Inspirato.

Yes, we have all heard that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And, on a base level and on the high-road level, I suppose it is. But, there is a fine line between imitation and inspiration.  Imitation versus inspiration is a perennial discussion in the art world and other worlds as well.  And, it is such valid dialogue.

Imitation:

Okay, so when Julie Esperes got her Coca-Cola shirt and acid washed, tapered, high-waisted Guess jeans in the sixth (or was it seventh?) grade, I really wanted them, too. But let's face it, it wasn't just Julie who had the Coca-Cola shirt or the acid washed, tapered, high-waisted Guess jeans in the sixth (or was it seventh?) grade. It was a trend. And yes, both Paz and I desperately wanted Johnny Depp as our boyfriend after watching the french-kissing scene in Cry Baby for the seventy-third time in a row. Again, I doubt we were alone.  Incidentally, while I do think I scored the jeans, I neither got the Coca Cola shirt nor Johnny Depp.

Occasionally, I have succumbed to and thoroughly enjoyed some trends and things I've seen my friends, or Madonna, do.  But the thing is, black rubber bracelets and all, I've known what works and doesn't work for me. No matter how many girlfriends of mine did it, I would never have dotted my i with a heart.

As I grew more and more into myself, the Me in me kept growing into more and more of Me.  More often than not I have marched to the beat of my own drum and had my own style, which admittedly has not always been super awesome (I didn't start shaving my legs until I was almost finished with college and I have given myself some truly atrocious haircuts/dye-jobs throughout my life).  My confidence in my passion and "wanting to to it my way" hasn't always worked.  Deciding on Film Noir as a 'major' in undergraduate school, or creating an independent study in roller skating for PE credit did not earn me points or make me too popular. 

Inspiration:

When I lived in Atlanta, I started playing with Polaroid cameras. All sorts. Then it moved into all plastic lens or toy cameras. I was fixated on the muted tones, blurred light, and the ephemeral quality of the prints. I was equally fixated on how what began as happy accidents, with light leaks and light streaks, could become purposeful and designed. Then certain artists began to stand out, almost like deciphering code for John Nash. I became enamored of photographers such as Nan Goldin, Uta Barth, Corrine Day, Terry Richardson and William Eggelston, to name a few. I was devouring publications like Purple, Big, Soma, Blind Spot and sweating publishers such as Steidle and Taschen.

And so I went back to school. To study photography. The funny thing was, though a very good school, it was an institution that focused primarily on advertising and professional photography - not art. From 35mm to 4X5 to medium format, from black and white to color, we studied every technical nuance of the science of light to the camera to the celluloid that went in it. I had to do mock Gap ads and even spent a week in the studio, with a house of cards of scrims and gels and filters trying to light a Michael Graves pepper mill in the style of German Expressionism. I called the final product The Pepper Mill of Dr. Caligari.

The thing is, throughout photography school, being taught technique and control, I really and truly grasped the concept of needing to understand rules before breaking them. And for one of my final projects, I cast aside the Hasselblad and picked up the Polaroid 600. I shot eight images, some of bright flowers and some of me and my then boyfriend nude and/or tangled up with one another. I then very coarsely sewed them together to create a Jacob's Ladder of sorts. I also had to also stand up and present and explain my work to a room full of wide-eyed, speechless classmates and teachers. I don't know that they quite knew what to do with it, or me, but I know they all appreciated my confidence in what I had created. It was the most personal and most beautiful piece of art I have made to date.

And now I have shifted again. For the past five years I have had this little food blog. Now I like to write. Now I want to write. Sometimes I write things that make me feel naked, or stupid, or trivial. Sometimes I write things that I know make my parent's toenails curl (like mentioning that Polaroid booklet). I don't know who's reading or what they think of what they see. But I know I need to do it. Whether it's understanding every frame of The Blue Dahlia, and talking about it, or taking pictures of pepper mills, Gap products or my sex life, or writing about what I eat, drink, cook or think about, I feel I have always had my voice.

And though I may have coveted my neighbors, so to speak, I have never emulated them. Nor could I. But without Nan Goldin, I don't know if I would have found the courage to be naked, be it on film or in words. And without Terry Richardson, if I would have understood the brilliance in the simplicity, and the validity, of a point and shoot camera with a built in flash. Without the publications that gave them a voice, I don't know if I'd keep making mine as loud as possible for so long.

