Sticky Mango Oatmeal: Make your own paradise

Make your own paradise.

Have a  24-hour staycation with your girl friends at an oceanside resort in Rancho Palos Verdes.

When it's overcast and gloomy out.

Eat Goldfish crackers and dried mango in the room.

 And drink sparkling wine by the pool.

Paint your toenails blue, brush your cheeks with bronzer, and wear a bright orange dress.

Make dinner a main event.

Ignore the menu and let the Chef decide for you.

And then finish all four desserts.

Don't set the alarm, and praise God for blackout curtains, down comforters and friends that don't snore.

Make brunch a main event.

Order two Bloody Mary's because you can.

And order the waffles for the table because you want to.

Let the concierge help you with your bags even though you are perfectly capable of carrying them yourself.

Make your own paradise.

During a spontaneous weekend trip to nowhere.

And for breakfast on an ordinary Monday morning. 

Sticky Mango Oatmeal
Serves 1

Notes: I've had the idea for this oatmeal simmering in the back of my head for nearly three years now. I'd just become acquainted with mango sticky rice, which for the uninitiated, is the reason to save room for dessert at your local Thai place. Cooked with coconut milk and drizzled with sweetened condensed milk, the humble jasmine rice that's also served alongside that Crying Tiger Pork becomes an entirely different entity. A buttery, sweet glutinous mass nestled under the bewitching glaze of ripe mango, it's the taste equivalent of paradise.

It seemed only natural to apply the same technique to oatmeal - with a few adjustments to make it less recognizable as dessert and more appropriate as breakfast. Yet even when preparing it with light coconut milk and skipping the sweetened condensed milk entirely, this oatmeal is no delicate affair. Which is precisely the point. Paradise is supposed to be a bit indulgent.

1/2 cup water (+ additional during the cooking process)
1/2 cup oats
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup light coconut milk
1/4 teaspoon vanilla
Fresh, ripe mango, chopped into 1/2 inch cubes
1 tablespoon toasted cashew pieces

In a small saucepan, bring 1/2 cup water to boil. Add the oats and salt, reduce the heat and simmer over low heat until the water has been absorbed/evaporates. Add the coconut milk, reduce the heat until its on the lowest your stove will go. Continue cooking, stirring frequently as you would risotto, adding additional water (or light coconut for an even richer bowl of oats) as needed. The key here is to cook it as slowly as possible so it becomes thick and, well, sticky - the same texture as rice. This will take approximately 20-25 minutes, far longer than you'd normally cook standard oats (as opposed to steel-cut).

Once the oatmeal has reached that thick, stick-a-spoon in it texture, turn off the heat and stir in the vanilla to bring out the sweetness in the coconut milk. Serve immediately topped with ripe mango and toasted cashew pieces.

Whole-Wheat Raspberry Ricotta Scones: No frosting required

When I was a child, it was all about the muffin for me.

Blueberry, streusel-topped concoctions that resembled coffee cake; carrot muffins lubed with more oil than the transmission in our Econoline Ford van; chocolate chip-studded monstrosities that my mother used to pick up from Costco in packs of 24.

Because clearly every child needs 24 head-sized chocolate chip muffins. (And the variety pack of frisbee-sized cookies to go along with them.)

I never much considered the scone until college. Likely because it didn't contain enough sugar to be a viable breakfast for my youthful self, but also because I'd never encountered a truly revelatory version. In my limited experience (that mostly revolved around the pastry case at Starbucks), scones were pedestrian. Dry. And way too adult. The kind of thing that required a good dredging into a cup of coffee (or, more accurately, frosting) to make palatable.

That is until I met a certain cinnamon chip scone.

There was a Great Harvest Bakery near the stadium where my cross-country team met for practice that was essentially Oz for carb-starved collegiate athletes. We'd troop in every few weeks armed with our revved up metabolisms and descend on the free samples of freshly baked wheat bread, warm chocolate chip cookies and scones like we were hibernating for the winter.

Which we probably were it being Chicago and all.

While we'd usually fill our carb quota around sample #5, occasionally one of us would actually buy something. Usually a cookie, but sometimes the cinnamon chip scone - an egregiously large mound of tender, butter-engorged dough streaked with crunchy nubs of cinnamon.

