A Date for Christmas

Before Brian became my husband, he was my forever boyfriend. No, he was not my high school sweetheart, but I did meet him when I was still in college. So, he robbed/saved me from regaling you with horrific dating stories, of scrambling around trying to find a date for some holiday party or another. But I do have one.

I was 18, had just moved out from under my parents roof, and I had my first real, honest-to-goodness boyfriend. A Frenchmen we'll call M. With a penchant for fast-talking, heavy black framed glasses, and a haircut like Tin Tin, M was the man of my post-adolescent dreams. We met on the subway, and a romance was quickly born. We lasted a handful of months, one of which was December, that month of candy canes, egg nog, and holiday parties.

I brought M home with me to attend a family holiday party. He got out of the car, snuffing out his Gauloises cigarette, in skinny, scuffed suede pants, and smelling faintly of sweat (although I'm not sure why, he was not in the slightest bit athletic). My parents were gracious enough, and welcoming of course, but I think they were shocked to see their youngest's paramour.

Now watch this segue...

Yes, dates (the non-edible kind) can be tough around the holidays, while dates (the edible sort this time around) can be a perfect holiday match made in buffet heaven. The dulcet sweetness of an innocent-looking, knobby, brown fruit pairs so well with salty foods. I have eaten them all sorts of ways: stuffed with goat cheese, or wrapped in bacon, or stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon. But I had never eaten them prepared in these perfect little holiday packages.

A few simple ingredients: salted roast peanuts, paper thin prosciutto slices, and plump dates, all rolled into a savory packet. Pit the dates, then stuff them with a few salty peanuts. Roll each date in a portion of prosciutto, securing them with a toothpick. Then into a lightly greased pan they go, to crisp up the ham. When finished the prosciutto crackles, the dates are warm and sumptuous, and the peanut offers the slightest bit of salty resistance. Now that is what I call a fine holiday hors d'oeuvres!

Go ahead and bring these dates, along with your date to your next holiday party. (Suede pants optional.) Have a lovely holiday season!

Burn Baby Burn

Do you remember eating grapefruit as the starter at a savory dinner party? I do. It must have been an early 80's things to do. Or maybe it was a late 70's thing, and my mom was simply holding on to a remnant of the past (sorry, mom!). Anyhow, I loved it. It seemed so grown-up and glamorous, to eat a grapefruit instead of a standard old green salad in preparation for the rest of the meal.

To my young palate eating a piece of fruit for the first course was equivalent to the excitement that I felt when a small dish of sorbet was set down in front of me as a palate cleanser during my first dinner at French restaurant. Ice cream! In the middle of my meal? I could get used to this whole fine dining thing! Well, it's been years since I ate a grapefruit as a first course, but come winter, I eat a grapefruit virtually everyday.

The Ruby Red is my favorite. That shock of pink flesh, the sweet-tart pungency, it gets me salivating every time. Usually I eat it simply, with just a touch of brown sugar crystals melting ever so slightly on the top. But when I have a moment to spare on a blustery weekend, it becomes all about the brulee.

So easy, it's hardly a recipe; but I have to share anyway. Cut your grapefruit anyway you like, I use my handy-dandy, dual-sided grapefruit knife, with the curved blade (whew, how's that for a mouthful). Then encrust the surface of the fruit with brown sugar, a bit more than a sprinkling. Pop the halves under the broiler for a few minutes, just until the grapefruit is beginning to brown. And there you have it.

The sugar seeps into the fruit, making a perfume-y, subtly sweet concoction. The grapefruit is warm and juicy, the perfect accent to a weekend breakfast, to be enjoyed while lazing around in you warmest pajamas. They may not be the grapefruits of yore, accented with bright maraschino cherries, and served chilled, in a cut-glass bowl, but somehow I think that this will still do the trick.

Not Your Grandma's Pumpkin

Who has eaten a real pumpkin? Not the kind that come already pureed in a can, and not the pre-made, pumpkin pie filling. Well, I hadn't. Pumpkin seeds, I was all over. Butternut squash I can roast with the best of them. And let's just say, I get a kick out of kabocha. But pumpkin, I had never had the joy of making.

Pumpkins had always been too round, too cumbersome, too heavy to negotiate all on their own. I would have visions of me as Sweeney Todd, wielding my kitchen cleaver to hack a whole pumpkin to smithereens, in the hopes of obtaining one salvageable wedge to roast. I read a lot of British cookbooks, and thumb through the occasional British food magazine, and they are always using pumpkin in its various forms. But do they expect me to hack up the whole squash as well? I might be into the Slow Food Movement, but come on, even I require some amount of accessibility in the foods that I prepare.

But then I saw them at a produce market. Like someone's busted Jack O'Lantern, shrink wrapped, and piled high, just in time for the holiday season-- wedges of pumpkin, ready for roasting. So I brought one home.

Roasted very simply until soft, with pinches of salt and pepper, and a glug of olive oil, this pumpkin was an altogether different sort of squash. I drizzled the roasted wedge with a balsamic reduction, and gave it a healthy sprinkling of toasted pumpkin seeds. It was delicious! The pumpkin was unlike any other squash, as it had a soft webbing, like spaghetti, of intricate flesh. It was subtle and sweet, warm and delightful.

Who's to say if I would ever get violent with my own complete pumpkin in order to cut it into wedges, but I will definitely keep on the lookout for sizable pieces at my produce market again. I hope you will too.