And to be honest, this particular blog post is, in part, inspired by two other blog posts: one with words that are so profound, elegant and straightforward, that I feel I must run off to write every time I read a new post, and another one that had a beautiful and inspired looking recipe, that propelled me straight into the kitchen. I know I don't, and couldn't, write like Ellisa, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Because, as I've said, I am me and I have my own voice. And I had no way to make the recipe Olga posted, because I did not have the time nor the ingredients. Instead, I took the two the parts of the dish that my eyes landed on in the photograph of the food, and the baking method (roasting), and figured out something of my own.

And it was delicious. And what's more, amazing food for thought.


Click here to check out and enter an inspirational giveaway!

Roasted Chicken Thighs with Blood Orange

*inspired by Sassy Radish's Roasted Chicken Thighs With Clementines

which was inspired by Jerusalem, by Ottolenghi and Tamimi

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 tablespoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 pounds (approximately 6) bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs 

1 medium shallot, thinly sliced

3 cloves of garlic, chopped

3 tablespoons fresh sage, coarsely chopped

1 medium blood orange, cut into very thin slices

3 tablespoons of blood orange juice

A splash of champagne

The juice of 1 Meyer lemon

Directions:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl combine the olive oil, blood orange juice, lemon juice, champagne, shallot, salt, and pepper with 1/4 cup of water.

Add chicken to bowl and give everything a nice stir, so that the chicken is well-coated in the marinade, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for a few hours or overnight. If you didn’t plan ahead and don’t have a few hours (or overnight) making this on the go works out perfectly fine.

Position the baking rack in the middle and heat the oven. Divide the chicken and all the marinade across (9x13x2-inch) roasting pan, so that there is enough room to accommodate everything comfortably in a single layer. Make sure the chicken skin is facing up. Wedge the blood orange slices among the chicken, throughout the pan. Sprinkle the sage and garlic equally over the chicken. Roast for about 45 minutes or until the chicken is nicely browned and cooked through, basting 3 or 4 times during the first 30 minutes. The edges of some of the clementines will start to look burnt. Check on the chicken about 35 minutes into the roasting process and if you think that the liquid is beginning to dry up add a splash more water (or use your judgment).

Serve chicken with some of the caramelized orange slices an a drizzle of the drippings from the roasting pan.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony, Buttery Sauce

Two years ago: Avgolemono Soup

Three years ago: Lasagne Bolognese

Five years ago: Angelini Osteria

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

I looked the phrase up. Years ago every Las Vegas casino had a three-piece chicken dinner with potato and veggie for $1.79. A standard bet back then was $2.00, hence when you won a bet you had enough for a chicken dinner. Winner, winner...

I’ve never been to Vegas. And I’ve lived in LA for ten years. I don’t care about gambling at all, but I like the idea of winning my chicken dinner. I doubt they still do that, but I should go. I should at least check Vegas off my list.

What I do love, a lot, is chicken. For quite a few years now I have been mastering my whole roast chicken. It’s sort of my Sunday ritual. I get a chicken at the Sunday farmers’ market, or at Lindy Grundy, and roast it that night. In the past year, usually Maggie joins me as she’s generally around on Sunday nights. Fred has had one or two, I think. All of my peoples have had my roast chicken at some point or another. Like I said, I’ve been making it for years.

What I love so much about the Sunday Roast Chicken is how it’s really a whole week of chicken joy. Yes, it is dinner on Sunday night. But then it is sliced in sandwiches on Monday, chicken salad or tacos on Tuesday, and chicken stock on Wednesday, used both for soup bases and in our dog’s food for a little yummy, protein kick that lasts for the rest of the week. All from one, small chicken.

I’m not sure why, but unfortunately the chicken entrée is historically the pariah of the menu in most restaurants. It’s treated as the throw away, the cheapest option, the choice for the kids, the relative visiting from Iowa or the seniors at the table. I'm thinking about L.A. Story, the 1991 movie that Steve Martin wrote and starred in as Harris K. Telemacher. He attempts to land a reservation at an upscale L.A. French restaurant called L' Idiot (pronounced Leedy-O), only to be interrogated about his finances by the Fourth Reich Bank of Hamburg. "He can't have zee duck!..." the chef snorts. "He can have zee chicken."

There have always been exceptions, of course. Both Zuni Café's Judy Rodgers and French Laundry's Thomas Keller both have very famous roast chickens that are the stars of the menu. And lately, times they are a changing. Suzanne Goin has a Devil’s Chicken with Mustard and Bread Crumbs that blows my mind. Salt’s Cure often offers a half roasted chicken that is pretty tasty as well. But, to be shamelessly, brutally honest – I think mine is better. And the majority of the people that have had my roast chicken will agree.

