5 second rule

Potato-related tidbits and delicacies.

Whoever coined the term "noodle bowl" knew a thing or two about marketing. Knew, for example, that "flat plate of noodles with stuff on top" sounds dreary and unimaginative, whereas "noodle bowl with tidbits and delicacies" sounds au courant and hip. The latter could easily command $12.95, or more.

I just Googled "potato bowl" to see if, by the same logic, I could lay claim to the concoction pictured above, and you know what came up? The Famous Idaho Potato Bowl, formerly known as the Humanitarian Bowl, a Boise-based NCAA-sanctioned football game; Potato Bowl USA, a weeklong sporting and spud festival in Grand Forks, North Dakota and East Grand Forks, Minnesota; and KFC's Mashed Potato Bowl, described thusly:

We start with a generous serving of our creamy mashed potatoes, layered with sweet corn and loaded with bite-sized pieces of crispy chicken. Then we drizzle it all with our signature home-style gravy and top it off with a shredded three-cheese blend. It's all your favorite flavors coming together.

For the record, that's not "all my favorite flavors." (Where's the coconut?) That description makes me want to go deep in the forest and eat twigs forevermore.

So I'm now laying claim to -- and would like to brand -- the World's Finest Crispy Potato Bowl. What it lacks in signature home-style gravy, cheese, chicken, football, and humanitarian benefit, it more than makes up for in tidbits and delicacies. 

Only $12.95, for a limited time only.

...

Recipe for Crispy Potato Bowl with avocado, bacon, and egg

Calling this a recipe is a bit of a stretch. It's really a quartet of shining soloists who also happen to play exceptionally well together. For each serving, you'll need:

1 medium potato (I like Yukon Gold), diced
Olive oil
1 large egg
1 strip bacon, cooked until crisp
A few spoonfuls diced avocado (1/4 to 1/2 per person, depending on size -- of person and avocado)
Salsa, maybe 

Parboil the potato(es) until just tender. Drain. (I tend to do a few at a time, the night before. I drizzle them with olive oil and season them up with salt and pepper. Refrigerate.)

Come breakfast time, heat a generous glug of olive oil in a roomy saute pan (I use nonstick). When hot, add the cold diced potatoes and saute until crisp and browned. Check seasonings. Transfer to your favorite breakfast bowl. Add a bit more olive oil to the same pan and fry an egg to your liking. Set the egg atop the potatoes.

Sprinkle with the crumbled bacon and diced avocado. Serve with salsa, or don't.

printable pdf 

A cookbook emerges, slowly, soon.

On October 28, 2009, I announced in this space that I'd just signed a contract with Running Press to produce a cookbook with Paulette Phlipot, a photographer I deeply admired. We'd already worked on the proposal together for over a year.

To your left (and your right, smaller) is the result: Ripe: A Fresh, Colorful Approach to Fruits and Vegetables.

Sharing this book cover with you after a long incubation period feels pretty great. It feels like a new bar of soap that's still smooth and promising. Like a soft sweater that hasn't started pilling. Like the first taste of an ice cream cone before other people in your family have taken their licks.

We still have a ways to go, of course. The book won't officially appear in stores until March/April, but early adopters can go ahead and pre-order it online now. (If you do, please let me know so I can properly thank you.)

I'll be dribbling out more info -- letting you lick my ice cream cone, if you will, but in a wholesome, G-rated way --  over the next two months. Paulette is putting together our trailer, for example, and I'll share that with you when it's ready. I also hope to pre-release a few recipes here, too.

For now, please mosey over to our sparkly new Ripe cookbook website and poke around. There you'll find a brief description of our book, bits of advance praise, and the pre-order links. You'll also see a Signings & Events tab, since we're starting to schedule appearances. That list will grow over time.

(That little book image in the 5SR sidebar will serve as an easy, permanent portal between the two sites; you can toggle back and forth to see what's on tap as more events take shape. And, as always, you can join me here, too.)

I would love your input as we embark on this leg of our journey. Where else should we consider visiting? What kinds of book-related events do YOU as readers and cooks like to attend? Please go ahead and share any suggestions below. I welcome all ideas, big and small, dreamy and concrete. 

Paulette and I are riding this wave. Please take our hands, and ride along.

Blow your salad to smithereens.

Just hack the whole thing up. 

