Good Grief.

This is hard, but I feel important to write.

My first baby and longtime best friend, Besito, passed on a few weeks ago. I have thought of little else but have not been able to articulate how to write about it as each day has brought with it a new crop of emotions and realizations. I am confident Besito's life was filled with love, affection, stimulation, beauty, enrichment and loads of snuggles and fun even in the face of the inordinate amount of health issues that were prominent in the later years of his life. I'm also confident that it was, as they say, his time. He was comfortably swaddled in my arms and against my heart when he went to sleep forever. But I am still having such a rough time reconciling it all.

And I realize this is a very natural, very common, way to feel.

People have been telling me that time is our saving grace, that it heals all wounds. But what I fear more than feeling the grief is not feeling it any more. And that, of course, is inevitable. But for now, my tears seem to keep him with me. In a way it's good grief.

We went through a lot together, me and that guy. Some of my twenties and all of my thirties, a life in Atlanta and a life in LA, with a road trip to get us there and all sorts of other journeys throughout. We went everywhere together until it was simply too difficult for him, physically. But he saw more places and met more people, and animals, than most folks I know. He was there to accept my new relationships; friends and boyfriends, happily – welcomed them right into our family. And he was also there if those people left. I can remember, more than once, feeling heartbroken - everything broken, really – and so alone, but having Beso right by my side and thinking, “We've got each other you and me. We take care of each other.” And we did. And we knew.

Besito skirted death quite a few times in his thirteen years. Some from illnesses, some from being adventuresome and defiant, and one time from swallowing a peach pit. I often joked that he had nine lives. After one of his surgeries to repair paralyzation from the neck down, he was on bed rest for three weeks. So I cancelled everything and stayed home for three weeks, too. We entertained in, ordered a lot of delivery and marathoned multiple seasons of Gossip Girl.

He was, without a doubt, a huge personality. He could sing – harmonize even. We loved to sing together. He would match my volume and pitch. He loved clothes, warm and fresh from the dryer. He would frolic in them like a child in a pile of fall leaves. And his all-time favorite food (though he would eat any and everything) was eggs. If he so much as saw me pull the egg carton out of the fridge it was over. Whenever I would have eggs for breakfast I saved some for Beso and let him lick the plate clean. But the most important thing to Beso, and I don't mean to boast, was me. And I felt it every single day. His eyes followed me everywhere I went, and when I would come home from being away, he greeted me each time as though I was one of the Beatles. And every, single night Beso slept curled up in my arms. He was the littlest spoon.

Beso was also like an alarm clock. He was so food obsessed that each day, both at exactly eight in the morning and at six at night, he would start yelling at me for dinner. And he would continue to do so until the food was in front of him. He always made quite clear what he wanted, actually – up on lap, pet me, no not there, yes, there, I want down, I need to go out, I hate wind, and rain, where's the sunspot, this would be a good time for a treat, give me your eggs.

As Fred said on a recent morning, when everything felt so still and quiet without Beso waking us up and screaming for breakfast, “He was the fizz that made the soda bubbly.”

And I couldn't have put it any better.

In the weeks I have been trying to write this, I've gone through many stages. But some interesting factors have been in play and continue to pop up during this time that I simply cannot ignore. As I mentioned, Beso was ill. He had a half dozen close calls, real nail biters, in the last year that I wasn't sure he would come through. It was very important to me that he at least make it back to Richmond. I wanted him to know home, be home. With me. And once we all got here, I really wanted him to make it to one more Christmas... and his thirteenth birthday. Which he did all of, gracefully. But now, so immediately after his death, what I can't help but notice is how poetic it is that Spring is suddenly in full force. New colors and new life are everywhere. There is a little bird's nest in a fern on my front porch and a baby squirrel nest in the tree in my backyard that I can clearly see from my window. The squirrels even used paper from our recycling bin to build their nest – which, a few weeks ago, I had thought Beso was doing to get into scraps. And most poignantly, I'm going to have a baby. Soon, now. In fact, he was laying on my shelf of a pregnant belly as drifted onward and upward.

