Happy Birthday, Mom! (With a Recipe for Dark Chocolate Layer Cake with Mocha Frosting, Plus Cake Frosting Tips)

My mom’s birthday was on Inauguration Day. Between the blizzard and my family’s busy schedules, the Official Celebration will finally happen later today. While we kids would’ve been perfectly happy to take Mom out—and I offered to host the party here, too—my mother’s ideal birthday involves having her entire family come to her home, where she and my dad feed us ungodly amounts of food, the television is always on, and my nieces have full access to an assortment of toys kept there for their pleasure. Heck, I’m just glad Mom allowed me to bake the cake! As for the flavor: well, chocolate is a given in my family. There is no other way to celebrate.

And now, for the challenge: My parents and two of my brothers keep kosher. Mom’s menu for the evening was fleishig (meat), so the dessert has to be pareve—without dairy. Swapping margarine for butter is an easy fix, but many of the lighter recipes I’d like to try, to keep my own eating within reasonable WW limits, involve milk, yogurt, or sour cream. No, no, and no. I gave up on the idea of a light cake, and focused on finding something I could make pareve. No surprise, I found the perfect recipe in Moosewood Restaurant Book of Desserts, one of my Old Reliables. Dark Chocolate Layer Cake, it’s called, with coffee frosting. As always, I played with the recipe a little: subbing egg whites for whole eggs (my one attempt at lightening), adding a bit of bittersweet chocolate and coffee to super-chocofy the cake batter, and adding cocoa to the frosting to make it mocha—I was a teeny bit concerned about how the little ones would take to a frosting that was too strongly coffee-flavored.

I haven’t had a piece of the cake yet, but I have tasted the scraps (see Debbie’s Frosting Tips, below, and you’ll know where the scraps came from…) and the frosting, and Oh. My. God. this cake is The Bomb. I was forced to put the scraps on a plate in S’s office, since otherwise I would’ve nibbled my way through all of them (and god forbid we throw them away—it tastes too good to waste!). Verrrrry moist, luxuriously deep, and the coffee is more a suggestion than an overt presence. Coffee boosts chocolate’s flavor, so I suspect that my tweaks have made this even more chocolaty than the original recipe.

Can’t wait to see what the family thinks of this cake. I think it’s a winner. (And Mom, if you’re reading, you’ve spoiled your own surprise!)

Weight Watchers readers: the recipe builder says this is 9 points per serving, for a 16-serving cake. On the one hand, I laugh at the idea that this cake serves 16, but on the other hand I didn’t use all the frosting, and I left behind quite a bit of cake when evening out the tops. I’m planning to eat a small piece and count it as 6 points.

Dark Chocolate Layer Cake with Mocha Frosting
Serves 16, according to the recipe, but I don’t live in Fantasyland. In my world, it serves 12

For the cake:
½ cup strong brewed coffee, hot
1 cup boiling water
1 oz. bittersweet chocolate
¾ cup dutch cocoa powder
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 ¼ t. baking soda
1/8 t. salt
1 cup butter or margarine, at room temperature
1 1/3 cups packed light brown sugar
4 large egg whites
1 T. pure vanilla extract

For the mocha frosting:
5 to 6 T. strong brewed coffee
1 t. instant espresso powder
3 ½ cups powdered sugar
1/3 cup dutch cocoa powder
½ cup butter or margarine, at room temperature

Make the cake:
Combine coffee and water (I usually just measure them into the same cup). Put bittersweet chocolate in a small bowl, and pour about ½ cup of the hot liquid over it and set aside. Put cocoa powder in a medium mixing bowl and add a bit of the coffee-water, whisking to make a paste. Whisk in the rest of the liquid. Stir the chocolate-coffee-water to make sure all the chocolate is melted, and then add it to the cocoa mixture. Whisk it all together and set aside to cool.

Preheat oven to 350. Butter and lightly flour two nine-inch cake pans (I use cooking spray instead of butter).

In a small mixing bowl, sift together the flour, baking soda, and salt, and set aside. With an electric mixer, cream together the butter or margarine and brown sugar in a large mixing bowl. Add the egg whites, two at a time, beating well after each addition. Mix in the vanilla. Add half the flour mixture, then the cocoa mixture, then the rest of the flour mixture, beating after each addition. Batter should be thick and almost fluffy.

Divide the batter evenly between the two cake pans. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until a cake tester or thin skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool the layers in the pans for about 5 minutes, then turn them out onto racks to cool completely.

Make the frosting:
Dissolve the espresso powder in the coffee and allow to cool. Whisk together the powdered sugar and cocoa. In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter and sugar-cocoa mixture with an electric mixer. Gradually add the coffee, beating well until the frosting is a good consistency for spreading.

Debbie’s Frosting Tips:



• If your baked layers are domed on top: using a long serrated knife, slice just enough off the top to even them out. Bonus: you get to eat the scraps!
• If you’ve tasted the scraps and they seem too dry: make a simple syrup (heat equal amounts of sugar & water until sugar is dissolved, and let cool). Brush this liberally over the top of the cake layers. Let it sit for a little while to absorb the syrup before frosting. (This particular cake shouldn’t need it, though)
• If you’re frosting the cake on the same plate you’ll use for serving, tear four long strips of wax paper, each about 4” thick. Overlap them on the plate, making a large square that covers where the edges of the cake will be. You’ll remove them later, and all your drips and smudges will magically disappear, leaving behind a clean serving plate.



• If you plan to move the cake after frosting, trace the bottom of the cake pan on a piece of cardboard and cut it out. Cover with aluminum foil. Place this on the surface where you’ll be decorating, and when you’re done you’ll have a sturdy bottom to pick up. (I also placed a wide “plank” of cardboard underneath the round, so I’d have something to grab onto when the time came.)
• Put a dollop of frosting directly on the plate or foil-covered round—this will keep the cake from sliding.
• Place the first layer upside-down on the plate.
• Carefully brush away all loose crumbs.
• Using an offset spatula, plop a good-sized dollop of frosting roughly in the center of the cake, and spread it to the edges. Place the second layer upside-down on top, and brush off loose crumbs. If you see gaps around the edges between the two layers, fill them with frosting. (Think of the lucky person who gets a slice with an extra smoosh of frosting in it!)



