Hubris.

The most amazing thing has happened. And even though, for eight and a half months I knew it was inevitable, it was going to happen, nothing could have prepared me for that exact moment when it did. The moment Emerson was born. The moment I became a Mom.

I'm not sure that I'm one of those people who always knew I would be a mom some day, or dreamed my whole life of having a baby. To tell you the truth, it was never something that was all that important to me until it was. And that was not all that long ago. And now there is absolutely nothing that is more important. Not even close.

Though it's been just four short/long/short weeks since Emerson was born, one minute it feels like yesterday and I'm lost without a clue, the next it's like I've been doing this, like I've known her forever. Time has never expanded and contracted at this level for me before. And don't even get me started on the hormonal scatting my body has been performing. I was recently talking casually about the weather or some such thing with Fred as tears streamed down my face for seemingly no reason at all. Pay no attention to any tears you see. Unless, of course, you disregard the wrong tears. The real tears. How dare you be so glib about how I'm feeling – what I'm going through?! I don't understand. Everything's changed!*

I constantly vacillate between “What am I doing?” and “I got this.”

Regardless of the tears, legitimate or absurd, and whatever side of confidence I happen to be on at any given moment, every droplet of me knows I have never loved anything like I love this little person. And every part of me knows that I will do anything and everything I possibly can to keep her safe and happy for as long as I live. That yes, everything's changed.* And that I would not want it any other way.

That alone is enough to put someone through a ricochet of emotions from pure, ethereal bliss to sheer, paralyzing fear. And don't even get me started on the hormones... again.

Fred says I'm like a shark; I must constantly be moving and doing. He's right. Though I have spent countless still and quiet hours just staring at Emerson in awe, disbelief and appreciation, it has been a challenge to be so motionless in all of the exterior elements of my life. Work, friends, chores, errands, cleaning, reading, emailing, crosswording, gardening, phone calling, self-grooming, cooking and writing have all had to be put in the back seat. (I do pat myself on the back for being timely and up to date with thank-you cards. I am a good southern girl, after all.)

I have learned am learning to stop, let go and rely on the kindness of family, friends and neighbors - and have been overwhelmed to the point of tears (of course) by all of the thoughtfulness, selflessness and generosity (and food!) that have poured in for me and my family (family!!). Fred who has continued to do so, so much – has added witnessing his partner in life morph into Sybil meets The Excorsist... and still manages to say I'm beautiful and strong and that he loves me (#keeper).

The other day we decided it was time to do 'something normal.' You know, like cook something new and fun and take pictures of it, normal. I was pretty sure I wanted to play with this extraordinary, ginormous burgundy okra we have growing in our garden. Considering I haven't done much of it, pickling was the obvious choice. On the weekend before the okra pickling was to take place, Paz came over for a practice session. We used squash, cucumber and red onion (also from my garden) to make a bread and butter pickle in addition to a standard dill pickle. They turned out pretty great with a couple of little tweaks I would make the next time – like peel the squash.

With my new pickling confidence, I began to think about the okra and what exactly I wanted to do with it. It occurred to me that I had recently had some pretty memorably delicious pickles prepared by Travis Milton, chef de cuisine at Comfort here in Richmond. Coming from rural Southwestern Virginia with the culture of Appalachian food, Chef Milton is known for preserving and furthering the foodways of his old stomping ground and is heavily involved with the Central Appalachian Food Heritage Project, and the Appalachian Community Table. He was even featured in the most recent issue of Garden & Gun Magazine for his Cast-Iron Green Tomato Pie.

So I emailed him and got his Grandmother's recipe for pickled okra. Booya!

Being back home in Richmond has not only brought me back to my mom and dad, but also the other people that I call family. One of these people who I am so grateful to have back in my life is Mary. Mary is Sam's mom and she is family to me. Her house is one I know very well - one overflowing with wonderful, euphoric memories of youth. Now I can add to that a recent Christmas Eve filled with just everyone, a beautiful ladies lunch (just the two of us), an al fresco early Summer dinner in the yard with friends of Sam near and far and new memories we are adding all the time. Speaking of new memories, Mary is pretty excited about little Emerson, too. Oh, and Mary also has one of my all-time favorite kitchens. 

