5 second rule

Late summer soundtrack.

I sit in my office listening to the smoke alarm chirp. Or cheep, more accurately. It's a high-pitched sound, more piccolo than sparrow.

The house isn't on fire (I don't think). Nevertheless, the fact that I'm sitting here writing rather than dragging the step stool upstairs to change the battery speaks volumes.

Outside, a neighbor's A/C buzzes. It's still summer after all, and San Jose's hot. 

Cheep.

Buzz.

Cheep. 

Buzz.

I hear a siren in the distance and for a minute I wonder if my house really is on fire.

Weee ongggg. Weee ongggg.

But soon, it fades. The EMTs are off to save a different person in a different house, one who's doing something more dangerous than sitting at her computer.

Cheep. Buzz. Weee ongggg. Cheep. Buzz. Weee ongggg. Cheep. Buzz. Cheep. Buzz. Cheep. Buzz.

The trees outside my window are still very green, except the tippy tops. The tops cast a yellow glow as the wind nudges them towards the sun. A few birds glide about, and when they talk, I'm finally sure they're speaking a different language than the smoke detector. They're chirping; it's cheeping.

Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. 

A gate creaks open. It's not mine, but I hear it. My street's L-shaped, and I'm nearish to the L's right angle, so when something happens in that spot, I can hear it when my window's open.

Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Creak. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Creak. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Creak. 

I nibble Cheez-Its. One after another after another. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

It's not my fault.

We had a block party on Monday, and someone left a huge container of Cheez-Its behind. My husband was the last to clean up, so he brought in all the trash and leftover food. He transferred the Cheez-Its to a zip-top bag and put it where I could find it. Or at least where I could see it and not unsee it once I'd seen it.

He's a good man.

I haven't eaten Cheez-Its in years.

They taste like orange salt.

I picture an orange sea, somewhere far. On its banks, tall pillars of Cheez-It salt wait to be hand-harvested. The seafaring salt-harvesters all have orange fingers, much as I do now. Like henna. But instead of fading over time, the color deepens.

Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Creak. Crunch. Cheep. Buzz. Chirp. Creak. Crunch.

I finally get up.

To quiet my mind I change the soundtrack. 

I mute the smoke detector, the birds, the A/C, the siren, the gate, and finally, haltingly, the Cheez-Its.

I choose the chop of a knife, the click of a gas stove, the sizzle of oozing brie as its insides melt, splattering the red-hot base of my trusty cast-iron pan.

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Recipe for Squash Blossom Quesadillas with radicchio, avocado and brie

A skosh bitter and creamy from both brie and avocado, these slap-together, end-of-summer quesadillas make quick work of any squash blossoms still scattered throughout your garden. I'm partial to corn tortillas, but small flour tortillas will work just fine.

Makes 4

Olive oil cooking spray, or a light brushing of oil
Eight 6" corn tortillas
A handful of squash blossoms, gently cleaned, rough-chopped 
1/4 small head radicchio, cored, shredded crosswise
1 scant cup diced brie (about 4 ounces)
1 small avocado, thinly sliced

Heat a cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat for about 2 minutes, until hot but not smoking.

On a work surface, generously coat the tops-only of all 8 tortillas with cooking spray (or lightly brush with oil). Flip 4 of the tortillas over; these will now be the bottoms.

Depending on the size of your skillet, you can make all 4 quesadillas at once, or work in batches.

Transfer the tortilla bottom(s) to the skillet, sprayed-side down. Top with one-quarter each of the squash blossoms, radicchio, brie, and avocado, making sure not to pile the filling too high. (Extras can be stirred together to make a unique salsa or little salad.) Cover with the tortilla tops, sprayed-side up.

Cook about 5 minutes total, flipping once and pressing gently on the tops with a spatula, until the cheese melts and both the top and the bottom are golden brown. Let stand for 1 minute before slicing into wedges.

printable pdf

I am not hummus.

Not everything is hummus. 

I, for example, am not hummus.

According to reputable sources (Wikipedia and Google), hummus is made of chickpeas and ground sesame seeds, with olive oil, lemon, and garlic tossed in for good measure.

