This leg has legs

After a very merry meal of roast leg of lamb for Christmas (with its glaze of red currant jelly, pomegranate molasses, lemon, and more sweet-savory flavors

), we made a navarin printanier from MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING. We often have this as Le Veau d'Or, but now that we know we can make a reasonable facsimile, I think we can enjoy their delicious sole more often.

What Is It About Chicken Pot Pie?

I am absolutely obsessed with mini chicken pot pies. I could eat one every night of my life. Tonight's was delicious: cobbled together from an on-line recipe that had a puff pastry topping which I replaced with the shortcut pastry from SIMPLE FRENCH COOKING. It called for basil, salt, and pepper which I enhanced with celery salt. It must be the Chicago in me, but that celery salt made it! A mini pie is like doll food: a tiny, perfect approximation of the adult version. Eating out of this little foil pan, I feel like myself at six, sitting cross-legged in Weston, CT, with Susie Rogers, pretending that we're at a dinner party, eating out of old bowls Mom didn't mind if we broke. During this mid-life crisis of my career crashing down around me, at least there's something that gives total satisfaction.

Tasha Tudor Reigns

As if illustrating A LITTLE PRINCESS and THE SECRET GARDEN, raising corgis, and running a Vermont farm wasn't enough, Tasha Tudor also wrote a cookbook. I found it in a used bookstore in upstate NY and have fallen in love with it (see my post on her blueberry muffins in August 2011). With a few ripe pears left from a Harry & David shipment sent by my friend Judy Kessler of the publisher Creative Homeowner, I made Tudor's recipe for coffee cake this morning. Such a nice contrast between the moist cake and the crunchy, pecan-laced topping. I brought most of it to choir. Nothing gets a group of singers more excited than free, hot food.

Tomatoes in Winter

Well, it is 60º in December.... Tonight I met Miriam Rubin, author of the next book in UNC Press's delightful Savor the South(TM) series, TOMATOES. She gave me a small jar of tomato jam which I cannot wait to try tomorrow morning for breakfast on my corn muffin. Gina Mihalik, the Press's publicity manager, gave me a jar of bourbon figs from the Farmer's Daughter stand at the Carrboro Farmer's Market which will be a treat with vanilla ice cream left over from Thanksgiving as I gobble up more "Mad Men" on video. After the day I had, I almost wept with gratitude.

Brunswick Stew...Hold the Squirrel

Chuck has such good ideas for delicious Sunday night dinners. We received a catalog of Southern specialties in the mail--succulent smoked hams, juicy pulled pork, fluffy sweet potato biscuits--and among the delicacies was Brunswick stew. Even this herald of Southern tradition has eschewed the squirrel for chicken. While I could've gotten a bead on a couple of gray varmints in Carl Schurz Park this afternoon, the NYPD frowns on its citizens shooting for food.

Once upon a thyme...

"Across New York City, gardens and miniature farms--whether on rooftops or at ground level--are joining smart boards and digital darkrooms as must-have teaching tools.... The roof at P.S. 41 in Greenwich Village aims to introduce students to green technologies. The elementary school already had container gardens at ground level, but it wanted to expand on the roof. On Sept. 21, the school opened a 15,000-square foot green roof, which uses trays with four inches of soil to grow sedum, a drought-resistant perennial, as well as herbs and other native plants." -- Lisa W. Foderaro, New York Times Saturday, November 24, 2012 I am going to start a research project on herbs with an eye toward publishing am illustrated book for kids 9-12 called ONCE UPON A THYME The Magic of Herbs . First, the Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary definition of herb \(h)erb\ n, often attrib [ME herbe, fr. OF, fr. I, herba] 1: a seed-producing annual, biennial, or perennial that does not develop persistent woody tissue but dies down at the end of the growing season 2: a plant or plant part valued for its medicinal, savory, or aromatic qualities Next, a short history of herbs' medicinal, savory, and aromatic qualities.... Random thoughts on how to capture kids' attention: What makes roast turkey smell so good? What gives that cool, refreshing feeling to peppermint? What's that green grass that makes your cat so frisky? Sage, mint, and catnip! What do they have in common? They're all herbs. They're just three of hundreds of herbs that flavor our food and drinks, can help us feel better when we're sick, and give off scents that affect our mood.

Life of Pi(e)

This was the year my dear, departed mother-in-law Marion saved Thanksgiving. What is the iconic meal without homemade pie? I'd picked out a new recipe for pear-cranberry pie with an oatmeal-streusel topping. Shaking my head sadly at the instruction to use a storebought pie crust, I made the "never-fail" pastry from THE TASTE OF HOME COOKBOOK. Pulling it out of the fridge after its thirty minutes of chilling, I rolled it out energetically. The rolling went fine; flipping it into the pie plate did not. With a single word unprintable here, I gathered it up to try again. Chuck said, "Stand aside. I'm going to channel my mother." He took the rolling pin and began to move it back and forth. I said, "No, no...that'll make the pastry stick." Undaunted, he kept at it with the gentlest of pressure. Marion's spirit did the trick. And the best part of Thanksgiving was preserved...pie for breakfast!

I always knew someday it would come to this

Gracie has gotten used to a homemade treat called "bonies," so her besotted owner will make them for her. Chuck and I are having white chili, so I stuffed a little extra sauteed turkey and red pepper into bleached bones which, frozen, provide hours of entertainment. Nothing's too good for our girl.