So Fred, Emerson and I packed up our okra fixings, camera equipment and diaper bag and headed to Mary's house for the afternoon. While I pickled, Fred photographed and Mary happily looked after Emerson (though I did find myself scurrying out of the kitchen to peek in on my baby every so often). In a way, I think Mary, Fred and I all got to do something that felt kind of normal. Comfortable. Happy.

But as a thank you for the use of her kitchen and for looking after Emerson, we left the pickled okra in Mary's fridge. Maybe for her to enjoy – or maybe we'd find it there on the next visit, for us all to snack on together.**

Look at me, I so got this.

*A favorite line from Raising Arizona(among so very many).

**Mary ate the okra the next day and said it was delicious!

Pickled Burgundy Okra

(Recipe by Chef Travis Milton)

“Okra is one of my favorite things to pickle or can, as it's insanely simple. A lot of people try to over complicate it with different ways to get rid of the "snot", I don't bother with any of those methods and it always comes out great. With burgundy okra you will loose some of the color in the pods, but it will color the vinegar nicely.” -Chef Milton

Ingredients
5 Pounds of okra, trimmed at the cap

2 Red cayenne peppers, de-seeded and sliced into thin rings

1 1/2 Tablespoon dried dill

6 Cups of apple cider vinegar

1 Cup chardonnay

1 1/2 Cups water

4 Shallots, thinly sliced

2 Heads of garlic cloves (about 20 cloves) sliced thin

2 Tablespoon yellow mustard seeds

2 Tablespoons yellow mustard (By mustard I mean just straight up yellow mustard. It may sound weird, but its something my great grandmother did.)

3 Tablespoons black peppercorns

Directions

Place okra in a large metal mixing bowl.

Bring all the other ingredients to a boil and pour over okra. Let the okra sit for 45 minutes.

Pack in Mason jars and cover with liquid up to 1 1/2 inches below the lip of the jar.

Process or not at this point.


Printable recipe.

One year ago: Fried Green Tomato Benedict with Smithfield Ham & Pimiento Cheese Hollandaise

Two years ago: Anuradha Rice

Three years ago: Yerp: Part 7 - The End.

Four years ago: Great Balls on Tires

Five years ago: For the love of TOMATOES!

My Americana.

It was hot. Very hot and very humid. In those dog days of summer at Dad's house, we would turn on the one air conditioner window unit we had downstairs and pretty much camp out down there. I can remember Wimbledon playing on the tiny TV that traveled around to whichever room my dad, barefoot wearing cut-off denim shorts and a perfectly worn in red Adidas t-shirt, was situated in. In the kitchen, also barefoot, with the back door open the sound of the cicadas and the smell of the 30% chance of afternoon thunderstorms through the screen door, I would be standing over the sink with a tomato sandwich in my hands and the magical mixture of salty mayonnaise and the seedy, juicy mess of the perfectly sweet and ripe tomato running down my face and wrists.

After wiping my face with the back of my hand and throwing on some flip flops, I would run out the front door to meet up with neighborhood friends and roam around streets, parks, alleys or the river until the light began to shift, the cicadas got ear-piercingly louder, and the fireflies began to light up the dusk, signifying the end of our day. All of us kids, with our hands and feet brownish-black, covered with dirt and muck, would scurry home for baths and dinner. And in those beautiful, nasty, hot, humid dog days of summer, the deep red, ripe tomatoes would most assuredly be on the plate at dinnertime as well. Perhaps served in chunks with some raw sweet corn kernels, in a mixed salad or most often, simply thickly sliced and generously sprinkled with salt and pepper.

I couldn't tell you my favorite color. I couldn't tell you my favorite ice cream flavor or my favorite band. Shockingly, I couldn't even tell you my favorite dish or meal, though sea urchin and extra salty movie theater popcorn would invariably be in the running (but not together). But I can tell you this: the tomato is my favorite food. I will eat a tomato any way it can possibly be made to exist, even in jam form. And unlike my dad, if I'm desperate, I will even eat a wintery, mealy out of season tomato. I just can't turn one away.

The perfect tomato – at least in Virginia - is a singular yet fleeting experience. Its prime season is short and very sweet. Even after spending more than a decade in Southern California, with its vast array of year-round beautiful and amazing produce, I never came across a tomato to rival the ones in Virginia in July and August.

