This cake won't change the world, but it might make you feel better

We're just coming off of a long weekend of parties, finding ourselves facing a very busy week with not quite enough rest under our belts, and all of a sudden it seems like there is an awful lot looking for our attention. Beneath my feet, two dogs (ours and a spare we're sitting on for the week) wrestle around; on the table, a stack of unopened mail and unread magazines towers. And for some reason, in spite of the bright blue sky outside and the secure knowledge that things are really quite good, I find myself a little bit down today.

In order to combat that, I'll tell you about the party we went to on Sunday night. It was a big collection of friends from various restaurants, gathering together to fire up the pizza oven that will be installed at the Slow Food Nation bread pavilion this weekend. And fire it up they did, filling it with pizzas and ratatouille, with slow-roasted goat and crispy potatoes and wild salmon and wax beans and peaches and...well, you get the idea. A whole mess of food. The whole event was held in a metal-work studio a couple blocks from our house, and had the lovely bohemian quality that makes this part of the world so great. Somehow 80 people were fed from that oven, the wine didn't run out, the place didn't catch fire, and a feeling of wellness and plenty rolled over the crowd like a wave. It's too bad you can't bottle that feeling.

I didn't want to show up empty-handed, so Sarah and I made a bunch of nectarine upside-down cakes using our old favorite recipe from The Best Recipe cookbook, put out by Cooks Illustrated. In the scheme of things, this cake is relatively easy to turn out in quantity and it never disappoints (well, it disappointed once, when I accidentally forgot to fold in the beaten egg whites at the end. Oops.). You could make this cake over the weekend, serve it to dinner guests and then eat the leftovers for breakfast. Top it with pineapple or peaches or nectarines or prune plums or cherries.

Fruit upside-down cake

This cake bakes up very nicely in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet, and you can make the caramel topping right in the pan. If you don't have one, you ought to buy one. But if you want to make this cake RIGHT NOW you can use a 9-inch round cake pan, so long as it's got 3-inch deep sides.

For the topping:

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

3/4 cup light brown sugar

fruit of your choice, cut into this wedges or slices

Cake:

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

3 tablespoons cornmeal

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1 stick butter, at room temperature

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

4 eggs, separated and at room temperature

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

2/3 cup milk

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease pan (you don't need to grease a cast-iron). Melt butter in skillet. Once foaming subsides, stir in brown sugar and cook 2-3 minutes. The sugar and butter will clump and look terrible, but don't despair. Transfer to a cake pan, if using, or just proceed with next step if using cast-iron. That's the way it's supposed to look. Arrange fruit over sugar mixture in an attractive pattern and set aside.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat butter and 1 cup of the sugar until light and fluffy. Turn mixer to low and add egg yolks and vanilla, stopping mixer occasionally to scrape down sides of bowl. With mixer on low, add dry ingredients little by little, alternating with milk, beginning and ending with dry ingredients.

3. In a separate, clean, bowl, beat egg whites until foamy, then add in remaining 2 tbsp. sugar and continue beating until egg whites form stiff peaks. Stir 1/4 of the beaten egg whites into batter to lighten it, then gently fold in the remaining whites until there are no longer white streaks in the batter.

4. Pour batter over fruit in pan and gently spread it to evenly cover, taking care to avoid disturbing the fruit layer. Bake until well-browned and a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean (do not poke all the way to the bottom of the pan, as the fruit layer will remain gooey), about 50 minutes if you're using a cast-iron skillet, or 60-65 if you're using a traditional cake pan. Let rest on cooling rack two minutes, then run a knife around the edge of the pan and flip cake out onto platter. Reposition any fruit that may have stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Fish Fry

A week out, I'm still wishing we were back in Michigan. Michigan, I think to myself, where life is easy. I know it's the rose-colored glasses of vacation talking, of course, because vacation has a funny way of making you want to up and leave your real life. But I stand by it: Michigan is nice.

Should you find yourself in Ludington, Michigan, sometime between Memorial and Labor Day, you owe it to yourself to make a pit stop at Bortell's Fishery. We were lucky to be traveling with our friend Chad, who grew up just down the road from this place and who wisely steered our car there in time for a late lunch. Here at Bortell's you can get fish to go (fresh or smoked), but you can also order fish by the pound and wait while the owner, Kris Bortell, fries it up for you right then and there, just as the four generations of men before him have done. Take a minute to check out the black-and-white photos on the wall and it's almost as though time has stood still--the Bortell men all look remarkably similar, with blond hair, broad faces and strong shoulders.

We ordered a smorgasbord of smelt, perch and whitefish, all caught in Lake Michigan, took the whole fried lot of it out to a picnic table and then chowed down. My favorites were the smelt, which are headless but otherwise whole. Even though (in this case) it was a misnomer, I couldn't resist calling them by a name I saw on a San Francisco menu: Fries with eyes.

