peach, and the luscious nectarine."

I Sort of Cheated, but Look How Cute

Christian Clarke's 4th grade birthday party was not all that spectacular. Late afternoon, roller rink, lights dim with the "disco" lights swirling about in a clockwise fashion. I wasn't even friends with Christian, it was just one of those parties to which everyone in class was invited. In fact, he pestered and teased me horribly, about my robin's egg blue Chinese pajama pants (unwarranted), and for tapping my fingernails annoyingly against my formica school desk (warranted). So we were not the best of friends, but I went to his birthday anyway. Not being the hugest fan of skating around endlessly in circles, I sat on the sidelines for most of the afternoon talking to his mother, and eyeing the lovely cupcakes that were setting out on the Transformers plates awaiting to be gobbled up by minions of hungry children.

Strawberry Duncan Hines cake mix topped with fluffy white Seven Minute Frosting. They were sweet, delectable, the icing firmly planted with a crisp sugary shell. I loved them. I even asked Christian's mother for the recipe, she ashamedly admitted it was just a cake mix. Why was she ashamed, cake mixes offer a fine, trustworthy cake? I ran home anxious to procure the appropriate ingredients and try out this delightful treat. My mother remembered 7 Minute Frosting, she said that no one really made it much anymore, but we would give it a try. One hour later, the cupcakes cooled in their individual cups, we piled the icing high atop the cakes. I even waited a half hour, until the frosting got that crackly shell before I dove in, eager to taste the mellifluous cupcake. But it wasn't the same. Maybe the flashing lights of the disco ball had at the roller rink had been disorienting, making the dessert treats actually seem better than they were. My mother pronounced them too sweet, and the 7 Minute Frosting and Strawberry Cupcakes were filed away, only to be thought of from time to time when my sweet-tooth particularly acted up.

Well, the sweet-tooth acted up this past weekend. I put the same Duncan Hines cake mix (chocolate this time) to good use, and scoured my cookbooks for a 7 Minute Frosting recipe. The only book in which I found a recipe was the trusty old, Joy of Cooking cookbook. I, like many others, have this cookbook but never really use it. In fact, I have an old 1964, tattered, jacketless version from my grandma. But leave it to this book to have not only a 7 Minute Frosting recipe, but also three permutations, an orange, a lemon, and a caramel flavored. I decided on the orange icing, because how can you go wrong with a chocolate-orange combination? Topped with a single perfect raspberry, these cupcakes where not only adorable, but darn good. The crisp shell of the icing enclosed an oozy mess of sugary sweetness, delicately tinged with orange zest. And the cake? Well it was a mix, a good, solid 7 on a 10 point scale. These cupcakes were sweet, but not too sweet, and it is dessert mind you.

7 Minute Orange Frosting
from the Joy of Cooking

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 egg whites
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon grated orange ring
1/4 cup orange juice

Place all ingredients in top of a double boiler over rapidly boiling water. Beat constantly with a wire whisk for 7 minutes. Remove icing from heat. Continue beating with a hand mixer until proper consistency is reached, about 4 minutes. Icing will harden slightly over time.

Haroset, Charoses, Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

In honor of Passover, a holiday that has always been more about the food shared than it has been about religious significance to me-- I give you Haroset, or Charoses as it may be. Why the difference in spelling, thus the difference in pronunciation? Well its a matter of both transliteration and place. If you are a Jew descending from Western Europe or Africa-- a Sephardic Jew, you would say Haroset. If you are an Eastern European Jew, an Ashkenazic Jew, you would soften the T sounds to an S, and the H would be pronounced with a CHA sound, sort of like you were clearing your throat. Whew, its difficult to spell all of those guttural sounds.

I remember the Seders of my youth. Sitting through what seemed an interminable ceremony, the nerves over reciting the Four Questions, ending in the culmination of the Seder, and the sweet, cinnamony flavor of the Charoses piled atop a brittle piece of Matzah. For those that have never been to a Seder, and have never tried Charoses, it is a simple amalgamation of a few ingredients. Uncooked, the item that I would most equate it to is a chutney of sorts.

Sephardic and Ashkenazic Harosets differ in ingredients. The Sephardic, favoring sultry climates, with the prominence of dried fruit such as dates and apricots, combined with nuts, are chopped and macerated. The Ashkenazic having just apples, walnuts, cinnamon, honey, and lemon zest, all brought together with a touch of wine (Manischewitz of course). Very simple, not the prettiest of dishes, but Ashkenazic Charoses was my favorite item on the Seder plate.

A few simple rules must be abided by when making Charoses. Even with the advent of kitchen gadgets such as the Cuisinart, the apples must be chopped by hand. This adds to the rough and tumble texture of the apple bits, some tiny, so they practically slip down one's throat, others larger, requiring a careful chew or two before swallowing. A mixture of apples is best when selecting for Charoses. Sweet-tart, like Fujis or Pink Ladies are perfect when it comes to flavor; but similar to when one is making a pie, a Grannysmith or Pippin, thrown in for good measure, adds a tartness and body that can't be beat.