And yet, people constantly hummusize non-chickpea, non-sesame seed foods. Look, friends: just because it's mashed doesn't make it hummus.

Mashed potatoes = not hummus.

Shmushed up edamame? Also not hummus.

White beans and herbs obliterated in a food processor, oil drizzled in through the feed tube the way you would with hummus? It's delicious, yes. Still not hummus.

So this dip that I've created... guess what? Not hummus. And that's okay! It really is! If you want to call it Black Bean Hummus, go ahead: you wouldn't be the first (for shame). But being second doesn't make you right. Youch!

So go ahead and grab some dried black beans. They'll cost you, I don't know, a dollar? Two? And don't bother buying tahini BECAUSE YOU DON'T NEED IT. Olive oil, a single can of chipotle (there's always someone who reads 2 to 4 chipotles as 2 to 4 cans of chipotle; let's avoid this straightaway), a bag of chips, an avocado, some tomatoes, and a few good limes.

With a little planning, you too can make this delicious black bean hummus.

Just kidding.

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{Vegan} Smoky Black Bean Purée with diced avocado, tomato, and lime

Equally good as a shareable lunch, snack, or pre-dinner nibble, this dip's smooth, soft texture is lovely both warm and straight from the fridge. (To see how I repurposed the leftovers for breakfast, follow me on Instagram. Hint: look for the avocado toast.) Serve with plenty of tortilla chips, lime, cilantro, tomato, and avocado, and play with the amount of chipotle to suit your taste. Important: Don't forget to soak the beans the night before!

Also, there's no garlic in here, though I bet a half or full clove would make a nice addition.

Serves 4

1 cup dried black beans
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Kosher or sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper
2-4 chipotles and a few teaspoons adobo (to taste) from 1 can of chipotles in adobo sauce 

Diced avocado, chopped tomatoes, cilantro leaves, additional olive oil, lime wedges, and tortilla chips, for serving 

Pick through the beans looking for stones, rocks, or buried treasure. Soak them overnight in plenty of cool water.

Drain, rinse, and tumble the beans into a medium saucepan. Add the baking soda and cover by 2 inches with cold water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to maintain a vigorous simmer, and cook until very tender, about 45 minutes, or longer, depending on the age of the beans. (Note: Within the first 5 minutes or so of boiling, white foam will rise to the top of the pot. Skim this off with a large spoon and discard.)

Reserve a few tablespoons of cooking water, then drain the beans. Scoop up 1/3 cup of the beans and set them aside for serving.

Transfer the remaining warm beans to a food processor. Puree the beans, adding 3 tablespoons of the olive oil and 2 tablespoons of the cooking water (or use tap water if you forgot to reserve the water like I always do) through the feed tube. You want this dip to be very smooth, so take your time pureeing and stop the machine once or twice to scrape down the sides. Transfer to a medium bowl.

Season the dip with 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon salt (start with less), 1/4 teaspoon black pepper, and 2 to 4 minced chipotles and a few teaspoons of their accompanying adobo sauce. You'll waken things up with lime in a second.

Top with the 1/3 cup reserved black beans, diced avocado, chopped tomatoes, and cilantro leaves and hit with a generous swirl of additional olive oil. Have plenty of lime wedges and tortilla chips on hand, for serving.

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Uncooking

Don't feel like cooking?  No sweat; just cut some stuff up and chuck it towards the table.

I like to cook. I really do.  I'm a big fan of fire, and heat, and sautéing things in olive oil.  I like roasting, love baking, adore composing salads with many layers of vegetable doodads.  I can poach a fish and flip a crepe and scrape the little brown bits off the bottom of a skillet.  But sometimes, I'd rather read a book, or watch TV, or go places.  Sometimes I even like to do nothing, something I do -- can I say this? -- remarkably well.  Basically, sometimes, I like not cooking so much I actually giggle at the joy it brings me.

