This is Forty.

It's a new year. Happy New Year. I've never been one to make resolutions. I don't like to have hard and fast rules for myself. And yet I seem to constantly make hard and fast rules for myself. But never with food or wine; the ones that usually end up on a lot of people's resolution list. I did do that cleanseonce...

But this year is a little different. Between the move, the pregnancy, the having of the baby, and the life of one who has a baby, I have not exercised much at all. I bought a bike a few days before I found out I was pregnant and I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've ridden it in over a year. And now it's Winter again. And though I eat well – fresh, local, organic - I haven't practiced a lot of control with portions and cravings. I've craved a lot of red meat. I've craved a lot of cake.

Oh, and in the middle of all of this I turned forty.

So in this new year I am resolved to reclaim control of my body as much as I can while still nursing and caring pretty much full time for a six-month old *teething* baby. My dad set Fred, Emerson and I up with a family membership at a gym (with salt water pools and daycare!), and Fred and I are changing our diet for a couple of weeks, maybe longer. We're doing a type of a cleanse, but it doesn't really have any hard and fast rules. My cup of coffee, fine. A glass or two of wine, that's okay. And we eat three squares a day, with an afternoon snack. It's just all very healthy and balanced. With portion control.

BUT. Over the holiday I went a little cookie-making crazy (just take a look at my Instagram feed). I kept trying to make the perfect shortbread Christmas cookies. I never quite got them right. And I don't like not getting something right. I'm very competitive with myself. So I had to get them right. Even with all my resolutions. Those damn hard and fast rules I keep making for myself.

On day two of the cleanse, of course, I saw the recipe that seemed perfect. It was very simple, had what looked like just the right amount of butter (considerably more than two parts to the one part sugar) and added a great little twist of dipping the cookies halfway into tempered chocolate. So yesterday, after our breakfast of Steel-Cut Oats with Cacao Nibs and Figs, while Fred (who has a flu-like situation going on) and Emerson (again, teething) grabbed a mid-morning nap, I put on my apron and some Ahmad Jamal and got to it. It felt good. To be alone, in relative quiet, no one needinganything from me at all. With the house beginning to smell buttery and snuggly I had a horrible realization: I CAN'T EAT THE COOKIES. Well, I really shouldn't eat the cookies. I mean, I needed to save my appetite for my exciting lunch of Watercress Salad with Snapper and Kimchi and the possibility of some apple and almond butter later.

I ate exactly two. 

And they were indeed perfect.

As luck would have it, Paz had a Downton Abbey party to attend this evening and nothing to take (let's not try to think too hard about that sentence). The recipe made about fifty of the little domino-sized cookies. Shortbread is super British and great with tea. That just seems so, so, very Downton Abbey, right?

And like a whisper in the wind, all of my beautiful, delicious, perfect shortbread cookies disappeared into the night. Never to ruin my resolutions, and probably killing it at Paz's dumb party. And best of all, I simultaneously broke and kept a hard and fast rule.

Now, I must run off to enjoy my dinner of Brussels Sprouts and Tofu Stir Fry over Aromatic Red Rice and call back Parker, my trainer, to set up my first session.

Chocolate-Dipped Shortbread

Recipe from Epicurious, December 2005

Developed by Tracey Seaman

With its cloak of pure chocolate, this buttery cookie is sublime. For the best flavor, use a high-quality pure vanilla extract and the best chocolate you can find — preferably Valrhona. Melting the chocolate in two stages helps keep it at an even temperature — insuring that it will set evenly.

Makes about 3 dozen cookies

Ingredients

2 sticks (1/2 pound) unsalted butter, at room temperature

     2/3 cup sugar

     2 teaspoons vanilla extract

     1/2 teaspoon salt

     2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

     8 ounces high-quality semisweet chocolate, finely chopped

Directions

Arrange racks in upper and lower thirds of oven and preheat to 325°F. Line 2 large cookie sheets with parchment paper.

In electric mixer, beat butter, sugar, vanilla, and salt at medium speed just until smooth. Add flour and mix at low speed until combined. Divide dough in half and shape into 2 disks.

On lightly floured work surface, roll out 1 piece dough to 1/4-inch-thick rectangle. Using fluted pastry wheel or large knife, cut into 2- by 1-inch rectangles. Transfer cookies to baking sheets, spacing 1 1/2 inches apart. Repeat with remaining dough.

Prick each cookie several times with tines of fork, then chill 10 minutes. Bake until edges are golden, about 15 minutes. Cool on pans 5 minutes, then transfer to racks and cool completely.

