The First Seduction

I've noticed that lots of people (especially, ahem, older folks) really love to talk about the weather. What it was like a few days ago, the upcoming forecast, and the current moment's temperature - sky, light, precipitation or lack thereof - are all equally consequential. Perhaps I have noticed this more acutely after spending over a decade in a mostly sunny and 75 degree arid region. But LA does have its seasons. They come in hints, little seductions: the Santa Ana winds in the fall, the rains in the winter, the return of the bright blue sky in the spring followed by the June Gloom and the smog in the summer. There, I was a dog walker– out in the elements every day, and still it was rather pointless to check up on the forecast to figure out whether stockpiling was in order or making sure I had the right 'gear.' With the exception of the annual week long rainy season in February, a hoodie and a light scarf would always suffice.

Back in Southern California, with bounty and sunshine available all year long, I never gave a second thought to sharing a story and a recipe about my patio garden, fresh tomatoesor an anecdote about traipsing around by the beach. In March.

But my how the winds have changed. I haven't seen green grass or fresh tomatoes in months, I've spent the least amount of time necessary outside in the elements bundled up in a strata of fabrics with only my watery eyeballs exposed. The closest thing to any beach-like elements involved the salt stuck on my boots from being poured over the sidewalk after shoveling the snow from the front of our house. The trees have been bare and the sky grey.

Until a few days ago.

A few days ago the sun shone brightly and the temperature reached a balmy 70 degrees. And the city came alive – it was pulsing. People were out on their porches, out in the parks, out in the restaurants, out on their bikes, they were everywhere. And though the trees are still bare, and there is no green grass or fresh tomatoes yet, the promise of all of that and more was palpable. Exciting. Because it's a hint of the breathtaking glory, the explosion of Spring (which is downright stupendous here) that is just right around the corner. Even better than a clandestine glimpse between the button of a blouse, it was a major seduction.

And I do love a seduction. A little tease. Probably why I so love the femme fatales from Film Noir. It's all about the want, the suggestion. Once the characters get what they want, it's all downhill. But, given the chance, they would undoubtedly do it again. Just like the four seasons and our responses to each one and the one sneaking up next. Agitated about Winter by the end of Winter, daydreaming about carefree Summer, then agitated about Summer by the end of Summer, daydreaming about cozy Winter. I guess we aren't much different than the duped Walter Neff in Double Indemnity. He knew it was a bad idea, but Barbara Stanwyck's anklet, her seduction, was where his will and determination would lead him, hell or high water.

Speaking of the onset of Spring and of films, one tell-tale event that speaks to both, the Academy Awards, is happening this weekend. And in that very city of subtle seasonal changes, the city of limos and lights, Los Angeles (which, in an interesting twist from the ultimate femme fatale, Mother Nature, is experiencing torrential downpours). Though I was never directly involved in 'the business' during my tenure in LA, nor did I get too, too wrapped up in the glitter and glamour of that which is Hollywood, I have always enjoyed the Oscars. I love a simple little soiree to celebrate the occasion replete with drinks, precious crabby snacks and homemades and, of course, the requisite Oscar ballots for everyone to cast their votes.

So, tomorrow, on my first Oscar night back in Richmond, with my oldest and dearest friends all around me, I will take a peek back into the city I left behind, my City of Angels, glowing bright and beautiful, rain or shine. And I will serve these delicious little sandwiches, which are a twist on the classic Croque Monsieur, which I was first seduced by at the famed Chateau Marmont – easily my single most missed place in all of Tinseltown. That place is magical. Talk about a seduction.

Croques Besito
(recipe adapted from Food & Wine)

Makes 16 bite-sized sandwiches

Ingredients

Sixteen 1 1/2-inch cubes of a rustic loaf of bread (remove all crusts)

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, 2 tablespoons melted

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/3 cup whole milk

4 ounces of Comté or Gruyère cheese, shredded (1 1/2 cups)

1/4 cup finely diced, cooked bacon

Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg

Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

Finely chopped fresh chives (for garnish)

Directions

Preheat the oven to 375°. Using kitchen scissors, cut a 1/2-inch square from the center of each bread cube; don't cut through the bottom. Discard the squares. In a bowl, toss the hollowed-out bread cubes with the 2 tablespoons of melted butter. Arrange the cubes on a baking sheet and bake for about 8 minutes, until they are lightly toasted.

Increase the oven temperature to 425°. In a small saucepan, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter. Add the flour and cook over moderate heat, whisking, until smooth, about 1 minute. Whisk in the milk until a thick paste forms. Remove from the heat and fold in the cheese and bacon. Season with the nutmeg, salt and pepper. Spoon the cheese filling into the bread cubes. Bake for about 5 minutes, until the cheese is melted.

