What do you eat when you eat alone?

Well. What do YOU eat when you eat alone? Deborah Madison posed that question to us at a Food & Memoir class at Tassajara a while ago … she was collecting stories for her new book. Since then, we've become friends. We’ve been following her progress through the book of the same title, through the book tour, and now I’m home alone. And cooking--just for me.

You see, he’s in Florida on business, and it’s a cold day here. Started about 10 degrees cooler than last night’s forecast suggested, and windier, too. But bright sun and red, gold and green leaves have been dancing outside of every window all day long. It's a perfect day for digging in and making a mess. (Actually, the house is already a mess. Cleaning is a good Sunday project, and today is Saturday. In fact, cleaning is second only to getting dog food on tomorrow’s list of to-do’s; though I expect it will trickle down as the day progresses.) I've really kind of left everything for tomorrow. For now, I just really want to cook. (He's usually at the stove lately.)

These solo cooking endeavors always begin with just one thing. My one thing today was an aging head of cauliflower in the fridge. It had somehow slid behind the beer. (How does that happen?) It was still good, no spots, mostly firm. Yeah, it would be a good starting point. But I wanted more than steamed florets with lemon juice and butter. I somehow wanted peas, too, and béchamel.

I pulled all my favorite cookbooks ... Child, Claiborne, Beard, Madison, Catelli, all those others. Nothing inspired me. Then I pulled Things Cooks Love down. Those of you who know me know that our association with Sur La Table is unusually close, and so I’m reluctant to sing praises too loudly, too emphatically about one of their own, but damn, I love that book. It is all about THINGS, but it’s about how to use them to make delicious other things. It’s guided me through all sorts of adventures … paellas, pastas, Indian, Asian, Moroccan, and now, ha, there it was: a recipe for Cauliflower, Shrimp and Prosciutto Gratin (with peas).

So I made my list (groceries and cleaning supplies) and went to the store (on Halloween afternoon, such a foolish thing!) and came home and made a mess. Really. Seriously. Flour, butter spatters, those annoying bits of cauliflower that always slide under the edge of the sponge, parmesan gratings, bread crumbs, citrus zest. And, oh my God, the pots and the pans and the whisks and graters and …

It’s a simple recipe, in spite of my mess and the things it took to make it: it's a layer of blanched cauliflower, another of uncooked shrimp, then a layer of peas, chopped prosciutto, béchamel (with lemon zest and chives) and breadcrumbs and parmesan.

When the thing went into the oven, I cleaned the mess—at least the kitchen part of it, and now I wait. Maybe I’ll make a martini… I should take pictures, don’t you think? The martini is very good. Local gin and jalapeno-stuffed olives. And pictures would help the time pass.

(tick-tock, tick-tock)

It’s out of the oven now, the gratin is golden-topped and fragrant. And, tick-tock, the required 10 minutes to allow it to set has passed.

The first bite is perfect. Oh, my. It’s so good, almost too good to eat by myself. (No. No. It’s just fine to eat all by myself. But now I know and maybe next time I’ll share. Maybe. Mom’s coming for a while over the holidays. She’d like this.)

Each ingredient is distinct, its flavor bright. So odd and unexpected. The breadcrumbs are crunchy and crisp. The shrimp is tender, perfect; the cauliflower still crunchy, too. I can taste the lemon--and chives. So good. Maybe just one more bite won’t hurt too much. I'm eating alone after all.

Tomorrow night, I think it’s back to Deborah’s book, Local Flavors. I just spied a recipe for a tempting ragout. I’ve got the ingredients already and it’s supposed to be even colder tomorrow. Good for cooking and cleaning.

Graham Elliot

This week exhausted both of us. We've gone to the shelf and pulled out the big platters and we still have too much on our plates. One night, while I was out at an obligatory but very much enjoyed dinner, P stayed in, grilled steak, steamed broccoli and camped out in front of the tube. He watched Top Chef Masters. One of the competing chefs was Chicago’s Graham Elliot Bowles. Before the episode was over, P had reservations for tonight’s dinner at Graham Elliot.

With Thriller and Purple Rain playing in the background, our server served us icy martinis (classics with Bombay Sapphire and stuffed olives, thank you, shaken, not stirred), and she slipped us a basket of popcorn, freshly popped and tossed with a grating of black truffles and parmesan. She handed us menus. The list was just as simple as could be … but so much more. We could only laugh.

