For Those About to Cook, I Salute You.

I've been at this blogging thing for six and a half years now, and it's been good to me. It began as a whim and, yes, my timing was pretty perfect. The whole food blogging thing was becoming... a thing. I didn't know anything about blogging, or even what the word meant exactly. I knew I loved food. I loved to think about it, talk about it, read about it, make it, eat it and share it. My friends couldn't help but notice the interest-turned-obsession and one in particular urged me to start what has become F for Food.

I read many other blogs and have become enmeshed in the blogging community. Many of my closest friends, even now, are fellow food bloggers. There are quite a few different flavors of us: the restaurant bloggers and the recipe bloggers are the two broadest groups. I fall more into the recipe category with the occasional restaurant discussion. Some of us recipe bloggers like to flex creative writing and storytelling with our recipes and some write the straight dope about the recipes, the seasonality, the use of ingredients. Again, I fall more into the creative writing/storytelling camp, with some dialogue about The Food.

For the dishes I share on F for Food, I use some of my very own brainflowers, but I also pool from the world-wide world of recipes; cookbooks, online references and, often, other bloggers. I frequently read a recipe that I find alluring and then riff on it in my kitchen. If it works, I will likely share the results. I often tell the story of how I found the recipe and from whom it originated. I have written consistently about Alice Waters, Marion Cunningham, Suzanne Goin, Melissa Clark and Molly Wizenberg(funny, all women) to name a few - their food, and their influence on my own. Usually in the paragraphs leading up to the actual recipe.

In some instances, Fred and I create a dish from nothing and then research to see who has also created the same dish, or something similar, in the past to use as a recipe model. As it would appear, very little is truly original or not inspired by something that has already been thrust into the world.

Here's what I have not done. I have not properly transformed the instructional parts of the recipes. And more importantly, in the proper instances, I have not placed the attribution under the title of the recipe – resulting in not giving credit where credit is due. For example, when I rambled on about hearing an episode of The Splendid Table where Melissa Clark tells the beautiful memory of her childhood and the pan bagnat (though I included hyperlinks to both The Splendid Table episode and Melissa Clark), I did not type 'adapted from a recipe by Melissa Clark'at the top of the recipe.

First, I would like to apologize for this oversight and, second, let you know that I am in the process of going back through the archives of F for Food to make certain the appropriate due credit is given. I have nothing but respect and admiration for chefs, food lovers and recipe creators of all kinds. My blog began as, and continues to be, a testament to my reverence, love and appreciation of everything about food and those who feel the same way that have come before me, are here now and those who will pave the yellow pound cake road of the future.

So this is Memorial Day weekend. Let's go outside, drink cold adult beverages by a body of water of some kind and eat some sort of thing from a grill – or, in my preganant-self's case, enjoy some cold, refreshing popsicles in my back yard with Fred. Let's all get to it, shall we?

Watermelon-Mint Popsicles with Lime

(This recipe is a Fred + Elliott original)

Makes 10 popsicles

Ingredients

4 cups of watermelon cut into 1-inch cubes, plus 1 cup 1/4-inch cubes (seeds removed)

3 tablespoons chopped mint leaves, tightly packed

Zest & juice of 1 lime

3 tablespoons granulated sugar

Pinch of salt

Directions

Puree 1-inch cubes of watermelon & run through sieve into medium bowl. 

Muddle mint & sugar together, add to watermelon liquid along with lime zest & juice. Stir well. 

Refrigerate mixture for about 30 minutes to allow sugar to melt and let flavors infuse. 

Divide the 1/4-inch watermelon cubes evenly between the 10 sections of the popsicle mold, then using a pitcher with a spout, carefully fill molds, leaving about 1/4-inch of room at the top as the popsicles will expand as they freeze. 

Insert popsicle sticks and freeze away (approximately 3-5 hours, depending on your freezer). If you are using wooden popsicle sticks and your mold does not have a guide, freeze for 1 hour and then insert the sticks.

