Diana Takes a Bite

Red Wine Chocolate Cake: A compromise

2012-01-19T21:58:00.000-08:00

I went to a birthday party at a local bar two weeks ago.

It was very out of character for many reasons - first because I didn't know the person all that well and (usually) break out in hives at the thought of social situations that involve groups of strangers who all know each other. They stand in their little clusters laughing at their inside jokes, while I cower in the corner, nodding and smiling and looking very intently at my phone, because I don't know how to interject myself into their conversation without feeling like one of those beeping trucks that's backing up.

Right into those inside jokes that, in my hyper-neurotic world, are clearly about me and my weird phone-staring and smile-nodding and corner-dwelling.

But that's all beside the point.

The party was at a bar.

And it didn't start until 10:00 p.m.

I don't go out at 10:00 p.m. I'm home by 10:00 p.m. Home with my hair in an ugly knot bun, sporting my dark teal sweatpants, a swag-bag Nasoya tofu t-shirt and pink hoodie sweatshirt -- my unofficial apartment uniform. It gets extra scandalous when I break out my thick socks and purple fuzzy slippers.

It's dead sexy. Like if I was a contestant on "The Bachelor," it would be a total T.K.O. from the moment I stepped one slippered foot out of the limo with my mug of hot tea.

This party was huge for me. I was going out at 10:00 p.m. To mingle with strangers. At a bar. On a Friday night.

This is the sort of crazy shit that happens in the "year of yes."

Because, as I told myself over and over again so I wouldn't wimp out and go to bed at a "reasonable hour," it could be the best night ever. I could be the life of the party in my pink blouse and black cashmere cardigan. I could meet a guy who complimented my black flats and wanted to take me to Osteria Mozza.

And there could be cake.

This was what was going through my head as I willed myself to stay awake by dancing around my apartment to Rihanna's S&M on repeat. I secretly hoped that, yes, there might be a cute boy there with horrible taste in women (i.e. me), but more importantly, that someone would show up at the bar with an overly frosted sheet cake with balloons on it and those fake candles that don't blow out. Clearly that would be a totally normal thing to happen at a 27-year-old's birthday party.

At a bar.

At 10:00 p.m.

On a Friday night.

Even so, I held onto that sliver of irrational hope that someone else in my decade might be as lame as I am and still equate birthday parties with cake and balloons rather than tequila and regret. That someone else might be wishing they were home drinking tea and snuggling up with a fleece blanket rather than pretending not to be appalled by the subpar wine list and girls wearing tube tops as dresses.

But there was no cake. I was not the life of the party. And nobody complimented my flats or asked if they could buy me an al dente pasta dinner. There were half-naked strangers and inside jokes and loud voices and music that made my head hurt.

And, like I said, no cake.

There should have been cake.

At the very least, this cake, a red wine chocolate cake with mascarpone whipped cream and sifted powdered sugar that, in the world of people above the age of 10, is as close as one can get to neon-colored frosting balloons.

It's a proper compromise for an adult's birthday party - at home with friends, in an office with co-workers, or at a bar.

At 10:00 p.m.

On a Friday night.

Red Wine Chocolate Cake with Whipped Mascarpone
From Smitten Kitchen
Serves 8-10

Notes: In all honesty, when I set about to make this cake, I was expecting the wine flavor to dominate, to overwhelm the chocolate and leave that distinct boozy taste that I always hated in chocolate liquors. Instead, the wine was only perceptible through its fruit, lending a sort of jamminess that only enhanced the flavor of the chocolate. I loved it - so much so that half-way through my first slice, I emphatically declared to my coworkers that I would be having a second. I can easily see this becoming my go-to chocolate cake - and not just because of how easy it is to throw together. The only difficult part was finding Dutch processed cocoa, which is alkalized and less bitter than regular cocoa (think Ghiradelli and Hershey's, et all). Check the ingredients - if it says "alkalized," you should be good to go!

Cake
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1/4 cup white granulated sugar
1 large egg + 1 large egg yolk, at room temperature
3/4 cup red wine, any kind you like (I used a sweet 'n spicy Shiraz)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup + 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1/2 cup Dutch cocoa powder
1/8 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Powdered sugar

Topping
1/2 cup mascarpone cheese
1/2 cup chilled heavy or whipped cream
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Line the bottom of a 9-inch springform or round cake pan with parchment paper. Grease paper and exposed sides of the pan with butter, then lightly dust with flour.

Cut butter into smallish chunks into a large bowl, then use an electric mixer set to medium to cream till pliant. The butter will likely stick to the blades of the mixer - that's ok. Add the sugars, then continue beating with the mixer until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Beat in the vanilla (adding it before the egg makes the vanilla flavor more prominent), then add the egg and yolk and beat for a couple more minutes. Finally, add in the red wine, paying no attention to the somewhat garbled appearance of the batter at this juncture in the batter-making process.

Sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt -- either directly into the wet ingredients, or into a separate bowl if the desire so strikes. Mix with the electric beater until about 3/4 combined, then fold the rest of the floury bits in with a rubber spatula. Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, smoothing with the spatula until the top is even.

Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until a tester inserted into the center comes out almost clean. (Mine took around 28-29 minutes and the tester was still a bit sticky, but not overtly so. It was perfect once cooled completely.) If using a regular cake pan, you can let cool for 10 minutes or so and then invert onto the rack to cool completely, but if you are using a springform pan, feel free to let it reside in said pan until you are ready to serve.