I'm not a very spiritual or religious person. I know we all create signs and gods and heavens, really, to cope with the difficulties of understanding that which is death. But I can't help but look at Beso's timing, how well we knew each other, how unconditionally and ginormously he loved life, and me. And, though anytime I see something little and cute I think of him, how could the baby birds on the front porch and the baby squirrels on the back porch and the baby girl in my belly not also be a little bit of Besito saying, “It's okay Mom. Really, after all we've been through, all of that love, we're together always. What lives must die. Life is death as death is life. Plus, I really don't like babies anyway. They get all the attention - and it's time to give yours to her, now.”

So I will.

Fred and I will be planting a tree in our yard, hopefully a fruit bearing one, in the coming weeks, and we will scatter Beso's ashes there. That way he will always be home with me, with Fred and our family. He will see seasons and life and change and growth. I look forward to sitting by the tree and sharing stories with our baby girl all about Besito Ysidro and our many adventures together.

And all of this, I know he knows.

Besito Ysidro Shaffner

2001-2014

I haven't cooked much since Beso died. I especially haven't been able to make eggs, yet. But Fred and I did make this beautiful fish dish recently. It was so, so simple and very apropos for the warmer weather, and even dining al fresco. We made a fish stock out of the carcass that would have surely been incorporated into Beso's meals. Our other pups, Eduardo and Byron, enjoyed the stock in their own kibble!

Whole Oven-Roasted Fish with Lemon & Rosemary

Note: Trout, red snapper and loup de mer (branzino) are great choices; wild striped bass and rockfish work fine too. Cooking times vary with size.

Serves 2

Ingredients

1 whole fresh fish, cleaned and rinsed

4 sprigs fresh rosemary

1 lemon, sliced thinly & seeded

1 clove garlic, minced

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoon olive oil

Red pepper flakes

Sea salt and pepper

Directions

Remove the fish from the refrigerator 10 minutes before roasting.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Mix garlic and olive oil and let sit to infuse for 5 minutes. Strain and discard garlic; set aside the oil.

Season the fish inside and out with salt and brush inside and out with the garlic oil. Place lemon (save for 2 or 3 slices) in the cavity with the sprigs of rosemary.

Arrange the remaining lemon slices and small rosemary sprigs in slits on top of the fish and sprinkle with red pepper flakes. Roast until a knife easily penetrates the flesh and the top fillet begins to lift easily, about 25 to 30 minutes.

Carefully transfer the fish to a warm platter and serve.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Braised Eggs with Lamb, Tahini & Sumac

Two years ago: Eggs in a Basket with Maple Bacon Fontina & Chives

Three years ago: Lamb Chops with Cumin Cardamom & Lime

Four years ago: Ludobites 4.0

It's like, a heat wave.

My word. June strutted out with a lasting impression. We've got a full-on heatwave out West. It's that kind of heat, that muggy, oppressive heat that crosses over into kind of sexy. I mean, you just can't help it if it's so hot that you must walk, or rather, sashay, around in nothing but a slip and and something cool to drink in a glass beaded with sweat. You may even have to put said glass up to your forehead or the side of your neck to further assist in cooling off. I'm just saying...

Or you could grab your bathing suit, an exceptionally cute looking, breezy throw over, and call your friends with a pool. Then you are able to do all of the above, but while sporting a bikini under an exceptionally cute looking, breezy throw over in lieu of the slip, and actually be cool – while acting sultry.

And so, yesterday, that is exactly what Fred and I did. The only thing is, unlike Fred - and most people - I don't really care much for pools. Unless they are about as hot as a bath would be. And I also realized that it had actually been a couple of years (three) since I had put on a bikini. But, I figured, it was that hot and I would be spending the afternoon with good friends - very good, old friends. So I threw the bikini and my impossibly perfect and exceptionally cute looking, breezy throw over into a canvas bag, grabbed my just-so worn-in, flouncy straw hat, and my fancy sunglasses and hopped in the car with Fred to head over to Kisma and Jonathan's place for a beat-the-heat poolside, backyard picnic.