And why not?

Grace Georges Goehring met a spider who sat down beside her and bit her on the top of her head. She had a horrible allergic reaction which the vets dealt with immediately. She came home with the last remnants and we'd do anything to make her feel better.

Kitchen Patrol

Cooking by yourself, while it can be restful, is really about as depressing as a lonely setting for one at the dining room table. I enlisted Chuck's help to make the meatballs in tonight's "glorious one-pot meal--he dove in with good cheer. Turning out 50 of them was hardly the onerous duty or punishment "KP" usually brings to mind. "Glorious one-pot meals" is cooking teacher Elizabeth Yarnell's patented method of cooking meat, veggies, and grains together in a Dutch oven at high heat which leaves every ingredient whole and with all its nutrition intact. Anything I've ever made from her book has been delicious. Miraculously, rotini, beef, carrots, zucchini, and yellow pepper were each cooked to perfection in 45 minutes. So easy, even Gomer Pyle could do it!

A Bouquet in Both Senses

I wonder if a bride with a passion for cooking has ever put basil in her bouquet? I know there is a language of flowers; is there a language of herbs? Basil's probably better as an accent; you don't want your guests, not to mention your intended, to be thinking about food when they should be marveling at your dewy beauty. I'm re-launching "52 New Foods" as "Dancing With the Whisks" which doesn't limit me to writing about unusual/new ingredients (not that it has 'til now). Whatever fun I get up to in the kitchen is now fodder for the blog. This post was inspired by that garden-fresh bunch of basil my colleage Christine Zika brought me when we had lunch on Friday. Note to self: there is no better get-well gift than freshly picked, fragrant herbs with the dirt still clinging to the stalks. We're anxiously awaiting "Frankenstorm," a nor-easter roaring up from the Caribbean to devastate the coastline for the next three-four days, so I'll make pesto and Chuck and I can eat in in style. Who needs canned goods when you can whip up a batch of fresh sauce?

P.S. I hate you!

Dear New York Yankees, If I'd been at Comerica Park today with this, I wouldn't have known who to aim at, you were all so bad, with the exception of Eduardo Nunez who has some idea of how to earn a paycheck. Love, your longtime fan

T(ea) Ball

Today's the day--the Yankees win in Detroit or weeeeeeee're OUT (of the ALCS). Just in time for my "T(ea) Ball" came a delivery of insanely delicious, decadent treats from a Commerce Street bakery called Milk & Cookies (The Good Cook sells a baking book by the same name). If I could cheer them on with beer, I would, but me and Derek are on the DL, so it's the cricketer's drink for me. GO, YANKEES!

Adventures in Cooking

Chuck took us to West Africa tonight with a peanut stew, featured in Saveur's October 2012 Special Collector's Issue (it's their 150th). We'd made the braciola from this issue earlier which was just divine, but I have to admit I was a bit skeptical about this (I'm so Eurocentric, it's pathetic). Thanks again to Chuck's precise cooking, it was totally delicious (the $77 grocery bill would've fed a West African family of 12 for a year!). A combination of fresh ginger, ground coriander, turmeric, ground cumin, black pepper, ground cinnamon, fennugreek seeds (which we substituted with mustard seeds), chile de arbol, and cloves scented the kitchen as the chicken thighs cooked in a light onion, tomato, and peanut butter sauce to which we added eggplant and okra. What a wonderful balance of spicy, savory, and sweet! This one goes into the repetoire; in fact, the whole issue is a keeper.

Swedish Sweets

My college roommate Paula Green sent me a fantastic array of Scandinavian delicacies: lingonberry jam, ginger snaps, rye krispbread, smoked creamed roe, farmer cheese, pastilles, and chocolate! We reminisced about Nyborg Nelson, a Scandinavian restaurant first on the 2nd floor of an Midtown East brownstone, decorated with rough wood and folk art which moved to the recently opened Citicorp Center as a sleek and modern cafeteria. Both are long gone and we miss them. Their specialties can be had at SwedensBest.com or by phone at 877-865-8503. I'll be calling!

Childhood in a Can

If I worked for Campbell's Soup's advertising company, I'd pitch this for a series of print, TV, and social media ads. Nostalgia to the max, this would revive the brand for any baby boomer. Didn't all our moms serve us Campbell's chicken noodle soup with a sandwich on our days home from school? Wasn't it one of the first things you were allowed to make on your own? How many of us used the can to make a pencil holder? I'm sure there are a zillion delicious memories behind the red and white label among my generation. Here I am, 56 years old, three weeks into my six-week recovery for a new hip, and I've probably had Campbell's soup every day. If only Mom were here to put it down in front of me, in my favorite cup, and sit with me while I slowly slurped the broth, spelling out words with the letter-shaped noodles, chasing around the carrots or barley, leaving nothing but a little ring around the top. Pure pleasure.