For Whipped Topping:

Combine mascarpone, whipping cream, sugar and vanilla in medium bowl with tall sides (to prevent splashage). Beat with electric mixer over medium-high speed for a couple minutes, or until soft peaks form. It is advisable to not overbeat. I may have done so with this preliminary wine cake attempt, but didn't so much mind the thick texture.

Dust top of cake with sifted powdered sugar, then slice into slivers. Top with whipped mascarpone.

Black Bean Chili with Butternut Squash: A year of "yes"

2012-01-12T20:55:00.000-08:00

2012 is going to be the year of "yes."

Or at least that's what I'm telling people. It sounds considerably more profound than my other new year's resolutions -- get to a point where I can afford my monthly car payments, floss more and my personal favorite... participate in a flash mob. (Bonus points if the song is Michael Jackson's "Thriller.")

While it's my job to be a "yes" woman in my professional life, I haven't been so good at "yes" in my personal life. I've become an expert at coming up with excuses of why I can't say "yes." Usually something along the lines of, "I'm tired." "I need to use up my kale." "I might be getting sick."

And, the ever redundant, "I'm signed up for a Bar Method class."

It's easy to say "no" and do what I always do because it's safe and comfortable and doesn't require me to put on makeup and clothes that don't have elastic waistbands. It's easy to hibernate at home and eat the same quinoa dinner I've had three nights in a row. It's easy to pretend that I'm okay with letting the last lingering months of my 20s (21 to be exact) pass by without acknowledging that I'm getting older and won't always be able to wear a backless top without a bra.

Not that I would do that.

But, I could.

Potentially.

If I keep going to those Bar Method classes.

The funny thing is that I rarely regret saying "yes." At least not until the next morning when the alarm goes off at 6 am and I realize that the second (or third) glass of wine wasn't the brilliant idea it seemed to be the night before. Yet even in those self-loathing, stomach-churning moments, I feel a glimmer of satisfaction that I feel miserable because I had that much fun.

My favorite memories of 2011 are of the nights when I abandoned my personality to stay out past my bed time, to drink and eat a little more than I should have, and to enjoy the moment without thinking too much about the consequences of that moment. I want more of that this year -- more enjoying and less thinking. More "yes" and less "no."

In as many aspects of my life as possible.

I'm saying "yes" to second slices of cake. "Yes" to skinny jeans (until those second slices of cake catch up with me). And "yes" to black bean chili -- a recipe I've been wanting to make ever since I saw Esi rave about it on her blog, Dishing Up Delights nearly a year ago.

After months of staring at the bag of black beans I'd bought to make the chili, I finally made it, symbolically, on New Year's Day. It was everything Esi promised it would be -- sultry, smoky and dramatically flavorful and hearty for a chili not containing any meat. I served it simply with a generous heap of Greek yogurt and cilantro.

It was the perfect way to begin my year of "yes." A year of possibility.

And flash mobs.

Black Bean Chili with Butternut Squash and Couscous
Adapted from Dishing Up Delights (via Bon Appetit)
Serves 4-5

Adaptations: I used extra butternut squash (nearly double what it called for), added cumin, and used whole wheat couscous instead of bulgur. I also used vegetable broth instead of just water.

2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, chopped
5 cloves of garlic, minced
1 1/4 tablespoons chili powder
1/2 tablespoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 14.5 ounce can fire roasted tomatoes
1 cup dried black beans (resist the urge to use canned), rinsed
1 chipotle chile from canned chipotle chiles in adobo, minced
1 teaspoons dried oregano
5 cups water
1 tablespoon Better than Bouillon vegetable base
2-pound butternut squash, peeled, seeded, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/2 cup whole wheat couscous
Greek yogurt
Cilantro, chopped

Heat a large heavy-bodied saucepan over medium high heat. Once hot, add the olive oil and swirl it around so it coats the base of the pan. Add the onions and cook, stirring rather frequently, for a good ten minutes or until they are soft and well-browned. Add the garlic and cook for another couple minutes. Turn down the heat, and add the coriander, cumin and chili powder, stirring for a minute so the spices get slightly toasty and fragrant, but don't burn.

Stir in the tomatoes and their juices, the beans, and oregano. Add 5 cups water and the vegetable base. Bring to a boil, than reduce the heat and cover with the lid slightly ajar. Simmer, stirring occasionally to check on the amount of liquid, until the beans are tender (about 2-3 hours depending on how fresh your beans are -- mine took close to 3).

Add the butternut squash and continue cooking, uncovered for 20 minutes. Stir in the whole wheat couscous and cook for another 10 minutes until the couscous pearls have plumped up and the squash is tender. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Serve immediately topped with Greek yogurt and fresh cilantro.

My Favorite Recipes of 2011

2012-01-04T21:48:00.001-08:00

I blame the arsonist.

I fully intended to post my favorite recipes of 2011 on New Year's Eve while I sat on my couch, my hand glued to a giant glass of white wine. That was the big plan. Couch time. Giant glass of white wine time. Sentimental reflective time.

It was going to make me uber-emotional and obnoxious. I was going to tell you that "2011 was a year of monumental change for me." I was going to tell you that I got a new job, a new car and a renewed sense of self. It was going to be gross and cliched and everything that makes me hate New Year's and resolutions and people who get reflective after they drink too many giant glasses of white wine.

Instead, I spent New Year's Eve driving down to my parents' house in Orange County because I was convinced that the LA arsonist was going to torch my new car, Molly. I didn't even consider that Molly was more likely to get in an accident driving on the 405, in the fog, on New Year's, than she was to be singled out for the arsonist's next sparkler. Clearly, my reflective skills were not functioning properly.