It's 4^th of July weekend – America's birthday – which harks to a lot of tradition and nostalgia for many of us. With all of our senses: smells, sounds, textures, sights and tastes in overdrive, we think of apple pies cooling on the windowsill, hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on the grill, baseball, parades, picnics on the grass, music and fireworks. But for me, my Americana, though it can and does include those things, is really that tomato sandwich and its gorgeous juicy mess running down my face and wrists as I triumphantly devour it over the kitchen sink as the cicadas sing and I can smell the 30% chance of afternoon thunderstorms just outside the screen door. 

The Perfect Tomato Sandwich

Makes 2 sandwiches

The perfect, transcendent tomato sandwich is so extraordinarily simple that it requires considerable restraint to not mess it up, to not gild the lily. There is a place and time to add the avocado or to toast the bread - or to even go full BLT - but that is a different thing entirely. For the sandwich I speak of you will need only five things and napkins and plates are not on the list.

Ingredients:

4 slices of soft, white bread

1 large, perfectly ripe tomato, sliced about 1/4” thick (the quality of the tomato is 99.9% of what makes this sandwich great, so select yours wisely)

Duke's mayonnaise

Salt & pepper (no need for the fancy stuff)

Directions:

Go ahead and be decadent with the mayo. Smear it liberally on each piece of bread. 

For that matter, go ahead and be decadent with the salt and pepper as well. Salt and pepper each slice of the mayo-laden bread.

Ideally the tomato is large enough that you will only need one, maybe two slices for the whole sandwich. Put the tomato on one side of the bread and place the other piece of bread on top.

The mayo and the juices of the tomato will quickly create a beautiful pink, milky liquid that renders the sandwich a drippy, wet mess. Embrace the mess but eat fast and deftly - I suggest over the sink. While the last bite is still in your mouth, slurp juices off hands, wipe face with back of now 'clean' hands and promptly run outside to play with your friends.

Printable recipe. 

One year ago: Fig, Peach & Mascarpone Tart

Two years ago: Sausage, Egg & Fontina Cheese Pizza

Three years ago: Yerp: Part 4 - Les Sentiers Gourmands

Four years ago: Summer Squash Gratin with Salsa Verde

Five years ago: Pimiento Cheese

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

The Office

Being back home has been a lot of a lot. A lot of memories-slash-skeletons uprocking in my face and a lot of me choosing whether or not to accept the dance. I'm much more selective with my memory-embracing dance card if Fred is with me, of course. I don't need to tell Fred that little anecdotal tale of that time that crazy thing happened at that party in that house we're walking past right now, right? Sure was a good story, though. You get the idea.

But really, the main a lot of a lot that has been happening in the three months since we landed in our new home, the reason for the absence of a lot of a lot of writing and sharing stories with you is that I'm pregnant. Fred and I are having a baby! And we are a lot of a lot of everything ranging from elated to petrified.

From the first months of my physical fragility, fear, nausea and hormonal tsunamis (poor Fred), to the last few weeks of genetic tests and waiting for results, I haven't been able to think, focus or mentally commit to much, especially with concentration for writing. And, of course, this is all I have wanted to talk about. But couldn't. Not yet. I'm relieved to be able to put it out there now.

When we moved into our new apartment, we discussed the smaller, extra bedroom being an office-slash-photo studio. Mostly, it became the room where we crammed all of the things we didn't want to look at or deal with until later. But then it became the mystery room that neither Fred nor I knew what to do with. Was it going to be an office or a nursery? We didn't want to treat it as either until we had some solid news. And so it sat, unattended to.

A week ago, in one of my OCD fests, I couldn't take it any more. I had to do something with the extra room. For some reason it had become my albatross and it kept staringat me, taunting me – even through the closed door. So I went to setting up sort of a mini office on one side of the room. An organized and tidy place for Fred or I to do work. But also something that would be able to stay and become part of the nursery, or could possibly expand and be a straight up office. Depending, you know?

Yesterday, Fred and I finally received the call that had had us emotionally upended during the wait, the definitive enough results of the genetic tests. And a bonus, the news of our baby's gender - she's a girl! Though all sorts of unforeseen events can happen in life, and one ultimately never knows, we had decided that this was our GO point. Game on. Hey world, we are having a baby!

So, I guess I will have start working on the nursery part of the extra room. And man, I don't know how or where to begin. I guess we have to get stuff. Advice is welcome. We're new here.