Your goal with a chopped salad is essentially to do everything but pre-chew the leaves. You slice and dice and slice and dice and slice and dice, reducing all the greens and hard vegetables to miniaturized version of their former selves. Then you deal with whatever fruit or nut you may have in the house, toasting the nuts (or not) and resuscitating any shriveled dried fruits with a splash of vinegar or a dribble of boiling water. Then you tumble these ingredients into a large bowl, moisten with half the dressing, and heap the salad onto a platter. 

The very point of this exercise, an exercise that resembles traditional salad-making in function but not form, is to shake things up for yourself and any other diners who rely on you for sustenance, be they family, freeloaders, or an amalgam of the two.

Too often we -- and by we, I mean I -- do the same things over and over. We serve big leafy salads in gargantuan bowls, we plop a jar of dressing haphazardly on the table, and we forget -- we forget! -- that salad-making is a craft second only to papier-mâché. It is an art, but we overlook this fact in our rush to get something green in front of our families. We're so proud that we're not ripping the bodice from a bag of tater tots that we neglect to make sure the salad is appealing in color, flavor, and texture.

I am not talking about being fancy, or spending a lot of money, or plucking greens from the kale tree in your yard.* I'm simply talking about spending an extra two minutes on your salad so that the people at the table actually want to eat it. And the easiest way to do this is to chop the hell out of the thing if your normal M.O. is to serve leaves the size of pillowcases.

Of course, if you serve chopped salads all the time, please ignore everything I've written, grab your needle, thread, and a good-sized roll of scotch tape, and get to work piecing your chopped up leaves back together. Always go for the element of surprise.

*My son just asked me if kale grew on trees, and I assured him it does not and that you all would know this was a joke. He wasn't so sure.

...

Recipe for Winter Chopped Salad with sesame-ginger vinaigrette

This salad is as flexible as they come. My flavor choices below were inspired by a salad I ate recently at Lyfe Kitchen, a terrific new restaurant near me that I hope to learn more about, and write more about, soon. Their version included edamame, red pepper, broccolini, basil, and lime -- and mine doesn't -- but I tip my hat to them for the inspiration. A note on tomatoes: I can get beautiful local cherry tomatoes here in California, even in January, so I tossed them in. Please leave them out (as well as anything else) if the options near you are less appealing.

Serves 6

For the salad:

1/2 head napa cabbage, finely chopped
Big handful radicchio leaves, finely chopped
Big handful Russian kale, or other purple or red kale, stemmed, leaves finally chopped 
8 small tomatoes, quartered (optional)
1/4 cup dried cherries (if plump, toss them in; if dried out, soak for a few minutes in vinegar or boiling water) 
1/4 cup pomegranate arils
4 to 6 scallions, white and green parts, chopped
1 cup toasted, unsalted cashews
A few leaves of fresh mint, chopped

For the vinaigrette:

2 tablespoons neutral vegetable oil
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon fresh minced ginger root
1 teaspoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds
Salt and pepper, to taste

Combine all the salad ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Combine all the vinaigrette ingredients in a small, covered jar; shake well. Pour half the vinaigrette over the salad; toss through with tongs to distribute evenly. Heap the salad onto a large platter. Serve, passing remaining vinaigrette alongside.

(This salad, even once dressed, will keep for 2 days, covered, in the fridge, so long as you use sturdy greens like kale and cabbage. You'll enjoy less longevity with frillier, more tender varieties.)

printable pdf 

Words taste good, if you learn how to cook them.

A lot of food writing is wonderful. It's lyrical, and evocative. It makes me think and feel and dream and relate in a way other types of writing don't. That's a big part of why I chose this professional path.

But some food writing makes me groan. It’s tired, obvious, and overwrought. It's just so terribly easy to go overboard, to be cutesy, to employ excessive and unwarranted punctuation (!!!), to rely on cliche, and to assume, always, that more is better. More descriptors. More sensory cues. More obscure references to people -- without fleshing out who they are. Why should we care about your aunt's ragù or your neighbor's avgolemono? Who are these people? The key is to paint a picture, and then to step back and make sure the lines and colors and swirls all make sense from afar.

These are the things I tell myself when I sit down to write. And then I still use too many exclamation points.

Words have power, and it takes time, and effort, to choose which ones best represent a meal or, I don’t know, a melon. Sure, I can call it delicious. I can call it luscious.  I can call it “the most amazing melon I’ve ever tasted.”  Yawn.  Why not call it something else entirely? Why not call it a melon whose slippery softness evoked the sweetness of my first kiss, a kiss stolen from the boy who worked in the law library of my father's office in 1985?

