It’s not quite breakfast, it’s not quite lunch, but it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end

I’ve never been a big breakfast person. I know what they say about it being the most important meal of the day and all, but I seem to get along fine without it. In four years of college, I probably made it to breakfast seven times, when I could scrounge together five minutes to grab a bagel before class. Generally, if it’s before noon, I just don’t have a strong desire to eat. But I’ll tell you what I do have strong feelings about. Brunch. Sweet, savory, delicious brunch at 2 o’clock on a Saturday, anywhere I can get it.

I love “brunch, the social event”, especially when it involves my girlfriends and mimosas, even more so if the restaurant has taken them up a notch with some twee stand in for the OJ. Blood orange mimosas?  So festive! I know a lot of chefs hate brunch because the concept of churning out 200 plates of eggs benedict for the masses is offensive to their art. But people have to eat, so stow the tude and give me that fancy BLT that pads your margins for dinner service. 

Brunch is equally as enjoyable in my own kitchen. Waking up on the weekends and cooking a big meal, whether its just for Jake and me, or a table full of friends, is one of my favorite things to do. I tend to default to savory dishes - I enjoy waffles more when they’re served with fried chicken - and now that we’re well into spring, the farmers markets are full of beautiful produce to build our spread around. Right now it’s delicate asparagus and sweet, juicy strawberries. Soon enough it will be peaches, corn, and my eagerly anticipated favorites, tomatoes.

While we were waiting around for nature’s bounty, there was one dish we defaulted to over and over again, mostly because it it’s cheap, filling, and our pantry is consistently stocked with the majority of the contents, which meant we didn't have to leave the apartment. It began as a hearty cold weather hash based on sweet potatoes and chicken sausage, but it lends itself well to any season with the right add ins. These days we’re big fans of fistfuls of cilantro, jalapenos and fresh corn, and as soon as they hit the market, it'll be bell basil and peaches. I think of it the same way I do bowls from Chipotle, which is, give me the works, please. Use whatever you have or whatever you like best.

Recipe: Serves 4

2 large sweet potatoes
3/4 lb chicken sausage (4 links)
1 yellow onion, diced
1 red bell pepper, diced
1 jalapeno, diced and seeds reserved
2 ears corn (1 cup)
2 cloves garlic
Fistful of cilantro, roughly chopped
Salt and cayenne pepper
Olive oil


















Put potatoes, skin on, in a large pot of water and bring to a boil for about 20 minutes or until potatoes are just barely tender. Remove and set aside to cool. Heat a cast iron pan on medium and add a few tablespoons of olive oil, then saute bells, jalapenos (with seeds if you like heat), onions and garlic until soft, seasoning with salt. When done, set them aside in a bowl and add diced sausage (if pre-cooked) to the pan to brown. If not cooked, dice after browning links and cooking through. Add to the bowl with the aromatics and peppers.


When the potatoes have cooled enough to handle, dice into 1/2 inch cubes and brown in the pan, seasoning with plenty of salt and cayenne to taste. Don't touch them for a good 3-4 minutes or until they've developed a crust, then turn them and brown on the other side. When done to your liking, add in the onions, peppers and sausage, along with the fresh corn and lots of chopped cilantro. Et voila.

PS - Though I am one of brunch's biggest fans, I must disclose that I've snubbed one of its star players for most of my life. I ate my first egg on my twenty-fourth birthday and have eaten exactly one more since then, only a few weeks ago. A dislike for eggs is one of the last remaining stubborn quirks of my picky childhood. I’m coming around, slowly, but only when they are warm and runny, ie as close to their natural form as possible. I’m beginning to understand the fondness with which people speak of a poached yolk enveloping the contents of one's plate. But given that the smell of scrambled eggs literally sends me into a fit of tear filled gagging, I may have to live without omelettes, quiche and the like. As always, I am a work in progress. Aren't we all?

PPS - Bonus points to you if you recognized the Simpsons quote in the title. 

Brown paper packages tied up with strings...

This is not a post about The Sound of Music. Sorry to disappoint if that's where you hoped this was going. Allow me to link one quote with another, though, and I promise all will make sense by the end of this post. Ok. Kurt Vonnegut wrote something like “I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'” 

That profound little nugget enjoyed a few years on my Facebook page, and then I decided that I was not the sort of person who quotes Kurt Vonnegut in public forums (whatever that means) and took it down, but the message has always resonated with me. It's good to be conscious of the small things that make us happy, and to be grateful for their presence. Simple pleasures, right? 

I find that my mood can be instantly improved by the presence of certain things, especially when those things manifest in the form of an SVU marathon or chocolate milk. Small digression, my coworker once bought me a carton of chocolate milk just because she knows how much I like it, just came by and plopped it on my desk, and I swear that is damn near the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. You may be thinking that people must not do nice things for me very often, but honestly I just really love chocolate milk and kind gestures. Don't you? Anyway. 

