On a Dark and Windy Night

Last week in Los Angeles we had just about the strangest wind storm I've experienced in the decade plus one year that I've lived here. Seemingly out of nowhere, the wind whipped up from the north, treacherous in the bluest of skies, making the palm trees wild with distress, their fronds whipped about and flying through the air. And those things are big and heavy and the Debbie downer in me always wonders what would happen if it fell on a person. Anyway, the trees were swaying and because weather, the real kind of weather, is just so rare here, the boys were staring out the window and exclaiming over it all. They might have even been a tiny bit scared, especially when they noticed that flocks of birds were flying in what looked like very precarious formations (if you click on the picture, I think you can see the birds).

But since it's late October and we're still pretty sunny and seventy degrees out here with only a few trees touched by fall color, we decided to be cozy inside. I surprised the boys and Sophie with mini-hamburgers -- I'm not a griller by any stretch of the imagination, preferring to leave that work to the Chef Husband, and I can't remember the last time I cooked hamburgers on the stove. The grease, the clean up -- it's not worth it. But I saw these tiny hamburgers, grass-fed (got to be grass-fed beef) at Trader Joe's:

and these perfect little hamburger buns:

I threw the burgers into a cast-iron pan and let them sizzle away. And maybe because they were small, there wasn't nearly the mess. I guess I could have made small hamburger patties myself all these years, but, well, I haven't. And I'm a sucker for packaging.

I cut some sharp cheddar cheese off of a block and threw the mini slices onto the sizzling meat:

And then I steamed some broccolini, with the vain hope that the miniature look might entice The Brothers. I even put some beautiful olive oil and parmesan cheese on it. No such luck (on the enticement).

I made little bowls of condiments -- ketchup, lettuce leaves and pickles. And the obligatory french fries. That was a big hit.

on alternatives to parenting picky eaters

Simplicity

We're bombarded daily by reports of nutrition or the lack thereof in all of our diets. Frankly, I'm saturated with it all and if I keep paying attention my head might spin off and fly elsewhere. It's just all too much. I used to be a chef; I'm married to a chef, and I'm pretty confident that I know a good bit about food and nutrition. I try to feed my children properly, and if I don't, I feel justifiably guilty.

This morning, we had the simplest of breakfasts. And even though there was minimal protein, I DON'T CARE. There was challah toast, butter, homemade plum jam, orange slices, juice and milk. (I had coffee).

The boys laughed and messed around, licked their fingers to catch the crumbs and made me smile.

That to me is how to eat.

Gourmet, Gone

February's cover: Blue bachelor buttons and daisies - white or yellow -- make an unexpected winter appearance to keep February cold from cutting the good cheer within. Stand close ... the lilies of the valley are filling the air with their sweet perfume. The tete de veau vinaigrette, garlanded like the merry god Pan, has been poached. The sauce has been prepared, the knife has been sharpened. Here is a centerpiece worthy of a February feast, to give color to the table and a sparkle to the appetite. 
February 1954

I read the sad news today that Gourmet Magazine, originally published 40 years ago, is folding. While I haven't had a subscription in years (and I know I'm probably part of the problem), this saddens me. Gourmet, unlike some of its magazine counterparts, always had a bit of a literary shine with excellent writers like the late Laurie Colwin and any number of amazing travel writers. I subscribed to it for probably fifteen years and recently got rid of a ridiculous number of back issues when I realized that I was becoming a sort of pack rat.

