In Your Kitchen

Cooking for Men: Cinnamon Baked Apples

2009-11-15T12:02:00.005-05:00

A good friend of mine called last night around 6PM. The conversation went like this:

Him: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Writing.”
Him: “Wanna get dinner”
Me: “I’m writing. I’m reheating something I made yesterday.”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Pulled pork.”

Pause, and then the question he was waiting for:

Me: “Do you want to come over? I can make you a plate. But you can’t talk to me, because I’m working.”
Him: “Can I watch the game?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “I’m at the door.”

He’s not the only man I’ve last-minute-cooked for this week; I’ve been testing a lot recipes, and inviting friends to partake. The friends are men, mostly, and I’ve noticed something remarkable that happens when I invite them for food.

They come to the door more tentatively, and they're usually carrying a gift. They've put on a better shirt, and they're more formal with me than usual, like when they politely for seconds. And boy are they helpful, as in: Can they take out the garbage? Walk the dog? Do the dishes? They insist on clearing the table.

They look in my eyes when they say “thank you”, and they say it more than once, as if they’re eleven years old, I’m their best friend’s mom, and their mom told them to mind their manners, be polite and mind their please-and-thank-yous.

We've been friends for a while, but when I play in the kitchen and share, these men go all sweet.

It’s not a boyfriend/girlfriend thing, it’s more of a gender thing. These days, many of the men I know have almost been conditioned out of thinking that a women might enjoy cooking for them. When we when do, they get woozy. They look at me with a cocked head, the way my dog does when she comes across something she didn't expect.

My friend was halfway through his pulled pork when he said, “Allison, today I walked around the neighborhood, calling the women I know, and telling them I was nearby. They each invited me over, gave me something to eat, and told me about their love lives. I think it was the best day of my life.”

A drizzly, rainy Brooklyn day. A day for baking pies, lazy reading and slow cooking. And for this guy, a day to go door-to-door with his empty stomach and friendship.

Cooking is much more fun when there’s an appreciative someone who enjoys what you’ve made. And when that guest is as unexpected as the cooking, it’s a happy coincidence.

Cinnamon Baked Apples
Serves 6

6 small (4- to 6-ounce) baking apples (such as Golden Delicious, Braeburn or Rome Beauty)
1/2 cup golden raisins
1/3 cup (packed) brown sugar
1/4 cup chopped pecans (optional)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup apple juice, plus ½ cup water
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter

1. Preheat oven to 375°F. Using melon baller, scoop out stem, core and seeds of apples, leaving bottom intact. Using vegetable peeler, peel skin off top half of each apple. Arrange apples, cavity side up, in 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish.
2. Stir raisins, sugar, pecans if desired and cinnamon in small bowl to blend. Pack about 2 tablespoons raisin mixture into cavity of each apple. Sprinkle any remaining raisin mixture into dish around apples. Pour juice over and around apples. Dot apples with butter.
3. Bake apples 15 minutes; baste with juices. Continue to bake until apples are slightly puffed and tender, basting every 10 minutes, about 40 minutes. Transfer baking dish to work surface; let apples stand 10 minutes, basting occasionally.
4. Transfer apples to bowls. Spoon pan juices over and serve warm.

Nutritional Info (without pecans):
Calories: 192 / Fat: 4g / Carb: 42g / Fiber: 3g / Protein: 1g

Crumble

2009-10-12T22:30:00.001-04:00

I’ve begun writing a weekly ingredient column for Saveur.com. It’s a pleasure to be part of Saveur again; my very first job with the magazine was as a test kitchen intern ten years ago.

Time-wise, it’s replaced my blogging. Plus, I’ve begun taking grad journalism classes at the NYU’s Journalism School, and something about reporting rigor has made me less interested in spilling out my social life amongst the bits. Live and learn.

My last post was from the beach in North Carolina – was that just six weeks ago? And now, I'm surrounded by pears, plums and apples. I still haven’t mastered the pie crust (total mental block), but I’m happy with my easy crumbles. Who wants all those pie crust flour calories, anyway, when you can have butter and sugar calories?

Gingered Pear Crumble
Makes 6 to 8 servings

For the topping:
1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup rolled oats
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small bits and chilled
1/2 cup pecans

For the filling:
4 large or 6 medium pears, peeled and cut into thin slices
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 tablespoons corn starch
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons minced crystallized ginger
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat oven to 375F. For the topping: In a food processor, combine flour, oats, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Pulse to combine.

2. Add the butter and pulse 6 to 8 times until mixture has pea-sized pieces of butter mixed in with the flour and oats. Add the pecans and pulse a few more times to coarsely chop the pecans and to mix them through the topping. Transfer the topping to a bowl and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the pears, sugar, corn starch, lemon juice, ginger and salt. Gently fold all ingredients together. Transfer the filling into an 8 x 8-inch baking dish.

4. Once the topping is chilled, loosely scatter it over the top of the fruit in the baking dish. Bake for until fruit is bubbly and top is golden, 35 to 45 minutes. Cool for 15 minutes before serving.

Carolina Blue Crabs: Steam, Smash, Suck

2009-08-20T11:05:00.003-04:00

As soon as I arrived at my parents house for a late August visit, the neighbor called. She made me an offer I couldn't refuse: a dozen live crabs.

"That is so sweet of you!" I told Judy.

"No, it really isn't," she said. "I'm sick of crabs, and I knew you'd deal with them." For folks who live on the Lockwood Folly River, the gift of crabs is a gift to the giver. It's almost too easy to catch them, and as everyone knows, an easy catch is often undervalued.

Plus, crabs -- some say -- are a pain to deal with. They are more complex than a fish out of water, floundering on the dock. Crabs attack with aggression of an animal fighting for it's life. Which is only fair, really, and I say, "Good for you, assertive crab!"

I have mad respect for crabs.

The other thing that makes folks not love crabs is the yield. You don't get a lot of meat for the amount of effort you put in. But I'm a quality over quantity kinda girl, so that works just fine for me. Plus, picking crabs is low-cal eating; I can't possibly suck down more calories than I burn while searching for crab meat.

Within moments I was holding a bucket of a dozen writhing crabs. Now what? Occam had it right -- the very best way to cook crabs is the simplest. I put them in a pot with an inch or two of water and steamed until they turned bright red.

I took the just-steamed crabs down to the dock, pulled out a mallet and got myself something sturdy to bang against; my parents dock. It's a perfect cycle; from the water to the pot and back to the water again. Talk about your eco-friendly eating.

I pulled down the apron, tore off the top shell, and threw it in the river. I looked for the backfin meat and was far less successful than I was hammering away at the claws. And last, I sucked every last leglet free of it's meat. It's like those little pixy stix I enjoyed in second grade, but now I really had to suck that meat out instead of just tossing back my head for a sugar high.

Good stuff. And as it is said, the meat closest to the bone (or in this case, the shell) really is the sweetest. Steamed crabs are worth every suck.

Brooklyn Basil and Persistent Pintos

2009-07-27T17:00:00.001-04:00

I ran through the door and he slapped me in the face.

He was hurt by what I said, and I never saw it coming. He grew up tough, in Brooklyn, the kind that played on the roof for fun. He didn’t know from air conditioning and upscale grocery stores. Before I opened my eyes, I inhaled him. I had forgotten how good he smelled.

He whispered, “You underestimated me, didn’t you. You had no idea what I was capable of. Look at me now, here in this apartment. I’m in my prime. You want me again.”

And with that, he made clear: basil season was here. I no longer had to be sated with whatever I could find washed, boxed, transported and climate-controlled in my grocery store. This basil was planted just weeks ago – he lived his life on a Brooklyn fire escape and was now just minutes from the soil.

Tonight, he would be a scene-stealing supporting actor to a giant ball of burrata, that milky-soft mozzarella. She sat in the center of a platter, flat-round like an underfilled water balloon. Around her were sliced plum tomatoes, and the assertive basil, now torn. Everyone was glistening with salt and olive oil.

My friends and I took turns digging our way through the platter. The burrata tasted of virgin milk, which contrasted with her texture, which reminded me of the breasts an almost-forty woman; still supple, yet substantial in the hand -- becoming more yielding with every moment. She was a perfect foil for that basil, who was at his arrogant best, and the first of the summer tomatoes, quiet and smug.

A Park Slope friend had invited me over for a pot-luckish dinner, alleging, “it’ll be a bunch of salads”. Always happy to taste and share, I offered, “I just rehydrated some beans -- they’re totally delicious. I’ll bring them!” I could hear disappointment in his silence. Beans are not the dish anyone clamors for.

And yet, I persisted. I tossed the pintos with avocado, chopped tomatoes, lime juice and baby arugula. The dish was pretty and tasty (there were some “mmmm”’s, and “how did you make that?”’s, but in the end I knew the beans remained the bastard dish.

And I was once again reminded that no matter how much I study my craft, and try to elevate the humble, Mother Nature will always kick my ass.

Pinto Beans
They’re sexier than you think.

1 1-pound bag pinto beans
1 bay leaf
an old onion you were thinking about throwing out, peeled and cut in half
a few cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed (ditto above)
½ teaspoon dried oregano
way more kosher salt than you think
cider vinegar or lime juice

1. Put pintos in a pot and cover with water by one inch. Bring to a boil; drain. Doesn’t the water seem extra-clear for some reason? I have no idea why, but I’ve always thought I was interesting.
2. Put the beans pack in the pot, rinse a few times. Cover again, now with about 2 inches of water. Add the bay leaf, onion, and garlic. Bring to a simmer, and simmer very gently, uncovered, until they are soft-firm, about 45 minutes to an hour.
3. Now here’s the key: Salt the beans from the very beginning. Add about a tablespoon to start, then taste the water after about 20 minutes of cooking. Is it bland? Add another teaspoon, then add pinches, every 5 minutes or so until that water is tasty. Remember – the water should be salty like the sea, and taste good. By the end, the water and beans will taste the same.
4. When done, add a couple teaspoons of cider vinegar, or the juice of a generous lime. Use that to balance the flavors; beans can be a bit flabby and improve with a little sour perk-up.