Was it sunnier in Michigan? Does Kris Bortell possess some kind of frying expertise no other cook has mastered? I doubt it. But somehow, that afternoon, everything seemed pretty close to perfect. Vacation will do that to you.

Shake it don't break it

I have been dutifully documenting meals and recipes these last many weeks, with plans to share lots of images and stories with you. Wholesome things, mostly, summer squash, farm eggs, raspberry lime rickeys. But let's face it, sometimes you just want the money shot. So that's what I'm going to bring you today. We just returned from a too-short trip to Michigan and have returned with a new motto: Michigan-who knew?

Who knew, for example, that Lake Michigan is like a salt- and shark-free ocean, with waves and tides? That heartlanders really are as nice as is reported? That Northern Michigan really is the cherry capital? Some of you surely did, but you were wise to keep it a secret. Otherwise, you'd never have the place to yourselves. But we crashed the party and I'm glad. Because if we hadn't, I wouldn't be able to tell you about the cherry shake at Don's Drive-in in Traverse City.

Don's cherry shake brings all the boys to the yard.

And though you might be able to guess at the sheer glory of good vanilla ice cream blended with ripe, just-picked Bing cherries, now you know for sure. Best of all? Don's offers a real, true small size, 10 ounces of creamy goodness that's just enough to satiate, but not so much it sickens. After all, I had a lot of research left to do to find the state's best tart cherry pie, so I couldn't let my appetite be hampered by too much cherry shake. If you happen to be in this part of the world during cherry season, make a bee-line to Don's (2030 N US Highway 31 N, Traverse City, MI 49686, 231-938-1860).

Why tri-tip sandwiches are better than houses

Whew, boy, what a cliff-hanger that was, huh? Were you all on the edges of your seats? We were, too, for a day or so in there. But then we got the call from our realtor, and I knew by the mournful sound in his voice that we were not moving into a Berkeley bungalow, that we wouldn't be enjoying the fruits of the persimmon, fig, banana and lemon trees in the back yard.

I think I'm OK with this. The house was never really ours, of course, so losing it didn't hurt too much. Just a little. And we all know that most hurt can be covered up with food, with cooking and with dinners out and with good friends. Isn't that true? So I made pesto and I made pie, braised brisket, tested recipes for sticky toffee pudding and made big salads of corn and tomatoes. But my best recent discovery, the one I forgot to tell you about because all this house stuff got in the way, is the tri-tip sandwich from Dunneville Market in Hollister, California.

We were down there the weekend before the house situation, visiting a friend's family (they have a lovely walnut, cherry and apricot orchard, and we made ourselves positively sick on the fruit). On our way out of town, we stopped at this unassuming little spot for their tri-tip sandwich, advertised on a sign in the parking lot. Now, imagine this: a length of griddled garlic bread (made from extra-soft rolls) topped with perfectly tender tri-tip. Wrapped in paper, handed over with a tub of tangy barbecue sauce for dipping, this could well be one of the best lunches around. Having come late to the glory of tri-tip, I fell doubly hard. No lettuce to muck it up, no cheese or tomatoes. Just the bread, the meat and an icy beer, all enjoyed in the shade of a fruit tree. It made me feel happy, and was about $529,994 dollars cheaper than a house in Berkeley.

High Stress leads to Bad Dinner: Film at 11

We're having quite a week over here in Feed & Supply-land. In a fit of insanity, clarity, hopefulness...whatever you want to call it....in a fit of something we put in an offer on a bungalow in Berkeley on Monday night and now are waiting for the call that will tell us if we are or are not home-owners. Needless to say, the whole process of initialing ones life away, along with all related funds, was a harrowing one.

But first, I'll share with you this telling tidbit. On Monday, the night that we actually wrote the offer, everything came together in a frenzied, late-night meeting with our realtor in Oakland. We had missed dinner and eaten light lunches so we were starving, and I had this romantic notion that we'd have a pizza and salad at Pizzaiolo once the life-signing-over was through. When it became clear that wasn't going to happen, we were forced to settle for a slice of pizza from the worst pizzeria ever, right across from Pizzaiolo. I don't even mind cheap pizza, normally, but this was truly wretched, and took 20 plus minutes to produce, in any case, so it wasn't even fast bad pizza. While we were eating I told Sarah we'd be having a second dinner, to be sure, and I started talking about the Korean food we'd eat after our meeting. I was being a little unrealistic, though, because when we stumpled out of his office some two hours later, it was clear Korean was no longer on the agenda. But my second proposal, an ice cream cone from Fenton's Creamery in Piedmont, was met with enthusiasm. So our second dinner was actually scoops of coffee cookie dream (me) and chocolate peanut-butter (Sarah). But the best part of the whole thing? As we were driving home, Sarah said to me, "If you were in your right mind, you never would of let us have a dinner like that. I feel like I got away with something."