• Put a thin sealing layer of frosting all around the cake. It’s ok if you can still see the cake through the frosting—this is to lock in any crumbs that may still be adhering, and to give you a smooth surface to work with for the final frost.
• Let the cake sit for fifteen minutes or so, until the frosting is set.



• Frost the cake, top first then sides, using the offset spatula.
• If you’ve used them, carefully pull out the strips of wax paper, and you’re good to go.

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Look What the Postman Just Brought!

My first-ever order from Penzeys. I'm aquiver with excitement. There were so many items I was tempted to buy, but I restrained myself for my inaugural purchase. Just think of all the lovely, mysterious, deeply-flavored things I can make with this haul. Must. Stop. Drooling.

OK. Gotta go make something...

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Clean-Out-the-Fridge Lentil Soup with Turkey Meatballs

I brought home a pile of freelance work to do today, and it took longer than I expected to finish it. When I finally turned off my marketing brain it was nearly 8:00, and aside from taking out some ground turkey breast to defrost this morning, I’d given no thought to dinner. Our car’s been buried by the blizzard so the food supplies are running pretty low (Fresh Direct comes tomorrow, thank God)—a couple of rubbery carrots, a lonely parsnip, half a wrinkled rutabaga. We were even out of onions. Sitting in his office, S and I tossed around a few ideas:

• Turkey burgers: nope, we ain’t got buns
• Turkey chili: unh-unh, considering S's recent late-night stomach ailment
  
• Spaghetti with turkey meatballs: no, too much bother
• Turkey meat loaf: not enough turkey
• Ummm…
  

I gave up on using the turkey tonight and considered the pantry’s contents. A nice big canister of French lentils smiled at me. Dinner was saved! Lentil soup would be easy, and amenable to all kinds of additions. Tomorrow we’d have turkey burgers. One look at S told me we weren’t out of the woods yet—since we’d had minestrone for lunch (it was fabulous, at our local pizza place!) he yearned for something with protein in it, animal protein. That’s when I thought of my mom’s addition to her tomato-rice soup: tiny veal meatballs. Surely ground turkey would work equally as well.

Off we marched into the kitchen. Half an hour later a big pot of soup was bubbling on the stove. By nine-thirty it was done, and by a little after ten we were leaning back, satisfied. The soup was filling, healthy, delicious—a solid triple, but somehow not a home run. It didn’t knock our socks off the way the farro soup did. We only had two slices of buffalo bacon left, and something tells me a little more would’ve made a big difference. And I think next time I’ll add sun-dried tomatoes.

Now, what will we have tomorrow? Leftover soup!

(Weight Watchers readers: it's Core.)

Clean-Out-the-Fridge Lentil Soup with Turkey Meatballs
Serves 6-8, easy

For the soup:
A glug or two of olive oil
3 slices of bacon, diced (I used buffalo bacon)
3-4 cloves of garlic, chopped
2-3 cups of diced raw root vegetables (I used a parsnip, ½ a rutabaga, two carrots, and two ribs of celery)
1 pound of lentils (I used small French ones)
1 can (whatever size you have) Italian plum tomatoes, chopped, with their juice (I used a package of Pomi brand)
1 good-sized parmesan rind
A couple of sprigs of fresh herbs (I used two each of thyme and marjoram)
Three quarts of liquid (I used three cans of chicken broth, and the rest was water)
Freshly ground pepper
Salt

For the meatballs:
1 pound ground turkey (I used turkey breast)
2 T. fresh thyme leaves
2 T. grated parmesan cheese
Salt & pepper

In your biggest stock pot or dutch oven, heat the oil over a medium flame. Add the bacon and garlic and sauté for a minute or two, then add the diced root vegetables. Cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables begin to soften, about five minutes. Add the lentils and stir. Add the tomatoes and their juice, the parmesan rind, and the herbs, and stir. Finally, add your liquid and a generous amount of freshly ground pepper. I’ll leave the salt up to you—if you’re using bouillon cubes or canned broth, you should probably wait and adjust the seasoning at the end, but if you’re using water you’ll want to add a teaspoon or two now. Cover and bring to a boil.

While the soup is heating, make the meatballs: Put all the ingredients in a bowl and mix lightly—don’t spend too much time mushing it around or it’ll turn to lead. Using a scant teaspoon of the mix for each, form tiny meatballs—you should get 40-45 from a pound of meat.

When the soup begins to boil, add the meatballs carefully, dropping them in one by one. Stir the pot gently once or twice, put the cover back on, and reduce heat to a very low flame. Simmer for 45 minutes, and test to see if the lentils are done. Older lentils will absorb more liquid and take longer to cook, so be prepared to add more water if necessary.

Remove the parmesan rind and the herb sprigs before serving.

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Comfort Me With Spaetzle

4:30 this morning, I wake to find S sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from me.
-Is everything OK?
-His stomach hurts, he says.

I murmur something vaguely comforting and roll over, hoping to fall back asleep.
-No, it really hurts. Really.

We turn on lights. He paces in his Purchase t-shirt and boxer briefs, holding his belly.
-Is it a burning pain, or more of a pressure?
-It’s pressure, but not like gas. It’s higher up and huge, like a giant rock on top of his gut.

I don’t know what to make of this. He tries alka-seltzer. He calms momentarily, and then his entire body clenches in pain. His eyes squinch into slits. He’s having trouble breathing, the pain is so bad. It subsides, after a few moments of genuine terror. We try Rolaids. Another wave of agony, another respite. We try Gas-X. Same thing. (Now I can empathize with husbands whose wives are in labor.)

-Should I call an ambulance?
-No, that’s ridiculous. I’ll be fine.

For ten more minutes I watch him alternate between nearly unbearable pain and mild relief. He lies on his stomach. He lies on his back. He curls into a ball. It’s not getting better. Even the cats are afraid. Does he want tea? No, no tea. Finally, he agrees to go to the hospital, but no ambulance. Our car is still buried beneath three-foot mounds of snow so we take the L train to St. Vincent’s, in the Village. We arrive just after 6AM. Luckily, it’s a quiet night and there aren’t many people in the dingy, fluorescent-lit waiting room. The nurse calls him in for triage quickly, and I’m left to wait and read The New Yorker, and worry. Half an hour later my cell phone rings: it’s S, calling from the patients’ waiting room, where he still sits, unseen by a doctor. He’s feeling a bit better. Should he just walk out? We agree that he’ll wait until he talks to someone. Relieved, I try to doze sitting upright on the hard metal seats—in what must be intended to discourage homeless people from bedding down there, all the seats have straight-edged, unpadded arms. No comfort to be found in this waiting room, that’s for sure.

