On Burglars, Snowstorms, and Eccentric Chefs

Wednesday night, around 6:30, I arrived home planning to pack and organize for a mid-week getaway in the Berkshires. The front door to the building felt strange, as if the lock were broken. Our apartment door was similarly weak, and when I opened it I discovered why: shards of splintered door frame lay scattered in our hallway. I rushed in, confused and curious—my first thought was that our two cats had gone crazy—and found a random pattern of destruction. Our living room, home to a variety of AV equipment, appeared untouched, as was S’s office, while my office and our bedroom were thoroughly ransacked. When I opened my office door I found our cats and the overpowering stench of cat poop—the burglar had locked these ferocious kitties away without food, water, or litter box, and one of them had been forced to relieve himself under my desk. Boxes and books had been torn down from the shelves over the desk, and all the drawers were open and rifled through. Oddly, though, nothing appeared to be missing—the few valuables we own had been found and, inexplicably, left behind. Even a crisp two-dollar bill I’d stashed away years ago lay on the floor, as if the crook didn’t realize it was legal tender. Same thing in the bedroom—the drawers had been searched, but nothing appeared stolen. I checked the kitchen, irrationally thinking that they might have recognized an expensive pot and made off with my new twenty-pound Le Creuset, but it still squatted on the table, pristine and ignored.

Over the course of the evening, there were seven different police officers in our apartment, each one courteous and respectful. It struck all of us as odd that nothing would be stolen, which made me wonder if perhaps the perps had only cased the apartment and were planning to return with a truck, to clean us out. I asked each cop: “Is it safe for us to go away tomorrow?” Finally, the lieutenant gave me a firm response: “If you replace this door, yes.” He couldn’t guarantee that the burglar wouldn’t return, but he found it much more likely that this was a rank amateur who heard a noise and panicked, leaving empty-handed. Two officers dusted for fingerprints without success, in the process coating countless smooth surfaces in tough-to-remove black powder. It was after nine by the time they all left, and nearly 1AM before S and I finally shoved a heavy chair in front of our broken front door and tumbled into bed for a restless night’s sleep.

The next day brought predictions of a snowstorm, starting mid-day. By ten that morning a worker was busy replacing our apartment’s door and frame with a heavy metal one, so S and I planned to depart around 1:30. I came home early from my freelance job, only to discover that the new door was taking longer than expected. We didn’t hit the road until 3, by which time the snow had already started, along with an early rush hour. It took us an hour and a half to reach Yonkers, about twenty miles north. The Taconic Parkway, a beautiful road with very little traffic, was a bit of a terror to us, urbanites unaccustomed to night driving on unlit roads in a snowstorm. At 8:00 Thursday night, we finally arrived at the Brook Farm Inn in Lenox, Mass—the anticipated three-hour trip had taken nearly five.

Luckily, though, the Inn provided a warm, comforting reception. Glasses of sherry awaited in our room, a log already in the fireplace, soft white linens on the canopy bed, fresh gingersnaps in the nearby pantry. After a nice dinner at one of the few restaurants still open at that hour, S and I settled in for a bit of relaxation, at last.

We spent the next two days poking around the area, in search of used bookstores and junk shops, with no goal except to Not Think About the Break-in. For the most part, we succeeded. My brother G was taking care of our cats, so at least twice a day while we were gone someone would be in the apartment, and by Friday afternoon S and I had fallen back into our comfortable road-trip ways—aiming for Mass MoCA, but not much caring that distractions kept us from getting there until just before closing; we shrugged and left without seeing the art.

Dinner Friday night was enough to erase any lingering worries. My friend M, who had recommended the Brook Farm Inn, also told us about an out-of-the-way spot in industrial Pittsfield called Elizabeth’s. She described it as a slightly unpredictable place in a private house, where Tom, the salad chef/host, might pull up a chair and join you while he explained the restaurant’s ground rules, where the food was incredible and new customers left wishing to become regulars. A sign outside said “We accept American money, personal checks, and IOUs,” confirming what M had told me about her first visit there, when she didn’t know they didn’t accept credit cards and Tom said to just mail a check.

Given the option of sitting in the upstairs dining room or on the ground floor in full view of the open kitchen, naturally we chose the latter. Here was my view:



That’s Tom on the far right, in the apron. I loved watching the small staff hustling to prepare our meals, and the amusing show put on by Tom—cracking wise with the young waitresses, yelling a greeting to one of the many regulars, explaining his philosophy to each newly seated table. His philosophy is this: The foundation of a good meal is “honest” bread and a great salad, so both those things come with every entrée. The bread is artisanal sourdough, the kind that isn’t all that hard to find in NYC but isn’t common everywhere else. And the salad! Oh, the salad is whatever Tom feels like throwing into a bowl each night. Every table had a good-sized aluminum mixing bowl perched upon it, wooden salad servers leaning on the rims. When we got ours, we discovered it included the expected lettuces and carrots, but also walnuts, raisins, kiwi, apples, chick peas, and parmesan cheese, tossed in a piquant balsamic vinaigrette. At my request, the aged cheddar and feta were served on the side (I’m not too big on cheese, but S loves the stuff). Here’s what it looked like:



We had a hard time holding ourselves back from finishing the whole salad, which would’ve effectively killed our appetite for what was to come—though I did a better job of restraining myself than S, who by the end was digging his fork directly into the serving bowl, skipping his plate entirely. While we ate, Tom popped out of the kitchen every few minutes to see how everyone was doing. The atmosphere was convivial, to say the least—small conversations sprang up between tables over and over, mostly concerning the fabulosity of the food. At the table next to us a young couple was seated, and it turned out the girl was a family friend of Tom’s. The waitress greeted them warmly and explained that Tom had set aside the last remaining order of the nightly chicken special for them. Of course they took it, and we felt just a little jealous. But when our entrées arrived we were so thrilled with them that it was hard to feel denied.

S had a baked pasta—shells with a hearty Bolognese sauce and a touch of gorgonzola, heated in the oven until a nearly-charred crust formed. I ordered one of the specials, a parchment-baked tilapia with tomatoes, capers, olives, cauliflower, and parsley, with a wonderful gratin of polenta and spinach alongside. As far as we could see, Tom’s wife Lizzie (Elizabeth!) handles all the entrees, making jokes with her husband and generally keeping everything on track. She’s doing a spectacular job—I polished off my fish in record time, and S did some major damage to his pasta. We were already moaning with that wonderful mixture of full-bellied pain and pleasure, when the young couple next to us got their dessert: a pair of large, rich-looking brownies.

