The "Q"

Aaahh, Memorial Day weekend, the official kickoff of summer. A season that makes me eat too many cherries until my stomach is turning in satiated circles, gobble up corn-- sliced from the cob and sauteed with butter and chives, or grilled and slathered in sweet cream butter, and the grandaddy of them all, the BBQ, is belching smoke into the warm summer sky.

Now I don't live in Memphis, or Kansas City, or Texas for that matter, I live in Berkeley, CA. And I don't own a massive BBQ, a smoke pit, or a galvanized steel drum, in fact I do my barbecuing on a very modest hibachi; but this does not negate my desire for smoky, charred BBQ, slathered with tangy, slightly sweet sauce. What could be better than homemade sauce? Rich, piquant, the reddish color tinging the fingertips, and melting to a smoky, sweet flavor, caramelizing delectably.

Early in the week, preparing for the holiday to come, I whipped up a batch (no, it was more like a gallon) of homemade BBQ sauce. Who knew a handful of condiments, thrown together with some dried spices, would make such a delicious condiment? This sauce is true American style BBQ, containing a bit of sugar balanced out by a bit of acid, for that perfect sweet-sour combination.

Now in the summer I grill a lot: tuna steaks, tandoori style chicken, whole red snappers, and butterflied chicken marinated in olive oil, lemon juices, and fresh sage. Weeks will go by and I will not have tasted "true American style BBQ," and I can't say that I miss it. But sometimes I get a hankering for something traditional, the carnivore that lies within me calls out for a barbecued brisket. And now I can oblige, with some rib-sticking homemade sauce of my own.

If you would like the recipe for "Q" Sauce, check out the Daily Specials page. The sauce makes about a gallon, and can be stored, in the refrigerator, for up to six months.

Those Salad Days

Just what does this mean anyway? It seems to me to be one of those idioms that came out of nowhere. Now the "salad days" have fallen out of favor, only uttered by grandmothers, and linguists interested in peculiar vernaculars. But I did a bit of bird dogging (watch out, the vernacular is flying) and discovered the term was coined by none other than William Shakespeare in Antony and Cleopatra, and means youthful innocence, or indiscretion. What this has to do with salad, is anyone's guess. And what this posting has to do with vernacular speech and etymology is really up to you.



But it's spring, almost summer, a time when enjoying a salad for your evening meal seems less dietetic and more of a celebration of the season. Certainly not a salad my grandmother would make, this salad was bright and sweet, lightly dressed with dijon mustard, lemon juice and olive oil, with a healthy dose of cracked black pepper. Butter lettuce, delicate in texture, was adorned with micro greens, a heartier texture, and bright pink in color. Peppery radish slices mingled with fresh, raw corn-- sweet niblets of flavor, and the occasional chopping of chive lended an oniony strength to this melange of vegetables. And mesquite smoked salmon with strong, hardly cracked, fresh black pepper topped off the mix with its meaty saltiness.

I know, it's just a salad, but it was delightful in its simplicity, hearty, but not overly filling. It just felt good to eat. Sometimes, after a few too many meals eaten out, a salad, tossed together and enjoyed at home, is the perfect remedy.

Chocolate and Cherries

We all know by now that I am a big fan of desserts. This does not mean however, that I am huge fan of making desserts. Every once in awhile I forget that I don't loooove to bake, and I jump head first in to some lengthy project involving vanilla beans, too many egg whites beaten to stiff peaks, and a very hot oven. I get impatient. I get frustrated. I go running from the kitchen in a poof of flour, swearing that I will never bake again. That is until the following week, when the entire process starts again.

I adore summer, for many reason, including those culinary. Stone fruit. Luscious, fleeting, and dessert worthy, is my reason for seasonal adoration. For some it may be a bit early for summer fruit, but here in California, land of citrus fruit in the winter, and apricots in the summer, this fruit is starting to pop up all over at local markets. And with plums, apricots, and peaches, come those beautiful, little orbs, bursting with flavor, and with enough rosy pigment to dye both tongues and fingertips-- the cherry

And with the cherry, comes chocolate. Milky, smooth, delicious-- the Scharffenberger Chocolate Bar, is the perfect culmination to a meal. Earthy, with notes of freshly brewed coffee, and a subtle bitterness, the milk chocolate is 41% cocoa, and has all of the richness for even the true chocolate connoisseur.

