Call Me When the Shuttle Lands.

It would appear that this whole hippie thing's pendulum has swung its groovy way again. Read, it's in. This could be attributed to many things: a disenchantment and exhaustion (or sheer anger) with current politics, climate change (save water, shower with a friend), the way we view and approach our food, or just the wave of fashion. Everything comes back around, you know.

Though I was born in a particularly pointedly hippie period with hairy, bell-bottomed parents (who named their daughter Elliott), the whole hippie thing, with its ins and outs in my lifetime, has had little effect on me. In high school and even college, while many of our peers donned the gauzy, flowy shirts and floor-length paisley skirts, Birkenstocks, and the god-forsaken patchouli, Paz and I were listening to NWA, drinking 40s and seeing how much cleavage we could get away with.

I had an old friend back in LA, a real meat and potatoes guy and proud Texan, who had a saying when I – or anyone for that matter – got a little, er, out there, a little too magic-y or feel-y or granola-y (think Anne Heche's 4^thdimension circa 2000, or just Gary Busey, in general).

'Call me when the shuttle lands,' he would say wryly.

Regardless of the dude's generally great deadpan, comedic timing, this was always hilarious and perfect to me. And so, of course, I have long since, and with much frequency, adopted the comment.

I, for the most part, am pretty even-keeled and pragmatic when it comes to social politics. I understand the motivation for going green, buying local, being responsible with my carbon footprint, etc. But I equally understand that it is a very high maintenance and prohibitively expensive lifestyle to adapt. Go ahead, buy a week's worth of groceries at Whole Foods and a week's worth of groceries anywhere else, and tell me the price difference. How much did you spend on kombucha or fair trade coffee last week?

I'll never forget a photo assignment I had when I first moved to LA and was working for the LA Weekly. I was in my twenties and really struggling financially. I was asked to photograph a woman (married to a extra, super, mega famous actor/comedian) whose personal crusade it was to abolish Hummers and the like and get everyone to drive a Prius. She actually threw stones at people's environmentally cruel vehicles. Needless to say, I parked my banged up gas guzzler far, far away and lugged my photo equipment on foot to her house for the shoot. Oh, her house that was a ginormous manse in the famously richer than rich Pacific Palisades neighborhood (Steven Spielberg was her neighbor). Parked in the driveway were a minimum of five various hybrid and electric cars.

My point is: I appreciate that she wanted to share the gospel, so to speak, but COME ON. And by the way, I still can't afford a Prius. I try in other ways. I have a vegetable and herb garden, I recycle, I buy seasonal and local – when I can, I read, I think, I don't drive a gas guzzler – actually, I hardly drive at all. So keep your judgment, your stone throwing (literally) to yourself, step down from that fancy-ass high horse and, hey, call me when the shuttle lands.

Here's the funny thing: the same girl that would steal Paz's sister's hippie outfits and dress up in them to poke fun at her, the same girl whose eyeballs roll out of her head when she hears a little too much about whatever this acai berry is, and the same girl who knows absolutely nothing about your or her own astrological sign has turned in a decidedly bizarre direction whilst pregnant.

And here it is: currently I have my own doula, a small troupe of midwives, and a tiny library of books with such titles as Spiritual Midwifery (where the vagina is sometimes referred to as a Yoni and contractions are called rushes), and am having an entirely natural childbirth. Like, no drugs. And in water. And now that I am large and in charge at seven months pregnant and counting, I'm pretty much wearing the exact clothes I would have derided twenty-five years ago: long, flowy maxi dresses (if we're going to call a spade a spade, muu muus), colorful, decorative scarves – around my head, and even the Birkenstocks. You should see all my wicker and canvas totes. I'd like to think I'm channeling Elizabeth Taylor in the Sandpiper.

I've also been listening to Van Morrison's Astral Weeks on repeat for, well, weeks.

If I knew me and heard all of this from me, my response to me would, without a doubt, be, 'Elliott, please, PLEASE call me when the shuttle lands.'