Top with fresh chives. Serve hot.

Printable Recipe.

One year ago: Classic New England Clam Chowder

Two years ago: Byrd's Fresh Apple Cake

Three years ago: Son of a Gun

Four years ago: The Dogtown Dog Truck

A Different Kind of Love

Valentine's Day has always been a mixed bag filled primarily with slightly overly bedazzled expectations brewing since the My Little Pony Dream Castle days. This bag pretty much remains overstocked well after Valentine's Day passes like the unsold candy hearts Now On Sale!/Half Price! at drug stores. And to be honest, if anyone genuinely managed to 'satisfy' those expectations (except my dad's always adorably, and unknowingly, cheesy gestures or my friend's adorably, knowingly, cheesy gestures, I probably wouldn't dig them so much.) I guess at the core I'm really just not a dozen red roses and heart-shaped box of ooey, gooey chocolates kind-of-girl.

This morning, while shuffling into the kitchen and wiping sleep from my eyes, still clad in my buttons-now-popping-at-the-seam-around-the-belly union suit, Fred had a song playing on the stereo while he made us coffee. It sounded familiar. I had heard it before. And I knew that voice. Then, as he looked at me and started lip syncing to it with his air mic, I realized it was the song he wrote for me, about me, and played for me the on our first Valentine's Day (also as I shuffled into the kitchen for coffee in my much cuter, and nicely fitting jammies) on our first trip away together at his family cabin in Inverness.

Wait. That is so ooey, gooey, My Little Pony Dream Castle days daydreaming material. Oh, baby.

Oh, baby. And yes, then there's that. This brand new, different kind of love happening. It's true, and I feel funny admitting it, but this morning, before I rolled over and kissed Fred, or even said good morning or Happy Valentine's Day, for that matter, I put both of my hands on my belly for a long moment. Every molecule of my being swelled with a huge, red, heart shaped love for this little girl I'm - we're - making. Just think, next year all three of us will be in the kitchen in our jammies listening to the song daddy wrote for mommy when they first met and fell in love.

Another, and also different kind of love (perhaps fondness) has been growing in me since last Valentine's Day. This is an unlikely love; kind of like King Kong and Ann Darrow (the Fay Wray version, of course). If none of you have noticed, I've been baking a lot. But have any of you noticed how much I've been baking with fruit? Well, I have. I've even been making my own smoothiesfor the past few weeks. Granted, I'm only brave enough for two fruits intermingling thus far – banana and orange with some yogurt and bee pollen. Baby steps!

Oh, baby. There it is again. And speaking of her. And fruit. It's a good thing I'm inching my way out of my fruit issues, because I'm likely going to be knee deep in the stuff. The ooey gooey worst kind of the stuff, too: applesauce. Oh, lord. I can't. I just can't. Not yet.

But, for this Valentine's Day, I made a baby step forward, away from my fear of cooked fruit, for our dessert tonight (after grilled lobster tails in the snow by the fire pit in the backyard!) and for our little baby girl's future nasty, sticky, messy meals that I promise I will relish every moment of making and feeding to her. When the time comes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But today, Fred, these words are for you. 

In case you thought I didn't remember the first Valentine's Day in Inverness when you nervously stood in front of me with your guitar and sang your heart to me, I didn't. And in case you thought that that moment, and every beautiful moment with you, and from you, gets overlooked, it hasn't. I love you and I love us, all of us. Happy Valentine's Day.

Love,

Elliott

Cheddar Apple Heart-in-Hand Pies

Makes 8 hand pies

Cheddar Pie Dough 

(from Martha Stewart)

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

Salt

2 sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1/4 to 1/2 cup ice water

1 cup shredded sharp white cheddar cheese

1 egg yolk beaten with 2 tablespoons of water

Turbinado or regular granulated sugar for dusting

Apple Filling

1 1/2 pounds (about 3) apples, peeled, cored, and cut into small cubes*

2 pounds (about 5) Opal apples, peeled, cored, and cut into small cubes*

½ cup brown sugar

1/4 cup sugar
Zest and juice of one lemon
3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon salt

*I think you could basically use any combination of crisp-textured apples. And you will have extra apple filling here. Use the rest to fry up and put in oatmeal or on top of pancakes. Wax creative...

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Pulse flour and 1 teaspoon salt in a food processor until combined. Add butter, and pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal, about 10 seconds. Drizzle 1/4 cup water evenly over mixture. Pulse until mixture just begins to hold together (dough should not be wet or sticky). If dough is too dry, add more water, 1 tablespoon at a time, and pulse. Add cheese; pulse until combined.

Shape dough into 2 balls, and wrap each in plastic wrap. Refrigerate until chilled, about 30 minutes or up to overnight.

