I apologize for the dropped post yesterday–I’ve been sick. Such is life when Mister is a public school teacher.

This one wasn’t so bad as illnesses go, but I’m getting older and crabbier so it still managed to piss me off. Part of this has to do with the fact that I was coming down with it and still went to Six Flags and then went to IKEA when it was in full-swing. Needless to say, I was dead tired when I came back that day and cursed myself for forgetting that I’m no longer seven years old when a mild cold meant that life proceeded pretty much as usual only with a side of Triaminic.

I bought purse-pack tissues, DayQuil, NyQuil, nasal spray, and a neti pot. The DayQuil did nothing, the NyQuil just knocked me out, the nasal spray tasted like chemical wax down the back of my throat and the neti pot probably would have been great, but we had no non-iodized salt and the thought of trekking down to the supermarket to buy it made me woozy. The one thing that did seem to calm and soothe was a hot bowl of sai fun. Chicken from a bag to make it easy, whatever spare greens we had on hand, a little oil, soy sauce, vinegar, and hot sauce to clear the sinuses.

I’m all for chicken soup, but in times when you don’t have a babooshka around to labor over it for you, the next best thing (aside from cooked frozen chicken in a bag) is sai fun. When you’re sick, the last thing you want to do is cook but you still want comfort food which then becomes the trifecta of hungry + need comfort + don’t want to cook = junk food extravaganza. Macaroni-and-cheese-from-a-box anyone? Now that’s fine, but you’re not really getting the nutrients that your body probably needs to help it get better. Which brings me to sai fun. These are little bean curd noodles which have a chewy texture and don’t really taste like much, but soak in flavors beautifully. Sai fun is filling–and here’s the key–you don’t have to “cook” it. Put it in water, let it soak for 10 minutes, and throw it back with whatever vegetables you’ve managed to scrounge together in those 10 minutes. You can also stir-fry it if you like or soak it in broth to make soup. Then slurp up and feel better.

I once made the grave mistake of confusing the pecan with the walnut. This disgusted my friend J. who is a foodie.

“Aren’t they just like walnuts?” I had said. “All wrinkly and stuff?”

“Walnuts are thick and bulbous and have an acidic bitter skin and aftertaste and grow in the North. Pecans are thinner and have a buttery flavor and grow in the South. Do you mean they’re the same in that they’re completely different?”

Alright, alright, okay, jeez. God love J., but see what I mean about foodies? On the other hand, he is right–walnuts and pecans are different. For one, walnuts are healthier. They have at least 6 times the amount of omega-3s that pecans do. That’s not to say that pecans are unhealthy–they do contain some omega-3s, vitamin E, and monounsaturated fats. But like everything else in life, nothing is perfect and if, like most people, you prefer the decadence of pecan’s smooth flavor to the kink of a walnut’s taste, it’s been preordained that the one that pleases you more is not going to do you as many favors healthwise. Pecans are sort of the Marilyn Monroe of nuts–not exactly sinful, not particularly complicated, just about one thing–that richness, the indulgence–that they do really, really, spectacularly well.

Again, this is not to say that pecans in themselves are unhealthy, but look at the ways pecans and walnuts are used in cooking: walnuts get thrown into salad and baked into bread. Pecans are baked into pies and cookies and toasted with sugar. I suppose this might be because if you’ve ever eaten a pecan, they are like eating toasted butter with a sweet finish. Anti-sugar fanatics insist that once you stop eating sugar, nuts taste sweet. I can attest that this is true, which would make the pecan, among all other “sweet” nuts, the equivalent of double-down-death-by-chocolate–the best Mexican flan compared to vanilla instant pudding that is walnut (sorry to the walnut fants, but walnuts do have a bit of a bite that makes them less suited for sweetness than the pecan).

Nevertheless, pecans can round out healthy savory dishes, like give a little crunch to your salads or depth to your green beans (green beans with lemon juice, olive oil, a little mustard, and chopped pecans? Yes, please). Used sparingly, they are a wonderful, coy pick-me-up–like the buxom girl who grins at you and fannies down the stairs on the subway with Marilyn’s smile.

RECIPE: Lentil Pecan Pate

Well, don’t we all need a little novelty in our lives?

I’ve never been all that interested in buying or cooking zucchini blossoms. They seemed to me the stuff of overwrought Italian-American restaurants, like the ones you see on Long Island with the big sign and red carpeting and the waiters greeting you with “Mangia!” and pronouncing manicotti ”mehnecawty.” They’re usually served dripping with residual oil and crammed with so much ricotta cheese that all you can taste is…oil and ricotta cheese. The blossom itself seemed just a fancy vessel.