At 7:30 S emerges, clutching his backpack and a piece of paper with written instructions. Since the pain was mostly gone by the time a doctor reached him, they were unable to diagnose anything or determine what caused the pain. His instructions are to pay attention for future symptoms. It might be appendicitis. It might be gas. It might be a bleeding ulcer. Of course, I’m praying for gas.

We get some oatmeal at a nearby coffee shop (what a relief, to see him hungry), and I head for my freelance job—no point in going home, only to turn right back around again. On the way I read the Times’ food section, always my first look on Wednesdays. Mark Bittman’s got a piece on homemade pasta, with a side-note on spaetzle. Of course, spaetzle! S’s grandma, whose second husband is German, used to make it for him when he had an upset stomach. It’s the perfect thing. A hint of nutrition from the eggs, a tempting crispiness from the second-round fry in butter & oil, a perfectly mild, neutral taste.

When I get home I pull out S’s blue binder of family recipes, and together we make a lightened version of his grandma’s spaetzle (subbing egg whites for two whole eggs), trying out a couple of Bittman’s techniques: the spooning of the batter (his grandma would scrape it off a cutting board using the back of a butter knife), and scooping the boiled little dumplings into an ice-water bath before frying. While they’re frying, the spaetzle smells like scrambled eggs and looks like chicken skins.

S feels better.

[NOTE to Weight Watchers readers: This dish is most definitely NOT Core! Honestly, I didn’t even bother to calculate the points; I just ate about half as much of it as S did. It was kind of a rough day.]

Spaetzle
Serves 2 if that’s all you’re eating

2 whole eggs
3 egg whites
½ cup milk, plus more as needed
2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more as needed
1 t. salt
Hearty dash of pepper
2 T butter
2 T. olive oil
More salt & pepper, to taste

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, salt, and pepper, and set aside. In a large bowl, beat eggs, egg whites, and milk lightly. Whisk in flour mixture. Batter should be thickish, somewhere between cake and pancake batter—adjust with more milk or more flour, as necessary.



Bring a large pot of water to boil, and add a generous amount of salt. Scrape about a third of the batter slowly out of the bowl into the water, using a spoon [we used a spoonula].



Stir to prevent sticking. Prepare a large bowl of ice water while the spaetzle is cooking. Cook 5 minutes, then scoop into the ice water. Repeat with remaining batter, until it’s all cooked. Drain well.



Heat butter and oil in your biggest frying pan. When butter has stopped foaming, add some spaetzle (don’t crowd the pan) and cook, flipping the pieces every few minutes, until golden brown and lightly crispy. Add more salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper. When it’s nicely browned, remove from pan and repeat with additional batches of spaetzle. Add more oil & butter as needed.

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My First Baby Gift

If I ever have a baby, and I hope I will soon, somebody please buy this for him/her! (In case you can't read it, it says "Aspiring Foodie" on the front.) Florence Fabricant wrote about it in the Times today, and I smiled just looking at it.

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The Tingly Fruit: Pomelo

Yesterday S and I got a little stir-crazy, what with the blizzard and all. We piled on our snow gear and trekked over to Bedford Avenue, the heart of hipster Williamsburg. First we ate a leisurely late lunch/early dinner at Fornino (pesto pizza with caciotta piccante—a spicy, nutty cheese—and roast cherry tomatoes), and then made a quick stop at one of our fancy natural foods markets to stock up on fresh fruit. While I was picking granny smith apples (for my daily bowl of oatmeal, mmmm), S plucked a large green citrus fruit—it looked like a lime with a thyroid problem—off a pile and asked me what it was. I had no idea, but the sign said “Pumello 99¢.” I’d just read something, somewhere, about a Pomelo, although I had no idea what it was or where I read it; we were feeling adventurous and hey, it was only a buck. Into the basket it went.


(with an apple and a tangelo, for scale—it’s as big as a grapefruit, but squatter)

When I got home I checked my Larousse Gastronomique, which had this to say:

POMELO The largest of the citrus fruits, sometimes known as shaddock. The pomelo is pear-shaped, 20-30 cm (8-12 in) long, with a thick skin and a bitter, coarse flesh similar in flavour to the grapefruit. It can be eaten on its own or used in the same recipes as grapefruit.

Oh. I don’t really like grapefruit. In fact, it’s just about the only fruit I won’t eat.

Slightly dejected, I googled “pomelo,” and found this on GourmetSleuth.com:

This giant citrus (citrus grandus) fruit is native to Malaysia (where it still grows abundantly). It is also cultivated in California and Israel. Most of the varieties found today have been bred and grown. A large pomelo is the largest of all citrus. They can grow to be as large as a foot in diameter and up to 25 pounds. The rind is very thick but soft and easy to peel away. The resulting fruit is light yellow to coral-pink flesh and can vary from juicy to slightly dry and from seductively spicy-sweet to tangy and tart.

That sounded a little more promising. Into the fridge it went, and this morning we cut it open:



As you can see, there’s not all that much fruit in there, considering how frickin’ huge it is. Very thick peel, lots of pith, and a heavy membrane separating the sections. It smelled an awful lot like grapefruit. Still, I didn’t want to rush to judgment, so S and I sat down with the plate of pomelo sections between us, like the oranges that come with fortune cookies at Chinese restaurants. I nibbled cautiously, and—surprise—it tasted pretty good. Definitely reminiscent of grapefruit, but more delicate, with a touch more sweetness. The bitterness is an undertone here, rather than the star attraction. Lightly spicy. Those membranes are a pain in the butt, though—they’re really tough, and you definitely don’t want to get stuck chawin’ on a piece of it.

It took us under five minutes to finish the whole thing—like I said, not a lot of fruit in there. And just when I was about to say, “Hey that was pretty good. I’d buy that again,” the tingling started. My lips, and the tip of my tongue, like a mild case of pins and needles.

“S, do your lips tingle?”

S looked at me like he didn’t understand what I was asking. His lips did not tingle. I took a sip of water, and it intensified. It felt like my tongue was swelling. I ran to the mirror, expecting to see something out of The Mask, but all looked perfectly normal. Half an hour later, my mouth had resumed its usual sensations. Hmmph. Perhaps I’ll have to add pomelos to my list of weird recent allergies.