Make the filling: Stir together apples, sugar, flour, lemon juice, cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, and cloves.

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out one half of the dough to 1/8-inch thickness. Roll out each piece so it's big enough to to fit your heart. Cut eight hearts out of the rolled dough. Transfer the circles to a parchment-lined baking sheet, and place in the refrigerator to chill for about 30 minutes. Repeat the rolling, cutting, and chilling process with the remaining half of dough.

Put four hearts on a parchment-lined rimmed baking sheet. Spoon a couple of scoops of apple filling in the center of each heart. Using your finger, brush a little cold water on the inside of the circumference of the cutouts and top each heart with another heart. Seal the edges together with the tines of a fork.

Lightly brush with pies the egg yolk wash and poke little holes on top. Sprinkle sugar lightly over the pies, and place pies in the oven to bake.

Bake pies until golden, about 30 minutes.

Serve while hot and I strongly suggest with a scoop of rich, delicious vanilla bean ice cream (Fred makes the best).

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Mimi's Baked Broccoli

Two years ago: Grilled Oysters with Garlicky, Lemony, Buttery Sauce

Three years ago: Celeriac Soup with Sunchoke 'Croutons'

Four years ago: French Red Pepper Soup (Potage Aux Poivrons Rouges)

Six years ago: Yang Chow

I'm the Dog Walker.

Oddly enough, I've been to very few weddings. A lot of people complain about weddings, like they're a drag or something. I love them. I love looking at all of the people, watching the families interact, figuring out who knows whom, who tolerates whom, you get the idea. I love to watch the eccentric great aunt with her shaky, little hands, clutching her champagne glass smeared with red lipstick smudges around the rim and crumbs of God knows what permanently lodged in the corners of her mouth. I love the awkward little children, dressed up like adults, the boys looking miserable and uncomfortable and the girls loving their princess hair and dresses and all of the attention. I love watching the bride's second cousin flirting with the groom's best man's brother, and sneaking off to hook up after just enough champagne, wine and cocktails to chalk it up to 'weddings'.

I love the formality, the process. I love watching the groom's face, and see his eyes light up (or fill with tears) when he first lays eyes on his very soon-to-be-bride walking down the aisle toward him. And, at that moment, I always cry a little. I love how awkward they are. I love that as a result of how awkward they are, and how no one really knows anyone all that well, no one is really themselves; rather people take on a veil of anonymity. And pretty much everyone over indulges in some way or another.

I love wedding food. I love food in chafing dishes. I love the taco themes, or the tapas themes, the big-fat-Greek-wedding themes, I love choosing either the salmon or the roast beef. I love the over cornstarchy, congealed sauce that is poured over either one. I love the extremeley cooked carrots and green beans with mashed potatoes and gravy. And, of course, I love the cake.

It's wonderful that everyone dances (to all manner of bad music). Everyone laughs. Everyone cries. Everyone talks. Everyone eats and everyone drinks. Family and friends from all over the country, or even the world, perfect strangers, yet all thrust together because of another couple's union. And everyone at least pretends to be happy, jubilant even. Until they receive the next wedding invitation whereupon they complain what a drag weddings are.

It had been at least five years since my last wedding, until this past weekend. One of my clients was getting married. And she wanted her dog, Giovanni, to be in the wedding. To be specific, she wanted me to escort Giovanni to the wedding and make sure he made it down the aisle with his "grandfather" (the bride's dad).  An ordinary day. Giovanni is an awesome dog and I adore him. Giovanni is a Pug. It was a hot day: Giovanni mouth breathes like a Pug, is a tiny bit chubby, and does not love the heat.

I followed the wedding planners' instructions to the T: I drove Giovanni downtown at five pm and parked outside the venue.  We were escorted in by one of the planners; I then waited to hand him off to the bride's father at the proper time. Oh, did I mention Giovanni was wearing a tuxedo?  A snug tux at that--couldn't fasten the bottom button.  So here I am in downtown LA at 5 pm on what seemed the hottest day of the year with a chubby Pug in a tux.  After Giovanni's down the aisle promenade with granddad I was to take him and wait until the conclusion of the ceremony at which point the wedding photographer was going to get a few shots of the happy couple with Giovanni.  Then Gio and I were free to go.

Everything went as planned. Except there were no side aisles. So for the first few moments of the ceremony, I sat in the very front row, next to the VIPs and the parents, who must have wondered who this bold stranger might be. I quietly explained, “I'm the dog walker”, and they seemed relieved. So, Gio's granddad walked his daughter and her dog down the aisle and it was touching. As always, while everyone else was craning their necks to catch that first glimpse of the bride, I watched the groom's face, and could tell exactly when he laid eyes on her, in her dress, for the first time. And I cried a little.