You Can Order Anything at the Butcher: Stuffed Peppers

2009-06-27T17:26:00.002-04:00

The terrific folks over at Hyperion have given me a box of Cook Yourself Thin books to distribute to industry friends. That's good, because I've spent at least a couple episodes' of revenue buying books and giving them away.

I decided that it would be classier to wrap said books than not, and wouldn't it be cute to wrap them in butcher paper and butcher string? Where does one go to get said "wrap"? To the butcher, I went!

I've got 20 books, so that's a heck of a lot of paper, more than I would feel comfortable asking for on the side. So I went to my guy, and asked if I could order some some butcher paper.

"Whaddya mean, 'butcher paper'?"

"I mean, the paper that you, the butcher, use to pack things up?"

"You mean this?" He holds up the white glossy paper that's thicker than parchment, and usually touches the meat.

"No, that's not it. The brown paper. There it is -- on the roll!"

"Ah, you mean peach paper."

I guess I did. And so I ordered a $40 roll -- enough to last me through a decade of baby gifts, showers, and Chanukah presents.

Butchers always seem like a rough-and-tumble lot to me. You know, carving up carcasses, handling meat. And yet, he called the stuff peach paper; not pink, not brown, not 'meat wrap'. It seemed so delicate; so precise.

And what was I expecting, exactly? After all, you don't go to China asking for Chinese food, now do you?

Antipasti Platter in Providence's Little Italy. The Stuffed Peppers are at 12 o'clock and 4 o'clock:

Stuffed Peppers
I suppose you could make them, but I don't, especially when trading favors with my butcher. These perky little peppers are stuffed with prosciutto and provolone, which both accentuate, enhance, and then relieve the fire in your mouth. They also come stuffed with breadcrumbs, but I like the low-carb version myself.

The Rhoda Moment: Chicken Fingers and Mint Chocolate Chip Muffins

2009-06-16T13:17:00.002-04:00

As part of the promotional effort for the Cook Yourself Thin TV show and cookbook, I found myself on the CBS morning show yesterday morning.

In effort to distract myself from the hoopla (as well as my goosebumps, and clattering teeth), I looked left right and center to get my bearings. Across Fifth Avenue was The Plaza, to the left was Bergdorff's and Central Park was to the right. If I looked up towards the sun, there were the building tops of midtown.

Thankfully, Candice Kumai was beside me, a partner in promotion, so I took a moment to distract us from out talking points and the public application of double stick tape to various parts of our bodies, and pointed some local points of interest. When I feel like a tourist in my own reality, nothing grounds me quite like the living history of New York City.

Here's a clip of the CBS Early Show appearance for Cook Yourself Thin.

And here's recipes for some of our recipes. I dig the Chicken Fingers -- and Harry, our CBS host was right; that Cole Slaw is tasty. Try the Mint Chocolate Chip Cupcakes.

Attentive Asparagus and Melting Strawberries: Asparagus Pesto

2009-06-06T16:07:00.009-04:00

I was at a roadside farmstand in the Hamptons this week when I asked a particularly daft question. When I arrived, the farmer told me that the only items that were local right now were the strawberries and the asparagus. She sighed, and seemed disappointed.

The strawberries looked good to me. Pretty, teeny and perky. The Lolitas of the farm.

I asked my farmette how long the strawberry growing season was. She looked at me quizzically and somewhat irritated. “Well that’s the $64 dollar question, ain’t it,” she said.

“???” I responded. Ears open, mouth shut.

“You see, we don’t know what the season is gonna be like, now do we. If we get sun, we get sweet berries. If we get rain, the berries melt in the field.”

“Melt?” I asked.

“Sure. Whaddya think happens to ‘em?” she smiled a scold, and walked away to unload a truck of fuschias.

Oof. I mean, I can appreciate hard labor, but I also like a sure thing, especially when it comes to earning a living. Farmers do their best with their land and technology, but in the end…as it has been said by many a Yiddish speaker before me: Man plans. God laughs.

And speaking of man, how ‘bout that asparagus? In New York City these erect little soldiers are just everywhere. Quite an eager suitor for that tart little strawberry, come to think of it. Yet I've never seen them in a dish together. Mutual availability doesn't always make a match.

I couldn't resist the temptation of the young asparagus; I had to have some. And when I arrived home carrying bunches of the stuff, I found their Jersey brothers already lining my vegetable bins. I had an asparagus harem. Oh what, oh what to do?

Nearly every farm stand in the Hamptons was selling asparagus pesto, and as everyone in the food business knows, pesto is a variation on the we-have-too-much-of-this-and-need-to-find-a-way-to-use-it-before-it-goes-bad theme. Jams, jellies, even ravioli and dumplings are all just a way to give food one last shot before it hits the bin. A culinary rope-a-dope, if you will.

So I tossed my bunch of Jersey asparagus with a little oil, salt and pepper, and charred it under the broiler. Then I threw it in the food processor with the tiniest clove or raw garlic, a generous shaving of parmesan, some just-toasted sliced almonds, and a little olive oil. Voila! Asparagus Pesto.

I spread the pesto on a cracker and dropped to my knees. This was the stuff! I could toss the pesto with pasta or garbanzos, or I could thin it with a little chicken stock to make a puree to put under striped bass or somesuch. I could served the dish with grilled lemons; my favorite.

And as for those strawberries? They were so sublime that I couldn't control myself; I ate them raw in the car. This season, it was the strawberries turn to make me melt.

Asparagus Pesto
Toss with spaghetti and some bay scallops, or spread on crackers and enjoy. Less aggressive than basil pesto, it's an incredibly satisfying way to get rid of the old and make room for the new.

1 bunch asparagus
1 tiny garlic clove
1/3 cup sliced almonds, toasted until golden
¼ cup Parmesan cheese (shaved on a Microplane grater)
olive oil, salt, pepper
verjus, sherry vinegar, champagne vinegar or lemon juice

1. Toss asparagus with a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper. Place on a baking sheet under the broiler. Babysit it until it sizzles, and gets a little color – 5 to 10 minutes depending on the aggressiveness of your broiler.
2. Place asparagus in a food processor with the garlic, almonds, parmesan, and another tablespoon or two of the olive oil. Pulse until chunky-pureed.
3. Taste. Good, right? Adjust for acidity with a tablespoon of verjus, or a teaspoon or 2 of vinegar or lemon juice

Adam’s Rib: Baby’s Got Back

2009-06-02T11:01:00.004-04:00

I used to date a guy named Adam. I outweighed him, even though he was taller by about 4 inches. This is not a situation I would recommend for any woman who wants to feel, you know, like a woman. You don’t want to be able to lift a man who can’t lift you; trust me.

Adam believed that he contracted a tapeworm, or something, when he was in Africa (a decade prior to dating me). His stomach often hurt; friends would give him cases of toilet paper for his birthday.

He hated, I mean hated mushrooms and Parmesan cheese. As a result, I tried to sneak them into everything I cooked. Often he did not detect them, which gave me great joy. But most nights, even when I didn't use Parmesan OR mushrooms, he'd push aside my creative efforts in favor of something he found more satisfying, like a candy bar.

Ah, Adam.

He is married, as I’ve learned through our shared housekeeper. I hear he's living very well. That’s nice, very nice for Adam.

And I mean that sincerely. You see, once the trauma of a break-up is over, ex's can be re-cast as a wonderful piece of the past who helped you become the person you are today. Like a college semester you spent in Tibet. You don’t necessarily want to live there now, but you’re glad you lived there then.

'Adam' is a name that comes up a lot. Beginning of the alphabet, earthy, strong, easy to spell. There’s a prayer that Jewish people recite in Hebrew before they eat vegetables 'Boray, p’ri, ha’adamah'; 'Blessed are the fruits of the earth' (also known as vegetables). 'Ha’adamah' means 'the earth'. Do you see what I see? 'Adam' = 'Earth'. It’s solid, and I enjoy its Hebrew bi-linguality.

It’s a strong name; a biblical name. When I make ribs, I can’t help but think of the original Adam, who was from the earth, and that temptress Eve, who was made from his rib (metaphorically speaking, of course).

And when I pick up a rack of baby backs, I can’t help but think of my own ample asset, which I didn't always consider an asset. You see, Baby’s got back. This cracks me up. I feel like I'm back in ’93 again with those two dufuses sitting around giggling, “Heh, heh. She said baby back. Heh, heh.”

It was hard to enjoy this asset of mine when I was dating Adam. I wanted to get small, smaller than him – smaller than would have ever been healthy. I mean really, people, who can compete with a tapeworm? Come to think of it, eating ribs was also something that I couldn’t enjoy with him.

His absence in my present helps me to enjoy two pleasures more than I would have otherwise. Had I a better body image, and not an ample posterior? It would have been enough for me. Had I Parmesan and mushrooms, and not all-I-can-eat pork for the rest of my life?

It would have been enough for me.

And thanks to my little man of the earth, today I enjoy these pleasures, more. That, friends, is the beauty of a well-loved ex, his departure, and a celebration of reclaimed assets.

Dayenu.