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Is My Blog Burning? Farro & White Bean Soup with Escarole

Ahh, the humble bean. What ingredient is more disparaged, yet more versatile? Sure, you might get a little, umm, musical after, but isn’t it worth it? Beans are delicious, they’re healthy, and best of all, they’re cheap. On Words to Eat By alone you’ll find them in Lentil & Brown Rice Soup, Split Pea Soup, and Curry-Roasted Chick Peas. I’ll often drain and rinse a can, then toss it into pasta primavera, vegetable soup, or a plainish salad to perk things up and add a hit of protein. So for this month’s bean-based incarnation of Is My Blog Burning, hosted by the lovely and gracious Cathy at My Little Kitchen, I wanted to add a new challenge for myself, and include an ingredient I’d never used before.

Farro. I decided I’d use farro, an Italian grain from the wheat family that I first tasted at Blue Hill at Stone Barns for my birthday dinner. Source of the Italian word for flour, farina, and similar to barley but with even more texture, it’s quite chewy and downright spunky. I found this tidbit on ItalianCookingAndLiving.com:

“Rich in fiber, magnesium, and vitamins A, B, C, and E, farro is an ideal grain, easily digested and assimilated into the system as energizing carbohydrates. And because of its low gluten content, people who are gluten-intolerant can often eat farro without difficulty. Typically grown without chemical fertilizers or pesticides, farro is an appealing choice for those who want to base their diet on pure, natural products.”

Until recently, I’d only seen it on restaurant menus, but a trip to Buon Italia at Chelsea Market yielded a vacuum-packed bag of the pointy little grain.



A quick google yielded an assortment of farro and white bean soups, so I read them all and took a pinch from this one, a smidgen from that one, until I had something that sounded like it just might work. And boy, did it ever. This soup is the definition of hearty: smoky from the buffalo bacon, with broth silkened by the farro and the pureed beans. Chunks of vegetables add a hint of sweetness to each bite. Whole beans provide a softer counterpoint. The escarole remains toothy—it holds its own against the other manly-man ingredients. By the second day, the grains of farro have absorbed so much of the liquid that they’re swollen little balls of chewy goodness, and the soup is suddenly a stew. Either way, it’s absolutely delicious.

Wow. I love this soup.



Farro & White Bean Soup with Escarole
Serves 6

1 cup farro
2 15-oz cans white beans
2 T. olive oil
2 oz. pancetta or buffalo bacon, chopped fine
1 medium onion, peeled and finely chopped
2 medium cloves garlic, peeled and minced
1 medium carrot, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 rib celery, coarsely chopped
1 sprig fresh thyme
1 sprig fresh marjoram
1 14.5-oz can diced tomatoes
Pinch nutmeg
1 parmesan rind
4 cups reduced sodium, reduced fat chicken broth
2 cups chopped escarole leaves
½ t. salt
¼ t. freshly ground black pepper

Rinse the farro in a sieve, then soak in lots of water to cover overnight. Discard any bits that float to the surface—these are hulls, and not pleasant to eat. [Another option I read but haven’t tried yet: Put farro in a pot, cover with water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer 15 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside 1 hour.] Drain well.


(farro after soaking)

Purée 1 can of beans with its liquid in a food processor or blender. Drain the other can of beans and rinse well. Set both aside.

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy stock pot on medium heat. Add pancetta or buffalo bacon and sauté 2-3 minutes. Add onion and sauté 4 minutes. Add garlic, carrot, celery and herbs; sauté 8 minutes or until vegetables begin to soften. Stir in farro, undrained tomatoes, nutmeg, bean purée and whole beans, parmesan rind, and broth. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat and simmer 15 minutes. Stir occasionally. Add escarole, salt and pepper. Continue cooking an additional 15 minutes. Test farro for doneness—it should be softened but still have some texture. Remove herb stems before serving.

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Cookooning in a Blizzard (with Frittata and Tomato-Rice Soup)

Don’t know ‘bout you, but here in lovely Brooklyn we’re snowed in. It started around 11:30 this morning and it’s been quietly blanketing us all day—they say we might get as much as two feet by the time it stops tomorrow. I love New York in the snow. My ceaselessly vibrant, beautifully gritty city becomes the most romantic place on earth, I think, but that might be because my second date with S was transformed by the Blizzard of 2003. Now when I look out the window and see the drifts piling up, all I think about is a stunning kiss on a deserted street corner, with silence and whiteness enveloping us.

Times like this call for cocooning, and to me this means cooking. (Cookooning?) Since we didn’t have time for a trip to the market before the storm hit, pantry items were my only option. I wanted something homey, and filling, and not at all challenging. I wanted safety through food. A frittata and a very simple tomato-rice soup fit the bill. The frittata (an Italian baked omelette) is beautifully versatile—you can use almost any vegetables you have on hand, as long as you end up with about two cups cooked. It’s mostly egg whites—just two whole eggs in the whole dish—and a handful of grated parmesan gives it a deep, sophisticated saltiness. As for the soup, it’s another recipe I grew up on, from The Gourmet's Guide to Jewish Cooking, source of my beloved mushroom-barley soup. My mom usually made it with tiny veal meatballs, which was heavenly and substantial. Since I don’t have any ground veal lying around, I made it plain. She and I have tinkered with the tomato ratio, since the recipe as written always tasted too weak to us, but the simplicity of it is ideal—and so’s the fact that it’s ready in under twenty minutes.

Seriously, when the snow’s swirling outside your window, what’s more comforting than a grown-up omelette and a bowl of tomato-rice soup?

The recipes:



Mushroom, Zucchini, and Escarole Frittata
Serves 4-6

Olive oil
4 shallots, finely chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
8-10 button or crimini mushrooms, cleaned and chopped roughly
1 medium zucchini, quartered lengthwise and sliced
1 T. fresh thyme, or ½ T. dried
1 small head escarole
Salt & pepper
Olive oil cooking spray
6 egg whites
2 whole eggs
2 T. water
2 T. grated parmesan cheese

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the shallots and garlic, and sauté until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the mushrooms, zucchini, and thyme, and increase heat to medium-high. Sauté until vegetables have released most of their water and pan is nearly dry, 5-8 minutes, and remove from heat to cool. Put escarole in a separate pot with only the water clinging to it from cleaning, and cook, covered, over medium heat until escarole is nearly cooked and most of the water has cooked away. Put in a colander and let it cool, then push as much liquid out as possible. Combine cooled mushroom-zucchini mixture and cooled escarole in a large mixing bowl and season with salt and pepper. You should have about two cups of almost-cooked vegetables. Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 325. Liberally spray a glass baking dish with olive oil spray and set aside. Put egg whites, eggs, water, parmesan, and more salt & pepper into the blender and whir for 10 seconds, until foamy. Pour egg mixture into the bowl with the vegetables and fold together. Pour into the prepared baking dish and disperse the solids evenly. Bake in the oven for 15 minutes. Rotate the dish and bake for another 10-15 minutes, until top is firm and lightly golden.