These not-cooking times vary in frequency and duration, but more often than not they occur on weekends.  Weekend lunches, in particular, are one of my favorite times to practice the art of not cooking.  I've become something of an expert at it. I may even go on tour, just not cooking from city to city, town to town, peddling my skills on street corners and country lanes.  I'll not cook in lots of places.  Under water, on bridges, in museums.

Of course, there is a caveat: my distinct brand of not cooking still involves pretty good food.  I don't want anyone on my watch to starve.  So I cut things up, nicely, and plop them in piles.  I think about color, texture, flavor. I create an artist's palette, so something as seemingly dull as a cucumber actually looks fun, and sassy!, once it's placed next to a scoop of pomegranate seeds, or the sections of an unpithed clementine. 

And then I call the masses.  "Hey, masses!" I trill. "Eat something."

And they do.  They nibble and nabble.  They pick and they dip.  They pair dried apricots with pita triangles and cucumbers with salami and peaches with brie.  And at the end of the meal, or the unmeal, they walk their plates over to the sink.  And I've got no pans to scrub, no splatters to wipe.  I've just got a knife and a cutting board to give a quick wash, and the freedom to return to my day of doing everything or nothing.

Yes, I suppose, you could go to the drive-thru or get a hot dog from 7-Eleven, but without being too dogmatic, don't. Just expand your definition of the meal.  Break free from the shackles of conformity.  Unsandwich the sandwich, de-compose the salad, and unstew the stew.  After you present the platter, if people wonder where their meal is, slap a white hat on their heads and tell them they're in charge.  "Eat it however you like," you'll say.  "You're the chef.  You're the artist."

And then pull back a chair, sit quietly, and watch them paint. 

Before you know it, Monday will come.  You'll pick up your pots, unearth your pans, and embrace the fine art of cooking once again.

Nibbles

Here's what you'll do the next time a woman you don't know very well invites you up to Oakland on a Sunday night to meet some of her foodie friends.  1) Say yes, because you want to reward her initiative.  2) Freak out, because you know, without a doubt, that after you leave her house, and despite a fully functional GPS, you'll miss the turn for the highway and circle her neighborhood 16 times, with mounting and inexplicable panic, before some nice lady in a Honda Civic takes pity on you and points out the ramp for 580 eastbound. 3) Make these spiced nuts.

I'm impressed by women like Betsy.  Women who are genuinely social beings, who regularly step outside their comfort zones and throw parties for eclectic groups of people who don't necessarily know one another.  I don't do this myself.  I'm a decent guest, but it's rare you'll find me with my party make-up on in my own house, passing the canapes and sparkling with wit.  Two genes, one for party-throwing and another for geolocation, are both notably absent from my DNA.  It's my own pitiful preexisting condition.

Fortunately, I make a mean spiced nut.

As though that could possibly make up for it.

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Recipe for Party Pistachios

Here's a bare-bones recipe that serves as a flexible canvas for your own creativity.  The spicing is light, so you should up those elements (sweetness, saltiness, heat) to fit your own tastes.  I've experimented successfully with several kinds of sugars (even coconut sugar), different powdered chile peppers (ancho, chipotle), and funky salts, too.  Go crazy, even adding cinnamon, curry powder, or any spices that suit your fancy.

Makes enough to fill two 8-ounce mason jars

2-1/2 teaspoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Large pinch black pepper
Pinch (large or small) cayenne pepper
8 ounces dry-roasted, unsalted pistachios
2 teaspoons water

Combine spices in a large skillet and set over medium heat.  Warm for 3 minutes, shaking the pan and swirling the seasonings frequently.  Add the pistachios and water.

Cook for almost 4 minutes longer, stirring frequently with a heatproof spatula.  At first the spices will stick to the bottom of the skillet, but towards the end the sugar will melt and the spices will loosen and cling to the nuts.  Don't walk away or you risk burning the nuts.