There were four “colds,” four “hots,” four “seas,” and four “lands.” It was a nearly impossible decision. I wanted it all. He did too. In the end, he had a hot and a land: kung pao sweetbreads with peanut brittle, and pork loin stuffed with roasted pistachios and garlic, with Italian faro as a base, peach marmalade on top and thyme sauce. I countered with a cold and a sea--my cold: foie gras torchon with a crispy dice of pickled rhubarb, crushed Marcona almonds and buttermilk sorbet; my sea: seared halibut with smoked cous cous, eggplant puree and tomato marmalade.

It was one of those meals that you want to eat entirely in small tastes. Every bite was entertaining, comforting; every bite held sweet, sour, salty and spicy. A slightly larger forkful of it all together yielded crunchy, crisp, smooth and soft. (P NEVER shares … or wants tastes. He did both.)

As we settled in with Becky, our server, we moved from “what kind of water to do want?” to “have you been here before?” to “are you visiting or do you live here?” (You know how it goes…) We told her that we were new to the area, and what brought us here. Over the course of the meal, she brought us a list of her favorite off-the-beaten-path restaurants, and after our land and sea, she offered a “welcome to Chicago” gift from the Chef: foie gras lollipops. I usually indulge in foie gras every year or so, so two courses in one night was, well, maybe more than I had in mind, but I was smitten. Imagine foie gras mousse’s smooth butteriness with an edge of pop rocks delivered on a paper stick. Becky said the lollipops always make people laugh, and always for different reasons (some, I suppose, for the immediate thing in their mouth, others for the nod to Chicago's recent revocation of a city-wide foie gras ban). We like it, she said, when people laugh here.

If you’re in town, go. It's comfort food for both brain and belly. And good for a laugh, too. Here it is: http://www.grahamelliot.com/

About Texas

It's Saveur’s Texas Issue.

Have you seen it?

I’ve been resisting it. Intentionally. I love the Bay Area. And I’m growing to love Chicago, but deep in my heart, I miss Texas terribly. Saveur’s not helping. I succumbed.

I don’t know how or why, but Texas’s myths and realities are so comfy to me. I miss Texas’s dry sear. Mornings on those flat Plains, when the breeze is just right, the air can smell scorched, like an iron too long on “high.” I miss the storms and the way lightening fingers across the sky. I miss the Gulf coast’s wet air. I miss the food. And this issue is filled with it: Texas “caviar”; brisket; shrimp, oysters and crawdads; okra; Helen Corbitt and Monica Pope; CFS and chile pequins (page 102.)

When P and I married, we agreed that our "flowers" should be more than just color and texture. They should be "us": for him, food; for me, native plants. From the bouquet to the altar, our friend Kris arranged herbs--basil, sages, rosemary, mint, lavender and borage. Some were from friends’ gardens; some were varieties of Edwards Plateau natives picked early that August morning. We were in P's father's church in Comfort. Against the sounds of his mother's bell choir, the herbs filled the air. Fragrant and calming. We added chile pequins, tiny peppers, to it all--for color, of course, and cooking. (Well, maybe a little more, but this is not the place for that … )

Pequins are among the natives. They’re about the size of my little finger’s nail. And they are hot, 75,000 Scoville units of hot. (Jalapenos rate about 4,000.) My friend John, a native of northern Mexico, carries pequins around raw in his shirt pocket; spicy food is never quite spicy enough for him so he brings his own. I can handle just a slice of the beasts. They have a burn that settles around my lips and the back of my throat, they make me sweat right across the bridge of my nose. The remind me that ears, noses and throats are all connected. I love them. Euphoria. Clarity. Draining sinuses.

When we built our first house, we asked the contactors to protect the lot’s native plants. We had no idea what the land held. We moved in in October and the next spring, a small shrub along the back fence blossomed white, put on zillions of green berries, which turned toward purple and then burst into red. Thousands of chile pequins. The mockingbirds shared them with us. We wish now that we’d picked them all, and dried them and carried them with us. Just for days like this.

Last night we cursed Saveur for so stirring our hearts, and we dreamed aloud and together of Central and South Texas. Today P is cooking Texan. And I’m wondering if pequins will grow in Chicago. One of the farmers at the Green City Market sells them.

And now, Chicago ...

Oh, dear. It has been a long time, hasn't it? My world has changed. And how's yours?

Last time I wrote, we were ensconced in California, on Oakland’s Lake Merritt to be exact. A lovely place really, with a Saturday farmer’s market nearby, Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s close, and friends—those I’ve known all my life and a remarkable group of new friends as well.

Now, five months later, we live in Chicago’s Logan Square. We’re on the boulevards … tree lined streets with wide grassy medians that are perfect for Frisbee playing and dog gatherings. In the Bay Area, I had friends; here I have neighbors. There’s a difference. You know?