Arlene Friedman and The Pasta Sandwich

It’s a shame you don’t really know someone until you’re at her funeral. Arlene Friedman, editorial director of the Doubleday Book Clubs back in the 1990s, died last week at 76. When I think of Arlene, I remember fire-engine red hair, a bright yellow dress, a barking voice, and no filter. If she thought you looked terrible, she told you straight out. She created an electric atmosphere—you never quite knew what she’d say next. In those days, there was a not-always-so-friendly competition between Doubleday Book Club and The Literary Guild and I felt I had to take a side. In spite of the fact that Arlene brought me back to the NY office from Garden City, I was Sam Blum’s girl. This made for chilly relations with Arlene which I regret now. To have navigated safely the choppy waters between the two would've made me a much better sailor in my career today. According to her cousin Arnie, she loved Broadway, particularly “Gypsy.” I should have talked to her more about what I was seeing for The Fireside Theatre. I recognized that she had an uncanny ability to know what would sell to American readers. I should’ve asked her for the secrets to a best seller. Friends today chronicled her rise from secretary to VP in a man’s world. I should’ve begged her to tell me her stories. An agent recalled a buffet table at a book convention at which Arlene, never a slim woman, sighed, “Do you think I could make a pasta sandwich?” I should’ve brought food to her when she was sick. Too late now…a lyric from Burton Lane & Alan Jay Lerner’s film “Royal Wedding” which she no doubt could’ve sung word for word.

Ice Cream Social

September in NYC can be fiendishly hot. Tonight, the only relief I could get was from a chocolate ice cream sandwich, complete with chocolate sprinkles (a gift from my wonderful neighbor Shirley). Grace can't contain herself when I take one of these out of the freezer: she races me to the couch, jumps onto my chest, and gulps down whatever I will spare (and that's not much!). Tonight's ice cream sandwich was the madeleine that brought me back to my seventh birthday party in Weston, Connecticut in 1963. There was no hired entertainment; my mother organized a treasure hunt. Here I am with a few friends (in a blue sailor dress Mom made me), a pink crepe paper centerpiece, party hats and blowers, favors of waxy children's lipstick and pink nail polish, waiting for a simple plate of birthday cake with a scoop of ice cream. Nothing could've given us more pleasure.

John Lennon…Music Maker, Bread Baker

The night before I baked the basic bread recipe from Nick Malgieri’s new baking book, I watched the American Masters’ documentary, “LENNONYC.” The movie is fantastic: vintage color film of the streets, an ageless Central Park, and old subway cars hurtling through dark tunnels. There's John in 1970s high-fashion and of course lots of his post-Beatles music. Interviews with Yoko, producers, publicists, radio DJs, photographers, and fellow musicians are intercut with audio and live footage of John being John--honest, playful, passionate, totally into taking care of baby Sean, including baking bread. Musicians who played with him said in this film that his genius was he could write what he felt--in the simplest, most natural way. In the midst of a life that hurtled him from obscurity to world prominence, he lived the lyric, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

Where’s the fire?

I had my heart set on a sesame beef stir-fry tonight. It’s supposed to be strips of tenderloin tossed in sesame seeds flash-fried in sesame oil with broccoli, yellow pepper, and red chile, then simmered in a sauce of beef stock, soy sauce, fresh ginger, garlic, and crushed red pepper. It was very tasty, but of course, I bought beef chuck tender steak instead of “tenderloin.” I saw “tender,” and that was enough for me! “Tough,” I’m afraid was more like it. Why do I rush? Am I embarrassed to stand at the meat counter too long? A little. Am I nervous about the price per pound of tenderloin and settle in my mind for something less? Yes. Do I think Chuck and I are not worth the price of a good piece of meat? No; we certainly didn’t skimp on the lamb the other weekend, or the brisket last winter. It pays to take time to get what you need. I’ll contemplate that during my six weeks’ recovery after my hip is replaced. There’s no rushing that.

One Singular Frenchman

Robert Treboux, owner of Le Veau d’Or, died last week. I didn’t know him at his best. He was elderly, but not that frail, when Dad and I started going there for Saturday lunch a few years ago. He and Dad liked to reminisce about the Manhattan of 50-60 years ago when Robert was a captain at Le Pavillon and Maude Chez Elle. He was very modest about his career—I didn’t realize he’d owned Le Clos Normand and La Rotisserie Française before Le Veau d’Or. He got frailer over these last couple of years, but he never failed to greet me at the door with a kiss and a sweeping bow as I joined Dad or Nina Miness at our table. And he had a few salty words on a lot of subjects...he threw the word "shit" around with panache. A highlight of my last couple of years was the James Beard Awards at Lincoln Center where Le Veau d’Or, Robert, and Catherine won an American Classic Award. I was two rows from the stage: up there, I saw Jacques Pépin, Gabrielle Hamilton, José Andres, and Kevin Zraly, the founder of the Windows on the World wine appreciation program whose acceptance speech was incredibly touching in remembrance of all the friends who died on 9/11.

And now we raise a glass to Robert. Here he is at Dad’s 81st birthday celebration. What an honor to have known him.

"How Easy Is That?" Episode Two

Puff pastry, fresh strawberries, confectioner's sugar, cinnamon, with a drizzle of strawberry yogurt...so delicious, I could've eaten at least two! The strawberries soften and give up their juice so the filling is like jam. NOTE TO SELF: prepare the tart on the baking parchment, not on the cutting board. This looked perfectly shaped until I tried to slip it onto the baking parchment already on the cookie sheet and it telescoped up on me. Warm late-summer mornings are anathema to puff pastry already, crimping the edge with a fork only sealed the tart to the surface. But puff pastry's too precious to waste, so I reconstructed it on the parchment and, while the sharp corners were gone, the taste made up for it!