After that, Giovanni was quickly handed to me and, while the ceremony began to hit its stride, I had to awkwardly duck back up the center aisle, the only aisle. The very aisle that still had the lingering scent of the bride's perfume as she had just walked down it not six seconds prior. And, of course, with Giovanni panting very audibly in his tuxedo. A graceful exit it was not.

Then, Gio and I were shown to a corner in the back of the reception area to wait for the ceremony to end. A couple of the caterers and staff were curious about what we were doing back there, all alone, no champagne. “I'm the dog walker," I told them.

Then, as fast as it began, it was over. And while Giovanni was photographed with his just married mom and dad, I waited by the front door of the venue with the valets. Then a woman stepped outside for some air and since we were the only non-valets standing there, she felt compelled to say, “Hi, I'm Evelyn, the groom's sister. Are you with bride or groom?” To which I confidently replied, “Hi, I'm the dog walker!”

And so, as the bride and groom went back inside to enjoy the reception, the meal, the dancing and the champagne with all of their family and friends, Giovanni and I hopped back in the car to head back to my house to relax. And man, was he happy to get that tux off.

Back at my place, it was dinner time. I fed the pups their kibble and Fred poured us a couple of glasses of Vino Verde to sip while we got to our Saturday night project: making ricotta, which was something I had wanted to do for a very long time – ever since I saw the recipe in Saveur six or so years ago and ripped out the pages. As the milk and cream were heating up on the stove, I told him about how it felt so strange to have been a part, in even the tiniest way, of one of the most important days in two people's lives, but to have been so very invisible. I wasn't really even there. And I didn't mind one bit – though a glass of champagne would have been much appreciated.

As we sat down to the table to eat our dinner of grilled pork tenderloin (with an amazing dry rub) and zucchini with Niçoise olives and homemade ricotta, I realized I definitely got my wedding fix. I got the vibe. I watched the families, the couples, the singles scoping out their next flirt target. There was champagne, and spicy margaritas. It was a taco theme, with mariachis and the whole bit. I did what most women who have not yet had their own wedding do (and have thought about since they were six years old), compare it to what they would do differently, take note of what worked, little details, décor, style, all of it. And before Giovanni and I left, I did get a hug from the bride and groom – which is actually pretty hard to get at a lot of weddings, with all of the hullabaloo. Especially for the dog walker.

Would I serve this dish at my wedding? Perhaps. But man alive, the ricotta that we made was out of this world. Light, airy, buttery, creamy, rich, and delicate. We ate it in everything for three days straight, until it was gone. We even ate it for dessert; a heap of it in a bowl topped with lemon zest, honey and almonds.

Zucchini with Lucques Olives and Homemade Ricotta

8-10 servings

Ingredients
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

8 medium zucchini (about 3 1/4 pounds)—halved lengthwise, seeded and cut into 1/3-inch dice

3 lemon thyme sprigs

Kosher salt

1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1/2 cup pitted Lucques olives, chopped

Freshly ground pepper

3/4 pound ricotta (here's how to make your own)

1 tablespoon fresh mint, chopped, plus a sprig for garnish

Directions
In a very large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Add 1/3 of the zucchini, 1 lemon thyme sprig, a generous pinch of salt and 1/4 cup of water and cook over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally until the zucchini is just tender and the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes. Transfer the zucchini to a platter to cool and discard the thyme sprig. Wipe out the skillet and repeat in two more batches with the remaining olive oil, lemon thyme, zucchini and salt, adding 1/4 cup of water to each batch.

In a large bowl, toss the cooled zucchini with the grated lemon zest, lemon juice, mint and olives. Season with salt and pepper and transfer to a serving platter. Arrange the ricotta over the zucchini, garnish with a sprig of mint and serve.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Poblano-Sherry Vinegar Mignonette

Two years ago: Classic Southern Fried Chicken

Three years ago: Wolvesmouth

Four years ago: Steak au Poivre

Jason Shaw

I started seeing Jason Shaw about seven or so years ago. I had a client up on Kings Road, just a few houses down from where Paris Hilton was living at the time. I had a somewhat unusual (unhealthy?) fixation with Paris Hilton. I thought she was kind of brilliant in an Emperor’s New Clothes kind of way. I never thought she was a mastermind, mind you, but I applauded her unwitting ability to turn her foibles into farce for her hungry public. She, again unwittingly, showed us our own reflection as gossip-hungry imbeciles. She was exactly what Hollywood is. And I, albeit self-reflexively, ate her every move right up.