Fortunately, thanks to Portlandia, Pinterest, all things DIY - pickling, craft beers, chickens in the yard, salad greens 'foraged' from the vacant lot, Mason jars and twine, I feel the pregnant, muu muu-wearing me has just so happened to luck out in the roulette of current fashion. This whole hippie thing has returned. Again. Sort of. With a twist. It's more lumberjack-self-reliant than bongs and tapestries, more sweat than patchouli, more Airstream than school bus. It's far more conscious, I suppose.

Fred and I have a lifestyle that adapts some of this ethos. Like I said, we have our garden. We sometimes shower together (though I'm too large for shower sharing these days). Fred sort of looks like a lumberjack. But we also live realistically. We enjoy our creature comforts. We watch our shows on HBO. We pay taxes.

But one major do-it-yourself that we, Fred in particular, has been super keen on for a few years now is making ice cream. In the ice cream-y months he likes to make a different batch each week, always experimenting with new ideas. And, while some aren't as successful – conceptually (coconut milk and Sriracha, for example) – his actual ice cream is undeniably delicious.

In the spirit of this post, we picked up some local, just-in-season rhubarb from our local, green grocery and got to it: a rhubarb-swirl ice cream. While Fred usually takes the reins with the ice cream, we collaborated for this one. He prepared the ice cream part and I made the swirl part. It was our first swirl (well, in the ice cream department - how do you think I got pregnant, after all?).

In the end, we made a beautiful and tasty new ice cream. I need to tweak the swirl method I chose but otherwise we were very pleased with the outcome. Even better than the local farm eggs, milk and cream used was that the ice cream matched the tie-dye pattern of my muu muu...

Oh, Jesus. Call me when the shuttle lands, right?

Rhubarb-Swirl Ice Cream
(recipe adapted from The Faux Martha)

Makes 1 ½ quarts

Ingredients

2 1/2 cups half and half

2 cups whole milk

1 cup + 2 tablespoons sugar

Dash of sea salt

3 egg yolks

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Rhubarb Swirl

4 cups rhubarb, chopped

1/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup fresh orange juice

Directions

In a heavy bottomed sauce pan, combine half and half, whole milk, heavy cream, 1 cup of sugar, and salt. Whisk to combine. Taste for salt.

In a bowl, whisk together egg yolks and 2 tablespoons of sugar.

Over medium-high heat, heat milk mixture until sugar dissolves and begins to simmer. Slowly pour about one cup of the simmering milk mixture into the egg mixture, whisking constantly to temper the eggs. Add egg mixture to sauce pan, stirring occasionally for about 5 minutes. Turn heat off. Add vanilla extract.

Pour mixture in a large bowl over a fine mesh sieve to catch any clumps. Cover and place in fridge to cool, about 3 hours. To speed up the cooling process, place bowl in an ice bath in the fridge, or place in the freezer sans ice bath.

Rhubarb Swirl:
Place rhubarb, sugar, and orange juice in a sauce pan. Cover and cook over medium heat until rhubarb is soft, about 10 minutes. Puree mixture in food processor until smooth. Once ice cream mixture is cold, make according to your machine’s instructions. Add rhubarb in at the end, swirling through the ice cream (here's what I did). Place in freezer again for ice cream to become hard enough.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Belmont Food Shop

Two years ago: Zebra Tomato, Pistou Basil & Burrata Crostini

Three years ago: Classic Tuna Salad

Four years ago: Potato Salad with Creme Fraiche, Mint & Basil

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

Cookin' It. Livin' It. Lovin' It.

Even though we have a very, very long history of written correspondence via the good old post office, for the past few years Paz and I have been taking turns sending each other 'care packages'. They are kind of, but not necessarily, for birthdays, Christmas, and the like. The ones from me show up on time – unless I accidentally send one to her childhood address where a bunch of frat boys now live, or I mess up the postage, for no good reason at all. The ones from Paz, well, they show up when they show up. I received my last birthday package on the first day of Fall. My birthday is in mid-June. And so, fittingly, she gave me my Christmas package while I was visiting home last month. In April.