Adam’s Baby Backs with Eve’s Rub
Makes about 2 cups rub, and ribs for 4 to 6

For rib rub:
1/2 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup hot Hungarian paprika
1/4 cup chili powder
2 tablespoons onion powder
2 tablespoons garlic powder
1 tablespoon cayenne
1 tablespoon thyme
2 tablespoons espresso or cocoa powder

For ribs:
1/2 cup rib rub
2 slabs baby back ribs
1/2 cup your favorite barbeque sauce, as desired

1. For rub: Whisk together salt, sugar, paprika, chili powder, onion powder, garlic powder, cayenne, thyme and espresso in a medium bowl. Store in a cool, dry place in an airtight container for up to 6 months.
2. For baby back ribs: Using 1/4 cup of rib rub for each rack, generously cover ribs with rub. Wrap ribs completely in aluminum foil. Refrigerate overnight, or leave on the counter for 1 hour. Allow to come to room temperature before cooking.
3. Heat oven to 350F. Cook ribs for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until meat pulls away from bone at the ends. Remove ribs from oven, and very carefully remove from foil (there will be hot steam and liquid coming out.
4. Preheat grill to medium heat and lay ribs on grill rack. Cook, turning occasionally, basting ribs with sauce (if desired), until the sauce is set and the rib edges are crispy, about 10 to 15 minutes.

TIP: With ribs, slower, lower temperature cooking results in tender ribs. If you can, cook the ribs at 325F for 2 to 2 1/2 hours, or 300 for 3 to 3 1/2 hours.

TIP: If you don’t want to finish the ribs on the grill, simply remove the ribs from the foil and finish cooking for about 3 minutes per side under the broiler. The broiler will have a similar effect as the grill, crisping the edges and setting the sauce.

Old School Markets: Oxtail Stew

2009-04-28T12:13:00.003-04:00

Luck and a bit of free time found me in the Essex Street Market. I’d heard of it for far too long and was tired of answering “you mean you’ve never been?” in the negative.

Food purveyors are my peeps, literally. One of my great grandfathers was a seltzer man; his horse-drawn carriage schlepped fizzy water to thirsty Jews on the Lower East Side. Another great grandfather was a kosher butcher on 3rd Street and Avenue C, also on the Lower East Side.

Enclosed urban markets feel like pushcarts and pinched cheeses to me, a culinary time capsule. At Baltimore’s Cross Street Market there are unapologetic pints of Budweiser served in styrofoam cups, platters of just-shucked oysters and plenty of Old-Bay steamed crabs.

At the Arthur Avenue market in the Bronx, it’s like The Olive Garden – when you’re there, you’re family. There are old guys out front smoking just-rolled cigars and playing dominos. Italian is spoken, and gestured; it's like you’re on a Scorsese set.

Upon entering the Essex Street Market, I passed Anne Saxelby’s cheese shop and lingered a bit. The NY-state only cheese shop had been the impetus for my voyage, but line was long, with hipster mommies doing the baby sway, and I was worried that I might get checked into the wall at any moment. I moved along.

There was a second cheese shop in the back. In addition to cheeses, they had smoked and preserved meats, and pickles...I loved their tiny snack-sized sausages all saran wrapped and ready for me to toss in the bag. Cliff bars, eat your heart out.

This shop was also selling a Sicilian Olive Oil Blood Orange cake, which was “only offered on Fridays”. I asked why, and where it was made, knowing full well that the health department can play deaf-dumb-and-blind sometimes when it comes to immigrant traditions. My answer was a no-eye-contact “Wiliamsburg”. I got the sense that the woman behind the counter made it in her apartment, and schlepped it here on Fridays to make some extra bucks.

They gave me a sliver; it was irresistible. I paid my $4.50 for a 2 x 2-inch square, grabbed a snack sausage and kept moving.

To the right I noticed a barber shop with a mezuzah at the door in the market. You can find a lot of things at Whole Foods, but not a barber.

Just ahead was the butcher. I didn’t need anything; I just wanted to window shop, which as everyone knows is the best way to get your new-favorite thing, be it a dress, shoes, or in my case – a piece of meat.

On the side of the case there was a mound of, er…tails. Each tail was at least a foot and a half long, and undeniably tail-like. On the one hand, ewww. On the other hand, it could be tasty.

I was introduced to oxtail stew five years ago by a Brazilian woman with whom I was working. She talked up oxtails for months, then finally cooked a batch and brought them to the office. After she reheated the pot, she tossing in a bunch of watercress to finish the dish. The way she cooked, and tossed, and shared seemed so European (ok, South American) and sexy to me. When it was done, she walked around all puffed up talking about the power of Brazilian women.

I asked for the recipe. “Oh you know, it’s just a braise. Too simple for a recipe; there’s nothing to it. It’s the tail, and it’s cooked. For a long time. That’s it.

“How do I do it?” I wanted details.

“How do you do it?” she smiled. “You cannot; you are not Brazilian.” She wiggled her ample behind and sauntered off.

Yeah, yeah. I can’t make spring rolls because I’m Jewish, and you can’t make matzoh balls because you’re not. Garbage, all. There was the oxtail and this was my chance. I was taking it home.

Next, I needed the watercress. As I walked toward the vegetables, I passed a 65-year old, loud, big, grey haired man with a hard-to-place accent. He had the swagger of an institution, the type who would call himself “The Mayor of Essex Market”. As I walked by, he said, “You! Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”

I looked at him and checked behind me in both directions. “Me?” I asked, hand to my chest.

“Yes, you!” he bellowed. Other shopkeepers and shoppers were looking up from their now, nodding and smiling. Apparently, this was not an unusual outburst. “What are you doing looking so beautiful?! You distract me from my work!” He shook his head and smiled.

At the Essex Street Market, there’s plenty of stuff you won’t find. But the things you can, you won’t find anywhere else.

Essex Street Oxtail Stew
Serves 6 to 8

One oxtail (about 2 pounds), cut into ½-inch pieces
Kosher salt
1 cup flour
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 large onions (purple, yellow – whatever you’ve got)
4 cloves garlic, chopped
5 sprigs of thyme
2 bay leaves
1 bottle of red wine (my new fave is $5.95per bottle at Red, White and Bubbly –Georges Blanc)
fresh horseradish (I had this left over from Passover, so I peeled and grated it – about ½ cup, and added it to the party. Mmmm)
2 to 4 cups low-sodium chicken stock, or as needed
2 parsnips, peeled and cut into ¼-inch coins
2 carrots, peeled and cut into ¼-inch coins
2 turnips, peeled and cut into wedges
1 bunch watercress, washed and trimmed
lime wedges, for serving
mashed potatoes, couscous, rice, for serving

1. Season oxtails well with salt, and dredge in flour, tapping off excess. Heat oil in a large, wide braising pan over medium-high heat. Cook oxtail in batches, until browned, about 5 minutes per side. Remove and reserve.

2. Add onions, garlic, thyme and bay leaves to skillet. Season with salt and cook, stirring until beginning to soften, about 5 minutes. Scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of a pan with a wooden spoon. Return the oxtail to the pan, cover with red wine. Bring to a simmer and cover with parchment paper so that the heat of the steam stays in, but some liquid can escape. Let simmer for 3 hours, adding horseradish after the first 1½ hours. Checking to see if more stock is needed to keep the oxtail 2/3 covered with liquid. If it is, add it.

3. Add the parsnips, carrots, and turnips. Simmer until cooked through, another 30 to 40 minutes. Turn off the heat, and stir in the watercress. Taste, and adjust for salt as needed.

4. Serve over some sort of starch with lime wedges.

Passover is a Pain in the Ass: Roast Lamb, Cauliflower Kugel, Moroccan Carrots

2009-04-15T07:50:00.007-04:00

I hosted my first family seder last week. My Dad's a yeshiva boy, and I haven't belonged to a temple since my bat mitzvah, so it was bound to be a little touch-and-go. I chose to focus on the meal, and the ceremonial foods, as that was in my wheelhouse. Here's what I learned:

There's a reason no one in my family has done Passover since my grandmother passed the point of capable. It is a major pain in the tucchus. No really, I'll take Thanksgiving, Christmas, even latke frying any day of the week compared to the labor involved in Passover. Easter Ham? Please, people. I can rock that it in my sleep.

A key difference is that at Passover, you're required to sit around a table reading the story of Jewish servitude. That's cool, I like reading and I like stories. But the table's gotta be something worthy of having your relatives schlep miles to sit around. It's gotta look good. Ironed tablecloth, possibly a runner, flowers, glasses, China. Cloth napkins. Water pitchers. Wine. Now I'm not above the occasional paper plate, but this is Passover, and family elders were driving miles to be here. Go big or go home.

During the meal, there are all these food props. The seder plate, a stack of crumbly matzoh that gets cracked and hidden. Seasonal greens, hardboiled eggs, heck, even a salty dipping sauce. Haroset, maror, then we all dive into a make-your-own sandwich bar right before before dinner. Wine, wine and more wine.

Then, we can start thinking about the festive meal: a four course delight starting with gefilte fish and horseradish, roast chicken soup with matzoh balls, roast leg of lamb, kugel, and more. Oh, and here's a little wrench for added fun: you're not allowed to reach for any cook-comforts like flour, breadcrumbs, challah, rice, beans. Good luck with that.

For the desserts -- unless you're a masochist -- you ask someone to bring. Passover desserts are a craft unto their own; luckily I have a gifted baker cousin who was willing to buy that box of matzoh meal and make the magic happen. Alternatively, you can call your local Jewish bakery, or buy dried fruits and nuts and punt. Whatever you do, you must have those corn-syruppy fruit-slice jelly candies and macaroons. Because they're memories, and no one counts calories on Pesach.

Here's why it's worth doing. There was a moment of organization before the event, where I discussed with my Dad who'd be leading the service. I had a hagaddah, all marked up with stickies. Now, it's Jewish custom that the elder man at the table runs...everything, so I handed him the baton. He demurred, until we hit page 4 and it was time to say the blessing over the wine. The service would be his from then until the birkat hamazon (grace after meals).