*FYI - We used this type of popsicle mold.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Chilled Beet Soup with Horseradish Yogurt

Two years ago: Classic Shad Roe with Bacon & Fresh Herbs

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

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

Emancipate & Resurrect the Kitchen.

This week means a lot of different things to a a lot of different people. This is the week of both Passover and Easter. And whether you are commemorating an enormous emancipation, celebrating a significant resurrection, really excited about warm weather, flowers and sunshine, or need an excuse to watch The Long Good Fridayagain, it's a pretty big stretch of celebration with lots of food involved.

Me, I fall into either of the latter two. But I do love a holiday. Fortunately, timing is really in my corner with this observing and reveling happening right when all of the new, beautiful food stuffs are literally popping up, out of the ground and into our markets to grab up and play with in my kitchen, to serve and share with my friends and family.

Peas, rhubarb, arugula, asparagus, strawberries, mint, Spring onions, tatsoi greens, radishes, fresh horseradish, fennel, ham and, of course, farm fresh eggs, milk and cheese, are just a few of the things I want, and crave, this time of year – holidays or no. To tell you the truth, I really wanted to make a rhubarb ice cream or a rhubarb lemon pound cake for Easter. But after talking to Paz, whose parents are hosting Easter brunch, I hear there is already an over abundance of sweets. One person in particular has apparently already dropped off five cakes for the occasion (*show off*).

So I guess I'm going savory. 

Paz has been needling me because I've never made an actual quiche before – that I can recall. I've made loads of frittatas and plenty of pies, but I guess I've never put the egg stuff into the pie crust. So I scurried off to my favorite, local green grocer and got to hunting for inspirato. And found it. I have to say, however, their eggs are quite difficult to crack open – because they are so, so beautiful. But crack I did. And what resulted was a stunning Spring dish, that would befit a brunch, lunch or dinner, to delight and impress using a lot of those different things for a lot of us different people. Especially the dude that brought five cakes.

Happy Easter!

Spring Vegetable Tart with Chévre & Ham

Makes 1 10” tart

Ingredients

pie crust

All-purpose flour (for surface)

1 medium bulb fennel

5 spring onions or 12 scallions

16 medium cremini mushrooms (about 1 pound)

10 ounces cubed ham

3 tablespoons olive oil, divided

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 Tbsp unsalted butter

8 ounces soft fresh goat cheese

1/4 cup plain yogurt

1/4 cup heavy cream

1 tablespoon minced flat-leaf parsley

1 tablespoon minced fresh chives

4 eggs

Directions

Preheat oven to 350° F. Roll out pie crust on a lightly floured surface to a 12" round. Transfer to 10" tart pan with removable bottom and press onto bottom and up sides. Line the chilled crust with a piece of foil, leaving a little overhang all around. Fill with pie weights of some kind and bake for about 20 minutes. Remove the weights and foil. Bake until dry and set, 5 to 8 minutes more. Let the crust cool completely before filling.

Raise oven temperature to 425°F.  Trim fennel top and root end, reserving fronds, and cut into quarters from top to bottom, then cut fennel into paper-thin slices.

Trim green onions. Toss fennel and onions in a small bowl with 2 tablespoons oil; season with salt and pepper. Place in a single layer on prepared sheet; roast, turning once, until onions begin to brown and fennel is tender, 12-15 minutes. Transfer to a small bowl. Reduce oven temperature to 375°F.

Meanwhile, clean and slice mushrooms. Heat remaining 1 tablespoon oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add ham. Cook, stirring often, until ham is browned and slightly crisped, 6-8 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and set aside. Heat remaining butter in skillet over medium-high heat; add mushrooms and sauté until they release all their liquid and most of it boils away, about 5 minutes.

Let cool slightly before spreading ham and mushrooms evenly over bottom of tart crust.

Whisk cheese and next 4 ingredients in a medium bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Whisk in eggs. Pour over vegetables. Scatter fennel and onion over.