Essentially the love child of a cinnamon roll and Southern-style biscuit, it completely obliterated all my prior misconceptions about scones as the muffin's uglier step-sister. It superseded the muffin, rendering it obsolete in my world view during the four years I spent at Northwestern and, ultimately, raising the bar on my expectation for the humble baked good.

In the years since, I've become somewhat of a scone snob, arching a disdainful eyebrow at most of the bakery case blunders I come across -- usually because of their brick-like properties or because they never quite live up to the bold proclamations of their titles. Currant orange scones with a measly four currants interspersed throughout, leaden whole-wheat varieties that could double as pet rocks, and blueberry concoctions that seem confused as to whether they want to be a scone or a misshapen muffin.

It's all very disheartening for a former-muffin-monogamist-turned-pastry-polygamist.

Out of dire necessity (because all breakfast situations are such), I've committed myself to a life of homemade scones - first, to Molly Wizenberg's near-perfect recipe template, and, most recently to these whole-wheat raspberry ricotta behemoths.

Or, for the uninitiated, the scone solution.

The collusion of butter and ricotta and fresh raspberries spring the scone to new life. The ricotta enriches the dough with the fat it needs to maintain a delicate crumb, the raspberries saturate each bite with an intensity of flavor that is not usually commiserate with its four-currant Per Capita cousins, and the butter, well, the butter just makes it all worthwhile.

It comes, predictably from Deb at Smitten Kitchen who addresses every potential bakery case hazard in one formidable pastry package. The dryness. The bore factor. The need for frosting or repetitive coffee-dunking.

And while it is absolutely nothing like the cinnamon chip scone that first turned my head in college, it's just as significant. A breakfast game-changer. And the perfect reason to get out of bed in the morning outside of a muffin the size of your head.

Whole-Wheat Raspberry Ricotta Scones

Lightly adapted from The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook
Makes 9 scones

Notes: I did very little to change Deb's vision for these impeccable, egregiously delicious scones. I substituted low-fat ricotta for whole since I couldn't find the full-fat version at the store, and brushed the tops with melted butter and a sprinkling of turbinado sugar before baking to give them a bit of crunch and that bakery-style golden brown appearance. I also refrigerated my dough for a bit before portioning into pieces so it was easier to work with (the batter is quite sticky!). Everything else remains intact. One final word of wisdom, while you can certainly try these with strawberries, they won't integrate into the dough quite like the raspberries do, so for at least the first go-around, I recommend you make them as Deb intended - a perfect marriage of raspberries and ricotta. 

1 cup whole-wheat flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder, preferably aluminum-free
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled + 2 tablespoons melted butter for glaze
1 cup fresh raspberries, chopped
3/4 low-fat ricotta
1/3 cup heavy cream
Turbinado sugar

In a large bowl, combine both flours, baking powder, sugar, and salt. Whisk together until well integrated. Cut cold butter into pieces, and, moving quickly, use your fingertips to work into the flour mixture. Continue gently massaging into the flour until the mixture resembles a course meal and no clump of butter is larger than a pea.

Stir in the raspberries, then add the ricotta and heavy cream, using a spatula to combine and form the batter into a dough. (It will be quite sticky so don't be alarmed!) Use your hands to knead the batter into an even mass, then dump out onto a piece of press and seal or nonstick wrap.

Mold into a 7-inch square about 1-inch high, then wrap up and transfer to the fridge. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes to make the dough easier to work with.

While the dough is chilling preheat the oven to 425 degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Cut the chilled batter into nine even squares. Place on the prepared baking sheet, then brush with the melted butter. Sprinkle with the turbinado sugar.

Bake for about 15-17 minutes or until lightly browned and the centers are set. Let them cool on the baking sheet for five minutes before using a spatula to transfer to a cooling rack.  Like Deb instructs, it is best to let them set a few minutes before digging in!  But they are well worth the wait.