When Tom heard us waffling over whether or not to order dessert, he jumped into action, explaining that Lizzie’s brownies were so fabulous that they only served them once a month—Jack Welch had gotten into the habit of buying them by the trayful, which struck Tom as unfair to his other customers, so his solution was to make them a rarity for everyone. That did it—we were sold. A few minutes later, our waitress placed a great big ol’ slab of brownie and two forks between us.



It was heaven: moist, nearly gooey inside, with a wonderfully substantial crust on top and large chunks of chocolate throughout. We licked the plate and considered ordering another.

Elizabeth’s is the kind of neighborhood restaurant any foodie worth her salt wishes existed in every neighborhood, but of course it doesn’t. We left there satisfied and happy, carefree and cared-for. I only wish we lived nearby, so that we might become regulars one day. And something tells me the crime rate’s a little lower up there, too.

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Announcing Sugar High Friday #6: Stuck on You (Caramel)

Caramel and I go way back. One of my earliest candy humiliations was the time J, the only girl in the entire fifth grade chubbier than I was, caught me shoplifting a Marathon Bar. All I wanted was a few moments alone with its slender, twixty, chocolate-coated chewiness, but J shamed me into marching back to the corner store and returning it, redfaced, to the owner. The lengths I’d go to for caramel… Even that public disgrace couldn’t lessen my enthusiasm for the stuff. It’s been (cough cough) a few years, and my tastes have gotten a wee bit more sophisticated—these days I’m more likely to consider shoplifting a Dark Gray Salt Caramel from Fran’s Chocolates than a mass-produced bar of additives and corn syrup, but my love affair with caramel still verges on the criminal.

So when I talked to Jennifer, the Domestic Goddess and creator of the monthly food blog event Sugar High Fridays, about hosting in March, caramel was at the top of my list of themes. Just think of all the ways its golden gooey goodness has enriched our lives: There’s the classic, Caramel Apples. The liquid, Caramel Macchiato. The teeth-endangering, Caramel Corn. Oh, and my all-time favorite Girl Scout Cookie, the Samoa (sometimes called Caramel deLite).

What’s that you say? You want to play with caramel? Great! Here are the ground rules: Any time within the next three weeks, make a dessert using caramel. You can make the caramel yourself, or use store-bought. Novices are encouraged to participate, as are wow-inducing pastry chefs—remember, it’s not a competition, it’s just fun! On Friday March 18 (not before), write about it on your website and email the link to me through my profile (or email your entry to me if you don’t have a site, and I’ll post it on Words to Eat By). That weekend, I’ll post a roundup with links to all the caramellicious entries I receive.

Now get out there and start caramelizing!

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Beef Barley Soup

I’m not much of a beef eater. If you’ve been reading Words to Eat By at all regularly, you may have noticed a distinct lack of red meat recipes—beyond the health concerns (mine as well as S’s, since he has cholesterol issues), I’ve just never really liked it. Growing up poor and kosher, beef was something of an extravagance in our home: my family would tear into an occasional London Broil the way a 100-year-old man gulps from the fountain of youth, while I’d pick at a few well-done bits trimmed from the ends. These days I can appreciate a nice brisket, and once in a while a burger makes me extremely happy (as long as it’s well done, that is—the sight of rare meat makes me gag), but it’s been years—literally—since I’ve cooked any myself.

Since rejoining Weight Watchers, though, with the Core program’s emphasis on soups, I’ve been grooving on Progresso’s Beef and Barley. It’s easy, it’s inexpensive, and a can makes a perfect lunch. Plus I must admit I’ve grown fond of the richness of it, the beefiness. I decided it was time to make it myself.

This wasn’t quite as simple as it sounds, however. I haven’t bought raw beef in so long that I didn’t know what to get—the array in the beef section of the supermarket was bewildering. I seemed to recall that marbling was good, but didn’t that mean the meat was fatty? Only lean meats are unlimited on WW. And what cuts would be good for soup? I assumed something less expensive, since a long simmer would tenderize it. In the end I grabbed a thin-cut chuck steak sort of thing—it wasn’t cut up for stew, but it had a “great for braising” sticker on it, and it was only a couple of bucks. How bad could it be?

If I say so myself, I think I chose well, since this soup is pretty terrific. S liked it so much he had it for lunch and dinner yesterday.

Beef Barley Soup

½ oz. dried porcini mushrooms
Olive oil
1 lb beef for stew, cut into small pieces
1 large onion, diced
2 large carrots, diced
2 ribs celery, diced
10 crimini or white button mushrooms, roughly chopped
Black pepper
½ cup soy sauce
1 cup pearl barley
8 sun-dried tomato halves, slivered
2 T. chili powder
4 cups beef broth
1 cup chicken broth (optional)
4-6 cups water
2 bay leaves
4 T. tomato paste, as necessary
Salt, as necessary


Put dried mushrooms in a small bowl, add ½ to 1 cup of hot water, and set aside.

Heat a few glugs of olive oil over medium heat in a large soup pot or dutch oven. Add beef and brown on all sides, about eight minutes. Remove beef to a bowl and wipe out the pot if you’re watching your weight/cholesterol. Heat a little more oil and add the onion, the carrots, the celery, and the fresh mushrooms. Add freshly ground black pepper to taste. Sauté for a few minutes, until the vegetables begin to soften. While they're cooking, pluck the dried mushrooms from the bowl (don't pour the liquid over them, as there might be gritty sediment at the bottom), roughly chop them, and add to the pot, reserving the liquid. Add the soy sauce. When the soy sauce evaporates, add the barley and the sun-dried tomatoes, sprinkle with the chili powder, and sauté two more minutes. Add the browned beef, the broth, the water, the reserved mushroom soaking liquid (but be careful not to pour in the sediment, if there is any), and the bay leaves, and bring to a boil. Lower heat to a gentle simmer, cover, and let cook for 45 minutes. If the soup seems too thin after this time, either open the lid part-way or add some tomato paste, and let it simmer another fifteen minutes, or until the barley is cooked through.

Remove bay leaves and adjust seasoning before serving.

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All Hail Le Creuset Tres Grand!

Psst! New Yorkers: Broadway Panhandler is having a sale on Le Creuset.