Serve warm (not hot) or at room temperature.




Quick Tomato-Rice Soup
Adapted from The Gourmet's Guide to Jewish Cooking
Serves 6

10 cups chicken both, or 10 cups water and 3 bouillon cubes [I use Telma brand, just like my mom]
2 cups tomato puree
2 t. sugar
1 t. lemon juice
1 t. dried basil
¼ t. ground mace
2 bay leaves
½ cup long-grain white rice

Put all ingredients in a soup pot. Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 15-20 minutes, or until rice is soft. Remove the bay leaf and adjust the seasoning.

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Ode on a Bowl of Split-Pea Soup

I am blue,
stir-crazy against forbidding cold.
Dinner time approaches. No plan has been
made.
Humble split peas rattle, jarred.
Onion, carrot, celery, parsnip. Bacon.
Twenty minutes later bubbling, thickening.
Time passes, deep and grainy
Mellow, homey, unassuming
Collapsed, embracing pea-ness
Ivory parsnip buoys float on a thick sea, melt on my tongue
Their sweetness lingers
A hint, a kiss.
Bacon morsels a chewy counterpoint
Childlike comfort, from another’s childhood
Pea green flavor eases blues.

SPLIT PEA SOUP
Serves 6-8

2 T. olive oil
2 large onion, chopped
4 ribs celery with leaves, chopped
4 large carrots, peeled and chopped
2 medium parsnip, peeled, tough center cut out, and chopped
4 slices buffalo bacon [regular bacon would work, too]
3 sprigs fresh marjoram, or 3 t. dried
3 sprigs fresh thyme, or 3 t. dried
3 cups green split peas
16 cups water
2 bay leaf
Salt & pepper

Heat oil in heavy large pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add onion, celery, carrots, and parsnip. Sauté until vegetables begin to soften, about 8 minutes. Add buffalo bacon and herbs; stir 1 minute. Add peas, then water and bay leaf, and bring to boil. Reduce heat to medium-low. Partially cover pot; simmer soup until vegetables are tender and peas are falling apart, stirring often, about 1 hour and 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper before serving.

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Why Can’t I Be Allergic to Chocolate? (With a Recipe for Chocolate Yogurt Loaf)

Over the last few years I’ve developed several oddball allergies: Dust mites. Benzoyl peroxide. Gold (yes, gold, not nickel. My dermatologist was shocked—I’m the only person he’s ever seen who’s actually allergic to gold.). Most recently, wine. That last one is really killing me—drinking a glass of good red wine, with or without a meal, is one of life’s great pleasures. I feel like I’ve lost a friend. I miss it, but I live without it.

So for all those annoyances, why, oh why can’t I be allergic to chocolate? In my fat childhood I’d often wish for hives to appear after scarfing down my second Marathon Bar (and those babies weren’t easy to scarf, let me tell you). An allergic reaction seemed like the only thing that might stop me. There was a girl in my class who had such an allergy, and at birthday parties she always got special treatment—there’d be a vanilla cupcake for her, or some other treat to make up for missing out on the good stuff. I was so jealous. Whatever she had, I wanted.

Don’t get me wrong: I know chocolate is the good stuff. The darker, the richer, the smoother, the better. That’s exactly the problem: I have a hard time getting through the day without a hit of the brown smack. I want to stay away; I know if I stay away I’ll be happier, thinner, more in control, but I just can’t. If there were such a thing as chocolate methadone, I’d be first in line. And don’t give me any of that “oh, a small piece of high-quality dark chocolate is enough to satisfy me” crap. I tried it. Kept a 9-ounce bar of Scharffen-Berger 70% in the cabinet, and shaved off half an ounce at a time with my big chef’s knife. I’d lick my fingertip and dip it in the little pile of shavings, savoring the intoxicating ripples that flowed through my body as it melted on my tongue. For a while, it worked. And then it didn’t. I’d hack off hunks and devour them, standing in my kitchen, barely even tasting it. I forced myself to stop buying the big bars. When I’m really on a tear, as I was until recently, most discriminatory abilities go out the window. I’ll eat Tootsie Rolls until my jaw aches. A handful of chocolate chips from the pantry, then another. Peanut M&Ms by the pound. Those individually-wrapped chocolate-covered cherries, the ones with the syrupy glop inside. Interestingly, even when I’m on a chocolate binge a Hershey Bar holds little appeal.

And now I’m back on Weight Watchers, where chocolate is allowed (everything is allowed, as long as it fits into your program). The problem is, once I have a little I just want more. I bought WW’s faux candy bars, and they’re actually ok when there’s nothing else around, but… I miss the richness of cake, the satisfaction of baking something myself, measuring the ingredients, putting them together, witnessing the alchemy of butter and sugar and flour and eggs—and chocolate. Twice this week I’ve bought a slice of chocolate yogurt loaf at the deli. If you live in New York you know what I’m talking about: It’s usually up by the counter, very dark and moist-looking, about an inch thick, wrapped in saran. It’s good. Crazy good. So crazy good that I know it can’t really be virtuous, even though it’s got “yogurt” in its name. I decided to make it myself.

Here’s the recipe I came up with, inspired by a couple different sources. The smell while it’s baking is hypnotic, I’m telling you. I wanted to run into the kitchen, yank open the oven, and stick my face into its chocolatey, still-raw contents. And it tastes almost as good as the one I’ve been buying. It’s dark, and moist, and rich, but it stops just short of decadent. If I didn’t tell you it was dietlicious, you’d never guess.

According to WW’s recipe calculator, it’s only 3 points a serving. Of course, that assumes one has enough control to get twelve servings out of one itty bitty loaf… I may have made a terrible mistake.