Bake tart until edges of crust are golden brown and filling is set, 20-22 minutes. Let cool in pan for 20 minutes or up to 4 hours.

Remove sides of pan. Serve tart warm or at room temperature.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Roasted Purple Asparagus, Red Wine Vinaigrette, 62 Degree Egg

Two years ago: The Pikey

Three years ago: Lamb Chops with Cardamom, Cumin & Lime

Four years ago: Let's Talk About Text, Baby

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

Tell me what you want, what you really, really want.

I spend so much energy on my to-do lists and my tidying and my fretting about The Next Thing that I far too often fail to see the forest for the trees. For years now I have wanted to construct a different, idealized life for myself; one that would be simpler and, simultaneously, more fulfilling. A life that found me doing what I really want to be doing, where I really want to be doing it and with whom I really want to be doing it. And really, who wouldn't really want that stuff?

So here I am, almost forty years old, and less than six months ago I jumped off the high dive. I left my career and my friends and my home of most of my adult life to get back to it. To what I really wanted. But you know this.

What we really, really want. Funny thing. That's the hardest part, isn't it? Getting to the nut of it all, and figuring that out. It seems as though it would, it should, be the the easiest part. And for some it is. And then it's just a matter of aiming for the target, right?

But what if you should have turned right when you turned left? What if you choose to do this and you chose that instead? What if?! And therein lies the rub. Right there is why so often we end up doing what it is that we do (instead of where our major in college was to take us) and who we end up doing it with (instead of 'the one that got away'). Why, sometimes, our lives, our careers, our partners, find us rather than the other way around. And we can call it destiny. Fate. Something beyond our control, beyond our power.

Maybe I do or maybe I don't but I'd like to think I have a little more control over my past, present and future than to chalk it up to fate, destiny, 'shit happens' or 'c'est la vie' (which makes perfect sense coming from a consummate control freak). And that's why I'm right here, right now. I'm in Richmond, Virginia with Fred. We're having a baby girl this summer. I see my family and my Paz lots and lots. I'm eating, cooking and writing about food – and getting paid to do it. And I have to say that all of these things exist because I wanted them and I focused and worked to that end. And still, had Chris and I not had that conversation about 'that thing called a blog' six and a half years ago, there's a very, very good chance I wouldn't be here, doing this - writing this. With Fred. Had I turned right instead of left.

In my fifth grade yearbook, everyone in my class stated what they wanted to be when they grew up. I said Artist. So maybe all these years I've been staying the course. Hard to say.

One of the things I have always really wanted was to be in a creatively collaborative relationship with my significant other (think Frida and Diego, Anais and Henry, Virginia and Vita, or my favorites, Lillian and Dashiell) . Call it fate, call it destiny, call it finally locating that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but I definitely have found a true partner in both the intimate and creative spheres. There is no doubt Fred's photography has elevated this blog exponentially. And though, while we work together we squabble like two Tweens over a strand of Justin Bieber's hair, what we create is beauty and that makes me beam with pride and accomplishment.

Well, we have taken it all a step further. We have made it official and are expanding from just F for Food with a real deal food photography and styling business: Fred + Elliott Food Styling & Photography. And I'm unveiling the curtain here. The website is up, the business cards are printed and the phone line is active (we just love the design done for us by A for Adventure). We are ready. I keep thinking of Annie Pott's character in Ghostbusters when they get that first call.

But, not to worry, I'm not going anywhere. I mean, where else can I talk freely in this way? That reminds me of another thing: one of the fun parts of this whole pregnancy thing (at least the stage I'm in now), is that I can eat what I really want. In moderation, of course. I'm told that if I crave something specific, my body probably needs it. This likely explains the sudden and bizarre cravings for peanut butter and honey sandwiches with a glass of milk (the first glasses of milk I've had in over twenty-five years). I guess I need protein and calcium.