On the night that I actually roast the chicken, something magical happens in the house. Regardless of the weather or time of year, it might as well be blustery and chilly outside and inside the whole house is warm and welcoming and smells like home. It feels like flannel and fireplace and jazz.

Although, I am ready for Summer in a big way, I cannot control whatever it is that is going on with our weather here right now (or ever, for that matter). And ever since Fred and I returned from San Francisco last week where we finally sampled the Zuni Café chicken, my wheels have been spinning. And so how fortuitous that we have had a cold, blustery, rainy weekend? And so last night, on a rainy St. Patrick’s Day, Fred and I built a fire, put the Pogues on the radio, and got to roasting a chicken – slow and low, that is the tempo. While that chicken cooked, we snacked on white anchovies, cheese, olives, soppressata, marcona almonds and bread. I also worked on a stock from the chicken feet. 

Then when it was all ready, and the house smelled like cozy, Fred and I sat down, poured ourselves a couple of glasses of garnacha and ate until we were sated. Heck, we even whipped up some sauteed broccoli rabe topped with a beurre blanc to add some green in the spirit of St. Patrick's Day (we are nothing if not festive). We saved the other half of the meal for Maggie to have when she returned home from working a double. And with the week ahead I look forward to all of the other dishes we create from that one little chicken. I'm going to shoot for a pasta tomorrow, I think. Or maybe Maggie can whip up some of her infamously spicy chicken lettuce wraps. Who knows, the possibilities are endless.

And, by the way, as I devoured my chicken dinner last night, I couldn’t help but say aloud, “Yep, mine isbetter”. Winner, winner...

Now, who’s up for Vegas?

A Sunday Supper:

Slow & Low Roast Chicken with Meyer Lemon and Thyme

with Roasted

Heirloom Carrots, Baby Potatoes & Cipollini Onions

Serves 4

Ingredients

• 3½-4 lb chicken (free range/organic and fresh)
• Salt and pepper
• 6 fresh thyme sprigs (or sage, or rosemary, or all of them)
• 1 large lemon, cut in 1/8 inch slices (Meyer lemons if available)
• 8 tbsp (1 stick) unsalted butter at room temperature, divided
• 1 bulb of garlic
• 1/4 lb mixed baby potatoes (yellow, red & purple)
• 1 bunch heirloom carrots (the more colors the better)
• 1/4 lb cipollini onions
• 1/2 cup red wine
• 2 tbsp olive oil

Special equipment:

A cast iron skillet that's about 3 inches deep, a pastry brush for basting; a board or platter for resting and carving; kitchen twine

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Preparing the Chicken:

Rinse the chicken well (inside and out) and pat it dry with paper towels.

Tuck the wings up against the breast.

Poke tiny holes through the skin, everywhere with a toothpick or bbq skewer (this helps achieve super crispy skin).

Season 6 tbsp butter with 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves, salt & pepper and mix together.

Carefully slide your hand underneath the chicken skin, and gently move over the breast and leg meat to create space between the skin and the meat. You don’t want to tear the skin, so try to keep your hand as flat as possible and work slowly if necessary. Once you’ve created space, evenly distribute the butter beneath the skin.

Next, take 6 lemon slices and slide them underneath the skin, giving them a slight squeeze, and again evenly distributing them on top of the breast and thigh meat.

Take the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter, and gently rub it all over the outside skin of the chicken. Salt and pepper the outside of the chicken and inside the cavity. Drop 2 lemon slices, an onion, a bulb of garlic and any leftover herbs into the cavity, giving the slices a slight squeeze as you place them inside.

Tie the ends of the drumsticks together with twine. Place the chicken breast up in the cast iron skillet. Distribute the carrots, potatoes and onion around the bird. Drizzle the red wine over the top of the whole thing. Top chicken with sprigs of thyme. Finally, squeeze the juice of the remaining lemon pieces all over the top of the chicken.

Roasting the Chicken:

Place skillet in the oven, with the chicken legs pointed to the back of the oven.

After 30 minutes, lower the oven temperature to 350 degrees.

Check on the chicken every fifteen minutes or so, and when you see it beginning to brown quickly on top, baste the chicken with the pan juices. 