But what makes me particularly nostalgic is that I actually worked for Gourmet in the early nineties when I moved to New York City to attend cooking school. I was recently divorced at the age of 26 and while I can't remember now whom my connection was, I landed a job as a clerk in the magazine's research library. I was paid less than $8.00 an hour but it was a job coveted by many, because once you worked at the magazine, you generally never left. The window offices that ringed Gourmet's floor of the Conde Nast building on Madison Avenue housed women who had usually been at the magazine for twenty or more years. They were understated in their dress, preppy in the way that old families from the east coast looked; most had graduated from Ivy League schools and were impeccable editors. The women in the test kitchens had the most coveted jobs -- the test kitchen was immaculate and outside its doors stood a small table from which you could sample the food literally all day long. In the early 90s, there was no Internet to speak of, and my job as the research assistant in the magazine's library was to answer the calls that came from all over the world regarding recipes. Someone might call in and say, "I remember a crown roast you featured back in the late fifties. Do you think you could find me the recipe?" And I would write down the lady's name and number and question and then hang up the phone. I had a massive index that I would then start combing through, looking for the recipe in question. When I'd found it, I would either copy the recipe and mail it to the caller or attempt to fax it in the copy room if the person had a fax machine. Along with answering these calls, I photocopied for the editors or typed out letters. Every now and then I would call a famous restaurant or chef to ask for a particular recipe that a reader had requested. Sometimes, galleys of new cookbooks came into the library and I would shelve those as well. I picked at and ate the samplings from the test kitchen and gossiped a bit with the junior editors.

It was a dream job, really, perfect for a single girl making her way independently in the city for the first time in her life.  I honestly don't remember why I quit. I think it was because I was offered my first real fancy kitchen job -- a story for another day.

I'll miss seeing Gourmet Magazine on the newsstand and will forever treasure the vintage copies I received while working there.

May's Cover: "The spring is here, the delicate footed May," and carnations and pussy willows bloom on our cover. The Colony Restaurant's poire avocado is a salad by arrangement; the pear is surmounted by rows of white Italian truffles and fresh mushrooms, the verdant lettuce is jeweled with diamonds of pimiento. A wedge of lemon adds its bright piquancy to the dish and spring is on the table!

May 1955

Fresh from the Garden

My son Oliver is not into vegetables at all. He is eight years old, and the days when he'd wave a steamed stalk of asparagus around before happily eating it are long since gone. He went through a short phase when he ate broccoli as if it were chocolate, but that's long since over as well. He and his brother go to a local, progressive charter school, and one of the wonderful things about it is its gardening program. The school recently became one of the recipients of Alice Waters' Edible Garden programs, and last year, the second graders worked in the garden all year, tilling and planting and harvesting and, finally, eating. Oliver came home and told me that he'd eaten vegetables that day -- snap peas and carrots and radishes. I thought terrific and ran to the store to get some for dinner that night. When I placed them before him, Oliver said, Ewwww. And I said, I thought that you loved fresh vegetables now! And Oliver said, Not this kind. I only eat them when they are fresh from the garden. And I just rolled my eyes and thought Good Lord, I've spawned a politically correct food snob.


On Tuesday afternoons, I get a delivery of farm-fresh, local, organic produce and after momentarily feeling completely overwhelmed, I go through the tidy ritual of taking everything out of the cooler, washing the lettuces and putting them into the crisper and then organizing whatever goes in the fridge and what stays outside.

Did you know that tomatoes should NEVER go in a fridge? It completely changes their texture and taste.

This week I got so much eggplant and red pepper that I knew I'd have to make a ratatouille. This is an intimidating dish to me, mainly because you have to do so much chopping and then cook each vegetable separately before putting them all together or you get a pot of mush. But I had visions of this colorful dish over a plate of pasta with some grated parmesan on top.

I used Alice Waters' recipe for ratatouille in Chez Panisse Vegetables and sort of made it my own.

Ratatouille

3 thin japanese eggplant
Salt
1 large onion
2 red bell peppers
1 yellow squash
1 zuchinni
3 large heirloom tomatoes
6 cloves of garlic
extra-virgin olive oil
1 large bunch of basil

First, I cut the eggplant into 1/2-inch cubes and put them in a metal colander with an enormous T of kosher salt. I set the colander in the sink for the eggplant to drain. I realize that the thin eggplant I used (as opposed to the large eggplant that Alice Waters uses) probably didn't need to drain its bitter juices, but I did it anyway.