I know that I usually write about food, but today I just want to make a list of the things I'm feeling especially fond of or grateful for lately. And much of it gravitates towards the edible, so I haven't departed altogether from my usual content. Ironically, I'm not typically fond of list making, since lists are usually just full of the shit I need to do, buy or accomplish and that makes me want to take a nap. But there's something about a list of favorite things that reminds you why life is good. And I happen to think everyone should be reminded of that once in a while. Here's my list. What's on yours?

frequenting a place often enough to be considered a regular 

when vacation is close enough to really start getting excited

when my birthday overlaps with that vacation

ordering exactly the right thing at a restaurant

getting a package in the mail

reading the Sunday Times…on Sunday

the sound of peeling a clementine apart

the smell of garlic sizzling in olive oil

championing a cause you are passionate about

spring showing up for good

buying perfectly ripe avocados

unexpected opportunity

elegant handwriting

starting a brand new book

feeling confident in your choices

making dinner reservations somewhere really snazzy

nine hours of sleep or more

and finally, the rare mornings when I get a seat on the metro

on beans and bacon, and nudging dry leaves around cement

Lately I've been focused on learning to cook simply. Maybe that's not the right way to say it. It's more that I'm starting at the beginning, with ingredients that are simple, and learning to prepare them in ways worthy of their grand potential. I'm knee deep in Tamar Adler's An Everlasting Meal and it really has me thinking about the way we approach cooking. 

She writes in the first chapter, like MFK Fisher wrote for World War II era heads of house in How to Cook a Wolf, that we should be more confident in our abilities to transform the contents of our pantry into wonderful meals. We should celebrate with what we have and should shop and cook like who we are, people who are learning to cook and people who are hungry. And we should eat affordably, responsibly and well. Her words resonate with me and slow me to a pause. Reminding the reader that there is no such thing as perfect, she writes what is so far my favorite passage...

"When we cook things, we transform them. And any small acts of transformation are among the most human things we do. Whether it's nudging dry leaves around a patch of cement, or salting a tomato, we feel, when we exert tiny bits of our human preference in the universe, more alive."

That's the stuff, right? I've had her words in the back of my mind for the past few days, and I listen to them when I cook. I'm focusing on simplicity and making the most of what I have, bending it to my preference. Side bar...if you read this blog at all, you know that as a rule, I tend to buy more than I need and am intrigued by any condiment not already sitting on my shelf. I get excited for new recipes and sometimes end up buying a jar of something that I need two teaspoons of. While this has resulted in an extremely impressive array of mustard, it's also somewhat needless. So with Tamar's poetic advice, I'm focusing instead on the possibilities found in bits of onion, and other basics we underestimate.

The other night I took her words as a challenge and made dinner from only what I had on hand, save for $2 worth of endive I bought at the grocery store because I literally had nothing green in my apartment. (Shame on me.) I started with white beans, bacon and beef broth and ended with something that warmed me, filled and fulfilled me. The beans, simmered slowly in broth, glossy with rich bacon fat, were as creamy as mashed potatoes. I dressed them with a healthy drizzle of good olive oil and a hint of aged balsamic and the bowl sang.

This was just my cabinet. I strongly advise that you try the same exercise. I think you will be pleasantly surprised at what you can come up with. But if you happen to have beans, bacon and a few bouillon cubes hanging around, this is really something.

Measurements are rough...this made two healthy portions

6 pieces of thick bacon, cut into lardons
Half a medium onion, I used a red because it was all I had
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 regular or one large can cannellini beans, drained
1 cup beef broth (or one bouillon cube dissolved into one cup hot water)
1/2 lb belgian endive, cored and coarsely chopped. Kale would be nice too.
Fresh thyme, 3 or 4 stems worth
Olive oil for drizzling

Cook the bacon in a large pan over medium heat until it's crispy, then transfer it to a paper towel. Lower the heat and add the onion and saute until soft, then add the garlic, thyme and endive and saute for a few minutes, until the endive is wilted and translucent. Add the bacon back into the pan, then pour the beans and broth. Partially cover the pot and simmer on low for about 30 minutes. The longer you let it go, the more the flavors develop. (I just happened to be really hungry after half an hour.) You can always add more broth if it reduces down too much.

Ladle your beans into a bowl - they should be thick and wet, with some broth pooling at the bottom. Lavish them with a good grind of pepper and a drizzle, or dousing, of olive oil. I also gave them a little sweet balsamic love, but that's just me.

More soon with other things I'm sure this book will teach me. Until then, beans and bacon. I'm telling you.

my food narrative, or, i got it from my mama

I am becoming my mother. Yes, everyone, this is happening. They say every woman turns out like her mother eventually, and it seems I am not immune to this curiosity of female evolution. More and more I’m noticing stronger similarities between us as I continue to settle into my...shall we generously call it... adulthood.

For instance, we’re both emotional people, easily moved to tears be they of joy, sadness, empathy or just feeling. But I wasn’t always like that. Where I used to roll my teenage eyes at her habit of tearing up during sappy TV commercials, I’m now notorious for the same thing, and if it involves a dog well then you can just forget it. I also have a similar style of diction, especially when I lose my patience. When I say, “let me tell you something” I can hear myself in one ear and her in the other. We like the same perfume, we gravitate towards the same types of people, but most significantly of all, we take the same approach to food.