Roast the chicken for an hour, basting several times. The chicken will be done when the juices run clear and when the leg joint can be easily moved if wiggled. A thermometer inserted into the thick part of the thigh should read 180 degrees.

Printable recipe

One year ago: Creamy Roasted Parsnip-Carrot Soup with Crispy Bacon & Potatoes
Two years ago: Fresh Minty Pea Soup

Taking a Leap

This is a leap year. Last Wednesday was the twenty-ninth day of February. A date that occurs once every four years.

A leap year is a year containing one additional day in order to keep the calendar year synchronized with the astronomical year. Because seasons and astronomical events do not repeat in a whole number of days, a calendar that had the same number of days in each year would, over time, drift with respect to the event it was supposed to track. By occasionally inserting an additional day or month into the year, the drift can be corrected.

A year that is not a leap year is called a common year.

Admittedly, thus far, this year has been anything but common. At least for me.

But I’m not writing about me today. Well, not much. This one is about my mom. My mom is also anything but common. My mom is also taking a leap right now. This isn’t unusual for her – a woman that packed up her entire life at sixty-one years of age and moved clear across the country with nothing but her two Chihuahuas – to be closer to her daughter. That’s me.

Mom had accomplished a great deal in Richmond prior to up and leaving. She was a bit of a local celebrity there – reinvigorating the 17th Street Farmers' Market, establishing Shockoe Tomato Festival, The Brunswick Stew Festival, a street/art/food festival called Broad Appetît and opened an art gallery – all of which are going strong to this day. She had two cafes that enjoyed much success and appreciation. People still lament the absence of her lumples and  signature sandwich: grilled fresh roasted turkey, pistachio goat cheese spread and red onion on a glazed doughnut.

Since she arrived those three years ago she has had all sorts of unusual jobs. But none of them have resembled the work she did in Virginia. Not even remotely. Let’s face it: this town can be really tough. Really tough.

And so very recently my mom decided that by Independence Day she will be independent of her current job situation - one that is both unrewarding and grueling. 

She is taking a leap.

This past Sunday she launched a project she has been considering for some time now: La Weekend. On Sundays, in the lobby of her rad, old-school building in Koreatown, my mom has set up shop. She’s selling her amazing baked goods – sweet and savory - from breakfast pastries to lavender cupcakes to buttermilk and pecan pies to Ghirardelli brownies to apple cake to sandwiches and breads with compound butters. She’s also offering bottomless coffee (free if you bring your own mug) and iced tea infused with honey and Meyer lemon. Everything ranges from $1 to $4 – and that you cannot beat.

And, no joke, this woman can bake - it is her passion. She was doing all of the desserts for Dinner at Eight until recently. Nastassia said Mom's pecan pie was the best she had ever had (and Nastassia is quite the baker, herself). On Sunday a woman that ordered a slice of her buttermilk pie in the morning (who had never had buttermilk pie before) knocked on her door at five o’clock that afternoon to order a whole pie. So mom got back to baking. Heck, since I've been writing this she's told me she has received two more pie orders: another buttermilk pie and an apple pie.

It’s pretty cool. It’s like she’s got her own, little pop-up. People from the neighborhood and people from the building milling about, chatting, mingling, reading the paper, doing the crossword, watching their dogs running around in the grassy courtyard and around the fountain, Marvin Gaye crooning from the speakers, everyone with their coffee (mostly in their own mugs) and their little breakfasts. It’s something you don’t see in this big ocean of a town too much. My mom has brought that Southern, small town, sense of community to a little nook of Los Angeles. And did I mention she can bake?

You know I’m a savory girl. My favorite item of the day was something she calls Left on Red, a little tribute to a significant element of our fair city. It’s simple, it’s her signature pimiento cheese sandwiched between a plain lumple. It’s rich, creamy and salty surrounded by soft, slightly crumbly and crispy. It’s perfect. It’s filling, yet you’ll want to want another. It’s $3.

However, as I’ve shared the recipes for both pimiento cheese and lumples here in the past, today’s recipe is that of Byrd’s Apple Cake. Mom found the recipe in one of those local Junior League-y type cookbooks in Richmond.  You know, the kind that have spiral binding and very low printing expenses involved; yeah, that kind.  This cookbook is called "Historic Richmond Cooks" and the recipe was submitted by Mrs. James E. Ukrop.  These are the very cookbooks that have some of the best finds.

You can make it yourself or you can meet me, Fred, Maggie, Uncle Dougerton, Nastassia and the gang next Sunday to sample it straight from my mom. And she’ll probably be dancing to Marvin Gaye while she serves it to you.