Well, last night I really, really wanted ricotta cheese. So Fred made it for me again. And I also wanted pasta (always). So we made that, too. And with the weather being close to eighty degrees and the sun shining mightily, I wanted to make a bright springy dish incorporating those two ingredients. Five months in, Fred now knows that the pregnant lady – come Hell or high water – is going to find a way to get her hands on the food that she really, really wants.

So together, collaboratively, we did it all: from foraging for the right ingredients, to making our own ricotta and pasta from scratch, to the styling and photographing the food, to eating it (and yes, of course there was the requisite amount of bickering). I'm not sure if it was the process behind it, but man alive, this dish was exquisite. I can't see why anyone wouldn't really, really want it, too.

Here is the recipe, so you too can manifest your destiny, my friends.

Fusilli with Fava Beans, Fresh Mint & Ricotta

Serves 4

Ingredients

2 tablespoons coarse salt, plus more to taste

1 pound fresh fava beans, shelled (you can substitute edamame or peas)

1 pound fusilli pasta

1 cup ricotta cheese

1/4 cup coarsely chopped mint leaves, plus more leaves for garnish

Zest of 1 lemon plus juice of ½ lemon

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Directions

Fill a large stockpot with water, add 1 tablespoon salt, and bring to a boil; meanwhile, prepare an ice-water bath. Place fava beans in a sieve, and lower into water. Let water return to a boil, about 1 minute; blanch beans, 1 minute more. Remove sieve from water, and place beans in ice-water bath. Transfer to a colander; drain. Peel and discard tough skins; set beans aside.

Discard blanching water; fill stockpot with fresh water. Bring to a boil, and add 1 tablespoon salt. Add pasta, and cook until al dente.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine ricotta, lemon juice, lemon zest, and chopped mint. Just before pasta has finished cooking, add 1/2 cup cooking water to cheese mixture; stir to combine.

Drain pasta, and transfer to a serving bowl. Add olive oil, and toss. Add cheese mixture and reserved fava beans; toss to combine. Season with salt and sprinkle with mint leaves and a little extra lemon zest for garnish; serve immediately.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Chocolate, Olive Oil, Blood Orange Cupcakes with Walnuts
Two years ago: Roast Chicken with Meyer Lemon & Thyme 
Three years ago: Roasted Parsnip-Carrot Soup with Crispy Bacon & Potatoes
Four years ago: Fresh Mint Pea Soup

Put your Heart (of Palm) Into It.

I get a lot of food magazines. I actually get way too many food magazines. The problem, the reason why I say way too many, is that I insist on reading every word and staring at every detail of every photograph – and all in one sitting. Maybe everyone does that, but I feel like magazines, except for the literary ones, are more often enjoyed in a leaf-through-it-casually-and-pick-it-up-and-down-over-time sort of way. But me, once I pick it up and open the cover, I'm in it to win it until I flip that very last page. Kind of like me and a bag of chips.

Oh, and that's not all. Not by a long shot. I save them. I keep them all in a pile for a larger project. And once the pile reaches a certain height, about two or three times a year, I go back through every single page of every single magazine and rip out the pages that have recipes I want to play with and images that inspire me. After I tear them all out, I sort through them and file them into binders assigned to different categories; soups, breakfast, vegetables, poultry, holidays, and so on. The photographic inspired pages go into their own binder. It's like my own private Pinterest.

I can understand why Fred always tells me, 'It must be exhausting to be you'.

So now you see why perhaps I ought to cut back on the magazines.

And now that I'm moving across the country in less than two months (!), this all seems really idiotic. Especially considering if I ever want to find one of the recipes I can just Google them. But I can't stop myself. It's as if I am compelled. Which is scary since I just saw The Conjuring last weekend.

But, fairly often, I do refer to my binders of recipes to get dinner ideas. And just as often I refer to my binder of inspirational photos as a reference of how I'd like to visually capture said dinners.