Everything I know and everything I feel about food and eating is somehow inspired by her. Beginning with the no thank you portions of my childhood, I was taught to always be grateful for the food put in front of me, and to put your best dish forward for guests. Likely a function of being the oldest of seven kids, she will always buy too much, especially for parties, as it's "better to have too much than not enough", a philosophy I've adopted that runs up my credit card bill but leaves me at peace, even if I am eating leftovers for a week. I sweat at the thought of running out of food in front of company.

For my mom, eating is one of life's greatest pleasures. It's most often simple, like the Italian sandwiches she buys for weekend lunches from the refreshingly brusque, perpetually cranky woman at our favorite meat market, who I love visiting when I'm home even though she's never nice to me. Their prosciutto is a thing of beauty. Good, simple meals are some of the best, especially when shared with loved ones.

She also believes wholeheartedly in the occasional all out splurge, which I do my part to encourage. I was raised to believe that if you're gonna eat, if you're gonna spend, you might as well do it big, because the experience is well worth it. Splurging most often coincides with celebrations, but I also come from a family that looks for reasons to celebrate, so there you go.

And she's rubbed off on me in simpler ways, like my habit of stopping to read the menu in the window of every restaurant I pass by, which my boyfriend and friends graciously indulge. This drove me cah-raaaazy when I was little, but here I am, lingering, perusing, just like her. And I have the same maddening reluctance to commit to one restaurant over another when traveling, nagged with fear that I could've had something better. It is torture, and I am trying to chill out.

Other rules of Judy's to live by...I never eat breakfast but I adore brunch, I will happily spend good money for good food but nothing irks me more than overpriced mediocrity, there is always a reason for Champagne, there is also usually a reason for cocktails, order scallops if they're on the menu, cook often and have fun with it, and know that feeding myself well is a simple key to a high quality of life.

One of the only rules I haven't picked up is clean while you cook, but I'm only 24, so I have some time. Overall though, I've learned quite a bit from her influence. Our experience with food shapes our narrative, I think, more than we recognize. I examine my habits and the story they form, and realize how many of them are touched by food. As a necessity, it's woven quietly into the fabric of day to day living, but it has so much impact on our happiness, our memories, ourselves.

I'm lucky to have been raised to embrace food unabashedly and to take great enjoyment in the simplest of provisions. Along with curly hair and big lips, I will most certainly pass this down to my daughter some day, and I hope she's as grateful for it as I am.

On happy routines and the farmers market

It's nice to step back and appreciate the small things. I did a lot of that this weekend. The weather was beautiful, both days the kind that beg you to begin noticing your surroundings again after months of rushing from point a to point b. Blossoms are everywhere and the air is fragrant with spring's beginnings. I don’t remember DC being so beautiful last year, but then again I’ve warmed to the city considerably in recent months, and I think I’m more willing on the whole to absorb the good things here.  

I went on my first real run through the city in a long time, and had my first trip of the season to the farmers market, though admittedly it was the second attempt of the weekend. I think I was just so happy to be wearing short sleeves outside that I managed to convince myself the market would be open on Saturday. My enthusiasm translated to me mixing the days up, and considering that I made Jake walk the mile plus with me, I think it’ll be a little while before I live that one down. But the morning wasn't wasted, as the walk there was lovely. 

I returned by myself early this morning (after double checking the hours…) and took my time walking through it, savoring all the vendors I hadn’t seen for months. The Dupont market stays open year round, but I tend to tire of apples and cold weather, so I wait until the spring yields a little more bounty and warmth. Sliding back into my beloved routine was so exciting.

That sounds like a contradiction, or like I’m very boring, but the hour I spend at the market with my hands buried in piles of tender greens and my nose overwhelmed by all manor of fresh goodness is one of the best parts of my week. I fall in love with the bright colors, the abundance of babies and dogs, the knowledgable chatty vendors and of course the generous samples. Even though it’s only March, I can almost taste the sweet corn and I pine for sticky hands full of peach juice. But in the mean time, here's what today looked like...

baby lettuce

beautiful rainbow chard

more of the beautiful chard. so colorful!

peach blossoms...who knew?!

more blossoms...

and of course apples

tulips...some of my favorites

And lastly, breakfast was sour dough with strawberry jalapeno jam, maple
cured bacon and runny free range eggs. 

a soup to bridge the seasons

I have a well-documented thing for soup. Rich stews, fragrant broths, chilled purees, studded with fresh veggies, topped with crème fraiche…I find a way to incorporate them into my diet all year long. I’m big into comfort food that doesn’t bog me down, and one-pot meals that require only a crusty baguette to round them out, so I often rely on some form of soup to fill that niche.