Oh, and true to the monikor, La Weekend will be open on Saturdays as well after Mom's independence day. 


Until then La Weekend is: SUNDAYS from 9am-1pm  
Ancelle Lobby - 701 Gramercy Drive, Los Angeles CA 90005 
CASH ONLY

*All photo credits go to Mr. Fred Turko.

Byrd's Fresh Apple Cake

Note:  This is the recipe exactly as it appears in the cookbook.  Mom does not include dates; she uses pecans and Granny Smith apples, goes heavier on the cinnamon, puts in a little fresh ginger and 2 to 3 generous tablespoons of bourbon.

2 cups sugar

1 1/2 cups vegetable oil

2 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla

1 teaspoon salt

juice of 1/2 lemon

3 cups all purpose flour

1 1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

3 cups peeled and chopped fresh apples (about 3-4 apples)

1 cup chopped nuts 

1/2 cup chopped dates

Mix sugar, oil, eggs, vanilla, salt and lemon juice.  Beat well.  Sift flour, soda and spices.  Add flour mixture to sugar mixture and beat well.  Add fruit and nuts.  Mix well.  Bake in greased and floured Bundt pan at 325 for 1 1/2 hours.  

This cake freezes well.

Printable recipe

One year ago: Son of a Gun

Two years ago: Creamy Artichoke Soup

FOR MILO, WHO NOW KNOWS THE WAY.

My absolute favorite book as a child, and perhaps my favorite book of all time, was/is The Phantom Tollbooth by Norman Juster and illustrated by Jules Feiffer. The book tells the story of a young boy named Milo who would rather be anywhere other than where he is, values little and considers time and all things that exist within it a waste of, well, time.

One day Milo comes home from school to find a large, mysterious and anonymously delivered package that contains a miniature tollbooth and a map of "the Lands Beyond" in his room with a note that reads "FOR MILO, WHO HAS PLENTY OF TIME". And with nothing better to do Milo assembles the tollbooth and, in his toy car, travels through it onto the road to Expectations.

As a result of not paying attention, he first travels through The Doldrums; a place where thinking and laughing is not allowed. But soon gets out (with thought and laughter, of course) and finds his way through Dictionopolis and Digitopolis and must save the two princesses, Rhyme and Reason, by helping the kings of each kingdom settle the debate on which is more important, letters or numbers. We learn, along with Milo and Tock, that both are equally important.

On his journey he meets and befriends Tock, a watchdog with an alarm clock attached to his body, the Whether Man, who contemplates whether or not there will be weather, and so many other fantastic characters. We meet The Humbug, Officer Shrift, King Azaz the Unabridged, The Mathemagician, Terrible Trivium and the Senses Taker and Alec Bings, a little boy who sees through things and grows until he reaches the ground, and he even got to watch Chroma the Great conduct his orchestra in playing the colors of the sunset.

In Digitopolis they eat Subtraction Stew, which makes the diner hungrier and in Dictionopolis they attend a banquet where guests literally eat their words.

There is so, so, so much more to this story. It’s filled with puns and has been compared to Carroll’s, Alice in Wonderland.

What I love about it so very much is, as an only child, a “latch-key” kid raised by Boomers in the Reagan era – I very much related to Milo. But the moral of the story is what really got me and is something I have not taken for granted since my first reading of the book as a very young child. I learned that information, education, words, numbers, colors, experience – the world, is beautiful. Time is important and should never be wasted. Everything can be interesting.

All from a little children’s book.

I have owned at least six or eight copies of the book, all of which I‘ve either given away, loaned (never to be seen again) or lost throughout the years. Lamentably, a few of them were beautifully and emotionally inscribed by my mother. That’s okay, because I want it to be out there. I want people to read it. I just bought another copy. Used. I like that it’s used. I like that it’s been read.

Why did I buy another copy and why am I writing about The Phantom Tollbooth now?

My cat.

Yes, I have had a cat. I got him a month or two out of college when I lived with my boyfriend at the time and Paz. It was late summer, 1996. The Atlanta Olympics were going on. I named him Milo.

Milo lived with me in our many homes (one next to a crack house), and two relationships, in Atlanta, traveled across country with Mark, Besito and me, and lived with me for quite a few years here in LA, through four or five different apartments and houses. 