Restaurants hire consultants to help them craft menu language to make dishes move faster and maximize profit. There’s a whole science behind the cues people respond to, and while you don’t need an advanced degree to be a food writer, you can employ a few simple tricks to grab someone's attention. You can also train yourself to ferret out awkward phrasing and clunky descriptors.

Think, first, about what words turn you on.  Linguistic resonance is highly personal, so it’s unlikely that your list and mine will be the same. And that's fine. It's good, actually.

For me, the words I'm drawn to come in a rush: warm, soft, soothing, comforting, simple, rustic, caramelized, sweet, hot, cool, melting, refreshing, relaxing, light, creamy, thick, fat, crisp, shocking, clear, clean, blanket, smother, suffocate, dribble, kiss, nestle, cling.

Words I try to avoid: delectable, yummy, amazing, fantastic, delicious, scrumptious, sooooo, great, the best, decadent, phenomenal. I'm sure you can find these words in my writing -- I'm no more perfect than you -- but I think they're a bit lazy. And while lazy's fine every now and again, I don't really want to spend my entire life on the couch in my jammies. (For more on this topic, check out food writing expert Dianne Jacob's post titled "The Worst Food Writing Words.")

Another good tip is to be aware of your pulse. This sounds ridiculous, but hear me out: when I read a beautiful turn of phrase, or a creative simile, or a line of prose that leaps rhythmically off the page without tripping on its own cleverness, my heart flutters. Only a bit, and only for a second, but something happens to my body and I feel, instinctively, that I've hit on something good. That's when I know -- as a writer and a reader -- that the word choice is right. 

Finally, good writing, once consumed, should inspire a moment of quiet reflection. When I finish reading something that moves me, something so well-crafted it forces me to sit completely still in my chair, I know I've hit pay dirt. I may even read it again to drink it in more fully. I want to bathe in good writing, and leave a layer of it on me as I move throughout my day. I'm not talking about my own writing, obviously, but any writing that shimmers with meaning, resonance, beauty, and craft. If I sit there for a minute or two, quietly, without clicking away or turning the page, then the writer's words have found me, reached me, moved me, and left a quiet mark.

Strive for this in your own work, as I do in mine. We may never get there (is there even a there?), but if we both keep trying, the world will continue to swell with beautiful words.

Food aphorisms to close out your year.

The year’s almost up, and I have more to tell you.

*Butter is good. Brown butter is better. Burnt butter is bad. Burnt caramel (ice cream) is good. Salted caramel is good. Salted butter is bad, except when it’s good. Salted pasta water is good. Salt water taffy has never been good, and will therefore always be bad.

*You don’t need an avocado peeler, strawberry huller, corn cob scraper, corn silk remover, peach defuzzer, pineapple slicer, or herb mill. You do, however, need a fondue fork, if you’ve got dried wax in your menorah.

*The only reason not to make chicken stock after you’ve eaten a roast chicken is because you’re lazy, you’ll have to stay up late, and you’ll spill it when transferring it to smaller containers. Do it anyway, for your future self, who is a better person than you will ever be.

*An egg is a miracle. If you’re not a vegan, or allergic, or a chicken, learn to cook a proper egg.

*Call me if you run out of sundried tomatoes. In a moment of weakness, I bought a jar at Costco that’s bigger than Minnesota. 

*For a cool $7, you can buy a rubber mallet at the hardware store. Use it to tap your knife into hard squash (butternut, kabocha, carnival). This tip will save your knife, and possibly your digits. (Thanks, Elise.)

*If ricotta and honey had a baby, I would adopt it.

*Life is too short for bad tea, bad cheese, and bad bagels. Bad cake is okay, though.

*In a pinch, you can save a boring bowl of soup by blanketing it with Gruyère and blasting it with a kitchen torch. When you’re done, use the torch to make crème brûlée, preferably for me.

*Stale panko smells like a warehouse in a sketchy part of town. Throw it out.

*Cookies on a plate are dull. Cookies in a jar are better. Cookies in a bucket are adorable. You should not tie cookies up with ribbon, however, because if you’re that dexterous, you should apply your considerable talents to something more meaningful, like knitting a sweater for the poor, or unknotting the tangled necklaces in my jewelry box.