There’s one that I fall back on more often than any other, introduced to me a while back by my friend Sarah, by way of a blog we both love, Molly Wizenberg’s Orangette. She brought it into work one day for lunch and within a month, at least 4 people on our team had all followed suit with their own unique spins on it, myself included. It’s a simple soup based on three ingredients…canned tomatoes, chickpeas, and stock, and these basic pantry items yield surprisingly deep flavors when combined with a few aromatics.

I’ve been eating tomato soup since I could hold a spoon independently, maybe even before that, and this is easily one of my favorites. It rivals the roasted tomato offering from Fork, etc. in Philadelphia, where I used to linger for many a work day lunch when I lived in the city of brotherly love. Until I invest in a food mill, I’ll never achieve the same silky texture, but this comes close.

We’re experiencing an early spring in DC this year, and I get the feeling that I won’t have many more opportunities to enjoy this, so I wanted to share it before the chilly evenings disappear for good. Note, the original version calls for earthy rosemary, which is wonderful, but lately I’ve been experimenting with more “exotic” add ins…by which I mean I recently bought some sweet smoked paprika and have been using it in absolutely everything. (As a result, my apartment smells kind of like a tapas bar, which I do not mind at all) I leave you to play around with your own herb and spice preferences, or give this one a try.

Modified from Orangette’s chickpea-tomato soup

2 cans chickpeas

1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes

1 14.5 oz can diced tomatoes

4 cups chicken or vegetable stock, I favor Kitchen Basics chicken stock

1 large shallot, minced

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon sweet smoked paprika

½ teaspoon cumin

½ cup wild rice (optional, I sometimes add it for a little heft)

2 tablespoons olive oil

A few pinches of sugar

Fresh black pepper

Warm the oil on medium-low in a large soup pot (I use my Le Creuset dutch oven) and sauté the garlic and shallots for two minutes until soft, then add in the smoked paprika and cumin and sauté for another two minutes. Add in the tomatoes, stock, half the chickpeas (drained and rinsed) sugar and a few grinds of pepper and bring soup to a boil, then simmer on low, mostly covered, for about 20 minutes.

Turn off the heat and use an immersion blender to puree the soup to your desired consistency. Add in the remaining chickpeas and serve, or if you’re adding the rice, do so with the rest of the chickpeas, and let the pureed soup simmer on low for another 15-20 minutes, until the grains are soft.

Finish your meal with some crusty bread and a small spoonful of sour cream or mascarpone. In the meantime, I'll be eyeing this gallery of spring soups on Saveur's website. 

a short explanation

Most people either have blog names that are self-explanatory, or they make a point of elaborating on them in the first post or two as a way of introduction. I guess I forgot to do that. Not like it’s especially profound or anything, but it does mean something to me, so I’ll write about it a little.

My kitchen counter is the center of my life. I feel most comfortable there. Growing up, it’s where my mom and I would talk through the events of our days; her with a glass of wine and me usually hovered over a big bowl of ice cream. By extension of those many nights, I’ve come to associate standing at my kitchen counter with the daily release of everything outside of “home”, of putting away work or school and having a few hours in my own element.

Now, it’s where I pour a glass of wine and open my mail after I’ve carried out my daily ritual of standing in front of the open refrigerator pondering what I can eat at that very moment that won’t ruin my appetite for dinner. I am forever standing in front of my open fridge. Sometimes I don’t even remember walking there, and yet there I am, reaching for the hummus.

It’s where I prepare my meals and sort my thoughts. Repetitive tasks like chopping and dicing are oddly therapeutic, and give my brain time to breathe and think about things I’ve put out of mind during the day. I can mindlessly cut up tomatoes and remember to pick up my dry cleaning or wish my friend a happy birthday. The steps to a recipe and my random thoughts intertwine in a stream of consciousness. Mince shallots and sauté in olive oil for two minutes, I wonder if it will be warm enough to run outside tomorrow, then add garlic.

And there are few things more rewarding to me than preparing a good meal, whether it’s the twentieth time I’ve made an old favorite or the first time I’ve truly gotten a new dish right. I look forward to lazy weekends when I can spend hours in the kitchen, perched at the counter with no time constraints.

It’s also where I invariably end up standing in the presence of company. I like to look out over it to the rest of my apartment and watch people making themselves at home, kind of like how my dog Bernie used to regularly sit at the top of the stairs and preside over the house. It’s my spot.

And it’s the first place I look when I can’t find something, because chances are I’ve recently left it there. Something else I am forever doing is losing things, especially keys and metro cards. So, in short, this blog is a reflection of thoughts I’ve had and things I’ve made while standing at the counter, or in some cases, in front of the fridge. And that's pretty much it. 

lessons from a lamb

As I’ve alluded to in the past, I tend not to cook red meat very often. I enjoy ordering it at restaurants where I trust I’ll be served a perfect medium rare, but in my own kitchen, a few expensive failures have left me inclined to defer to more experienced hands when I crave it.

But lately I’ve been in the mood to conquer, so I decided that I would attempt to get back on the wagon for Valentine’s Day dinner, a tradition that Jake and I keep in lieu of dropping cash on an overpriced “romantic tasting menu” at a crowded restaurant. No heart shaped chocolate cake for us, thanks.