I found out, after purchasing these, that zucchini blossoms are probably more about pomp and circumstance than they are about substance. They’re fanciful in looks; subtle in taste (trust me on the looks–they are fantastic bright yellow flowers. Unfortunately, these had been in the refrigerator a few days before I took the picture so they’re not quite as perky). And I’m all for health, but in all honestly, the best way to cook them is to beer-batter them and fry them up and give them a sprinkling of salt.

However. If you are interested in something not fried, the blossoms impart a faint zucchini flavor tinged with a slight nutty sweetness that can be delicious in other dishes. One suggestion is to add them to pizza–straight onto the dough, with anchovies and red onion, covered in mozzarella cheese so they don’t burn (unfortunate since they are so bright and beautiful). The saltiness of the anchovy will complement their bitterness. I also think that since they are so inoffensive in taste, they accent a salad very well and can perk up a fritatta. None of these are outright recipes, but when you’ve got a good ornament, what’s the use of being fancy?

Have a peachy-keen weekend. See you Monday!

RECIPE: Zucchini Blossoms Fried and Not Fried

At City Bakery on 18th between 5th and 6th in New York (there is another one in Santa Monica, CA, but I’ve only been to the one in NYC), two cappuccinos and two shots of hot chocolate–yes, the 1.5 oz. size–will cost you a whopping $14. But there is nothing quite so good as a self-made mocha by pouring the shot of their a-m-a-z-i-n-g hot chocolate (seriously, the best in the city) into the cappuccino. And you have to do it yourself; whenever they’ve asked me if they should do it, it’s failed. It’s something about the proportions that works better when you do it yourself. So once in a while, I venture into City Bakery and pay their obscene prices.

I’ve also had perhaps the strangest combination of food for lunch when one day I had maybe $10 and as you can guess, ten bucks at CB does not go far, so I squeezed my eyes shut, sighed, and went with what I think are some of their best dishes: a shot of hot chocolate and a side of roasted delicata squash. Not that I’d recommend you go out of your way to eat this, but it was among the better lunches I’ve had–not necessarily because it was some excellent unique combination, but because the individual components were so good.

CB was the first place I had delicata squash and that was a “where have you been all my life” moment. I wouldn’t call myself a squash-lover, but maybe as squash-colleague? I love how versatile they are and how starchy and satisfying they are and all the different looks they have. Delicata has finely variegated skin that reminds me of a line-drawing. Taste-wise, squashes usually have a kind of metallic mineraly flavor that I’m not the biggest fan of but there’s so much that you can do to mitigate it–roast the squash, puree the squash, make squash soup…Anyway, delicata is a more mild squash and there’s a tiny bit of sweetness–sort of finely flavored. You can cook it the same way that you can cook any other squash or sweet potato in that it can go either sweet or savory, however I recommend savory. A simple roast with some salt and pepper, herbs, and perhaps a bit of butter is a delightful side but even a satisfying weekday dinner with the addition of a side salad. Roasted, I’m told, is how City Bakery does it (see the sidebar), a process which is stupid easy and will cost you pennies compared to that racket they’ve got going on.

Ah NYC. If it’s not being handed out for free on the subway, it’s highway robbery.

RECIPE: Easy Delicata Squash

I rarely do this on the blog, talk about a completed dish, and when I do it’s a salad most of the time. But with the weather turning colder, I couldn’t help myself and made my dad’s “famous” curried mushroom soup.

Growing up, Dad didn’t cook all that much–he can cook, but it was generally my mother’s domain. So this was a special deal and he used to make it only for dinner parties and special occasions, and, as I was pouring a bit out from its Tupperware the other day, I realized that I’ve never really eaten it in anything but fine china. The soup is a beautiful color and I’m not sure the picture does it justice–sort of a soft chartreuse–that looks just gorgeous on the table (it looks gorgeous in a mug straight out of the microwave, but you know).

It’s an extremely flavorful soup–in fact, I think my batch might be *too* flavorful. I’m not sure if that’s the bouillon cubes I used or if I let it meld too long during the cooking process. Or if there’s too much curry. But either way, it’s more of a flavorful soup with a mushroom base, rather than a flavorful mushroom soup, although you can impart more of that mushroom flavor if you have some dehydrated mushrooms laying around. Nevertheless, it is delicious and reminds me of childhood and all the fall/winter rituals coming up that were so important as a child, even if I don’t observe them as an adult: the first day of school, Halloween, Thanksgiving hand-turkeys, holiday shopping and advent calendars. Fall really tees up some dread for the impending cold weather, but it also perks up the silver lining in all things traditional. Hence, the soup.