So as I was poking around in the cupboard the other day I found a jar of hearts of palm. I honestly do not recall buying them and have no idea how long they had been living with me. I've always been fond of hearts of palm, but it totally reminds me of the early nineties. It lives in my memories with sun dried tomatoes, tuna tartare with mango, Dippin' Dots and Zima. I even vaguely recall a rumor going around that hearts of palm was bad for the world, kind of like the whole shrimp thing right now.

As I was holding the jar of hearts of palm and noodling down memory lane, reminiscing about white zin and baked brie, I remembered that very recently I saved and filed away a recipe for what else, hearts of palm. And I just so happened to have most of the ingredients. And what I did not have was easy to change out with other things, to make it my own. That's just kismet.

Heart of palm is an interesting thing. It is a vegetable. It's harvested from the inner core of certain palm trees. And yes, harvesting of many non-cultivated palms results in palm tree death. However, other palm species are clonal and moderate harvesting will not kill the entire clonal palm. Moreover, an alternative to wild hearts of palm are palm varieties which have undergone a process of adaptation to become a domesticated farm species. This variety is the most widely used for canning. And this very farmed variety is what we are buying at the market. But since harvesting is still a labor intensive task, palm hearts are regarded as a delicacy.

Move over foie gras, here comes something leaner?

Heart of palm does actually seem like a delicacy. It is delicate. It's soft in color and texture and has a subtle, muted taste. A taste that could be described as, well, delicate. Though I like to snack on one or two, straight up, no chaser, you will almost always find them in salads.

And here is no different.

I love this salad. It is bright and fresh and zippy. It's colorful and covers the entire texture spectrum, from super soft all the way over to super crunchy with everything in between. The original recipe called for parsley where I used cilantro. But I think any number of fresh herbs could and should be folded in as well; basil chives, shiso, mint, you name it. 

I will tell you now that once the hearts of palm jumped into that salad, they also jumped into a new memory category. One that is very much in the present. It was so simple to make and so fun to eat, that I bet once you try it, this is one of those recipes that will end up in your binder as well.

Hearts of Palm, Heirloom Tomato and Avocado Salad

Serves 2-4

1 cup mixed color heirloom tomatoes, chopped into ½-inch pieces

1/2 small sweet onion, cut into thin slivers

1 14-ounce cans hearts of palm, drained and sliced 1/2 inch thick

1 avocado, cut into 1/2-inch pieces

1/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro

1/2 teaspoon finely grated lime zest

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

2 tablespoons canola oil

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

In a medium bowl, toss the tomatoes with the onion slivers, hearts of palm, avocado and chopped cilantro. In a small bowl, whisk the lime zest and lime juice with the mayonnaise and oil; season the dressing with salt and pepper. Pour the dressing over the salad, toss gently and serve right away.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Zucchini Fries with Poblano Cream

Two years ago: Bourbon-Vanilla Bean Banana Bread with Candied Walnuts

Three years ago: Classic Southern Deviled Eggs

Four years ago: Baked Tomatoes with Goat Cheese, Fresh Herbs & Hazelnut Breadcrumbs

Pucker Up.

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

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

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

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

But a muted, subtle sweet.

Time to bake.

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

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

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

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

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

Serves 8

For the rhubarb filling:


1/2 pound rhubarb, trimmed


1/4 cup sugar


2 teaspoons cornstarch


1/2 teaspoon fresh, grated ginger

For the crumbs:


1/3 cup dark brown sugar


1/3 cup granulated sugar


1 teaspoon ground cinnamon


1/2 teaspoon fresh, grated ginger


1/8 teaspoon salt


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


1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

For the cake:


1/3 cup plain greek yogurt


1 large egg


1 large egg yolk


2 teaspoons vanilla extract


1 cup all-purpose flour


1/2 cup sugar


1/2 teaspoon baking soda


1/2 teaspoon baking powder


1/4 teaspoon salt


6 tablespoons softened butter, cut into 8 pieces.

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

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

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

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

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

Printable recipe.

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

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

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

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