To decorate: Line baking sheet with clean parchment or wax paper. In medium heatproof bowl set over saucepan of simmering water, melt half chocolate. Add remaining chocolate, remove bowl from heat, and stir occasionally until smooth. Pour into small bowl.

Dip each cookie halfway into chocolate, let excess drip off, and place on baking sheet. Let stand until chocolate is set, about 1 hour. Store in airtight container at room temperature. (Do not refrigerate.)

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Butter Croissants

Two years ago: Buttermilk Vichyssoise with Fennel

Three years ago: Cheebo

Four years ago: Vinegar-Braised Chicken with Garlic & Clery Leaves

Five years ago: Carrot Soup with Ginger & Cumin

Seven years ago: Mozza & Dominick's

The Legend of Jammin' Raku

I have wanted to publicly share the story of Jammin' Raku going on a solid fifteen years - waiting semi-patiently for just the right time and place. And I've found it with my first Fathers' Day back home with my dad. So he can berate me in person once he reads it.

This story began back in the mid-nineties - an era where I primarily listened to and consumed all things hip hop. I was living in Atlanta at the time, and vividly remember the phone call from Dad asking, rather excitedly, if I had heard “the new, hip rapper, Jammin' Raku.”

As my eyes rolled out of my head and down the block, I replied that I had not.

“Well, you would love him,” he told me. I was dubious to say the least. I thought I was extremely cool – cutting edge, even, with my musical tastes. Considering I was listening to Organized Konfusion and my dad, Alison Krauss, well, that kind of nailed it for me. Let's just say I didn't exactly follow up on the Jammin' Raku tip.

Some time passed, a few months or so, and Dad came to visit in Atlanta. “So did you ever find that Jammin' Raku I was telling you about? No? Well, I'm really surprised. He's really hip right now and I know you'd love him.” During his visit he would ask my various friends if they had heard of the hip, new rapper, Jammin' Raku to no avail. Then, much to my horror, he wanted to go to the local record store to get to the bottom of the mystery. I'm sure you've read or seen High Fidelity? Criminal Records was like that. I never went in not knowing what I was looking for and I certainly never went in if I was going to buy anything less than cooler than cool.

I hustled Dad straight to the hip hop section to look under the Js. Nothing. Then the Rs nothing. Then that sinking feeling when I heard him say, “Well, let's just ask someone who works here.” After my dad, quite audibly (and, in my opinion, shamelessly) asked a staff member behind the counter (the back of the counter was elevated about two or three feet so that the staff literally looked down at you) about the new, hip rapper, Jammin' Raku. With no results, we moved on. But not before I bought an actual new, 'hip' album that I thought would redeem me from that excruciatingly uncool moment.

I thought the matter was dropped.

About a year later, I was visiting Richmond and having lunch with my dad when I heard those words again: “So did you ever find anything out about that rapper, Jammin' Raku?” If only the three little letters existed together then – OMG.

“No, Dad,” I said, and tried desperately to change the subject. “Well, let's just drop into the record store here and try one last time. I swear you'll thank me. This guy is right up your alley.” So, of course the record store he was referring to was essentially right up there with the one in Atlanta on the High Fidelity cooler-than-thou scale. Christ, I had spent my entire youth trying to establish my coolness with the staff there, going as far as wearing my Gwar-blood-covered white v-neck tee shirts whilst perusing Fishbone vinyl throughout high school. I still had a crush on a boy that worked there!

Do I even need to tell you that it was the exact same story as in Atlanta the year before? I was even more mortified that even IF there was a new, hip rapper, Jammin' Raku, he couldn't possibly still be new or hip an entire year later.

Once again, I thought the matter was dropped.

Back in Atlanta, another six months or so passed when I received a care package from Dad. With a CD in it. There was also a note: “This is the guy I've been trying to tell you about!”

I looked down at the stark white CD with a silhouette of a cartoonish figure of a man in the familiar large, fuzzy hat with horns. No, not new, not hip (sorry Dad), and certainly not a rapper. Jammin' Raku?

It was Jamiroquai.

That's my dad. And that's the story of Jammin' Raku.

And today is Father's Day. The first Father's Day I have been able to actually spend with my dad since before the Legend of Jammin' Raku. So we are going to do lots of stuff together. With Fred, too. One of the events is, of course, cooking.

From left: Dad, Janie & Uncle Doug

For a long time now I have been hearing about my dad's favorite meal that his mother, Janie, used to prepare. She made it for the whole family often, but when Dad first came back come from the Navy to visit and she served it, he told her it was his favorite of all meals. She then made it for him every single time he came home.