I nibble the chocolate, letting it rest and melt on my tongue until all of the milk fats have dissolved. A bite of cherry, rolling the flesh across my mouth, careful to avoid the pit. Alternating between the two, a bit of chocolate then a bit of cherry. Simple enough for the ascetic in me, yet delectable enough for the dessert loving fiend that I am. I throw caution to the wind and consume until my belly is full, a neat stack of cherry pits lay before me, and a crumpled bit of foil strewn to my side.

Curd is the Word

A few summers ago, I moved back to the East Bay, and in with Brian. I was thrilled to be back, near the friends and food that I had come to love. I think I remembered Berkeley as being an idyllic community, filled with new places to explore, as well as old haunts to frequent. It's amazing how being away from a place completely changes how you feel about it. Now Berkeley is home again filled with just as many frustrations as it is filled with joys. But that summer Berkeley was good to me, and I reciprocated with jam-- lots of jam.

I'm not sure how it all began, I had never made jam before, or even been given homemade preserves, but that summer I pumped out enough jam to keep the students at the local elementary school in PB & J until mid October. Mixed berry, plum and apricot, nectarine and peach scented with mint, I ate it all, gave it to friends and family, brought it to the neighbors. Every person I came in contact with, was given a jar of jam. It was sweet, and quaint, and I was popular. But every good thing must come to an end. As the autumn leaves turned to red, the sweet stone fruit left the market, and were replaced by pungent citrus fruit, classes began once again at the university, and the last of the jam jars scraped clean of all their sticky goodness-- My Year of Jam, came to a close.

And since that fateful summer, I haven't been able to even think of making jam again. The thought of chopping pounds of stone fruit, sterilizing Bell jars, dragging fronds of fresh mint through potfuls of stewed fruit, is too much to bare. But it is lovely to have something fresh and homemade to spread on your morning toast, so why not a little Lemon Curd. Citrusy and bright, sweet and delightfully creamy, Lemon Curd is the perfect item to make breakfast a bit more special. And it is so much simpler to make than jam, no sterilizing jars, no risk of botulism, and in about 20 minutes, your spread is made.

Lemon Curd
adapted from bills open kitchen by Bill Granger

3 egg yolks
finely grated zest of 1 lemon
1/4 cup lemon juice
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces

In a double boiler, mix yolks, zest, lemon juice, sugar, and vanilla extract together. Whisk over gently simmering water until mixture becomes thick and opaque, about 8-10 minutes. Take off of heat, and stir in butter, one piece at a time, until well incorporated. Chill and serve.

Remembrance of Things Fat

But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful the smell and taste remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for the moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

Marcel Proust, "Swann's Way"

Marcel Proust may have had the madeleine, but I have something far less delicate, possibly even coarse in nature. I remember mealtimes as a child, pork chops would be served. Unadorned, grilled with salt and a smidgen of pepper, on the stove. My family would sit down together to enjoy our meal, chat about the days events, and I would pick at my food, a spoonful of rice, a forkful of salad. I would push my pork chop aimlessly around the plate. And wait. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the chop, it was just that I knew, at the close of the meal, there was something far better awaiting me.

At meal's end my sister would push all of her pork fat, meticulously sliced from the chop, onto my plate. My mother would lay her bits of fat, chewed and sucked, down on my plate. And finally, my father would roll his eyes, but obliging, place his tiny morsels of gristle on the plate of his youngest (and most oddly eager) child. Then the true meal would begin for me...

Gnawing, gnashing, rolling bits of gristle around between my teeth, gleefully I would clasp my hands together, eager to tuck in to the mounds of sinew before me. Plates would be cleared around me, but the clatter of the dishes was simply a soundtrack to my delectable ingestion. I would take delight in the slow break down of matter with my incisers, the laborious amounts of effort it would take to get the tiniest bit of satisfaction-- chewing, chewing, chewing the fat.

Fast forward 20 years, and I am now appalled by my morbid fascination with this globulous substance. I am the person who won't eat prime rib because that nodule of fat, planted firmly in the center of the roast turns me off. Chicken skin, its slick surface, dotted with the puckers from each individual feather, makes my stomach turn. And pork fat, from the chop, no matter how crisp, forget about it.

Proust may have wanted to recapture those childhood memories of Combray, but I am more than happy to keep mine repressed-- eternally.

The Ideal Egg

When I was young my mom used to make egg salad. Hard-cooked eggs, mayonnaise, diced dill pickles, all mixed together into a sunny glop, awaiting two slices of white bakery bread to be sandwiched between. I never ate it. All of my least favorite ingredients blended together to make one wholly undesirable lunchtime entree. As I've gotten older, my tastes have changed. I like dill pickles (but never pickle relish); I'm learning to tolerate hard-boiled eggs, and alas, I still do not enjoy mayonnaise (and yes, I've had the homemade kind).