To tell you the truth, as far as my kitchen and its goings on, you haven't missed much. The most entertaining food things with me have involved my cravings that primarily require bringing outside things in. Most notably, my newfound sweet tooth-related items such as ice cream, donuts, very specific chocolate, mainly Rolos (absolutely nothing fancy – the trashier the better). But there was also the carrots-dipped-in-ranch-dressing phase, the extra-toasted-bagel-with-cream-cheese phase, the butter croissant phase, the cold sandwich phase (which was limited as I'm not supposed to eat cold cuts), the completely-void-of-seasoning-in-all-food-phase (think something akin to elderly people cafeteria food), and the spicy soup phase. In a bizarre turn I have not craved my usual salty crunchies: no chips. Until last night when I housed a family sized bag of the salt and vinegar variety. Following a dinner of New England clam chowder and a salad. What can I say?

The recipe I'm sharing with you today is from the spicy soup phase. It's Winter. Everyone loves soup. And I'm guessing you don't want a recipe for homemade Rolos. Wait, that's not a bad idea, actually...

Well, until then, let's celebrate with this soup and Thai one on.

Tom Kha Gai

Makes 6-8 servings

Ingredients

1 1” piece ginger, peeled

10 kaffir lime leaves or 1 Tbsp. lime zest and ¼ cup lime juice

6 cups chicken stock

1½ lb. skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into 1” pieces

8 ounces of mushrooms of your choice, stemmed, caps cut into bite-size pieces

2 13.5-oz. cans coconut milk

2 tablespoons fish sauce 

1 tablespoon sugar

2 stalks fresh lemongrass, tough outer layers removed

Chili oil, cilantro leaves with tender stems, lime wedges and sliced jalapeño (optional) (for serving)

Directions
Cut the lemongrass stalks into 1-inch pieces and smash them with the side of a large knife, a pestle, or any heavy object lying around in the house; do the same with the ginger. Bring lemongrass, ginger, lime leaves, and broth to a boil in a large saucepan. Reduce heat and simmer until flavors become married, 8–10 minutes. Strain broth into a new saucepan and discard solids.

Add chicken to broth and return to a boil. Reduce heat, add mushrooms, and simmer, skimming occasionally, until chicken is cooked through and mushrooms are soft, 20–25 minutes. Mix in coconut milk, fish sauce, and sugar. We added more fish sauce as the recipe progressed. It's really up to you.

Serve with cilantro, chili oil and lime wedges. And maybe a slice or two of jalapeño peppers if you're feeling wild and crazy.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Bagels

Two years ago: Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic

Three years ago: Cremini Mushroom & Meyer Lemon Risotto

Four years ago: Chicken Pot Pie

Six years ago: Oyster Stew

Don't Harsh My Mallow... It's Christmas, Man.

I feel like I haven't been here much lately. And that's because I haven't. So much life stuff is happening. I have a lot to tell you. I know, I'm sounding obtuse again. Things will come clearer soon enough. Truth be told, it was a big challenge to pack up, move clear across the country and then unpack and get settled in our new world with a new climate, new sights and smells, new people, new markets, new restaurants, new routine, new everything and then have the wherewithal to share it all.

But that changes now. So let's catch up.

We left off with the road trip trajectory in Atlanta. From there we drove to Charleston where we spent a couple of fantastic nights. A lot of very cool stuff is happening there right now. Especially in the culinary realm. We had our most favorite, most memorable, and surprising meal on our first night at The Ordinary – which was anything but. In fact, in addition to the cocktails, wine, oysters on the half shell, tempura battered okra with sambal, Capers inlet clams Meunîere with pan con tomate and fresh sea salt potato chips - all of which were extraordinary- I tasted, quite possibly, the most remarkable soup of my life. And that's saying something. It was a pumpkin, blue crab and miso soup with chives and brown butter – and it blew my mind. Our lunch the next day at Xiao Bao Biscuit was equally distinctive with an amalgam of dishes pulled willy-nilly from across Asia and tweaked considerably with Southern accents. We had a somewhat disappointing experience at our much anticipated visit to Husk. You win some, you lose some.

We spent a few hours in Asheville and an early tapas dinner at Curate, a restaurant that about half a dozen people insisted we check out if we had only one meal in Asheville. And this was yet another great call. A couple glasses of albariño, an order of pan con tomate (twice in one trip!) with manchego, some iberico ham, boquerones, and a few other odds and ends and we were ready to take the dogs on a breathtaking sunset stroll through the heart of picturesque Asheville, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. All this smack in the middle of the peak of fall beauty. Yes, it was only a few hours, but it was memorable.