It's pretty weird sounding and has a host of seemingly disparate layers together on a plate: green beans (snap beans) with pinto beans cooked forever with ham hocks, fresh creamed sweet corn, cucumber and green onion salad in iced vinegar, thick slices of ripe tomatoes and cornbread. Oddly, I have never been served this meal. I sort of thought it was a myth, actually. It's verysouthern and very summer.

Over lunch with my dad and his brother, my Uncle Pat, recently, the two of them chatted about this meal. Pat remembers it well. He ate his with all of the components on the plate together but separated. My dad liked to pile everything on top of everything, in his own special order, in the form of a gloppy strata. This meal was always served with the sweetest of iced tea.

So, tonight, on this momentous Father's Day reunited with my dad, back in the south and knocking on summer's door, we will have his Favorite Meal. I will get to hear wonderful stories of his childhood, family and Janie while we chop and stir and eat.

And maybe we will listen to some of that new, hip rapper, Jammin' Raku's music, too.

~~~~~~~~~~

I love you so much Dad. You have always been and still are my hero. I couldn't be happier to be spending this day with you again. Happy Father's Day.

Janie's Summer Harvest

This meal was probably so frequently seen on the dinner table in the summer months because Janie, and I imagine many southern cooks, could harvest nearly all of the ingredients in her backyard garden. The entire meal is compiled essentially of five side dishes. Serve them family style and plate them separately or, like my dad, all piled on top of one another (from bottom: green beans, creamed corn, cucumber salad, tomatoes and then cornbread).

Let me add that all dishes are heavily salted and peppered.

Everything serves 4

Green Beans with Ham

Ingredients

1 pound fresh green beans, trimmed & rinsed

1/2 pound of pinto or cranberry beans soaked

4 cups water

1/4 pound diced salt pork or 1 ham hock

Salt & pepper to taste

Directions

Put water in a 2-quart saucepan; add pintos and diced salt pork. Cover and cook for 5 minutes. Add green beans, salt, and pepper; cover and cook green beans over medium heat for about 45 minutes, or until green beans are tender.

~~~~~~~~~~

Creamed Corn

Ingredients

8 ears of corn

1 1/2 cup of whole milk

2 tablespoons butter

Salt & pepper to taste

Directions

In a large saucepan, melt butter on medium heat.

Remove the kernels from the corn. Stand a corn cob vertically on a cutting board. Using a sharp knife, use long, downward strokes of the knife to remove the kernels from the cob. Add corn to saucepan. Use the edge of a spoon to scrape the sides of the cob to remove any remaining pulp into saucepan.

Add milk and bring to a low simmer, reduce heat and cover. Cook for 30 minutes until the corn is tender.

Salt & pepper to taste.

~~~~~~~~~~

Cucumber & Spring Onion Salad

Ingredients

1-1 ½ cucumber, peeled and sliced

1 bunch spring onions, trimmed and cut in half width-wise

1 cup apple cider vinegar

1 cup of ice cubes

Salt & pepper to taste

Directions

Toss cucumber, onion, vinegar and ice cubes in a bowl and let sit until well chilled. Salt and pepper to taste.