Note to self: lighten up.

Blink and you'll miss it

It was summer there, for a minute. In typical fashion, I have been either over- or under- dressed pretty much every day since the start of June, either bundling against imaginary fog on crystal-blue days or dusting off a sundress when the wind picks up downtown. But when it comes to food, I've been right on track.

It got warm there, for a minute, and when it did I took advantage by serving salade nicoise to our friends for dinner, with hard boiled farm eggs and that luscious Italian oil-packed tuna that makes Chicken of the Sea seem a bit like cat food. It was a kind of high-low night, as we followed the salad and pink wine with many rousing games of asshole, played on our deck of naughty cards which feature, er, models from the 1980s (a gift from our bachelorette party). Then we capped off the evening with rich chocolate cupcakes topped with velvety ganache.

There's no real recipe for salade nicoise, just things you ought to include if you have them on hand: blanched green beans, quartered radishes, the eggs, tomatoes, black olives and boiled new potatoes. We added farm carrots becausewe had surplus, and from time to time I get kind of crazy and add marinated artichokes or roasted red peppers. But the important thing is to buy the best canned tuna you can find, which means that it's Italian and that it comes packed in olive oil rather than nasty vegetable oil. You will pay more for this tuna, and I know it can be hard to feel like it is worth it, when you're accustomed to paying $1.29 for a can and all of a sudden I am asking you to pay $3.99. Just trust me on this one. It matters.

Muffin Better

I know I said I'd post about creme fraiche on my next go-around, but what can I say? Life got in the way. I thought about creme fraiche, though, at the end of a long, hot hike in Santa Rosa, when I turned to my inimitable plus one and admitted that I like whipped creme fraiche as a side for cakes much more than whipped cream. Oh, whipped cream has its place, atop shortcakes and puddings, but whipped creme fraiche, not too sweet and pleasingly dense, is where it's at. Next time, a recipe for DIY, I promise.

I got distracted by muffins. Blueberry muffins (along with brownies, the recipe clipped from Seventeen magazine) were among the first things that I ever learned to bake. There are a lot of terrible muffins out in the world (in fact, I had a dream the other night that I was hurling those dense craft-services muffins at a loved one...what does it all mean?), but my mom's recipe is just right. Fluffy and moist, with a loose crumb and that all-important sugar-dusted top, this is one of those recipes that you'll be very happy to have in your recipe box. Some friends were going to join us for Sunday brunch, so I snapped out of bed and poked around for the ingredients. The friends ended up totally blowing us off, but that was after the muffins were already in the oven and honestly, at that point, I had no regrets. A dozen muffins for two? No problem!

I used up the end of a bag of frozen blueberries but was a little short, so I made up the difference with quartered cherries, which worked just fine. That got me thinking that I ought to play around with the recipe a little bit...what if I substituted all the blueberries with cherries and topped them with sugar and sliced almonds? The mind fairly reels with possibilities. I'll report back any exciting innovations, but in the meantime I figured I'd better just give you the straight-up version. You'll be happy with them, I promise. And this morning, when I remembered that we had 10 remaining muffins (sometime after trying on two outfits then whimpering on the bed, my eyes half-closed like a blind mole) I felt very happy.


Blueberry Muffins to save Monday morning
Makes 12

1/2 cup (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened

1 1/4 cup sugar (plus more for sprinkling on top)

2 large eggs

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 cup milk

2 1/2 cups blueberries (the tiny Maine ones are the best)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat butter and sugar on high speed until light and fluffy, about four minutes. Add eggs one at a time, mixing after each addition. In a small bowl, combine flour, salt and baking powder. With the mixer on low, add dry ingredients to butter-sugar mixture, alternating with the milk, beginning and ending with the dry ingredients. Add blueberries and stir in by hand until well dispersed. Divide batter among twelve muffin cups, each lined with a paper liner (or very well greased, if you dare). Sprinkle tops with a generous teaspoon of sugar (coarse sanding sugar looks very pretty, but regular sugar tastes just as good). Bake until well browned and puffed, about 30 minutes.

I'm sorry. Want a slice of cake?

Dear almond cake, I think I love you.

It has been so long that I'm not sure where to begin. Well, I figure that people really like cake, so what better way to say hello, sorry, than with this lovely little number? There, now don't we all feel better? I'm not the first cook to notice that almond paste and butter and sugar make very, very fine bedfellows, but I'm here to underscore their observations. This is the kind of cake you'll be glad to have in your recipe box. It's perfectly moist, with a tender crumb, and the crowning touch of toasted, sliced almonds adds just the right amount of texture. It also has the added benefit of being incredibly versatile, the black dress of cakes. It's great on its own (even for-ahem-breakfast) but you can gussy it up with any number of seasonal accompaniments.