From my end the packages are not what most people would describe as important or precious. Often I go through my house and find an odd mish-mash of tchotchkes, randoms and play pretties. Anything from old pictures, to stickers, to a Ryan Gosling coloring book, to old CDs, to clothes that no longer fit, to Chanel nail polish. The very Chanel nail polish she was oohing and ahhing over in some fashion magazine the last time she visited me in LA. To her credit, her packages do seem a little more thought out than mine. It certainly doesn't seem that she is ambling through her house grabbing this and that off of the shelves.

My recent April Christmas package was really kicky, actually. She had been back to visit her 'people' in the Dominican Republic very recently, and snagged some pretty great stuff for me during her stay. There were two types of rum (rhum?), white and black. I don't drink rum (rhum?), but fortuitously my dad does. So I left that behind for him. There was nail polish (not Chanel), a cowbell (no clue), a Guy Fieri spatula that reads, “Cookin' It, Livin' It, Lovin' It”, and a huge wad of straight-from-the-DR, dulce de leche. Paz knows me well. She knows I don't have a sweet tooth, per se, but I love the more savory, more muted versions of sweets: dulce de leche being a prime ejemplo.

And so from the Dominican Republic, to Richmond, Virginia, to Los Angeles, California, traveled this dulce de leche. And the Guy Fieri spatula. Of course. Funny thing about the Guy Fieri spatula; I know she gave it to me as a gag (we shared massive giggles over the, now-infamous, Pete Welle's scathing review of Guy's American Kitchen & Bar this past November). But, I have to admit, it is actually a really good spatula. Who knew Guy Fieri would ever be so prominent in my own Flavor Town; my kitchen.

Back to the dulce de leche, which is literally translated as candy of milk, or milk candy. The Dominican Republic version is made with equal parts milk and sugar with cinnamon, and the texture is a lot like fudge. Now. What was I going to do with it? I know that it is often used to flavor cakes and cookies. I've also seen toffee-like dulce de leche candies. But the weather is warm, the flowers are blooming, the tank tops are out, and when Fred and I looked at one another we knew. It's ice cream time.

Which is great, because that is all Fred. Fred is the ice cream man, and everyone who has eaten his ice cream will agree. He has a way. And when I say he has a way, I mean to say he has a French (or sometimes Italian) way. Fred is not afraid of the egg yolk. And considering eggs are so the new bacon, which is to say, wicked hip, why should he be? I guess my Fred is wicked hip.

To elaborate, French ice cream is made with egg yolks, so it's thick and custardy. Both French and Italian ice creams are made this way, while the French use a bit more cream to milk and Italy more milk to cream. Whereas American ice cream (also called Philadelphia-style) is made with sugar, milk and cream. No eggs. European ice cream is richer, silkier and it doesn't develop nearly as many ice crystals as its lighter cousin. And when I say cousin, I mean to say the kind of cousins that don't much care for one another. The French hate American ice cream.

Fred's ice cream is no joke – sweet, decadent, thick and velvety. For his dulce de leche ice cream he also added some toasty, salty almond chunks for texture. For a small dinner party coming up he is making a pine nut ice cream with fresh strawberries and honey. I mean, come on.

And yes, he makes the ice cream with our new Guy Fieri spatula. Because we, in fact, are “Cookin' It, Livin' It, Lovin' It”.

And Eatin' It.

Dulce de Leche Helado

Makes 2 pints

1 lb. Or 1 2/3 cup dulce de leche (purchased, or homemade)

2 cups whole milk

1 cup heavy cream

4 egg yolks

2 tablespoons sugar

¾ cup chopped toasted (and lightly salted) almonds

Pinch of salt

Whisk together dulce de leche and the whole milk in a medium saucepan. Heat gently over medium heat until very hot, but not boiling. Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks and sugar until light in color.