Our new neighborhood is an historic district … on the National Register for both its vernacular architecture and its community development. High class and middle class mix here; across the street are big houses with big yards and carriage houses in the back. Our building has been an apartment since at least 1915. Homes just around the corner were built in the 1890s. (Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are both a fair distance away--as is really any other type of grocery store.)

The season's last snow fell, with flakes fat and wet, three days after the moving van left. A month later, the first farmer's market opened, the Green City Market in Lincoln Park. "Local Flavors" takes on a whole new meaning. With Houston at one extreme and Oakland at the other, I wasn't prepared for Chicago's variations at all. But now I understand … or I’m beginning to, at least.

In the East Bay, the seasons have such soft edges and everything grows so well for so long. The farmer’s markets run year-round. Here there was at least a five-month wait between markets. And at that first market, it was as if the farmers and eaters offered salutations to each other, as well as to the winter passed and the season's first yields. At that first market in early May, we found a whole community awakening from winter. People stood together laughing, chatting, with tousled hair, wrinkled jeans, and steaming coffee. They ooohed and ahhhed over the season’s first tender sprouts … most abundantly, asparagus and fiddlehead ferns. Dog tails wagged everywhere (dogs are prohibited in the markets in California). It was a deliciously different vibe.
That night, we ate sweet, hand-snapped asparagus and plum-sized red potatoes (P likes to roast them together); a salad of mixed greens, shaved raw rhubarb, and baby scallions; and local lamb. We were amazed.

Since that first Market visit, we've spent Saturday mornings there and Saturday evenings at home, dissecting both the market experience and the day’s meal, trying to define the nuances in it all. Today we went to the Logan Square Farmer’s Market. It was the first of the ’09 season. Farmers from Michigan, Illinois and Wisconsin. Vegetables, breads, cheeses, home cured pork, farm eggs from down-state—the yolks are bright as tangerines, and hand spun wool, dyed with marigolds, onion skins, tea. P made a frittata for brunch—wild arugula, green garlic, cottage bacon, nettles, tomatoes and those damned bright eggs. So very full of flavor. Tomorrow, I’m planning a green garlic pudding soufflé with nettle soup.

Our neighbors say it only gets bigger and better from here on. And there was talk at the market of opening a neighborhood food coop. It’s such a fine beginning.

It's an identity thing ...

I had drinks last week with my friend Julia. We hadn’t seen each other for a month. And there was so much holidaying to catch up on: assorted minor dramas and traumas, but mostly we talked about food, traditions and ethnic derivations.

Julia descends from Eastern European stock. Her people settled in Illinois and her parents migrated west to the Bay Area when she was a kid. When you ask Julia what she’s cooking for Christmas, she answers "pierogi." We talked at length about the nuances of pierogi-making. (Perhaps she'll tell you about it herself one day.)

Simona immigrated here from Italy as a young adult. She has an entirely different relationship with her memories: it’s direct and so close. She'll tell you about it on her blog at http://briciole.typepad.com/.

Clara immigrated with her family from Columbia when she was just five. She’s descended from Spaniards. For her, it’s paella on Christmas Eve. Delicious, but an obligation. When I ask her, her “oh, paella” sounds burdensome rather than joyful. She sets her table for 30 or more every year. She’d never think twice about it, but that's what makes beloved Clara beloved Clara.

I need to ask others, what do they do? What do you cook for Christmas Eve? Or Hanukkah? Or Kwanzaa? Or to celebrate the solstice?

As for my people, we’ve been here since forever. On dad’s side, since the 3rd boat landed from England in the early 1620s (we missed that first Thanksgiving by something like two weeks). And dad has a healthy dose of early Spain by way of New Spain (now Texas), but they arrived nearly a century later—ordered by Spain’s king to set up the secular community around San Antonio’s missions. On Mom’s side, we have signers of the Declaration. Though both sides all passed through Texas, which is considered an ethnicity on its own in certain circles, technically I’m really, truly, completely American. Any ethnic baggage I have is so dissolved by time and change that there is none left. It’s either a blessing or a curse. I can’t decide.

Regardless, it allows us the chance to adopt other traditions and preferences as necessary--or convenient.

My immediate kin--mother, brother, me--have never been particularly religious. Our holidays have always been deeply defined by gift-giving and gift-opening rituals, more than by food—often others’.