Oh and she, very briefly, and pre-sex tape, pre-nipple/crotch slip(s), dated Jason Shaw who was a model slash actor at one time. And I happen to know this because, as I said, I was for Paris Hilton what bazillions of pre-nubile tweens are for Justin Bieber. If she was on a Trapper Keeper or a lunchbox, and I was like thirteen years old, I so would have had to have it. Move over Holly Hobbie (I actually had that lunchbox).

Okay, so, back to 2005 when I started seeing Jason Shaw. I guess he lived or worked or was dating someone on Kings Road. Out of the five days a week I drove up there, to my client’s house, I would see him driving up or down the street in his black Mercedez SUV at least half of those days. The first few times I didn’t think much of it. I would text Heather, “Jason Shaw. Again!”, as we would always text each other if we saw anyone. I would text a lot of my friends if I saw anyone. But only Heather knew who Jason Shaw was.

Then I started seeing him in places other than Kings Road. But only in his car. The same car. Always driving. We’d pass one another at Crescent Heights and Hollywood. He’d drive past me at the stoplight at Santa Monica and Poinsettia. We’d be right next to each other on Sunset. I started to think he was getting it. That he saw me, too. That we’d be sharing knowing looks. Like we were in on something together and only we knew. Maybe we were to be star crossed lovers? I mean, he was kind of cute in that pretty-jock-surfer-pop-music-Oakley-wearing-sort-of-way. He was definitely the guy I would have had a crush on in high school that would have definitely not had a crush on me back. So that’s always appealing.

Some time passed. I no longer needed to go up Kings Road as often as my business grew and I hired someone else to do that. I still saw Jason Shaw, but not with as much frequency. Then a few years ago I started to see him again. A lot. The crazy thing is that the new Jason Shaw hot spot was (and still is) my very own street. I see him driving up and down it all the time. In the same car. I see him when I’m driving up or down the hill. I see him when I’m taking my trash cans to the curb. I see him when I’m getting my mail. I even saw him at the dog park once - not in his car! And last week, while I was getting a cup of coffee at the Canyon Store, I did a stretchy move and twisted around. Right at that exact moment, that one ten second period while I stretched my back, who do I see in his car turning from my street to go down the hill? Of all the cars moving at that intersection at that time, where do my eyes fall? You got it. Jason Shaw.

What are the chances?

The thing is, I probably, we all probably, see the same people, see each other, a lot more than we know. I would be curious to know how many times I’ve seen that person, that so and so, in their cobalt Blue Prius zipping around town. But they’re not Jason Shaw. Who, I would imagine, probably needs a new car sometime soon.


Back in the Summer of 2009 I posted the recipe for pimiento cheese. More specifically, my mom’s pimiento cheese. We spent an afternoon making it together. And you should read the post. It’s fun and tells the story of the pimiento cheese. What’s so funny is that that very pimiento cheese, my mom’s pimiento cheese recipe, is being sold right here in sunny SoCal. Yep, the heralded Lindy & Grundy sells cute, little 8 ounce jars of the stuff. Erika and Amelia love it. Most folks that try it do. And since my mom is moving back to Richmond in January, she has passed the reins over to me. Last week, much like the afternoon in 2009, we went through it again. To make sure I get it just right. Because now, I’m the one making and selling this pimiento cheese.

And not unlike running in circles with Jason Shaw, seeing him over and over again, the recipe I will share with you today is the very one I shared back in the Summer of 2009; pimiento cheese. Pimiento cheese is good any manner of ways, but I only just learned from Amelia at Lindy & Grundy that it’s especially delicious on a burger. So I bought a pound of their Grundy Grind, and grilled up a couple of pimiento cheese burgers. And yes, this is a pretty rad application for the stuff.

By the by, this Saturday, I’ll be at Lindy and Grundy with my mom, doing a tasting for this very recipe. So, please, come and say hi and try a taste. Hopefully Jason Shaw will be there.  

Pimiento Cheese Burgers

Makes 4 Burgers

2 lbs. ground beef, formed into 4 medium-size patties
4 hamburger buns, toasted

A dash of worcestershire sauce

Salt & pepper to taste

Pimiento cheese

Ketchup

Duke's Mayonnaise

Sliced red onion
Iceberg lettuce
4 slices tomato

Season patties with worcestershire, salt and pepper. Prepare a medium-hot charcoal fire or heat a gas grill to medium-high (or heat a tablespoon of canola oil in a large cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat). Grill burgers, flipping once, until cooked to desired doneness, about 10 minutes for medium rare. Spread 2 tbsp. pimento cheese over each burger; cover and let melt. Serve burgers on buns with lettuce, tomato, onion, ketchup and mayo.

Printable recipe.