Like Matzo Balls, each Jewish person that you meet will swear they have the ideal recipe. It's their grandmother's, sister's, cousin's by marriage, third child, right? That may be so, but I have a damn good recipe as well. It comes from my mother (a convert--GASP!), who got the recipe from an old spiral bound community cookbook from Modesto, CA. If you are looking for a new Charoses recipe, or are interested in just trying it out, go to the Daily Specials page.

On the Farmer's Market and Saturday Supper

A peculiar thing is happening to Bay Area farmer's market, and I'm not sure that I like it. They are becoming very much in fashion, in vogue, and not always in a good way. In other parts of the country a farmer's market is a place to get wholesome farm fresh produce, much better than what you would get at the grocery, for rock bottom prices. The farmer's market cuts out the middle man; they are a place where the farmer is also the purveyor. But in the Bay Area the farmer's market is a place for a stroll, sipping your organic coffee, a place to see and be seen, they are dripping with folksiness, not a place for everyone, but a place for those who can afford their organic (sometimes) produce. Not every Bay Area farmer's market is like this, but the weekend farmer's market at Ferry Building surely is.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning, warm and sunny, so my husband and I ventured to SF for our very first visit to the Ferry Building. First visit! I know the Ferry Building has been open how long, what type of bourgie does this girl think she is? Well, I will tell you, not the type who gathers together my empty satchel awaiting fresh produce early on a weekend morning, only to listen to some dude's rendition of Andre 3000 played on the acoustic guitar a la Simon and Garfunkel. Thank you very much. My experience at the SF farmer's market can be best summed up with this analogy: the Ferry Building Farmer's Market is to the classic farmer's market as Disneyland is to a county fair, a good premise that has lost sight of its original goals.

I should temper this post by saying this farmer's market was not all bad. It was vast. Row upon row of stalls, each with their different wares: produce, oil and vinegars, chilis, breads, smoked fish, and leeks, there were a lot of leeks. And inside the Ferry Building, the portion that is open daily, was really quite lovely. Cow Girl Creamery has a shop filled with artisinal cheeses and housemade ricottas, fetas, and fromage blancs; the purveyors were more than happy to answer my often times thick questions and offer a taste of their creamy cheeses.

I can honestly say that I was shocked by the prices of all of the foods at the farmer's market. EX-PEN-SIVE! I am not one to scrimp when it comes to food; I believe in paying the just price for goods. But I will not pay astronomical prices for the same foods that I can buy either at Berkeley Bowl or Monterey Market for a fraction of the cost. It was interesting to note that I saw some of the same farmers at the Ferry Building Farmer's Market as I see at the Jack London Square Farmer's Market in Oakland, where they sell the same produce for a fraction of the price. I guess the only difference is that they know the "foodies" that frequent the SF farmer's market will pay the exorbitant prices. CA-CHING, all hail capitalism!

But on to dinner, I wanted something light and fresh, something that displayed the little bit that I bought at the Ferry Building (yes, I too succumbed to the call of capitalism). So I made some scrambled eggs, adorned with crisp asparagus and meaty wild mushrooms. Taking advantage of the fresh ricotta cheese that I purchased at Cowgirl, I blended it into the scrambled eggs. Placed on top of grilled levain bread, it proved to be the ideal supper to end an exhausting day. Check out the Daily Specials page for a more complete recipe for Springtime Scrambled Eggs on Toast.

Nectar of the Gods

Maneschewitz wine, the Boone's Strawberry Wine of sacrament beverages. It is syrupy sweet, fortified, mustache-staining purple, concord grape. What more can be said than, it's a twist-off top? I love the stuff, it's the Passover beverage of my youth. I didn't come from one of those up-tight American families where drinking before the age of 21 was frowned upon, but generally the youths in my family were not boozing it up. But there was an exception. At the Jewish holidays, a little glass of ice-cold Manischewitz wine (we were simply following the "refrigerate after opening" instructions) was set before me. All of the adults had the real stuff, but the kids were allowed a modicum of Manischewitz.

To this day, I still hold a place in my heart for this beverage. In fact now that I am in my 20's, and am allowed to consume any alcoholic beverage of my choosing, during the Jewish holidays Manischewitz is still my drink of choice. It wouldn't be Passover without it. For those of you who have never tried the nectar, I can't say I would honestly recommend it. Sort of reminiscent of cough medicine, overly sweet, the wine actually burns one's esophagus a bit on the way down. But the burn only causes me to think of the suffering of the Jewish people when they were enslaved in the land of Pharaoh. LET MY PEOPLE GO!