About 25 years ago, mom and her husband bought a home in Santa Fe, New Mexico--a place steeped in a more mystical version of Christianity. The first Christmas I joined mom and Will, we went to the Christmas Eve celebration at Holy Faith just off the plaza. It was standing room only. And amazing. Babies slept bundled and exhausted kids sat wide awake. Incense burned our eyes, and with that many of us so close, it was warm, and when we began singing ... Outside it was frigid, the clear air held hints of pinon fires burning in fireplaces hidden in the Sangre de Cristos and the slight moon cast soft shadows across the mountain ranges. Behind the moon, all those stars. Amazing.

That night, tradition and heart were more palpable any consideration of historical fact—or of gifts that might come later. That night, the stories we told each other about it all were so big, and at that altitude, they seemed so close, it seemed we could just reach out and touch them.

When we got home, mom dished out posole garnished with cilantro and avocado, green chile tamales, and Coronas with limes. That late, our meal was just like a kiss before sleep. Light, delicious. There was something in the flavor—or perhaps just the context—that I’ve been looking for ever since. Mom holds it all dear too, and every year strives for a perfected version of that moment--for that something that makes it as it was that first night we celebrated it together.

This year, we used the Santa Fe Opera cookbook’s recipe--same as back then, same as nearly every year since. In Santa Fe, it was so delicious. But in other places, and here, on the shores of Lake Merritt, it's good, but not the same … We've to make certain concessions to our local reality: instead of dried posole soaked overnight, we used canned hominy; instead of frozen green chiles, we used Hatch brand canned; instead of green chile tamales stuffed with jack cheese and fresh chiles, we used San Antonian interpretations, thick with masa and light on filling. Delicious, but not the same. Somehow, not the same.

So then, what combination of elements creates that tradition, a memory of food? Does it take more than just a few years? Or can it happen in just a moment? Is it repetition (have we not prepared this Christmas Eve meal enough to make it a true tradition)? Is it in the ingredients and methods? What do the people, the air, the smells and the bright stars hanging in the dark skies above bring to the recipe?

While we mull this, Phillip, beloved husband, and I are considering change. Next year, perhaps, we'll adopt a different tradition; one we can relate to ourselves. One without such burdensome expectations. One less dependent on the stars and clear night air.

Starts. Stops. Happy New Year. And Barbra ....

I never really intended for it to take this long to return to weekly prose. The "other" world interfered. I'm still seeking balance. And focus. My friend Jen gently, graciously excused my blog absence. She's been thinking about restarting her blog too. We decided that 6 months was the limit between viable postings.

I hope this finds you happy and healthy.

We've survived December's fetes and I've almost eaten my share of Dungeness crab--roasted, boiled, hot, cold, and whenever possible, with lemon, garlic, butter and artichokes. Our household practically breathes culinary retail and every Christmas is like tax time for CPAs. Intense. Exhausting. This year, more so than usual. This year, it was better than expected, an exercise in flexibility and agility.

We've welcomed, just barely, the New Year and soon we'll welcome a new administration. Food and politics intermingle like never before. It's always been there, as essential as air, but it seems that it's a new player in the larger game. Perhaps even a seat at the "big table," rather than just in our millions of smaller kitchen tables.


This holiday Mom was here from San Antonio. We sat in Scoma’s the day after Christmas, drinking mid-day Bloody Marys and eating crab with our hands. It was one of those San Francisco days kissed by fog, but just barely. Scoma’s is on a pier, and the boats unload fish just across the parking lot. It’s one of those places where the waiters are career guys—20, 30 years is the norm rather than the exception. It was one of Mom’s favorite places back when. When she and her best friend Barbra, both single mothers (one divorced, one widowed), escaped their kids and their work and their solitude and all their craziness, settling in to eat crab and solve the world’s problems. (Our time in San Francisco back then began with the Summer of Love and ended as Nixon resigned. You can imagine the conversations!)

Mom was a student at UC Berkeley, Cal, in the 50s and that’s when and where she and Barbra, both "only children," became “sisters.” When dad died, it was Barbra who talked Mom into returning to San Francisco. ("There's a house for sale up the street. Jeannie, it's so easy." And for Mom, Barbra was a huge comfort in a world away from daddy’s rocket science.)

Barbra was a restaurateur's daughter here. Her dad, “Ada” to us, "Bob" to the rest of the world, was Italian, first generation, and his steak house was renowned for thick prime rib served off a cart and peppery slaw.