I’ve been coveting a great big one for years—it was the most expensive single item on our wedding registry, and boo hoo nobody sprang for it. We already own several dutch ovens, so the idea of laying down my own cold hard cash always seemed a little too decadent for my wallet. Instead, I daydreamed about the large, marvelously heavy pot, braises and stews bubbling away in its commodious enameled interior, the Heirloom Pot I’d pass on to my future foodie child. In quiet moments I’d do a quick search on ebay, where I’d heard bargains could be found, but somehow I could never get myself to make that click and buy one. On egullet I learned about Caplan Duval, where the discounts are deep. Still couldn’t take the plunge. For some reason, purchasing a pot like this would only be acceptable if I had to do some work for it—that is, if I had to physically go to a store and lug the damn thing home. Yeah, I know, I’m crazy. Super-heavy pots like this are what online shopping was created for. But still…

And then I saw it. An ad in the Times’ food section, announcing up to 65% off my fantasy pot. This was it. My time had come. I had a date with destiny.

(Cue chorus of angels)

I bought the nine-quart round oven. Can I just say how insanely heavy this pot is? What was I thinking, that it was a good idea to shlep this on the subway? By the time I got it home my arms burned, my back was aching, and I was out of breath. At least now I know what it’ll feel like if I gain another twenty pounds…

And online later that night, I found the kicker: at Caplan Duval, I could’ve gotten it for $20 less, including shipping.

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Little Gram’s Sauce

Today I’m delighted to introduce a guest writer, my husband S.

It’s known at “Little Gram’s Sauce,” after my mother’s maternal grandmother, a matriarch known by one and all by diminutive nickname. I’ve probably eaten more of this sauce than any other thing, except maybe water and milk. In fact, brands of spaghetti have come and gone (hell, so has the name: now it’s “pasta”) but the sauce has remained the same. With those credentials, I’m more qualified than my wife to write this, but compared to the rest of my family, I’m still a rookie. I don’t know much of the sauce’s history or evolution, but I bet my great-grandmother knows little, too. Not because she’s 102 and can’t remember, but because it probably existed in some form in her childhood and changed slightly and organically and very gradually over the next four generations.

It’s a sweet sauce. That’s key. Most importantly, it’s sweet because of what’s removed, NOT because of what’s added. The tartness of the tomatoes is removed through the magic of baking soda, as opposed to sweetness being added via sugar (which I’ve heard some people do—yuck!).

It’s a smooth sauce. That’s also crucial. Except for some pieces of meat or ground beef/pork/veal, it has a smooth consistency. Some herbs, onions finely chopped, garlic—not much else.

Sweet. Smooth. Elegant.

Ever since I hit my late teens and started to eat out more often, I’ve developed a theory about “the other sauces.” That would be anything that isn’t derived from Little Gram’s recipe: jarred, restaurant, sauce by friends. There’s typically something “American” about these sauces, which to me translates into spicy, chunky, and frequently crass. (I’ve come to label any tendency to shock or razzle-dazzle with an abundance of mis-matched spices as “American.” When in doubt, grab the oregano, basil, etc., and shake, shake, shake.) Anyway, I’ve always eaten pasta at restaurants, but I’ve never compared them to what I would have every Sunday growing up. Either the sauce stood on its own two feet or it didn’t. Most of all, it normally complemented the pasta, unlike Little Gram’s, which rendered the spaghetti a vehicle for her sauce.

Years ago, I tinkered with the recipe a bit. Not much. First it was ground turkey instead of ground beef/pork/veal. This is an obvious alteration since most of us don’t have the smoke-free, alcohol-free lifestyle that has allowed Little Gram to live to 102 and counting. Next it was adding a little red wine. It made it sweeter, but my brother was outraged. His reaction was sound, and before long, I reverted to the original.

In my mid-20’s, regardless of what office I worked in, I would regularly live off this stuff. I’d make a double batch and cook pasta in two day-increments. Then I’d take it into work and re-heat it for lunch. I had a reputation as the pasta guy, the Tupperware guy, or the smart guy (as in “You’re so smart to do that! You must save so much money!”). Before long, I’d circulate the recipe. One year, I gave my co-workers each a jar of sauce. I took a day off and made four batches!

Little Gram’s Sauce

Makes a double batch

3 T. olive oil
1 lg. onion, sliced and diced
12 cloves of garlic, minced fine
56 oz. tomato puree
36 oz. tomato paste
56 oz. water
pinch or two of baking soda
2 t. salt
2 T. dried basil
½ t. dried oregano
1 lb ground beef/pork/veal combo or turkey (optional)

Saute the onions in the olive oil. Cook til golden. Add garlic for a minute or so. Add paste, puree, & water and raise the heat. After sauce starts to boil, turn down the heat to simmer. Add the baking soda and stir in, which will cause the sauce to foam.



Remove foam with spoon. Add the remaining ingredients, crumbling the raw ground meat with your fingers as you add it in bits; cover and let simmer for 2 to 2 ½ hours, stirring occasionally. This will make a lot of sauce; I recommend freezing about 2/3 for later use.

NOTE: Sauce will thicken as it cooks. More water can be added if you prefer.

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A Bad Night for Food, a Great Night for Funk

Earlier this week, I noticed a squib in the Times saying that Morris Day and The Time would be doing a show Thursday night at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, with the Ohio Players opening. This was notable for three reasons:

1. I loves me some funk.
2. S is a Prince fan to the nth degree, so much so that we received tickets to his show at the Garden for a wedding present. S knows every song, who played which instruments to record them (mostly: Prince himself), and the nuances of a bootleg of this show versus one from that show. Hell, he even knows the difference between Apollonia and Vanity. The Time, and suave Morris himself, were essentially Prince creations. Naturally, this means that S knows the ins and outs of their catalog & lineup, too.
3. It was at THE APOLLO THEATER. I’d never been, unless you count the late-night hours spent watching “It’s Showtime at the Apollo” in the wee hours of Sunday morning, after “Saturday Night Live.” (C’mon, sing it with me: It’s showtime/at the Apollo…)

Normally, this would be an opportunity to seek out a new food experience—Harlem’s filled with great eats these days, I’m told, and I haven’t been up there in years—but I had a reflexology appointment in Chelsea that ended at 6:30 (yeah, I know, reflexology?). Add in half an hour for travel time to make an 8:00 show, and we decided against intrepid foodieness. Instead, we went to a place in Chelsea that I’d walked by dozens of times but never tried, a place that advertised “Lean American Cuisine” on its awning: The Wai? Café, on 6th Avenue at 17th Street.