~~~~~~~~~~

Thick Sliced Ripe Tomatoes with Salt and Pepper

Ingredients

3 large, ripe tomatoes

Salt & pepper taste

Directions

Slice tomatoes about 1/4” thick

Arrange on plate and salt & pepper to taste.

~~~~~~~~~~

Classic Skillet Cornbread

(recipe adapted from Deep South Dish)

Ingredients

1/4 cup of oil, shortening or bacon fat

1-1/2 cups of all purpose white or yellow cornmeal

3 tablespoons of all purpose flour

1 teaspoon of baking soda

1 teaspoon of baking powder

1 teaspoon of kosher salt

2 cups of buttermilk, more or less

1 large egg, lightly beaten

Directions

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Add the fat to a well seasoned 10-inch cast iron skillet and place the skillet into the oven to melt the fat and heat the skillet. In a bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Remove the skillet from the oven and swirl the hot fat around to coat the skillet.

Pour the fat from the skillet into the cornmeal mixture; stir. Stir in half of the buttermilk and add the egg; add more buttermilk as needed to make a thick but pourable batter. Depending on the grind of your cornmeal and the type of buttermilk you use, you may not need it all. Fold ingredients and don't beat the batter. Pour the cornmeal mixture into the hot skillet. Place directly into the oven and bake at 450 degrees for about 20 to 25 minutes. Remove the skillet from the oven, let rest for 5 minutes, then very carefully turn the cornbread out onto a plate or platter to preserve the crust.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Double-Dipped Buttermilk & Chile Vinegar Fried Chicken

One year ago: Fresh Mint & Chip Ice Cream

Two years ago: An Evening in Gruissan.

Three years ago: Shiso Leaf Butter

Country Mice

Right before we drove away from San Francisco, Fred's aunt, Jenny-King, told us about all of the wild blackberries, ripe and ready to harvest, growing all around the family cabin in Inverness. And though I am a total weirdo about almost everything fruit-related, I do love a blackberry. Perhaps it's their tartness. Jenny-King then went on to tell us about her recipe for a blackberry crumble that she and her girls loved to make each year when the berries are in season and growing rampant around the Inverness house.

She even made us a little kit with all of the crumble elements mixed together in a Ziplock bag. Just add blackberries. And butter. A stick of it.

And we were off. Driving north, headed toward Tomales Bay.

This was the part I was waiting for, the part I was really the most excited about. The little house tucked away in Inverness, Tomales Bay, Point Reyes, all very magical to me. I remember when Fred took me up there the first time, a few months into dating each other. He made a point to tell me that though it was a very special place for him, it wasn't for everyone. It was rustic, he told me. There was no television, no internet, probably no phone service. There were spiders. But it was a house that was a part of him, his family - the paternal side, and so also a little bit of his father who passed away some time ago. It was filled with good memories; memories of fishing and grilling oysters and board games – and blackberries.

Though those reasons alone would have made me fall in love with the house and with Inverness, it would have most certainly happened without them. I'll tell you right now that I am no camper. At least, I don't think I am – it's been at least fifteen years since I've camped (back in my late teens/early twenties, Paz, Spencer, Sam and I went camping on the beaches of North Carolina every Summer). The Inverness house is in no way camping, but rustic, yes.

Perfectly, beautifully, serenely, romantically rustic. And very clearly filled with happy memories of family, children growing up, dogs, friends, love, and fun. My favorite room is the kitchen. Its windows look over the Tomales Bay and it's very bright. It is filled with odds and ends that family members and guests have left over the years, a mishmosh of different sized wine glasses, cast-iron, old sippy cups for small children, wonky knives and my personal favorite, a boom box that plays cassette tapes. There is a Motown tape that I listen to over and over and over again each time I visit. And it never gets old.

During the days we wander around and collect cheese from the Cowgirl Creamery, Brickmaiden Bread, salume, duck eggs and bacon from the local Marin Sun Farms butcher shop, and clams, mussels and oysters, oysters, oysters from the Tomales Bay Oyster Company and Hog Island Oysters (because one just can never have enough). Then we drive out to Point Reyes, walk out to the tip of the world to the lighthouse and stand and look out over an almost 360 view of water before hiking back up over three hundred steps to begin the strikingly scenic drive back to town. Back in the cabin, we pour some local wine, make a cheese board, grill oysters on the deck, and retire inside by the huge fireplace listening to that Motown tape until we fall asleep in each other's arms, a little drunk, a little full, and extraordinarily content, blissful, with Smokey Robinson crooning (a little roughly as a result of that over-played tape) in our ears.

And then we wake up with the sun coming up over the bay. And we do it all over again, save for maybe picking one of the precious (and delicious) local restaurants for our one meal out.

I mean, come on.