And that is why the tsimmes (fuss) is worth it. To see my father, amidst his family, caught up in the moment, reliving his 60-something years of Passovers before, in the here and now. As always, the food is simply the backdrop for the experience. But as you're cleaning the 75th dish of the night, remember -- it's that care that allowed the moment to happen.

Anchovy Roast Leg of Lamb

Cauliflower Leek Kugel

Moroccan Carrots
Serves 4
Adapted from Einav Gefen

1 pound carrots, peeled and cut into “coins”
1 clove garlic, minced
1 scallion, thinly sliced
2 Tablespoons chopped parsley
1-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and minced
1/4 cup lemon juice
2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
1 Tablespoon finely chopped mint
¼ cup olive oil
pinch ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground cumin
pinch red pepper flakes
1-2 teaspoons honey, as desired
salt for boiling water, plus more to taste
freshly ground black pepper

1. Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Add 1 tablespoon salt and carrots, boil for 2-3 minutes, until the rawness is gone, but the carrot is still firm. Drain.

2. Meanwhile, combine garlic, scallions, parsley, ginger, juices, mint, olive oil, cinnamon, cumin, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. Pour over carrots and marinate until ready to serve. Taste, and add honey if needed. Serve warm, room temperature or chilled.

When You're Hot, You're Hot: Homemade Pizza

2009-03-30T08:38:00.005-04:00

As some of you know, I've got a dough-phobia. Pie dough and pizza doughs leave me reaching for something store bought and jealous of my pals who can do it with ease. When I bitch about my no-dough hands? All I hear is "Allison, there's nothing to it."

This is very annoying. It's not like I haven't tried. But given my line of work, it behooves me to face my kitchen demons, and make a sincere effort to tackle the things which it appears I have no natural talent for.

So I pitched a story on making pizza at home to mainstreet.com, which meant I had to figure it out. I do things like that. I once bought a stick shift car without knowing how to drive it because I wanted to learn. In San Francisco.

I learned, and am proud to say that clutch made it for 10 years.

Forcing functions work. So I asked on of those "nothing to it" friends to come over and show me how. Turns out the thing is damn easy.

For the dough, we started with:
2 cups of water
1 packet of yeast dissolved in 1 1/4 cups of warm water
salt

You make a well in the flour, which is just sitting pretty in a heap on the countertop. Then you whisk in about 1 cup of the yeast water. So far, the process is similar to making pasta dough, and the aesthetic of the well-dough on the counter makes me feel very old school Italian, which means, I admit, I'm enjoying the process.

Then you start kneading, and keep kneading until it's "as sticky as a lint roller", adding a bit more flour and water as you go. Should take about 10 minutes, which means you won't have to do push-ups later. Oh, and add a generous pinch of salt at some point.

Then you let the dough sit for about half an hour, or up to 2 days in the fridge. Get a cast iron skillet or griddle smoking hot on your stovetop, and turn the broiler on. Pinch the dough out until it's pretty thin, then plop it on the screaming cast iron (not joking, make sure it screams). Put your toppings on -- chopped tomatoes and mozzarella; I've been playing with mandolin-thin purple onions, gruyere, green olives, rosemary and olive oil. It's pizza, it's flatbread; it can be whatever you what you want it to be.

Lay the covered dough (moving quickly now) on a rack about 4-inches under the broiler. Watch as the sides puff! Watch as it begins to char! Take it out when the cheese is melty, in about 4 minutes. Devour.

So it's not your traditional Rays pizza. Which makes sense, because I ain't Ray. But it is delicious - and it doesn't require an 800-degree oven. It gave me a sense of accomplishment, and the thrill of meeting a demon head on, shaking hands, and realizing that he's not such a bad guy after all.

The Slippery Slope to Prime Meat: Skirt Steak with Chimichurri

2009-02-22T11:53:00.003-05:00

Park Slope, where I hang my hat, is a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood; the kind where there’s a steady stream of boutiques opening where yesterday’s bodega used to be. I like to window shop, because everything’s beautiful, but it’s definitely an “if you have to ask you cant afford it” type of neighborhood. I tend to limit my local shopping to the grocery variety.

So this week, I was taking my dog for an early morning walk, and found myself near a posh grocery store. They were roasting chicken with rosemary -- even Kayla's nose started to tweak. I was hungry. I needed meat.

I walked to the meat guy, and spied a nice piece of skirt steak. It's my go-to; always dependably tasty, and usually around $6 per pound. Unfortunately, this USDA prime meat had it’s price tag obscured, so I had to engage in the humiliating Park Slope game of ask the price from the snooty salesperson.

I could see it was more than one-digit a pound, so I figured 10, 11 tops. “That’s $14 a pound mam.” I looked at the meat man-child incredulously. “$14!!?” I asked/exclaimed. “It’s Prime meat, ma’am.”

I looked at him. He was pulling tone. I was in a grocery store at 8AM, and not going to let him get away with making me feel like a moron for what, quite clearly, was price gouging. “I understand it’s prime meat. I don’t need prime, this is a cheap cut and we both know that.”

“Well you can go to Key Food or Associated, if that’s how you shop.” Big dig.

I may not have enough money to shop here, but I sure can have an opinion, “They have wonderful butchers, but typically select. I want choice. Can I order it from you?”

“We’re prime only.”

I thanked him for his time and did a lap around the store. This was ridiculous. The same meat at Fairway (that’s right, prime), was $4.99 just last week. Argh.

He motioned me over. “Listen lady, you seem like you really want this steak. I’m not going to argue with you about it. How much you want?”

“But I, I…I don’t have my wallet, and I only have $20 on me”

“How much you want?”

“3 pounds?” I said, sheepishly.

He measured out my gorgeous, marbled skirt steak and slapped on a sticker indicating that this was chopped meat at $5.99 per pound.

When asked, I always encourage my cooking students to develop relationships with their food purveyors; and this is exactly why. Your fish guy, meat guy, and Italian specialty guy want to deal with someone who appreciates what they do. Everyone, from children to grocery stores, likes to test the limits. And the only thing that trumps getting your way is finding a worthy opponent who raises your game.

On this night, I had my steak and ate it to. Thank you, Fernando. I’ll be back soon.

Skirt Steak with Chimichurri Sauce
Serves 4

1 ¼ cups fresh Italian parsley (packed)
1 cup cilantro leaves (packed)
2 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
1/2 cup olive oil
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
1/4 to ½-teaspoon dried crushed red pepper
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 pounds boneless hanger, skirt, or rib-eye steaks, about 1/3-inch thick

1. To make the chimichurri: In the bowl of a food processor, combine parsley, cilantro, and garlic and chop. Place chopped parsley mixture in a bowl and whisk in 1/2 cup olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and crushed red pepper. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Refrigerate at least 4 hours. (Can be made 1 day ahead.) Bring to room temperature before using.
2. Heat a large cast iron skillet over medium-high heat until very hot (smoke will rise from the surface of the skillet). Sprinkle the steaks with salt and pepper and add them to the skillet. Cook for 3 minutes without turning. Then sear on the other side for 3 minutes. Allow the steak to sit for 5 minutes before cutting into slices on the bias. Serve the steak slices drizzled with the chimichurri sauce.

PS. Days later I popped by the store to pick up a little Gruyere for French Onion Soup. The cashier rang up my purchase, but for some reason, the cheese rang up as $0.00. I couldn't do it again; I had to let her know. Honesty; it's what you make of it. :-)

Valentine's Day with The One Who Loves Me: Berries and Cream

2009-02-14T10:23:00.006-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day, dear reader!

We have shared three V-Days. They were some very poignant times, but ooh boy am I glad to have fallen down, brushed off, and carried on. For me, Valentine's Day marks the end of a Bermuda triangle of romantic expectations starting with Thanksgiving, moving into Xmas/Chanukah, hitting it's peak on New Years, and resolved by Valentine's Day. A pentagon of prospects, possibilities, and (let's face it) presumption.

I know you know what I'm talking about.

If you're in any sort of relationship, and can navigate around these cairns unscathed, then tell me how it's done. I have a tendency to drive the car straight into the lamp post, and can file these wrecks under "learning experiences". There was the "I love you now it's over" break-up with JChef in 2006, the admission of my Valentine's Day card and chocolate pudding habit in 2007, and the final "ain't that horse dead yet?" JChef break up of 2008. At least there's a link to a really awesome NPR break-up piece at the bottom, and foreshadowing of good things to come with Andrew, AKA Kidalicious, who recently bowed out of the race and resumed friend status. Kid, we were all rooting for you; why'd you forfeit the game?

Someday I'd like to make a relationship board game and when I do, these holidays will have the significance of Boardwalk and Park Place stacked with 5 hotels. It would be combined with the prophecy of a Magic-8 ball letting you know if it really was a good decision to have sex that soon...and a telling physical component like Twister (after you've been dating for a year, and doesn't ask you to his brother's wedding...do you still think he wants a relationship? Yes? Then stand on your right food, put your left foot behind your head, close your eyes and hop across the room while holding a martini. If you can do it without spilling, stay in the relationship, dufus).

Hell, people. What doesn't kill you make you stronger. But don't mistake my sarcasm for bitterness: I still believe. Yes we can. It's all different now.

Which is precisely why this year, I had a little Valentine's week hang with that person who will always love me, deeper and more unconditionally than any other. That's right people, I did a Valentine's love-in with momma. She visited for a week of winter love, the kind where you snuggle up on the couch, watch movies, and wonder exactly when the senility will start (see, moms let you make those kinds of jokes and *still* get you a birthday present).