Brussels Sprouts Salad with Bacon Vinaigrette: Totally healthyish

There's a monthly column in Glamour Magazine called "Hey, it's ok..." that lists peculiarities that might be considered "bad," but are actually relatively normal behaviors that the collective population might secretly admit to doing as well.

Think, it's ok.... to wear a dress with stains on it to dinner because you're probably going to spill on it anyway.

To believe you have a chance with Adam Levine even though his last girlfriend was a Victoria Secret model.

To come home utterly stuffed from a five course dinner (with dessert) and still need a piece of chocolate before going to bed.

To read the horoscope section of the paper first and only skim the article about U.S. drone strikes. 

To order a salad with bacon, cheddar cheese and salted peanuts and still pat yourself on the back for eating... a salad.

A few weeks ago, my two girl friends and I were engaged in the ubiquitious discussion of where we were going to dinner that night.

"Something healthyish," we said to narrow our options.

We contemplated going vegan with quinoa and veggie bowls at Cafe Gratitude, gorging ourselves on ceviche at Picca, and slurping buckwheat noodles at Soba Sojibo on Sawtelle before ultimately deciding to go to LA's new Southern darling Hart and the Hunter for... "salads."

Because clearly going to a Southern restaurant that specializes in biscuits so impregnated with butter that they crumble the moment you smear them with the housemade pimento cheese spread is the picture of healthy behavior.

Especially since, you know, we were only there for the salads.

And definitely not the biscuits. Nor the marinated anchovies slicked with olive oil to lay over warm country-style slices of pliant white bread. We certainly wouldn't be getting the hangar steak with escargot, mushrooms and grits so egregiously smooth they might as well be served in a cow-shaped creamer.

Then again, eating a few, measly bites of steak and a biscuit that really isn't all that big, and a piece of bread with omega-3-rich anchovies and heart-healthy olive oil, is totally negated by that kale salad with huge chunks of dates and shards of cheese and whole candied pecans anyway.

Not to mention that Brussels sprouts salad with bacon and cheddar cheese and peanuts.

Absolutely negated.

And completely.

Healthyish.

So you tell yourself the same thing when you decide to make it at home. That it's only one strip of bacon per serving. That the peanuts are the good kind of fat. That the cheddar cheese has calcium. That it's totally fine to scrape the sherry bacon vinaigrette you spilled onto the counter into the salad along with whatever germy substance is residing there because you don't want to waste the bacon fat.

And it's most definitely, positively ok to eat the whole thing in less than five minutes using a hunk of sourdough bread to shove every last remaining shred of cheese-laced, peanut spiked, bacon-greased sprouts onto your fork.

You might even decide to treat yourself to a salted caramel pecan babka after.

Because, you know, all you ate was a salad for lunch.

Brussels Sprouts Salad with Bacon Vinaigrette
Inspired by the salad at Hart and the Hunter in Los Angeles
Serves 2 as an entree, 4 as a side

2 tablespoons Sherry vinegar
1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon Maple syrup
Freshly ground pepper
2 big, meaty strips of thick-cut bacon (or 3-4 if your strips aren't... meaty)
1 pound (or roughly 20) Brussels sprouts, stems and outer leaves removed
1 small Fiji or Gala apple or half a large apple, sliced into matchsticks
1/4 cup salted, roasted peanuts
1/4 - 1/3 cup finely grated cheddar cheese

In a small bowl, whisk together the sherry vinegar, dijon mustard, maple syrup, and freshly ground pepper. Set aside.

Place bacon strips in a small cast iron or nonstick pan. Turn on the heat and slowly begin cooking the bacon over low heat. When the edges start to curl up from the pan, use a fork or pair of tongs to turn the bacon and start cooking the other side. Continue turning the bacon as it cooks so that each side browns evenly. Once all the bacon is well-rendered, remove from the pan and set on a paper towel lined plate to cool and crisp up.

Pour bacon grease from the pan into the bowl with the dressing. Whisk to combine. Set aside while prepping the salad.

Slice the Brussels sprouts in half, length-wise. Place each half face-down on the cutting board, use a very sharp knife to slice horizontally into thin ribbons. Chop bacon into pieces.

