5 second rule

You don't have to get crabs.

A cake can be many things: a sweet indulgence, a celebratory totem, or a vehicle for leftover fish.

At some point, the universe anointed the crab to represent the fish-cake genre, and this has always bothered me. I've got nothing against crab cakes, but what about all the other sea-dwelling creatures who would give anything, anything to cozy up to some mashed potatoes and hit a skillet of hot, shimmering oil?

The first time I ate a fish cake bound with mashed potato was in Kilifi, a coastal town in Kenya. The year was 1996, and Colin and I were traveling with four friends during the summer between our two Peace Corps years in Eritrea. Our group's nurse, Debra, was married to a Kenyan, and through a stroke of good luck and good timing, she offered us up her house for a week. We flew from Asmara to Nairobi via Addis Ababa, took a bus to Mombassa, and finally made our way to the house, arriving late in the evening. We all immediately took long, hot showers and marveled at how much dirt had accumulated during our first year of service.

The next few days were a whirlwind of exploring, swimming, watching our friend climb a coconut tree, playing chess, reading books, and trying not to get attacked by monkeys. (We thought they were cute, but a few locals assured us they were vicious pests.) We also said jambo a lot. Although we were getting proficient in Tigrinya, the language we'd been studying in Eritrea, our Swahili was pretty much limited to that single word.

Debra had encouraged us to pay a bit extra to have her sometime cook, Kahindi, prepare some of our meals. As volunteers, we'd been used to cooking the simplest of foods on a kerosene stove the size of a coffee can. That someone else might cook for us on this trip was the height of luxury. I felt like an oil baroness. 

One day, the doorbell rang. We watched as Kahindi handed a fisherman some bills in exchange for a few large fish caught just outside our door.

Soon, Kahindi set to work. He cooked the fish, chopped some herbs, and boiled and mashed a whole mess of potatoes.

I wish I could remember every detail about his process. Sadly, I can't.

I do, however, remember this: six twentysomething friends enjoying hot, crisp, fish-and-potato cakes, feeling clean, relaxed, and carefree on a late summer evening, tucked in a borrowed house, happy and pampered on the warm Kenyan coast.

...

Recipe for Halibut Potato Cakes 

Last Sunday, I found myself in the enviable position of having some leftover grilled halibut in the fridge. It was Mother's Day, and my family had treated me so well -- there'd been breakfast in bed with waffles, fruit, and bacon (so much bacon!), and a long stroll through Hakone Gardens, one of my favorite spots in Silicon Valley. That night, I wanted to cook something special, so I boiled up some potatoes and got to work.

This recipe was inspired both by my visit to Kenya and the Corn and Cod Cakes from Tara Mataraza Desmond's and Joy Manning's wonderful cookbook, Almost Meatless.

Makes 4 servings (about 13 fish cakes)

1 large Russet potato (about 3/4 pound), peeled and cut in 1" chunks
1 egg
4 slices crisp, crumbled, cooked bacon
2 cups cold, flaked leftover cooked fish (such as halibut or cod), any bones removed
1/2 cup whole wheat or regular panko 
A few tablespoons chopped fresh dill, divided

1/2 cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons drained capers, rough-chopped
Fresh lemon juice, to taste, plus lemon wedges, for serving 

3 tablespoons olive oil, plus more as needed, for the skillet
Arugula or salad greens, if desired 

Boil the potato chunks until very tender. Mash. Cool.

In a large bowl, whisk the egg. Fold in the cooled mashed potato, bacon, fish, panko, and dill to taste. Season with pepper and mix well with a fork.

Using a standard-size ice cream scoop, dole out scoops of the fish-potato mixture onto a lined baking sheet. (Each portion should weigh roughly 2-1/2 ounces, but this isn't terribly important.) Once you've portioned them all out, use your hands to form them into neat patties, about 2-1/2 inches in diameter. Cover and refrigerate at least 90 minutes, or up to several hours, until cold and firm.

To make the sauce, whisk the mayonnaise, capers, 1 to 2 tablespoons minced dill, and lemon juice to taste. Season with salt and pepper.

To cook the cakes, place a large cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. When hot, add 3 tablespoons of the olive oil. Cook the halibut-potato cakes until crisp and completely cooked through, about 4 or 5 minutes per side, working in batches and adding additional oil if necessary.