Slowly add the hot milk mixture to the eggs while whisking. Pour back into the pan. Gently cook over low to medium heat, until it starts to thicken and reaches 160 degrees F on an instant read thermometer. (Don't let it exceed 180 degrees, or it will curdle. If you don't have a thermometer, cook until the custard is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon.) Strain the cooked custard through a fine mesh sieve into a clean bowl and add the cream.

When mixture is thoroughly cold, churn using your method of choice. Add almond chunklets to the ice cream when there are about 5 minutes left in the churning process. Transfer to a freezer safer container and freeze for several hours before serving.

Printable recipe.

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

Three years ago: Lima Beans in Cream & Butter

Churning Things Up.

My house flooded a couple of weeks ago. There was some damage, but not a ton. Mostly it was a big pain and a big bummer. But, after a week, most of the repairs had been completed by the workmen , the clean-up had been done (by me), and save for the warped hardwood floors and the stench of mildew, all was back to normal.

And another week passed. The mildew smell was not getting any better. In fact, it seemed worse. So I looked up mold on the internet. The words fungus and lungs (in the same sentence) popped out at me and I promptly freaked out. I emailed the landlord that he needed to bring over a dehumidifier tout suite and that he, himself, come check out the situation. That didn’t really happen.

Then one evening Fred was ribbing me about the lack of photos of us and moreover, the fact that I hate him trying to take my picture all the time, so I ran into my room to grab one of my old photo albums to illustrate the fact that many pictures of me actually exist. And well… the source of the mildew stink was unearthed. My precious photo albums had fallen victim to the flood. And they reeked.

I’ve often stated that, if I were only able to save one thing from my burning house (living things aside), that it would be my pictures. Though I’m not entirely certain I still feel that way, this made me quite upset. And so began the process of saving the pictures. It was kind of late at night following a few glasses of wine and Fred helped out. We started with High School. I pulled the pictures out of the album and he laid them out on any flat surfaces he could find in the dining nook. It took about an hour or so and it all looked very strange when we were done. There was High School – a mosaic of snapshots – covering every surface in the room. It appeared very abstract.

The next day I was trying to find space in the kitchen to put away the new cast iron items my mom gave me. There is a serious dearth of space in my kitchen. In this process we found my ice cream maker. We decided we should definitely make ice cream. Well, It was mostly Fred’s brain flower. So for the entire day we dug up crazy ingredients around the house and garden and made batch after batch of ice cream!

Well, mostly Fred did that. I had to deal with putting High School into a new album and beginning the same process with College.

It took a few days but I finished dealing with all the photo albums and the stinky is almost all gone. But what a mixed bag that turned out to be. I am usually prepared for what I am going to see and feel on the rare occasion that I bust out the old picture pages. I also can select which ones I will see. But seeing my life, my past, laid out in pictures across two rooms of my house like an in-progress ChuckClose piece… well...

Friends I hardly remember anymore, friends I think about all the time, friends that have died, friends that are still my friends, old loves, old likes, family – alive and dead, me with bad hair,  mom with bad hair, dad with the same hair, where I used to live, where I used to play, what I used to do and the people I did it with. All of this thrown up on itself all over the house over an innocent ice-cream-making weekend with Fred.

A mixed bag, I tell you.

But it was a good thing, really. I edited. Put some of the pictures away elsewhere, reorganized the albums, tightened them up, and all the while I remembered. It was a surprise gift, when I think about it. All of these images, people, places and events are part of the mosaic that is me and my journey. Pretty much exactly like a Chuck Close piece.

And when I was done, I got to sample what Fred was up to during this process:

Fresh Mint and Ghiradelli Chocolate Chip Ice Cream

Blood Orange Ice Cream with Vanilla Bean & Fresh Orange Thyme

Toasted Coconut and Thai Basil Ice Cream (pictured below)

The boy was busy! And, as it turns out, he is very talented in the ice cream making arena. The mint chip was my favorite as I like the classics. The garden-freshness of the mint added an energizing quality. The blood orange one ended up being very sherbet –like to me, but was my mom’s favorite. The coconut was probably the most interesting and successfully quirky-yet-also-delicious one of the trio. Amelia, from Lindy Grundy, was over the moon for that one.