In a large bowl combine the shredded Brussels sprouts, apples, peanuts, bacon, and cheddar cheese. Toss with dressing and serve immediately, patting yourself on the back for being healthyish.

Slow Your Melt: The Ultimate Breakfast Sandwich

When I pictured my post-graduate life while I was still in college, I saw bagels.

The scenario was simple, but played out rather vividly for a girl who was still not entirely sure what she wanted to be when she grew up other than rich and ten pounds skinnier. In my head, I was living by the beach in Santa Monica in a coral Spanish-style duplex and walking down the street to get a bagel and coffee before work.

I never knew the specifics of what this work was (aside from it being the type of career that would make an ocean-adjacent walk-up financially feasible), but I was always wearing something fabulous as I strolled through the dense early morning fog, the world around me still groggy.

It seemed a very adult thing to do -- part of some fantastical visage of what it meant to be independent and free to make decisions like what kind of yogurt to buy at the grocery store and when to go to bed at night. As a competitive cross-country runner and compulsive reader of every book assigned to me (ie. a nerd), I'd resigned myself to a fairly structured life in college.

While I loved my years at Northwestern, there were times when I resented the rigidity of my schedule -- the 6:30 a.m. workouts, the Chai-flavored Luna Bar I would scarf as I rushed, hair still damp, to make it to a 9:30 a.m. history class on the other side of campus.

I longed for an existence where I made the rules. Where I could wake up and not have to immediately launch out of bed to go for a run. Where I could leisurely take a shower (or not) and nonchalantly go about my day without wondering how the amount of sleep I'd gotten the night before would impact my next race, or how I was going to finish my 15-page term paper on the Brazilian coffee trade before I left for Indiana that weekend to compete.

Bagels signified freedom to me -- the ability to do what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. Which is really the whole point of growing up to begin with. Aside from, you know, being rich and well-dressed and in charge of selecting the fancy organic vanilla yogurt from Whole Foods.

It never occurred to me that perhaps the rigidity of my collegiate life wasn't so much the product of external factors -- my cross-country races and class syllabus -- but rather because of my personality and innate desire to have structure. I secretly craved the stability of a schedule, and despite my wildest fantasies of creating a more fluid lifestyle for myself when I graduated, I ultimately found myself clinging to the same sort of routines in my working life that I'd considered so imprisoning during my years at Northwestern.

Faced with 10+ hour days at the office, I went to sleep at a reasonable hour, peeled myself from bed at 6:00 a.m. to workout before work, and began eating oatmeal to tide me over until lunch, rarely indulging in something less responsible like the sugar-saturated Vanilla Almond Crunch I craved much less that hypothetical bagel and coffee.

While it's been nearly eight years since I've graduated college, I've only gone out for breakfast twice before work. The first time because I needed to kill an hour after dropping my brother off at LAX, and the second time because I fractured my finger.

When I collided finger-first into the pavement five weeks ago, I had no idea how completely it would alter the minutiae of my daily life, shattering many of the routines I'd so assiduously created for myself. Out of necessity, I was forced to slow down. To walk to the gym instead of running there. To skip workouts. To take longer showers. To type out my email responses to friends with one hand.

Two weeks ago, I woke up and decided, rather spontaneously, to walk to Joan's on Third, my favorite local cafe, for breakfast. I ordered a NY Breakfast Sandwich with eggs, bacon and jack cheese; and a pot of Jasmine tea -- my grown up version of a nutritionally suspect bagel and coffee -- and sat at the communal table to take a moment to live outside of my standard set schedule.

I read the paper, actually turning to page 7A to finish the rest of the story. I savored the crunch of the toasted white bread as it gave way to the pillowy eggs and melted cheese, slicked with residual grease from the well-rendered bacon. And I inhaled the aroma of the awakening cafe -- the cooks  lining up veggie and quinoa salads in the display case in preparation for the lunch rush, the expressive silver-haired man sipping his black coffee and carefully cutting his plain omelet into precise bites, the soundtrack of sizzling butter hitting the hot grill.

Leaving Joan's a half hour later, I spotted two girls walking down the street in Lululemon pants, a telltale sign that they had just finished a workout at the Bar Method studio down the block. The irony wasn't lost on me -- if my finger hadn't been broken, if I hadn't been forced to pause, I would have been working out with them rather than enjoying a leisurely self-indulgent breakfast.