Just as reciting the four questions (because yes, I am still the youngest in my family), the drinking of the sacharine-sweet sacrament drink, is an activity in which I will masochistically partake. The first sip is always the best/worst, the concord grape most pungent. Then as my glass comes down to room temperature, and the wine lingers longer in my glass, the medicinal quality becomes redolent. With each taste I wince, and prepare myself for the next gulp. This is not a wine to sip and savor, to enjoy the bouquet, to swirl about your glass to see the legs, but rather to drink as heartily as you can, protecting your skin from the horrid purple stain, and waiting until the next Jewish holiday when it all begins again.

(Stay tuned for further posts this month as I celebrate Passover, and all things Jewish.)

Spear Me the Egg-y Details

Sometimes it is the simplest meals that are the most delicious. A soft-boiled egg, small and self-contained, proudly standing tall in its porcelain cup is the perfect brunch-time antidote to a weekend filled with too much wine, hearty foods, or both. An ideal vessel in which to dip a slice of lightly grilled rustic country bread, or better yet, take advantage of the spring season and dunk an crisp, lightly salted asparagus spear.

I am not the hugest fan of savory egg breakfasts, but there has always been something about the soft-boiled egg that just does it for me. Perhaps it is all of the accoutrements, the delightful little cups, mimicking the shape of the food that they hold, and the diminutive spoons just large enough to get into the shell without shattering it. By the time you prepare your egg just so, a pat of fresh butter, a sprinkling of salt and a twist of freshly ground black pepper, it is as if you have to dip into this breakfast treat. How could you leave it alone?

Springtime is a particularly delectable time of year to partake of the soft-boiled egg as the accoutrements only extend farther from the simple toast, to that harbinger of spring-- the asparagus. Your egg is instantly transformed into a petite pot of sauce, slick with butter, becoming translucent hollandaise, egg-y and rich.

The perfect way to start a weekend morning, fuel for the day ahead, and just easy enough to help you remain in the haze of the night before. Just boil some water, carefully place eggs in, making sure not to overcrowd, and wait 3-4 minutes. Simplicity at its finest. If you would like a full rundown of my Sunday brunch, check the Daily Specials page.

Feel the Burn!

Call it what you will, pop, soda, soda-pop, soft-drink, hiccup inducing sugar water, from time to time I do love a Coke. In fact it's just about the only soda I will have in all of its permutations; vanilla, chocolate, and cherry from the fountain. And I adore the fountain Cokes, but they are a slippery slope.

We all know what a standard can of Coke tastes like-- sweet, vaguely caramel in flavor, overflowing with effervescence. But a fountain Coke is an entirely different story. So much can go wrong, but occasionally you will receive the ideal Coke, the ratio of syrup to soda water is perfect, providing the flawless mixture of carbonation to sugary sweetness. But these incidences of impeccability are few and far between. Most of the time you will order a Coke where the ratio is askew, too much syrup has overridden the sprightly bubbles, or too many bubbles with just a hint of sweet, otherwise potent flavor. The unmatched fountain Coke has the just right ratio where the syrup is just potent enough, it almost tastes flat except for the rash of tiny bubbles, mild at first, simply tickling the palate, then coming through with strength and vigor.

There is a cafe, right across the street from where I went to college that has horrible coffee. In fact, it doesn't even sell coffee, just coffee beverages, giving their baristas adequate time to burn shots of espresso before dumping it into various cups of tepid steamed milk. But for all of Cafe Strada's short-comings in the coffee department, they have the ideal fountain. Late in the day, one class left, I would stumble in and order a small Coke to go. In moments my Coke would arrive, not simply in an ordinary paper cup, but lidded, translucent plastic-- touch of class. The barista would plop a wedge of lemon in my Coke (fabulous-- a lemon Coke), and send me on way, feeling the burn.

As you can see, I've done quite a bit of thinking about what makes the ideal Coke, but this does not extend to the various lemon-lime beverages. I haven't had one of those in years; and the last time I had a ginger ale, not mixed with some potent alcoholic beverage, was when I had the flu. For all of this contemplation, I probably drink one Coke a week, they're a treat, and I am trying to preserve my teeth. And I never drink diet beverages of any sort, so I can't give you notions of those proper ratios. The saccharine scares me, and just as I am trying to preserve my teeth, I also like my brain to be intact. You never know just when you will need it.

Choke Me Please, No Heimlich Necessary!

The sunchoke, otherwise known as the Jerusalem artichoke was unfamiliar to me. Sure I'd read about it, even heard about this little knobby tuber in certain circles; I just had never gotten around to trying it. That was until this week, when the gorgeous buttery, potatoey, artichoky bulb came into my home via a Berkeley Bowl bag.