Happy New Year to you and those in your life. Let's hang out even more in 2012.

A spud can transcend, if you treat it right.

At my college, the annual Latke-Hamantaschen debate drew standing-room only crowds in the Sunken Lounge, a step-down space that cleaved our dining center in two. During the event, two philosophy professors held forth on the relative merits of these foods so central to Jewish tradition. (This is a real thing.)

At the time, I found the debate both comical and rhetorical. After all, it was patently obvious, to me at least, that hamantaschen would always be far superior. With tender, triangular pastry and sweet, peekaboo fillings, hamantaschen owned my heart in a way greasy fried latkes never could.

 

And here's why: In all my years of latke-eating, I’d never had one that was truly transcendent. They were either too thick, or pasty, or half-raw in the middle, or all of the above. They weren’t offensive, but they just weren’t good. Eating a mediocre latke is like eating a Fed Ex box that has spent the night in the rain.

 

Several years ago, when I met my friend Alison, things changed. A few families, including mine, gathered for what was the first of many Hanukkah parties we would share, often at our friend Julia's, but occasionally at my house, depending on the year. Alison would arrive early, bearing potatoes, onions, matzoh meal, and the kicker: her traditional latke recipe.

There was nothing earth-shattering about the recipe, but for a food that’s all about balance and proportion – the right amount of potato to onion, the right amount of binder, the right amount to dole out for each pancake – it did the trick. I also watched her squeeze the living daylights out of the vegetables before she added the other ingredients, a step about which many latke-makers are a bit too relaxed. You want to squeeze that mixture until it weeps its very soul into your paper towels.

 

The other secret?  I’ll tell you two. First, you need to watch your oil like a hawk. If it’s not hot enough, your latkes will absorb the oil and become flaccid. If it’s too hot, they’ll char. Tune that stove dial up and down like a radio knob, adjusting its volume until it’s pitch perfect. (When stove-top frying, oil will naturally rise and lower in temperature over time.)  Second, the moment you remove the latkes from the oil and set them on paper towels, salt those babies. If you wait until later to perform this crucial task, the salt will never become one with the latkes.

 

Happy Hanukkah. I hope your week is filled with light, and your platters overflow with crispy, transcendent latkes.

Wait, dessert! I don't make jelly doughnuts, so I tend to opt for non-traditional Hanukkah desserts that still fit the spirit of the holiday: fried apple rings, honey-drizzled banana fritters, or star-shaped chocolate cookies, all pictured above. I'm also crazy for noodle kugel with melted apples as a side, though between you and me, this dish really has nothing to do with Hanukkah. That said, no one will kick it off the table.

...

Recipe for Alison's Famous Latkes

I've written about this classic, no-fail recipe before, but something this good bears repeating. Also, I don't screw around when it comes to latkes. Please keep your sweet potatoes to yourselves.

Makes approximately 40 latkes, give or take

10 russet potatoes
4 yellow onions, peeled and halved
4 eggs
1/2 cup matzoh meal (roughly)
Canola oil
Kosher salt
Sour cream and apple sauce, for serving

Preheat the oven to 250 degrees.

Peel the potatoes and plunge them in a large bowl with cold water.  Either cut them into large chunks, and then shred them and the onions in a food processor, OR keep the potatoes and onions whole and grate them on the large holes of a box grater.  

In a large bowl, beat the eggs lightly and set aside.Transfer a few handfuls of shredded potatoes and onions to a double-thickness of paper towels, and squeeze out as much liquid as you can muster.  Place in the bowl with the eggs and repeat with remaining potatoes and onions.  You'll use quite a few paper towels, so be prepared.

Stir in the matzoh meal and season generously with salt and pepper.  Mix well with a fork, making sure to distribute the eggs thoroughly.

Heat a few glugs of oil in a large heavy skillet (you'll use about 1/4 cup oil at first, but you'll keep adding more) over medium-high heat.  To see if the oil is ready, put in a pinch of potato mixture; if it sizzles and turns golden in about 10 seconds, the oil is ready.  Use an ice cream scoop or 1/4 cup measure to form the latkes; drop in the oil and flatten gingerly with a spatula.  Cook until golden brown, about 2 minutes per side.  As you proceed, the pan will get hotter and the oil will need to be replenished.  Adjust the heat and add new oil as necessary.  Carefully remove any burnt particles.