Serve over arugula or salad greens, if desired, and pass lemon wedges alongside.
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Beauty can be simple.

Close your eyes. Now picture the most beautiful places you've ever been.

Where are you?

I'm in Santorini, Greece, with its white-washed buildings and its azure sea. In Interlaken, Switzerland, with its pasture so green it makes my eyelids quiver. In Maui, where a double-rainbow crests over the Pacific. In Norway, where fjords jut in and out in majestic glory. In the Dead Sea. In Cordova, Alaska. In a color-splashed market in Mexico City.

It's no secret that I love to travel, and I've had the chance to see some incredibly lovely sights over the years. But there's beauty everywhere. And some of the most stunning spots are those within a few hours of where I live: Big Sur, Mendocino, and even a small cottage in Woodside, California, home to a talented writer/photographer/artist named Erin Gleeson.

I mentioned in a prior post that I'd recently attended a book party in honor of Yvette van Boven's new cookbook, Home Made Summer. Yvette is based in Amsterdam and Paris, and even though Erin and Yvette had never met, Erin offered to host a party at her home during Yvette's U.S. book tour. My friend Emma invited me to tag along as her guest.

When I walked down the wooden steps to Erin's home, my mouth formed one of those cartoon o's.

Towering trees dwarfed the house on all sides. And Erin, in her quiet way and with her artist's sensibility, did an outstanding job both deferring to nature, and complementing it.

Nibbling on dishes from Yvette's book and Erin's blog (called The Forest Feast), we guests reveled in a place so natural and unique, it rivaled many of the better-known spots to which I've traveled.

Because beauty can be near or far, sophisticated or stripped down.

It can be luxurious, like expensive jewels.

Or humble, like necklaces strung not with gems, but with kumquats.

Don't look too far or too hard.

I promise. You'll find it.

Lasso the sun. Then eat it.

Nothing, nothing is more comforting, more satisfying, more likely to cure what ails you than a hot bowl of buttery, cheesy polenta, except perhaps a hot bowl of buttery, cheesy polenta that you can divide in two and turn into a completely separate meal the following day.

If you've never made polenta, or haven't made it in a while, let me assure you that it's not difficult. A nonstick saucepan helps, if you have one, plus an apron, because it can sputter. Beyond that, it's essentially cornmeal mush, which makes it about as unfussy as these things go. You stay close by, you keep the heat lowish, you let it bubble, gurgle, sigh, and undulate in the pan, and about 25 minutes later, you have polenta. (It actually threatens to be ready sooner, but I really try to wait to pull it until the 25 minute mark. This gentle, slow cooking ensures a creamier result.)

Then, when it's nice and relaxed, just porridgey and mellow and open to just about anything, I'm very naughty and dump a whole bunch of cheddar cheese on it. I may also accidentally fold in a pat (or two) of butter. And dust it with black pepper. And toss in some spinach. And scallions. And you know what? If you happen to have some leftover pot roast (I did), it's just lovely hanging out on top. If not, the polenta's still great.

But here's the key. To extend the euphoria, you want to divide it in half right away, right now, because otherwise I swear you'll eat the whole thing in one swoop. (I know you.)  Scrape half of it into a greased square brownie pan. Tomorrow, you shall fry up this second batch, and you shall eat it with eggs.

But today, today is for you. Grab a spoon. Sink it in the still-soft polenta. Isn't that nice?

Look!

The sun, shining outside until moments ago, is suddenly here. First in your saucepan, then on your spoon, and now, finally, in you.

Good job, cowboy.

...

Cheddar Scallion Polenta, two ways

I love the combination of cheese, scallions, spinach, and black pepper here, flavorings that work equally well in the soft-style polenta as they do when you fry up the firmer squares the following day. On day two, prepare your eggs however you like, but a nice loose yolk oozing over the crispy patties? Magical.

Makes about 10 servings over 2 meals (4 servings soft polenta, 6 servings crisp)

1-1/2 cups polenta (coarse cornmeal)
1 bunch scallions, trimmed, thinly sliced into rings
6 ounces sharp white Cheddar, grated (about 1-1/4 cups) 
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 cup baby spinach, rough-chopped
7 big grinds freshly cracked black pepper 
Olive oil
6 eggs

In a large, preferably nonstick saucepan, bring 6 cups generously salted water to a boil. Stream in the polenta, reduce the heat, and cook uncovered at a gentle gurgle until thick, stirring frequently. This will take about 20 to 25 minutes. Meanwhile, coat a 9" square baking pan with nonstick spray and set aside.