Again, I blame the arsonist.

Today, four days into the new year, I'm not feeling nearly as sentimental about 2011. I'm feeling convicted. Ready to eat 2012 whole with big messy bites. Just like I ate these recipes -- my favorite of 2011 -- this past year.

While I was, you know, going through all those monumental changes.

Nancy Silverton's Bran Muffins
These will always be the muffins I ate on the morning *I* bought my first car. It's only fitting that they were practically perfect in every way - hearty specimens with an unexpected depth of flavor and tenderness to their interiors. I wouldn't expect anything less from LA's queen of bread and pastry.

Spice Krinkles with Dried Apricots and Chocolate
I thought I'd moved passed the days when I could eat a half dozen cookies in a single sitting. Until this recipe came along. I ate no less than 15 of them this holiday season. These spicy vixens killed all my restraint with their chewy interiors, crackly exteriors and bold accents of apricot and chocolate. Joy to the World, indeed.

Colorful Lentil and Couscous Salad
I never knew a salad could smell intoxicating before I encountered this recipe adapted from the Kitchn. Lentils become anything but ho-hum with the addition of pomegranate molasses, sundried tomatoes and sauteed onion and peppers. Eating it almost made me forget that I'm supposed to be the Quinoa Queen -- not the Lentil Lady.

Egg Bruschetta
The only way to improve the most famous tomato sauce in the country is to add an egg and serve it on top of toasted bread. Scott Conant = Genius.

Warm Quinoa Salad with Fried Egg, Spring Vegetables and Herbs
This dish was the theme song of my spring. I scoured the farmer's market every weekend for asparagus and fresh English peas, and went through four basil plants from Trader Joe's making it over the course of the season. This is what delicious obsession looks like.

Brownies
I coined these squares of sin the "Be-All End-All Brownie" for good reason. I have no desire to make any other brownie recipe ever again.

Warm Chickpea and Roasted Cauliflower Salad
Nine months later and I'm still hopelessly hooked on this salad. It's gotten to the point where I can't pass a cauliflower at the farmer's market or grocery store without envisioning it in this form. The key is using absurd quantities of lemon, garlic, parsley, basil, and Parmesan. You'll need a good half head of cauliflower per person.

Red Quinoa Salad with Apples, Walnuts, Dried Cranberries, and Smoked Gouda
This is the salad I make for people who say they don't like quinoa. It's trail mix in a less depraved form --utterly addicting with the different textures and assertive tang from the dried cranberries and sherry vinegar. The deal is sealed with the tiny cubes of smoked gouda. Quinoa haters don't stand a chance.
Chana Masala
I'm fairly convinced that this recipe is why Molly Wizenberg married her husband Brandon. I would marry a blender if he made me a crock of these saucy, seductively spiced chickpeas. Particularly if he served it to me with quinoa and roasted cauliflower on the side.

Braised Kale with Chickpeas
This simple dish was the sleeper hit of the year. While perfectly worthy of best recipe status as is, it was also a saving grace without the chickpeas -- a proper side dish for a roast chicken dinner with the parents or companion for a serious steak. It was perhaps most significant, however, when curtly topped with a runny fried egg. It would be indecent of me to not to admit how many mornings I relied on it as a recovery breakfast after one too many indulgences the evening before.

Nancy Silverton's Bran Muffins: Most worthy

2011-12-29T21:41:00.001-08:00

It's sitting outside my building right now -- a little too far from the curb. Even after my second attempt parking it this afternoon I was nervous to get too close, nervous that I'd scrape the hubcaps or squash the tires or in my distracted state of hyper curb awareness, accidentally smash into the car parked behind me.

I mustn't do any scraping, squashing or smashing.

It's only been five hours since I drove away from the Mazda dealership in Huntington Beach and I'm still not quite sure how to react to this. A new car. A car with a functioning radio and CD player, a window that doesn't get stuck when it rolls down all the way, and a driver's side door I can actually open.

Clearly this isn't allowed. Clearly I've somehow cheated the system and the system police is on their way to my apartment to declare me an unfit mother and confiscate the car. My car. Molly.

I'm so not worthy.

I should be excited. Ecstatic. Typing these very words from the back seat because I can't bear to be away from Molly lest she float back to car heaven (Japan). Instead I can't escape the singular thought that I don't deserve a new car. That my old car -- Tiffany -- was fine. That I'm really not adult enough or special enough or financially stable enough to buy a new car.

Definitely not worthy.

I was terrified signing all the papers today, making all the decisions about gap insurance and lo jack, and horrified that the dealer was addressing me rather than my mother.

"Why are you asking me?" I wanted to shriek. "I don't know what I'm doing! Don't you see the picture on my driver's license? I'm still an overall-wearing 16-year-old who over plucks her eyebrows!"

Apparently, I had him fooled. Apparently, he thought I was an adult. Because she's still outside -- still a little too far from the curb just like she was when I checked on her an hour ago.

Not worthy.

The whole day, aside from breakfast, has been seasoned with these feelings of self-doubt. In the midst of all the car-selling, car-buying, dealer-fooling, grown up nonsense, I woke up feeling determined not about this grand milestone in my life, but about bran muffins.

It was the first thing that popped into my head when I peeled back the sheets and peered, blurry eyed, at the clock by my bed.