Chocolate Yogurt Loaf
Serves 12

Cooking spray
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ t. baking soda
½ t. baking powder
½ t. salt
¼ cup dutch-process cocoa
5 T. unsalted butter, softened
¾ cup sugar
1 t. vanilla
1 large egg
½ cup plain nonfat yogurt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray a loaf pan and dust it with cocoa or flour.

Whisk together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and cocoa powder and set aside.

Mix the sugar into the butter. Add the vanilla and egg. Mix until uniform. Add about 1/3 of the flour mixture, and mix. Then add about 1/3 of the yogurt, and mix. Do this again, then again. This batter will be stiff, but it should still mix easily. Don’t overmix.

Spread batter evenly into prepared loaf pan, and bake on the center rack of the oven for 35-40 minutes [mine was done in 37]. Test with a cake tester or wooden skewer—loaf is done when tester comes out clean.



Cool in pan on a rack for 30 minutes, then remove from pan and cool thoroughly. When fully cool, wrap the cake well to keep it from drying out.

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Still Life with Canisters

S’s mom wanted to know what to get me for Christmas. A gift certificate to The Container Store was my immediate reply. I believe she thought I was a little batty, but she acquiesced graciously. The array you see here is the result. What a fantabulous mother-in-law!

When S and I started fixing up our kitchen, one of the things we were desperate to address (beyond the peeling wallpaper and godawful cabinetry, that is) was organization. We’re lucky to have a NYC kitchen with ample storage space, but the kitchen itself is poorly laid out and the cabinets are…odd. Many are so deep that putting a can all the way to the back is as good as never having bought it in the first place—it disappears into a dark, shadowy otherworld. I have a habit of buying interesting-looking ingredients in specialty foods stores, but sometimes I wonder if I should even bother—if they drift too far to the back of the pantry, I forget they’re even there. One cabinet above the counter is pentagonal—the door is only 12” wide, but the inside spreads out to a full 19”. Try finding something on a shelf you can barely see when there are two extra corners for it to hide in!

I did a little research before shopping—I read this article about kitchen storage on eGullet, and found this guide from Tupperware to help me determine what size canisters I needed. Then it was on to The Container Store, which may just be New York’s most useful retail establishment. This is the Land of Not Enough Room, after all. As you can see we mostly bought canisters—having uniform, stackable storage should make it a lot easier to find things (no more rubber-banded bags of lentils, nor mason jars of barley), and it’ll all fit together so much more convivially. We also picked up a couple of 4-sort dividers, to store baking sheets and cutting boards vertically—right now they’re a mishmash of stacked and leaning items, all equally precarious. And the most exciting purchase: several wire basket-drawers on gliders, to fit inside the pantry shelves. Sadly, the narrow size was too narrow for our pentagonal cabinet, and the next size up was too wide for the door opening. I’m still a little uncertain how we’re doing to deal with that one. It may end up the repository for Things We Hardly Use.

Once I’ve got everything set up, I’ll post some before-and-after shots. Odds are it won’t be any time soon, though—as excited as we are to put our new purchases to work, the effort involved in getting there is procrastination-inducing, to say the least. Maybe we’ll be done by, oh, say, March?

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Chicken a la Cono, Debbie Style (Chicken with Potatoes, Mushrooms, & Vinegar Peppers)

You may recall my rave about Cono & Sons O’Pescatore, our favorite old-school Italian joint. Well, my Weight Watchers meeting is around the corner from the restaurant, so after losing another 2.2 pounds tonight (yippeeee) I was inspired to recreate my favorite dish, Chicken a la Cono. I’m shocked, absolutely shocked, but it came out exactly as I hoped. The potatoes pick up a wonderful vinegary bite, the mushrooms are golden but still juicy, and the chicken bursts with flavor. The sauce is thickened by the potatoes, and the peppers add a little taste explosion to keep you from getting bored. This dish ROCKS, and it’s the easiest thing you can imagine. I mean, look at the ingredients: chicken breasts, potatoes, mushrooms, jarred pickled peppers, vinegar, and chicken broth. All pantry staples. Why on earth didn’t I think to try this before? When S and I finished licking our plates, I sighed with satisfaction, smiled, and told him we’d never have to go to Cono again. Horrified, he reminded me of what I have yet to attempt, and never will: their perfectly luscious, perfectly soothing, perfectly perfect Pasta Fagiole. OK, we’ll be back at Cono. Soon.

Oh, and a little bonus for my fellow Weight Watchers: It's totally Core.

Chicken a la Cono, Debbie-Style
Serves 2, with leftovers

2 baking potatoes
Olive oil
2 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves, cut into strips
3 large cloves garlic, sliced thin
Salt & pepper
8 large button or crimini mushrooms, sliced thick
½ cup white wine vinegar
½ cup chicken broth
4 oz jar of vinegar peppers (hot or sweet, whatever you prefer), drained

Peel the potatoes and slice them thin (a mandolin comes in handy here). Place in a bowl of ice water and set aside.

In a large skillet or sauté pan, heat a glug or two of olive oil over medium heat, and sauté the chicken. When it turns white, add the sliced garlic and continue cooking, until both chicken and garlic are lightly golden. Remove from the pan and set aside.

Drain the potatoes and pat dry with paper towels (you want them to be completely dry). Add a little more olive oil to the pan if it looks dry, and put in the potatoes and salt & pepper. Cook over medium-high heat for about ten minutes, turning the pieces every so often, until most pieces have browned edges. Add the mushrooms and continue to cook until they soften and start to brown. Pour in about half of the vinegar and stir. When the potatoes have absorbed most of it, add about half of the broth. When that’s cooked down, too, reduce heat to low, return the chicken and garlic to the pan, and add the rest of the vinegar and broth. Let it simmer for a minute—the liquid should be fairly thick and glossy—then add the vinegar peppers. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the potatoes are cooked through, another minute or two. [It’s probably a good idea to have a little extra broth handy, in case it starts to stick before the potatoes are fully cooked. Don’t go crazy adding more vinegar, though, unless you REALLY like the taste of vinegar.]

Serve with a tossed salad.

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Ta-Dah! An Index Is Born

After the very gracious suggestions from Molly at Orangette and Sam at Becks & Posh and three or four hours of spare time (aka "time I should've spent writing a freelance assignment"), Words to Eat By now has a handy-dandy site index for your browsing pleasure. See it there, lounging on the left-hand side of the page, between the oh-so-useful monthly archive and the links to luscious food blogs? If you click on it, you'll find a complete (I think) listing, by category, of all the items I've written so far. I'm pretty sure each recipe is listed by the recipe's name, rather than by my sometimes silly titles--that way you can find the Parmesan Crackers I wrote about at Chrismukkah without having to remember when I wrote it.