This recipe, inspired by that NY Breakfast Sandwich at Joan's, is perfected through patience. While grilled cheese-style sandwiches are usually thought of as a quick meal, here, the key is slowing down. Gradually cooking the bacon until perfectly rendered, and studiously grilling each side of the sandwich until the cheese oozes over the edges of the egg and the bread is evenly browned and crisp.

The result is everything you imagined it to be in all your wildest dreams.

With or without a cup of coffee.

Egg, Bacon and Cheese Breakfast Sandwich

Inspired by the NY Breakfast Sandwich at Joan's on Third in Los Angeles
Makes 2 large halves (ie. this makes a big sandwich that is shareable between two people)

4 slices of thick-cut bacon (Yes, four)
2 extra large eggs
1 tablespoon milk
Salt, pepper
2 tablespoons butter, softened (you may not need it all)
2 ounces white cheddar (or jack) cheese, grated
2 thick, large slices of bakery-style sourdough bread
Hot sauce, for serving (optional)

Place bacon strips in a large nonstick pan. Turn on the heat and slowly begin cooking the bacon over low heat. When the edges start to curl up from the pan, use a fork or pair of tongs to turn the bacon and start cooking the other side. Continue turning the bacon as it cooks so that each side browns evenly. Once all the bacon is well-rendered, remove from the pan and set on a paper towel lined plate to cool and crisp up.

Crack eggs in a large bowl. Add the milk, salt and pepper to taste, and whisk together until the yolks and whites are combined.

Heat a cast iron or nonstick pan over medium heat. Add a teaspoon or so of butter, swirling to coat the base of the pan. Once the butter begins to foam and bubble, add the eggs and let sit for a minute or so. Using a spatula, gently push the edge toward the center of the pan, letting the runny egg run out to cook, then fold the eggs into a somewhat neat package, approximately the same shape as your bread. Flip over to ensure the eggs are cooked through, and then remove from the heat.

Lay the four strips of bacon on one piece of the bread. Top with the egg, then sprinkle with the grated cheddar or jack cheese (grating the cheese melts better than slices). Finish with the other piece of bread, spreading a thin layer of butter over the exterior of the bread.

Heat the clean large nonstick pan (perhaps the one you used to cook the bacon or eggs) over low to medium-low heat. Carefully place the sandwich, butter side down, in the middle of the pan. Butter the top slice of bread while the other side cooks slowly for 5-10 minutes until it achieves a deep golden brown crispy exterior. Use a large spatula to gingerly flip the sandwich over to cook the other side, again for another 5-10 minutes. Briefly flip the sandwich back to the other side to reheat for 30 seconds and then remove from the pan. Slice in half and serve immediately with optional hot sauce.

Miso Maple Brussels Sprouts & Green Beans: Adventures in one-handed cooking

 

The night before I moved into my current apartment, I had a complete meltdown.

Not because of anything practical like being sad to leave my roommates (I wasn't), nor because I was worried about being able to afford rent and utilities on my own, nor even because I was concerned the movers would scuff my hardwood floors.

My meltdown was entirely centered around my stove.

I'd received a phone call from the gas company indicating that they hadn't been able to access my building that day and likely wouldn't be able to come back until the following week. Meaning, no hot water, no heat, and the kicker -- no functioning stove or oven for six days.

I completely lost it. Clutching the phone to my ear, I sobbed big, sloppy tears, throwing the type of tantrum that is usually only reserved for toddlers who drop their ice cream cones on the floor or contestants on "The Bachelor."

Ultimately, I was able to convince the gas company to come back the following day and everything worked its merry little way out like most things we fret about tend to do, but in the moment, I was the reason men think women are emotional.

Cooking is my life line. Partially because of the end result (I get to eat food), but also because the process steadies and calms me like few things that don't involve alcohol and masochistic exercise can. After a stressful 11-hour work day, I crave the release of those studied motions.

Rinsing quinoa. Whisking together miso paste with rice vinegar and maple syrup. De-stemming Brussels sprouts.