Fred used a standard recipe for the basic ice creams and riffed when it came to the various flavors and textures. Here I am providing you with David Lebovitz's mint chocolate chip recipe. Why? Because I have the most memories attached to that ice cream flavor. It was one of my favorites as a kid. And still is. I’d even go so far as to bet there is a picture of me eating a scoop of it in one of those photo albums.

Fresh Mint & Chip Ice Cream
(recipe from David Lebovitz)

Makes about 1 quart

1 cup whole milk

3/4 cup sugar

2 cups heavy cream

pinch of salt

2 cups packed fresh mint leaves

6 large egg yolks

1 vanilla bean, split and scraped

For the chocolate chips:

5 ounces semisweet or milk chocolate, chopped

In a medium saucepan, warm the milk, sugar, 1 cup heavy cream, salt, vanilla and mint.

Once the mixture is hot and steaming, remove from heat, cover, and let stand for an hour to infuse the mint flavor.

Remove the mint and vanilla bean with a strainer, then press down with a spatula firmly to extract as much mint flavor and color as possible. Once the flavor is squeezed out, discard.

Pour the remaining heavy cream into a large bowl and set the strainer over the top.

Rewarm the infused milk. In a separate bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, then slowly pour some of the warm mint mixture into the yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape the warmed yolks back into the saucepan.

Cook the custard, stirring constantly with a heatproof spatula, until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula. If using an instant read thermometer, it should read around 170ºF.

Immediately strain the mixture into the cream, then stir the mixture over an ice bath until cool.

When mixture is thoroughly cold, churn using your method of choice. Add chocolate chips to the ice cream when there are about 5 minutes left in the churning process. Transfer to a freezer safer container and freeze for several hours before serving.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Yerp: Part 1

Two years ago: Strawberries, Chocolate Mint & Chantilly Cream with Cornmeal Shortcakes

And This Little Piggy Went to Mercantile...

Last week Doug, Kendra and I went out to dinner. It was kind of spontaneous as I thought I was going to just throw together something from my kitchen and had pretty much planned to do so in my sweats. But, at the Eleventh hour, we decided to go out. Something chill.

Our go-to in this situation is Cheebo. I have an affinity for their chopped salad. But their bar doesn’t cater well to three (it doesn’t have a corner) and I am not wild about the dining room experience there. I threw out a few suggestions and we ended up settling on Mercantile. I had a really nice lunch there a couple of weeks prior (excellent chestnut apple soup, celery root soup and the Frenchy sandwich) and a few glasses of wine (specifically a rosé I was particularly fond of) back closer to when they first opened - these two visits left me curious for a dinner. Plus, they have a corner at the bar.

I think Mercantile is very cute. It’s rustic with wood ceilings, antique wallpaper and jelly jar glasses. It’s both a café and a gourmet market, selling everything from small tins of mustard seeds to wine. It is also the latest addition to George Abou-Daoud’s Hollywood imperium (the Bowery, Delancey, the Mission Cantina). Unbelievably, chef Kevin Napier serves up his international comfort dishes in one of the smallest, most pared down kitchens I’ve seen in a while. I’m talking about two hot plates and a salamander. In his gnomic kitchen he manages to pump out brunch, lunch and dinner, serving up omelettes, biscuits and gravy, lovely soups, foie gras terrine, a badass duck confit salad, a yummy Cuban sandwich, beef shortrib and mac n’cheese.

In addition to a simple and well-priced wine list (sold by the glass, carafe and bottle), they also offer beer and liquor.

This recent evening we split a bottle of red and started things off with a cheese plate ($14 for three cheeses). I appreciate the descriptions of the cheeses with words like stinky and gooey, or earthy and hard, or musty and semi-hard. We went with one of each; a couple of sheep’s milk cheeses and the third with sheep, cow and goat’s milk.