When the polenta is ready, remove from the heat. Fold in half the scallions, the cheese, butter, spinach, and black pepper. Scrape half of this mixture into the prepared baking sheet and smooth the top. Let cool to room temperature (about 15 minutes). Then cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

Meanwhile, eat the soft polenta that remains in the saucepan, sprinkled with the remaining scallions.

The next day, cut the firm polenta into 6 large squares. Shallow-fry the squares until very crisp on both sides in a generous glug of olive oil. Nudge the squares aside, and fry a few eggs while you're at it. Drape the eggs over the polenta. There. Heaven and earth and the bright yellow sun, all in happy harmony.

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My arugula is better than your cats.

I've been 93 percent housebound for going on 10 days now (don't ask), which has given me plenty of time to reflect on things of extraordinary value. Things like my dryer's lint screen (how can something so simple work so well?), the inside of my bathrobe (so soft!), and why an out-of-print textbook I need for research costs $289 on Amazon (anyone?). 

Foodwise, I've alternated between two poles: cooking up a storm of comfort foods -- polenta, pot roast, eggs, rice, and noodles -- and inhaling reams of produce so vivid it's like a CSA set up shop in my colon. 

I've also had a chance to watch more food TV than anyone has a right to, and let me just say for the record that re-broadcasts of Nigella Bites from 2007, now on Cooking Channel, really are worth their salt. All Lawson has to do is call bagna cauda a "velvety gunge" (Party Girl episode), and I'm putty in her hands. Please don't take this as an endorsement of her role on the abomination otherwise known as The Taste, however, which just may be the worst TV show ever made. And I once saw Yes, Dear.

Amid the tumult, one constant in the past few days has been my obsessive compulsion to check the arugula plants growing outside my back door. My stepmother got them with me earlier this spring (she also bought me a FIG TREE), and she assured me that despite my questionable gardening history, they're easygoing plants that would certainly take. And you know what? She was right. I now have an arugula forest. I'm thinking of building a treehouse in one of the sturdier shoots.

Two, three, four times a day, I walk out back, feel the sun on my face, greet the gossipy doves nesting in the eaves, and pinch off a fistful of greens to shove in my mouth or toss more decorously into some semblance of a salad. 

And here's the weird part, which won't surprise gardening sophisticates but may stun those of you who, like me, still find gardening more magic than logic: the more arugula I pluck, the more arugula I get. Pluck, get, pluck, get. If I just keep plucking it, eventually I'll become one of those cat-ladies suffocating in her own home, but my cats will be Italianate green leaves with a bracing, peppery bite.

I could give you about 5 billion ideas for how to use this much arugula, but let's start with the one below. You can also weigh in with your favorite uses, if you've got pet arugulas lounging about at your home as well.

...

Recipe for Tangerine Arugula Salad with lightly pickled dates and pepitas

Hurry and make this salad soon, before tangerines disappear altogether. Or substitute another brightly-colored fruit. There's no reason why strawberries, cherries, or even apricots (when they appear) wouldn't be equally lovely here as well. I owe a debt of gratitude to Yotam Ottolenghi's Jerusalem, which taught me that splashing dates with vinegar delivers a flavorgift so sublime you'll want to smack yourself for not thinking of it sooner.

Serves 2

3 good-sized Medjool dates, pitted and slivered
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons raw, unsalted pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
1 tablespoon each lime juice and extra-virgin olive oil
1 generous handful arugula
4-6 tangerines, peel and pith removed, sliced
1/4 cup pea shoots or other tender spring herbs

Place dates cut-sides up in a small bowl. Splash with the vinegar. Set aside until the vinegar absorbs.

Meanwhile, toast the pepitas in a dry skillet with a pinch of salt and pepper until they darken slightly, about 3 minutes.

Shake the lime juice, the oil, and another pinch of salt and pepper in a covered jar, or whisk well.

Layer the arugula, pickled dates, and tangerines in two shallow bowls. Sprinkle with the toasted pepitas and pea shoots or herbs. Dress with the lime vinaigrette, and enjoy right away.