The routine of it is as essential to my daily life as brushing my teeth or writing or drinking my morning gallon of green tea. Enough so that I'll regularly turn down invitations to go out to the new of-the-moment restaurant because I need that time.

To hear the sizzle of oil in a hot pan. To smell the aroma of roasted vegetables emanating from the oven. To feel the smooth handle of my Wusthof knife in my hand.

When I fractured my finger, one of the first things the woman who helped me said when I emerged from the E.R. with my mummified left hand, was "How are you going to cook?"

"I'll be fine," I responded, unconcerned.

And meant it.

Cooking is a non-negotiable to me, and broken finger or not, I needed it. I needed to be able to eat my quinoa and cook my oatmeal and roast the heck out of ten pounds of Brussels sprouts before they give way to asparagus and English peas.

I also needed to prove to myself that I could do it.

While the past three weeks haven't been easy, I've more or less adapted to a one-handed existence. I've discovered simple recipes that don't require complex or precise movements, much like I've found ways to put on a bra and type proficiently with only my right hand.

This recipe for miso maple Brussels sprouts and green beans with tofu has been one of my go-to's during this period of semi incapacity. Mostly because it only requires a baking sheet and the pot I use to prepare the requisite quinoa accompaniment, but also because it is simply delicious. The miso maple dressing seeps into the crevices of the halved Brussel sprouts, softening any lingering bitterness and coaxing out their underlying sweetness, while the crisp cubes of tofu fight back with welcome heft and texture.

It's the kind of dish that comforts without any unnecessary complications. The perfect fix for an emotional girl who lives by her stove.

And, for now, her right hand.

Miso Maple Brussels Sprouts and Green Beans with Tofu
Inspired by the Miso Maple Brussels Sprouts at Cafe Gratitude
Serves 2

15 Brussels sprouts, outer leaves removed and halved
5 ounces extra-firm tofu, cubed
1 tablespoon olive oil
15 green beans, sliced into 1-inch pieces (I've also used first of the season asparagus with great success)
1 tablespoon white miso paste
1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar
1 teaspoon maple syrup
1 teaspoon sesame oil
Sriracha, to taste
Salt & Pepper

Suggested Accompaniments: Quinoa, Brown Rice, Soba Noodles

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place baking sheet oven in oven while heating.

Carefully remove hot baking sheet from oven. Place tofu and Brussels sprouts on the sheet and drizzle with olive oil to lightly coat. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Spread tofu and sprouts out, flipping the sprouts so the inside of each half is face down.

Roast for 20 minutes, then remove from the oven to stir and add the green beans. Continue roasting for another 15 minutes or until beans are tender and the sprouts and tofu are crisp, but not burned.

While the veggies are roasting, combine miso, vinegar, maple syrup, sesame oil, and a few drops of sriracha in a small bowl. Whisk till well-combined and completely smooth.

When all ingredients are sufficiently roasted to the aforementioned specifications, remove baking sheet from the oven. Toss hot veggies and tofu with the miso dressing and serve immediately, preferably over quinoa, but brown rice and soba noodles will also do quite well here.

Trauma and Cookies

I know I'm falling.

The realization is repeating itself in my head, a chorus that seems to play for far longer than the actual amount of time it takes me to ricochet forward into the pavement.

I sit dazed for a moment before releasing an instinctual, "Ow!" into the early morning, pre-coffee silence of the residential block. Even though I can't identify a specific sensation of pain, I scream it again. And again.

You know, for emphasis.

I'm still sitting there, struggling to move past the annoyance of the unplanned break in my run when I see a dark-haired woman rushing toward me from the house. It's only then that I realize there were people - two teenage girls - waiting in the car parked in the driveway right where I've so dramatically planted myself.

"Let me look at you," She says, helping me up and leading me in the direction of the front gate.

I want to say "I'm fine, it's nothing" - that I can just continue on my way and move forward with the day. Oatmeal for breakfast. A press release to distribute. Emails to send. The typical mundane details of a Wednesday.

And then I see it.

My finger.

I gasp as the woman simultaneously meets my gaze.