Turn out onto a rimmed baking sheet, scraping out any stubborn spices, and leave alone for 10 minutes to cool.  The nuts harden and get nice and crunchy upon standing.  Once fully cool, pack into airtight glass jars to retain optimal crunch.

printable pdf

Gyoza

I love my children.  I really, really do, but every time we order gyoza when we go out and they eat five apiece and I get maybe one, I wonder who died and made them King Lord of Gyoza Dispensation.  Everyone who tells you, oh, kids are so sweeeeet, and they make your life so whooooole, they canoodle you, they admire you, yada yada yada forgets to tell you the most important and yet under-acknowledged fact of parenthood: you pretty much have to sacrifice the last cookie, the cake with the tallest crown of frosting, and the best bite of anything even remotely tasty to your kids all the goddamn time until you've turned 90 and croaked in your rocker.  And if no one admits that very fact to you, they're lying.  Case closed.

I love pouffy, chewy, gingery, porky, scalliony gyoza, and I finally realized, after many years of maternal suffering, that the only way I'd ever get to eat as many as I truly wanted would be to make a ridiculously obscene quantity at home.  That way we could all have an unlimited supply.

Even better: I forced my kids to make them themselves.

(insert evil laugh here)

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Recipe for Pork Pot Stickers (Gyoza), adapted from Nancie McDermott's Quick & Easy Chinese (Chronicle, 2008) (And look! I recently interviewed Nancie on iVillage here.)

This recipe isn't hard in the least, but it is a bit time-consuming.  From personal experience I can guarantee it's not only much more fun but far quicker to enlist unpaid laborers who may be living in your home. 

Makes 40 to 45  dumplings

1 pound ground pork
1/4 cup thinly sliced scallion
1 tablespoon low-sodium soy sauce
1 tablespoon sesame oil
2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/4 cup thawed and chopped frozen spinach, squeezed dry
36 round gyoza / won ton wrappers
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/2 cup water

Combine first eight ingredients (pork through spinach) in a large bowl and stir to combine well.

Working with no more than two gyoza wrappers at a time (keep the rest covered so they don't dry out), lay the wrappers on a cutting board.  Place a small ramekin of water close at hand.

Place 1 rounded teaspoon of pork filling in the center of each wrapper.  Dip your index finger in  water, then swirl it around the circumference of the wrapper.  Fold in half, tucking the filling securely inside, and press the edges to seal.  Make a few pleats if you're feeling fancy.  Transfer to a baking sheet and keep covered with a tea towel while you prepare the remaining gyoza.

Continue until you've finished filling and folding the dumplings.

Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat.  Swirl in oil.  Lay twelve filled gyoza in the pan and allow the undersides to brown undisturbed for a few minutes.  Scatter the cold water along the edges of the pan, cover tightly, and let gyoza steam for exactly seven minutes.  Uncover, and continue cooking one to three minutes longer, or until water has mostly evaporated but before gyoza stick too firmly to the pan.  Transfer to a large platter.

Continue pan-frying and steaming gyoza in this fashion until they're all cooked.  Serve hot with dipping sauce of your choice.

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Meatballs

The word I'm about to say is going to cause mayhem.  Some of you will stick around, but others (you know who you are) will run screaming for the hills.  I'm afraid to even say this word.  The blog might explode. Dinosaurs might take over the earth.  Snookie might show up for coffee.

The word is quinoa.

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Is anyone still here? 

I'm eating a lot of red quinoa these days.  I can't help it.  I cook up a big batch and let it linger in a giant glass container in the fridge.  Every morning I scoop some into a cereal bowl, splash it with skim milk, sprinkle it with toasted pecans, cinnamon, brown sugar, and cardamom, and then nuke the bejeezus out of it until it spits forth hot, steamy plumes.  Then I sit down and watch the rain try to swallow my house. 

(The whole red quinoa porridge idea was Heidi's. Go yell at her.)

Then last night I set out to make chicken sausage meatballs, but instead of breadcrumbs, which I find boring and dry, I dumped in a generous mound  of red, cooked, straight-from-the-fridge quinoa.  With all the sausage and Parmesan, I figured no one would even notice.

And they didn't, which made me feel kind of sad for the quinoa, because now perfectly normal people will continue to avoid it, and snicker behind its back.