I'm not the hugest fan of savory egg dishes, except frittatas. And while you still won't see me gobbling up a large plate of scrambled eggs on a Sunday morning, or puncturing the yolk of a fried egg, the bright yellow ooziness quickly sopped up by a piece of generously buttered toast, I am coming around to certain egg dishes. I love a poached egg, and a soft-boiled egg, with all of its various accoutrements, how could you not love it? Certain scrambles, jammed packed with seasonal vegetables and heavy on the cheese are even becoming acceptable to me. But the hard-boiled egg was still difficult for me to consume. I blame it on my mother...

It was the sulfuric smell, the yolk crumbly and tinged a greenish-blue, that turned my stomach. But I learned, thanks to Mark Bittman, and his fabulous tome, How to Cook Everything, hard-boiled eggs do not have to be this way. If cooked properly, the white will be springy (not rubbery), and the yolks will be buttery and smooth (not desiccated and tough). That greenish cast over the yolk comes in fact, from over-cooking. The iron that is contained in the yolk, interacts with the sulfur from the white. The longer one cooks the egg, the more heat is transferred through this cooking process, and the more greenish the yolk becomes. How I see it, this greenish cast is equivalent to burning your eggs. Sure they're edible, but do you really want to eat it.

By dropping the egg gently into simmering water, and keeping it at slow simmer, for the next 11 minutes, you will have the ideal egg. The whites will be just cooked, yet not stewed, and the yolks will be gazing up at you, with a sunny disposition. As for me, this has been somewhat of a revelation. Now I can't go crazy, if confronted with a plate full of hard-cooked eggs, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. But cooked properly, sliced relatively thinly, and served open-faced on a sandwich of arugula and sliced radish, drizzled with a high quality, peppery olive oil, I might say that's a delightful lunch.

Ramp It Up!

What is this lovely? Well, it's not a scallion, and it's too broad to be garlic chives, so by process of elimination, it's a ramp, or as some like to call it-- a wild leek. Indigenous to North America this aromatic vegetable simply resembles other vegetables, but has a taste that is uniquely it's own.

I had seen ramps popping up on menus in restaurants around town prepared in various ways; left whole and grilled, sauteed and braised, or even slivered and served raw, but I had yet to try them myself. When I saw them, haphazardly lying in nest-like pile at Berkeley Bowl, I decided to bring them home and experiment with them for dinner.

At $9 a pound, these babies are not cheap, but doing my research I understand why. Ramps are generally grown and foraged in the wild. I'm not actually sure how "wild" one can get in the Bay Area, the wilds of my back yard seem to be fairly tame, except for the neighbor boy leaving his tricycle lying about, but, oh well. They prefer to be grown in deep forest soils, in relative shade. Similar to a green onion, you can eat virtually all of the ramp; the flavor gets more mild the farther you get from the bulbous root end.

My dinner went as follows: ravioli stuffed with potato and pea, in a light sauce of white wine, fava bean, and ramps, accompanied by a rustic loaf of Acme bread, and a peach (first of the season), as a perfect end to a springtime feast. And how were the ramps you ask? They were delightful. Garlicy, oniony, with a flavor distinctly sweet upon cooking, they mellowed as they sizzled away in the pan, flavoring the entire sauce. Strong, but not necessarily pungent, the flavor changed as the cooking continued. Tasting them raw as I sliced them for the saute, I was surprised by sharpness of their sapidity. They hit the pan with a sizzle, the fragrance similar to both onions and garlic wafting into the air, and with each ingredient added to the sauce their gentle strength withheld.

So the next time you are at the grocery store, or a farmer's market, look for, and try them. Don't worry about the price, a little bit goes a long way. But you had better hurry, ramps have an incredibly short season; they are only available in the months of April and May.

What Happened Here?

I did not grow up in a household of health nuts. My parents did not try to convince me of the virtues of carob, when the only thing I truly longed for was a sumptuous, rich bit of chocolate. I was not plied with Kefir, nor was I given sandwiches of sprouts and soy cheese on multi-grain bread. But I did eat fairly well. My lunches, packed by my mother for entirely too long, well into high school, I'm ashamed to say, always contained two fruits and a vegetable, or vice versa. Dinners were always well-balanced, perhaps this is how I have achieved the propensity for "proper" meal planning. But every once in awhile, I was allowed a glorious treat, a sugar cereal at the grocery store.