I scurried into the kitchen, eying the muffin tin I'd lined the night before with resolve. It didn't matter to me that I was selling the only vehicle I'd ever owned in less than two hours. It didn't matter that I was replacing Tiffany with Molly a few hours after that. I was making muffins. I was toasting the wheat germ, pureeing the raisins, zesting the orange, sifting the flours. I was going through the motions, because I couldn't possibly sit still and let myself think about what I was about to do or what it would cost me or whether I was a moron for thinking I could be the owner of a car with Bluetooth, some fancy SkyActiv technology I don't really understand and a button that opens the trunk for me.

"Muffins." I thought "I'm making bran muffins."

And as I tore into my second one, consumed mere moments after I'd devoured my first, the single thought that occupied my mind wasn't guilt or despair or anything approximating the self-doubt I'd experience all day.

Worthy.

The muffins today.

Maybe myself tomorrow.

Nancy Silverton's Bran Muffins
Lightly adapted from David Lebovitz
Makes 12

Notes: After reading the comments noting the muffins were a bit wet, I reduced the water from 1 cup to 3/4 cup. I also upped the orange zest from a few swipes to the zest from an entire orange, and added 1/4 teaspoon of cinnamon. Cinnamon is very worthy.

2 cups wheat germ
1 1/2 cups dark raisins, divided (I used Jumbo Thompson to splendid effect)
1 1/4 cups water
1/2 cup non-fat yogurt (I used Chobani Greek yogurt)
1/2 cup light brown sugar, packed
Zest of 1 orange
1 large egg
1 large egg white
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup flour
1/4 cup whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners.

Spread the wheat bran out into a smooth, even layer on a foil-lined baking sheet. Toast for 6 - 8 minutes, stirring around a bit during the toasting process so it browns evenly.

While the wheat bran is in the oven, pour 1/2 cup of water and 1 cup of water into a small saucepan. Bring to a slow boil, then reduce the heat and simmer uncovered approximately 10 minutes or until the raisins have absorbed most of the water. Remove from the heat and puree the raisins using an immersion blender or food processor.

In a large bowl, combine the wheat bran with the yogurt and 3/4 cup of water. Add the raisin puree, orange zest and brown sugar and stir until well integrated. Stir in the oil, egg and egg white. Feel free to whip the batter a bit to make sure the egg is evenly distributed.

Sift together the flour, wheat flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon and add directly to the bran mixture. Stir until just combined and then toss in the remaining 1/2 cup of raisins. It doesn't hurt to heap the 1/2 cup a bit. (Raisins are worthy as well.)

Distribute the batter evenly between the 12 muffin liners, taking care to heap it up a bit in the center. Note: It will look like you have too much batter, but keep in mind that bran muffins are a denser lot and don't rise like regular muffins. Heap that batter in and be glad the singular muffins are heftier in size because of it.

Bake for 25-30 minutes or until the muffins look visibly set in the centers. (Mine were done in about 28 minutes.) Let cool about 5-10 minutes in the tin before attempting to remove the muffins. (Prevents squashed sides.) Use a knife to slip them out and then continue cooling on a wire rack. Unless, of course, you are eating right away. In that case, immediately serve yourself two. Because you're worthy.

Quinoa Tabbouleh with Edamame and Arugula: A recalibration

2011-12-27T22:38:00.000-08:00

I thought I had the upper hand.

Thought I'd convinced him that he liked me more than I liked him. I topped off any sort of a complimentary statement with an edge of sarcasm. I told him he was like water in my ear. Ignored him when I felt like I was being too present. Shrugged off all of his complimentary statements with confident indifference.

I was not going to be that girl. That crazy, obsessive, planning-the-wedding-before-the-first-date girl. I was going to play it cool. Not blog about it. Not talk about it (too much). Keep the warm, stomach-churning flashes of emotion all wrapped up in a little box like a Christmas present under my nonexistent tree.

My master plan started to go awry last week. In the midst of all my snark and circumstance, I realized I was the one initiating the communication. I was the one playing Adele's "Someone Like You" on repeat for an hour straight while I clung to my phone, willing the green light indicating I had an incoming text message to flash.

I was the one imagining it to be something it wasn't. And liking him far more than I felt comfortable as the one who was supposed to have the upper hand.

The obsessive phone-clinging reached its peak on Friday. As I stewed over what his unresponsiveness meant, I glued myself to my couch with a bottle of Chardonnay. Love Actually accidentally slipped into my DVD player. A box of See's chocolates accidentally got opened. And in an instant, I accidentally became that girl.

Two glasses of wine into the night, I finally recognized her.

Me.

"Disgusting." I said to the reflection in the mirror.

I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day trying to detox. Pretending that I was checking work emails or Twitter when my brother asked me why I kept looking at my phone. I did everything possible to distract myself -- playing card games with my brothers, crawling on the floor pretending to be a tiger with my two-year-old niece, watching the Michael Bublé Christmas special with my mom -- twice.

Four days after the peak of my complete metamorphosis into the most loathed character in romantic comedies, I'm attempting to claw my way back to normalcy. Back to the person who obsesses over ordinary, everyday things.

You know, Bar Method, Anthropologie and quinoa.

This is the salad I'm eating to recalibrate myself -- from the holiday cookies, the filet mignon with port wine shallot reduction, the twice baked potatoes oozing with neon orange cheddar cheese, and from the boy who almost made me lose my head.

Quinoa Tabbouleh with Edamame and Arugula
Serves 2

1/2 cup quinoa, rinsed well
1 cup shelled edamame, prepared according to package instructions
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon orange juice
2 teaspoons olive oil
1 teaspoon honey
Fresh ground pepper, sea salt, to taste
1 cup parsley, minced
3 cups arugula
1/4 cup slivered almonds, toasted

Bring just shy of 1 cup of water to boil in a small saucepan. Add the quinoa, reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for 15 minutes. Remove the lid, fluff with a fork and assess for doneness. If all the liquid has been absorbed, turn off the heat and let "dry out" for approximately 10 minutes.