The indexing system isn't automated so I'll have to remember to add new entries by hand every day, but hey, it's better than nothing. Suggestions for ways to make it better/friendlier/prettier are always welcome. And of course, if you find mistakes please let me know.

Thanks a million, Molly and Sam!

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Off-Subject Request for Help: Words to Eat By Needs Categories!

As my little blog grows, I'm increasingly frustrated by the monthly archiving system offered by Blogger. Who's going to look for the recipe for Chocolate Cappuccino Wafers in an archive entitled "December"? As I write each post, I wish I could assign it a sensible category for future reference--"Dessert," say, or "Restaurants"--but according to Blogger they don't support such a thing. There are an awful lot of food blogs out there with categories, and while I'm guessing most of them simply aren't Blogger-based, I'm hoping that somebody's figured out a work-around for HTML-dunces like me. Anybody? Help?

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Restaurant Notes: Chimu Peruvian Steak House

Williamsburg, where S and I live, is a tricky place when it comes to food. The grocery stores suck (now that we have a car I drive 20 minutes to Long Island City, where I used to live, to hit the Stop & Shop). Finding good produce is a notoriously difficult proposition. But there are still vestiges of the Italian community that used to fill my immediate neighborhood, so good bread and homemade mozzarella are not hard to find. The Latino area to the east of us has all kinds of interesting-looking things that I don’t know how to cook. And the Polish community to the northwest is a source for the dried mushrooms I use in soup, pierogies, and kielbasa (though I must admit those last two items rarely, if ever, enter my kitchen).

But the Williamsburg draw for foodies is the restaurant scene. There are countless small places serving fresh, innovative, and swoon-inducing food. One of our favorites is just down the street from us at the corner of Union Avenue and Meeker, a warm, abundantly friendly Peruvian place called Chimu.

Inside is dark and cozy. Incan-inspired ceramics and flickering candles create a romantic atmosphere. The greeting is immediate and welcoming—usually one of two Peruvian gentlemen who I assume are the owners but also act as menu interpreters and, often, waiters. After we are seated, one of them places a small bowl of cancha, roasted Peruvian corn kernels, on the table.



They may look a little like what’s left in the bottom of the popcorn bowl, but cancha is what those hard little nuggets aspire to. I believe there’s a picture of them in the dictionary, above the word “addictive.” Larger than popcorn kernels, lightly oily, and salty, they shatter in your mouth, rather than crunching. They feel almost hollow, and delicate. The corn itself is one of dozens of varieties not available here. The owners import it from Peru, where it dries for days in the sun, according to Incan custom. It gets a quick toss in a sauté pan, with a little oil and a sprinkling of salt, before being served while still warm. S loves cancha so much he’s been known to stop in for a little takeout container on his way home.

Here’s where I confess to being a bit of a creature of habit. After two or three trips to Chimu, I’d sampled enough of the dishes to arrive at a favorite appetizer as well as a favorite entrée. The rotisserie chicken is wonderful, as are several of the steak dishes. The fried plantains are outstanding, caramelized and soft with ever-so-slightly crisp edges. But none of these things compare, in my book, to the Tamal Criollo and the Lomo Saltado de Pollo.

The Tamal Criollo is a chicken tamale, red corn-meal dough stuffed with pieces of chicken, chopped hard-boiled eggs, tiny olives, and what taste like soft peanuts, all wrapped and steamed. All by itself, it’s a homey, comforting mix of flavors, but topped with Salsa Criollo…oh. my. god. According to the ever-helpful waiter/owner/menu interpreter, Salsa Criollo as served at Chimu is made of thinly sliced red onions, chopped cilantro, olive oil, vinegar, lemon & lime juices, and salt & pepper. I’m one of those people who hates cilantro (tastes like dirty dish water to me, and often activates my gag reflex), but in this salsa I don’t even notice it. The onions are slightly soft, their bite weakened to a mere hint. The tang of the macerating liquid plays off the subtler flavors of the tamal, elevating each mouthful to superstar status. It’s a big portion so S and I share it, but there is no doubt that we’ll lick the plate every time.

Between the cancha and the Tamal Criollo, I’m usually pretty stuffed by the time the Lomo Saltado arrives, but it’s never terribly hard to find room. The aroma itself is enough to set my mouth to watering: sautéed onions and tomatoes, strips of chicken breast and some incredible, mysterious seasoning—aji pepper, perhaps?—served over French fries with a mound of white rice on the side. (Yes, it’s a lot of carbs and fries are fattening; the first time I ordered it I was taken aback, but now I just ask for very few fries—to skip them entirely would be heretical, since they absorb the juices completely differently from the way rice does.)

S usually orders something beef-based—their steaks are quite delicious—and this time he had the same as mine, only with beef (apparently that’s the traditional preparation for Lomo Saltado). It, too, tasted divine—similar to the chicken version, but the beef added a heartier flavor.

Initially we planned to skip dessert—we were both stuffed—but Purple Corn Pudding beckoned. We’d only had it once before, but it was one of the most unusual, and most deeply flavored, desserts I’ve ever had. Thick, almost gelatinous, served warm and studded with plumped Peruvian dried fruits, it was sweet but not cloying, and memorably good. And yet, even though S and I agreed we’d share one order, when the waiter came over he sold us on something entirely different—Peruvian fruit-flavored ice cream, a scoop each of lucuma and cherimoya. Oh, how he raved about the lucuma! Neither of us had ever heard of it so we had no idea what to expect, but we figured anything he endorsed so whole-heartedly was worth a shot. End result: It was good, very good. It tasted like caramel, in fact, which was a shock. When we got home I looked it up, and sure enough lucuma is described as tasting naturally of butterscotch or maple syrup. The cherimoya reminded me of the sucking candies my grandmother used to keep in a bowl on the coffee table, those translucent rectangular ones with a soft fruity center, in a white wrapper with a color illustration of the fruit it was meant to taste like. In other words, it tasted almost generically fruity. We enjoyed both flavors, and finished the bowl, but it was no Purple Corn Pudding.