When latkes are done, transfer to a paper towel-lined plate and sprinkle immediately with salt. Transfer to a rimmed baking sheet and keep hot in the oven.  Repeat until you've cooked all the latkes.

Serve hot, with apple sauce and sour cream.

printable pdf

 

If you'd eaten this cake, you might have married my husband.

The first time I tasted this cake was the first time I celebrated a real Christmas. The year was 1992. I know this because I have a picture of myself from that December, and I look 19 years younger than I do today. 

Until that point, the idea of Christmas had always been vague. A tree would be involved, and I guessed there would be stockings. And gifts. But beyond that, this New York Jew was pretty much in the dark.

That year, I flew to Dallas with Colin to spend the holiday with his family. I'd met his parents a few months earlier, in the summertime. Back then, we were just boyfriend-girlfriend, but Colin's mom kept introducing me to people as her son's fiancée. This unsettled me, largely because we weren't engaged. I'd remind her time and again that she was jumping the gun, but she paid me no heed.

That October, Colin slipped a ring on my finger.

The base of the Rules' Christmas tree was heaped with presents, and the stockings, the twinkling lights, the music, the whole Christmas thing just about knocked me over with its foreignness. I remember thinking, "OK, wait, what?" And then I had another glass of eggnog.

Several times that week, Colin's mom baked up a date nut cake. I say "several times" because we kept polishing the cake off, and then magically, within hours, another one would appear in its place. A serrated knife held court at the cake's side, and anytime anyone walked by, they'd lift the glass dome, grab the knife, saw off a cake hunk, and go about their business. In that family, walking around at Christmastime with a fistful of date nut cake was, and continues to be, the most natural thing in the world. 

I already knew that Colin was the man for me. But was I sure about his family?

I'd had a good feeling about them that June, and by late December, with all those disappearing and reappearing date nut cakes, it became pretty clear that, indeed, I'd found the right in-laws as well.

...

Recipe for Clifton's Date Nut Cake

My adoration of the date/nut combo preceded my introduction to the Rules by many years. I grew up eating date nut bread (not cake). Whereas date nut bread is gentle and tender, this date nut cake is heavy, dense, and could be employed, if needed, as a weapon against an unwelcome intruder.

You can use any kind of chopped, pitted dates here. I've pictured Medjools above, which produce a moister result, but you can also use commercially packaged chopped dates. If using moist dates, halve them, pit them, and then toss them with a teaspoon or two of flour to make them easier to chop.

Finally: this is definitely a breakfast cake or snack cake. I wouldn't serve it for dessert.

Serves 8 to 10, or more, depending

4 large eggs, separated 
1 pound chopped, pitted dates
1 pound pecans
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla

Position a rack in the lower part third of the oven and preheat to 325 degrees. Generously coat an angel food cake pan with nonstick spray. Line the bottom with a donut-shaped piece of parchment for easier removal.

In one bowl, whisk the egg whites until stiff. Set aside.

In a separate, very large mixing bowl, stir together the dates, pecans, flour, sugar, and baking powder. 

In a third bowl, add the salt and vanilla to the egg yolks. Beat on high speed for several minutes, until thick and pale. Fold the yolk mixture into the date mixture. Mix well. Then fold in the egg whites thoroughly, so no white streaks show. The batter will be very heavy and tough to mix.

Scrape the batter into the prepared cake pan. Bake for about 75 minutes, or until nicely browned and a tester comes out clean. (Check after one hour and cover lightly with foil if it's getting too dark.) Cool thoroughly in the pan. Run a knife along the inside and outside edge, then invert onto a rack. The cake should pop out.

printable pdf

Stuff it.

Spending time online has real hazards. You can get spammed, hacked, unfriended, and cyber-stalked, all in a single afternoon. And that's just on the regular internet. On the food internet, you might encounter something far scarier: an endless barrage of photos showing foods shoved unceremoniously inside other foods.

I suppose it all started with the turducken, but soon even that became tired. Like, really, is a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey all you've got? The internet responded by wrapping the turducken in bacon, creating the turbaconducken.  Because that's what we as a society apparently needed. We needed a turbaconducken. 

Let's also not forget the Cherpumple -- a three-layer cake stuffed with an apple pie, cherry pie, and pumpkin pie. For those who need a sweet nibble after finishing their turbaconducken.