You really ought to make it.

RECIPE: Dad’s Curry Mushroom Soup

There’s something…bucolic about eating dandelion greens. You are literally eating weeds.

You are, however, eating possibly the most vitamin-packed weed out there (to quote Mark Bittman: “if it were a processed food it might require FDA approval.”), if you can get past the bitterness because these greens–particularly if they are no longer young and freshly sprouted–are something fierce. If you get them young, you can enjoy a snappy salad, but if they’re a little older, you may have to cook them to mellow their flavor a bit. You can stir-fry them with a little soy sauce and garlic or you can boil them for 10 minutes in salted water and then saute them with a little olive oil, garlic, red pepper and salt.

My favorite thing about dandelion greens, however (and this goes for almost all peppery greens), is the way in which they complement fats. And truly, who doesn’t love a fat? Anyone who bats their eyelashes at you and tells you that they really can’t stand fatty things is either trying to appear to have Grace Kellyish virtue or doesn’t have tastebuds: the flavor of anything is generally in fat–that’s why higher fat beef and pork cuts usually taste better than leaner cuts and why people who do have tastebuds like bacon and skin on their chicken.

But–and while I’m sure Ms. Kelly herself chowed down on a few Five Guys burgers or 1950s equivalent in her day–I can understand the argument that while bacon is good and Paula Deen is fun to watch, too much fat is well, fatty. You need something to cut it and dandelion greens absolutely star in that role. There’s something so singularly good about the fine balance between a syrupy juicy fat, like a good olive oil or pancetta, and a vitamin-packed lean mean green. Jack Sprat and wife may have been on to something if they’d just shared once in a while.

RECIPE: Dandelion Greens with Bacon Salad

I can remember the exact age (9) and exact time (Saturday afternoon, after soccer) that I had my first Asian pear. I’m guessing that they must have come onto the American market around the late 80s-early 90s. The reason why I remember the pear has less to do with its taste and more to do with its packaging. Asian pears came, and still come I believe, individually packaged in  little styrofoam webbings. This attribute came in a long line of Asian products packaged in curious ways.

Witness, for example, the way in which the Chinese give money–in the form of a lee-see, which is a tiny red envelope about the size of a credit card. The envelope is bright red, sometimes with gold characters and other times with a little scene of happy children or something printed on one side. There is really no other reason for these lee-see envelopes to exist except for monetary gifts, and it’s not like you can’t give money in a card as most Americans do, but there was something so ceremonious and cool about receiving those little red lee-sees from my grandmother.

At the time, the styrofoam packaging made the pears look like little offerings or gifts and as a child, I was pleased at the ritual of “unwrapping” the fruit. Today, I don’t believe in the styrofoam booties around asian pears because they’re excess waste and while I’m sure they protect the pears, asian pears are no more sensitive than European pears. In fact, I might venutre to say that if Asian pears’ crispness (if you’ve never had an Asian pear, they are meant to be crunchy, like apples) is any indication, they might be heartier than European pears and therefore really don’t need the extra packaging. And to call a spade a spade, Asian produce companies are the most guilty of this kind of packaging–Asian markets have the fruit and vegetables all set out in the open, but in an Asian grocery store, you’ll find individual cucumbers twice-wrapped, first in its own cellophane and then shrink-wrapped on a styrofoam tray, sometimes with a little green plastic cut-out  to look like grass in some freak postmodern satire of nature. My boycott is unfortunate  because Asian pears taste to deliciously refreshing–mild and sweet with a tiny bit of tang as you near the core–that it pains me just a little to ignore them in the store, which I do because I can’t bring myself to plow through all that packaging (although those little styrofoam socks can be reused to protect your growing tomatoes from squirrels). They are, however, available in farmer’s markets and they can be grown, so every once in a while, when I see the speckled golden skin, I buy a few and crunch through them on my way home, thinking to myself that an unwrapped gift is not as rewarding, but just as good in the end.

RECIPE: Noodles with Beef and Asian Pear

This baby lettuce looks like little lamb’s ears (its other name) and will curl delicately around your fork. It has a sweet gentle mineral taste and a beautiful emerald color. The French refers to this lettuce as “doucette”–little sweet one–which is why, if you don’t speak French, you might assume that its name is pronounced “ma-shay,” when in fact, it’s pronounced exactly like that hardcore dance-fighting that white boys do at heavy metal concerts: mosh.