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9+ New Cookbooks for Mothers, or others

Thank god for post-its.

In the days and weeks leading up to Mother's Day, I jot down ideas for little things I'd love and stick them all over the house: on computer monitors, mirrors, the refrigerator, the TV. This way, no one has to second-guess what's bound to please me (a new tea mug), and gift-burps like cake-scented candles are handily avoided.

For you, I've been piling up my favorite new(ish) cookbooks in anticipation of this loveliest of maternal holidays. Consider gifting one or two to the mother-figure in your life, or -- for a little self-love -- scribble your favorite titles on neon post-its and stick them around your home. 

From the top:

Crackers & Dips, by Ivy Manning (Chronicle Books, to be released on May 7, 2013). Manning's newest cookbook, her third, is a sweet, slender volume dedicated to homemade crackers and their spreadable companions. With its perky design, snappy writing, and approachable recipes for things like Everything Flatbread Crackers, Tangy Cheddar Cheese Crackers, and Brown Butter Hazelnut Crackers, this book takes the mystery out of cracker-making and makes the process accessible and fun. If you're a fan of crispy, crunchy snacks, learn how to bake up the classics. Prepare to experiment with some unusual flours and intriguing flavor combinations as well.

The New Persian Kitchen, by Louisa Shafia (Ten Speed Press, 2013). Shafia's second book (her first was Lucid Food) has already won a place in my heart and on my shelf. Another smaller-framed hardback, this love-note to the author's Persian heritage serves as a welcome primer to the big flavors and bold colors of ancient Iran, but with Shafia's modern twist. Break out your sumac, your saffron, your pomegranate molasses, your tamarind. You'll love playing with the Persian pantry and infusing simple dishes (chicken, fish, vegetables, desserts) with colorful, heady, Middle Eastern flair.

The Blue Bottle Craft of Coffee: Growing, Roasting, and Drinking, with Recipes, by James Freeman, Caitlin Freeman, and Tara Duggan (Ten Speed Press, 2012). This book is for all the coffee-loving mamas out there, and I know there are a lot of you. I also know that San Francisco's Blue Bottle Coffee inspires mad-love, even though I myself drink {let's say it together now} tea. This sophisticated book, with its rich, coffee-colored palette, is part educational adventure, part practical guidebook. You'll learn a ton about the ins-and-outs of coffee-making: sourcing, processing, growing, and brewing. Then, you can play in the kitchen, making sophisticated sweet and savory treats like olive oil and rosemary shortbread, brandy cake with arborio rice and almonds, and brown sugar and winter spice granola. This book is for the culinary adventurer with a deep-passion for coffee. Dilettantes need not apply. 

Burma, by Naomi Duguid (Artisan, 2012). Duguid is a bad-ass adventurer in the best possible way, one of those brave souls who immerses herself in other cultures for a living. An intrepid photographer and intensely curious food wanderer, Duguid paints a portrait with her words, her recipes, her lens; in coming along with her on this journey, you'll find yourself transported. Discover Burma through fried shallots, lemongrass, chiles, galangal, shrimp, noodles, and endless pots of rice. This is one book you'll want to take to bed. I promise you vivid dreams.

Home Made Summer, by Yvette van Boven (Stewart, Tabori, and Chang, 2013). I'm completely smitten with this quirky, joyful, and altogether original sun-splashed collection, van Boven's third. I'll save most of my praise for a separate post, as I had a chance to meet the author last weekend at a stunning outdoor party deep in the woods. (Stay tuned for lots of photos from that event.) For now, you'll want to take my word for it: this playful cookbook is quite different and delivers a sense of wonder and a spirited outlook on life's small culinary joys. 

Vegetable Literacy, by Deborah Madison (Ten Speed Press, 2013). Although I find this comprehensive tome a touch overwhelming as I'm neither a botanist nor an expert gardener, I nonetheless have the utmost respect for Madison and her unparalleled contributions to the canon of vegetable cookery. This book is for anyone who finds bliss communing with seeds, seedlings, and edible plants in the great outdoors, and then bringing their harvest into the kitchen. It's the book I would definitely buy for my own mother, a devoted and highly skilled gardener, were she still alive today.