Whisk together lemon zest, lemon juice, orange juice, olive oil, honey, salt, and pepper. Toss with quinoa, parsley, and edamame. Refrigerate for at least an hour so the flavors can blend.

Spread out arugula on two plates. Toss quinoa with almonds, then divide the salad evenly between the two plates.

Pomegranate-Glazed Eggplant with Tempeh: The Perks of Fall

2011-12-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

I still can't decide quite how I feel about it. Fall. The impending winter. The cold, piercing air that sneaks in through the window slits in my apartment.

In this moment, buried under two blankets and donning a thick J. Crew hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, I hate it. Just like I hate it when I wake up to a dark room at 6:00 a.m. and know that I have to peel myself from the warm sanctuary of my bed to go outside. And run.

Every morning my body rebels against the inevitable. I hit the snooze button and pull my pink comforter over my head to seal the heat in for just a few more precious minutes before I finally force myself to get up. I whimper as I yank a long sleeve shirt over my fists to keep Los Angeles' version of frigid air from numbing my fingers. As I take those first strides, I'm miserable, and nostalgically thinking back to summer when I could run outside in tank tops and skivvy-like shorts.

Then there are the other moments -- when snuggling under two blankets with a cup of hot tea feels comforting rather than distressing. When I get back from that run and take that first bite of cinnamon apple-scented oatmeal. When I'm belting out the lyrics to Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas." When I'm stomping on leaves in my tall brown Sechelles boots.

And when I turn the oven on to roast my dinner.

I love that part. Love the way my oven clangs to life like a furnace as soon as I spin the dial. Love that it instantly perfumes the air with warmth and hominess. Love that I can toss a myriad of seemingly incoherent ingredients together to create a completely coherent meal.

Purple eggplant, butternut squash, tempeh, pomegranate molasses, garlic, lemon... heaven.

The oven is the center of my universe during fall. During winter. During moments like this one where I can't fathom even slipping a toe outside of my blanket fortress. And it's recipes like this one that make me sort of love the cold, piercing air that sneaks in through the window slits in my apartment.

Pomegranate-Glazed Eggplant with Tempeh
Adapted from Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Every Day
Serves 4

Notes: I doubled the amount of eggplant and butternut squash, and added kale, lemon juice and brown sugar. I also increased the amount of cilantro, omitted the feta, and used less olive oil. Rather than smashing the raw garlic, I pre-roasted it so it would be easier to mash together with the other components of the sauce. As usual, I added an extra clove for good measure.

2 long, thin Asian eggplant, cut into small cubes
8 ounces tempeh, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
2 cups butternut squash, cut into small cubes
4 cloves garlic
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
Zest of 1 small lemon
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1/3 cup pomegranate molasses
2 cups kale, sliced into slivers (optional)
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place unpeeled garlic cloves in small oven-safe dish. Roast for approximately 10 minutes.

Remove garlic and smash with sea salt into a paste. Place in small bowl, add red pepper flakes, lemon juice, lemon zest, olive oil, brown sugar, and pomegranate molasses. Whisk together.

Arrange eggplant, tempeh and butternut squash cubes in a glass baking dish. Toss with pomegranate molasses mixture until well coated. Spread into an even layer. Roast, stirring once or twice, for 30-45 minutes, until the eggplant is soft and the squash is starting to caramelize. Toss in the kale, let roast 5 more minutes.

Remove from oven and stir in the cilantro. Serve with farro, barley or brown rice.

Farro Risotto-Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms: An unnecessary necessity

2011-12-11T21:43:00.000-08:00

I didn't do anything I was supposed to do today.

I didn't go to Bar Method this morning.

I didn't go to church this evening.

I didn't bleach the kitchen sink or go Christmas shopping or even bother putting on a bra.

Instead, I cloaked myself in sweats, put weird things on my face in an attempt to get rid of the scars that have suddenly taken up residency on my left cheek, and rented Friends with Benefits OnDemand. It was horrible. And by "horrible" I of course mean, I really enjoyed it and am currently considering rewatching it so I can pause the screen whenever Justin Timberlake takes his shirt off.

It was glorious. Not just JT's abs and his "these" muscles (Ashley will know what I mean by "these"), but the day. The laziness. The freedom I gave myself to be totally antisocial and ugly and weird.

And in the midst of all this inactivity and aloe vera face-painting (one of the home remedies for facial scars I found on a site I googled this morning), I made cookie batter. I folded laundry that I purposely scorched in the dryer so I could bury myself under a hot pile of it. And I spent an hour and a half standing over the stove making caramels while I listened to Coldplay's "Paradise" on repeat.

I love doing these types of things on Sundays. Things I don't need to do; things that I'm doing mostly for the pleasure of the slow, methodical process it takes to do them. Obsessively folding my underwear into neat little stacks. Refolding them if they aren't perfectly smooth and identical in shape and size to the one underneath it. This is the kind of stuff that fills me with that warm, glowy feeling of contentment. The kind of thing that recharges me for the impending week of tasks I actually have to accomplish.

A few Sundays ago I spent an entire afternoon preparing my dinner. I braised a portobello mushroom. I roasted and mashed a sweet potato. I made a port wine reduction. I simmered a farro risotto in broth I made with dried porcinis and vegetable stock. Then I put it all together in dramatic, restaurant-esque fashion.