War is not healthy for children and other living things

This morning, I was mulling over a tragic New York Times report of the 2000 American soldiers who've died in Afghanistan (no doubt more by now). I was thinking of the parents who bore, weaned, counseled, and laughed with their loved ones who now have (however meaningful as a symbol) an inanimate American flag in their children's place. Just then, a punk Pillsbury Dough Boy walked by, wearing a black T-shirt which read, "Make cupcakes, not war." That and this fun I had with my lunch one day made me think of the old poster from the Vietnam era. If only....

Juicy, hot-red, and voluptuous

My father-in-law who’s 94 grew up in the 20s when women were “dames,” “dolls,” “shebas,” and “molls.” He’s been known to call me and my sainted mother-in-law “tomatoes.” Since he grew up in the Bronx, the exchange went something like this: “You damatas are makin’ too much noise.” As insults go, I’ll take it. This time of year, we’re all particularly alluring.

How Recipes Travel

Year ago, I commuted to work in Garden City, NY, on the LIRR. Al Polo was a conductor who finished up his shift on that early train out from the city. He’d come by with a cheery, “Hi, sunshine!” and sit, regaling me with horror stories of New Year’s Eves on the train and funny stories of boozy nights at McSorley’s. He made the commute bearable. Tonight, with a hint of fall in the air, Chuck and I made Al’s grandmother’s Irish lamb stew. He wrote it out for me in pencil on lined, 3-ring paper, probably from a notebook he used in his graduate work at NYU. I wish he’d been here this weekend. We watched “The Gangs of New York” on video last night. His degree from NYU was in New York history, so he’d have loved adding more details of life in 19th century Manhattan, sharing a beer with Chuck, and tucking into the stew his ancestors brought over from home.

How to Picnic at Shakespeare in the Park

Last night, having planned to go to see "Into the Woods" at the Delacorte and finding it not on, Anne Croly and I went to an alternate free "Shakespeare in the Park" performance of "Richard III" at the Soldiers & Sailors Monument up on 89th & Riverside. No wait for a chit for our free seats and no crowds. There's a natural amphitheatre on the north side of the monument and the Hudson Warehouse thoughtfully provides stadium cushions for its patrons to sit on the concrete steps. That's it...no-frills Shakespeare, the closest I'll ever be to Joe Papp's original intent. The production was terrific; thoughtfully edited to include an execution and coronation, so we'd understand how the War of the Roses brought the Dukes of York and Lancaster to this moment. RII was so bad he was great, the women were particularly talented, and there was a "Walking Dead" moment at the end that showed how relevant Shakespeare is, even now. I sat beside one of the actors on the subway going home. He was sweet; said our chat made his night. The crowd was MUCH younger than most theatre audiences today: kids and teenagers, people in their twenties to forties...and us. There was a family next to us who enjoyed wine and a bag of snacks during the performance which brings me to...

Wine...of course, one should have wine. But I didn't appreciate the "squeak, squeak, squeak" of the opener drawing the cork from the bottle. Make it a screwtop and crack it while the producer is asking everyone to "shut off your cell phones and unwrap your candies." Water: no problem, if there isn't a nipple on the bottle that makes that horrible sucking sound when you pull your lips off. Snacks: If you want chips or pretzels, do the rest of us a favor. Take them out of the crinkly cellophane bag and tie up individual amounts in paper towels or, if you're really pretentious, linen napkins. Sandwiches: No crunchy baguettes, please! Soft white or whole wheat bread only. And again with the sandwich wraps: no crinkly Saran or paper, waxed or otherwise! Another item to be wrapped in something soft. Fruit: grapes are perfect since they come clustered by Nature. Blueberries, raspberries, anything cut up which can be passed in a bowl. Nothing with a peel: no oranges, apples, bananas...unless you're eager to reprise the Sheridan Whiteside role in "The Man Who Came to Dinner." Pack a picnic as if you're going to Mass; the best theatre can be a religious experience. Photo Copyright (c) 123RF Stock Photos

What’s for Dinner?

To my mom, the question “What’s for dinner?” could only have caused a sinking feeling. Four picky kids, an irritable husband, a tight food budget…that’s a recipe for disaster. Imagine that, 365 days a year, on and on until…well, either you die or you’re alone and can eat cold beans out of the can (which Mom was not averse to). Having come late to the dinner party, I still have a sense of anticipation when I start to ask myself “What’s for dinner” sometime during the day. Yesterday, being Julia Child’s 100th birthday, I pulled down MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING to find something I could make in a couple of hours on a hot summer night. Voila! Pommes de Terres a l’Huile with her suggestion of grilled sausages fit the bill.

The potatoes were tasty: medium-starch Yukon Golds steeped in vermouth and chicken broth before they were dressed with a vinaigrette of white wine vinegar, Dijon mustard, olive oil, and shallots. I put dried thyme on them for a little extra flavor and because I forgot to get fresh parsley which would’ve been prettier. Her instructions were to drop the potatoes into boiling salted water. The authors of THE SCIENCE OF GOOD FOOD, an award-winning reference on how cooking works, contradict Julia (Mon Dieu!) by saying they should be started in cold water and perhaps make the water more acidic by adding vinegar, but do not salt the water to avoid the potatoes getting mushy. Calls to mind the Gershwin classic, “You say potato and I say po-tah-to,” ultimately a love song which we all sang to Julia yesterday and will continue to sing through the years until she’s a thousand. And to Mom, I can only repeat Martin Luther King's passionate recital of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, [I am] free at last!"