50 Best Plants on the Planet, by Cathy Thomas (Chronicle Books, 2013). Another plant-forward cookbook (though there are meat recipes in here), this one, brought to you by the fine folks at Melissa's Produce, is on this list for a personal reason. Two questions that followed me around while promoting Ripe last year were: 1) Do you talk about the main nutrients in each fruit and vegetable? and... 2) Do you have the nutritional breakdown for all of your recipes? And my answers were: sometimes, and no. This was a concerted choice, as I don't personally see produce through a nutrient-lens, but it became clear to me over time that many people do. Filled with tips, solid information, and recipes across the breakfast-lunch-dinner-dessert spectrum, 50 Best Plants on the Planet is bound to please any health-focused, nutrient-loving, produce-centric cook.

Bakeless Sweets, by Faith Durand (Stewart, Tabori, and Chang, releases May 7, 2013). Durand may be best-known as the executive editor of Apartment Therapy's The Kitchn, but here she offers a lively ode to cool treats -- all of which can be made without an oven. Beautifully designed and photographed in feel-good pinks, reds, and yellows, Durand's collection is ideal for non-bakers who still possess a substantial sweet tooth. Covering panna cottas, puddings, trifles, mousses, and much more, these recipes blow open the dessert world, extending its borders way beyond the cookies, pies, and traditional cakes that come to mind when you think: I-need-something-sweet.

Modern Mediterranean, by Melia Marden (Stewart, Tabori, and Chang, 2013). A year or two ago while I was visiting New York, my agent Jenni took me to lunch at a terrific restaurant called The Smile. What followed was a wondrous meal of unfussy dishes -- small plates, sandwiches, salads -- filled with bright, crisp Mediterranean flavors. The Smile's executive chef Melia Marden has just published her first cookbook, a color-forward explosion of inspired dishes rooted in her Greek-American heritage. This cookbook is one I've opened often, and cooked from even more, in the few weeks since it arrived. I found its large trim-size a bit odd at first, but I've come to love the bold fonts and how much breathing room each relatively simple recipe has on the page. Just looking at it makes me realize I can make these recipes for dinner tonight, and make them well, and that they will satisfy my family each and every time.

Need more ideas? Here are some additional titles on my radar that I don't yet own but will soon. Emma Christensen's True Brews: How to craft fermented cider, beer, wine, sake, soda, kefir, and kombucha at home is on its way (it releases on May 14), and as Emma is a great friend and all-around terrific drinkmaster, I'm excited to share more about her book after its release. You may also want to join me in checking out Gaby Dalkin's brand new Absolutely Avocados, Melissa Lanz's The Fresh 20, Michael Pollan's newest treatise, Cooked, and Mary Roach's ode to the digestive tract, Gulp. 

For if there's anything a mother truly wants on Mother's Day, it's to be fed, fêted, loved, and -- above all -- schooled about what goes on inside her stomach.

Today I was a fallow field.

Today I was a fallow field. 

Outside, undisturbed, I sat sun-drenched. Book open, eyes drifting. First I saw a printed page. Then, the inside of my eyelids.

I may have dozed.

Twice.

We always go, don't we? We wake, eat, scurry, work, greet -- (hello, goodbye) -- drive, cook, clean, read, kiss, yawn.

At night, for some of us, sleep doesn't come. Gears turn in endless loops, our tape-deck caught on autoreverse. Our off-button's cracked, our on-button jammed, stuck, locked into place.

We are plots forever planted.

Rain, sun, sprout, grow, tend, pluck, and then, before we look up, before we draw a single, cleansing breath, the cycle starts anew.

Except last week.

Last week everything screeched to a sudden, terrifying halt.

Trauma. Drama. Soul-crushing, horror-gazing, disbelieving, heart-searching, peace-rending, body-aching, car-chasing, fear-numbing halt.

And then.

A forced re-set.

(For us, the lucky ones.)

Today, for an hour, I sat in the sun. Listened to the sound of nothing. Didn't let my body move. Absorbed the rays of solace, peace, and warming calm. Told inner voices shhhhhhh.

Today I was a fallow field.

Tomorrow?

...

Recipe for Golden Frittata with potatoes, peas, and parmesan

I had in my head a frittata-vision, eggs sun-golden, peas emerald, potatoes ruby-red. So I made it, for you. This is perfectly lovely hot or warm, but it's especially outstanding at room temperature. This means you can make it ahead, and then go outside and forget about it, and everything else, for a good long while.