The backyard picnic is great, as it can be as ornate or pared down as you want it to be. Why? Because a kitchen is right there. You don't have to pack cleverly or concisely. Fitting everything into a basket or back pack is a non-issue. And another fun possibility with a backyard picnic: games! Backgammon, chess, croquet, volleyball, Yahtzee, water polo... if you have the game, you can play the game. But all the fun picnicy parts are all in place: blanket, lots of snackies and noshables, any number of drinks (even the adult variety) and, of course, the flies. It seems no picnic would feel like much of a picnic without flies, ants or mosquitos, so just man up and deal with it.

After a quick dip in the pool, some laughter while recalling the debacle that was the end of my birthday last week over a glass of wine, and oogling and googling with their baby, Jones, we all got into our various places in the kitchen and grill to begin cooking, slicing and assembling everything for our picnic. We had a cheese and charcuterie plate with rosemary crisps, some homemade pickles, roasted almonds, cornichons, an orzo salad with fresh veggies and herbs from the garden, blanched and chilled haricot verts with minced garlic, lemon and purple basil flowers, grilled bratwurst with lavender and thyme sauerkraut and brown mustard, grilled haloumi, celery stalks and homemade bleu cheese dressing for dipping, fresh strawberries and blueberries with candied ginger, a couple of watermelon and lime water cocktails and some chilled wine. But what ended up being the star of this glorious spread was actually all Fred's. He has made this dish a handful of times, now with much success: grilled then marinated Summer vegetables over grilled rustic bread topped with burrata. It can be a snack, it can be an appetizer or it can be lunch. It's fresh, seasonal, robust, bright, and has a medley of shapes, colors, flavors and textures. You can use whatever veggies you happen to have at a given time, making it versatile, fairly easy and extraordinarily delicious.

After our massive festival of grazing food and sipping drinks, we all jumped back in the pool for another cool down before some more lounging in the grass, a little more grazing and another glass of so and so. Next thing we knew it it was seven o'clock. You have to love these long, Summer days.

And so, with the end of June comes the end of our picnic posts (for this year, anyway). And I can think of nothing more perfect with which to close out a month of picnic ideas that this recipe for Fred's grilled, marinated veggies. And, likewise, I can think of no recipe more perfect which which to usher in July.  

P.S. Thanks to Kisma and Jonathan for hosting this picnic and Kisma for styling the shoot!

Grilled, Marinated Summer Vegetables over Rustic Toast with Burrata

Serves 6

3 summer squash or zucchini (about 1 lb.), sliced on a diagonal 1/2" thick

3 red, orange or yellow bell peppers, cut into 1" strips

1 bunch of asparagus, trimmed

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided

Kosher salt & freshly ground pepper

2 garlic cloves

2 tablespoons Sherry or red wine vinegar
1 small shallot, minced

4 sprigs oregano

1 loaf of rustic bread, sliced into large chunks and brushed with oilve oil, lightly grilled or toasted.

1 lb. burrata

Place squash, pepper and asparagus in a large bowl with 1/2 tablespoon olive oil, salt & pepper and toss to coat. Spread out in a single layer on grill, turning peppers skin side up.

Roast until tender, turning squash once, about 15-20 minutes. Let cool slightly; remove skins from peppers.

Whisk garlic, shallot, vinegar and remaining olive oil in a large bowl; season with salt & pepper. Add vegetables and oregano; toss to coat. Cover and let sit at least an hour.

Portion burrata evenly onto slabs of grilled bread and top with marinated vegetables.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Sausage, Egg & Fontina Cheese Pizza

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

Three years ago: Rustic Cherry Tart with Almond Ice Cream

Out Like a Lamb.

The end of March is nigh, and thus is Easter. Passover is happening right now. It's a big time for a lot of people. And plants. Plants are having a blast right now. And people are having a blast with plants. Or, at least, Fred and I are.