Poor quinoa. 

Poor, poor quinoa.

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Recipe for Chicken Italian Sausage Meatballs with red quinoa

You can buy red quinoa at Whole Foods in the bulk aisle. To prepare, first rinse it very well in a fine-mesh strainer, then place in a medium sauce pot, cover by an inch or two with cold water, bring to a boil, and boil gently for 12-15 minutes.  Drain.  When it cools, store in the fridge for quick morning porridges or meatball making.

Makes 25 meatballs

1 pound chicken Italian sausages (I used sweet ones, but you can use hot)
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese
1 egg, lightly beaten
3/4 cup cooked red quinoa
Your favorite marinara sauce, for serving (from a jar is fine)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.  Coat a broiler pan with cooking spray and set aside.

If your sausage has casings (mine did), slit them and force the gooey meat into a large mixing bowl.  Add the cheese, egg, and cooked quinoa, and stir well with a fork to combine.

Set a large nonstick skillet over medium high heat.  Coat with cooking spray. Portion the meatball mixture using a 1-1/2" scoop and drop about half of the balls into the hot skillet.  (Do not crowd.)  Brown deeply on all sides.  Using tongs, carefully remove to the greased broiler pan. Repeat with the second batch.

Place the meatballs in the hot oven and cook for about 16 to 20 minutes, or until the meatballs are dark brown and cooked through but still juicy inside.

I served these on little skewers with some marinara (from a jar!) for dipping.  They really don't require pasta, and I do not say those words lightly.

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Sesame

Says who?  Says me.

Today, food writer and cookbook author Monica Bhide featured me and one of my favorite flavors -- sesame (get it?) -- on her Washington Post blog iSpice.  Please click over to read her piece and see my recipe for Sesame Flapjacks with tahini-maple syrup, pictured above.

I also wanted to post a sesame recipe just for you, my loyal readers. 

Here's what happens at about 6:00 pm in the Rule household.

"I'm hungry."

"And?  Get yourself a snack."

"Okay."  And then my kids proceed to pour themselves a bowl of cereal the size of Mount Rushmore.

That got annoying, so after a while I started having dippy things on hand, like, for example, I don't know, hummus.  And making hummus is really so easy I'm embarrassed for us both if you've never done it.  Honestly, how can you even live with yourself?  Do you wake up every day and wonder what went wrong?

I mean, do you really want to be the kind of person who has never traveled the world, read the classics, or danced the merengue?

You should be ashamed.

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Recipe for Toasted Cumin Hummus

Stand by the cumin like a hawk as you warm it up, stirring all the while, or it will turn bitter.  And call me crazy, but I find that a pinch of sugar really rounds out the flavors in this garlicky, cuminy, lemony pre-dinner dip.  Serve with pita triangles.

Makes 1-1/2 cups

1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 15-ounce can chick peas, drained and rinsed under cool water
Scant 1/4 cup tahini
3 tablespoons lemon juice, plus up to 1 additional tablespoon at the end (to taste)
2 medium cloves garlic, rough-chopped
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
3 tablespoons water
Pinch sugar

Pita bread, cut into triangles, for serving

In a small, dry skillet over medium heat, toast cumin until warm and very fragrant, about 2 minutes, stirring constantly with a heatproof spatula.  Remove from heat and immediately transfer to a plate to stop cooking.  Do not let the cumin burn.

In a food processor fitted with the metal blade, combine the chick peas, tahini, 3 tablespoons of lemon juice, garlic, salt, water, sugar, and 2 teaspoons of the toasted cumin.  Puree until smooth.  Taste, and then adjust the flavor with additional lemon juice (adding 1 teaspoon at a time) and/or salt to taste.

Scrape into a small serving bowl and sprinkle with remaining toasted cumin.  Serve with pita triangles.

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Arancini

I've been holding on to this recipe for some time.  Hoarding it.  Because there are simply some recipes that can't be described in words, and I'm afraid this may be one of them.