An only child, Barb was blessed only with sons. (Most unpleasant people, even as toddlers. I learned dislike from them.) When I was a kid, and one of just two girls on our street in the old neighborhood, Gracie and I were Barb's surrogate daughters. For me at least, Barb was my first, maybe my only "other mother." Barb bought me my first phone, coached me through boy problems, taught me to drink and smoke ("now, hold the smoke deep in your lungs") and swear properly (oh, what a mouth!). And she taught me another way of cooking.

When I think of Barb, her drinking and smoking and swearing are followed closely by Dungeness crab and table cloths, cioppino and Christmas. Red splattered all over her lovely, thick linen tablecloth; red spattered like that redefined white. The splattering was always celebratory, the result of a raucous party. Good friends, good food, good wine, crisp sourdough bread.

Barb's cooking was exuberant, robust, messy and delicious. Like her, it was bawdy, with a deep undertone of straight-out, unabashed hedonism. There was subtlety and layering, but in the end, nothing dainty or restrained about it. She had glass canisters filled with dried herbs and spices lined up on her kitchen's counter. Oregano. Rosemary. Basil. Salt. Pepper. Sugar. Chiles. Garlic. Not jars. Canisters. When Barb cooked, it was lids off and sleeves rolled up. She'd start with a recipe, but then she'd deviate. She cooked by taste, by smell. It changed as martinis were made and wine was poured. Barb would call us in, hold us close, ask us to chop or stir or mix, then banish us, only to invite us back in again. It was always a ride.


That day, one of those that Gracie and I still--not quite 40 years later--remember, was luscious. Barb's house sat high on a hill. Its wide windows faced west: the sunset and the sea. Grace and I were 12, maybe 13. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in December and the sun’s glare was blinding. It wasn’t really hot out, but all the windows were wide open and cool breezes blew though that openness.

In Barb’s kitchen, we chopped onions and smashed garlic, opened cans of tomatoes, scrubbed clams, peeled and deveined prawns, and sipped Bloody Marys (very nearly virgin, but Barb being Barb, offered them to us "not quite"--just a splash of Smirnoff). The layering of fragrance was amazing: onions and garlic, then spices—parsley, basil, rosemary, thyme, a bay leaf-- tomato juice, wine and clam juice. With our heads filled with these good smells, Barb would send us out (with a minimal buzz) to go off and get lost in girliness together.

The next afternoon, we’d be called back to Barb’s for more work. After we set the table (thick white linen and butcher paper, white bowls, white napkins, the best sterling, white plates and crystal clear glasses, bibs and “handi-wipes,” for at least a dozen), with red wine decanted, the green salad tossed, the sourdough warm and the butter soft, Barb added in the clams, crabs and prawns and then excused Gracie and me until the next morning. (At G’s house we baby sat our barely younger, but much taller brothers while all our parents were at Barb’s party. We’d drink “pink gins” until our noses went numb--again only barely alcoholic--a 1 to 30 or so ratio of gin to pink lemonade, then we’d sleep. In the morning, Gracie’s little brother fried baloney, Oscar Meyer, and eggs for us and we’d trundle up the hill to help clean up. More on the proper mixing of pink gins later. You need an old Packard parked in the garage. It's an essential ingredient.)


Barb’s Cioppino, slightly modified

1 red pepper, minced (or a ripe jalapeno or Serrano—more or less, whatever you prefer; Barb even liked green bell peppers!)
1 onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Olive oil
16 oz. tomato paste
32 oz. canned tomatoes
1 bottle of red table wine
6 Tbs. parsley
2 tsp. fresh oregano
1 bay leaf
3 tsp. fresh basil, shredded or chiffonade
1 tsp. thyme
1 tsp. rosemary
bottle of clam juice
salt to taste

Seafood:
4 dozen clams (Manila are delicious!)
5 cooked, cracked crabs (Dungeness is best, if available)
3 lbs prawns (or sweet gulf shrimp, if available)
Fish (white and flaky, if you like—Barb didn’t, so her’s was only a shellfish stew)

Make the sauce early in the morning the day of the party, or the night before. Sauté the pepper, onion and garlic in olive oil until soft. Add tomato paste, tomatoes, ½ of the bottle of wine, spices and salt (to taste). Simmer gently for 3 hours. If the sauce becomes too thick, add wine. Adjust spices to taste. Refrigerate the sauce overnight.

An hour (give or take) before serving, begin to heat the sauce slowly. When simmering, add clams. When they begin opening, add the prawns (and fish). When the prawns are barely pink, add the crab, and heat the cioppino through.

Serve it in a terrine. Roll up your sleeves, tear bread, smear butter, eat and drink well. It’s the most delicious fun. Best served for a dozen very good friends. Better with steamed artichokes.