And then we were on the road again. After two and a half weeks of travel, we were getting anxious to anchor down in our new home. With a short night's sleep at a (creepy) motel in nowhere, North Carolina and brief stop in another tiny town the next day for a classic meat 'n three, Carolina BBQ lunch (pulled pork sandwich, collards, mac 'n cheese and hush puppies), we were in the final stretch.

We were so close, we could just about tune into the Richmond Folk Festival on the radio. I remember it was raining, but through the windshield wipers, I could just begin see the city come into the horizon and I took a big, anticipatory breath and looked over at Fred. He was sound asleep. As the buildings got bigger and my home town began to envelope us, all of the familiar exits and landmarks whizzing past, as the beautiful sounds from the folk festival hummed on the radio, I was relieved I was sort of alone for that moment. Because I realized that for a very long time, many more weeks than we had been on the road, months, maybe even years, I wanted to come home – and here I was. And in that very personal moment, reflecting on everything in my rear view mirror and everything that lay ahead, I burst into tears of elation. I was finally home. And my family was with me.

We have been here for two months now. A stunning and colorful Fall complete with an intimate and delicious family Thanksgiving has come and gone, leaving us with Winter and the holidays right on our doorstep. A lot of important things have happened, some of which will unfold right here in the weeks and months to come. One pretty big zing, however, is that all of these years of writing about life, the universe and everything food-related right here, with you, has yielded something exciting – I will be writing for our monthly magazine beginning in the new year (!!!!). 

There has been a shameful amount of cooking that I lament not sharing with you – especially considering it has been filled with all of the big, robust dishes of the colder months that I so love. But, as I said, we will catch up.

For now, it's Christmastime. And I've been doing more than my share of holiday baking and the like, including two different batches of the ever-tedious gingerbread men. But, something new also... something wintry, holiday-y, sweet and smile-inducing: big, fluffy, sproingy marshmallows to bob around on that steaming hot mug of decadently chocolatey hot cocoa. Make them with your love, your best friend, your mom, and enjoy and toast their completion over that cozy cup of happy – together.

Better yet – what a great idea for a stocking stuffer?!

Fluffy Fun Time Holiday Marshmallows
(Recipe adapted from Smitten Kitchen)

Makes about 20 assorted holiday cookie cutter shaped marshmallows.

About 1 cup confectioners’ sugar


3 1/2 envelopes (2 tablespoons plus 2 1/2 teaspoons)

unflavored gelatin
1 cup cold water, divided
2 cups granulated sugar

1/2 cup light corn syrup


1/4 teaspoon salt


2 large egg whites


1 tablespoon vanilla 

Oil bottom and sides of a 13- by 9- by 2-inch rectangular metal baking pan and dust bottom and sides with some confectioners’ sugar.

In bowl of a standing electric mixer or in a large bowl sprinkle gelatin over 1/2 cup cold cold water, and let stand to soften.

In a 3-quart heavy saucepan cook granulated sugar, corn syrup, second 1/2 cup of cold water, and salt over low heat, stirring with a wooden spoon, until sugar is dissolved. Increase heat to moderate and boil mixture, without stirring, until a candy or digital thermometer registers 240°F, about 12 minutes.

Remove pan from heat and pour sugar mixture over gelatin mixture, stirring until gelatin is dissolved.

With standing or a hand-held electric mixer beat mixture on high speed until white, thick, and nearly tripled in volume, about six minutes if using standing mixer or about 10 minutes if using hand-held mixer.

In separate medium bowl with cleaned beaters beat egg whites (or reconstituted powdered whites) until they just hold stiff peaks. Beat whites and vanilla (or your choice of flavoring) into sugar mixture until just combined. Pour mixture into baking pan and don’t fret if you don’t get it all out (learning from my mess of a first round). Sift 1/4 cup confectioners sugar evenly over top. Chill marshmallow, uncovered, until firm, at least three hours, and up to one day.

