Bring Some Biscotti

I moved to New York for my husband’s job, but it ended up being a beneficial move for me as well. I found my agent, and eventually my publisher while living here. And when the time came to meet with my potential editor and a herd of others from Simon Spotlight, I was just a subway ride away. When my agent called to inform me of this meeting, of course I was thrilled, but equally terrified.

What would I say? What would I wear? But most importantly, what would I bring to eat? Food has the ability to say so much about a person and, considering I was writing a food memoir, I wanted to bring the perfect item. My meeting was at 11 in the morning—not really breakfast, not really brunch. I needed something that was easily transportable. Share-able. Not to heavy. And above all delicious. I poured over my repertoire for a week. Cookies? Too sweet. Cupcakes? Too quaint. What about a frittata? Too much. And then I found it: biscotti.

Restrained, rustic, with the right amount of body to say, “Yes, I have substance, seriously look at this book I am writing, and enjoy a little something sweet while you do it.” In general, biscotti were not really on my radar. I always enjoy them, I just never think to make them. But I had made these biscotti before. They were as trust worthy as they were delicious.

The recipe is heavily adapted from The Zuni Cafe Cookbook. Originally they are flavored quite heavily with anisette. I opted out of the anisette, and substituted dried cranberries. I think it can be a little dicey to bake with anisette, unless you know your audience; never have I found a person who feels mildly about black licorice. They either love it, or hate it. I was trying to please many with my biscotti, not drive them away from the biscuit, and by extension—the book.

And I guess these biscotti did the trick. They will be forever known as The Lucky Biscotti. The next time you really want things to go your way, or even when you just feel like a little something sweet to have with your morning coffee, mix up a batch of these biscotti. The recipe is on the Daily Specials page.

My Story...

Everybody has a story to tell. I suppose that is why blogs are so popular; it can be liberating to tell a tale. But what about food blogs? They might be about sharing recipes, from my table to yours, but they are also about the story behind the cook.

In this month’s issue of Natural Health there’s a story all about my life in the kitchen. Why would they ask me, a regular old food blogger to write a story for their magazine? Well, I have an unusual tale to tell and, in the interest of complete disclosure, here it is:

When I was 21 years old, just finishing up college, I suffered a hemorrhagic stroke due to an arteriovenous malformation (AVM). It left me completely paralyzed on the right side of my body. The next few years were a blur, of doctors, of therapists, of rehabilitation, and of frustration.

So what does this have to do with food, or blogs for that matter? I am not going to say that a cake came in and sweetly solved all of my problems, but cooking did come in to solve some of my problems. While dealing with physical therapy and all the challenges it involved, I began to spend more and more time cooking. It was lovely to escape into the petty business of the kitchen: chopping, watching a pot boil, or tossing a salad. The kitchen grew to be my place, a warm nook for experimentation, and unlike therapy, there was no one to reprimand me for trying out that failed recipe.

I cooked, and I cooked. And then I cooked for other people, starting with family and friends, and later, clients in a small catering company that I started. I did this all the while rehabilitating. I never got back to where I once was, but I’ve learned to be fine with who I am, each step of the way.

When I started this blog, I was still wobbly like a custard, unsure of who this new me was. I would sit down to tell you all about the latest soup that was simmering on my stove, or my triumphs with a fiddlehead fern. Blogging was liberating for both the new cook and the new me. There is a certain anonymity to blogging, a faceless name behind the computer monitor, and I relished my little secret. No one could watch me fumble to peel a clove of garlic one-handed, they just hungrily saw the final product.

But as I continued to blog one-handed, there was an elephant in the room sitting right next to me. And that proverbial elephant was whispering in my ear that there was an entire other story that I needed to tell, a story of food, of loss, of work, and of joy. So, over the past year and a half, I’ve sat down each day to write that story. I know, I know, a memoir at less than 30 years of age; it doesn't seem quite possible to me either, but as I began the process, the words came, filling up page after page.

Well, one things leads to another, and a proposal leads to an agent and finally a publisher. I have written a food memoir, tentatively titled Cooking and Screaming. As for the manuscript, it is due in my editors hot little hands May 1!!! That's soon. The book will be published by Simon Spotlight Entertainment (an imprint of Simon & Schuster) and is due out Spring '09. That seemed so far off when all of the paper work was signed and the contracts drawn up, but let me tell you, the days are simply flying by.

What does this have to do with the magazine article? I was approached a few months ago by the editors at Natural Health to write a story, based on the memoir, for an upcoming issue. (Now you might be saying to yourself, Natural Health? Did they even read my paen to Easter candy a few weeks ago? I don’t know, what can I say?) Fitting a life's story into 2,000 words, plus recipes, was certainly a task. I had to leave a few things out.

If you are curious to know more about my story, you'll just have to wait for the book, and in the meantime, pick up an issue of the magazine. The article also has recipes for a slow roasted chicken with a fennel-apple slaw, a springtime hash with poached eggs, and a chunky watermelon sorbet with coconut tuilles (for those of you who are just hungry!).

So, that's my story.