We ate every ounce of our cheeses – we even had to request more bread on which to smear them.

We followed this with a salad of broccoli, burrata and pine nuts. I really fancied the flavors and temperature of this warm salad. I would have preferred a slightly charred broccolini to the steamed broccoli – but that’s just me.

Doug opted for the BLT for his main course. This was bacon, lettuce and tomatillo jam with charred jalapeño goat cheese and pickled red onion on toasty sourdough bread with an accompaniment of mixed greens ($11.50). Although Doug seemed a little thrown by the lack of the traditional T, he thought it was a cool twist.

Kendra ordered the salad of Fennel-Crusted Albacore with potato salad, haricot vert, soft-cooked quail egg, olive tapenade and arugula ($13). All three of us found this dish to be superlative. The tuna was seared to perfection with just the right amount of dressing, the potato salad was surprising and a great touch and the quail egg was beautiful.

I went for the Mushroom Soup ($6); a dairy-free puree topped with a dollop of crème fraiche and chives. I found the soup delicate and rounded. I was actually surprised it wasn’t finished with cream. I also had the Roasted Chicken Salad: butter lettuce, avocado, bacon, cherry tomatoes, chicken crispies, onion rings and tobasco ranch ($13.50). I’ll be honest, I ordered it solely because they used the words chicken crispies in the description. I liked my salad just fine. But I can leave it at that. It was just fine. It was slightly under-dressed with an enormous amount of the lettuce. The crispies were a little overly fried – a little overly crispied. 

During the course of our meal, we were entertained by both the music and our bartender/server (whose iPod was playing said music). After Kendra and Doug left I lingered for a while to try a few other wines and chatted with our DJ/bartender/server, Kyle. Good man.

I was also pleased to discover that they remain open until midnight. I also suggest checking out the cheeses, charcuterie, fresh pastries and ice cream in the case.

Detour

In the late 1940s and early 1950s the French were watching a lot of the popular films coming out of this country.  After a little while they stopped to pause and wondered what in God’s teeth was going on over here?! In these films there were men coming home from the war to find the women had taken their jobs, their wives cheating on them or leaving them for the men who weren’t even “manly” enough to go to war, and their children were completely alienated from them. We were full of cynical attitudes and sexual motivation. Absolute disillusionment. We were broken people. A broken country.

But we didn’t seem to realize that at the time.

The French called this era, this genre of film, Film Noir. Black film. These films all have elements of German Expressionism and Italian Neo-Realism. They all incorporate low-key lighting, unbalanced compositions, femme fatales, narration, hard-boiled detectives, and non-linear plot structures (a lot of flashbacks and flash forwards). They are almost always self-reflexive. Some perfect examples of these are: The Maltese Falcon, Double Indemnity, D.O.A., The Woman in the Window, The Lady from Shanghai, The Big Combo and Out of the Past. And I just adore The Blue Dahlia. Interestingly, most all of the material for these films evolved from the pulp novels of writers during the Depression (Chandler, Hammet, etc.)

It seems that usually when we, either as a body of people, or individually, go through big changes we don’t necessarily see it until after the fact. It then is something we went through to get to where we are or where we may be going. Change is more easily understood and seen in a future want, like a New Year’s resolution, but most commonly in retrospect. Others can usually identify our changes before we do.

But occasionally we have those times they are a changin’ that we are staring square in the face. You didn’t even make a New Year’s resolution but suddenly look around and every element of your life, especially the thing that is the most secure, is hanging in the balance. Everything is changing before your eyes, like it or not.

Good, bad, beautiful or ugly – welcome to my now. My change. And right at my birthday. And no, I’m not going through menopause.

This is good. Really. But admittedly, exceedingly daunting. I’ll let you know how it turns out when I can be less reflexive and more reflective.