One year ago: Creamy Roasted Garlic and Cauliflower Soup with Rye Croutons
Two years ago: Cream Biscuits
Three years ago: Pizzeria Bianc

I Am the Ostrich, Coo Coo Ca Choo.

When I was in college, a group of us in Victor Garcia’s Spanish class went on a trip to Mexico – ostensibly to study the language while immersed in its culture. Fortunately for me, a lot of my closest friends, and my boyfriend, Paul, were in that group. I also had a pretty big crush on Victor Garcia. Not the kind where I wanted to get in his pantalones, but more the kind that I just wanted to be part of his life, his family. He was just so great. And his wife and son were great, too. Very happy. And, he was so attractive.

The program took place in Cuernavaca. We were all assigned and lived with ‘host’ families during the stretch of this program. There were four of us in my house. I shared a room with Carl, who, on that trip, became Ray Ray (he bought a pair of Ray Ban’s from a street vendor and later discovered that on the lens read Ray Ray’s in lieu of Ray Ban’s. The die was cast. He was forever Ray Ray.)  Ray Ray was a short, bald, black, flamboyantly gay young man. At the time I had cut my hair off (myself) into, what I thought would be, a pixie cut, and dyed it canary yellow (myself). And so, in traditional, machismo-infested Mexico, the six-foot tall girl with the cut-off jean shorts, Pac-Man tee shirt and canary yellow hair and the short bald, flamboyantly gay black man roamed the streets. We most definitely got rocks thrown at us from passengers on buses.

I will say, however, that my Spanish was great during this time - though more from hanging out and drinking beer and tequila in the bars with the locals than as a result of the program. Or maybe that was the program…

After the ‘school’ part of the trip, a core group of my friends and I split off and went rogue, exploring Mexico the way we wanted: backpacks, hostels in cities, hammocks on the beach, café con leche, homemade mescal, and a lot of bouts of Gin Rummy. Very late one night, I believe we were in Oaxaca; Amy, Paul, Mike, Ray Ray and I were sitting in our hotel room, drinking tequila, smoking and playing round after round of Gin Rummy. At some point during this evening, at some ungodly hour, we all decided to figure out our animal. We became fixated on getting them just right and spent hours doing so. Here’s what we settled on: Amy was an owl, Mike was a walrus, Paul was a koala bear, Ray Ray was a jaguar, and me – I was an ostrich. What a gyp! I couldn’t even get to be a flamingo? Nope, I was an ostrich.

It made sense, I suppose. I was very tall, awkwardly skinny, had that whole hair situation and I was certainly not the most graceful bird in the land. To be fair, I don’t think Paul was feeling very masculine about being a koala bear. But it really did fit.

Wondering how I’m going to wrap this one back around, aren’t you…

About seven or so years ago, I started going to Santa Barbara County for little trips, long days, short weekends, etc. for wine tastings and micro-getaways. I have been with a few people, and I’ve been by myself. I love the tasting rooms, the wineries, the landscape, the food, the people, the drive up and the drive back. It’s very dear to me. There is a pretty cool place in between The Hitching Post, in Buellton and the little, Danish Colony in Solvang. It’s called Ostrichland. Yes, it is. Ostrichland!

Used to be you could roll right up and see, touch, feed, and be bitten by, the birds (they have emu and ostriches). Now you have to pay. But a measly $4.95 is more than worth all that one experiences in Ostrichland. Did you know that ostriches have the ability to run at maximum speeds of 43 mph, the fastest land speed of any bird? And, the Ostrich is the largest living species of bird and lays the largest egg of any living bird!

The largest egg in all the land? I clearly had to have one. So, at about $30 a pop, I bought one ostrich egg that is the equivalent to approximately twenty chicken eggs.

Other than turning the shell of the egg into a lamp base or some such thing, what was I going to do with an egg that big? This question plagued me for quite some time. So much time, in fact, that I realized I had better do something with the egg or it would simply go to waste, and all I would have is the shell with which to make a lamp base or some such thing. I needed to move fast as y’all all know how much I loathe to waste food.

While I really did like the idea of one, ginormous deviled egg, I realized I would have to make scramble-ness with the egg if I wanted to keep the shell intact for my lamp base (or some such thing). I looked around and saw my rainbow of heirloom tomatoes and it hit me: frittata.
  
And so Fred and I went about making the most enormous frittata of all time. For the two of us. It was a really interesting process, getting the eggy insides out without compromising the shell. The dish took the better part of the morning to cook through as it was a LOT of egg. It filled an entire, large, cast-iron skillet almost to the top. I guess you could say it was really more of a crustless quiche. And it was very tasty. While I couldn’t decipher a real difference in the taste of the egg from that of a chicken egg, I will say that it was much fluffier and lighter than a chicken egg. 