It was a huge mistake.

The food was terrible, the worst I’ve had in a NYC restaurant in years. I won’t go into what was inflicted upon us, beyond: glutinous, gloppy thickeners in the vegetarian minestrone, and leathery baked chicken tenders. More than half my meal remained on the plate (and the waitress didn’t either notice or care, a huge pet peeve for me). This would explain why I've never noticed more than two or three people in the joint at any given time. Hell, at least it was only $20 for two, including tip.

But the show! Damn, it was fun. The guys in the Ohio Players are in their fifties, at least—their two biggest hits, “Fire” and “Love Rollercoaster,” are from the mid-70s, and the leader of the band, James “Diamond” Williams, introduced his grown daughter in the audience as a Broadway star—but they put me to shame. Groovin and dancin and singin and playin like they were teenagers, for a solid hour. And in some seriously stylin’ duds. The lead singer, Leroy “Sugarfoot” Bonner, was wearing black and white head to toe: a pinstriped zoot suit, big-brimmed black fedora, wide paisley tie, and checkered patent-leather shoes. The horn section was in pastels: powder pink on the sax player, baby blue on the trumpeter, and cream on the trombone player. They had me on my feet more than once. I would’ve been satisfied just with that, but this was only the opening act.

During the intermission, my stomach started to growl. I was beginning to wish I’d eaten more of that vile so-called soup. S was hungry, too, but neither of us was about to leave in search of food—Morris would be coming out at any moment. I rummaged through my bag and came up with a tiny treat: a small sardine can-shaped container of Japanese (I think) candy, which I had taken from the reflexologist’s office, planning to take a gag photo of our two cats with it. Since the cats wouldn’t have eaten the candy anyway, S and I decided to open it. Inside were nestled two pink foil-wrapped sweets, of indeterminate variety. I sniffed mine—it smelled vaguely toffee-ish. I like toffee. S popped his into his mouth just before I did, and the look on his face made me hesitate. He did one of those single-chew-then-freeze takes.

“Is it fish-flavored?” I asked. He shook his head slightly. “Is it horrible?” He shrugged. He still hadn’t chewed a second time.

I took a small bite. The first impression I had: wax. I was eating wax. It didn’t taste particularly horrible initially, it just felt weird. It wasn’t until I’d warmed it up a bit in my mouth that the full, strange, sickly taste emerged. I wish I could describe this flavor to you, but words fail me. It was a bit like eating dirty dishwater in solid form. I spit it back into the wrapper, and held the little fish can under S’s mouth so he could deposit his there. Sigh. We would remain hungry.

But once the show resumed, all stomach growls were forgotten. With Morris Day and The Time, well, you know what you’re getting when you buy a ticket: pure entertainment, lascivious and playful and precise and loose, all at the same time. Jerome, the ringmaster/valet whose principal responsibilities are holding Morris’s mirror while he combs his hair on-stage and narrating the proceedings in between songs, was in fine form, slapping drumsticks onto the floor and watching them bounce back up, over his head, where he catches them every time. He got the audience roaring for Morris, who emerged resplendent in a black crushed velvet zoot suit trimmed with rhinestones. For over an hour we danced, we sang (well, S sang along with the rest of the audience; I didn’t know the words), we had a great time. We left hungry for more, and starving for sustenance.

An after-midnight egg sandwich from the diner outside our subway stop did the trick.

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Gingersnaps

I’m really exhausted today so I’ll make this post short and sweet, literally. I clipped this recipe for gingersnaps years ago from a Peter Kump/ICE bulletin—I think it was the applesauce that caught my eye. It’s practically foolproof, and really, really easy, and the end result is what I consider the ideal gingersnap: it’s super crispy, and nicely spicy. They stay fresh for quite a while, too, which is a pleasant bonus. (And for some reason, gingersnaps are the one cookie I don’t find myself gobbling by the handful.)

For Weight Watchers readers: I made a batch on Sunday using Splenda Baking Blend, and they’re only one point each.

Gingersnaps
Yield: 50 when I use my OXO Good Grips Small Cookie Scoop

2 ½ cups flour
1 t. baking soda
½ t. salt
1 ½ t. ginger
1 t. allspice
1 ½ cups sugar OR ¾ cup Splenda Baking Blend
2 T. butter, room temperature
¼ cup molasses
½ cup unweetened applesauce

Preheat the oven to 375, and set racks to top and lower thirds. Spray two cookie sheets with non-stick spray, or line with Silpat mats.

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking soda, salt, ginger, and allspice.

In a large bowl, cream together the sugar (or Splenda) and butter. Whisk in the molasses and applesauce. Add the flour mixture to the applesauce mixture, and stir until combined.

Drop rounded tablespoons of the dough onto the cookie sheet. Flatten the cookies with moistened fingertips [these cookies don’t spread much, so you can crowd the sheet a bit]. Bake for 11-13 minutes and cool on a rack. [Note: these are the only cookies I’ve ever baked that stick to my Silpat mats. I’ve found that if I let them cool before removing, they come right off.]

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The Right Man, the Right Restaurant, the Right Breakfast

Yesterday was the anniversary of S’s and my first date. Neither of us is terribly into Valentine’s Day, so in a tiny rebellion against the Hallmarkization of everything, we celebrate our own milestone instead. Budget-restricted food lover that I am, this generally translates into dinner at a highly-recommended restaurant (see my birthday dinner at Blue Hill at Stone Barns). Last night was I Trulli on East 27th Street.

During my high-living publishing executive days, I Trulli was my favorite restaurant. But the last time I went, a good five years ago, was one of the lowlights of my life. I’d just come out of a bad breakup and was fast sinking into my first real depression. R, my on-again-off-again-notmyboyfriend, had rematerialized to pick up the pieces.

“I know just what you need,” he said. “A nice dinner out.”

Reluctantly, I agreed—by now I was having trouble lifting my head off the pillow, so it took a considerable effort to put on makeup and nice clothes. But it gave me hope that R was being so nice to me, and when he told me he’d made a reservation at I Trulli it rekindled my hopes yet again that he could be The One: Perhaps our silliest argument concerned the title-holder of Favorite Restaurant—his was Campagna, so his opting for my choice seemed like it might be some sort of sign. (I can’t resist pointing out that Campagna is now closed, which of course is no indication of its true worth, while my beloved I Trulli is still going strong).