It was complicated, time-consuming and completely unnecessary for a solo Sunday supper. But it was exactly what I needed -- because I didn't need to do it.

Farro Risotto-Stuffed Portobello Mushroom with Sweet Potato Puree
Adapted from recipe from Chef Scott Zwiezen of Elf Cafe
Serves 4

For Braised Portobellos
1 teaspoon olive oil
4 large portobello mushrooms, stems removed
1/4 cup port wine
1 celery stalk, coarsely chopped
1 carrot, coarsely chopped
1/4 onion, coursely chopped
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
2 teaspoons Better than Boullion Vegetable Base
Freshly ground pepper

Heat large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the teaspoon of oil, swirling to coat the base of the pan. Place the portobellos face down, and let cook until they just start to release their liquid, approximately 5 minutes. Add the wine, letting it cook off almost completely. Add a cup or so of water, the vegetable base, carrot, celery, onion, thyme, and a few good shakes of freshly ground pepper. Bring to a boil and then reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, until mushrooms are braised through, approximately 45 minutes to an hour. Remove mushrooms from broth and set aside. Strain broth into a separate saucepan.

For Sweet Potato Mash
2 large sweet potatoes
1 tablespoon butter
1/3 cup milk, give or take a little
Salt, pepper

While mushrooms are braising, preheat oven to 400 degrees. Pierce the sweet potatoes with a fork and roast until tender, approximately 40-45 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool for 10 minutes.

Once cool enough to handle, peel off the skins and dump potato into a bowl. Add butter, milk, salt and pepper, then mash using either a handheld electric mixer or an immersion blender. Add more milk as needed.

For Farro Risotto
1/2 ounce dried porcini mushrooms
1 teaspoon olive oil
2-3 large shallots, minced
1 large carrot, minced
3/4 cup farro
Pepper
Pinch of thyme
2 tablespoons goat cheese
2-3 tablespoons grated parmesan

Place dried porcini mushrooms in a heat-safe bowl. Bring two cups of water to a boil. Pour over porcini mushrooms and let sit for 30 or so minutes. Using a fine sieve, strain the liquid into the saucepan with the reserved portobello braising broth. Bring to a low simmer.

Chop rehydrated porcinis and set aside.

Heat a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the teaspoon of olive oil, swirling to coat the pan. Add the shallots and carrot and saute until tender and lightly caramelized, approximately 5 minutes. Add the farro, and cook for a few more minutes to lightly toast the kernels. Season with pepper and thyme. Add a half cup of the hot broth to the pan, and let simmer over medium-low heat until the broth evaporates. Keep adding broth as needed, a 1/2 cup or so at a time until the farro is cooked through, approximately 30 minutes. Stir in the goat cheese and rehydrated porcinis, and turn off the heat. Let rest for 10 minutes so it thickens up enough to be stuffed into the mushroom caps.

For Port Reduction
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup Port wine

Pour balsamic vinegar and Port wine into a small saucepan. Bring to a boil and then reduce heat, keeping at a slow simmer until it reduces into a thick, syrup-like consistency, approximately 45 minutes.

For Assembly:

Bring oven back to 400 degrees.

Place portobellos in a lightly greased glass baking dish. Stuff with farro risotto, then sprinkle with parmesan cheese. Bake in the oven until completely heated through and parmesan has lightly browned, approximately 15 minutes.

Reheat sweet potatoes in the microwave until piping hot. Divide evenly between four plates. Top with stuffed mushrooms, then drizzle with port reduction. Serve immediately, optionally with braised kale or green of choice.

Eat My Blog 4.0

2011-12-07T21:11:00.000-08:00

Psst.

I'd really appreciate it if you came out to Pita Jungle in Pasadena this Saturday to, ahem, eat maaah blog.

And these walnut sea salt caramels.

If not for me, for the starving children.

All proceeds of the Eat My Blog Charity Bake Sale will go directly to the LA Regional Food Bank. Every baked good (and/or sweet 'n salty caramel) counts, and we've got a lot of them -- over 50 local food bloggers and restaurants are on board for our fourth sale. Think cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery, oreo-stuffed chocolate chip cookies from my gal, Esi at Dishing Up Delights, and bacon cheddar buttermilk biscuits from M.B. Post.

Get after it. Because the holidays aren't just about seeing who can put the most lights on their tree - regardless of what my dad and two older brothers say.

Hope to see you there! I'll be the tall blonde in the pink apron, naturally.

What: Eat My Blog Charity Bake Sale

When: Saturday, December 10th, 10 a.m. - 4 p.m.

Where: Pita Jungle, 43 E. Colorado Blvd., Pasadena, CA, 91105

Yellow Split Pea Soup: The perks of being sick

2011-12-03T18:51:00.001-08:00

I caught a cold this week.

I should have known it was going to happen. After I'd found out I was denied health coverage for two minor pre-existing conditions two weeks ago, I'd been foaming at the mouth about how healthy I am.

"I eat quinoa for breakfast!" I sputtered to my mom, my brother, the person in line behind me at Whole Foods.

"I can do a Level 2 Bar Method class without even breaking a sweat!" I continued, flexing my tricep to demonstrate how "big" and impressive my minuscule muscles are.

"I can't even remember the last time I was sick!" I finished with pride.

As soon as the words had parted from my lips, I was hit with a flashback to the last time I'd made a bold declaration. A seemingly harmless comment about how much I loved my $50 hand-painted porcelain teapot and lived in fear that it would break one day. And then the next day, it did.