I like this because otherwise, it’s just too cute.

If you are like me and go crazy over strong peppery greens, like arugula and dandelion, then mache will revitalize your love of salads. Alternatively, if you have more run-of-the-mill tastes and your salad consists of iceberg and carrots with thousand-island dressing, mache might be a good way to break you in, by your baby toe, to the ever-expanding world of fancy greens because it’s so nice and fresh and agreeable. The only thing with mache is that it is quite delicate so you must consume it within a couple days of buying it. My favorite easy preparation is to mix it up with sliced avocado with a vinaigrette made from oil and lime juice instead of vinegar, garlic, salt and pepper, and a teeny bit of sugar. It’s the kind of lettuce and the kind of taste that will make you happy that you ate a salad.

RECIPE: Mache & Pear Salad

Have a sweet weekend! See you Monday.

I know that I’ve done “apples” as a whole, but I feel like it’s just not “me” and this is not my blog if I neglect to do Pink Lady apples (or Cripps’ Pink, as they’re sometimes known), which I think are the best kind of apple out there.

Interesting that in our culture, “bad apple” refers to someone malicious. The expression comes from the fact that back in the day, only 1-2 apples in an entire batch were actually sweet and suitable for eating. If you were a farmer, you’d save those seeds and replant next year, hoping that the tree would yield similarly sweet apples. Back then, 90% of all apples were used exclusively for cider; only 10% were used for eating. Now, those percentages are reversed. So when you ate a truly bad apple back in the day, it was kind of mean–sour, bitter, the sort of fruity fermented base that you get as the afterwash residue when drinking cider or lambic. Today, when I think of eating a bad apple, the taste that I have in mind is bland and watery–offensive merely by its attempt to be as inoffensive as possible. Although I love them all the same, many varietals are subsceptible to this: macoun, fuji, braeburn, certainly red delicious and even granny smith.

I have yet to have eaten a bad Pink Lady apple. Seriously. I’m sure it’ll happen someday, but until then, there is no other apple in my view that is so perfect in its balance of sweet and savory. It makes bang-up applesauce (and oftentimes turns the applesauce pink!) and delicious salads. Last year, I missed Pink Lady season, which is right now–early in the apple growing season, and I felt like I was standing on a cold platform having missed a train (regardless of whether it’s your fault or not, there’s always something so disappointing and lonely about that moment). This year, I am determined–determined–to get myself food-drunk on as many pinkies as I can.

It’s gonna be a great fall.

RECIPE: Escalloped Apples au Gratin

Witness this shot: it no longer is bright enough in the early mornings to be taking pictures anymore. Hello autumn.

As I mentioned yesterday, it occurred to me this week that these past few days have been the first that I’ve actually noticed being cold. Growing up in Southern California, which–I defy you East Coasters–DOES in fact, have seasons, just not the traditional dramatic ones, I never experienced the swings: in the dead of summer as you walk around New York sweating through your clothes and hating life as you bake in the inferno they call the subway, you can’t imagine ever being cold again. Six months later, as you walk around New York with numb toes and hate life as you freeze in the wind tunnel they call an avenue, you can’t imagine ever being warm again. Fall is when you get to feel both–in a schitzoid way, but nevertheless, you feel both.

In no other season could I whip up a batch of basil-lime elixir, my favorite summertime thirst-quencher and follow it two hours later with cauliflower puree. I never ate cauliflower growing up and I think that has something to do with it being such a polarizing vegetable–I bet if you asked my mom or dad, one of them would be anti-cauliflower. I am not on one side or the other, but I am quite particular about how I like my cauliflower–and you should be too. Cauliflower likes to absorb, so steaming or boiling cauliflower or any other process that involves water will waterlog your pretty florets into ecru mush. But the same property also means that you replace that water with olive oil or lemon juice and then you have some flavor. Better yet, roasting or frying will also enhance the mild bitterness of cauliflower.

My favorite, however, and I think this has to do with getting cauliflower as far away from resembling broccoli (that stuff really is not my favorite) is pureeing it. And there is something so decadently homey and pleasant about eating pureed vegetables in general, but particularly delicious when cauliflower is concerned. The soft white color with a speckling of pepper reminds me of cozy angora sweaters and hazy silver-gold morning skies. Very farmhouse chic, very crisp autumn, the perfect thing to eat when a little chill is still pleasant and you can celebrate it before you have to start distracting yourself from it.

RECIPE: Cauliflower Mashed Potatoes