When we last spoke, I had mentioned having chatted around to get a feel as to what food things meant to people with regard to Easter. I ended up settling on chocolate and lamb, though not necessarily together – which might not be a bad idea, come to think of it. So I shared a chocolate recipe.

So you probably know where we will be going with this. Lambville.

Coming from completely non-religious parents, other than the Easter Bunny covertly surprising me with an Easter basket each year at my mom's house, Easter meant little else. I don't even recall a special meal. So after sifting through people's responses to my query about what Easter represented, culinarily, to them, I went about figuring out what it meant to me. And I decided to embark on the most traditional Easter supper I have ever had. First order on the agenda: order a giant leg of lamb.

I like lamb just fine, now, but as a child it unnerved me a little. I think it was just the gamey-ness of the meat. It wasn't on the dinner table too often at home, but I know Dad loved it. He always ordered it at the Greek restaurant in our neighborhood. He loved their Lamb Guvetsi.

As I mentioned, years ago, like 2005, I heard Nigella Lawson interviewedon NPR around this time of year. She was promoting her then new book, Feast, a cookbook devoted primarily to celebrations, holidays and entertaining. I vividly recall her discussing her favorite Easter meal, and the great detail with which she described a saffron roasted leg of lamb and some sticky, crispy garlic potatoes. Obviously it stuck with me if eight years later that was the first thing to pop into my head when I decided to make my first, big Easter dinner. So I started planning the menu, the flowers, the dining room look, and called some friends.

Easter dinner was so happening.

Two days before the event I put the lamb in its marinade and refrigerated it. The day before, while Fred went out to get all of our groceries, flowers and the like, I poked around on the computer to find out why lamb in the Spring, and why lamb on Easter. Why throughout the entire world the most popular Easter symbol is the lamb. I'm sure, as usual in this department, everyone else already knows this stuff, but I'm new here.

The roast lamb dinner that many eat on Easter Sunday goes back earlier than Easter to the first Passover of the Jewish people. The sacrificial lamb was roasted and eaten, together with unleavened bread and bitter herbs (a Seder) in hopes that the angel of God would pass over their homes and bring no harm. As Hebrews converted to Christianity, they naturally brought along their traditions with them. The Christians often refer to Jesus as The Lamb of God. Thus, the traditions merged.

In the 7th century the Benedictine monks wrote a prayer for the blessing of lambs.

A few hundred years later the pope adopted it and a whole roasted lamb became the feature of the Pope's Easter Dinner, and has been ever since.

I wasn't going to roast a whole lamb, of course. Just one of its legs.

Now this lamb recipe involved saffron, which I absolutely love. I know a lot of people do not, however. It seems to be one of those ingredients like cilantro: people either love it or hate it. And I understand. Also, like cilantro, it has an unmistakable, very distinct aroma and taste. The thin, delicate, muted red hair-like strands are fragrant, floral, earthy, and honey-like with a bit of bitterness. Saffron also happens to be the most expensive spice in the world. Use too much and that will be the only thing you take away from that dish. With saffron, the words 'a little goes a long way' have never been more accurate. A little dab will do ya.

It's no surprise that you will find a wealth of recipes with saffron and lamb together. Kind of like chocolate and peanut butter, they just make sense. They are also both prominent elements in a lot of Middle-Eastern cuisine. Actually, it's funny, lamb takes me back to eating Greek food with my dad, and I used Greek saffron with my Easter lamb.

Yesterday, on the event of my Easter dinner celebration, once the lamb went into the oven after two days of marinating, I went about the décor of the dining room. I hand-picked each and every piece of silverware, plate and glass, dug through the linens to find the right napkins – I went for the fancies – and began meticulously arranging the bundles of daffodils and hyancinths into little vintage creamers and jelly jars while listening to my go-to soothing sounds: Explosions in the Sky. All the while the house was filling up with the entrancing smell of lamb, lemon and garlic fusing together in the oven. I dare say it was beginning to smell like Easter. Or, at least, really, really good. The air smelled like family and friends and the promise of festivity and future fond memories.