Second, I peeled and cut up the onion and then the peppers, squash, zucchini and tomatoes all the same size as the eggplant and put them all into separate bowls. I smashed and peeled the garlic and then roughly chopped it.

I went over to the sink and pushed the eggplant down with my hands, squeezing all the black juice out. Then I rinsed it a little and dried it on some paper towels.

In a large heavy-bottomed pot, I poured some olive oil (enough to coat the bottom of the pot) and fried the eggplant cubes until they were golden. I took them out of the pot and reserved them on a plate. Next, I poured in a little more olive oil and and began to saute the onions over medium-low heat. When they were soft and translucent, I added the garlic and a bunch of the basil that I had wrapped in string (a bouquet garni). I stirred that for a minute or so and then tossed in the peppers for a few more minutes. Next I added the squash and zucchini, cooking it for a few more minutes, and then finally the tomatoes. Then I left it to cook for about ten minutes, occasionally stirring the mixture.

Finally, I added the eggplant and cooked the whole mixture for 20 more minutes. When everything was soft and incredibly fragrant, I took out the bouquet garni, added some freshly chopped basil, a bit of salt and freshly ground pepper and a tad more extra-virgin olive oil.

I served it over pasta with parmesan grated on top. It was divine both hot and cold, and even better today, one day after I had made it.

As for the Food Snob, this is what he had to say, with his nose turned up: They're not from OUR garden, Mom. I don't like it.

Brain Food

I had dinner out the other night with two colleagues. As we sat and talked about a presentation we were going to make to a group of women film-makers, in the hope that they would do a public service announcement for epilepsy education, I sipped on a glass of cold wheat beer and felt a little nervous about talking to a large group of very hip women. We were eating at Ammo, a small place in Hollywood that I highly recommend for simple, clean and mostly organic food. My friends ordered soup and salad, which made me hesitate, but I wanted the homemade Pappardelle with Bolognese Sauce because that's the way I am. This bowl of pasta was so good that it pretty much distracted me from the conversation we continued to have. I had to restrain myself from just putting forkful after forkful in my mouth in between conversation. I don't remember talking too much, but I do remember that there was a small amount of pasta, just enough, and that each thick ribbon was perfectly coated with a rich, dark red sauce, the beef chopped up and scattered throughout. Fresh parmesan shavings on top, it was really perfect. I was struck by its enoughness. Enough noodles, cooked enough, meat enough and sauce enough. And I ate enough to feel perfectly satisfied and not too full.

Today, I read a blurb in Spirituality and Health Magazine. Perhaps you've heard of this study, but I couldn't resist posting it here:

A study from the psychology department at Tufts University showed that dieters who drastically reduced or eliminated carbohydrates from their meals performed more poorly on memory-based tasks than those who did not. Yet when carbohydrates were reintroduced in the dieters' meals, cognition skills returned to normal. 'This study demonstrates that the food you eat can have an immediate impact on cognitive behavior,' explains Holly A. Taylor; professor of psychology at Tufts and corresponding author of the study. 'The popular low-carb [and] no-carb diets have the strongest potential for negative impact on thinking and cognition.' The researchers went on to explain that too few or no carbohydrates deprives the brain of essential fuel, forcing it to 'run on empty,' so to speak. Glucose - carbohydrates that have been broken down to individual molecules - serves as the brain's main fuel, and because the brain has no way of storing glucose, it must rely on a regular carbohydrate intake from food. Monika Rice


Basically, I'm thinking that if it comes down to my ass or my brain, I'm choosing my brain.

Comfort Breakfast

I have a craving for this just about every other day.

Creamy stone-ground polenta with a swirl of sun-dried tomato pesto in the middle (the eggs are on top)

Two eggs, over easy (or yolks still soft) and crispy at the edges

Toasted Italian bread

Lots of salt and a small amount of pepper