A little rhubarb compote, maybe, fragrant with orange zest? Some sliced strawberries? A gilding-the-lily drizzle of chocolate? Poached apricots in vanilla syrup? Well, you get the point. I wish I could tell you that I invented this cake myself, that I awoke one morning with a vision of dessert, realized on the first attempt. Alas, credit must be given to the good people up at Thomas Keller's Bouchon Bakery. The recipe is in Keller's cookbook, Bouchon, which is filled with recipes that normal people can actually make...in sharp contrast to the collection of recipes in his French Laundry cookbook. Before discovering this recipe I had a go-to almond cake in my repertoire, one so loaded with butter and almond paste that it always collapsed after coming out of the oven, which I dealt with by filling the depression with berries. But that cake has now been removed from rotation, because this one, this one is just perfect.

Gateau Aux Amandes from Bouchon Bakery

7 ounces almond paste
1/4 cup granulated sugar
8 tablespoons (4 ounces) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces and chilled
2 tablespoons mild-flavored honey
3 large eggs
2 tablespoons amaretto, plus additional for brushing
1/3 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
kosher salt
1/2 cup sliced almonds, toasted
confectioners' sugar

3/4 cup creme fraiche, whipped to soft peaks (we made our own...I'll share that technique in my next post, as it's well worth knowing about.)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour an 8-inch round cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper. Put the almond paste and sugar in the bowl of a heavy-duty mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Cream mixture on low speed to break up almond paste, then increase the speed to medium for about 2 minutes, or until paste is broken into fine particles. Add the butter and mix for 4 to 5 minutes, until mixture is airy and light in color; stop the machine and scrape down the sides as necessary. It is important to mix long enough or the cake will have a dense texture. Mix in the honey, then add the eggs one at a time, beating until each one is fully incorporated before adding the next. Add amaretto, flour, and a pinch of salt and mix just to combine.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top. Bake for about 25 minutes, or until the cake is golden and springs back when pressed. Transfer to a cooling rack to cool. Invert the cake onto the rack, remove the parchment, and invert the cake again so that the top is once again facing upward. Brush the top of the cake with amaretto and sprinkle with toasted almonds. Dust generously with confectioners' sugar. The cake will keep, well-wrapped, for up to two days (like it'll last that long).

Serve with a dollop of whipped creme fraiche and the fruit accompaniment of your choice. Die and go to heaven.

Splendid Spuds

Nearly a year ago I wrote a grant proposal for some funding that would allow me to work on my pet project, a look into the food culture in Northern Maine (if this sounds funny to you, you're not alone--every time I tell someone about this I get a weird look). My idea was to head to the Northernmost region of the state, where I'd set about tracking down farmers and cheesemakers and maple sugarers and potato people and get them to talk to me about what they are doing. I'd long suspected that Maine was the place to find interesting folks doing interesting food things, and it felt like time to put the hunch to work.

So in mid-September I headed up to Aroostook County. As a writer, it's hard to avoid the disappointment that comes when you envision a story in your head and then can't, no matter how hard you try, make it be so. It's better to go in expecting nothing and then being pleasantly surprised. So I tried not to expect anything specific, just let the region tell me the story it wanted me to hear. I can't lie--some of the journey was incredibly disappointing. There I was, in one of the richest agricultural regions in the country, sitting down at a restaurant and discovering that, rather than serving green beans from their neighbors down the street, they're buying them frozen, from Sysco. But some of the journey was exciting and encouraging, and I met some farmers who I believe will lead the area in the right direction.

One of those farmers, Jim Gerritsen, spent the better part of three hours with me one morning, just before potato picking was to begin. At his organic farm, Wood Prarie, they harvest the potatoes by hand, a practice almost no one does anymore, since most farmers are farming 700 acres, not the 15 that the Gerritsen's plant (Wood Prarie is a total of 500 acres, but most is given over to forest, with frequent and elaborate crop rotation that protects the soil). It's more time consuming, of course, but the Gerritsen's have chosen to grow heirloom varieties of potatoes that simply cannot be picked by massive harvesters. The local kids get two weeks off of school to help with harvest, says Jim, "They learn more in two weeks here then they do at school."

I was reluctant to leave the farm, but another interview was calling. Before I left, though, Jim's wife Megan thrust two large bags of their early-harvest Yukon Golds at me, her favorite variety. At the airport, my suitcase made weight by a half-pound, and I had a moment where I thought that toting potatoes from Maine to San Francisco was, let's face it, a bit crazy. But last night I had a big bowlful of Jim and Megan's potatoes, mashed with butter, cream, salt and pepper, and thought that I would have been crazy to leave them behind.