Serves 4

4 medium new potatoes, unpeeled, scrubbed
4 eggs
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon heavy cream
1/8 teaspoon dry mustard
1/8 teaspoon turmeric
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/3 cup fresh English peas
3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Handful pea shoots or tender spring herbs, for scattering

Set the potatoes in a small pot of cool water. Bring up to a boil. Simmer until tender, about 10 minutes, give or take. Cool completely. Slice thickly.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk the eggs, yolk, cream, dry mustard, and turmeric. Season generously with salt and pepper. Flip on the broiler with a rack about 5 inches from the heat source.

Heat the olive oil in a 9-1/2 inch cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Add the potato slices, and crisp on both sides until nicely browned. Add the egg mixture, the peas, and the Parmesan. Cook, lifting up portions of the frittata as it sets, swirling a silicone spatula around the edges to keep everything nice and loose. You want the liquid eggs to flow towards the edges and then slip underneath so it begins to set first in portions, and then all around. After about 3 minutes on the stove, transfer the skillet to the broiler. Broil, watching carefully, until puffed, golden brown, and set, 1-1/2 to 2 minutes only.

Remove from the oven. Cool to room temperature, if desired. Add the pea shoots or herbs just before serving. (If they sit too long on a hot or even warm frittata, they'll wilt.) Cut into wedges.

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Evolve, or die?

WHEN do you take something comfortable -- an attitude, a philosophy, a way of moving in the world -- and morph it into something new and scary? And risk spectacular failure? And become a beginner, again?

This question has consumed me for the past several days. It's a hummingbird, fluttering in place, diverting my attention from everything else around.

Each year I attend IACP, a professional conference that speeds my pulse and forces me to re-assess my career trajectory. Am I doing this stuff right? Making quick enough progress? Keeping up with what's new / what's hot / what's coming down the pike?

The answers rush forth: sort of, maybe, not really.

In a professional landscape where Pinterest, video, and co-branding are king, where does that leave the lonely writer, the one who used to get by with her keyboard, her tea, and her moments of quiet reflection? Is there a place for old-school, single-platform, words-on-a-screen content anymore? Do people still read, even? Or do they just clickety-clack, leaping online from one diversion to the next?

I've been told to mobilize. Not to get moving, which is what this word used to mean, but to make my work mobile-phone-friendly. Apparently you're all reading me on your cellphones now. Colin tells me next year everyone will be using Google Glass. (I think I just had a heart attack writing that sentence.) I need multimedia. Content-sharing. Corporate partners. Bells on top of whistles on top of bells on top of whistles. I need fewer words, more images, lots of podcasts, giveaways, co-branding relationships, and a coding team to optimize my bliggityblooblamblahblah if I'm ever going to survive in this field.

So I'm left with choices. Do I evolve? Risk-take? Fail, get up, try again, fail again, and maybe, just maybe, discover some wonderful new platform, ability, passion, proclivity I never knew I had? Or do I ignore it all, and just keep on keeping on, writing words, thinking thoughts, snapping photos, authoring books, cooking (for god's sake) and standing by as my audience defects to shinier, brighter, louder, more modern media forms that flash their perfect pearly teeth and seduce like snake charmers?

What's the answer?

Maybe we can work through this together.

You bring your advice. And I'll bring the cookies.

...

Recipe for Meyer Lemon Pistachio Chocolate Chip Cookies

Old-fashioned and newfangled, rooted in tradition and careening towards modernity, these cookies offer lots of lemon, a bit of coarse salt, and a heap of pistachios to keep up with the times. And yet, I can assure you: they never forget where they came from.

If you like these, you'll also love these. 

Makes about 45 cookies

1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon sea salt
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
Zest of 1 Meyer (or standard) lemon
1 cup unsalted pistachios
1 cup semi-sweet or dark chocolate chips
Additional lemon zest and crunchy fleur de sel, for sprinkling

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line your baking sheets with parchment.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk the flour, oats, baking soda and salt.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and two sugars until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, and then the vanilla and lemon zest, beating until incorporated. Beat in the flour-oat mixture, in two additions. Fold in the nuts and chocolate.