And because I was feeling all romantic for the coming V-Day, I made special meals for mom where she could dine on aphrodisiacs like mussels and artichokes, and then call my Dad and coo sweet things to him. Awww...

But the real treat of the weekend was the classic Valentine's indulgence: Strawberries and Whipped Cream. That's right people, I pulled out all my kitchen stops to seduce my mother. Because after champagne, and a full meal, why shove down another 750 calories of chocolate when you can enjoy a nice fruit dessert?

Because everyone's looking for those stemmed strawberries (the fruit equivalent of a long stemmed rose), you can find good grocery store value. And thanks to our global economy, they're sweet as all get-out, red to the core; a perfect companion to hand-beaten whipped cream. For the cream, select some top quality organic heavy or whipping cream, pick up your whisk and go to town. But pass on the sugar. By doing so, you get to enjoy the berries natural sweetness unencumbered by cloying sugar. This actually makes the strawberries taste sweeter.

Let's carry that metaphor to the end: On Valentine's Day, don't cover up the natural sweetness with an overly sweet companion (mediocre $150 prix fixe dinner, anyone?). Step aside, look for the all-natural organic love, and enjoy it's deliciousness.

Cook Yourself Thin Dinner Party: Friends & Flavor

2009-02-03T08:47:00.011-05:00

Ach! I've been remiss in my blogging, again. I'm sorry, and I thank you for sticking with me. Good news is -- I'm planning some innovations, and have my best people taking endless classes at the Mac store to that end.

Now you and I might be words people at heart, but let's admit it, no words can replace the sounds of sizzle, or the image of chocolate icing dripping down the sides of a cake. Soon, I'll be adding pictures, sound and video...I promise.

In addition, I have some news. I am co-hosting the upcoming Cook Yourself Thin, which will be appearing on Lifetime in May. It's the US version of a UK show where a couple of food-loving gals demonstrate kitchen techniques and recipes to women who are interested in dropping a dress size while preparing the home-cooked foods they love. My co-hosts are the lovely Harry Eastwood and Candice Kumai. Harry and Candice are wonderful women who have become fast friends; in addition to working together long hours, we've been playing together too.

When our shoot wrapped, Harry invited Candice and me over for a relaxed dinner at her apartment. Keep in mind that we spend all day together cooking in a kitchen, so to the untrained eye, this could seem like a busman's holiday. But in truth, we're just women who like to cook, so when we found ourselves in a kitchen together without worrying about camera angles and makeup, we played!

And at this dinner, the food behaved beautifully. It took center stage for a bit, while we ooohed and aaahed over it's simple deliciousness, then retreated graciously while enjoyed the best part of a dinner party, one another.

On Harry's Menu:
Steamed Globe Artichokes with a Swiss Vinaigrette
Skate with Beurre Noisette
Fennel and Sea Bean Salad with Basil and Tarragon
Cheese and Chocolate

Artichokes with Vinaigrette:
Harry plonked the artichokes in water for about 30 to 45 minutes, until the stems could be pierced with the tip of a paring knife, and the leaves pulled easily. To accompany, she made a strong (acidic, flavorful) emulsified vinaigrette with cider vinegar, Djion, olive oil, and generous amounts of salt and pepper. I'm used to drawn butter or mayo with my chokes, so this perky partner was a happy new find for me.

Skate with Beurre Noisette:
The great news here is that Americans still consider skate restaurant food, so for those of us willing to give it a try, we're rewarded with a competitive price -- Harry said the 3 skate wings, deboned, cost her less than $7 total. She sauteed them, them popped them under the broiler to reheat. To go along with, she made a lovely brown butter sauce.

Fennel and Sea Bean Salad with Basil and Tarragon:
Now this is where simple home cooking starts to get me very excited. By using an ingredient like sea beans, Harry made a relatively simple salad seem exotic. She blanched the beans, and partnered it with thinly sliced fennel, which she soaked in ice water, to take some of the bite out. She combined the two veg (which look tangled and sexy on a plate together), and tossed them in a wonderfully herby vinaigrette. In the US, we often use herbs the way we use spices...in a very small amount. Harry uses a generous hand with her herbs so that we enjoyed vivid flavor with minimal kitchen fuss. Outside of a restaurant, I've not used sea beans in my cooking. Thanks so a little kitchen inspiration from Harry, this will be remedied pronto.

Cheese and Chocolate:
The ultimate low fuss (and satisfying) dessert. Yes you can!

Tis the Season for Short Ribs

2008-12-17T08:49:00.004-05:00

Holiday dinner parties, commence! And please, hostesses, I beg...this year, carry the conviviality into those cold bleak deep winter days. When the goodwill gets used up in December, by January I feel like a latecomer to the sushi station at a bar mitzvah. All the fatty tuna is gone.

In 2009, kindly consider stretching the holiday hospitality to the post-mistletoe days when it's needed most. Ah, what the heck. I'll throw a couple dinner parties of my own this winter. Sign up sheets are on the door.

Luckily, I have a bit of experience in this realm; just prior to Thanksgiving, BusinessweekTV asked me to put together a segment on dinner parties for under $100. I was as happy as an unemployed on-camera host to oblige. Just one month later, and already $100 seems extravagant for a five-course dinner for 6. Can you do it for $60? Oh yes I can. With lobster $5 per pound (!) I'm can turn water to wine. (Granted, those are the thick-shelled, winter lobsters, but as you're wrestling with the crustacean, remember, the sweetest meat comes in the toughest shell).

Check out the segment. Although they don't show the $30 I spent on dessert, trust me, it was good. A big chunk of grana padana, four different chocolates, amaretti cookies (so satisfying! and don't you love the tin?), and fresh winter fruit.

Here's the recipe for the short ribs. Braise them a few days ahead, or a month ahead and freeze. Serve over polenta, risotto, or celeriac puree. See you in January!

Short Ribs in Red Wine
Serves 6

1 tablespoon olive oil
4 pounds bone-on beef short ribs, cut into 2 to 3 inch pieces
kosher salt
freshly ground pepper (if desired)
1 large onion, chopped
2 carrots, peeled and cut into rounds
2 stalks celery, sliced about 1/3-inch thick
2 garlic cloves, chopped
bay leaf
Kosher salt
3 sprigs rosemary
5 sprigs thyme
1 (28-ounce) can whole peeled tomatoes
2 cups red wine (or more to cover)
grated zest of one lemon
¼ cup chopped parsley
2 tablespoons finely grated fresh horseradish (or drained prepared horseradish, if fresh is unavailable)

1. Heat a large pot or dutch oven over medium-high heat and add oil. Generously season short ribs, add short to pan and cook until brown, about 4 minutes per side. You may need to do this in batches so as not to crowd the pan and inhibit browning.
2. Remove short ribs from pan and discard excess fat, leaving 2 tablespoons oil in the pan. Add onion, carrots, celery, garlic, and bay leaf reduce heat to medium and cook until soft, about 10 minutes.
3. Return short ribs to pan with rosemary and thyme. Squish tomatoes into the pot, and add all tomato liquid. Cover ribs with red wine; don’t exceed 3 cups (it doesn’t need to completely cover; it can be a little short). If the liquid doesn’t cover, cover the surface of the ribs with parchment paper (to trap the steam) and cut out a whole in the center so the steam has a place to go.
4. Bring to a gentle simmer, and simmer until ribs are tender, 2 ½ to three hours. Remove and serve with sauce. Reduce sauce, if desired, to thicken; season if needed.
5. Sere ribs garnished with lemon zest, parsley, and horseradish.

5th Avenue Freeze Out: Breakfast Rice and Beans

2008-12-05T09:04:00.004-05:00

It's frigging cold in New York. And I have no heat or hot water. In fact, I haven't had either for two weeks.

Because I'm a little bit outside the bell curve, this doesn't bother me all that much. It treat my condition like a challenge, my own surviror: at home episode, winter camping indoors. I have a lot of sweaters and blankets, for one, and a nifty electric space heater. I cope.

Foodwise, I require a lot of hot beverages in the evenings, and absolutely must have a warm breakfast.

I'm a savory breakfast kind of girl, so I don't reach for the bisquick or frozen waffles. Scrambled eggs don't hold the heat, and oatmeal feels too fiber-functional. I've been trying to make some room in the pantry, so I'm always rehydrating (pinto, black, cranberry) beans, and cooking up a pot of (brown, jasmin, basmati) rice. That means at any given time, I have delicious rice and beans, separately, in my refrigerator.

And since I love a savory morning, I'm not wishing for Fruity Pebbles as I toss the nutritious duo in a small skillet, with some salsa for a flavor boost. When the thing is warm (after about a minute on a medium flame) I crack an egg into the center, and cover the skillet with a lid.

After three minutes, I have a sunnyside up egg, with delicious, savory rice and beans -- a quick huevos rancheros. I could add chopped cilantro, sour cream, grated cheddar, avocado, jalapenos, and corn tortillas (if I felt like it), but that would require that I open the refrigerator. I haven't warmed up quite yet.

I pour the steaming savory skillet into a bowl and eat. Lots of flavor, varied texture, and a nice nutritious egg yolk to make a sauce. It's a warming way to begin the day, a meal I'll enjoy long after the heat goes on.

Restaurant Mistakes: Take it Or Leave It?

2008-11-22T13:54:00.012-05:00

The Boyfriend formerly known as Kid-alicious and I were enjoying a celebratory meal at Kefi this week. The Upper West Side's gift to Greek is the scene of our first date, and many subsequent meals with family and friends. It's our place; important enough that he's pre-claimed it in exchange for letting me keep my dog, should a break-up occur.