Here's the best part--you don't have to make a field trip to Maine to taste these potatoes. The Gerritsen's are incredibly savvy marketers, with a beautiful color catalog and a potato-of-the-month club. As far as I can tell, this is likely the best, most unusual gift for a food lover you'll find this holiday season, and buying a bag (or two, since you'll want one for yourself) of these potatoes is such a good way to say that you support the small farmer. Visit www.woodprairie.com for all the info.

Hey, you hungry? Let me fix you something.

There is just no excuse, but I hope you’ll forgive me just the same. That’s what friends do, right? Friends forgive you for being absent, busy, distracted. They forgive you for forgetting to invite them over for dinner as often as you’d like to, and they know—they just know—that when you make their favorite brownies or carrot soup or iceberg wedge salad with blue cheese dressing that they are at the back of your mind, waiting patiently for some attention.

At least, that’s what I’m hoping, since I know I’ve let some of you down. I haven’t given you the recipe for rib-eye steaks with a shallot and red wine sauce, served over watercress that gets all wilted, that I made for friends last Monday. I haven’t told you about the weird How-To video/commercial I starred in last week, where I wrestled a turkey wearing a full face of make-up (and then some! Television personalities, it turns out, where a lot of make-up). I haven’t even told you about a magical trip to Maine that I took in September, where I interviewed potato farmers and restaurateurs and home cooks, the beginning of a project I hope will turn into something bigger.

In short, I haven’t told you much of anything. But I hope to make it up to you. I took a four month holiday, but I’m back. And boy, do I have some stories to tell!

Summer Sweet

The Perfect Summer Lunch.

I know that it's not right to complain about the weather in San Francisco. But, but--here we are, mid-June, and nary a sultry day in sight. No reason for popsicles, for ice cold beer, wedges of watermelon, long evenings by the grill (Well, you could spend a long evening by the grill, but you'd need to wear a jacket, and maybe a hat.) Though I hate to admit it, I really miss summer.

If you head inland a bit, remove yourself from the bay breezes and rolling waves of fog, it's deep, hot, steamy summer. In the Central Valley, in Sacramento--scorching. That means that all of the foods that I've come to associate with the season, like peaches, apricots, pluots, baseball bat-sized zucchinis and, best of all, corn, are still coming from a local source.

Growing up, we'd have big piles of corn on the cob for supper, our sticks of butter bearing the trademark pattern of the ears, which we'd roll to coat. (This is an important question--did your family do the roll to coat method, or were you of the slice-a-pat-and-rub-it-on-the-ear school?). A dozen farm-fresh ears was hardly enough for our family of five. Our all-corn dinner was followed by a big bowl of strawberry shortcake: Sweet nubby biscuits split and filled with softly whipped cream and hulled local berries. Tell me, please--can you imagine a summer supper better than this?

In honor of the season, we had corn for lunch today. Just corn, boiled, buttered, salted and dusted with black pepper. Sarah and I looked at one other, mmming and crunching. For a minute there, it almost felt like summer.

Simple Sunday

Somehow, despite all the hub-bub and build-up, we forgot today was the annual Bay to Breakers foot race, a very San Francisco-style free for all that mixes "real" runners with passionate amateurs and more than a few folks who trail along, running or walking, in costumes or buck-naked save for running shoes, many towing kegs behind. I know, how could you forget something like that?

In any case, after driving around the city for an hour trying to get to the Golden Gate Bridge (ha! double ha!) we ended up taking the Bay Bridge to Richmond, then the Richmond Bridge over to San Rafael. It just so happens that Sunday is farmers' market day at the Civic Center in San Rafael, so we stopped in. First, the bad: so many strollers, so many parents cooing over children running amok through stalls, sticking their half-eaten strawberries back into unclaimed baskets of to-be-purchased berries, so much Marin humanity, so many fancy S.U.V's crowding the lots. How can such a beautiful place be filled with...well, let's just say they aren't all as "in touch" as we might hope. Then, the good: strawberries, apricots, fava beans and little gem lettuces; Brickmaiden bread, the kind with a little whole wheat flour mixed in so it has just enough chew to it, chickens turning on spits and some--from Marin Sun Farms--ready for roasting, feet still attached. Good stuff!

We're having a kind of lazy Sunday meal--a roasted chicken, a piece of cheese, maybe some fava bean puree on toast. A couscous salad, with Armenian cukes from the market. But that's all just wholesome build-up to the real deal--possessed by some sort of dessert demon (a not infrequent occurrence chez nous) I made fresh mint ice cream with shavings of dark chocolate stirred in and then I tried making cones, too. The cones are tasty but totally ugly--they will not be holding the ice cream (due to giant holes at the bottom) so much as accenting the ice cream, like a crunchy little top hat. And who do I have to blame for all this? Ex-Chez Panisse pastry chef David Lebovitz, author of the newly released "The Perfect Scoop," a guide to fool-proof and goddamn that's good ice cream making. He also has a terrific eponymous blog, www.davidlebovitz.com Check it out!