Good morning, Julia!

If Julia Child were still here to celebrate her 100th birthday today, I would serve her breakfast in bed. Not one, I’m sure, to laze around, Julia would want to get up and help, but no…it’d be much more fun to bring her this lemon-poppy seed muffin tin scone (made with half a stick of butter, but slathered with more of course while it’s still hot from the oven), fresh fruit, a cup of good French coffee and today’s New York Times. I can only imagine the fuming this passionate Democrat would do over Paul Ryan, Mitt Romney, and the Tea Party.

How do you make an omelette? Practice!

With all due respect to the great Julia Child, I followed the instructions for the easier omelette in MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING—in which she is very fair about having to memorize the steps so as not to delay the process—and the result? Pitiful, just pitiful. My own common-sense method turns out a fluffier, moister omelette than this piece of shoe leather, with its unappetizing insole of herbes de Provençe.

As Julia would arguably say, keep it simple. This morning’s egg sunny-side-up hit the spot after a dinner last night of spicy bar mix and two glasses of white wine, courtesy of Don’t Tell Mama where I was part of the raucous audience for “Words and Music," a cabaret of songs by Jerry Herman, Dorothy Fields and Jerome Kern, Stephen Sondheim, and Comden and Green. In all-American diner-speak, an order for that English muffin on the side would’ve gone into the kitchen as “Burn the British.” The French and American colonists would appreciate that!

Sweet Basil

The basil in Sandy Goehring's pot of herbs is nearly as tall as I am and marvelously fragrant (as are the sage, rosemary, and thyme planted around it). I googled "what to do with fresh basil besides pesto" to find an April 2011 Chowhound conversation about everything from caprese salad to burger seasoning to stir fries and even a Basil Lemon Cake. Doesn't this sound luscious? Basil Lemon Cake 2 1/2 cups cake flour 2 1/2 tsp baking powder 1/2 tsp salt 1/2 cup butter, softened 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar 2 large eggs beaten 1/2 cup chopped basil 2 tbsp finely grated lemon zest 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 cup + 2 tbsp buttermilk berries, whipped cream or ice cream preheat oven to 375. Lightly oil a 9" springform pan Medium bowl combine flour, baking powder and salt Place butter an sugar in a large bowl and beat till creamy. Add eggs, basil, zest and vanilla. Beat till blended. Add flour mixture, alternating with buttermilk (3 batches) and mix on low till smooth. Pour into pan and bake for 35-45 minutes. It gets better the next day too, when the citrus flavor penetrates even more.

Lemons and Oranges and Grapefruit…Oh, My!

I love citrus. From the lowest—Mandarin oranges in a can—to the most high—the wedge of fresh lime in a perfectly balanced gin-and-tonic--citrus makes everything better. Peeled and eaten out of hand, oranges and grapefruits leave a lovely scent memory long after the juicy treat is gone. When someone on the bus breaks open a plastic clamshell or digs around in a rattly plastic bag, I just want to scream. But peel an orange? I go straight to my happy place. Zesting, squeezing, or dissecting supremes makes the preparation of a dish more fun. The tools are great; a Microplane zester is a thing of genius. The old-school reamer should be in any museum of design. And that crafty spoon with the serrated end for eating grapefruit? No home is complete without one. Marmalade classes up a humble piece of toast. Candied peel makes a childish cupcake grow up. Clementines arrive up here in the North in our winter, a blast of sunshine in an old-school wooden crate, to remind us warmth will return. Limes saved many a British sailor from scurvy. Citrus is God’s way of saying, “There, there…everything’s going to be all right.”

How Easy Is That?

Eat your heart out, Barefoot Contessa. This ham-and-egg nest is a recipe from Paula Deen’s Southern Cooking Bible; could breakfast get any simpler? So pared-down, you could do it in your sleep. I’m thinking of other brilliant, two-ingredient dishes that are actually spoiled by the addition of anything more. Tomatoes Provençal make the cut: two halves of a juicy tomato grilled with just a heaping helping of herbed bread crumbs on top. Iceberg wedge with blue cheese dressing? Ah, yes (the bacon bits people insist on sprinkling on is bringing coals to Newcastle, really). Strawberries and cream…perfection. Baked Camembert on a toasted slice of baguette…caviar on toast points…smoked salmon with a spritz of lemon juice…raw oysters with mignonette sauce. A steamed artichoke with drawn butter. One wonders why one extends oneself to slaving over a dish with more than two ingredients.

Home Accents From Nature

Looking around my apartment, I see that somehow my tastes in food have influenced my home décor. The kitchen has an eclectic country look: a pine-and-oak armoire holds our good dishes and cookbooks, we rest a champagne cooler on the rush seat of a Hitchcock chair. My tea kettle is tomato-red. The pitcher I use for water at dinner is the color of cream. My cow-shaped creamer is the color of blueberries and I often drink my coffee from a Chinese porcelain cup the color of lemons. The living room is more formal with a bookcase in dark wood which stands on our treasure: a large Karastan rug from the 1920s, inherited from Chuck’s grandmother. I pulled together a few of the accents in the room: ceramic cats in cream, a celery-green ceramic vase, cranberry glass from Slovakia.