"Oh honey, I don't think I can clean this up," She exhales in a tone that suddenly changes the entire dynamic of the situation.

"Do you trust me?" She asks.

I nod before finding my voice.

"Yes."

Moments later I'm in the front seat of her car, a paper towel precariously wrapped around my left index finger. I'm calm as she asks me how old I am and jokes about the beauty and grace of my fall. I laugh too, finding the whole thing completely absurd.

"I tripped over nothing!" I chortle to my three-person audience, amused rather than concerned that my finger looks like it's been slammed into a steel door.

And I remain calm as we enter the local Urgent Care medical building and see it isn't open until 12 p.m. (because nobody has need for urgent care before noon). And my uncharacteristic nonchalance continues even as an internist in a nearby medical office exclaims, "Dear Lord!" at the sight of my finger before informing me that I have to go to the emergency room.

By this juncture the woman, Jacki, and I have become friends - a natural outcome from sustaining a serious injury in someone's driveway. We laugh at the seasoned internist's reaction as we cram back into the car, further complicating her daughters' trip to school.

"I didn't think it was that bad!" I quip, even as the adrenaline that was previously numbing my body starts to fade and the first stabs of pain start to set in.

Twenty minutes later I'm resting on a hospital bed in the E.R. A doctor, who is not George Clooney, is telling me that they are going to do an x-ray to see if the finger is broken, jam my arm with a tetanus shot, and then numb my finger to sew it - and my nail - back together.

You know, typical mundane Wednesday stuff.

And yet somehow, I'm still calm. I stare up at the TV screen playing The Today Show, watching, but not watching as I quietly process what is happening like I do trauma all the time. Like it's completely normal to be in the emergency room watching Kathie Lee while I wait for the anaesthesia to kick in so my fingernail can be sewn back on.

Totally.

Normal.

It isn't until later, long after my knight-in-shining denim drops me off at my apartment with my giant plastic bag filled with paperwork and extra bandages, that the enormity of all of it hits me.

Fractured. Hand specialist. Possible surgery. Antibiotics.

The words play over in my head as I realize that getting through the trauma itself was only the beginning. The hard part is the next six weeks of one-handed typing, cooking, putting on a bra... not going to Bar Method.

This is the point where I start to cry. And thank God for the kindness of a stranger that distracted me through what, alone, would have been a harrowing morning.

"You fell in front of the right house," she'd said.

So I did what's only natural in these types of totally commonplace situations: I baked her and her family oatmeal cookies - so easy to make they can be done with one hand tied up in gauze.

Romanesco with Crispy Sunchokes and Cilantro Pesto: Joy outside the comfort zone

"Do you know what romanesco is?"

I look up from the menu I've been pretending to read for the past five minutes, and peer over at the pleasant-faced woman sitting to my right. Starved for interaction and proud that I actually know the answer, I practically shout my response over the din of other diners.

"It's kind of like a cross between broccoli and cauliflower," I say, unfolding the dish towel-style napkin neatly in my lap as she nods her head, considering.

"It's really good," I continue, not ready to abandon a potential conversation with a human - a far superior alternative to rereading the menu for the tenth time since my arrival.

I'm sitting at the bar at Josef Centeno's Bäco Mercat, stealing a moment in the midst of an unseasonably warm February afternoon in Downtown LA. I hadn't planned to bother with a formal lunch during my day reporting for jury duty at a nearby courthouse, yet somehow I'd ended up convincing myself that I was worth a $25 sit down meal rather than a tired sandwich from the cafeteria scarfed down before my palate could register its tiredness.

"I can eat a sandwich any day," I'd justified.

I take a sip of my water, surveying the scene around me - the two girls sharing the "el pesco" crispy shrimp bäco at the end of the bar, the older couple (tourists?) divvying up caramelized cauliflower and a double mushroom coca flatbread, the suits clinking glasses at the table in the corner. The room is alive with a distinct kind of energy, a certain foodie swagger.

"Have you been here before?" I ask the woman as though she's a dark-haired bachelor that I'm ready to attack, praying mantis-style, rather than a kindred spirit with a mutual craving for bäcos.