So instead of describing it, because I can't, I'll tell you how to make it.  You take little cubes of smoked mozzarella, and you pack them into some cold, leftover risotto.  And then you form them into little balls and fry them.  And what happens, see, is that the outside gets crispy and the inside gets all melty from the cheese.  And bluebirds sing and angels fly and money begins to grow on trees.  And you look outside your window, and there's the boy you had a crush on in 5th grade, and he's holding up a sign that says he had a crush on you, too, back in 1980, only he was too scared to tell you because he found you too. darn. pretty.  These things will happen if you make these arancini.  

Seriously.

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Recipe for Smoked Mozzarella Arancini

Adapted from Big Night In by Domenica Marchetti (Chronicle, 2008)

I'm going to cheat here by asking you to make whatever kind of risotto you like.  I'm not going to give you a recipe, because you can find one easily enough, and, in fact, you probably have one in your arsenal already. 

Just as when you make fried rice, you need the risotto to be extremely cold for it to maintain its shape during frying, so I strongly, strongly encourage you to refrigerate the cooked risotto overnight before proceeding.

You will also need 2 or 3 eggs, smoked mozzarella  cut into very small cubes (I used about 8 ounces), panko, and vegetable or olive oil.  You'll also want some of your favorite marinara sauce for dipping.

Set up a breading station with separate bowls of flour, beaten egg (start with two) and panko. 

Take about 2 teaspoons of the cold, cooked risotto into your palm, and press a cubed piece of cheese in the center.  Form the rice into a ball, encasing the cheese completely so you can't see it.  (If it's sticky, try wetting your hands.)  Roll the ball first in the flour, then in the eggs (use a fork if you like), and finally in the panko.  Place it on a large rimmed sheet pan, and continue with the remaining rice, cheese, and breading ingredients.

To fry: heat vegetable or olive oil to the depth of one inch in a deep frying pan.  Affix a thermometer to the side, if you have one, so you can do your best to maintain a temperature of 350 degrees.

Carefully fry 6 to 8 arancini at a time, making sure not to crowd the pan, and turn for 3 or 4 minutes (or less, or more, depending on how big they are) until they're nicely browned all over.  Transfer with a slotted spoon to a paper-towel lined platter to drain.  Repeat.

Serve immediately, with warm marinara sauce for dipping.

Yield will vary, depending on how much risotto you begin with.

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Reclamation

I have two terrifying food memories: my mother's salmon mousse, which must have been made with 28 pounds of gelatin, and her vichyssoise, which was probably made correctly but was still a culinary abomination.

This sounds horrible, I know, but since I've also written about her tremendous gardening skills, I figure I'm at least somewhat absolved.

I can't even write about the salmon mousse without getting tremors, but I will tell you that that vichyssoise ruined me for cold soups for a very long time.  Happily, circa 1992, I tasted my (future) mother-in-law's gazpacho, and that licked my wounds quite a bit.  Last summer I even made a version with watermelon, which healed those wounds still further.  And this year, Mark and Bruce's cold plum soup solidified my status as a veritable cold soup groupie.  I'm thinking of starting my own society: the Cold Soup (Except Vichyssoise) Society, or CS(EV)S.  I'd like to be president of something and this seems as good a calling as any. Plus, CS(EV)S really rolls off the tongue.

First order of business? 
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Recipe for Cold Spiced Tomato Soup

Last month, Amanda Hesser of the New York Times re-printed one of Barbara Kafka's recipes from 1991: Moroccan Tomato Soup.  I made a modicum of changes and would therefore like to offer Ms. Kafka the bulk of the credit for my success.  I think, however, leaving out the celery was a genius move on my part, so I'll retain any celery-omission kudos for myself. Note: You will need a food mill. 

Makes 1 quart

5 cloves garlic, minced
2-1/2 teaspoons smoked paprika
1-1/2 teaspoons ground cumin
Pinch chipotle pepper
4 teaspoons olive oil
2-1/4 pounds ripe, summer tomatoes, cored, chunked
1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves
1 tablespoon vinegar (choose your favorite flavor)
2 to 3 tablespoons lime juice, to taste
2 teaspoons kosher salt, plus more, perhaps, to taste

Combine the minced garlic, paprika, cumin, chipotle, and olive oil in a small saucepan.  Set over medium-low heat and stir constantly until moistened and very fragrant, about 3 minutes.  Set off heat to cool.