The cold smashed down on me this past Sunday night, leaving me weak and sprawled out on my bed with a box of tissues and blurry, stinging eyes. I was, of course, in denial it was happening.

"I'll fight it off!" I thought as I downed Zicam chewables like M&Ms and brewed pot after pot of tea. Determined to prove that I was not a sickly person, I forced myself to go to the gym the next morning, refusing to believe that a few germs could get the best of me.

"I eat quinoa for breakfast," I reminded myself as I wheezed through my bike workout.

By the time I got to my office that morning, I couldn't go more than five minutes without reaching for the tissue box. My face was pale, my head ached and it was an effort to just sit up straight. I knew then that it was over. I was sick.

While I hated feeling and looking like I was auditioning for a role on "The Walking Dead," I took full advantage of the opportunity to dramatize every aspect of my disease. If I had to be sick, I was going to make the most of it -- making sure that everyone around me was well aware that my immune system had been compromised. This was a dire situation.

Meanwhile, I was relishing the excuse to be a gross and disgusting person. I stopped working out, I wore the same pair of jeans to work for four days, I watched "Kourtney and Kim Take on New York," I let the tissues pile up in unsightly wads on the floor of my apartment, and I whined. I whined a lot.

And then after the whining got old, I made soup.

Of all the perks of being sick (the sympathy, the insta-diet, the ability to sit on the couch doing nothing for hours on end), soup is the best part. In that congested achy state, nothing tastes as good as a steaming bowl of hot noodly broth, or in the case of this recipe, a cuddly crock of yellow split peas. Hearty, but not overbearing, this is the type of soup that comforts and sustains.

Even when one's immune system hasn't been compromised. Even in non-dire situations. Even for the healthiest person on a planet on an perfectly ordinary, average day.

Yellow Split Pea Soup
Serves 4
Adapted from Food & Wine

1 tablespoon olive oil, plus extra for serving
3 large leeks, white and pale green parts only, finely chopped
2 carrots, peeled and finely chopped
2 celery ribs, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, minced
Sea salt
1/4 cup port wine
2 teaspoons mustard powder
1 1/3 cup split peas, picked over and rinsed
6 cups of water
2 tablespoons Better than Bouillon vegetable base
Freshly ground pepper

Heat a large soup pot over medium high heat. Once hot, add the tablespoon of olive oil, swirling to coat the base of the pot. Add the leeks, carrots, celery, garlic, and a pinch of salt. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until the vegetables are softened and leeks are taking on a melty consistency. (Approximately 10 minutes.) Add the port wine, and let boil for a minute or two, scraping up any of the caramelized bits stuck to the bottom of the pot. Stir in the dry mustard and cook for 1 minute. Add the split peas, water and vegetable base, and season to taste with pepper. Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, and adding additional water as needed.

When the split peas are tender (will take anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half)), ladle out approximately a fourth to a third of the soup into a different container. Using an immersion blender, puree the rest of the soup until smooth in consistency. Return chunk bits to the pot and stir to combine. Bring back up to just under a boil before serving. Finish with a swirl of good quality olive oil and dusting of pepper.

Spice Krinkles: My Thanksgiving contribution

2011-11-24T15:19:00.000-08:00

"What are you doing tomorrow? More importantly, what are you making?"

As I read Ali's email, I felt the beginning inklings of guilt. The very inklings I'd been ignoring for weeks as everyone else compared notes on whether to brine their turkeys or use cornbread in their stuffing or make sweet potato or pumpkin pie. I'd done a sufficiently good job of pretending like none of it mattered to me -- even defiantly defiling a traditionally decadent side dish by drowning it with quinoa and vegetation. I was laughing in the face of Thanksgiving and all it represented. I was refusing to participate in the over-the-top displays of gluttony and over-extended waistlines.

But then there it was in front of me.

"What are you making?"

I retracted from the keyboard on my computer. How could I tell Ali that I wasn't doing anything special -- that I was going to make the same Brussels sprouts salad I made last year on the day that should be my cooking Olympics. I couldn't tell her that my great Thanksgiving kitchen plan was to drain the contents of a bottle of wine while my parents and brothers slaved over the mashed potatoes, turkey and a disturbingly giblet-heavy gravy.

It's not that I hate Thanksgiving or slaving; I just hate (most) Thanksgiving food. And feel no desire to spend any time attending to that which I have no desire to personally ingest. I was going to make Brussels sprouts. Brussels sprouts that are not cloaked in bacon fat, that are not overloaded with butter, and that take less than 30 minutes to pull together.

"What are you making?"

I asked it of myself this time. Because deep down, buried underneath my hatred for green bean casserole and overly sweetened sweet potatoes, I secretly wanted to do something. Something different. Something seasonal, but not cliched. Spice krinkle cookies with chewy dried apricot bits and slivers of chocolate.

I baked them as soon as I got home yesterday, even braving the grocery store to get the $9 jar of ground cloves necessary for the recipe. I ignored the price tag. Just like I ignored the voice in my head that said that my 2 1/2 year old niece would declare them, "Too spiiicy!" and my brothers would likely shudder at the mention of the dried apricot.

But it didn't matter. I was baking them for me.

For my personal cooking Olympics. And for a Thanksgiving indulgence that's actually worth the over-the-top display of gluttony -- and the over-extended belly that goes with it.