This last trip up, we took my dad and his girlfriend, Dale, with us. We were a little nervous that they wouldn't think it was as magical as we do. But one step, maybe two, in the house and they were sold. And so we shared with them our Inverness experience. To the T. Including the magnificent blackberry harvest.

After the lighthouse afternoon and our lunch of oysters on the bay, both Dad and Dale were spent. Nap time. So Fred and I went on a hike to forage for those wild blackberries. In hindsight, I A) packed horribly (as I always do) and B) wore the absolute, complete wrong outfit for the mission. Why did no one tell me about all the thorny parts?! So my cute, rolled up pants, sandals, and cable knit sweater that gets pulls in it super easily were, perhaps, not the best plan. Cest la vie. We still got ourselves a bounty. Fred practically had to drag me away, saying something about saving some blackberries for other people in the neighborhood, or some such thing. I couldn't stop myself. Perhaps because, at that point, after all of the thorn pricks on my hands, arms and ankles, and clearly destroyed sweater, I was in it to win it - I had given in to The Experience.

When we returned to the house the old folks were just coming out of their nap haze. So I opened a bottle of rosé, made up a cheese board and put on the Motown tape (which Dad quickly changed to a classical music radio station). We then made a simple presentation of fresh, steamed clams (pulled from the Tomales Bay that day) with drawn butter and a crusty bread followed by a pretty classic dish of sautéed mussels with white wine, cream and garlic, all with a huge chopped salad. Which pretty much knocked Dale out.

And three remained.

So, we built a fire, opened a bottle of local Pinot Noir (a glass of rum for Dad) and I got to that blackberry crumble.

In our 'kit' from Jenny-King there were about two cups of Trader Joe's Ginger, Almond and Cashew Granola cereal, about a half a cup of flour, maybe a quarter of a cup of sugar, a few dashes of powdered ginger, and I'm pretty sure that was about it. Oh, some cinnamon?

So I preheated the oven (which is all lit by propane and runs about fifty degrees hot) to about 350. Put all of the rinsed blackberries in a deep cast-iron pan with a little lemon zest, sprinkled the 'kit' over the top, sliced up a stick of butter and scattered that over the crumble along with some brown sugar and put in in the oven.

Jenny-King told us we would know it was done when all the blackberry juices bubbled up through the crumble and the top was slightly browned. And she was absolutely correct. This was about thirty or so minutes. While the crumble was cooling, Fred put a little heavy cream and some sugar in a bowl and got to whisking.

The night was cool, the windows were open, the fire was roaring, the wine glasses were full, and the classical music played on as the three of us sat by the hearth scraping clean our bowls of fresh, hot blackberry-that-we-foraged-ourselves-from-the-property crumble, topped with fresh whipped cream.

And so once again, twice in one trip, a Cosmic Muffin moment. There was no where else I could have possibly wanted to be. Talk about perfection.

And now, now I'm back in Los Angeles. And it is go time. One month to wrap things up: my life of thirteen years, my friends, my job, packing up my house, and hitting the road with Fred and our pups for the long way home. The extended drive across the country, through the cities, towns, communities, restaurants and kitchens of our country, and specifically the South, until we pull up to our new house in Richmond, Virginia.

Are you ready for us?

Jenny-King's Wild Blackberry Crumble

Serves 4-6

*This is all approximate as I was not given an actual recipe. But winging it can be fun!

4-5 cups fresh blackberries

2 cups of Trader Joe's Ginger, Almond and Cashew Granola cereal

2/3 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup light brown sugar

8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, sliced

1 teaspoon lemon zest

2 teaspoons powdered ginger

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon salt

In a large bowl combine granola, flour, brown sugar, ginger, cinnamon, and salt. 

In a large bowl combine berries, 1/2 cup sugar, lemon zest and toss to coat. Pour berry mixture into large cast-iron or casserole. Top with crumble topping and evenly distributed slices of butter.

Bake until top is golden and fruit is bubbly, about 35 minutes. Serve warm.

Top with whipped cream or ice cream.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Cape Gooseberry Port Reduction Sauce

Two years ago: LQ@SK

Four years ago: Cheesy Creamed Corn with Cilantro

Check One-Two.

Fred and I just returned from our final trip to San Francisco before we embark on our Eastward adventure. Our last trip, period, before we head East. So, of course, I had a few restaurants, two in particular, to cross off my never ending list. One was Mission Chinese Food. I have been trying forever to find the perfect Chinese food spot. One that's not trying to keep up with the healthy Jones' (I want some of that MSG, umami, and some greasiness, dammit), one that's not too far off the beaten path (no molecular gastronomy here, please), but one that is trying to insert a modicum of creativity into the food. I have been coming up empty. To the universe's credit, I haven't been making any backbreaking attempts either. It would certainly not fall into 'my life mission' category. But, whenever I crave Chinese food I am reminded of the whole issue.