I have always eaten breakfast. Whether it be a piece of fruit, some toast, or Eggs Benedict (which it never actually would be, I'm not fond of my entree being hidden by globulous mayonnaise-like sauces), I need to have a bit of something in the morning. When I was younger, juice replaced my standard cup of coffee, and the usual weekday breakfast was a bowl of cereal. Usually it was Rice Crispies, raisin bran, or a bowl of Cheerios, but from time to time, while out doing the week's grocery shopping with my mom, I was given the treat of selecting any cereal I would like. There I would stand, carefully trying to choose the ideal cereal, the perfect balance of sugary sweetness, and empty calories. Cartoon characters did nothing for me, I didn't like chocolate cereals, I didn't appreciate their ability to turn my milk a cocoa richness. I remember many a visit to the grocery store, my mother coaxing me from the cereal aisle, proclaiming it was not such a dire decision to make, so inevitably I would fall back on an old stand-by-- Lucky Charms.

I loved the oaty, bland taste of the cereal, mixed with the stale, almost styrofoam, sweetness of the marshmallows. The cereal would tumble out from the box, a jumble of colors and shapes, and land crisply in my bowl. Gingerly I would splash milk on the pieces, examining each marshmallow as I brought it to my lips. As I got to the end of my breakfast time ritual, the marshmallows now appropriately soggy, I would fish out, and eat the oats separately, leaving a handful of marshmallows alone in the bowl. I would carefully gaze at each fluorescent sweetie before gobbling it up, the very end of a morning time ceremony. There the milk would set in the bowl, tinged an awkward grey-blue, dyed by the once colorful marshmallows.

Feeling slightly nostalgic for the Lucky Charms of my youth, I picked it up at the store, and waited patiently until the following morning to replay this breakfast ritual from my passed. Imagine my surprise when the marshmallows that came cascading from the bright red box, emblazoned with a cartoon leprechaun, were not the marshmallows from my youth. They were a new, hip version of the little puffs of air that I once knew. I shouldn't be surprised, everything changes, and it has been close to 10 years since I ate Lucky Charms. Gone were the marshmallows that corresponded with the colors of the rainbow; they had been replaced by a vivid green chapeau, adorned with clovers, a mock-up of the entire rainbow, a purple (I say it was mauve) horseshoe, there were stars, streaming across my cereal bowl, pots of gold, and puffy white clouds that displayed rain and wind when milk was added.

But the taste remains the same. The oats are still deliciously tasteless, and the marshmallows had clearly had a makeover, though they still tasted like crisp puffs of sugary air. It took me a day or two, but soon I found myself chasing the last few marshmallows around the bowl with my spoon, the milk that same grey-blue color. I guess it's true, old habits die hard.

Take Heed Dr. Atkins

It is a good thing that the whole low-carb lifestyle is coming to a close, not that I ever subscribed to such an extreme form of dieting, I just got tired of hearing about it. For me, and my carbohydrate loving ways, it would be torture. Some people live off of junk food, others subsist on on a diet of whole grains and organic food, others still go munching away on nuts and berries. I could (could being the operative word here) exist on a diet of carbohydrates, of any form.

Lucky for me, or unlucky, it depends on how you see it, I live in the San Francisco Bay Area and there are some pretty good bread shops here. Like any good bourgie, I crave a chewy baguette from time to time, and Acme and La Farine Bakery have the finest baguettes outside of France. La Farine has kept it small, just selling from its two East Bay locations. They sell a variety of breads, some pastry, tarts, cakes, and a select number of cookies, contained in individual, clear glass cookie jars lined up along the pastry case. But for as delightful as their sweet treats are, and knowing about my enormous sweet tooth, some might say my entire mouth is full of sweet teeth, it is the baguettes that keep me coming back.

The Rustic Baguette. Such a holy thing, it deserves a sentence unto itself. Crisp, the crust crackling as I tear it apart, crumbs flying. The butt, the most prized attribute of the baguette for me, peaking out from the top of the bag, beckoning me to release it from the holds of the entire baguette. I bite into it, the almost sweet, yeasty insides tangle with the delicate fissile of the crust.

The thing I love the most about a good baguette, is the one thing that is so difficult to achieve-- the notion of nothingness. Simplicity. The exquisite balance that is to be found in plenitude and nullity. Just a few ingredients: water, flour, yeast, how is it possible that they come so close to perfection? Handled properly, expertly baked, dusted carefully with flour, a baguette can be anything you make it. Slathered with Nutella and enjoyed in the morning with a steaming cup of coffee; or a wedge of salty blue cheese, sandwiched between two slices of bread, brazenly torn off the loaf; or simply with butter, cold, creamy, and lightly salted, it doesn't really matter to me. Bring on the carbohydrates!