TB had made it through his first weekend working for my favorite former boss, and she has been making pleasant small talk with him, so we were celebrating. We ordered some our favorite mezze: the crispy codfish with oven roasted tomatoes; the sweetbreads with lemon, spinach and caperberries; the taramasolata and warm pita, among others. Oh, yes.

In our ordering frenzy, we lost track of exactly what we asked for. So when a plate of meatballs landed on the table, instead of thinking, not ours, he picked up his fork and went to town. The Waitron arrived minutes later, waving her hands and saying, "Omigod! That wasn't yours! Omigod!" She ripped the plate from the table, and scurried away, like Chicken Little.

He made a little frown.

TB: "Well, at least I got to try one."
Me: "Were they good?"
TB: "Really good."

I let it go, for a second.

Me: "What do you think she did with them?"
TB: "You know what she did with them; she threw them in the garbage. She can't serve them."
Me: "Well she didn't have to throw them out."

I believe that mistakes like this are an opportunity to do something unexpectedly nice. If it's going in the trash anyway; why not just let us have them and avoid the awkwardness of taking food away?

When she returned to the table, I couldn't help myself.

Me: "Can I ask you something?"
WHAM! Something fast slammed into my shin.

Waitron: "Sure."
Me: "What happened to those meatballs that were on our table?"
Waitron: "Well, first the manager really yelled at me, and then, you know..."

I looked at her, full of inquiry. Then the table popped up; TB was now digging the heel of his shoe into my foot.

Waitron: "Then, um, I threw them in the trash."
Me: "Really? The trash?"
Waitron: "Yah. We can't serve them, and you didn't order them, so you know..."

Yeah, I know. I know that I'm here frequently enough that I get a hello-again smile when I walk through the door. I also know that you can't serve a half-eaten dish once you've already served it. But you can leave it where it is, tell the guests you made a mistake, and tell them it's on you.

This seems like a better option than feeding the mistake to a garbage bag.

Kefi
222 West 79th Street (Broadway)
Upper West Side
Manhattan, NY
(212) 873-0200.

NY Times Review

NY Magazine Review

Seasonal Shmegegee: Buttercup Soup

2008-11-19T10:33:00.007-05:00

As I was walking home from the gym, swearing to god I’d be a better Jew if he could give me the strength to say no to carbs this holiday season, I passed by my local farmer’s market.

It occurred to me that my empty-fridge approach to dieting was not a good one. Weight Watchers grants dieters unlimited amounts of certain foods; sexy stuff like water, broccoli, celery and carrots; fibrous fat free alternatives to my usual chocolate, pasta, and cheese. It's best to fill up on the forgiving when trying to lose weight.

I’m not sure what attracts the hipsters to my market, but that’s who lurks amongst the cruciferous vegetables and tubers. From what I can tell, these folks purchase vegetables as decor for their home, an alternate to that retro ashtray.

Lest ye think I fib, witness the following conversation I heard while waiting on line:

Customer 1: “Those beets you're holding are like, amazing looking. They like still have their stems and leaves. They’re so cute and like, real and beet-y, and like from the farm. I love them.”

Customer 2: “Yah, I know, I had to have them. I totally love them.”

Pause. Pause. Pause.

Customer 2: “Want to hear something really crazy?”

Customer 1 gives a nonverbal invitation to crazy-share.

Customer 2 “I’ve never cooked beets.”

Customer 1: “Weird. You're a vegetarian, right? So weird.”

Customer 2: “Actually, I'm a flexitarian, so I'm an omnivore, but whatevs. Anyway beets, I mean, how hard can it be, right? Like, I’m basically going to boil them, right?”

Customer 1: “Or roast them, right? Like in an oven?”

Customer 2: “Yah, totally. Um, but I should like blanch them before I roast them, right?”

[Blanching a beet before roasting is like rinsing a box of dried pasta before you boil it.]

Customer 1: “Definitely. Definitely blanch them and then roast them. I mean, like, you have to. Or they'd be gross.”

Customer 2: “Yah. Totally gross. They’re like so pretty. Yah.”

Listen up ladies, these are beets. Not a scarf, not earrings, not a pair of shoes. If you don’t know how to cook them, that’s okay, but admit it and then go home and figure it out. Don’t toss around terms that don’t make sense. You sound like a couple of shmegeggees, and that's not hip.

Personally, I’m totally stumped by those cute little buttercup squashes. They’re everywhere, mocking me like little orange and green striped turbans. So I took one home, and did a little web research. Three recipes for buttercups on epicurious. Only seven on foodnetwork. There are more recipes for toast.

I was like a new mother without Spock; I’d have to rely on my instincts.

So I peeled the thing (major pain), sliced it and roasted it with an onion and a couple of sprigs of thyme. When it was golden and soft, I pureed it with some buttermilk and maple syrup (it’s what I had), and was in keeping with my hopes of thinness.

It was really good. Subtle, interesting; a muted peach-orange color, creamy, and a wee bit tart. Gentle. It wasn’t rocket science, but it was different and good and I’d tried something new.

Moral of the story: this fall (maybe for the holidays) pick up something you’ve never cooked before. For the sake of your waistline (and community involvement), make it a vegetable from the farmers market. Research, then give it a go. If it fails, order out. If it succeeds, you just made a new friend.

What’s to stop you? All you have to lose is that which you don't know.

Buttercup Soup
The fun in this soup is the double-butter; buttermilk, buttercup, yet virtually fat free. Even better, because of those onions it's super creamy.

Makes 4 to 6 servings.

1 small buttercup squash, peeled and cut into 1-inch wedges
1 vidalia onion, cut into 1-inch wedges
5 sprigs thyme
1 tablespoon olive oil
Salt
3/4 cup buttermilk
1 1/4 cups skim milk
1 tablespoon maple syrup
Minced chives, for garnish

1. Preheat oven to 425. Place squash, onion and thyme sprigs on a roasting pan, drizzle with oil and sprinkle with salt; toss. Place in oven until golden and soft, about 25 to 35 minutes.

2. Discard thyme sprigs, and place roasted vegetables in a blender. Add buttermilk, skim milk and maple syrup; puree. Add more liquid if needed, choose buttermilk for more tartness and skim for less.
3. Pass soup through a strainer; remove and discard solids. Adjust seasonings as desired. Serve soup warm or chilled, garnished with chives.

Don't Rely On Pie: Apple Crumble

2008-11-07T09:01:00.001-05:00

Pie, pie, pie. Friggin’ pie.

Pie is my undoing in the fall. It taunts me from the covers of Saveur, mocks me on Martha, and sits innocently, in a $4.99 kind of way, at every two-bit grocery store in this fine democratic nation.

Friggin’pie. Every since my stint working for Martha, when she let a room full of people know that “You should never, ever make a pie crust again,” – this from the woman who has the ability to motivate women to spackle their ceilings. I sigh: pie.

But every year, I attempt the thing, and every year I zero in on what I need to do differently. I need to work the dough more, or work it less. Do more frissage (schmearing in of the butter to the flour), use my hands, use my food processor, buy a marble slab to chill, for forty days and forty nights, so that I achieve the perfect temperature and my moody-as-a-teenager dough will work with me.

And I will continue to try, because I have a dream and that dream is that I am the type of woman who can make a kick ass pie. And, because when I fail at pie, I get to enjoy my favorite morning carb: breakfast pie. (The pie is a disaster. I cannot subject others to it! But yet, I cannot waste…)

Until I get it right, when I need an I-have-5-pounds-of-fresh-picked-apples-in-my-fridge dessert, I can count on crumble. Like pie, I get that hot mushy-cinnamon-appleness, and instead of a layer of crust, there’s a pecan and brown sugar crunch topping. Plus, it gives me a reason to buy a pint of perfection: Haagen Daazs Vanilla Bean Ice Cream.

Friggin’ pie.

Apple Crumble
Makes 6 to 8 servings

For the topping:
1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup rolled oats
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small bits and chilled
1/2 cup pecans

For the fruit filling:
5 apples, combination of Rome and Golden delicious for firmness, macintosh for sauciness, peeled cored and thinly sliced
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon flour
Juice from 1/2 lemon
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat oven to 375F. For the topping: In a food processor, combine flour, oats, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Pulse to combine.

2. Add the butter and pulse 6 to 8 times until mixture has pea-sized pieces of butter mixed in with the flour and oats. Add the pecans and pulse a few more times to coarsely chop the pecans and to mix them through the topping. Transfer the topping to a bowl and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the apples, sugar, flour, cinnamon, lemon juice, and salt. Toss ingredients together. Transfer the filling into an 8 x 8-inch baking dish.

4. After the topping has chilled, loosely scatter it over the top of the fruit in the baking dish. Bake for until fruit is bubbly and top is golden, 35 to 45 minutes. Cool for 15 minutes before serving.

Marathon Carbonara

2008-11-03T08:51:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was my favorite Sunday of the year, the New York City Marathon. The event turns the five boroughs inside-out (forget about driving), with over 2 million spectators cheering on 40,000 runners.

The marathon doesn’t suffer from the obvious consumerism of the Thanksgiving parade; this event feels like the city itself; difficult, sweaty, and leaves you panting, but encourages you just as you’re about to give up, and helps you over the finish line. It’s a tangible manifestation of love and support, self-imposed challenges and successfully rising to that challenge.

I ran it in 2005 and loved every minute of it (though the training, not so much). I make it a point to scream my head off in support of the runners every year. For those who couldn’t make it, or who want to relive it, join me for:

The Six Faces of the NYC Marathon
Face 1: The anticipation of the runners. The faithful are out before the race, coffee and pom poms in hand. They are largely friends and loved ones of the runners, with their homemade posters of encouragement.

This group gets me going – it means it’s officially marathon Sunday, and I’m getting chills for the excitement of the day. I’m emotionally anticipatory and the supporters bring a few tears, because they’re so sincere in their celebration and love of their friends.