Everything was coming together perfectly. The food was on schedule, the room looked great, I had the perfect wines; some lovely rosés from a tasting the day before, and just moments before the guests arrived, as I was lighting the candles, Fred and I got our Easter baskets in the mail! I guess the Easter Bunny is trying to help out the US Post Office in their time of need... Nevertheless, that took care of dessert; Cadbury Creme Eggs!

As we all sat down to the table, we raised our glasses of rosé and toasted to a happy Easter. And as I looked around the room, I took stock. The smiling faces of my friends, the table looked beauteous, the food was delicious, the wine went perfectly with the saffrony lamb, the flowers smelled wonderful, and best of all we were all so happy to be with each other. Good friends, together, on our Easter, eating, drinking, smiling, talking, sharing Easter memories and laughter.

SAFFRON ROAST LAMB WITH STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

(recipe adapted from Nigella Lawson's book, Feast)

Serves 6

1 leg of lamb (4.5 lbs)

1/3 cup olive oil

3 cloves garlic, bruised

6 scallions

2 bay leaves

juice of 1 lemon

small bunch mint, 1 1/2 oz including stalks, torn roughly makes 1 cup

1/2 teaspoon saffron threads, steeped in 1 cup very hot water

1/3 cup rosé wine

 Put the lamb in a large freezer bag, pour over the olive oil and then throw in the garlic, trimmed scallions and bay leaves, squeeze in the lemon juice and throw in the squeezed-out lemon halves too, then add the torn-up bunch of mint. Seal the bag and marinate in the fridge overnight.

Bring the lamb to room temperature before you even think of putting it in the oven, and preheat that to 425 degrees F when you take the lamb out of the fridge.

Pour the entire contents of the freezer bag into a roasting pan and roast for about 20 minutes a pound, or until the lamb is cooked a perfect, à point pink; you will just have to pierce it with the knife to see. Just before the lamb is due to come out of the oven, put the saffron strands in a measuring cup and pour over the hot water so that it can get on with steeping.

Remove the lamb to a wooden carving board to rest. Pick out the lemon rinds, and then place the roasting pan on the stove over medium heat, and stir until it starts bubbling. Stir in the saffron in its water and add 1/3 cup rosé – tasting for seasoning as you go – as needed to let this bubble into a small amount of ungloopy gravy. 

Carve the lamb on to a large warmed plate and strain the saffrony juices, stirring in any liquid first from the carving board, over the pink meat.

Read the sticky garlic potato recipe now so that you can coordinate your movements. And, to go with, I'd want no more than a bowl of green peas, turned in some butter.

STICKY GARLIC POTATOES

Serves 6

1 1/2 lbs small fingerling potatoes

8 cloves garlic (more if you like)

1/2 cup olive or other vegetable oil 

Coarse salt & freshly cracked pepper to taste.

Bring a saucepan of water to the boil and add some salt, add the potatoes and cook for 30 minutes. Drain, and put back into the dry pan.

Peel the garlic cloves by squishing with the flat of a knife so that they bruise slightly and the skin slips off. Put them in the dry pan with the potatoes, and then bash potatoes and garlic  so they are cracked and split. You can do this ahead and leave them in the pan – though with the lid off, so that they don’t get watery – until you want to roast them.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F and slip a roasting pan in to heat up at the same time. Once the oven’s hot, pour in the oil and let it, in turn, heat up for 10 minutes.

Carefully tip the potatoes and garlic into the hot oil and cook for 15 minutes. Turn the potatoes over and then give them another 15 minutes. 

Salt & pepper to taste.

Serve on a platter with the lamb.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Rustic Cremini Mushroom Soup with Chives & Basil Oil
Two years ago: Nutter Butter Cookies
Three years ago: The Grill 'Em All Truck

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, who’s up for Vegas?