Using a 1-1/2 inch scoop, divide the batter among parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake for about 14 minutes, until nicely browned. Cool. Just before serving, sprinkle each cookie with additional lemon zest and a scant pinch of fleur de sel.

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You just have to go.

Getting away is getting more important.

To me, at least.

It matters less where we go than that we go.

A plane, a car, a train... it makes no difference.

It's the getting, the moving, the leaving, the arriving, the way a new destination looks. The light, the air, the wind, the colors, they wash away everyday stressors and samenesses. They thrust us out of our routine and push us back toward each other.

We went to Mendocino last weekend. The drive, on a Friday night, was long. Five hours, maybe. We stopped for dinner about an hour from our destination. "This place looks good," Colin said, parking the car in front of a restaurant. Turns out we were in Boonville, a small town I'd never heard of on Highway 128. 

We entered Lauren's. 

Look, I'm a planner. I always want recommendations before I go anywhere, try anything. And I'm starting to realize how silly this is, how limiting. Because everyone's tastes are different, and when you get a list of must-try restaurants and must-see sights and must-experience experiences, you end up with expectations than can be just as easily unmet as met. When you go blank slated, you just... flow. 

So I'd never heard of Boonville, or Lauren's restaurant, and Colin just stopped the car at a random point when our stomachs rumbled and we needed gas.

Serendipity stepped right in and did a magical little twirl.

Lauren's was friendly and real, unassuming and delicious. A teenage couple held hands across a table. A four-top of friends broke bread. Tattooed twentysomethings played pool behind our table. And the food was terrific.

I had the best salad I've had in months -- a simple thing with pears and arugula and local blue cheese. It wasn't original, or epic, but it tasted just exactly right. The kitchen made me a double (I've always want to say that: Make me a double!) because I was hungry and the salad sounded small. So when it came out, all large and substantial, I was thrilled, and it fortified me for the rest of the drive. I relaxed into that salad with everything I had.

We spent the weekend on the beach. Jutting rocks, wet sand, sea glass, fat droplets of intermittent rain. We returned to the room and let our socks dry before the fireplace, let the sand from our shoes muck up the carpet. (Sorry, housekeeping.) 

I kept staying back as we walked along the surf. I watched my family from a distance. I liked witnessing them from different vantage points, different perspectives.

I snapped the above shot of Alex approaching Colin and Andrew. The light there was surreal, an oldenlight, a light from another time.

And then the weekend ended, and we packed the car, and drove the twisty route back towards home, stopping once more in Boonville, my new favorite town.

But don't take my word for it.

Journey elsewhere, anywhere, wherever your car, your feet, your footsteps take you.

You just have to go.

When you need a little refreshment.

I blame bagged salad.

Not for everything, of course. Not for disease and war and famine and robocalls, but I do blame bagged salad for its lack of transparency.

Am I supposed to wash it? It says I don't have to. It says things like: Triple-washed! Ready to eat! But then it also says things like, "To refresh, rinse under cool water before serving."

This is a mixed message.

This is like saying, "Ready to eat. But cook first."

Or, "Pre-soaked. Soak before use."

I don't know what refresh means. Spritz it with cucumber water? Serve it a beer? 

So, I just wash it. Again.

Occasionally I'll skip this step, but then I don't enjoy my salad as much. Then I feel guilty that I'm eating unrefreshed, tired, stressed out salad, and it doesn't taste as good to me. I think this is why I've basically stopped buying bagged greens. What's the point? Because I wash them again, there's no real time-savings. I also prefer to spend my money on other things, like twice as many non-bagged greens. 

Do you ever buy greens at the farmers' market? It's fun to pick out baby everything there. Baby kale. Baby chard. Baby gem lettuces. Baby spinach. The farmers' market has lots of babies. I try not to pick up the human babies and just stick to the greens, but it isn't always easy.

Next time you make a salad, change up your normal greens routine. If you tend to grab romaine, get spicy arugula instead. Or try watercress. Or red leaf. Or butter lettuce. Or even cabbage. I know! Cabbage isn't even a lettuce! YOU CAN GO CRAZY!

Also, don't forget to make something quick and special to refresh your salad. It may have had a rough couple of days, and a handful of sweet, buttered nuts or crisp, homemade croutons would really show it how much you care.

A beer wouldn't hurt either.

...