The room was lovely, a fire crackling in the double-sided fireplace. Tables were filled with smiling couples and families. The food, as always, was superb. And I was miserable, struggling not to burst into tears every few minutes. I can’t remember anymore how we got on the subject, but over our main course and through dessert R riffed about the sorry state of the world, how he nearly regretted having brought his then-twelve-year-old son into this mess, how there were days when he had difficulty encouraging his boy to make any kind of effort since what was the point anyway. Excellent dinner conversation for a depressed woman, don’t you think? As I recall, the night devolved into yet another of our arguments, with him licking his wounds over my ingratitude for his efforts to cheer me up, and me becoming rapidly convinced there was no point to continuing the relationship, or much else.

It took a good couple of years for me to even want to return to I Trulli—how awful, that one bad evening can nearly spoil a restaurant’s cherished status—and by then I could no longer afford it. But when S and I were planning our anniversary dinner, I put it on the short list and left the final choice up to him. I was thrilled to return, and what a difference it makes to go with the right person! We sat in the same room as I had the last time, but not once did I think of R during the evening. S made me laugh, effortlessly, over and over, and as we ate our wonderfully-executed meals (Grilled Baby Octopus with Fennel and Orange followed by Orechiette with Rabbit Ragu for him; Lanache [a wide, flat pasta, sort of like pappardelle] with Wild Mushrooms and then Branzino with Vegetable Caponata and Roasted Tomatoes for me), I just kept thinking how very lucky I am. We shared a dessert, a fabulous mousse-like Chocolate Hazelnut cake with Bacio gelato, and hurried off into the night in time to buy the last two tickets for a midnight screening of Annie Hall.

It was a pretty perfect night.

This morning I awoke before S, as usual, still full of love and goofy good feelings for my husband. We’ve been eating a lot of oatmeal in my quest to lose weight, so I wanted to make him something special that wouldn’t blow my regimen. An Oven Puffed Pancake from Cooking Light seemed perfect, and indeed it was delicious, eggy but still pancakey, with the same custardy interior that makes me love popovers. The recipe said it serves four, but that would only be if there are plenty of other items being served alongside—S and I finished this in about three minutes, and an hour later we were both starving.

Oven Puffed Pancake
Adapted from Cooking Light
Serves two, if you’re not terribly hungry



½ cup all-purpose flour
2 T. granulated sugar [I used 1 T. Splenda Baking Blend]
¼ t. salt
½ cup 1% milk
1 large egg
1 large egg white
1 T. butter
Powdered sugar (optional)
Freshly squeezed lemon juice (optional)

Preheat oven to 425°.
Combine flour, sugar, and salt in a medium bowl. In a small bowl lightly beat milk, egg, and egg white, and add to flour mixture. Stir to combine (do not overmix).
Melt butter in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Pour batter into pan; cook 1 minute (do not stir). Bake at 425° for 18 minutes or until golden. Sprinkle with powdered sugar, and lemon juice, if desired. Cut into quarters and serve immediately.

Here’s what it looked like moments after it came out of the oven—it starts to sink almost immediately.

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Chicken Puttanesca with Mushrooms

Finally, a chance to do a little real cooking! On Thursday I had a doctor’s appointment in the late afternoon, and instead of returning to work I just went home. I’d thought ahead and defrosted chicken, but I hadn’t thought ahead enough to actually decide what to make. The fridge was nearly devoid of fresh vegetables. There was still a container of Ina’s barbecue sauce, but since I’d already blogged about that and I hadn’t written anything substantial in so long, well…clearly I put your needs ahead of mine! (OK, that may be an exaggeration. I get as much out of the cooking/writing as you do out of the reading—probably more.) The solution would have to come from my pantry, which is pretty well-stocked and recently reorganized.

I poked around and pulled out various items: Pomi chopped tomatoes, sun-dried tomatoes, kalamata olives, anchovy paste (which I heartily recommend—I’m firmly in the anchovy-hating camp, but this stuff virtually disintegrates during cooking, leaving behind a complex, supporting layer of flavor and no fishiness whatsoever), capers…It was beginning to look like a Puttanesca party! I’d never made it before, but I’d certainly eaten enough of the flavorful sauce. It seemed like the kind of thing that could be adapted to a quick chicken braise, rather than just being served on pasta. There were some crimini mushrooms on their way to withering in the crisper, so I tossed them in. The end result was fabulous, rich and hearty, with bursts of intense flavor from the olives and capers—S and I licked our plates.

Note: between the capers and the olives and the anchovy paste, the ingredients struck me as being plenty salty on their own (plus I always cook with kosher chicken, which is saltier than non-kosher). The recipe calls for no salt to be added, and it really didn’t need it. If you leave out any of those three ingredients, or use non-kosher chicken, you may want to add a little.

And another note, for Weight Watchers readers: This is pretty much a Core dish. The anchovy paste probably isn’t core, but it’s so little for the whole dish that I didn’t count it. Olives are non-core, 1 point for 4, so I’m counting that as one point. And the pine nuts on top are 5 points for one ounce—I used much less than an ounce per serving, so I’m counting an additional two points there.

Chicken Puttanesca with Mushrooms
Serves 4, with maybe a little leftover

Olive oil
6 large or 8 small skinless, boneless, chicken breast
1 large onion, roughly chopped
4 large cloves garlic, roughly chopped
½ to 1 t. anchovy paste (to taste)
5 oz. crimini or white button mushrooms, quartered
½ to 1 cup chicken broth, as needed
10 sun-dried tomato halves, slivered
15 black olives [I used kalamata], pitted and halved
1 T. capers, drained and rinsed
1 28-oz. can plum tomatoes, chopped, with their juice [I used a carton of Pomi chopped tomatoes]
1 T. fresh thyme leaves
2 T. roughly chopped flat-leaf parsley
2 bay leaves
Tomato paste (optional)
Toasted pine nuts (optional)

In a large dutch oven or stock pot, heat a few glugs of olive oil over medium-high heat. Brown chicken breasts on both sides, in batches so as not to crowd the pot, and remove to a plate. Add onions and sauté three or four minutes, until they begin to brown. Add garlic and sauté another minute, until the fragrance fills the kitchen. Add anchovy paste and stir around to break it up. Add mushrooms and sauté another three or four minutes, until they release some of their liquid. If pan appears too dry and brown bits are sticking, pour in a little chicken broth to release all that good stuff from the bottom of the pot. Add next seven ingredients, and bring to a boil. When mixture boils, return chicken to pot with accumulated juices, pushing the meat beneath the tomato mixture. Reduce heat to a simmer, cover, and let it bubble away gently for another ten minutes, until chicken is cooked through. If sauce looks to thin, remove cover for the last five minutes and let it cook down, or stir in some tomato paste to thicken. Remove bay leaves before serving.