I like the way these things capture the brightness and zest of fresh fruits and vegetables and good-quality dairy at the height of their freshness. It’s a more stylish reminder to forgo the junk food than a pig magnet stuck to the front of the refrigerator.

Good Things Come In Threes

There are a few foods that traditionally work as a trio, namely the Three Sisters of Native American cooking (corn, beans, and squash) and the Cajun and Creole "holy trinity" (onion, celery, and bell pepper). Lemons, oranges, and grapefruit make a Three-Fruit Marmalade and cherry, whole peeled, and sun-dried come together in a Three-Tomato Pasta. When I looked for other trios, the pantry doors flew wide open. In a three-cheese pasta bake, only the Parmesan was common to all. That can be combined with Neufchatel and mozzarella; white Cheddar and Gruyere; mild cheddar and Fontina; or sour cream and ricotta. Want a three-herb pesto? It's not always basil, but that's pretty standard, and parsley was ever-present: mix those two with either mint or cilantro or rosemary. You can also mix parsley, rosemary, and thyme (throw in some sage and go with the dish to Scarborough Fair). The variety of mushrooms makes for some delicious sounding risottos: porcini, shiitake, and cremini or chanterelle, morel, and shiitake stock. The three-bean salad I know is wax beans, green beans, and kidney beans, but try it with edamame, black beans, and black-eyed peas. As Cole Porter wrote in words and music, "Experiment!"

Go Topless This Summer

An open-faced sandwich is the perfect warm-weather lunch. Fewer calories than a traditional sandwich, it’s also an empty canvas on which you can compose something pretty. Even without the red onion the recipe calls for, Chuck’s white bean and tuna salad from last night made a delicious spread on whole wheat toast. Sprinkled with brined black olives and celery leaves, it looked good and kept me full all afternoon. The world loves this snack: the French adore their tartines, the Italians their crostini and bruschetta; the Spaniards started with a “lid,” or tapa and piled it on from there. The pinnacle, I think, is the Danish smǿrrebrǿd. Trina Hannemahn, a Danish chef, came over from Copenhagen a few years ago with kilos of home-baked bread in her luggage, so she could serve these at a small brew pub downtown. Chuck and I went down into this little warren of rooms for delicious beer and Trina’s smoked-fish sandwiches. Wish she was still here!

Succulent Succotash

In the spirit of today’s NYTBR (a cleverly conceived How-to theme with essays by Augusten Burroughs and Dave Eggers and Kate Christenson) and the book I’ve just started by Caitlin Moran called How to be a Woman, I’ll write this post as a how-to: How to Make Succotash 1) Wipe from your memory any frozen corn-and-lima-bean desecration. Lima beans themselves are just outright despicable. Assuming succotash had to be made with them, imagine my relief when I consulted Fannie Merritt Farmer’s The Boston Cooking- School Cookbook (a 1924 edition I bought in upstate NY last summer) and saw the ingredient as boiled shelled beans. And no finer authority than Judith Jones in L.L. Bean’s Book of New New England Cookery also allows for shelled beans. 2) Don’t get yourself in a swivet if you come home with sugar snap peas instead of peas in the pod. Growing up in the suburbs, I couldn’t identify peas off the vine, if you paid me. We shelled the sugar snaps; there was enough for color, anyway. 3) Boil these tiny peas for under a minute and drain. Boil corn for five minutes—no more! Cut the kernels off the cobs, mix the kernels with the peas, a tablespoon or two of melted butter, a dash of salt and pepper, and serve.

4) Eat every bit at one sitting. Refrigerate even homemade succotash and the horrors of the old-time mess will come back to haunt you.

If nuts were people...

I mean...if what we snack on and cook with were the names of people, who would they be? I asked myself this as I was testing a cookie recipe with pistachios, probably my favorite nut of them all. In my first years in NY, my happiest nights out were dinners at Frank Doelger's. The menu never varied: a bowl of pistachios as the appetizer before we tucked into "the old family recipe" (Contadina pasta with bottled sauce). The conversation was as crackling as the sound of those pistachios being shelled. Such good times. Even the word "pistachio" is fun. If it were a person, I think it'd be: Pistachio: the illustrated Italian chef on the pizza box Brazil Nut: a soccer fanatic Almond: the roadie with the most miles traveled with the Allman Brothers Band Macademia: a college dean who's a little too friendly with the students Cashew: the stiff-upper-lip managing director of a bank that's "too big to fail" Pecan: the cheerleader at the top of the living pyramid Filbert: the kid in middle school who carried a briefcase

The Zen of Vegetable Dissection

There's something so soothing about, after a long day of work, settling down at the cutting board with a good sharp chef's knife in hand and a big pile of vegetables to cut into. These peppers were so beautiful whole with their firm, unmarked skins and their elegantly curved stems; it's almost a shame to destroy that. Still, without breaking them down, you don't get to sample any to

enjoy the sweetness of the red pepper, and the tartness of the green and yellow ones. You can forgive a clean, juicy onion that falls into such tidy rings for bringing tears to your eyes. I don't slice and dice at the speed of light like a pro, but, while they're just focused on getting the vegetables prepped, I can enjoy the process: peeling the onion's skin, feeling the peppers' moist flesh, finding the seeds inside, and sharing the goodness with the most loyal kitchen companion I know.