A praying mantis attack had been the original plan, of course. The whole point behind the exercise of solo bar dining at a restaurant that doesn't cater to the field-greens-with-dressing-on-the-side crowd. It was also my main incentive for reporting for jury duty in the first place. I could have easily postponed to a few months later at a time that wouldn't require me to frantically send work emails from my phone all morning.

But I didn't.

Because I was going to meet.... the one.

It all made sense in my head - a head that prefers to believe that everything happens for a reason. Clearly that was why I was assigned to report to Clara Shortridge Foltz courthouse at precisely 7:45 a.m. that day. Clearly that was why I was going to be sequestered in a room of strangers for nine hours.

One of those strangers was obviously going to be my future husband.

Duh.

I'd purposely gotten up early to do my makeup and had spent way longer than usual to pick out my outfit - a sweater and skinny jeans with flats that said "put together" without looking like I'd, you know, purposely put it together.

When I'd arrived in the courthouse room where I'd be sitting for the remainder of the day, I'd selected a seat in an empty row, imagining that within five minutes Channing Tatum's doppelganger was going to be sitting down next to me. I had pulled out my paperback copy of Kitchen Confidential, knowing that he would have read it too, and we'd spend all day talking about tacos and Mozza and our favorite way to prepare kale from the farmers' market.

Instead, a large asthmatic woman winded from the walk down the hallway had plopped down on one side, and a girl who looked like she could be my doppelganger plopped down on the other. It had quickly become clear to me that the one was not in room 510.

Just as it's clear to me now that the one is not at the bar at Bäco Mercat.

Yet as I continue chatting with the friendly woman next to me who, as it turns out, is also reporting for jury duty, I no longer care. Nor do I care when I take that first blissful bite of my fava fritter bäco and realize that I could be eating a quinoa salad in front of my computer at the office right now.

Heading out into the sunshine to walk back to the courthouse after my leisurely lunch, it hits me that I'm secretly enjoying jury duty. Being Downtown. Reading a book for the first time since summer. Meeting people I never would have encountered in my normal existence in West Hollywood.

Finding joy outside my comfort zone.

And eating romanesco instead of cauliflower or broccoli.

Romanesco with Crispy Sunchokes and Cilantro Pesto
Serves 2-4

Notes; This recipe is a mash-up of different inspirations. The cauliflower with cilantro pesto at Josef Centeno's other restaurant, Bar Ama, a version of the dressing from Heidi Swanson's Yellow Split Peas, and a trip to Whole Foods that resulted in the purchase of romanesco and sunchokes before I even knew what I was to do with them. Somehow they all came together in this dish. It's a bit outside the comfort zone, but delightfully so - the crunch from the sunchoke chips, the crispy edges of the roasted romanesco ensconced with the vegetal bite of cilantro. Serve it in one of those quaint little bowls family-style that seem to only exist in restaurants, and enjoy it with the one or the ones you love.

1 head romanesco, cut into florets
3 sunchokes (approximately 1 lb), scrubbed well and sliced into thin pieces
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
3 tablespoons pepitas, toasted
1 cup lightly packed cilantro leaves and stems, rinsed well
2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 clove garlic, peeled
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 small jalapeno pepper, seeded and devained
2 tablespoons water
Sea salt
1 green onion, sliced into thin pieces

Preheat oven to 400 degrees, and line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

Toss romanesco with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil and a generous pinch of sea salt. Spread out on the baking sheet and roast for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and stir so all sides brown evenly. Push to one side of the baking sheet.

Toss the sunchokes with 1 tablespoon olive oil and another generous pinch of sea salt, and spread into an even layer on the other side of the baking sheet next to the romanesco. Roast together for another 20 minutes, stirring the sunchokes once midway through for even browning.

While vegetables are roasting, combine cilantro, 2 tablespoons pepitas, parmesan, garlic, lemon, jalapeno, water, and remaining tablespoon of olive oil. Using an immersion blender or blender, puree the ingredients until smooth.

Remove romanesco and sunchokes from the oven. Toss with cilantro pesto until evenly coated. Garnish with green onion and remaining tablespoon of toasted pepitas.