A Sunday Supper:

Slow & Low Roast Chicken with Meyer Lemon and Thyme

with Roasted

Heirloom Carrots, Baby Potatoes & Cipollini Onions

Serves 4

Ingredients

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

Special equipment:

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

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Preparing the Chicken:

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

Tuck the wings up against the breast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roasting the Chicken:

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

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

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

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

Printable recipe

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

M.B. Post - And a Girl Date.

With a little less than a week to go, I have successfully tested, at least once, every recipe for the next Dinner at Eight. I have delivered one of everything to Jill so she can assess her pairings. I have used all of the leftovers to deliver lunches to various folks around Hollywood and I still have a refrigerator that is fecund with said food.

And yet I wanted none of it for dinner last night.

And so I grabbed up Nastassia and headed to Manhattan Beach to finally sample David Lefevre’s kitchen skills at his, highly praised, M.B. Post. My interest was piqued about Lefevre after I tasted but only one dish a few months back at the Test Kitchen reunion. The downstairs of the townhouse (Sotto) had Steve Samson & Zach Pollack hosting Walter Manzke, Nancy Silverton, David and Matt Molina (Mozza). And some cat named David Lefevre whose last job was executive chef at Water Grill.

When I scrolled down the menu, I surprisingly whipped past all of the chef’s-who-I-was-geeked-about’s dishes and became fixated upon Lefevre’s Braised Pork with Crispy Gnocchi, Summer Squash, Bianco Sardo. Without minimizing any of the other chef’s dishes or skills, as the meal in its entirety was remarkable, that braised pork dish, without hesitation, stole the show. And I was not alone with this opinion.

My friend, Emma, and I were also fortunate enough to be seated at the two spots that gaze directly into the kitchen, smack in front of Lefevre’s station. We both thoroughly enjoyed watching him and having some light banter towards the end of the evening (during which we both promised to hit up his new spot, M.B. Post posthaste).

Cut to last night.

It’s not too often I stray from my Hollysphere, but I am rarely a pantywaist about doing so. I guess I just need the right partner to be down with me. Enter Nastassia, and a perfectly pleasant and lovely drive from my Canyon to the most perfect parking place right next to our destination in Manhattan Beach. Easy breezy.

We were shocked to see the place straight up bustling at eight o’clock on a Monday night. Regardless, our hostess was able to seat us immediately at one of the smaller communal tables.

I look around. I dig it. It’s happy. It’s warm and comfortable. It’s confident. It reflects no affectation. I’m surrounded by flip flops, suits, no make-up, lip jobs, cute boys, frat-types, darling dresses, jeans, button-downs, tee-shirts, regulars and newbies alike. And, hey, it’s in an old post office!

 

Our smiling server, with her Rachel Ray-cute looks and Rita Hayworth-sultry voice, was directly present to get our drinks and had a pretty astute knowledge of the wines on the (solid) list. I went for the Pierre Soulez ‘chateau de chamboureau - grand cru’ savennieres, loire, france, 09 ($13.50).

 

After slightly too long, as Nastassia and I were chatty-chat-orama, we got down to it and ordered a few things in the food department from the menu that wanted to take us on a trip around the globe. We began with the bacon cheddar buttermilk biscuits with maple butter ($5), blistering Blue Lake green beans with Thai basil, chili sauce and crispy pork ( $9) and the roasted brussels sprouts with Emmental, hazelnuts and sage ($9).

 

 

The biscuits were downright magnificent. Warm, with burny-crispies on the outside and downy and steamy on the inside, peppered with little chunklets of bacon and infused with cheesiness throughout. Then I tried a bite with the butter. It’s a good thing I got to that butter when I did. Nastassia was threatening to lick the ramekin clean… Yes, that’s how good.

 

 

As we giggled in the reverie of the biscuits and got into a little bit of fun girl-talk, our blistery green beans and our roasty brussels sprouts appeared before us. I love a green bean and I love a brussels sprout even more. These were both special, but the green beans really sparkled here. They were perfectly cooked, crisp, but with a give, and accented with bold, heavy flavors. The pork was rich, succulent and salty and added another layer of nuance and texture to the bright and fresh beans.