One change that is occurring that I am conscious of and working towards is my panic with certain fruit related issues. I know I’ve touched on it at least once in the past, but let me really explain the way this works for me:

I do like fruit.
I don’t like fruit touching other fruit.
I don’t like hot or cooked fruit, but I’m getting a little better there.
I am usually wary of fruit in my savory dishes, but I’ve come a long way with that one.
Gooey fruit, such as that in most pies, crumbles, compotes, etc. disarms me. It’s unfortunate.
Fruit FLAVORED anything is a big no.
Any citrus is exempt from all of the above.
If I so much as see applesauce, I will leave the table. That will never change.

As I said, I’m working on most of these things. As a foodie it is a major detriment to hate anything edible. I’m aware of that. But I can proudly say that I will eat anything else in the world.
 
As you may know, my mom is the pastry chef for Dinner at Eight. The first dessert incorporated fresh strawberries. They were not cooked but they did have some liquid that made me a little edgy. I tasted every version we tested for that meal and enjoyed each one. But not without hesitation. For this last Dinner at Eight she made a rustic cherry tart with almond ice cream. Warm, cooked cherries. I tasted the first test and second test runs.

On the first tart we used whole, pitted cherries. They looked like bloody eyeballs to me. I did have a small slice, to make sure it was up to par for the dinner party, but no more than that. And it was really good. I just couldn’t get past the cherries staring up at me. Everyone else who tasted it thought it was divine. Round two is what is photographed here and its recipe is below. We just had to chop up those cherries a bit and I was okay with it (mostly). Again, everyone else that tried it was over the moon.

We’ll see what happens with my whole fruit thing. As I mentioned, I’m working on it. And I guess we’ll see what unfolds with all of these other big, broad strokes of my life. As my friend, Brian, used to always say, “Everything will work out. Or not.”

Rustic Cherry Tart with Almond Ice Cream

Crust
 
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 cup + 5 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 cup raw almonds
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
8 tablespoons unsalted butter (melted & cooked a little)
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 375.
Toast almonds on baking sheet for 10 minutes.
Cool and place in food processor with sugar; pulse to coarse meal.
Add flour and salt and pulse to combine with almonds.
Transfer ingredients to bowl, add melted butter, vanilla extract and 1 tablespoon ice cold water.
Mix until just combined.
Press dough into a buttered 9" fluted tart pan.
Chill for a minimum of 2 hours.


Filling

1 pound fresh cherries coarsely chopped (chop around pits); toss chopped cherries with 3 teaspoons of sugar and leave in bowl until ready to use
5 tablespoons unsalted butter at room temperature
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 large egg
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 400
Place butter, sugar, flour, egg and vanilla extract in a bowl; mix until combined.
Remove crust from refrigerator; prick surface with a fork.  Using an offset spatula, spread the mixture evenly over crust and chill 15 minutes more.
Remove tart from refrigerator; spread the cherries evenly over the tart mixture. Bake 20 - 25 minutes.



Almond Ice Cream

2 cups raw (whole) almonds
2 cups whole milk
2 cups heavy cream
4 egg yolks (large)
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat over to 375
Toast almonds on baking sheet for 10 minutes.  Cool and chop coarsely.
Put 1 cup of the almonds in saucepan, pour in milk and cream.  Bring to boil over medium heat.  Remove from heat and cover- (30 minutes)-flavors will infuse.
Bring mixture to boil once again.  Remove from heat.
Whisk egg yolks and sugar together in a bowl.  Remove almonds (with slotted spoon or small strainer) from milk/cream mixture.  Whisk 2 to 3 tablespoons of warm mixture into the yolks & sugar.
Add remainder (slowly) while whisking.  Add vanilla extract.  Return to saucepan and cook over medium heat (stirring frequently with rubber spatula) for 8 minutes or until custard thickens and coats the back of the spatula. Strain mixture and chill for 2 hours.  
Process in an ice cream maker (refer to manufacturer's instructions).  Stir in remaining almonds when done.