And now I have the shell. I can’t imagine what on earth I’ll do with it. But I like it.

So here’s the deal; after my multiple visits to Ostrichland and bonding with its residents, I guess my animal being the ostrich is not so bad. I’m not really that gawky and lanky any more, but I’m still pretty tall. My hair is not hacked off my head in my personal attempt to resemble Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, nor is it canary yellow. I can’t run all that fast, nor do I really try. But, like the ostrich, I’m kind of goofy, kind of awkward, not very graceful, love to eat, and have my own brand of cuteness and allure. I have also been known to bite.
 

For the recipe below I am providing you with the recipe with the standard measurements rather than the ginormous ostrich egg version. If you would like to try this with an ostrich egg, multiply everything by four...

Heirloom Tomato & Fresh Basil Frittata

Serves 6

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter, cubed
6 large eggs
¼ pound ground sausage

6-8 slices of red onion, very thinly sliced 3 tablespoons finely grated Parmesan cheese
3 tablespoons grated gruyere cheese
1 garlic clove, minced
1 tablespoon chopped pistou basil
Handful of green and purple basil, mixed
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 pounds ripe heirloom tomatoes (mixed colors & sizes), cut crosswise into 1/4" slices

Directions

Preheat oven to 350°.

Brown sausage in a 10-inch (2-inch-deep) ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat, stirring often, 7 to 8 minutes or until meat crumbles and is no longer pink; remove from skillet, and drain. Wipe skillet clean.

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Lightly beat eggs in a medium bowl. Stir in sausage, cheese, pistou basil and garlic, cubes of butter and season with salt and pepper. When oil is shimmering, pour egg mixture into pan and cook until eggs begin to turn golden brown around the edges. Arrange tomato slices, red onion cirlces and basil leaves on top of egg mixture. (Some tomato slices may sink.)

Transfer skillet to oven and bake frittata until eggs are just set in the center, 10-12 minutes. Using a heatproof spatula, loosen frittata from pan and slide onto a warm plate. Slice and serve warm or at room temperature.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Yerp: Part 6. Barthelona (Part 2), THE HAMOVER.

Two years ago: Grilled Salmon with Market Relish over Jasmine Rice

Three years ago: Vichyssoise

Girl on Grill.

I feel bad. Maybe you haven’t noticed, or maybe it’s not a big deal, but I feel bad for being kind of absent lately. For the past couple of months a lot of things have been in flux. It’s felt a little bit like a deck of cards tossed up in the air. And some haven’t even hit the ground yet. But everything is all good, mind you. 
You all know Maggie, my dear friend and roommate of two years? She recently moved out. She found a magical, little spot all her own. Don't worry, she didn't go too far. In fact, we have plans to kick back with some wine at her new place tomorrow night.

Alas, you know how it go – Ch-ch-changes.

In the midst of Maggie’s move, my birthday happened. It was a fun one. Fred and I went to Los Olivos (and places surrounding) for the better part of the weekend, explored, went to wine tastings, had a beautiful dinner, and embraced the drive both up and back. I got some beautiful and touching cards and some wonderful gifts. Surprisingly, I actually received a couple of pretty extravagant gifts. One of these was from my dad. He called me and told me he wanted me to have a gas grill. The wording here is important: he wanted me to have. I already have a charcoal grill that I have been perfectly happy with for years. I had no idea I wanted or needed a gas grill. Dad’s logic was that, with a gas grill, I could use it like an oven and wouldn’t even have to heat up the kitchen. I guess in the Summer in the South that is a huge plus.

Dad seemed very enthusiastic about his gift idea (it reminded me of the time I was thirteen years old and he was brimming with excitement to give me the surprise gift of, wait for it… a plant), and I get it. It’s fun to give a gift. It’s rewarding. And when you think you’ve drummed up the best gift idea ever, it’s downright titillating. I’ve often felt it more fun to give gifts than to receive them. I guess that all depends on the gift going in either direction, though.

And so, after an arduoulsy involved process, I brought home my shiny, new gas grill. Dad insisted I get a Weber. He has one and he loves it. He told me, “I’ve had dozens of gas grills and this one is the best.” So that’s what I got.

This was about two or three weeks ago, and ever since the first day we put it on the patio, Fred (who was captivated by the idea from the get go) and I have done some thing or another with the grill almost every day: steaks (two or three times), BBQ chicken, mojo chicken wings (courtesy of Erika at Lindy & Grundy), vegetables, salmon, veggie burgers, meaty burgers, sausages, lamb chops, onions, a pork tenderloin. More than once I’ve sparked it up just to grill a zucchini or a sausage to use in a separate dish. And tonight we are going to grill oysters! I must admit, I love it and it is tons of fun – Thanks, Dad! Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about my little charcoal grill still which sits proudly on the patio, right next to The Monolith.