A Condiment I Condone

Every culture has them, the Americans with ketchup or BBQ sauce, Asian with soy sauce, among others, raita for the Indian culture, the French with pure, beautiful butter, and salsa in the Latino culture. Condiments are going strong. Born and raised in California, salsa, and in turn Mexican food is something with which I grew up.

Going out for Mexican food, Americanized though it may be, was always a favorite. Huge plates were delivered with the warning, "Careful, plate is very hot!" Bubbling portions of refried beans nestled along side heaping spoonfuls of rice, each grain made crisp from cooking in the oven, and delicately flavored with tomatoes and chiles, and the entree of my choosing: tamales, enchiladas, or my favorite, sopitos. The entire plate was sprinkled with cheese, and popped in the oven, making the cheese melt to a runny slickness. Talk about excess, and I loved it.

I would hardly be able to eat my entree, as enticing as it was setting before me, because I undoubtedly filled up on the salty, crisp tortilla chips and the salsa before the meal. Each restaurant does the salsa a little differently: a chunky salsa fresca, a smoky adobo, the vinegary fruitiness of the tomatillo salsa, or my favorite, the subtle piquancy of the roasted tomato salsa. Over the weekend I picked up Mesa Mexicana by Susan Feniger and Mary Sue Milliken, and they had a recipe for Roasted Tomato Salsa, that was quick and easy. I made a batch, and let me be the first to say, homemade salsa is definitely something to try.

Nothing like those jars of salsa you can buy at any old convenience store which are stewed, too salty, and might even have a carrot in there if you can recognize it (!), fresh salsa can be anything you want it to be. This Roasted Tomato Salsa was bright, both in color and flavor. The smokiness was subtle and was underscored by the freshness of the tomatoes, the simplicity of the garlic, and the gentle heat of the roasted jalapenos. Perfect as both a condiment awaiting a tortilla chip, or more substantial as a sauce for grilled shrimp or another seafood (which I will most likely try later this week), this salsa lasts for 5 days in your refrigerator. If you would like to try this light, summery Roasted Tomato Salsa, go to the Daily Specials section.

Why We Cook

I've been thinking about this question a lot lately, and there seem to be so many answers-- for fuel, for pleasure, for survival. It is inextricably bound to the broader question: why do we eat?

Out to dinner last week with my husband and a colleague of his, our conversation kept returning to this one question, and we weighed out the different possibilities. The epicurean, in the truest sense of the word, one who cooks entirely for his own pleasure, never thinking about health, moral ramifications, or weights and balances. Or the marathon runner for instance, who sees food purely as fuel-- "If I eat so many grams of carbohydrates, they will fuel my run for approximately so long." Then there is the chef, often cooking for others, experimenting with textures, colors, flavors-- the artist.

Take the organic food movement, a movement that seems bound by many of these concepts. One eats organic produce because it's fresher, tastes better, the fruit is riper. The quality of produce is generally higher, leading to an epicurean ideology of better taste. But then there is the person who buys organic produce for health concerns. They want chemicals, insecticides out of their diet. Further still there is the person, like Alice Waters, who thinks the quality of food is important, but also believes in supporting local growers and farmers. The type of food one prepares, and in turn eats raises social consciousness. So it is possible to be a part of a movement for one/many reasons. One may subscribe to one movement that is subsisting because of another.

And then there is me. Why do I cook, why has food been such an integral part of my rearing? Why does my sister, just a few years older, raised by the same parents, not find the same joys and comforts in preparing and eating a meal? These questions prove just as difficult when answering them about myself. Yes I enjoy the cooking process, and the feeding of hungry friends and family. But it is not simply an act of altruism. Cooking gives me something to do. But still, there is many a Sunday afternoon, when I am bored yet do not bake a loaf of bread. I am a healthy eater, but I do not stress myself out unnecessarily about eating "properly" all the time. And besides if one was to concern herself entirely with what was "in-fashion" for the moment to eat-- one would go insane. And although I appreciate the role of chefs , and I go out to eat often, I have never actually coveted their job, too stressful and taxing. But yet I am constantly thinking about food, what is in season, and how I should cook it.

Maybe you, my faithful readers have a more complete answer to these questions. Perhaps I am thinking too much, inflating this question to unusually large proportions, and it is all rather simple (something that is entirely possible). So, why do you cook?