Amaranth in Astoria

My grandma loved the color purple (and no, I am not speaking about the book). She had several pairs of purple slacks, quite a few lavendar tops, dish towels, pot holders, you name it. It seemed that as she got older, her love for the color only increased. But she was not alone in her affection. She had many a friend who was ga-ga for the hue as well. Whenever I pass a group of older women, dressed in their finest or even donning casual kick-around clothes, I see an inordinate amount of purple. It is as if they are creating a flurry of springtime activity in their brightly colored outfits.

But for as much as my grandmother adored the color, I had a dance teacher when I was growing up who detested the color. So much animus was heaped onto the color purple, in all of its various shades that his students were forbidden from wearing the color, and the dance studio had not even a poster with the slightest hint of the color up on the wall. He claimed it made him physically ill; his stomach would turn, nausea would set in, eventually leading to vomit if viewing was forced. One day a girl had forgotten the no-purple rule, and had worn purple socks under her jazz pants. My teacher caught one look of the girl's pointed feet during warm-ups, stopped the class, and made her borrow leg warmers for the duration. That's serious. So I wonder what my dance teacher would have thought about this salad:

I went to Astoria for the first time this past weekend. Strolling around the avenues, stopping in the various markets, each with their own specialties, cruising past so many small bakeries selling rows of cookies, pillowy Italian breads, and cannoli by the dozen, was dizzying indeed. I refrained from buying too much; I had a long subway ride ahead of me. But I did find a purple pair: the diminutive Italian eggplant, and the spindly amaranth plant. I wasn't really sure what to do with the amaranth, never having cooked with it before, but it was so beautiful with its deep green leaves, and gorgeous purple veins running along the stalk and into the splayed out leaves, how could I not buy some?

That Saturday was the first truly springtime-like weather of the season, and as I sat on the subway train back home, the amaranth leaves flopping over beside me, I couldn't wait to do a bit of reading on this green. Here is what I learned: amaranth is an old green, and has been eaten in its various forms for centuries all over the world. Young amaranth is often beet colored, and the new green can be eaten raw in salad. As the vegetable grows older, it's leaves become large and varigated, and it is most often wilted and sauteed. As I looked at my leaves, as large as baseballs, I figured cooking was the way to go.

I roasted the eggplant first in a heavy cast-iron skillet, then finished them in a warm oven. The skin became blistery, and the flesh soft. I then sauteed the amaranth leaves in a bit of olive oil scented with fresh garlic cloves. Cooling the vegetables to room temperature, I dressed my salad in a simple lemon-tahini dressing, topping it with slivers of red onion, and coarsely chopped cilantro. The greens were similar to spinach, yet more astringent, and the eggplant was meaty and substantial, the perfect compliment for a creamy dressing with a bit of a kick. And upon cooking, the vegetables lost their vibrant purple tone, maybe even enough for my old dance teacher.

Queen of the Post-Its

I am not the neatest person. I am not however the messiest-- comfortably lived-in is what I like to call it. There are always stacks of paper lying about my desk. Pens don't always have caps. The coffee table can actually be used to hold a cup of coffee, and sometimes hours will pass before I pick the empty cup up and bring it to the sink. I guess this bleeds over into how I am in the kitchen as well. My counters are always wiped clean, my utensils pristine, but as I write this, the coffee pot has not yet been cleaned-out, still holding the latest murky brew, and there is a package of graham crackers sitting out from last night's snack. So be it.

I always keep a small pad of paper with me. Tucked into my bag it becomes an invaluable resource. I jot down things that occur to me throughout the day: books to read, shopping lists, recipes to try. And when I am at home, the electronic Post-It for the computer, is similar to my pad of paper. They are a thing of functional beauty for the pack rat in me. The only problem with this method, is the desktop of my computer becomes so littered with small yellow "sheets" of paper it looks like a autumn has arrived at my desk.

All of this would be fine if I routinely checked my amassing of notes, but I stack up the tiny Post-It notes, burying ideas one on top of the other. Well, no more! At least no more for this week-- I did a bit of spring cleaning. There were recipes, and food combinations by the bundle. Some actually seemed tasty, some just seemed odd (what was I doing when I though of that?), and some seemed to be both. Like this one:

"Apple bruleed with marshmallows." Hhmm, sounds interesting enough, don't ask me when this particular doozy occurred to me, but since we are still in apple season (she writes, annoyed), I'll give it a shot. I'm not really sure if I originally intended to make apple sauce, and then brulee a coating of marshmallows like a meringue-- but that is what I did.

I don't have to tell you, marshmallows can be cloyingly sweet, so I made my apple sauce from the tartest apples that I could find. I simmered my apple chunks in a bit of water and a vanilla bean. Leaving the sauce still chunky, I put it in a ramekin, then topped each with a small handful of mini marshmallows. Popping the whole mess under the broiler, I let the marshmallows bloat and blister, before removing and eating up.

Well this was strange-- good, but strange. The nearest thing I can equate it to, would be mochi, another chewy, delightfully strange dessert. Contrasting the tart apples, the crispy marshmallow topping melted over the sauce, creating a unique melange. So the next time you're up for something a tad bit bizarre, give this brulee a try and tell me what you think.