Well, now I'm even more irritated about this since I found EXACTLY what I was looking for in a city where I do not reside and in the very state I am leaving permanently in a few short weeks.

Within a couple of hours of waking up on our first morning, we grabbed coffee, picked up my Dad and his girlfriend, Dale, checked out the Diebenkorn exhibit at the de Young Museum, and found ourselves standing face to face with the wonky, old-school, hole-in-the-wall-Chinese-eatery, pop-up turned restaurant-within-a-restaurant, hipster-hot Mission Chinese Food.

Inside it was still, it was dark and it was hot. If you want ice in your drink, too bad. No ice.

I skipped breakfast for this so I could order as many different items as possible. So we did. Beers for the boys, soda for Dale and a grüner for me. Then we went for it: Beijing Vinegar Peanuts with smoked garlic, anise, fennel seeds, rock sugar ($5), Fresh Rice Noodle with peanut sauce, tofu skin, pickled mustard greens ($8), Stir-Fried Pork Jowl and Radishes with fermented black bean, shiso, mint ($12), Grandma's Spicy Lamb Dumplings with peanuts, dill pickles, chili oil ($9), Squid Ink Noodles with cumin, fennel and chick peas, lamb dipping broth (I can't recall the price), and finally Braised Pea Leaves with pumpkin, pressed tofu, salted chili broth ($12).

All of the flavors were bright, fresh, creative and surprising – think dill, smoked garlic, fennel, pumpkin, all mixed in with the tofu, pork jowl, dumplings, and rice noodles. And somehow, amidst all of this intrigue we were completely sated in the Chinese-food-craving department. This vibrant and intelligent food still had enough of the classic flavors and textures, even the oil, and the unctuous quality we know and love (within reason) about traditional Chinese food. And, no joke, I will be making those vinegar peanuts at home very soon. I could eat those forevers.

I will happily remember that meal for a very, very long time. I'm pretty sure we all will.

Check one.

The second place I knew I had to visit on our short trip was Tartine Bakery. I don't eat a ton of pastries, nor do I crave them very often. However, I have been really exploring the world of baking of late and am extremely interested in everything that goes into the science of it. More importantly, I am a sucker for an incredible butter croissant – and it's almost shocking how few I come across.

And so, on our last morning in San Francisco, while Fred was brunching and bonding with his Aunt and cousins, and Dad and Dale were wrapping things up and checking out of their their hotel, I knew exactly what I would be doing. I knew I had to go at it alone, and really, I wanted to. My dad would never in 2759870 million years have tolerated that line for a pastry, or anything really. Actually, I'm guessing no one involved in this trip would have wanted to endure that line unless it was to pick up their winning Powerball check.

So I hopped into Fred's car (a stick shift), clocked my destination on my smartypants phone and headed out, lurching and jerking along the way (it had been quite a while since I had driven a stick – and this was possibly the worst city to test that time lapse). After spending twenty minutes finding parking, which was about two blocks away, I walked up to the bakery and settled in back of the infernal eternal line, halfway down the block – and yes, it was formidable. And, no, there were no available seats inside or out by the time I received my order: a ham and cheese croissant, a plain butter croissant, a loaf of their sourdough bread and a latte (totaled around $20). So I walked back to the area where the car was and plopped right down on the curb.

I don't know. To most people none of this may sound appealing in the least: driving strange car in strange city to wait in seemingly endless line to get 'breakfast' only to find there is nowhere to sit and then sit on the side of the road in mid-August to drink hot coffee and eat a pastry. All alone. Not even a book to read.

Well, I'm not certain exactly what it was. The journey, the anticipation, or even the little spot in the shade all by myself, but that croissant and that latte and that moment were... perfect. I mean, perfect. It was one of those – and I've talked about them before – Cosmic Muffin moments. Those Nowhere-I'd-Rather-Be moments.

The latte was warm, rich, smooth and comforting. The croissant was flaky, crunchy, light and yet somehow strapping, with heft... and buttery, oh so buttery, like a delivery system of cultured French butter, buttery. After two bites in, it looked like there had been a flash snowfall of flaky crumbs around my toes on the sidewalk.

Nirvana, pure bliss; I was truly happy.

Check two.

And then I was ready. Ready to get back into the car and brave the drive to pick up the grow ups, then Fred, to head up for the bucolic segment of the trip: Inverness.


One year ago: Heirloom Melon & Tomato Gazpacho
Two years ago: Beer Braised BBQ Pork Butt
Three years ago: Classic Southern Deviled Eggs
Four years ago: Nebulous Misadventures (AKA The Lost Weekend)

Pucker Up.