About five years ago my then boyfriend, Liam, and I moved into a house in Canyon with Milo and Besito. After some time Liam and I went our separate ways and not long after that Milo, Beso and I moved to a different house, higher up in the Canyon. Milo continued his predatory and manly behavior proudly depositing his dead, neatly eviscerated prey as gifts to me. He and Beso played and played. Milo could have kicked Beso’s ass in a New York minute, but he always let Beso think he won.

Then, two years ago, the three of us moved back down lower in the Canyon – a stone’s throw from the first spot with Liam. Within thirty-six hours Milo was missing. My friends were tremendously concerned. Perhaps he had been attacked by a coyote, hit by a car, kidnapped by aliens. I don’t know why but I was not worried in the least. That cat is tougher than a coffin nail. No coyote could outsmart him. Hell, he’ll outlive us all.

A few months later, on a hike, I noticed an old faded sign that read, “Lost Cat”. And there was a picture of Milo.

Guess where he was that whole time?

At our old house.

The new residents named him Claus von Boosboos. When they first found him and took him to the vet, the doctor estimated his age at six years. He was thirteen.

I tried to take him back but he would simply return to the old house. So we all decided that rather than have him running back across the street every time, risking getting hit by a car, he could continue living at "his" house -- the tenant was pleased with that decision.

When the house was sold and the owner moved we decided I had to take Milo for real. I tried everything (four times) but he kept going back. I even scaled the gate and broke into the property one time to retrieve him.

Finally I spoke to the new couple that moved into the house and we all decided – that is Milo’s house. Really, they’re just renting from him.

I think about him a lot. He was the coolest cat I’ve ever had. About a month ago I walked past the house and there he was, lounging on the stoop, in a sun-spot. Happy as a lark. I was sad, then happy, then sad, then happy.

Then I realized, Milo is Milo. It’s his adventure and his world, and he has found happiness and beauty.

Milo turns fifteen this summer and is still owning this canyon. 

Recent photo of Milo, at his house.

At the end of The Phantom Tollbooth, once Rhyme and Reason have been restored to Wisdom, Milo says goodbye and drives off, feeling he has been away for many moons. He then sees the tollbooth ahead and drives through. Suddenly he is back in his own room, and discovers he has been gone only an hour.

He awakens the next day full of plans to return, but when he gets home from school the tollbooth has vanished. A new note has arrived that reads, "FOR MILO, WHO NOW KNOWS THE WAY."

As I recall, my Milo didn’t care much about milk, but that cat loved him some tuna fish.

Classic Tuna Salad

 (makes two sandwiches, one each for Milo & Tock) 

Ingredients:

1 5oz. can solid white tuna packed in water

2 tbsp Duke’s mayonnaise

1 tbsp chopped celery stalk

1 tbsp chopped celery leaves

1 tbsp finely chopped red onion

2 tbsp chopped dill pickle

1 ½ tsp capers

Juice of ½ Meyer lemon

Salt & pepper to taste

Directions:

Place the tuna in a colander and drain well.

Shred the tuna with your fingers, breaking up any clumps until it has a fine and even texture.

Fold in the mayonnaise until mixture is evenly moistened.

Put the tuna in a medium bowl and mix in the lemon juice, celery, onion, pickles, capers, salt and pepper until well blended.

Salad can be kept covered in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Printable Recipe

We Still Are What We Once Were. Always.

My oldest and dearest friend, Paz, visited recently. She was here for ten (10) days. I was concerned, briefly, that ten (10) days would be a skosh too long. It wasn’t. It actually wasn’t nearly long enough. Well, maybe it was just right.

Although it has been many years since we’ve spent much, or any, time together, we fell right back into our stuff. Our nicknames, catchphrases, running (for a long time now) jokes. You know, our patterns.

When people visit Los Angeles they want to have (and we want to provide them with) two things: celebrity sightings and sunshine. Fortunately for both Paz and myself, we had both. Great sightings and great weather. We ate at some fantastic restaurants but we also cooked at my house on a few occasions.

It’s interesting – while Paz was here she asked me, “So, when exactly did this whole food thing happen with you?” And so I thought. And I continued to toss the question around for quite a while. The more I thought about it, as unromantic as it sounds, I realized that I don’t believe there was a defining moment. Of course, as I’ve mentioned more than once, my parents both cooked quite a bit and I did a lot of cooking and learning from Dad. Then there was the food co-op in college in which Paz was a major player.  And then there was the Atlanta period after college when Paz and I lived together on and off for about six years. This was a time when we had little to no money; certainly none to spend on eating out a whole bunch.  Even more rare was a fancy dining out night. We cooked. A lot. But it wasn’t like back home, with our parents. And it wasn’t like college in our food co-op with our friends. We cooked because we needed to eat – breakfast, lunch and dinner. And so we experimented. We flexed. I learned about dishes from her past, like tostones, tortilla de papas, and obviously her world famous rice and beans. I showed her dishes from mine, like broccoli and cheese sauce, creamy mushroom soup, rice pilaf and scallops and shrimp over linguine with baked feta. I feel like there was a lot of stir fry action as well.