 

 

Roasted brussels sprouts are something I not only do at home, with great frequency, but I see out often on menus at establishments ranging from gastro pubs to fine dining. More often than not, their preparation with hazelnuts, brown butter, slow-roasted to an almost perfect storm of burn and caramelization is ubiquitous on these menus. This wasn’t a far cry from that, but I will say that I loved that the brussels sprouts were huge, well-prepared and the Emmental and sage were elegant and apt touches.

At our server's suggestion, I moved on to a glass of the Saxon-Brown "cricket creek vineyard" semillon, Alexander Valley, Sonoma, 08 ($11.50).

Then we were delivered the Japanese hamachi with yuzu koshu, avocado, puffed forbidden rice ($12) and the Vietnamese caramel pork jowl with green papaya salad and lime ($13). I thought the hamachi was fresh, elegant and delicious. I thought that the dish was conceptually, perfect. But I also thought that the puffed forbidden rice was very big and thick and crunchy and intense. It battled with the delicate and perfect hamachi a bit. I would have loved it just as much sans puffed forbidden rice.

 

 

The pork jowl was divine. It. Was. Divine. It was unctuous, fatty, savory, sweet, acidic, crisp, soft and utterly delectable. This and the green beans are, in my humble opinion must haves. 

 

 

This is normally where I would call it a night, food-wise, and just continue on my wine trajectory. But I was with Natstassia… hello? So, yes, we ordered the Spiced Honeycrisp apple handpies with salted caramel sauce ($7).

I ordered a tawny port to go with this.

 

 

It was awesome. It really was. Nastassia was over the moon. We deduced that there must be lard in that perfect salty crust. I ate a few bites, even with the cooked fruit situation, but I liked it a lot. For a more discerned palate’s dialogue on the dish, I suggest you stay tuned for Nastassia’s words on the matter.

 

But we were really happy. This is a good place. This is a smart place. We both want to return.

 

 

One year ago today: Sausage Over Creamy Lentils

Two years ago today: Grilled Cheese Night at Campanile

 

 

Slowing Down.

I have gone home to Richmond and now I have returned home to Los Angeles. I had somewhat of a seminal trip, I must say. While I always appreciate going back home, it is, more often than not, fraught with some sort of mess(usually caused by me). This visit, however, was decidedly different. It was not only mess-free, it was calm and nice (with a lite peppering of pretty great play-times), and it made me honestly miss Richmond.

Don’t get too worried. I don’t see myself leaving LA. Certainly not any time soon.

On my first night there I had plans to have dinner with my dad and Paz. We had reservations at the Blue Goat at eight o’clock. Paz came over a little after seven or so for a champagne toast before heading out. But I just could not relax. I kept looking at my watch and asking Dad if we were okay on time. We had to get to the West End, after all! He told me to chill (which he does a lot). We left at ten minutes to eight, effortlessly found parking and walked in the front door of the restaurant at two minutes to eight.

Um.

On another day I was driving through my neighborhood, The Fan, with My Favorite Rugby Boy when I noticed the car in front of me pulled over to the right and put their hazards on while someone proceeded to get out of, or into, the car. Without hesitation I checked my blind spot and whizzed around them. MFRB grabbed the OMG handle in the car and was, visibly, a bit rattled. I turned to him and said, “What’s the problem?” To which he replied, “I forgot about you Los Angeles drivers, is all.” During that moment that I rolled my eyes at him, I also realized, he’s right. There was really no reason to go around that car. Why couldn’t I have just waited one minute, until they were moving again, and amble along from there? What’s the hurry?

And you know what? I’m always in a hurry. I always have to be doing, moving, going. I’m obsessed with time and being on time. There’s never enough time.