Two-Timing

I'll admit it. I've been two-timing all of you. Remember a couple of posts ago, when I told you that I had taken a new job? Turns out this job has a blogging requirement to it, so I've been writing up a storm over there. Take a look.

You'll all be happy to know that all that blogging, eating out and general food-world immersion has done nothing to quell my boundless appetite. In my precious spare time, I've been testing some recipes for All You magazine (Creepy Coffin Canapes, anyone?), throwing my first ever "Out like a lamb" party (yes, it was a lamb-themed party for 40 in our backyard. Merguez sausage, kofte, free-flowing wine, lamb shaped chocolates), and on the merit of said party, scoring a coveted invitation to our a new friend's annual Crab-Crackin' Bonanza. (The invitation read, "starts promptly at 7 with the crack of a claw.") Lest you thought I'd been eating Ryvita crisp toasts and bubbly water, rest assured I've been getting my full calorie requirements each day.

I'll post photos of the festivities soon, but in the meantime, go check out that other blog of mine. Or, even better, pick up the May issue of 7x7. You'll see a certain someone on the contributors page.....

In praise of a perfect day

This is a post in praise of the perfect day. Today, I awoke to a bright blue sky (well, actually, I awoke to somebody--a wrong phone number somebody--calling my cell phone at 8am on a Saturday, but I digress) and a day almost completely without plans. I've been intentionally low-key lately, trying to recover from my tuberculin cough and my first week at a new job, so it was a great thrill to have the entire day free.

In the morning, I paid a visit to the humble, lovely Alemany Farmers' Market, which happily seems to have more vendors this spring than ever before. I bought pencil-thin asparagus and a chocolate croissant, had my knives sharpened (finally!), and got a hot tip about the best farm fresh eggs, sold by the olive oil vendor. He doesn't advertise them--he just has a basket in the back and sells them to those in the know. The best part is how he packs them up for you--tenderly tucking them into a brown paper sack lined with hay. Charming! I can't wait until breakfast tomorrow.

Then I had a long, leisurely lunch with a good friend, the kind of lunch that stretches through the afternoon--the kind of lunch that you daydream about when life is hectic. A lunch with a glass of white wine, a glorious abundance of fresh salads, cured meats, and good conversation, followed by an excellent ice cream cone. If there was some way to stop time, I would have stopped it for a couple of hours today.

It's spring here, now, no doubt about it. Tomorrow we'll turn our clocks forward, revel in the warm weather and extra sunshine and look forward to the happiest days of summer.

Grey skies are gonna clear up....

Well, it's been kind of a whirlwind, to say the least. You know when you're wishing and hoping for things to happen, crossing your fingers, throwing salt over your shoulder, blowing out birthday candles, hoping? It seems like that's when things DO NOT happen. It's like an emotional watched pot--the more you hope, the less that comes your way.

But when you get too busy for hoping, too busy for planning--that's when things seem to unfold in front of you, glorious and bright. Friends, I've been riding high these last weeks. After a few years of freelancing, followed by a 6 month gig at Sunset Magazine (great, but underpaid), I've finally gone off and gotten myself a "real job" as assistant food editor at 7x7 magazine, the San Francisco city magazine. What does this mean? Well, I'm not sure yet--my first day is tomorrow--but it's the beginning of a new chapter, and a new, deep familiarity with the city dining scene. Stay tuned!

On Crispy

I've finally decided. My favorite flavor is crispy. I love browned bits, burnt ends, toasty toast, blistered pizza crust...well, you get the picture. So Saturday night, looking for something to serve with boudin blanc and a lovely little Frenchy salad of mache and endive, I resurrected an old favorite recipe that takes crispy to its most glorious extreme: Kate's crispy potatoes.

Kate Rowe and I worked together at La Varenne cooking school in Burgundy, France, about 5 years ago. It was a long summer, filled with endless meals, long days, elaborate cooking techniques and scarce personal time. One night, when another group of unexpected guests was invited to stay for dinner, Kate and I quickly whipped together a meal. Salad with cheese, probably, maybe a couple roast chickens, some artichokes with big bowls of melted butter--who knows. What I do remember, though, was the debut of Kate's Crispies. Halfway between home fries and frites, these potatoes are rich, deliciously brown, and very simple to prepare. I'll caution you now--2 pounds of russet potatoes is enough for 4 people. While you're eating them, you'll probably wish you had more, but trust me--just TRUST me--you shouldn't eat more than a half-pound.