This year we decided on rack of lamb, one of our favorite proteins but something I’d never attempted. So I temporarily shelved all memories of overcooked disappointment and committed to this dinner. For cooking method, I consulted one of my favorites – Williams-Sonoma’s Cooking at Home, and after reading up a bit, felt reasonably confident that this was something I could do. Rack of lamb was happening.

Spoiler: we were not unique in our ambition. In an uncharacteristic rookie mistake, we showed up to the grocery store fully unprepared to contend with the mob scene of hungry couples that all had the exact same idea. Word to the wise, Whole Foods on Valentine’s Day is an ugly scene. So we opted for plan B, which in our house means pizza, beer and Smash on DVR. Greasy carbs and musical theatre are pretty much my dream back up combination, and I’m lucky enough to have a boyfriend who indulges these guilty tendencies. (He also loves Debra Messing. It’s true.)

We ended up making our belated Valentine's meal the following weekend. Here’s the recipe, along with a few observations on the techniques that helped successfully bring this dish across and mitigated the intimidation factor surrounding red meat. Read: patience.

Recipe:

1 frenched rack of lamb, 8 ribs

4 garlic cloves

¼ cup each mint, rosemary and parsley

4 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for searing

salt and freshly ground black pepper

Remove excess fat from the top of the rack, then generously salt both sides and set it aside. In a food processor, combine the garlic, herbs and pepper and pulse until everything is finely chopped, then slowly add in the olive oil until a nice, thick paste has formed.

Take two thirds of the paste and spread it on the top of your rack, so it looks like this, and let it sit for an hour so the flavors can begin to permeate the lamb. Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 450. 

Heat an oven safe skillet (I used a cast iron) to medium/high and add a few tablespoons of olive oil, enough to coat the bottom. When the oil begins to smoke, add the lamb, herb paste down, and sear for two minutes, then flip it and sear the other side for an additional two. 

Place the skillet in the oven with your lamb herb paste up and roast 10 minutes for medium rare. While the lamb is roasting, melt the remaining herb paste into 2 tablespoons of butter in a small sauce pan over low heat.

When it’s done, carefully remove your skillet from the oven (that shit is going to be hot) and move the lamb to a plate to rest. Let it sit for 5 minutes before carving between the ribs, and serve with the herb butter and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar if you're so inclined. We ate the lamb with a creamy celery root puree that I found here, and some cherry tomatoes I halved and simmered in a pan with olive oil until their juices were thick, about 10 minutes.

A few revelations occurred to me as I beamed at my finished product. These may be shamefully obvious to all of you, but as someone who is not especially patient in cooking or in life, getting my desired result really drove home the impact of these techniques (which are really just logical actions I sometimes don't take because I don't like waiting).

For one, if you're searing something, wait until your pan is hot. Really wait. If your meat isn't sizzling as soon as you place it in the pan, you're never going to get the sear you want.  And the big one. Let your meat rest and trust in carry over heat to increase the temperature by five to ten degrees. Cutting it prematurely will disrupt the meat from arriving at its true temperature, and cause it to dry out, which is a bummer.

I know it's tempting to check and see if you've undercooked it, but that 5 minutes can make all the difference. I had to consciously restrain myself, but the end product made for a pretty fantastic belated Valentine's Day dinner. For the record, we've committed to shopping a little earlier next year.

what is a foodie anyway? on hipsters and whole foods totes

I want to talk about my love of food in words that wouldn’t irritate me if someone else wrote them. That’s a weird thing to say. What I mean is, I want to write about the things I like without embodying those Portlandia characters who drill their server on the roaming acreage of their free-range chicken named Colin.

Foodies are easy to rip on. Gabrielle Hamilton gave an interview in which she said that they bum her out and strike her as a population with misplaced priorities. When I first heard that I was all “Right!? Who ARE these people?” Then five minutes later I was all “Wait. Is that me?”

The thing is, I love going to farmers markets. I try to buy local, and I avoid factory-farmed meat. I collect olive oil and I own more than one variety of sea salt. I have a list of food journalists whose work I read regularly, and if you indulge me I will talk to you about food culture for hours. But I’m not these people.

This brings me to my point. Food, as an interest, is extremely popular and on trend in a way that it never has been. And like any trend worth its salt, it prompts quite a bit of discussion and naturally some polarity will grow out of that. It’s healthy, for sure. I love me some lively debate.

On the one hand, there’s now a significantly bigger stage and more captive audience for important issues like the ethics of factory farming, food security, nutrition education, and the availability of affordable, quality staples in low-income communities. These are all critical topics that owe their visibility, in part, to pop culture’s current obsession with food consumption. Their messages have caught fire, progress is being made, and that is 100% a good thing.

On the other hand, I find that with the emergence of a foodie culture, a misplaced elitism has cropped up within certain contingents, who like Hamilton alluded to, might not have their priorities straight. Half the people who buy only organic and preach sustainability are just parroting a philosophy that they read summarized on a reusable Whole Foods tote. And if one more restaurant calls itself as farm to table, I might cry. That sounds bitter, and I’m not. I think I’m just noticing the meaning get lost in the repetition.