SUMMER'S BOUNTY

You almost want to make slicing into these gloriously colored peppers illegal--wait, Mayor Bloomberg's probably thought of that!

I'm a Glutton...for Punishment

It's July in NYC; we have no A/C in the kitchen. And yet...I simmer sauce on the stovetop for an hour. I boil water for spaghetti. All while preparing the dough for a new cookie recipe I'm testing for a book coming out next fall as the oven preheats to 350 degrees. I'm feeling great solidarity with the guys at my local pizza parlor, the traffic cop on 34th & 7th at noon, the bakers and cooks and Con Ed workers--everyone who's got to endure the steam and the heat and the sweat to do their jobs. Everything I've done tonight will be delicious, if I may say so myself, but by the time I've made it all, served it, and sat down, I'm really only interested in my icy glass of crisp pinot grigio.

Ode to a Sunbeam

From the days when a "real housewife" meant Donna Reed, before Gloria Steinem published the first issue of MS. Magazine, while America was having its love affair with Swanson and the word "arugula" was only ever used in Scrabble, Sunbeam made a hand-held mixer that was the pride of Jean Whittingham's Weston, Connecticut kitchen. She used it to beat Duncan Hines cake mix and Jell-O pudding. With its help, Thanksgiving's mashed potatoes were fluffy and Saturday morning's Bisquick pancakes were light. I've got it today; it still does the job. You expect the jewelry and the mink coat to last. They're beautiful and valuable, meaningful for their association with Mom. But a lightweight plastic mixmaster with its piddly little motor? What this humble kitchen appliance stands for is endless love.

To Whir With Love

I made an apron for my niece Kate who loves to bake with my interpretation of that humble kitchen appliance.

Fresh Air

I'm spending the day in my husband's garden among the hydrangeas and veronica, the rose bushes and rudbeckia (just a fancy word for black-eyed Susans). It's a classic English cottage garden, so I should be dreaming of a Downton Abbey-esque cream tea with scones and jam, savory finger sandwiches, and cake. But we're within sniffing distance of the Atlantic, so I'm dreaming of steamer clams, lobster salad, and seared tuna. My dreams will come true as Chuck and his brother, who owns this bucolic piece of property in Rumson, NJ, have gone off to the Lusty Lobster for the seafood and a local farmer's market for fresh corn. So far, Gracie has had more exercise today than I, her little legs churning furiously as she swam in the Navesink under Chuck's watchful eye. If I'm lucky, I'll go to the beach for my first swim of the summer and try to burn enough calories to get ahead of the infusion of local, seasonal fare that's for dinner tonight.

"I'll have the sole, please.... I said, I'LL HAVE THE SOLE!"

In today's New York Times, there's a front page article on dangerously loud noise in restaurants, retail stores, and gyms. And do I feel naive! I didn't know that some restaurants hire music designers to engineer the sound to make you order more, eat faster, and leave sooner. Jon Taffer, a restaurant and night life consultant is quoted as saying, "Are we manipulating you? Of course we are. My job is to put my hand as deeply in your pocket as I can for as long as you like it. It's a manipulative business." Do I usually go to the likeliest places to do this (Hard Rock Cafe, the biergarten at The Standard Hotel, the Dutch)? No. But that doesn't leave me with less of a bitter taste in my mouth for the contemporary NYC restaurant scene. In fine restaurants, particularly in France and Italy, the table is yours for the night, the focus is on the food and service, and you're capable of carrying on a conversation with your fellow diners without raising your voice. I'm sure there are plenty of people whose experiences are completely different and would say, "And that proves you're even more naive than you think!" Well, let me have my happy, however deluded, memories of fine restaurants in my travels where the manipulation was subtle, the linens pristine, and the cuisine to be savored.

I Ate It At the Movies

No, this isn't about Raisinets, an annoying box of rattling non pareils, or overly salted popcorn.... I'm thinking of great eating scenes on film. If peanuts and a shot and a beer constitute a meal, Marlon Brando's moment in the Hoboken tavern with Eva Marie Saint in "On the Waterfront" certainly qualifies. The naturalism of popping the peanuts in from the side of his hand--pure genius. Then there's the starving urchin's "Please, sir, I want some...more" in "Oliver" which leads to pandemonium and the musical number, "Food, glorious, food!" (What is a saveloy, anyway? Aha! According to wikipedia, it's "a type of highly seasoned sausage.") One of my favorite animated films, "Ratatouille," is completely delightful from beginning to end. Remy's fastidiousness is just hilarious. When Judy Garland as Esther Blodgett aka Vicki Lester replays the musical number she rehearsed all day for unemployed James Mason in "A Star is Born," using the salt and pepper cellars for maracas, whirling their dinner tray around the room... it's a tears-and-laughter prelude to the tragedy of Norman Main's suicide. In the end, I think, the best eating scene I can recall in the movies is Albert Finney's seduction of Joyce Redmond with a succulent roast in "Tom Jones." I must see "The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover" someday. Lust for food is lust for life.