To make Kate's Crispies:
Peel 2 pounds of russet potatoes and cut them into 1-in. cubes. Put them into a cast-iron skillet (10-12 inch) or a small roasting pan and add 3/4 cup of sunflower oil and 1/4 cup olive oil (or all olive oil, if you prefer). Start the pan on the top of the stove over medium-high heat. You want the oil to heat up quickly, so the potatoes start to gently fry. Once the oil and pan is nice and hot, transfer the pan to a 425 degree oven and bake (I probably should say "fry-bake"), stirring every 10-15 minutes, until they are very brown, and very crispy, about 1-1 1/2 hours. Remove potatoes from oil with a slotted spoon, sprinkle generously with salt and eat! Save the oil that remains in the pan for another frying or roasting project.

Try them tonight--and let me know how it goes!

5 Good Things

It's a little late, I know, to recount all of the best food things about 2006, now comfortably 16 days behind us. But I'm sure you'll still be happy to hear about 5 highlights of the table from this year gone by, and hopefully my recounting will lead to your own adventures--I look forward to hearing the news.

Last night, Sarah made us a peach cobbler (she's really perfected the recipe, and I'll post that one soon). I know you're probably thinking, "what would Alice (Waters, natch) say?" about serving peach cobbler in the depths of January? Well, you see, back in the heat of the summer there was this certain adopted tree, you might remember, and that tree yielded 6 cases of peaches. Once we had eaten our fill, I froze and canned the rest, to pull out when we were tired of oranges, chocolate, and gingerbread. So, best food thing 2006 #1? Those fresh peaches from Masumoto's farm. Good then, good now!

My brother is a good and enthusiastic cook, and his girlfriend's family has extraordinarily good taste: they bought him a fry-o-later for their apartment. I've given fry-o-laters as gifts, enjoyed many nights of tempura and wontons in the stinky kitchens of others, but have never broken down and bought one myself. So it's a real treat to go to his house, where the fry-o-later is extension corded out to their porch and perenially in service. Now, french fries are kind of our thing. My brother does the whole double-fry action so the fries are ultra-crisp on the outside and resemble mashed potatoes within, and it's the food we make to mark an occasion. We made them the night before we moved to California, and for our last supper of '06, making them good food thing #2: the homemade fry.

Does everyone already know about Vietnamese crepes? Is this old news? Well, I discovered them in 2006. These crispy little puppies are made with rice flour and coconut milk, fried just enough, then filled with bean sprouts, shrimp, and chicken. I squiggle Sriracha over the top and dig in. Recently, I looked up a recipe for the crepes (previously limited to take-out only) and think that 2007 could be the year I attempt this at home. Vietnamese Crepes? Good thing #3.

Wafuu curry, what my friend Sylvan calls the macaroni and cheese of Japan. Kind of like a stew, only with curry flavor. So savory! So succulent! Even when Sylvan confessed to using a pre-made curry base, as is typical in Japan, it only added to the appeal. Wafuu, I love you, you're #4.

In Belfast, Maine, there's this sweet little shop called Chase's Daily. It's owned by a farming family who have 500 acres out in Freedom, Maine, where they grow all sorts of great vegetables. This is worth a post of its own, but in the meantime I'll just say: walnut scones with apricot jam? Lucky #5. These not so sweet scones are loaded up with ground walnuts and formed into big rounds. Then, just before they are finished baking, they drop a couple of tablespoons of juicy, delicious apricot jam into the center. The end result is a bit like eating a piece of walnut toast with butter and jam. In other words, a great thing.

Bird by Bird

I could blog about Thanksgiving...but aren't we all tired of that, by now? I like listening to people talk about their Thanksgiving meals, though, kind of checklist fashion. Turkey? Check. Gravy? Uh-huh. Mashed Potatoes? Oh, me too. Well, no kidding, folks. Have you noticed that everyone eats essentially the SAME dinner? Except the woman in front of me at the post office. She was gabbing on her cell phone about a Persian Thanksgiving. What could that be?

But enough turkey talk. I want to tell you about my new favorite kitchen tool. Well, it's not a tool, really--it's a bird. Can you guess what it does? It's little birdie back lifts up, and you can place a slice of lemon or lime in there, then press it down, and the juice come out the bird's spout, which has little holes to catch the seeds. Genius, eh? I saw this gadget for the first time at a friend's summer home, where all the kitchen gear has that wonderful, odd, vintage beach house feel (as in, it's mostly stuff used to make cocktails or boil lobster). I'd never seen one before, but I coveted it immediately, so much so that I kind of wanted to swipe it from her house. But I didn't. No, really! I didn't.

Instead, I went to Cookin', a gem of a store here in San Francisco. The taciturn owner has a great shop filled to the rafters with finds--enamelware, molds, pot de creme cups...and though it's completely chaotic and seemingly disorganized in there, the owner knows where everything is. So when I asked, on a lark (get it! a lark! so punny!) if she had a birdie squeezer, I was only a little surprised when she walked over to a huge glass jar and retrieved one for me. There may be more there! You could go get your own birdie cocktail aid! It is, after all, the holiday season--high cocktail time. And it would make such a cute little stocking stuffer.