When the check arrived it was delightfully low for such a feast: just $36.00. Chimu is truly one reason to be happy we live in Williamsburg. That Salsa Criollo…I had a heck of a time finding a recipe that resembles what we enjoyed so much, but I did manage to cobble this together:

Salsa Criollo
Serves 2-4, depending on how much you LOVE it!

1 large red onion, sliced thin
4 T. fresh lime juice
¼ t. white vinegar
1 t. olive oil
2 t. chopped fresh cilantro
sea salt

Put the onion in a sieve and pour boiling water over it to soften (they still retain some crunch). Mix all ingredients together and serve immediately.

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A Pilaffy-Type Thing for Dinner

This is last night’s dinner. You’ll notice I haven’t given it a name, because I can’t think of anything that’s elegant and reflective of its charms. Here are its charms:

• Very tasty, and unusual in a good way
• Chewy grains of Lundberg brand Black Japonica rice
• Oodles of different vegetables: carrots, rutabaga, onion & garlic, zucchini, Japanese eggplant, radishes, and crimini mushrooms, with the occasional punch of dried cherries and a sprinkling of toasted almonds
• Studded with cubes of leftover Pomegranate Chicken
• Terribly good-for-you, but not in an obvious way
• A WW Core Foods meal
  

I can’t explain why, exactly, but even for all the above-mentioned charms, I still wasn’t happy with it. Maybe if I assemble a list of not-charms it’ll become clear:

• The rice never absorbed the liquid fully, so it was slightly gummy overall
• Every mouthful tasted the same—the vegetables gave up their flavor in the cooking process, thereby losing their individuality
• I added the cherries early on and they virtually disintegrated, mitigating their punch
  

Hmm. That’s it for the not-charms, really. S and I both cleaned our plates. I guess we liked it, but I just don’t feel right inflicting the recipe on you yet. God, I hate that feeling, like a dish is working but not quite working all the way. It looks nice, it tastes nice, it is nice, but it’s not great. I’ll have to tinker with it some more. If you want to know what I did, please leave a comment and I’ll write up the recipe.

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French Women Don’t Get Fat?

Last night I had dinner with my friend and former publishing colleague A, who is half-French and lost quite a few pounds while visiting there for a month recently. Having heard much about a new book called French Women Don't Get Fat, naturally I asked her what she thought about the whole idea. To my delight, she reached into her bag and pulled out a copy she’d brought for me—I hadn’t realized it, but her company publishes it. What began as a browse during the subway ride home turned into a full-court read, complete with underlined passages and exclamation points. As I get further into it I’ll write more, but so far it’s a near-ephiphany. The writing is charming, and the focus is on pleasure, not deprivation. This may well be the diet book to end all diet books—though let's be clear, it's not a diet at all. It's a philosphy. I’m not sure I agree with everything in it—the 48-hour jump-start with nothing but leek soup (aka leeks cooked in water, period) strikes me as diet trickery—but many of the techniques the author discusses seem pretty sound overall. Common sensey.

The most eye-opening suggestion is the idea of the Eating Ritual, making enjoyment of your food the point of eating. No distractions. Just eating, and thinking about the flavors as you take each forkful into your mouth. For years, Weight Watchers has told me never to eat standing up, never to eat with my hands, to sit at a dining table, to put my fork down between bites. I’ve never really paid attention to that, even though it makes sense, because it always struck me as little more than a parlor trick for my stomach. The way Mireille Guiliano, the author, explains it, it’s less about sleight-of-hand (sleight-of-fork?) and more about pleasure. Pleasure, I can endorse wholeheartedly.



My first experiment with the Eating Ritual (which I’m tempted to call “conscious eating,” but that makes it sound too American and woo-woo, doesn’t it?) was with oatmeal. I could eat oatmeal every day—nothing fills me up better, or longer, and the warm, comforting softness of it is a gentle way to float into the day. To my distinct pleasure, it’s one of Weight Watchers’ cherished Core Foods—things one can eat without limit, until satisfied. My preferred preparation is with raisins, brown sugar, and toasted pecans; alas, none of those things is a Core Food, which means my daily morning bowl would chip away at my limited supply of weekly Flex Points. All this is a long way of saying that I’ve been experimenting with other ways to eat my oatmeal. Eliminating all but one of the three items was the goal. Swapping the brown sugar for Equal was easy. Less easy was dropping either the nuts or the raisins. As luck would have it, though, the book has a recipe for oatmeal with grated apples—an addition that never would’ve occurred to me, even though as a child I’d always select the Apples & Cinnamon packet from the big box of assorted Quaker Instant. Grated apples, toasted pecans, half a packet of Equal, a dusting of cinnamon, and a few glugs of low-fat milk was my inaugural ritual meal.

Now, I should point out that S and I don’t have a dining room—typically, we eat in the living room, off the coffee table, watching a DVD. Breakfast and many lunches are eaten at my desk, while I catch up on email or read the paper. As much as I love food, and love cooking, I’ve never been in the habit of paying much attention to the act of eating. According to Mireille, this is bad. Not only should I be sitting at a real dining table, I should be using cloth napkins and putting my utensil down every few bites, to rest and let my body register what I’ve eaten. Ah, well, you make do with what you’ve got—at least we use placemats! I carried my bowl of oatmeal into the living room and prepared to eat without distraction. This was much more difficult than I expected. Without a newspaper or television, at first I was anxious and jittery. I wanted to scoop huge spoonfuls into my mouth as quickly as possible, just to get the meal over with and move on to something productive. But I forced myself to think about what was going into my mouth, to try to differentiate the slightly-firm strands of grated apple from the pliant flakes of oatmeal, to note the full, rich crunch of the scattered toasted nuts. It was revelatory. This bowl of oatmeal tasted extraordinary. I slowed down to savor it, rolling the mixture on my tongue a bit, like a fine wine. According to Mireille, French women understand that the first few bites are the most enjoyable, and after that it simply becomes more of the same, which yields satisfaction from a smaller portion of any particular dish. To my astonishment, this turns out to be true. Two-thirds of the way through my bowl of oatmeal, a serving I’ve polished off in light-speed hundreds of times over the years, I was done. It was as much a function of becoming slightly bored with the sameness of each spoonful as it was with a feeling of satiety. Could it be that this technique will actually work?

S is skeptical (and I believe somewhat nervous about losing a dining companion he’s enjoyed for at least ten years), but he’s consented to try eating dinner wit