Recipe for Salad in the Round with buttered agave walnuts

I had fun playing with the shapes and colors in this recipe. I was going to call it 1980s Bat Mitzvah Salad since every girl I knew who had a Bat Mitzvah in the 80s had a pink-and-green themed party, but I'm going with Salad in the Round instead. I like the way the radishes and cucumbers echo each other shapewise. Those of you celebrating Easter this weekend might like the spring colors as well.

Serves 2 as a lunch salad, 4 as a side

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 tablespoon agave nectar
1 cup walnut halves
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
4 generous handfuls (about 4 packed cups) mixed baby greens (I used mesclun, baby spinach, and baby arugula)
4 pretty radishes, sliced
1 Persian cucumber (a slender, narrow variety -- by all means, substitute any cucumber), sliced
Handful of mint leaves

For the vinaigrette: 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil (plus more for drizzling), 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar,  1 teaspoon Dijon mustard, 1 teaspoon agave nectar, sea salt and black pepper

Line a baking sheet with parchment or a silicone liner.

Warm the butter and 1 tablespoon agave in a small, nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. When the butter melts and foams, add the walnuts and salt. Shake the skillet to coat the nuts well. Let the liquid bubble and the nuts toast, tossing a few times, about 3 minutes. Scrape onto the lined baking sheet to cool.

Combine the greens, vegetables, and mint leaves in a salad bowl or on a large platter. Scatter with the walnuts. Shake the vinaigrette ingredients in a small jar, or whisk until emulsified. Pour over the salad, toss, and serve. Refresh with a final drizzle of olive oil, in case it's thirsty.

printable pdf

 

C-cups, for dessert.

Consider the macaroon.

The density of the thing.

Nothing cupcakey about it.

A macaroon swaggers, all heft and chew and textural intrigue.

What's that in your teeth? A cat hair? A frayed shred of floss? Nah: it's a coconut thread, a happy memento of a just-downed macaroon. Ease it out, maybe set it on the mantel. It's a totem, an idol, an emblem of a life well-lived. 

I recognize that some (unhappy) people view coconut with derision, with barely concealed disdain. That to them, a macaroon is a blight on humanity's dessert buffet.

To those people I say: make like Dionne Warwick, and walk on by.

But for the macaroon aesthetes among you? Thanks for sticking around.

I've got something special in store.

...

Recipe for Coconut Macaroon Cups with assorted fillings

I wanted to create a twist on David Lebovitz's perfect coconut macaroon. If you've never made his recipe, you should. 

In this modified version, I've used as many forms of coconut as I could: sweetened flaked, unsweetened desiccated, coconut oil, coconut flour. These items make the cup "shells" dairy- and gluten-free, but if that's a non-issue for you and you don't want to buy the coconut oil and coconut flour in particular, go ahead and sub butter for the oil and all-purpose for the coconut flour, unless you're serving these for Passover. (Watch your fillings, too, if that's the case.)

When filling the cups, use a generous hand with the jam, chocolate, and fruit. Because the cups are less sweet and a bit sturdier (re: drier) than traditional macaroons, these shine brightest when filled with abandon.

Makes 12 filled coconut cups

1-1/2 tablespoons coconut oil, melted
1-1/4 cups sweetened, flaked coconut
2-1/4 cups unsweetened shredded coconut (medium-shred preferred)
Scant 1/3 cup coconut flour
6 egg whites
1 teaspoon salt
Finely grated zest of 1 small lemon (optional)
Heaping 1/3 cup granulated sugar
Fillings (quantities will vary depending on how many of each type of filling you make): melted chocolate, sliced fruit, preserves, (maybe even sorbet?)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Generously brush the muffin cups with melted coconut oil.

In a large nonstick saucepan, combine all the remaining ingredients, except the fillings. Set over medium heat and cook, stirring constantly, for 5 to 7 minutes. The mixture will cohere into a mass, which you'll want to break up and move around the pan. The idea is to dry it out a bit before it bakes.

Use an ice cream scoop to divide evenly among the muffin cups. Coat the back of the scoop with nonstick spray, then make an indentation in each cup, packing the mounds down and creating hollows for the eventual fillings.

Bake for 15-17 minutes, until the tops of the cups are toasty brown. Let cool. Slide a sharp knife around each cup to loosen, then scoop out carefully with a spoon. Fill as desired.

printable pdf