And then it hit me – maybe the Atlanta era wasn’t the defining moment of all things food for me, but I sure would say that it was the defining moment for me, the cook. The cook that cooked my own meals, cooked for other people, cooked with people. The me that found my footing in the kitchen.

How about that for an answer, Paz?

So, of course, while Paz was here we had a couple of pretty fantastic meals that we collaborated on, in my kitchen, or in this case, grill. In keeping up with Paz over the past year or so, when we would chat on the phone, or text, or what have you, we would often share our culinary exploits with one another. Some of hers included cooking Gassy Larry (a lobster), and a whole snapper she named Charles. No, I don’t know why on either count. You should hear the cornucopia of names she’s coined for me.

So, needless to say, I was pretty geeked to get back in the kitchen with her after a decade or more.

The recipe I am sharing with you here is from a part of a magnificent dinner we made one night during her visit. This was a meal that we collaborated on in every way, from conception to execution to consumption. Besides Paz deciding that she was Bobby Flay in the grill mastery department (insert eye rolling here), she also found an alluring recipe for a Meyer lemon relish. She was pretty psyched about all the produce that we are fortunate enough to have here and was particularly interested in the Meyer lemon (always a favorite of mine). Although the recipe suggested it be served with pork belly or some such thing, we thought it would work beautifully with a mesquite-grilled Cornish game hen (grilling courtesy of Paz Bobby Flay).

 

We Bobby also grilled some fennel and onions, and I did up my stellar sautéed broccolini. We had a potato but Ms. Flay didn’t get that one quite right in time for the rest of the meal. We dined out on the patio, under the stars, and paired the meal with a luscious Donkey and Goat red wine blend (courtesy of Domaine LA) among a number of, ahem, other wines.

What a beautiful meal and what a beautiful night. Yep, we covered a lot in our ten (10) days together here in sunny California. What’s crazy is how much more there was to cover. There is just not enough time in the day, you know? But as sad as I was to see her and her little rolly suitcase walk out of my car and into the airport, I also felt really good. And I still do. Because rather than it seeming like we are thousands of miles apart, I feel like, now, we’re right next to each other again. After all these years here in LA figuring out who and what I am, as this little fish in this big sea, along comes one of the few things that reminds me exactly who and what that is. And now I see it’s never changed. And nothing can change it. That and it - is Me. 

And, I guess nothing can change our friendship either. And this makes me soften. This makes my heart swell. This makes me smile. And for this, Paz, I thank you and I love you. Always.

Not too much as changed from us, 15 years ago.

 Meyer Lemon Relish 

Recipe adapted from Food and Wine magazine, May, 2011

Makes about 1 cup

Ingredients

1 large Meyer lemon—peeled, peel very thinly sliced
1 shallot—1/2 minced, 1/2 very thinly sliced
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon orange muscat champagne vinegar (you can also use white wine vinegar)
1 garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons minced chives 

1 tablespoon chopped mint
1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Pinch of crushed red pepper
Salt and freshly ground black pepper 

Directions

Finely chop the lemon pulp, discarding any seeds, and transfer to a bowl. Add the lemon peel, minced and sliced shallot, lemon juice, vinegar, garlic, chives, mint, parsley, olive oil and crushed red pepper to the bowl. Season with salt and pepper and serve.
 

*The relish can be refrigerated for up to 3 days.

Reading, Tweeting & Eating

I was smack in the middle of a really fun book: Blood, Bones & Butter, by Gabrielle Hamilton. She is the chef/owner of Prune in New York and it is her memoir. While, unfortunately, I have not yet dined at Prune, I was having a blast eating up her words. And, lamentably, it’s been too long since I’ve really delved hungrily into a good book.

Last Monday evening Maggie and I were sitting in the living room, happily plotting our lazy night in with the pups and our jammies as we were plum tuckered out from a slightly, ahem, indulgent weekend. This conversation was happening through me reading my book and Maggie compulsively Tweeting on her iPhone. It was about 7:30-ish, I’d say.