Serve with your starch of choice—I used Israeli couscous, but it would go equally well with pasta, rice, roasted or mashed potatoes, etc. If desired, top with toasted pine nuts.

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Music to Eat By

Isn’t it funny how almost anything—even a food blog—can bring all one’s high-school insecurities to the surface? Lately I’ve been watching a chain-letter-type-thingie being passed among all my favorite food blogs, and while I clearly haven’t had a whole lot of time to write lately (five posts in the last two weeks is pretty pathetic for me), I’ve been wondering if anyone would ever tap my shoulder and invite me to play. Add to that the fact that I don’t seem to get a whole lot of comments (unless I write about chocolate, that is…), and a complex threatened to develop. It hadn’t yet reached the level of breaking out my old motorcycle jacket and buzz-cutting one side of my hair, but I was beginning to feel like the unnoticed outsider, desperate for acceptance, that I had been during my teenage years. Maybe it’s time to go back to therapy, huh?

Well, no matter, because Clotilde of Chocolate and Zucchini, the inspiration for me and so many other food bloggers, kindly looked my way this morning. It’s as if the head cheerleader (and a sweet French foreign-exchange one, at that!) just asked me to sit next to her at lunch. The self-deprecating part of me is convinced it’s because there’s nobody else left to tap, but the self-loving part of me says what the fuck, it’s all good fun. Thanks, Clotilde! You just made an insecure adolescent’s day.

Since I have a spare half-hour to dash this off, here goes…

What is the total amount of music files on your computer?

1330 songs, enough to play for 3.5 days, 5.73 GB.

The CD you last bought?

It’s been ages since I bought an actual CD. S is a music addict—he owns upwards of 2500 CDs; we had shelves built lining our 13-foot hallway just to hold them all—and he downloads constantly, so if I even mention something to him he’ll go out and get it (err, sit at his computer and get it?). If memory serves, the last one I purchased was in July, during our 3-week honeymoon-road trip through Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, and it was This Is Big Audio Dynamite by Big Audio Dynamite. It brought back intense memories of my junior year in London, when Mick Jones had just formed the band and was playing all over town. I saw them live a bunch of times and wore out the grooves on my vinyl copy, and after a good fifteen years (damn, it’s actually nearly twenty!) I still remembered all the words.

What was the last song you listened to before reading this message?

The Tommy Dorsey Orchestra with Frank Sinatra, “Stardust.” Lately we’ve been trying to eat dinner without television, so we’ve been listening to music instead. S’s dad is a rabid Sinatra fan—several years ago S made a documentary about him and several like-minded individuals—so S has become something of an aficionado himself.

Write down 5 songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you.

1. “Downstream,” by Supertramp. This was our wedding song—I know, seeing the words “Supertramp” and “wedding song” in the same sentence is a little jarring, but the day after we got engaged S left a mixed CD on my doorstep and this song was on it. It’s absolutely beautiful, just the singer and a piano. The first time I heard it, it brought tears to my eyes, and it has ever since. Indulge me for a moment, while I post the lyrics:

Took a boat Sunday, down by the sea
It just felt so nice, you and me
We didn't have a problem or a care
And all around was silence, everywhere

You are the reason I was born
Be with you through all seasons
I'll always hear you when you call
We'll keep the love light shining
Through each night and day
A lonely life behind me
Oh what a change you've made

So down here on the ocean we will stay
Went through a lot of changes
Turned a lot of pages
When I took a boat Sunday

To know you as I know you now
That is all I need
And we will get along somehow
If we both believe

So down here on the ocean we will stay
Went through a lot of changes
Turned a lot of pages
When I took a boat Sunday

2. “Up the Junction,” by Squeeze. I just love this song, the way Glenn Tilbrook’s voice gets all reedy and broken.
3. “Hey Ya” by Outkast. Had to have one pure party song, didn’t I? I must’ve listened to this a dozen times straight when I first got the CD (and I don’t listen to radio, so I didn’t even know it was the single). This song just does the trick, you know?
4. “Do Right Woman, Do Right Man,” by Aretha. Her voice. Those harmonies. ‘Nuff said.
5. “To Zion,” by Lauryn Hill. A song about how powerful it is to love your baby. I can only hope that someday I’ll understand.

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?

I’m shocked, but I don’t think any of these writers have gotten hit yet, and they’re three of my favorites: Jennifer at The Domestic Goddess, Angela at A Spoonful of Sugar, and Barrett at Too Many Chefs.

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Yes, There IS Such a Thing as Too Much Chocolate Pudding

It all started with an innocent thought. S and I were relaxing before dinner, just going over our respective days, when we realized we didn’t have enough milk for tomorrow’s breakfast. S volunteered to run to the store, and on a whim I asked him to get extra milk—I felt like making pudding. What I meant, of course, was that I felt like opening a box of the Sugar Free Fat Free Cook ‘n’ Serve Jello powder that was lurking in the pantry—the sugarfreefatfree part makes it a Core food for Weight Watchers. What S heard, however, was My Wife Wants to Cook Pudding from Scratch. His face lit up. And I thought, hell, why not just make it from scratch—how hard could it be? We’ve got a package of Splenda in the pantry for just such an occasion. A quick perusal of my cookbooks turned up a promising recipe, in Moosewood Restaurant Low-Fat Favorites, one of my Old Reliables. All we needed was the milk. “Get a gallon,” I called out as S pulled on his coat.

I am an idiot. A standard pudding recipe calls for two cups of milk. Normally we buy a quart. Why did I tell him to get a gallon? Is cooking math really that hard? I don’t think so.

The corner store didn’t have gallon containers, so S returned with two half-gallons. I decided to go for broke and double the recipe, blithely thinking that this would use up one of the two plastic jugs of milk. It wasn’t until I was pouring away, watching the thin white liquid threaten to overflow my two-quart saucepan, that I realized something was wrong. Very wrong. I hadn’t doubled the amount of milk called for; I’d quadrupled it.