I've been thinking about the handful of fruits and vegetables that we use in cooking but would never just pop into our mouths, fresh. I mean to say, foods that require a significant transformation for them to be edible, like olives, rhubarb and cranberries. Olives have to be fermented or cured, rhubarb has toxic leaves and is almost always macerated then baked. And cranberries, have you ever tried to just eat a cranberry? Not pleasant. And acorns. It has never even occurred to me to eat an acorn. Yet, it is a nut. Squirrels eat acorns. And throughout history acorns have been used, ground up to make grain flours and even used as a coffee substitute for soldiers in both the Civil War and World War II.

It fascinates me to no end to think of the trajectory of how we, the people, figured out how to make these things (and all things) edible. 'Well, Hyram there died when he ate that acorn. So let's try and soak it in another poisonous substance, LYE, and give it another go. Yes? Rodney's okay? Alright, good to hear because this would make a lovely flour with which to create a noodle.'

Rhubarb. It comes into season in the Spring and everyone gets all aflutter about it. I'd say about ninety percent of the time you'll find rhubarb paired with strawberries and baked into a pie or a crumble. It's bright, tart and guaranteed to make you pucker up. My favorite bit of information I stumbled across in my rhubarb research: In British theatre and early radio drama, the words "rhubarb rhubarb" were repeated for the effect of unintelligible conversation in the background. This usage lent its title to the 1969 film Rhubarb and its 1980 remake Rhubarb Rhubarb. I guess it's just about time for someone to make Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb.

I haven't played with much rhubarb in my day. I could probably count on one hand, the number of times I've purchased any. And so, last time I found myself staring at produce at the market looking for inspiration, I grabbed a handful of those awkward, glossy, orangey, reddish-pinkish stalks and got to thinking. Even though I entertained some compelling arguments to go the savory route, which is generally more apropos for me, I knew pretty quickly that I was going to go sweet.

But a muted, subtle sweet.

Time to bake.

Though I am no cake connoisseur, I have always really loved coffee cakes and pound cakes. They are less cake-like and more akin to very sweet breads (not sweetbreads, mind you – wildly different things). Interestingly, both are also Southern. To this day, I would eat the Tasty Cake version of a coffee cake or the Sarah Lee version of a pound cake in a hot minute. The most beguiling part of coffee cake is the crumb on top. Those brown sugary, buttery grape-sized chunks on top of the cake that are toothachingly, cloyingly sweet – that almost requires a swallow of coffee to allay the sweetness – that's my jam.

And what better an element to cut that sweetness than the tartness of rhubarb?

I was right. When my cake cooled, we all dug in. The rhubarb, which had been macerated prior to baking, was mellow and gently sweet, but maintained it's pert zing, adding an ideal offset to the sugar bomb crumby coffee cake. Well, that and a cup of hot coffee.

And no one even had to die in the process. But Hyram, we certainly do thank you.

Rhubarb Crumb Coffee Cake
(recipe adapted from NYT Dining, June 2007)

Serves 8

For the rhubarb filling:


1/2 pound rhubarb, trimmed


1/4 cup sugar


2 teaspoons cornstarch


1/2 teaspoon fresh, grated ginger

For the crumbs:


1/3 cup dark brown sugar


1/3 cup granulated sugar


1 teaspoon ground cinnamon


1/2 teaspoon fresh, grated ginger


1/8 teaspoon salt


1/2 cup (1 stick or 4 ounces) butter, melted


1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

For the cake:


1/3 cup plain greek yogurt


1 large egg


1 large egg yolk


2 teaspoons vanilla extract


1 cup all-purpose flour


1/2 cup sugar


1/2 teaspoon baking soda


1/2 teaspoon baking powder


1/4 teaspoon salt


6 tablespoons softened butter, cut into 8 pieces.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease an 8-inch baking pan. For filling, slice rhubarb 1/2 inch thick and toss with sugar, cornstarch and ginger. Set aside.

To make crumbs, in a large bowl, whisk sugars, spices and salt into melted butter until smooth. Then, add flour with a spatula or wooden spoon. It will look and feel like a solid dough. Leave it pressed together in the bottom of the bowl and set aside.

To prepare cake, in a small bowl, stir together the yogurt, egg, egg yolk and vanilla. Using a mixer fitted with paddle attachment, mix together flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Add butter and a spoonful of sour cream mixture and mix on medium speed until flour is moistened. Increase speed and beat for 30 seconds. Add remaining sour cream mixture in two batches, beating for 20 seconds after each addition, and scraping down the sides of bowl with a spatula. Scoop out about 1/2 cup batter and set aside.

Scrape remaining batter into prepared pan. Spoon rhubarb over batter. Dollop set-aside batter over rhubarb; it does not have to be even.

Using your fingers, break topping mixture into big crumbs, about 1/2 inch to 3/4 inch in size. They do not have to be uniform, but make sure most are around that size. Sprinkle over cake. Bake cake until a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean of batter (it might be moist from rhubarb), 45 to 55 minutes. Cool completely before serving.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Classic Shad Roe with Bacon & Fresh Herbs