Face 2: Achilles runners. Achilles runners are other-abled; this running club supports blind runners, wheelchair runners, those with MS. These are the most motivating runners.

I saw a few men in their arm-powered cycles with a flag that said “new veteran”, next to a US flag. These men who looked like they hadn’t been old enough to serve just five years ago had returned home without the appendage they left with. I found myself with more tears; it’s hard not to feel humbled in the face of such unapologetic earnest determination.

Face 3: The top runners, moving faster than I can sprint for 26.2 miles. No tears, just awe.

Face 4: The masses. When I ran the marathon, a friend told to put my name on my shirt. “You have no idea how much you need to hear that,” he counseled.

He was right. This marathon thing is hard, especially if you’re running for 4 hours, like me. I go out there and scream every last name I can read at the top of my lungs; if they didn’t need it, they wouldn’t have taped their names to their shirt.

The runners always seem surprised to hear their name; returning my yelp with a thumbs up, mouthing the words ‘thank you’, or giving me a warm smile.

The tears come, sure enough, from the other words I read on these shirts: “for Dad”, “for Aunt Kate”, “for my son”. Sometimes there is a picture (of an 8-year-old), sometimes there is a birth and death date. Either way, you know that when these folks are taking the most difficult strides, they are pulling their strength from someone who isn’t there that day.

Face 5: The crowd thins out. Now the runners are 70 year old women in decorated bras, 80 year old men with odd, labored gates or small groups of Japanese women, running slowly and supportively in a group with enormous smiles. The sweep truck comes (akin to the Santa float in the Macy’s parade), but the stragglers keep coming. These folks will be run/walking 8-hour marathons and need the support.

At this point, I strolled over to the dance party in Ft. Greene Brooklyn, with a DJ who welcomed every marathon straggler like he was a dearly loved sibling who’d just been released from a “you-got-the-wrong-guy” prison stint 10 years. Like those welcome home parties you’d see on old episodes of the Sopranos.

With the proper words of recognition and shouts of the crowd, suddenly these gasping folks were hopping and dancing with the kind of smiles you usually see on a blissed-out toddler.

Face 6: It’s over, baby. See you next year. The winners have already crossed the finish line and the only thing left to do is take that face in the mirror to the gym for a no-holds-barred work out.

Spaghetti Carbonara
Serves 4 to 6

Carbonara has all the things that we want, but deny ourselves, like bacon, whole eggs and cheese. To heck with it; life’s too short for all that denial.

Why are we always so stressed out about bacon consumption, anyway? I decided to look into this, and flipped over my pack-of-pork to see how many calories are in a strip of bacon. I was thinking 80 calories, maybe 110? '

Turns out, a piece of cooked bacon has 30 calories. It surprised me too. I can burn that off on a 15-minute dog walk. Do some sit ups and eat your bacon; your eyes, nose and ears will thank you.

3/4 pound spaghetti or bucatini
¾ pound sliced bacon, chopped
4 large eggs
1 ½ cups pecorino romano, grated
kosher salt and coarse black pepper
¾ cup roughly chopped parsley, or 1 cup frozen peas (optional)

1. In a pasta pot, bring salted water to a boil and cook spaghetti according to package directions for al dente. Add frozen peas (if using) for the last minute of cooking.
2. In a large, wide pot (large enough to fit the pasta), cook the bacon over medium heat until crispy, about 6 to 8 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and reserve; pour out excess bacon fat and discard. Remove pan from heat, and let cool slightly.
3. Add eggs to pot and whisk together; add cheese. Add hot pasta and peas or parsley (if using), and toss with tongs until pasta is coated with sauce. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

When In Salem, Do As Witches Brew: Bourbon

2008-10-24T12:21:00.009-04:00

I am a firm believer that the best travel days are the unplanned ones. I prefer the barest of provisioning, a skeleton of an agenda, and hopes for happy stumbles to plane tickets, scheduled dinners and fuss.

Last weekend I went to see my college roommate in Boston. She’d been working too hard and needed an excuse to play outside the city. We went apple picking in Ipswich and stumbled upon a chowder festival, then went lobster-roll hunting and fell upon a party in Salem, Massachusetts.

Turns out that for the entire month of October, Salem is a Halloween festival for adults. The cobblestone streets running the length of downtown are filled with vendors selling witches’ hats, reading tarot, and yes, offering the ubiquitous street-fair kettle korn (I cannot resist it’s power). There are bats in the trees, men in capes, and the ghosts of the women who were killed for sorcery in the late 1600s. Don't believe me? Go feel the vibe for yourself.

I love Halloween, but as it turns out, I'm a bit too prim to dress up the way so many women do. Gone are the days of my Tattinger Girl and Sex Cat costumes. The last time I tried to hedge my bets with cute (Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz), my boyfriend's ex showed up as Rollergirl and I won the frump award. No thanks.

To put ourselves in the mood, we signed up for a dungeon tour led by an enthusiastic Australian in a top hat. Spoooooky. With time to kill, we hopped on our brooms and flew over to the Salem's central hotel, to get our Octoberfest on.

After wading our way through the weddings thick with coastal Mass accents (no, they’re not joking), we relaxed at the bar. Within minutes, two witches sat on the stools next to us. They had long black and green hair, hats with blinking lights, and long black dresses. They carried small cauldrons of something, and my drinking partner couldn’t help but inquire, “Whatcha got in that cauldron?”

“Eye of newt. Would you like one?” Witch 1 asked.

“Yes, please,” said my friend.

We unwrapped and sucked on our crisp chocolate balls, not sure where this conversation would lead. They began:

“We Halloween in Salem every year,” said Witch 2. Some summer, others winter. They Halloween; these women were living my dream.

“We’re up from Philadelphia for the weekend. We’re old high school pals," added Witch 1.

Soon we were talking about jobs, kids, and where one could get a good deal on a witches hat in Salem. They ordered 2 bourbons on the rocks.

And then Witch 1 removed a packet from her frock, added something to her drink and mashed it down with a spoon. “You never know if a bar will have good mint, so I bring my own,” she explained.

If you want a Halloween potion done right, best to make it yourself.

Bourbon Drinks
from Cocktaildb.com:

Mint Julep

Boston Sour

Manhattan

Hot Brick Toddy

American Grogg

The 3 Year Old Egg: Apples and Onions

2008-10-06T14:07:00.005-04:00

I recently had a friend visit from Boston. She, like many before her, was brimming with enthusiasm to visit New York. Couldn't wait to walk around Central Park in the fall, yada yada yada.

But was there any way to avoid Brooklyn? It would mean an extra hour on her trip, the BQE, and, with all due respect, it ain't Manhattan. No matter what the Slopers and the BillyBurgers tell you, when visiting for the weekend, Manhattan's where you want to be. Yankee cheer to you.

So I asked the Catholic Brothers if my friend and I could bunk there for the weekend, as they had an extra room and we had an aerobed. "Yes!" they cheered, knowing full well that I'd make it up to them in meals. I brought a box of goodies, including five pounds of slab bacon, duck, lamb and ribeye, thanks to Pat at Pat LeFrieda Meats.

All was well, and everyone woke in the morning with happy thoughts of what bliss a full refrigerator would bring. The taller of the twins whipped out his "Just Add Water" Bisquik mix, I began thickly slicing bacon, and my Boston friend mmmmmed with anticipation in the corner of the room, which is her specialty.

And then one of us (me) flew too close to the sun. I spied a dozen eggs in one of the vegetable drawers (admittedly, an odd place for a dozen eggs). I grabbed the eggs from the refrigerator, held them high and asked, "How does everyone take their eggs?" Twin Tall told me to put them down. "But why?" I asked.

"Because they've been here since I moved in, three and a half years ago."

On the one hand, ew, but on the other hand, fascinating. I was in the presence of 1300-day-old chicken eggs. Since my friend and I spend the better part of our time contemplating what happens to our very own 36 year old eggs, this was something of great interest to us. We exchanged looks, and she, a scientist, asked that I reveal the eggs.

I opened the box, and we all peered in. The hint was in the heft; the package was as light as, well, an empty package. Over the course of 1300 days, these little orbs had exhaled all they had; the eggs evaporated all their liquid through the shell. I was holding a dozen egg shells, with nary a blowhole between them.

We marveled, as one does with science. And then we sat down a fine breakfast of Bisquik pancakes and bacon.

Apples and Onions
This weekend, I was a houseguest of upstate friends in Staatsberg, New York. The she of the couple is a great cook, as one might expect when one is born to an Italian mother and a Jewish father. (To not cook would send all kinds of relatives spinning in their graves.) She and I share a love of food and cooking; she's one of the only people who cooks when I visit. I appreciate this like you read about.

Plus, every time I visit, she teaches me something new. This time, to accompany her pork roast, she made a simple dish of "Apples and Onions" at her husband's request. After the roast was in the oven, she cut an apple and an onion into wedges, tossed them with a little oil and seasoning, and put them in a roasting dish to cook alongside her pork.

The dish was simple and divine -- my favorite kind. It will accompany all my future pork dishes. Try it; you've got to do something with all those apples you've got.

Tuesday is Jewsday: Apples and Honey

2008-09-28T14:13:00.006-04:00

I've got a intensely ambivalent relationship with my religion right now.

On the one hand, I love being Jewish. I like Heeb magazine and gefilte fish; I like to feel like I've got a birthright to Katz's pastrami, Russ & Daughters' whitefish salad and Yonah Shimmels kasha varnishkes. I like to consider myself kin to the intellectual and comedic pioneers in this country. Like so many secular Jews, I love the culture.