The most interesting thing we’ve been doing on the grill, and the most frequent – hell, and the most fun – has been pizzas. We have now made pizzas four different times, with a number of different kinds of pizzas each night. This past weekend we made four pizzas: a breakfast pizza with sausage egg and cheese, a classic pizza Margherita (but with purple basil instead of green (pictured above)), a dessert pizza with grilled peaches, mascarpone, mint and honey (not pictured) and Fred’s wild card pizza with grilled corn, salsa, cilantro, onions, bacon and Cotija cheese (pictured at top). They were all fantastic except for the dessert pizza. A - we didn’t think it through completely and the mascarpone turned into liquid and B – grilled fruit is going to make me hesitant because it just does. But I loved the idea of breakfast, dinner and dessert pizzas, all in a row. My favorite of all of our pizzas was the 'breakfast pizza'.

And so, my dear dad ended up giving me a pretty rad gift. And one I didn’t even realize I would want at the time. And I can’t even imagine all the amazing meals that lie ahead in the years that I will have my grill. So much better than a plant.

And with this, things are settling. New colors and shapes and people and sounds. 

You all know Fred? Well, pretty soon he’ll be moving in. The grill, Maggie, Fred…

Ch-ch-changes.

Sausage, Egg & Fontina Cheese Pizza
(Grilling technique adapted from Elise Bauer on Simply Recipes)

Makes 8 slices

What you need/what we used:

Pizza dough: make your own or use prepared pizza dough. In full disclosure, we used the prepared stuff from Trader Joe's = Not. Too. Shabby.

1-1 1/2 cup crushed tomatoes, cooked down with olive oil, basil, salt & garlic

1 1/2 cup grated Fontina cheese

1-2 grilled Andouille sausage(s), sliced

2-4 eggs (entirely depending on your eggy wantonness)

Salt & pepper

What you do/what we did:

Prepare the grill for high direct heat. If using a gas grill, preheat for 10 minutes until the temperature is between 550 and 600 degrees. Prepare a small bowl with olive oil for greasing the grill grates and for brushing the pizza. Prepare the toppings so they are ready to go on the pizza - tomato sauce, cheese, and anything else you wish.

Shape the pizza dough by flattening it with your hands on a slightly floured surface. Either use your fingers to stretch the dough out, or hold up the edges of the dough with your fingers, letting the dough hang and stretch, while working around the edges of the dough. Once you've stretched the dough, let it sit for 5 minutes and then push out the edges with your fingers again, until you have a nice round shape, about 12-inches in diameter. Do not make a raised rim, it will interfere with the grilling process.

Once the grill is hot, dip a tightly folded up paper towel in olive oil and use tongs to wipe the grill grates. Then place a pizza dough round on a lightly floured (or you can use cornmeal) pizza stone (or rimless cookie sheet). Let the dough slide off the stone onto the hot grill grates. Close the lid of the grill and let cook for 2 minutes.

After 2 minutes, open the grill and check underneath the dough to see if it is getting browned. If it is on one side, but not another, use a spatula or tongs to rotate the dough 90 degrees and cook for another minute. If it is not beginning to brown, cover the grill and continue to cook a minute at a time until the bottom has begun to brown. It should only take a couple minutes if you have a hot grill. The top of the pizza dough will start bubbling up with air pockets which you should stab and pop - gently.

Once the pizza dough has browned lightly on one side, use a spatula to flip the dough over so that the grilled side is now up. 

Paint the grilled surface of the pizza with a little olive oil, then cover with 1 ladle of sauce – no more, or you'll end up with a soggy pizza. Sprinkle on your grated Fontina cheese, slices of grilled sausage and, finally crack the eggs on top. Remember to go light on the toppings, or your pizza will be heavy and soggy.

Slide the topped pizza back onto the grill. If you are using a gas grill, reduce the heat to medium. If working with a charcoal grill, close the vents on the cover almost all the way. Close the lid and continue cooking. After 2-3 minutes open the lid to check the egg and the bottom of the crust. You want the whites just cooked through and the yolk soft. If the grill marks start to get too dark before the eggs is done, lower the heat some more and rotate the pizza 90 degrees. Check every 2 minutes until the eggs is done and and the cheese is bubbly, pull off the grate with a spatula onto a cutting board or other flat surface and let rest for a couple minutes before cutting into slices.

Salt & pepper that bad boy, slice and serve!

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Chicken Breasts with Anchovy-Basil Pan Sauce

Two years ago: Summer Squash Gratin with Salsa Verde

Three years ago: Pimiento Cheese