So what could I do? I pulled a large soup pot off the pot rack, transferred the milk, etc, into it, and added enough cocoa, Splenda, and cornstarch to match the amount of milk I’d foolishly dumped in. This recipe calls for constant stirring, until the mixture reaches a boil and for another three minutes after that. It takes a loooong time for half a gallon of cold milk to boil. My arm was not happy. But it was worth it: the end result was a half-gallon of quite delicious chocolate pudding, much less sweet and more authentic-tasting than the packaged kind.

Way back in the beginning, when I was only doubling the recipe, I pulled out eight small glass bowls to make single servings—my favorite part of cooked pudding is the skin that forms, and the more surface area you can get, the more skin you get. But when I wound up quadrupling, I had to scramble to find another eight bowls. Nana’s china to the rescue! It wasn’t until I’d arranged them on the counter, ready to pour in the hot pudding, that it occurred to me we’d have difficulty fitting all those little bowls into our well-stocked fridge.



Thinking fast, I pulled out my trusty soufflé dish. It all fit, as you can see. Though I wouldn’t exactly call this a single serving (that's a teaspoon in the photo, to give you a sense of scale), and there’s much less skin than I would like…



We’ll finish the pudding by the weekend, I guess.

Dark Chocolate Pudding
Adapted from Moosewood Restaurant Low-Fat Favorites
Serves four

3 T. cornstarch
3 T. Splenda (or sugar)
2 T. unsweetened cocoa powder [I used Double-Dutch Dark Cocoa]
2 cups 1% milk
1 t. pure vanilla extract
1 oz. bittersweet chocolate, chopped (optional)

In a saucepan, thoroughly combine the cornstarch, Splenda or sugar, and cocoa. Add the milk and stir until smooth. Cook on medium heat, stirring constantly, until the pudding comes to a boil. Then lower the heat and gently simmer, stirring continuously, for 3 or 4 minutes. Stir in the vanilla and the chocolate, if using, and stir until the chocolate melts. Pour the hot pudding into a serving bowl or individual custard cups, and serve warm or chill for about two hours, until set.

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I’m So Glad I’m Not This Guy

Behold, the star-nosed mole. According to this article in today’s New York Times, this little guy (actual size: 2” wide, 4-5” long) can eat a mouthful of food in one-fifth of a second. Let me repeat: one-fifth of a second. Shee-it, that’s some fast eating. For comparison’s sake, the article mentions that Sonya Thomas, The Black Widow of competitive eating, achieved record-setting status by downing 65 hard-boiled eggs in 6 minutes, 40 seconds. According to their math, this little critter eats 26 times faster than the estimable Ms. Thomas. Does this mean he could eat 1690 hard-boiled eggs in that same amount of time?

The way I see it, I’m pretty darn lucky not to have that fleshy, fingered appendage stuck on my nose. Seems it has 100,000 nerve fibers all over it, which help the mole to suss out super-duper fast whether something it touches is, in fact, edible, and then devour it in microseconds. Imagine if I ate that fast? I already hoover my food—it’s a constant struggle to remember to taste the meal in front of me—so if I had some evolutionary aid to make it go even faster, I’d be hard-pressed to do anything but eat, then eat some more.

No, all I have are two hands and a fork. And that does the trick just fine, thank you very much.

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My Contribution to Superbowl Mania: Philadelphia German Butter Cake

There are a few things I don’t like to eat (well, more than a few), and most of them center around dairy products: Yogurt. Most cheeses. Sour cream. Plain milk. You get the picture. If it’s too creamy, too tangy, too unctuous, I’ll put my hand over my plate and say No, thanks. S, on the other hand, is a dairy farmer’s dream: he can’t get enough of the stuff. Perhaps this explains his high cholesterol.

When S first discovered my love of baking, he eagerly described to me a delicacy of his south Jersey childhood, a treat his father introduced to him called Philadelphia German Butter Cake. I’d never heard of it, which surprised me—I’m a wee bit vain about my knowledge of regional food specialties, at least in the northeast—but S made it out to be something of a touchstone for him, the food item that encapsulated memories of his youth, but one he hadn’t tasted in decades. A Madeleine, a Rosebud. Dare I say it: a Holy Grail.

I did some research and found a recipe online, and baked it as a gift for our first Hanukkah together. During the preparation I became distraught more than once, convinced that either the recipe was wrong or I’d made some horrible mistake. The cake never seemed to bake through; the top layer was a pretty golden brown but even the slightest movement left it shaking and rippling like loose jello. When the edges were on the verge of burning I pulled it from the oven and left it to cool. Twenty minutes later I returned and nearly cried: the center had collapsed entirely, like a soufflé that’s been banged on a counter. When I presented it to S, it was more to show him that I’d tried, not because I thought he’d actually like it.

The man nearly died with happiness. Who knew—this is exactly what a Philadelphia German Butter Cake is supposed to look like. Eagerly, he cut into it. A great rush of buttery goo oozed out from the wound. I was appalled; S was thrilled.



He ate enthusiastically that December, polishing off an entire 9 x 13 cake in a matter of days. I declined to taste it—it looked a little too much like bodily fluids to me, and besides, if it turned out I liked it that wouldn’t exactly be a good thing anyway. I’d only eat it, and trust me, this is devastatingly fattening. It’s called BUTTER CAKE, for crying out loud. After that happy Hanukkah, S and I agreed this particular treat should be reserved for only the most special occasions.

The Eagles making the Superbowl after a 24-year drought surely counts as such an occasion. S doesn’t watch much sports, and had only followed the team’s march to victory through his brother’s excitement, but when an epochal event like this happens, you just can’t pass it by. As I type S is driving down to his brother’s in south Jersey, Butter Cake on the seat beside him. The plan is to watch the game at the local pub, along with thousands of other eager, on-their-way-to-drunk fans, eat chicken wings, and gorge on Butter Cake.

I figure, if I only have to bake it once every 24 years, that’s fine with me.


Last night S had to “sample” the cake, to make sure it was good enough to take down to its Land of Origin. He started out eating like a regular human, with a decent-sized forkful…


…but once he got a taste of that gooey, disgusting cake, he was a goner.

Philadelphia German Butter Cake
[I found the same recipe on at least a dozen sites, so I don't know who deserves the credit, exactly...]
Serves 10-12

For the Cake:
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup vegetable shortening (not butter flavored)
¼ t. salt
1 large egg
1 envelope active dry yeast [I used 2 t. SAF instant yeast]
½ cup warm milk [110 degrees, if you’re using active dry yeast & have a thermometer]
2 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 T. pure vanilla extract

For the Topping:
½ lb unsalted butter (2 sticks)
2/3 cup flour
2 cups extra finely granulated sugar [I put 2 c. sugar in my food processor and whiz it around for a few seconds]
2 large eggs
4-5 T. milk

Make dough:
If using active dry yeast, dissolve in warm milk and set aside to proof. [If using instant yeast, skip this step.]