But culture is one thing, and religion is another. This time of year I get beyond the cultural trappings, and I want to drive to temple, park a few blocks away, and walk over holding my dad's talis bag. I feel like I have this external force acting on me, a pull from the moon saying "You never call, you never write..."

Unfortunately, I've been temple-free since high school. Sure, I went to shul in San Francisco, another one in Gramercy Park, and one in Brooklyn. I go to shul, but I don't have a shul. When I ask my friends about their temples, they'll tell me where they belong, quickly followed by, "But you don't want to go there. Find a better one." As a result; I feel disconnected; homeless.

And now that I'm dating a Catholic man, my house is strewn with pamphlets from the weekly mass he attends. He loves church, and is all aglow when he comes by afterwards. I'm jealous; I want that too. I want that spiritual check in, the faith, the high.

But the doctrine, not so much. It leaves me as cold and confused as the culture leaves me warm and fuzzy.

So this week, instead of getting existential about my faith or lack thereof, I retreat to the part of my religion that I like -- the culture. The people. The family. A Jewish friend and I will be celebrating the holiday temple-free by taking ourselves to dinner in New York -- a new place for the new year with an old friend.

I will bring apples and honey in my purse, we will say a prayer in hebrew before we eat.Thought I might not be chanting the right words in the right place, I will be Jewish in my own way, by taking the time time to stop, acknowledge and celebrate.

Happy New Year. Cha'ag Sameach!

Apples and Honey
One of the things I -- and many secular Jews like me -- always celebrate religiously (if you'll excuse the pun) is the food. The brisket, the challah (and challah french toast the next day), the matzoh balls and the kugel.

On Rosh Hashana, Jews are thankful for the earth's bounty and the harvest, and wish one another a sweet new year. In my family, we would always dip an apple in a little bowl of honey. Apples represent the local harvest, and honey the sweet new year.

For more holiday recipes, check out my friend Stacey Ballis' article in Oy! A Chicago-based Jewish magazine.

Kinetic Couscous

2008-09-13T15:32:00.003-04:00

Last New Years, I resolved that this would be the year I’d write a book. Well, a book proposal at least. I’m not married, I don't have a kid, plus, I took a few lucrative gigs this year to give myself time, and now I’ve got it.

Nuthin but time. Yeppers, that’s me. Full of time. Just me, time, and a blank screen. Ti-ai-ai-me is on my side. Yes it is…Time won't give me time / And time makes lovers feel / Like they've got something real / But you and me we know / They've got nothing but time...if you're lost you can look--and you will find me / time after time / if you fall I will catch you--I'll be waiting / time after time ...A time to be born, a time to die / A time to plant, a time to reap / A time to kill, a time to heal / A time to laugh, a time to weep. It's a regular time-o-pallooza over here.

Any new mom (ie. everyone who lives in my neighborhood) will look at me like I’ve won the lottery. “Oh, if only I had more time!” she whines, explaining why her husband is eating microwave popcorn for dinner. Again.

You're right; I can't relate and it’s not just because I don’t have a microwave. I can relate to people who, like me, have time. Like retired people; like my dad. He wakes up and thinks about getting out of bed. He gets out of bed. He gets ready for a meal, eats, digests, then watches some TV. Then he thinks about the next meal he’ll eat, and eats again. Then it's time to sleep, wake up and do it all over again.

Things that would just be small components of a busy person’s day become major things that me and the retirees need to wrap my head around. Like getting a manicure. I’ve procrastinated that for two weeks, because, well I don’t know if I can take an entire hour from my day to do it. I have so much to do, and that just seems like such an indulgence.

Ordinarily, I am that busy person you give things to when you want them done. But now, you can count on me cancelling every dinner date and coffee I have planned, because it’s hard to squeeze that 45 minutes out of my day. I’m just really tight on time.

But don’t take my word for it; ask my dog. She hasn’t been walked for three days.

Mealtime is hard because I haven’t been shopping in a few weeks. It’s just too time consuming. And anyway the pantry has stuff... I could feed a small village with dried beans, barley and other food that’s only there because I don’t like it and if I did I would have EATEN it by now.

See? I have plenty to tide me over, no need to leave the house. Plus, if I did, it might rain, and then I’d get soggy. Who wants all that time-consuming fuss of toweling off. And anyway I don’t have an umbrella. And I definitely don’t have time to stop by the hardware store and buy one.

I’m not shopping or leaving the house, and even though my fridge is bare, and my pantry is filled with food I don’t want, I can find something to eat. But who has the time to cook? I could be writing the 37th incarnation of the book proposal. That’s my focus right now, that’s where my energy is. My numero uno priority-o.

I need to focus. Should I turn on NPR? Nah, they’ll just distract me. Wouldn’t want that. Then I’ll have to search the web for at least 45 minutes to determine whether Trig is actually Sarah Palin’s child or not. And I did that yesterday.

My belly is rumbling -- it needs to be fed. I could, I suppose, go downstairs and get a slice, or a yogurt, or a bagel. I have fifteen shops on my block that will let me get my lunch on. That won’t take much time at all.

But I am on the fourth floor of a walk up. Down and back up again. What a hassle. Then I’d have to put on shoes. And get dressed. Maybe shower. Ach, no…too much effort.

But now, seriously, I need to eat. And I really don’t have much time to cook, because I’m so hungry. I’m losing focus. I need to eat right now. I’m having a blood sugar crash. What do I have that won’t take more than, literally, five minutes, because that’s all I have. I’ve got to get back to work. And who has 30 minutes, Rachael? You might not understand this but people are busy.

Five Minute Couscous
By The Wooden Spoon

¾ cup couscous
pinch ground cinnamon
salt, pepper (you know the drill)
handful sliced almonds
smaller handful raisins
half-handful of torn basil or parsley
olive oil, if you feel like it

1. Plug the kettle back in. You were just using it for coffee, so the water should take no more than 30 seconds to heat up.

2. Assemble most of the ingredients in a to-go container: couscous, cinnamon, seasonings, raisins. The kettle is ready. Pour in a cup of water. Stir it a bit with a fork. Put the lid on it and let it sit two minutes.

3. Taste it – it’s good! Whoa. And it took two minutes? And it’s kind of like cooking because the couscous went from dry and inedible to soft and yummy. Fie on those recipes that want me to simmer it and take out an actually cooking implement. I’m going green with all the energy I saved.

4. Fluff that couscous with a fork, add the herbs and voila! Take it out of the container, (what are you, an animal?) put it on a plate and drizzle with a little olive oil.

5. Now get back to work. You've taken enough time.

Hot Dogs Are Good for You! Creamy Cole Slaw

2008-09-06T15:40:00.005-04:00

I was in the back seat of the family van during a day of errands. My father was driving, my mother was beside him, and we were all hot, tired, cranky, and hungry.

Hunger had been the consistent culprit of many a family meltdown. Since we shared a proclivity for low-blood sugar induced madness, when we passed a hot dog stand, I asked my father to stop, for the delicious opportunity of the moment, and for the emotional well being of our group.

My father said, “Hot dogs are no good for you. You shouldn’t eat that crap,” and continued driving.

Had I been ten, I would have pouted at the injustice of it all – the tiny voice making an enthusiastic, inexpensive, reasonable and self-preservational request from the back seat. Another unmet need. It's not fair.

But I was 36, so I did not pout, as I had learned a couple of things over the years. 1. I would drive myself to the hot dog stand as soon as the car pulled into the driveway, and 2. Sometimes it’s best to keep one’s (insightful and apt) mouth shut in the face of parental irrationality.

My father is not alone in his belief that hot dogs are crap; my mother agrees, as do many soccer (or is it hockey?) moms across the country. They smile at each other, knowingly, in the grocery stores, as they pass by the Twinkies, Fruity Pebbles, and Tater Tots, and choose whole wheat pretzels, soy crisps, and baked lays instead.

But I knew the value of a hot dog in between-meal moments like this, when a Clif Bar seemed smug. While teaching kosher cooking classes on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I would have a Gray’s Papaya dog prior to every class.

The dog did two things for me: It gave me enough energy to keep me peppy until class was over, and it gave me a perverse porcine thrill. I would giggle every time a felt a tiny trafe burp during class.

And now, my own pork-loving pop was denying my simple request for a $1 dog.

But the last laugh is with me, because guess who is coming for a visit this week? The parents. And lucky for them, I’ve prepared a hot dog spread fit for the finicky. I’ve got Martin’s potato rolls, Ba-Tampte pickles, mustard, ketchup, heck I’ve even prepared some Sabrett’s style onions for them.

Plus, I’ve got my new favorite dog: Applegate Farms Organic All-Beef. I will slit them down the middle and broil, then snuggle them in a toasted bun for my parents to fill as they like.

In addition, I made a home made cole slaw the spicy and creamy one my mom really likes. A spoonful of sugar can sometimes be a forkful of cabbage.

I’m confident they’ll rethink their weiner wariness. Because if they don’t like what's on their plate; they might just be sent to bed hungry. It’s so hard to get adults to eat good food these days.

SATISFYING SLAW
Created by The Wooden Spoon
Serves 6 to 8

3/4 cup low fat mayonnaise  
1/4 cup Dijon mustard  
¼ cup cider vinegar  
1 teaspoons granulated sugar  
1/2 teaspoon celery seed 
1 (16-ounce) package cole slaw mix
1 small red onion, thinly sliced  on a mandolin
2 green onions (white and green parts), chopped
1 serrano chile (small red chile), chopped or 2 tablespoons of pickled jalapenos, drained and chopped (optional, or more to taste)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

 In a large bowl, make dressing by combining mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar, sugar, celery seed; whisk to combine. Add red onion, green onion, chile, to dressing and toss to coat. Season with salt and pepper. Chill until ready to serve to (can be made up to 3 days in advance).