It’s interesting, this idea that the food we choose to consume contributes to a lifestyle, and not just to life. But like anything else, I guess you take the bad with the good, munch on your small batch artisanal root vegetable chips and move on.

And I don’t mean to sound protective of anything, like I think I’m the only person with an olive oil collection who isn’t a douche. I’m not saying that I was a foodie before it was trendy, like a hipster who gets their dander up when their favorite indie band achieves mainstream success on the wings of an Apple commercial. I like Whole Foods too. I’m just observing what I think is a fascinating shift in our culture, that I am complicit in, whether I like it or not.

Back to Gabrielle Hamilton - I read her memoir, Blood Bones and Butter, last summer and found something of an ideal in her philosophy. The woman is so honest and unapologetic about her relationship with food. She writes rhapsodically about the experiences that shaped her life and the restaurant she opened, without once drawing from the well of beaten to death buzzwords in the landscape. There’s intense emotion behind her food, but she isn’t wholly absorbed by the industry. 

I think this is why I was so drawn to her perspective, which seemed to me to be, very simply, that eating well and feeding people well is categorically important to her. It’s a part of life…no more, no less. And that’s my jam too.

feeding nostalgia...with chicken noodle soup

There’s something about chicken noodle soup that makes us feel good. Maybe because it’s nursed us through so many sick days, or been the go-to offering of moms everywhere on cold winter afternoons…whatever the reason, chicken noodle soup is instantly comforting, no matter how old you are.

It’s warming and nostalgic, basic in ingredients but deep in flavor. Broth, chicken, noodles and vegetables…simple on paper and screen, but the whole is so much more than the sum of its parts. Aristotle wasn’t talking about soup when he wrote that, but it feels appropriate. 

My version of choice as a little kid was Campbell’s Chicken & Stars. I haven’t eaten it in probably 15 years, but I know it tastes like snow days in the third grade.  These days, I’ve moved on from the canned variety, but until recently I’d never attempted to make it from scratch. I’d done a few batches with a pulled rotisserie chicken and carton stock, and they suited well enough, but I never committed to the real thing, whole chicken and all.

Then last month, using the blog as a commitment device, I set about with a list of soon to make dishes, and the weekend’s chilly weather pushed this to the top. In retrospect, I don’t know what I was so worried about. It was so simple and hands off, worth it even just for the intoxicating scent of simmering stock that perfumed my apartment all afternoon. 

Bright with lemon and rich with the chicken's natural fat, it's wonderfully salty, creamy and balanced with an underlying earthiness from the fresh herbs. If you're looking for something to warm your bones and sate your appetite - for both nourishment and nostalgia - this fits the bill. 

Recipe: 

Stock:

1 whole chicken, (about 3 lbs) rinsed and giblets removed

3 carrots and 3 celery stalks, cut into chunks

2 yellow onions, quartered

1 head of garlic, halved

Thyme bundle, about 6 sprigs

2 bay leaves

1 teaspoon black peppercorns

1 teaspoon salt

Enough cold water to cover the chicken

Soup ingredients:

4 carrots, peeled and cut into ½ inch coins

3 celery stalks, cut into ½ inch slices

2 large garlic cloves, minced

1 yellow onion, chopped

2 cups shredded chicken

8 ounces egg noodles

Handful of chopped flat leaf parsley

1 lemon, halved

2 tablespoons butter

Salt and pepper

Place the vegetables in a large stock pot, and lay the chicken on top. Pour in enough water to cover the chicken (no more than 3 quarts) and put everything else - garlic, thyme, bay leaves, salt and peppercorns - into the pot. Cover and bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer and let it go for at least 2 hours (mine went for 3) partially covered. Season the stock to taste, and remember that salt intensifies the longer it cooks. You'll know when it's right. 

When your stock has fully developed its flavor, pull out the chicken and pour the liquid through a strainer to remove impurities, reserving it. When the chicken has cooled, pull it apart with a fork and set it aside. (It will yield extra, so save that for another dish.) Simultaneously, add butter to a soup pot and soften the garlic, onions, celery and carrots for about 10 minutes on medium low heat. 

When vegetables have softened, add the stock back into the pot and fold in the chicken. Lastly, add the noodles and allow soup to simmer for 5-8 minutes until the noodles are tender. Just before serving, sprinkle with a handful of fresh herbs and the juice of one lemon. 

Ladle into bowls and enjoy!

I used fresh parsley and egg noodles this time, but next time I'm going to try cilantro and orzo, with a little cinnamon and cayenne. Really any pasta is fine, so long as you use something that can stand up to sitting in the broth. Other than that, this is infinitely customizable. I hope you'll experiment and find a version that you like. 