The bounty of autumn: Ham Bone

Hey! It's fall! Even here on this temperate little peninsula, there is a carpet of brown leaves on the sidewalk, and last night it was downright chilly. I pulled out a hat and scarf for the first time this season--the changing seasons always make you remember things you've forgotten about: a favorite sweater, a familiar smell in the air, and, of course, good foods that should only be cooked when it's chilly and you need to turn on the oven, braise some meats, roast some squash, roll out pastry for apple tarts.

I had the good fortune to receive a ham in the mail last week, sent from the good people at Snake River Farms. They're one of a handful of companies in the States who are selling Kurobuta pork--an heirloom breed of pig (the Berkshire) raised according to strict specifications that guarantee deliciousness. Berkshire hogs were the pig around the time of Oliver Cromwell, and the British government gave Berkshire hogs to the Japanese as a diplomatic gift, which is how they came to be known as Japanese Black Hogs. (Hmm, pork as a diplomatic gift. Well, it wouldn't work in Iraq, but what about North Korea?)

The ham was delicious, marbled with fat, and a deep, rosy color. It had a rich, porky flavor that you don't find from the Honeybaked hams of the world. This kind of quality doesn't come cheap, (a half-ham, about 9lbs., will set you back about $90) but with the holidays fast approaching, no other roast will be so simple to prepare and will certainly be a crowd-pleaser. You can order one from www.snakeriverfarms.com They also sell Kurobuta pork chops, too.

The segue between fall food and ham may seem vague, but here goes: Ham=ham bone. Ham bone=soup. Split-pea soup is the ultimate fall food, and is the natural follow-up to a fine ham. To make it, do this: chop up an onion, a couple of carrots, a couple stalks of celery and a couple of cloves of garlic. Heat a couple glugs of olive oil (glug, glug, that's about 2 tbsp.) and cook up the vegetables over medium heat. Stir in 1 cup of split peas, plop in the meaty ham bone (if you aren't fortunate enough to have a ham-bone to spare, you can always use a meaty ham hock), pour in 8 cups of water, some salt, some pepper, a bay leaf....then simmer that baby until the peas are tender. If you have some surplus ham, chop it up and stir it in. Serve it with some cheese, some bread....and wait for the Trick-or-Treaters. Dessert, of course, will be fun-size candy bars. Of course.

The Maine Event

Yet another computer melt-down (HP, now is the time to offer me a free machine in exchange for some shameless grassroots promotion) is responsible for some of my recent silence, though the rest can be attributed to a week spent on vacation in the great state of Maine.

And what a week it was! If my inability to comfortably button the top button of my new tight jeans is any indication, I ate pretty well. It was all in the interest of research, which is why I happily wolfed down whoopee, chocolate cream, blueberry and rhubarb pies, local hard-shell lobster (including the 4 pounder my friend Julia bought and then had to hammer apart on the front stoop) and Glidden Point oysters, in addition to a few fried fish sandwiches, some fine cheeses, enough bottles of wine that I was embarrassed to bring the empties to the redemption center and a couple of squares of seaside-town produced fudge.

Here in San Francisco, good food isn’t particularly hard-won. Bay Area natives seem to consider pristine produce, excellent wine and local fish a birthright. This is, generally speaking, a good thing, to have so many nice people interested in good eating. But sometimes it can get a little tiresome. It can make you think, “Is there anything new under the sun?” Any good eater worth their San Fran salt knows about Chez Panisse and Marin Sun Farms, Frog Hollow peaches and Straus cream.

So it’s exciting to go to Maine, where folks aren’t making such a hoopla. In understated New England fashion, they are just doing their thing. At Primo, in Rockland, they are feeding their guests with food grown about 20 steps from the kitchen door, and raising piglets that are plate-bound. At Morse’s Sauerkraut, in North Waldoboro, they keep right on making sauerkraut and pickles and bockwurst, just as they have since 1918, and it’s no big thing. The Glidden Point oyster vendor at the Boothbay Farmer’s Market tells me that her kids eat the oysters—who wouldn’t like something so sweet and tender? And across the green from her stand, the “Maine-ly” Poultry man keeps a cooler of chicken pies, rabbits and whole roasters. He doesn’t bother to boast and brag that they’re organic, or that they have access to the great outdoors. How else would you raise a chicken? Drive by the farm in Warren and you can see them scratching around the yard.

After living here, I wondered if I could ever be satisfied, culinarily speaking, with the East Coast. Now I’ve no doubt. Sure, there are months when your freshest vegetable is likely to be a rutabaga. But the seasons balance one another out, and the abundance I experienced last week made me think that it’s a rich region only growing richer.

Want to read more?
For Morse’s, visit www.morsessauerkraut.com
For Glidden Point Oysters, check out www.oysterfarm.com
For Primo, www.primorestaurant.com