Then suddenly Maggie nonchalantly asks me to remind her of the name of the book I’m reading. “Blood, Bones & Butter”, I tell her. To which she replied, “So I guess you know about this thing at Lucques tonight?” 

What?

Turns out Suzanne Goin was hosting a dinner in honor of Hamilton’s book with a four-course prix fixe menu, with a copy of the book for $95. Oh yeah, and Gabrielle Hamilton was going to be in the house, dining, drinking, mingling and signing copies for the guests.

Er…

Well and so – after a panicked phone call, a string or two pulled (thanks Matt!), and the two of us paint-over-rust-style getting ready, Maggie and I managed to get to Lucques by 8:15pm for our two saved seats at the bar on that sold-out night.

The restaurant was as full as I had seen it since their annual rib roundup and the menu was simply beautiful. I couldn’t help but notice all of the dishes were not only seasonal (of course), but were all dishes and/or ingredients that had prominence in the book. They were even roasting lambs and potatoes on a spit on the dining patio.

Suzanne Goin and Lamby

Beauty.

We took a few moments to enjoy our wonderful house-made bread and fresh butter, Lucques olives, roasty, oily almonds and coarse salt and our glasses of 2009 Nikolaihof, Gruner Vetliner from Hefeabzug, Austria (selected by Caroline Styne) before our first course arrived. I needed to soak it all in for a moment. I mean, Hell, a mere forty-five minutes ago I was in my jammies in the big, brown chair, curled up with my book. Now I’m sitting in my dearest restaurant (still clutching my book) about to eat gorgeous food in the same room with the author of my book and the chef of my chosen food.

It’s true. I haven’t written much about Suzanne’s restaurants over the years, though I eat at them all regularly and mention her often (just put her name in the search engine of this blog and see). But it’s certainly no secret that she’s kind of my culinary hero.

So let us begin with the Asparagus vinaigrette with Dijon mustard, eggs mimosa and American proscuitto. This dish was served somewhere between room temperature and ever so slightly chilled. The asparagus was perfectly and delicately blanched with a succinct, little snap. The dish was fresh and light and was perfect in waking up the palate, getting it all prepped for what was to come.

And what was to come was the Roast Windrose Farms’ lamb with potatoes from the coals and a salad of English peas, pea shoots, Meyer lemon and chanterelles. Seeing both of these dishes transported me immediately back into the book. The first chapter of the book was all about the ornate lamb roasts Hamilton’s family hosted in her childhood. She described the process with such love and nostalgia that I could almost smell the lamb and feel the chill of the cold water in the stream behind the house while grabbing a cold drink from it’s bed. The pea salad took me instantly to her story of hiding on the floor of her childhood butcher shop having absconded with a handful of the fresh peas the butcher and his family grew – Gabrielle eating them raw, right then and there.

And Suzanne did it all a beautiful and savory justice.

The lamb and potatoes were simply without equal. Faultless.  Suzanne accomplished the perfect, simple – and seminal - potatoes Gabrielle spoke of that changed her world in Greece. The salad, which was reportedly the crowd’s favorite, was also Maggie’s preferred dish as well. And it was sublime. It was refreshing, vibrant, and in contrast to the soft and almost sultry lamb, crisp and bright. The chanterelles added that bit of Earthiness and the Meyer lemon provided the perfect touch of sweet citrus to round it all out.

We paired the lamb, et al with the 2005 Domaine Gallety, Cote du Vivarais from France (also Styne’s pick). We both loved this choice.The wine was big and confident without dominating the food.

And finally we were served the Cornmeal shortcakes with strawberries, mint and crème fråiche. I don’t recall this dish from Blood, Bones & Butter but from Sunday Suppers at Lucques served instead with peaches. Interestingly enough my mom served this dish at our first Dinner at Eight. And it was amazing. Suzanne’s cornmeal shortcakes are heavenly. I, obviously, would have liked to have seen considerably less strawberry goo. With this we opted for a glass of the rosé champagne.

What a night. I was able to say hi to Suzanne, get a hug in, met and briefly chatted with Gabrielle and a few of her friends. I ate the food I was reading. I ate the food I love. I got my book signed by the author.  All in my favorite restaurant. Yes. It’s true.

I finished the book just last night. A week after the dinner. Suzanne’s food lingers on my palate and Gabrielle’s words linger on my mind.

I feel happy.