Waiting for a snow day to pair with my soup,

Kira

PS, does anyone else remember this little gem?

bringing back the "no thank you" portion

One day, a long long time from now, I’ll probably have some kids. And as karmic retribution will surely dictate, they will be picky little shits just like I was. It’s only fair. Until I was seven or eight, I was loath to eat much more than elbow pasta with butter. If there was red sauce involved, I required a bowl on the side so I could painstakingly dip each individual noodle. To put it simply, I was the bane of my food loving parents’ existence for a while, but they pressed on with a technique that I fully intend to implement with my future finicky children.

Though they entertained my kiddy eating habits to a degree, they would regularly institute what they called “no thank you" portions of new dishes that my sister and I were required to try. The purpose of this strategy was two-fold: expand the narrow repertoire of things I liked to eat, and teach me manners so that I would never be that brat wrinkling my nose at food served in someone else’s house.

The concept is simple, and I think, as important for adults as it is for little kids. Unless you have an allergy or a moral opposition, suck it up and take a few bites. It shows respect for the person serving you, allows you to try new things, and is much better than saying “No, thank you.”  It’s not always tasty, but in my humble opinion, social grace trumps the fact that you don’t like broccoli.

Now, I recognize that some people have a few foods they find so repulsive that they just cannot eat them, some of which are even grounded in science. Cilantro haters, you get a pass. The New York Times said so.

Offal is another one that I can come close to understanding, but I think gets an unfair rap simply because it’s so unfamiliar to most people. Americans are turned off by many cuts of meat that the rest of the world uses out of necessity. I’m not saying you have to eat a big bowl of tripe to placate me, just that overall, it’s silly to refuse something because you’ve never tried it and the idea of it kind of weirds you out. That goes for all food, not just foreign animal parts. For the record, fried sweetbreads and beef tongue tacos are delicious. You should try them.

The idea of the no thank you portion stuck with me long after my buttered noodle days, and I credit it with my open-minded approach to eating. I love trying new dishes and cuisines, and experimenting with unfamiliar ingredients in my kitchen. Stumbling onto a new flavor is as exciting for me as finding a gorgeous pair of shoes on sale. And I especially love when someone is thoughtful enough to cook a meal for me, even if it happens to contain a few things I wouldn’t have chosen myself. In my opinion, it’s one of the purest forms of hospitality.

Of course, on the flip side, I’d be mortified as a host to find out that I’d served someone something they hated, only to have them politely suffer for my sake. But that’s why I always ask about likes and dislikes ahead of time, and try to serve things that aren’t notably polarizing. Easy enough.

As for the foods I struggle with, there are a few, but rounding out the top would be cooked spinach (I don’t like soggy, wilted greens of any kind), injera bread (it’s cold, sour, spongy and the color of dishwater) and most cheese. 

That’s right, I don’t like cheese. I’m aware that this makes me a rare and bizarre specimen, and I’ve been questioned by many a foodie friend who can’t understand how someone like me, otherwise obsessed with food, exists without it. It’s not for lack of trying!! All I want in this world is to share a cheese plate with friends and compare our snooty impressions. But I’m working on it…

The other night Jake and I went to dinner at Obelisk, an amazing restaurant in DC that serves a cheese course with the meal. It’s the sort of restaurant that would gladly make a substitution to accommodate the tastes of its guests. But since I’m trying to train my stubborn palate into submission, I elected to follow the rules of the no thank you portion. 

Long story short, I sampled them all, and, not wanting to seem like a tasteless ingrate (and ashamed by my own lack of refinement), I ended up hiding the majority of what I am sure were beautiful varieties of Taleggio and Chèvre in the bread basket. Like an eight year old. But with different motivations.

As I said, the outcome of the no thank you portion won’t always be tasty. But it’s worth trying anyway.

adventures in DIY oysters, no band aids necessary

This past weekend I headed over to Capitol Hill with my friend Ali to check out Barracks Row’s Culinary Education Crawl, a daylong event put on by a group of restaurants and other small businesses along 8^th St. SE, the Hill’s main drag. About a dozen spots opened up their doors and held $10-$20 classes ranging from pizza making at Matchbox to baking classes with Hello Cupcake. Very cool indeed. Ali had sent me a link for an oyster shucking class earlier in the week, and being ardent lovers of the raw bar/supporters of local business, we figured we’d thrown down our twenty bills and check it out.

The class was held at Senart’s Oyster Bar and Chop House, which neither of us had been to before. A little overeager to start shucking, we got there about 15 minutes early and warmed our butts by the fireplace, which made a very good first impression, while the class before us finished up their last few shells.

A few minutes later we took our seats at the bar and listened to Senart’s chef kindly and repeatedly explain the proper knife wielding techniques to ensure that we didn’t maim the inside of our palms. (An accident prone individual, I listened very carefully.) After a few more minutes of instruction re: finding the oyster’s notch and applying the right amount of pressure, we were left to our own devices with a pile of P.E.I.'s, free to eat whatever we could open.

Baby's first oyster

Turns out shucking oysters isn’t as hard as I had thought it would be. Maybe I’ve watched too many quick fire challenges gone wrong? My first little guy popped open with relative ease, much to my childlike satisfaction, and though there were a few tough ones, you get into a rhythm pretty quickly. Following the chef’s sage advice, “don’t rush the wiggle” Ali and I both polished off over a dozen, which we washed down with the complimentary draught beer included with our ticket. Raw shellfish and beer…the perfect afternoon or the perfect afternoon?