With a mixer, combine sugar, shortening, and salt. Add egg and beat 1 minute. Add flour, then milk/yeast mixture and vanilla to sugar mix. [If you’re using instant yeast, combine it with the flour first.] Mix 3 minutes with dough hook or by hand.

Turn dough out onto floured board and knead 1 minute. Put into a lightly greased bowl, turning to coat dough. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and set in a warm place to rise for 1 hour or until doubled in bulk.

Meanwhile prepare the topping:
Cream butter. Stir together flour and sugar. Gradually beat sugar/flour mixture into butter. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add milk by teaspoonful to bring the mixture to an easy spreading consistency. Do not make it too runny.

When dough has doubled in size:
Preheat oven to 375.

Decide if you’ll be using two well-greased 8-inch square pans, or one 9x13-inch pan [I use one big one]. If using two pans, divide dough in half. Roll or pat dough to fit bottom of pan(s). Crimp edges half way up the pan to hold the topping.



Prick dough well with a fork to prevent bubbling.



Put topping on cake, and spread over the dough. Let cake rest for 20 minutes.



Bake for 25-30 minutes or until done. Do not overbake: topping should be crusty but gooey.



Let the cake cool before cutting. The center will sink considerably—don’t be alarmed; according to S this is perfectly normal.

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Like Riding a Bike?

It’s been a good week since I cooked anything more complicated than oatmeal—we spent last weekend with family (mine on Saturday, his on Sunday), and during the week I was either out or working, and too exhausted to cook when I got home. S was working just as hard, so we ordered in a lot. This morning I woke up itching to make something. It didn’t have to be fancy, just fresh and tasty, and homemade. I lay in bed, S snoozing beside me, and did a mental inventory of the fridge’s contents. There—on the top shelf, propped up on the parmigiano reggiano and six kinds of mustard—a container of crimini mushrooms. And down beneath, a dozen eggs. A little thyme in the crisper, an onion in the pantry. Omelettes. We’d have omelettes for breakfast—sophisticated but simple. Perfect.

Well, maybe not. In all honesty, the only time I successfully prepared an omelette in the French manner was years ago, during a cooking class at Peter Kump (now ICE). Within the confines of my own kitchen, I’ve never once managed to shuffle the egg pancake down to the bottom third of the pan and flip it over upon itself. Not once. I gave up trying, in fact, and settled for making omelettes the way my dad used to—by sliding it out onto a plate, inverting the pan over the plate, and flipping the whole thing. The filling gets spread on the right side, and the egg gets folded over it. You end up with a thoroughly-cooked, thin egg experience, but hell, I like it that way.

So what on earth possessed me to attempt the classic omelette technique? It was doomed to failure. My cooking skills were creaky enough after a week’s laxity, but somehow I was convinced that if I could just make it work this once, I’d be back in fighting condition. Um, no.

The onion/mushroom/thyme part went off without a hitch, filling the kitchen with the homey smell I’d been missing. I emptied them out into a bowl and gave the pan a good spritz with Pam, then whipped together three egg whites, one whole egg, and a little water. Poured that into the pan, and let it cook untouched until the edges started to set. Pulled the cooked edges into the center, letting the still-liquid parts run out to get their face-time with the pan. Here was where the trouble began: the edges were sticking, and the runny parts weren’t really filling in the gaps I’d created. Bits of browned onion (duh, I hadn’t wiped out the pan) were mixing in with the omelette. It was beginning to look more like scrambled eggs than anything. I lowered the heat and let it sit for another minute, hoping that it would coalesce into the desired egg pancake, but it just never came together. I gave up, and scrambled me some eggs. When they were cooked, I put half of the mushroom mixture on top. It would still taste good, I figured, even if it didn’t look pretty. I added a little fleur de sel and some freshly ground pepper to tart it up, and set it aside to try again.

Thinking that perhaps the dirty pan might have been the problem, I wiped it out with a wet paper towel before starting on the second omelette. This time, I’d get it right. Even more Pam, in case I hadn’t used enough before. And when I poured in the egg mixture, it seemed to be working. My creation was definitely behaving more like an omelette. It wasn’t until the fancy turning maneuver that things went awry. I gripped the pan underhand as I’d been instructed, and shimmied the eggs toward the far edge. They actually moved, which was exciting, but I guess I shimmied a little too vigorously—I’d neglected to add the filling, and while I was struggling to grab the bowl without dropping the eggs…well…I dropped the eggs. Part of them, anyway—about a third slipped off the side of the pan and onto the stove. On the verge of tears, I left the mushrooms where they were and set about resuscitating my omelette. It almost looked normal, so I poured the mushroom filling on top and called it a day.



My original plan was for S to eat the first omelette while I prepared the second, since they don’t hold particularly well, but when I messed it up I thought it was only fair to give him what I hoped would be the good one. The result: S ate a pseudo-omelette that he said tasted pretty damn good, while I ate cold scrambled eggs and mushrooms. It was not a satisfying way to re-invigorate my cooking muscles.

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A PSA re: SHF

If you haven't gotten around to making your puff pastry creation for next week's Sugar High Friday, hosted by Clement at A La Cuisine, get your hands on a copy of the February Kitchen & Cook newsletter, published by the Culinary Institute of America. I recently subscribed and finally had a chance to thumb through it, my first issue. There's plenty of interesting stuff in there--techniques for infusing steamed vegetables with flavor (extremely handy for me and my Weight-Watching self), an interesting look at baking with chocolate (extremely tempting for my wanting-to-not-Weight-Watch self), and a really useful piece on lemongrass, an herb I'd love to cook with but have always been afraid of (so maybe it'll suit both of my selves?). And most timely of all, a step-by-step, illustrated guide to making puff pastry. I'm pretty sure I'll be skipping this month's SHF--there's just no way to make something so buttery work while I'm trying to lose weight--but if you're curious, the article strikes me as being extremely thorough.

(And apologies for going so long without a post--it's been a hell of a week, and I didn't cook once. Hopefully I'll get some time over the weekend, but I've got a major freelance project due so even that's looking unlikely...)

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