The problem is, since those illustrious items were invented, the bar has been reset quite high, and now people everywhere are trying to scale it. Apparently no food makes sense anymore unless it's cooked inside the cavity of another food. This is where we now find ourselves.

Happily, major food companies are right on trend. Kraft, for example, offers up a recipe on its website for an Oreo baked inside a cupcake. Why? I have no idea. Can't we just eat a cupcake, and THEN eat an Oreo, and then go about our business? Can't we carboload sequentially?

No, we can't. Fortunately, when we get bored with that -- it will happen! -- we can then enjoy Oreos crammed inside chocolate chip cookies or hidden inside peanut butter blondies. For some reason, Oreos are prime candidates for being thrust inside other edibles.

.

Honestly, I was going to end this diatribe with a plea for my fellow citizens to get back to eating foods consecutively, or at least side-by-side. But then, just for kicks, I stuffed a roasted squash half with some leftover chili, sprinkled it with cheese, and broiled it until bubbly.

And you know what? 

Right. It was awesome.

Suddenly, things look different. I get it now. There's a beautiful efficiency to eating a food and its vessel simultaneously. It just feels good.

I challenge you all to predict the next big stuffed thing.

Obviously, it has to include Oreos.

...

Recipe for Chili-Stuffed Carnival Squash

First off, people tend to have a favorite chili recipe, so I encourage you to use whatever recipe you like.* And second, I'm not giving specific quantities for the remaining ingredients as they’re completely flexible.  Scale up or down, depending on how many you’re serving. Serve with cornbread. 

A few Carnival squashes (count on 1/2 to 1 whole squash per person)
Vegetable oil
Salt and pepper
Your favorite chili, prepared to your liking*
Cheddar cheese
Cilantro 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil.

Carefully slice each squash end to end. (Use caution.) Scrape out the seeds and strings. Rub the cut sides and cavities with a bit of vegetable oil. Season the flesh with salt and pepper.

Roast cut-side down until tender and nicely browned, about 40 to 50 minutes, or longer, depending on the size and weight. 

Fill the cavity with your favorite chili. Sprinkle with cheese. Return to the baking sheet and broil, face-up, and watching carefully, until the cheese melts and bubbles. Garnish with chopped cilantro, and serve.

*For this recipe, I made the Beefed Up Bean Chili from Almost Meatless, which continues to be one of my favorite cookbooks. It was terrific. If you don't have the book, or a chili recipe in your repertoire, I'd suggest trying Susan Russo's boozy beef chili (for you meat-eaters) or this vegetarian chili from my archive.

printable pdf

Breakfast among friends?

They arrive at dawn. On foot, in cars, by bike. The littlest ones are stroller-bound, knobby knees draped with tattered blankets. No one knocks; they don't have to. They come in, brew coffee, pour juice, grab milk from the fridge. They warm it in a pot to ease its chill.

Someone finds the kettle, sets it on high, sprinkles tea leaves in a small, mesh basket.

I come down the stairs, sleepy-eyed, and smile at those gathered. I'm handed a mug. I pull my robe close and give thanks for wool slippers. The sun ascends, just barely.

Soon, the air grows warm. Blankets fall off, steam wafts. Friends begin to cook in stockinged feet. The toaster ticks. Saucepans clatter. A skillet shimmers with glugs of mild oil. Garlic softens, chard sautés, salt and pepper rain. Out come the eggs, the bacon, the toast.

A late tomato appears. 

Then a bird calls.

And I startle.

And blink.

The house, so full?, is silent.

I read the paper. Sip my tea. Wonder how one prepares for the quiet years.

Will I still work alone, when I have no one to fetch at the end of each day?

Hours later, I drive to school. I pick up my boys.

We return, and the house is warm again. 

One does homework. The other plays trumpet. I prep dinner. 

Colin comes home, with smiles for us all. 

The doorbell rings.

A package!

. 

16 Cookbooks to Gift in 2011 (because I said so).

My Totally Subjective, Completely Biased, Not At All Comprehensive List of 2011 Cookbooks You May Want to Purchase For Friends, Loved Ones, and People Who Are Neither Friendly Nor Lovable But For Whom The Dictates of Good Manners, Longstanding Tradition, and Family Politics Require You To Buy Something Anyway

In no particular order, they include:

They Draw & Cook by Nate Padavick & Salli Swindell. A creative and whimsical collection of illustrated recipes that break the template of the traditional linear cookbook and give you a good giggle, while teaching you (sort of) how to make things like Beetrooty-Yogurty-Thingummyjig and Mormon Funeral Potatoes. Adorable, not terribly practical, but the most fun you'll have reading a cookbook, guaranteed. Ideal for anyone artsy on your list, especially if they need help with basic recipes.  