Extraordinary Foodoir

While I don't like the word "foodoir," memoir is my favorite thing to read and an author who can describe meals, foods, and the cooks they've known is someone we can all relate to. I have never known abandonment, abuse, hunger, poverty, war or the many other horrors that can bedevil the innocent. I have known love via my mom's warm-from-the-oven Vienna Dream Bars, sympathy via a plate of sandwiches friends walked up the driveway the day she died, the magic of Paris via a plate of steak tartare, and the comfort of a long, strong marriage from the feasts Chuck and I prepare at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I can't choose a favorite between Ruth Reichl's TENDER AT THE BONE and Nigel Slater's TOAST. While their childhoods were different from mine, the era, the mood, and the culture of the 1950s and 1960s are so familiar to me. They're both funny, loving, and frank about the times they hated their difficult parent. Written from the perspective of their adult success, their ability to describe taste and technique is unparalleled. Gabrielle Hamilton's BLOOD, BONES, AND BUTTER is beautifully written and won all kinds of awards, but have her over for dinner? Uh-uh. Ruth, whom I've met numerous times and couldn't like more, and Nigel, whom I'd love to know, are my dinner guests from heaven. If only Betty Crocker hadn't discontinued those Vienna Dream Bars!

Brightness at Noon

Since I’m always thinking of what I’ll eat for lunch by 9:15 a.m., I thought I’d learn a little bit more about the noontime ritual. A Google search first brought me to the New York Public Library site where I was reminded they’re running an exhibition on “Lunch Hour NYC,” complete with a wall from the old Horn & Hardart Automat. Can’t miss that! Laura Shapiro, the culinary historian who helped with the show, says lunch is “the meal that was just made to fit into the industrial, urban workday.” I would’ve thought it had had something to do with the Angelus, as believers stopped their work at the height of the day to pray to Mary. While religious devotion has something to do with eating at this time of day (monks would eat nine hours after dawn which is where the word “noon” comes from), what we know of as lunch is decidedly a more modern affair. “Dinner” used to be eaten in the middle of the day to revive and power people working in the fields during the afternoon. As people moved away from the land into city factories, they grabbed a snack when they could and kept working. Even today, a working girl’s lucky to get a formal lunch hour. Searching for the origin of the formalized benefit, I learned that “Missouri law does not require employers to provide employees a break of any kind, including a lunch hour.” Today, I escaped the icy blasts of A/C to sit in the sun, eat a small portion of last night’s rich, satisfying Ziti with Sausage, Onion, and Fennel (thank you, Lidia!), and read more of Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games . A woman across from me carefully took out several small, smooth pink stones from a gray cloth bag, laid them out in a pattern, and began to meditate. I saw in my mind’s eye the golden glow of Jean-Francois Millet’s “The Angelus” and realized we were each stopping to appreciate the wonder of being alive in our own ways.

I am not a coffee connaisseur. I will drink just about any swill that calls itself "coffee," short of the god-awful pretender that comes out of bus station and hospital machines (do any of those still exist?). What I am is an artist of coffee drinking. I don't need much. My everyday ritual is home-brewed Maxwell House in this handsome cup; classical music on the radio; my walked-and-fed corgi resting beside my comfy chair; the New York Times. The cherry on that sundae is having my husband home to discuss why no one asks us how to fix the world. Then there's the special-occasion coffee-drinking: walking in winter on the Coney Island boardwalk with a paper cup and a hot knish. Catching up with an out-of-town friend among the tapestry pillows and folk art at Java Girl. Commuting into Manhattan from New Jersey on the Seastreak ferry, waking up by standing in the spray off the wake at the back of the boat. Coffee is more than a stimulant: it's a key element in the civilized life. Don't down it mindlessly while racing from one place to another. Sit, sip, and relax.

How to make a good life better

Bastille Day is perfect for making a breakfast of eggs scrambled with ham and herbed goat cheese (I'm trying one of the recipes in Emeril Lagasse's upcoming KICKED-UP SANDWICHES, publishing October 2012). As I pushed the eggs around the hot pan, I thought of my grandfather, Papa, whose scrambled eggs are the gold standard by which I judge them all. Soft and creamy, enriched with American cheese, he would serve these up on Sunday mornings in 1950s Chicago with a gentle smile. Never a showman, he knew just how to nourish us, in so many ways. My mother could make these as well as Papa, and my brother Charles, Papa's namesake, carries on the tradition today. I can get close sometimes, but never hit it just right. What is it that these three Whittinghams have? They share a large helping of generosity and patience, two qualities that make not only Sunday mornings more delicious, but a good life overall even better.

ONE POT, MANY MEALS

Pot-au-feu, soup/meat/vegetables, all simmered for hours in one pot, is meant to serve an army. Chuck read a mention of it in Michel Huellebecq's new novel and decided he had to make it--for the two of us. Miraculously, our stock pot held a lovely hunk of bottom round, a Cornish game hen, an osso bucco veal shank, half a pork butt, and a kielbasa. That's not all! Cups and cups of broth, carrots, leeks, onions, celery, turnips, parsnips...wait! There's a bouquet garni in there, too. It is delicious--the broth is rich with all the fats of the meats and the bay leaf, thyme, and garlic of the garni. The vegetables stay intact and make a side dish. The meats, served with a horseradish/sour cream sauce, are as tender as you can imagine. We'll get 3-4 meals out of it. Merci, Julia Child, whose recipe for Potee Normande Pot-au-Feu, made this so easy.