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.