Big Vegan by Robin Asbell. A book that could serve as a weapon of mass destruction if dropped from a tall building, this 500+ page collection will blow the minds of anyone who thinks vegan food is all about exclusion (meat, dairy, eggs, and their derivatives) rather than inclusion (produce, legumes, seeds, nuts, grains, and about 10 billion other things). The huge number of recipes and their unique flavor combinations more than compensate for the small number of photos. This book is ideal for vegans and those who love them, as well as for intrepid omnivores. 

I Love Meatballs by Rick Rodgers. Unlike I Love Bacon (different author, same publisher, not my favorite book), I Love Meatballs is that rare single-subject cookbook you'll turn to again and again. While the Eskimos may have 45 words for snow, humans don't need 45 recipes for anything, except --it turns out -- meatballs. After trying the braised Vietnamese Meatballs in Caramel Sauce, I was hooked. Ideal for non-vegans and meatballitarians.

Cucina Povera by Pamela Sheldon Johns. With its small size and quiet palette, this collection of recipes focuses on the peasant cooking of Tuscany, and when you're done flipping through, you'll know quite a lot about this region, its foodways, and its people. I love everything about this unassuming and lovingly rendered book, which rejects high gloss in favor of straightforward, appealing recipes. Ideal for real cooks who appreciate substance over flash. 

My Family Table by John Besh. This one is flashy, to an extent, because Besh is one of the South's most beloved chefs and the book is shiny and grand in size. That said, Besh tempers any celebrity navel-gazing by focusing on his family and what they all eat when they're together. I have mixed feelings about some of the idyllic, everyone-is-beautiful photos in the book (not his fault that his family is photogenic), and I wonder why the recipe for buttermilk blueberry pancakes doesn't call for buttermilk. However, other recipes and tips on creatively re-purposing leftovers are terrific. Ideal for those who seek accessible recipes for family meals from a well-respected culinary pro.

Plum Gorgeous by Romney Steele. In this follow-up to My Nepenthe, Steele once again showcases her artistic gifts and deep-seated appreciation for her native California. A dreamy love letter to orchards, berry patches, and vines, Plum Gorgeous has an olallieberry pie recipe worth the book's $25 price tag. Ideal for those who are passionate about fruit and adore pretty pages.

Top-Pot Hand-Forged Doughnuts by Mark and Michael Klebeck with Jess Thomson. Jess and I went to culinary school together, so I was inherently biased towards this book, one of several she's currently got in the pipeline. The brothers Klebeck co-founded and operate Seattle's Top-Pot Doughnuts, now in 8 locations around that city. I can't wait to roll up my sleeves to try the Triple Coconut Cake Doughnuts and Sour Cream Old-Fashioneds. My kids and I already baked the Top Poppa, a giant chocolate doughnut cake, and downed it in a single evening. Ideal for bakers, parents of small or medium-sized children, and those who like their sweets with a hole in the middle and shiny glaze on top.

The I ♥ Trader Joe's College Cookbook by Andrea Lynn. I'm including this one because I know some of you out there do all of your shopping at Trader Joe's (I'm not naming names). It's a slim paperback for beginning cooks or those with limited kitchen equipment, and the recipe combos (salmon burgers with tzatziki, beef udon soup, olive focaccia) are far more appealing than dumping a box of microwavable pesto tortellini into a bowl and calling it a night. Ideal for those who want to cook but are not sure where to start, college students, first-time apartment dwellers, or teens living at home.

And here's a reminder of the 2011 releases I've lauded in prior posts, all of which are definitely worth considering for holiday gifts: Good Food to Share, Plenty, Super Natural Every Day, The Glorious Pasta of Italy, Ancient Grains for Modern Meals, The Encyclopedia of Sandwiches, The New Southern-Latino Table, and Not Your Mother's Casseroles. If you want links to the original posts, let me know in the comments, and I'll happily oblige.

Enjoy your shopping. Remember to take frequent breaks, drink water, feed the cat, and bathe every now and again. Thanks for supporting the above cookbook authors, all of whom work very hard at their craft.