Run a thin knife around edges of pan and invert pan onto a large cutting board. Lifting up one corner of inverted pan, with fingers loosen marshmallow and ease onto cutting board. Coat a 1- or 2-inch holiday-shaped cookie cutter with oil or cooking spray to prevent it from sticking. Cut out as many individual marshmallows as possible; coat cutter with more spray as needed. Use marshmallows immediately or store in an airtight container at room temperature up to 1 week.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Kathy's Deviled Ham Salad

Two years ago: Sunday Cassoulet

Three years ago: Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce

For years ago: 2009: The Year of the Food Truck

Have this Cake. And Eat it, Too.

I would be remiss if I did not take a brief pause from the road trip adventure stories to talk a little bit about the fact that this is Thanksgiving week. Not only is this, like, my favorite holiday of all time (next to Christmas, of course), but for the first time in over a decade, I am back home with my family to share in holiday times together. It's pretty special.

Much has transpired since Fred and I landed in Richmond a little over a month ago. We've settled into our new place – for the most part. Still looking for window treatments for the kitchen, and a few odds and ends. We carved jack-o-lanterns for Halloween and had trick-or-treaters! It snowed. A little. I got a new bike that is super, extra cute. And, at both my dad and Fred's behest, a helmet that is decidedly less cute. We have explored old and new Richmond restaurants and cooking at home with equal frequency. And I have a few other extremely exciting tidbits to share. But not quite yet.

Because, you see, we need to talk turkey. Or, at least, Thanksgiving stuff (ing). Or, at least, fall, food holiday things. You wouldn't know it from checking in here, but I actually have been cooking up a storm since we arrived in Richmond. With the exception of the brief few days it took to replace the electric stove with a new, super awesome gas stove.

There have been pools of soups, piles of cakes, profusion of roasted chickens, pyramids of biscuits, plenty of cookies and a prosperity of granola. As the leaves on the trees have gone from full and green to the bright yellows, reds, oranges and browns, to almost barren, we have sampled almost all of the various, local farmers' markets, settled on our favorite and have become regulars.

I baked two cakes that seem particularly timely for this season, this week: a persimmon upside down cake and an apple-walnut cake. They both showcase peak seasonal produce items and were both remarkably delicious. However, A) the persimmon cake requires several more shots to get it just rightfor you and, B) Fred got way better pictures of the apple-walnut cake. And they do say, we eat first with our eyes, right?

For this particular version, I used a local Virginia apple, the Jonathan, which was a new one for me. I was told that Virginia Jonathan apples are the first red apples available in the Fall and are the ideal all-purpose apple. The farmer told me that they are equally delicious for snacking, cooking and baking – and are perfect for candy apples. I found them to be earthy and at the same time exotic with a unique blend of sweet and tart. To the eye they appear to be a standard red, but upon closer inspection, their skin combines light red stripes over yellow or deep red. If you don't happen to be in Virginia, which you're probably not, find apples that hold up under heat and balance sweet-tart flavor, like Honeycrisp, Mutsu, Pink Lady.

All walnuts ripen in the Fall, so they were the perfect nut choice. However, I used black walnuts as opposed to the standard English walnuts (which are actually Persian). Black walnuts are native to the U.S. - from California, actually - and have a bolder, earthier flavor than the milder and slightly sweeter taste of the English walnut. That's just my jam, is all. Your walnut, your prerogative.

Team effort alert: Fred made the glaze! Fred chose the lemon-vanilla variety to add a brightness to the rounded warmth of the flavors in the cake.

Now, I realize this comes to you the day before Thanksgiving. A day you're probably working on pumpkin and pecan pies rather than an apple cake. But just in case you're looking for that curve ball, that little glimmer of inspirato that deviates slightly from the norm this Thanksgiving, I tell you what - this cake came together beautifully and I can't think of a single thing I would change about the recipe we made. So, whether it's today, tomorrow, next week or next month (as long as it's soon-ish), make this cake. Have a slice after dinner with a glass of rum, or in the morning with a cup of coffee.

But you should definitely have this cake. And eat it, too.

Apple-Walnut Cake with Lemon Vanilla Glaze

(recipe adapted from this Southern classic)

Ingredients

1 1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

3/4 cup granulated sugar

1 cup light brown sugar, packed

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

3/4 cup vegetable oil

1 teaspoon vanilla

3 eggs

2 cups finely chopped peeled apples

1 cup chopped walnuts

Lemon Vanilla Glaze, below

Preparation

In a large mixing bowl, blend all ingredients except chopped apples and walnuts with electric mixer. Stir in chopped apples and nuts. Pour into a generously greased and floured 10-inch Bundt cake pan or tube pan. Bake at 325° for 55 to 65 minutes, until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pan for 15 minutes; turn out onto serving plate to cool completely. Drizzle with a vanilla glaze.