Throughout the course of the hour we also learned about several different types and their flavor profiles…why some are mellow and sweet while others are briny or minerally, and how the environment of the beds they grow in affects the shape and color of their shells. Knowledge. 

After the class ended we walked over to Eastern Market, one of my favorite places in the city, and ambled around the outdoor vendors, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm day (and season, really). It was an awesome way to spend a Sunday afternoon, in a part of the city I don’t get to nearly enough. I’ve lived in DC for a year and a half now, and I sometimes struggle to feel ownership of my home here. But if I could have a few more Sundays like this last one, I think it would start to come to me. 

PS, typical of my excitable personality, I'm now extremely preoccupied with the idea of having an oyster shucking/prosecco drinking party when the weather warms up a little bit. Oyster lovers only. 

taking in the big easy, one meal at a time

Last month I finally made it to New Orleans, a city I’ve wanted to visit for years. Jake happened to be there for work, so I flew down at the end of the week and we tacked on a few extra days.

Prior to arriving I’d written down all the things I wanted to see and do, and I have to admit up front that I didn’t accomplish half of them, mostly because I prioritized stuffing my face over seeing the sights. I spent a LOT of time eating and poking my head into different restaurants and shops. It’s an easy place to get distracted and lose a couple hours roaming around, listening to street musicians and meeting people. 

But I don’t regret changing course, since part of New Orleans’ beauty for me was the lack of urgency I felt, as if the city were saying to me, “Relax, I’ll be here next time.” So we set about exploring, less focused on an agenda and more reliant on a few recommendations from friends and family (and the nav on my iPhone).

My first meal was none other than a shrimp po’boy. There are dozens of places to get a great po’boy in Nola. We chose Mother’s, a no frills Creole cafeteria, partly because it had awesome reviews, but mostly because it was 3:30, I hadn’t eaten yet, and it was close by. Lucky choice on our part. The sandwich overflowed with the freshest, most tender fried shrimp and cool, crunchy slaw on a soft baguette that wasn’t trying to compete with its contents. It was at once sloppy and delicate, and I would’ve been tempted to order a second if there wasn’t also a big bowl of jambalaya to contend with.

Another highlight was the several dozen gulf oysters we slurped down at various locations. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the abundance of local product (I’ll have to look this up) but gulf oysters only cost a buck a piece, as compared to the $2-$3 they’ll run you up north, so we really gorged ourselves. I couldn't date somebody who wouldn’t share an oyster platter with me.  

One of my favorite experiences of the trip wasn’t at a restaurant, but a visit to a cookbook store in the French Quarter called KitchenWitch. The owners, Philipe and Debbie, opened the store 2 months after Katrina hit in an effort to start breathing life back into the city, and both work second jobs to keep it going. It’s a crazy, haphazard collection of cookbooks with a focus on Southern and Creole cuisines, mixed with rare first editions of classics, like Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

I wandered the store for an hour, stopping often to pet the owners’ three dogs, who apparently found my cooing extremely blasé and snoozed away despite my best efforts. I was so taken with the cozy, eccentric, and quintessentially New Orleans space. If you’re ever in town, stop by.

Towards the end of the trip we finally made our way to the legendary Café Du Monde for some beignets and café au lait. For five bucks we sat in the 150 year old open-air café with a hundred or so fellow tourists and split a plate of three hot, puffy, sugar-drenched donuts and drank chicory coffee. It was simple and perfect.

We also ate a couple of exceptional dinners. I couldn’t leave New Orleans without eating at a John Besh restaurant. We tried Luke for oysters and a (surprisingly) fantastic burger, and Domenica, because in my daiquiri-fueled state that night, the Jerseyan in me really wanted pizza. They didn’t disappoint.

But the main event was dinner at Cochon, Donald Link’s homage to all things pork. The dimly lit space  has the whole “haute barn” thing going on with a warm, inviting vibe and diners in casual dress.

I didn’t get any pictures, as it was the sort of place that shames you from doing anything other than enjoying your food. Besides, I will remember the braised pork cheeks with gremolata and applesauce for the rest of my life. I also broke away from the pork-centric menu and tried rabbit for the first time at our server’s suggestion.  Served in a “pot pie” of sorts, underneath pillowy dumplings, I ate the entire dish in blessed out agony, refusing to admit that I was full and miss out on a single bite. The whole experience was nothing short of incredible. 

There were so many other memorable bits and pieces, like getting to see a good friend from college, but I feel this post getting long. So I’ll just say that New Orleans was amazing and I can’t wait to go back. The people there enjoy life in a way I haven’t experienced in any other city, and it reflects in even their most casual food. In short, it’s my kind of place. 

Oh. And if you are my size, do stop after one Hurricane, or else you will end up looking like this.

Counting down the days til I'm back in the Big Easy,

Kira