Push the tomatoes through a food mill. (See this one minute video for what kind of dishes to expect.)  Stir in the remaining ingredients, including the cooked spice mixture.  Refrigerate several hours, or until very, very cold.  (I'd strongly suggest refrigerating it in a glass jar.)

And if you should forget about it and not eat it until 4 days later, it will be just as good.  Probably better even, but who knows since you forgot to eat it on day 1.

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[My thanks to Charmian for telling me about Summer Fest, a blogorama organized by Matt Armendariz of Matt Bites, Jaden Hair of Steamy Kitchen, and Todd & Diane of White on Rice Couple.  Go to Charmian's post today for her tomato salad recipe and Matt's, Jaden's, and Todd & Diane's blogs to link up to more tomato recipes than you could possibly imagine.]

Spectator?

I can't get Michael Pollan's New York Times Magazine article from last weekend out of my head.  You know, the one where he talks about how cooking has become a mere spectator sport, how we're all content to watch Top Chef and Iron Chef and Hell's Kitchen and Blah and Blah and Blah and sit on our plump, dimpled arses, breaking only long enough to pour a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew directly into our mouths without even bothering to heat it up.  I'm paraphrasing, of course.

And I'm thinking that Mr. Pollan, whom I respect deeply, deeply, needs to read more food blogs.  Because here in this little corner of the universe where I, and many of you, happen to reside, we're cooking.  We're COOKING.  And we're not just cooking things we've always known how to cook.  No, Michael Pollan.  We're cooking new things, too.  We're clicking around, and seeing what Sandy from Minneapolis had for dinner and thinking, man, that looks pretty tasty, and maybe we're bookmarking her site or tweeting about it or sharing her recipe on Facebook. Maybe we're even blogging about Sandy's food so that our readers can benefit from Sandy's genius with creminis, or rack of lamb, or passion fruit.  And we're tweaking those recipes, Michael Pollan, we're tweaking them to infuse them with our personalities, marking them with our own stamp, our creative spin, and we're inspiring each other, and our families, and our friends, and maybe even a cousin or two.

All I'm saying is, I know that a good part of the country still orders Domino's every night, or swings by the drive-through at KFC.  I understand this.  And I know it's complicated, because people have lost their jobs, or are working two jobs, or three, and are struggling to make ends meet, with less time for leisure than ever before.  I do get it.  And I don't doubt Pollan's overall thesis, that some people do watch food television without ever picking up a skillet.

But there are also people who have discovered immense pleasure in rolling out a pie crust or simmering a sauce or canning fresh peaches or pickling eensy cucumbers who never in a million years would have predicted, even 10 years ago, that they'd fall madly, passionately in love with cooking.

I know people like this.

Of course, just because we can put pan to heat or render duck fat doesn't mean we always choose to. 

Sometimes we simply choose to compose.

Regardless, we're not all sitting on our bums watching other people cook.  We're not all popping cans and eating takeout.

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Recipe for Fresh Figs with Honey, Balsamic, Goat Cheese and Pistachios

There's no cooking involved here, but that shouldn't detract from my larger point: that a whole new generation of people has discovered a love of cooking and is becoming ever more sophisticated at putting it on the table.  Serve this dish for breakfast, as a passed hors d'oeuvre, or even as a simple dessert.

As with my spinach salad with peaches, pecans, and Saint Albray, quantities are unimportant.  Make as many as you need.

Fresh figs, halved

Goat cheese (I used Laura Chenel's plain "chabis")

Finely chopped pistachios

Cracked black pepper

Drizzle of honey

Drizzle of balsamic vinegar (I used a fig balsamic)

Arrange the fig halves on a platter.  Press a little nub of goat cheese in the center, sprinkle with pistachios and pepper, drizzle with honey and vinegar, and serve.

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