For the Lemon Vanilla Glaze

3 tablespoons lemon juice

1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

3/4 cup+ confectioners’ sugar, sifted

Combine lemon juice, 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla, and confectioners’ sugar in a small bowl and whisk until smooth, playing with lemon juice and sugar ratios until desired glaze consistency and flavor has been reached. Drizzle glaze over cake and serve immediately. Store cake in an airtight container at room temperature or in the refrigerator for up to 5 days.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Chestnut, Apple & Celery Soup with Sage Oil

Two years ago: Classic Cranberry Nut Bread

Three years ago: Sausage over Creamy Lentils

Four years ago: Bouchon Beverly Hills

The Road Taken

I started writing this post over a month ago. Since then I have started and stopped quite a few times. Then I just stopped. And stared. Nothing. Then I started again, but didn't know where to take it. I wasn't sure why. Normally once I start something, anything, I stay right with it until I finish. But this one is different. Change is afoot.

Like many writers, I often grapple with how much, or how little, to expose about myself here. To you. I like to talk, I like to tell stories, I like to share. It helps me process. It helps me see. I used to be religious about writing in my journals, almost excessively some days. In a sense, this has become my journal. The big difference is there is now an audience. An audience with reactions I cannot gauge while I 'talk'. For the most part I keep things on the lighter side, but I assure you that this voice is mine and mine alone. If you met me, that would be clear within moments. This voice is more disciplined, however, and part of an identity I am able to control.

Here I tell you about me, but within the framework of food and within the realm of my kitchen, or, perhaps, someone else's kitchen. I will tell you about Fred, or Besito, or anecdotes about any number of members of my family and certainly friends that come in and out of the spotlight at any particular time. And from all of that, and the years we've known one another, I can imagine you have gleaned quite a bit about me.

I have been hinting about some big news and I'm finally ready to tell you about it. At the end of September, after twelve years in the City of Angels I will be moving back home. And by home I mean Richmond, Virginia. I will not be alone, however. My love, Fred and our pups, Besito, Eduardo and our newest addition, Byron, will all be moving together. Our little family is going to join my Richmond family and the horizon is enormous.

I am not sure if you knew this, because I know I've never told you, but I have owned a dog walking businessfor the past decade. It has been quite successful and very good to me. This business has been the most solid, consistent, dependable and reliable thing I have known during my life in Los Angeles.

So, at almost forty years old, I am selling my business and am moving clear across the country. To do what? I'm not entirely certain, but the idea is a lot more of this. Writing. Cooking. Eating. Food. Recipes. Pictures. With Fred.

And there you have it.

I feel a little bit naked now. But good naked.

And relieved.

One very, very fun and exciting part of all of this is the actual journey. We will be driving and taking our time. Specifically, this will be a culinary journey from California to Virginia with a huge focus on the South. In the cities where we don't know people, we hope to rely on folks we know via social media to assist us in finding our next meal, or interview, or as Fred wants to do, a place for us to cook with locals; both home and professional chefs, and in both homes and restaurants. Part of the thrill of our cross country trip is the serendipity involved. We know that we will have food adventure and discovery that we are not even aware of at this moment. The best part is that we will be documenting everything as we go along.

I hope all of you get involved. Tell us where to go and what to eat. Better yet, if our paths cross, let us meet! And cook! And eat! Let's all do this together, shall we?

And, OMG, what should our hashtag be?!

In honor of this post I thought long and hard about what dish to share with y'all. Fred suggested I make something I've never made before, in the spirit of the unknown road ahead (very Robert Frost of him). I wanted to do something that represents what is happening with food here in LA then and now, so to speak, and food that signifies where I'm from and where I'm going: The South.