After I realized this, I slowed it down. I meandered around the new grounds of the Virginia Museum, I leafed through a magazine, I took a nap, and I wasn’t even crabby when My Favorite Rugby Boy told me he was running late for cooking-lesson-night at his house (bless his heart – he boils chicken and eats it for dinner).

That night I taught him how to make chicken under a brick (fantastic chicken from Belmont Butchery), slow-cooked broccoli rabe, salt-baked potatoes and a roasted cauliflower and garlic soup with rye croutons. I thought the first three items would all be things he could take away and riff on: simple classics that taste delicious. In an interesting turn of events he was most taken with the soup. In an even more interesting turn of events, I walked away that evening with knowledge of a new term: SCRUM. One never does know, does one?

The next day Dad and I drove up to Northern Virginia to visit Aunt Babe. I napped the whole way there while Dad drove. We had lunch with she and her daughter, my cousin, Noel. It was truly wonderful to see them both. I got a ton of recipes and stories and material to work with. Heck, three of the dishes at the next Dinner at Eight are Aunt Babe’s. The funny thing was, Aunt Babe expressed she was pleased as punch to be out of the kitchen and didn’t miss it one bit. One never does know, does one? 

I then napped the entire way back to Richmond while Dad drove.

Me, Aunt Babe & Dad, circa 1999.

For my last night back home I stayed in. In my pine cone jammies. On the couch. I was sort of sad. I realized that I really love Richmond. I realized that I really miss Richmond. I started fantasizing about moving back to Richmond. It’s so beautiful, so straightforward there. I, of course, also realized that it’s easy to feel this way about a place when you spend your days there jogging, wandering, eating, drinking wine, napping, reading and being snuggly.

But I did make a decision. Here it is: I will be going back home considerably more often. I even pulled a classic chick move on the very house in which I grew up. I left stuff that I knew I would have to return to – namely my pine cone jammies.

~~~

And for all of you and My Favorite Rugby Boy, here’s the recipe for that sexy soup.

Creamy Roasted Garlic and Cauliflower Soup with Rye Croutons

serves 4-6

Ingredients:

1 whole head cauliflower
1 large whole head garlic
1/2 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter

6-8 fresh sage leaves
1 medium onion, chopped
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper 
1 tablespoon flour
1/3 cup sherry 
1 cup water
3 cups chicken or vegetable stock, plus up to 2 more as needed for desired consistency
1 dried bay leaf
1/3 cup heavy cream

1 slice crustless rye bread, cut into 1/2-inch dice (1 cup), toasted
 

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Cut cauliflower into individual florets. Toss with 1 tablespoon olive oil. Transfer to a foil lined baking sheet. Scatter fresh sage leaves around the florets. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper.

Cut the top off of the head of garlic. Drizzle with olive oil and wrap with foil. Place wrapped garlic on the baking sheet. Roast the cauliflower and garlic at 400 degrees F for 15-20 minutes. When the cauliflower is tender and golden remove from the oven.

The garlic will need to roast for a total of about 25-30 minutes. You can remove it to check it's progress as needed - it should smell fragrant but not raw, be golden and tender.

Meanwhile, heat the butter in a cast iron dutch oven or medium-large stock pot. Add the onion. Saute over medium heat for about 10 minutes. Whisk in the salt, pepper, and flour and continue to cook for 2 more minutes.

Add the sherry and water, whisking to combine with the flour mixture. Then, slowly add in the 2 cups broth. Add the bay leaf and roasted garlic cloves. Bring mixture to a boil, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the cauliflower and simmer an additional 5 minutes.

Remove the bay leaf. Working in batches, add the soup to a food processor (or use the trusty immersion blender) and blend until pureed and smooth. Add additional broth during or after blending to achieve desired consistency. After all the batches have been completed, return to the pot. Stir in the cream. Cook until just heated through. Adjust salt and pepper for tastes.

Ladle into bowls, scatter the croutons on top and serve.


Printable Recipe

One year ago: Cream Biscuits
Two years ago: Pizzeria Bianco