Two years ago: Yerp: Part 1 (of many).

Three years ago: Sautéed Baby Artichokes with Olive Oil, Garlic & Lemon

Ready, Set, Go.

2013.
Here it is.
I’m ready.

I stopped making New Year’s resolutions a long time ago. I don’t make too many finite rules for myself, in general. I hate fooling myself or disappointing myself. Making decrees that seem unrealistic for the long term and then breaking those rules as a result is, I think, an unhealthy practice. There are, however, broad, general, obtuse sorts of things I’d like to see more or less of at the start of each year.

I’d like to get more exercise (but I really hate exercise).
I’d like to want to exercise more.
I’d like to drink more water, and perhaps a skosh less wine.
I’d like to read and write more.
I’d like to see more movies in theaters.
I’d like to push myself more in the kitchen.
I’d like to travel more.
I’d like to see myself save some money.
I’d like to stay in better touch with friends and family that I don’t get to see often/ever.
I’d like that to mean that I will send cards and write letters.
I’d like to be calmer and more flowy, in general.

Most of these things seem reasonable enough. The exercise one is questionable. So is the wine one. And the calm and flowy. We’ll see.

One of the things Fred and I have been doing in the kitchen lately is play sort of a Chopped game with our approach to dinner. I’ll pick three to five seemingly disparate items (usually things in the refrigerator that need to get used for fear of waste) and putting together a complete meal with them. One night it was duck breast, savoy cabbage, rice leftover from Chinese food delivery and sausage. Fred made seared duck breast over a fried rice with sausage and cabbage that was extraordinary.

Another time the items were salmon, coconut milk, scallions, avocado and parsley. We marinated the salmon in coconut milk, pan roasted it and topped it with a avocado-parsley cream. It’s fun, challenging and ensures very little goes into the trash bin/compost that we don’t have.

Last night the items were a leek, a potato, buttermilk, sour cream and some fennel from the garden. All of the items save for the fennel were on the brink of getting tossed. As I looked over the items for my challenge it was so very obvious. Soup. Plus, I could finally get a chance to use my Christmas present from Fred; my new Vitamix blender (!). He had used it the night before making the parsley-avocado cream, but I had not messed with it, yet. Perfecto.

As I tossed the chopped leek into the melted butter, the idea fully came together; I was going to make a buttermilk vichyssoise with fennel. When I got to the part where I dumped everything into the blender - hot - I was scared and excited. It did not explode hot liquid all over me and it even managed to fully blend the fennel fronds. In less than thirty seconds I had a silky smooth, velvety, perfectly pureed, beautiful, perky bright green soup.

I’ve said it many times here, but soup really is my favorite thing to make. It can be as comforting, elegant, rustic, hearty, simple, complex, delicate, chunky, smooth, hot, cold, big or little as you want it to be. It goes with every meal and every season. And the garnish is always so fun to decide. It’s like that hat or scarf that just makes the outfit.

This soup, a vichyssoise, is kind of all of those things: simple yet complex, delicate yet hearty, elegant yet rustic. It can even be served hot or cold. This soup calls for any manner of garnishes. Chives , creme fraiche, a simple buttery crouton, or maybe you want to really dress it up - with a sliver of smoked salmon and a small dollop of caviar. Now that really makes the outfit.

I guess with my new kitchen toy I am accomplishing at least one of the things I’d like to see more of in 2013 - I am pushing myself more in the kitchen already. If this soup didn’t go so perfectly with any number of white wines I might be able to start accomplishing another one of the things on that list...

• Buttermilk Vichyssoise with Fennel
• 
  
• Serves 6
• 
  

Ingredients

• 
  
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1 leek, white and light-green parts only, halved lengthwise then thinly sliced into half-moons, washed well and drained
• 1 large white potato, cut into 1-inch pieces
• 3 1/2 cups chicken stock
• 1 cup chopped fennel bulb & fronds
• Coarse salt and freshly ground white pepper
• 2 cups buttermilk
• 1/2 cup creme fraiche
• Smoked salmon and caviar (for garnish)

Directions

Melt butter in a stockpot over medium-low heat. 
Add leek, and cook, covered, until tender, about 15 minutes.
Add potatoes and stock. Bring to a boil; simmer until potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes. Stir in fennel and cook for about 5-7 more minutes.
Working in batches, puree soup in a blender until smooth. Transfer pureed soup to a large bowl. 
Season with salt and white pepper. Stir in sour cream and buttermilk just before serving. Adjust seasoning as needed. 
If necessary, thin the soup with a bit more chicken stock or water to achieve desired consistency. 
Garnish with a sliver of smoked salmon and a tiny drop of caviar.
May be served hot or cold. 


Printable recipe.


One year ago: Cheebo
Two years ago: Vinegar-Braised Chicken with Garlic & Celery Leaves
Three years ago: Carrot Soup with Ginger & Cumin
FIVE years ago: Dominick's