I settled on what I will call a Low Country Benedict: fried green tomatoes with Smithfield ham, poached eggs and a pimiento cheese hollandaise. Oddly, I have never made fried green tomatoes. And this summer my fecund garden is bursting with tomatoes – red, yellow, orange and green. When I think of eggs Benedict I think of the LA from the eighties, think LA Story and people lingering over coffee, mimosas and bloody marys and fancy, bougie French fare wearing sunglasses, white linen and big hats. That said, southern food is so, so, very, very en vogue here in LA (and everywhere) right now. Think Willie Jane and The Hart and the Hunter's entire menu, , A-Frame's fried chicken picnic, Son of a Gun's pimiento cheese with Ritz crackers, Lucques' annual rib-fest, everyone's deviled eggs, and so on. And perhaps most obviously, fried green tomatoes are, and have been for quite some time, very prominent in the south.

And so without further ado...

Fried Green Tomato Benedict with Smithfield Ham & Pimiento Cheese Hollandaise

Makes 4 servings

Ingredients

4 thin slices of Smithfield ham

2 tablespoons chopped chives, for garnish

4 eggs

2 teaspoons white or rice vinegar

4 large slices of fried green tomatoes

Salt & freshly cracked pepper

Pimiento Cheese Hollandaise

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter

4 egg yolks

1 tablespoon lemon juice

4 teaspoons powdered cheddar cheese (found in your standard mac n' cheese package)

1 4 ounce jar of pimientos, chopped

Dash of cayenne or tabasco

Dash of Worcestershire sauce

Salt to taste

Directions

Start with the fried green tomatoes. Recipe below. Once they're cooked, keep them in the oven on warm until you're ready to assemble the dish.

Next bring a large saucepan two-thirds-filled with water to a boil, then add the vinegar. Bring the water to a boil again, then lower the heat to a bare simmer.

Make the pimiento cheese hollandaise. Vigorously whisk together egg yolks and lemon juice in a stainless steel bowl until the mixture is thickened and doubled in volume. Place the bowl over a saucepan containing barely simmering water (or use a double boiler); the water should not touch the bottom of the bowl. Continue to whisk rapidly. Be careful not to let the eggs get too hot or they will scramble. Slowly drizzle in the melted butter and continue to whisk until the sauce is thickened and doubled in volume. Remove from heat, whisk in powdered cheese a teaspoon at a time, Worcestershire sauce and cayenne. Stir in the pimientos. Cover and place in a warm spot until ready to use for the eggs Benedict. If the sauce gets too thick, whisk in a few drops of warm water before serving. Salt to taste

Poach the eggs. Here is  an easy method for poaching eggs. Essentially, working one egg at a time, crack an egg into a small bowl and slip into the barely simmering water. Once it begins to solidify, slip in another egg, until you have all four cooking. Turn off the heat, cover the pan, and let sit for 4 minutes. (Remember which egg went in first, you'll want to take it out first.) When it comes time to remove the eggs, gently lift out with a slotted spoon. Note that the timing is a little variable on the eggs, depending on the size of your pan, how much water, how many eggs, and how runny you like them. You might have to experiment a little with your set-up to figure out what you need to do to get the eggs exactly the way you like them.

Gently remove the eggs from the poaching water and set in a bowl. 

To assemble the eggs Benedict, put two fried green tomatoes on each plate and top each with a thin slice of Smithfield ham. You can trim the ham to fit the tomato if you’d like. Put a poached egg on top of the ham, pour hollandaise over. Top with sprinkles of chives and fresh cracked black pepper. Serve at once.

Fried Green Tomatoes

Ingredients

1  large egg, lightly beaten  

1/2 cup  buttermilk

1/2 cup  all-purpose flour, divided

1/2 cup  cornmeal

1 teaspoon  salt

1/2 teaspoon  pepper

1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes

3  medium-size green tomatoes, cut into 1/3-inch slices

Vegetable oil

Bacon drippings

Salt to taste

Directions

Combine egg and buttermilk; set aside.

Combine 1/4 cup all-purpose flour, cornmeal, 1 teaspoon salt, red pepper flakes, and pepper in a shallow bowl or pan.

Dredge tomato slices in remaining 1/4 cup flour; dip in egg mixture, and dredge in cornmeal mixture.

Pour oil/bacon dripping to a depth of 1/4 to 1/2 inch in a large cast-iron skillet; heat to 375°. Drop tomatoes, in batches, into hot oil, and cook 2 minutes on each side or until golden. Drain on paper towels or a rack. Sprinkle hot tomatoes with salt.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Anuradha Rice

Two years ago: Yerp: Part 7 - The End.

Three years ago: Great Balls on Tires

Four years ago: For the love of TOMATOES!