Berkeley Bowl is a legendary Berkeley market with an enormous produce section-- enormous. It is not unusual to find seven different types of eggplant there, all lined up in various shades of purple. As I was strolling around the produce section I spotted them,the sunchoke, pimply, knuckly, with a sheer tan skin, they actually looked like hands of ginger. So I snatched them up and brought them home, unsure what I would do with them.

I scoured my cookbooks. Mark Bittman in How to Cook Everything, has only one recipe for Crisp Cooked Sunchokes that I wasn't too keen on; I could do better. Alice Waters in Chez Panisse Vegetables doesn't even mention the sunchoke, and yet she mentions a vegetable as unique as cardoons. What kind of bourgie does she think she is? Then I went on-line, expecting to find a plethora of recipes. I did Google searches for both sunchokes and Jerusalem artichokes, I searched epicurious.com, Cooks Illustrated, and many more. And I found recipes, just none about which I was all too excited. Most of them were for purees or silky soups, but it's spring and I wanted something light, something that adequately displayed my newfound vegetable. And so those sunchokes sat on the kitchen counter taunting me with their dirty looks, begging for me to cook them.

And so I did; and they were delightful. I learned a lot about the sunchoke in my research. They are a tuber, very nutritious, high in vitamin C, containing iron, potassium, and calcium, and they are very low in calories. I also learned of their crisp texture, reminiscent of a water chestnut, and that this particular vegetable can benefit from parboiling previous to sauteing, roasting, or baking.

Unsatisfied with my recipe findings, I made up a recipe that began with bacon, because really how can you go wrong. There are few things that I have found to be such a pleasant, homey smell than that of bacon crisping. Toss in some shallots, a little bit of fresh sage, saute until the chokes have that caramel brown color, and dig in. I was definitely pleased with the results. The smoky saltiness of the bacon, combined with the smooth richness of the sunchokes were a perfect foil for one another. Sunchokes proved to be a surprise, something so innocuous as a root vegetable, combined with the taste of spring and steamed artichoke hearts. I had just parboiled them for a few minutes, so the chokes retained much of their initial bite, but put on the tongue they had a truly rich, creamy mouthfeel, with the subtle sweetness of that flowery vegetable. If you ever see sunchokes when you're out shopping definitely give them a try. If you would like to try out my recipe for sunchokes, go to the Daily Specials page.

Good Times with Fire

About five years ago I received a blow torch for a birthday present. Now this isn't just any torch, the kind they sell at kitchen gadget stores, with a minute flame, and hardly enough heat to burn an ant. No, this is the Bernz-o-Matic propane torch, a pint-sized tool that when lit, holds enough power to conflagrate entire kitchens, breakfast nooks included. It's from Home Depot, need I say more?

I loved the gift. I've moved three times since I received the gift of fire from Neil, and with each move the torch is packed away only to find a new home with my Cuisanart, mandoline, and hand mixer. But with all of the love and power-wielding attention brought on by my little flamethrower, I had never actually used it. Neil, knowing my penchant for cooking thought I would love the gift, and he was right; I just didn't use it. I do love to cook, but baking is a whole other story, and baked goods are precisely the scrumptious objects that would most require a little attention from the Bernz-o-Matic. I do bake, I will bake, sometimes the only thing you feel like making and eating is a plate full of chocolate chip cookies. Slightly warm from the oven, chocolate chips still melty, there is just something so satisfying about gazing at a plate of baked goods, and knowing that you are the reason that they are there, tempting all who pass them by. But on the whole, I'm not much of a baker; it's just too fussy, and I get too easily frustrated with the process.

And so the Bernz-o-Matic, (Bernie, for the sake of the story) sat by his lonesome. That is until this weekend. We had friends over for dinner, and I decided to make chocolate creme brulee. Enjoying the springtime harvest can be a tricky thing. You want to take advantage of the bounty of the season, but at the same time you don't want the meal appear dietetic in nature, and leave your guests feeling as though they partook of a few nuts and berries when they dined with you. So what better way of of saying, "Let's enjoy spring, eat a bit of asparagus, then bathe in the decadence of custard, chocolate, and burnt sugar," than chocolate creme brulee? And what a perfect time to dust off Bernie for his inaugural torching!

The chocolate creme brulee, from Happy Days with the Naked Chef, was good, not terrific but a good, solid creme brulee, with a little treat of a bashed up bitter or semi-sweet chocolate bar hidden at the bottom of the custard. But Bernie performed stupendously! After dinner, plates stacked neatly in the sink, I brought the naked custards out, cautiously quivering in their ivory ramekins. A sprinkling of sugar (actually more than a sprinkling was administered to get an adequately thick layer of caramel), and then the torching began. The perfect participatory event to have at the culmination of a meal. Each guest was handed the torch in order to sizzle to oblivion his or her own custard. How egalitarian of us. A little custard, a little sugar, and a whole lot of fire. A lovely evening was had by all.