Spice Krinkles with Dried Apricots and Dark Chocolate
A recipe mash-up of Amanda Hesser's Spice Krinkles in The New York Times Essential Cookbook and Heidi Swanson's Ginger Cookies in Super Natural Every Day

Notes: These cookies are everything I love in a ginger cookie - chewy and soft, and redolent with spices. The dried apricots and dark chocolate add additional dimension and texture. I made half the batch plain and half with the apricots and chocolate and after tasting the latter couldn't be bothered to sample the plain.

3/4 cup unsalted butter (1 1/2 sticks), softened
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
1 room temperature egg
1/4 cup unsulphered molasses
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons ground ginger
2 teaspoons cinnamon
3/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup dried apricots, finely chopped
6 ounces 60% cacoa chocolate, finely chopped or shaved
Granulated sugar

Using the paddle attachment on a stand mixer, beat softened butter with brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add the egg and molasses and beat together until well-incorporated, approximately 2 minutes.

Sift together flour, baking soda, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and salt. Gradually add to the butter-sugar mixture, stirring on the lowest speed. Stir until just combined, then add the apricots and chocolate, and stir for a couple beats more to incorporate.

Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Place a good half cup or so of the granulated sugar in a flat bowl. Roll the dough into (shelled) walnut-sized balls. Roll through the sugar until coated on all sides. Once all cookies for that batch have been coated in sugar, re-roll them in the sugar. (The first roll of sugar usually partially dissolves into the dough so if you double roll the cookie, the second layer of sugar will remain on the outside.)

Place cookies two inches a part on a lined baking sheet. Bake for 8-10 minutes (mine took around 8 minutes) or until just set and the tops are just starting to crack. Let sit 2 minutes before removing from the cookie sheet. Transfer to a cooling rack and cool completely before serving or storing.

Quinoa Stuffing: Something to be thankful for

2011-11-19T18:04:00.000-08:00

A year ago I wasn't thankful for Thanksgiving.

A year ago I was finding out that I didn't get the job -- that there had been so many talented candidates and they'd had a terrible time deciding that I wasn't the one they wanted. In a sick twist of fate, I received the news the day after my brother found out he was the one for the position he'd also recently interviewed for. I was happy for him, of course, but in the dream scenario I'd played out over and over again, we'd both gotten the job. In the dream scenario, I'd be spending Thanksgiving celebrating with my family.

"So many talented candidates... offered it to someone else..."

The yellow walls of my then-office seemed to be caving in on me as I'd tried to get through the phone call and those words that kept echoing inside my head.

"Someone else."

"How am I going to tell them?" I'd thought when we'd hung up and I was free to let the tears I'd been holding in fall down my cheeks in hot, messy streaks. "How am I going to tell my family I failed again?"

I'd felt sick driving down to spend Thanksgiving with my parents two days later. I trudged in the door that Thursday morning without an ounce of holiday spirit. After my mom started my laundry for me, and I'd changed into the ugliest sweats I could find, I whimpered to my dad, "Can we make mimosas?"

One trip to the grocery story and six Valencia oranges later, we stumbled upon a new Hossfeld tradition. And I found a way to get through the day without pausing to think too hard about the question that had been simmering in the back of my mind since I'd received the news.

"What now?"

At the time, I couldn't have known that 6 months later I'd be starting a position at a different company -- the company that had been my first choice since I'd first decided I wanted to work in public relations. I couldn't have foreseen how happy and thankful I'd feel just one year later. Happy, thankful and relieved that I didn't get the job that I'd desperately tried to convince myself was the one.

I think back to that girl, sadly sipping mimosas on the couch in baggy sweatpants, and wish I could tell her, "Don't worry, it all works out how it's supposed to in the end."

So today, as I try to wrap my head around a bit of unsettling news I received this morning, I'm not going to let myself linger on the, "What now?" I'm going to be thankful for every blessing that has come my way this year. I'm going to be thankful that those suffocating yellow walls aren't still caving in on me.

And I'm going to be thankful for quinoa stuffing -- a way to make my favorite Thanksgiving side dish into a complete dinner.

Quinoa Stuffing with Chestnuts, Leeks, Mushrooms, and Apples
Inspired by recipe from Gourmet Magazine
Serves 6-8

1/2 ounce dried porcini mushrooms
2 1/2 cups water, divided
2 teaspoons Better than Bouillon vegetable base
1 cup red quinoa
1 tablespoon olive oil, divided
1/2 lb shiitake mushrooms, chopped into 1/2 inch cubes
3-4 leeks (white and pale green parts only), finely chopped (approximately 4 cups)
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1/4 cup Port wine
1 large Granny Smith apple, diced
2 celery ribs, finely chopped
14 ounces chestnuts, coarsely chopped (I purchased mine from Trader Joe's)
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup loosely packed parsley, finely chopped
Freshly ground pepper
1 egg

Place dried porcini mushrooms in medium-sized bowl. Bring 2 cups of water to a boil, and pour hot water over mushrooms. Soak for 30 minutes or until mushrooms are rehydrated. Remove the mushrooms and squeeze out any excess liquid back into the bowl. Decant the soaking liquid through a strainer, tilting it and pouring slowly to leave behind any grit in the bottom of the bowl.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Rinse red quinoa well. Bring soaking liquid (will have reduced to about 1 1/2 cups), 1/2 cup of water, plus 2 teaspoons of vegetable base to a boil, then add the quinoa. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer until liquid is not quite all absorbed (you'll want the quinoa to be a bit soupy since it will dry out some when it bakes).

While quinoa is cooking, heat large, nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add one teaspoon olive oil, swirling to coat the pan. Add the chopped shiitake mushrooms, and saute over medium heat, until mushrooms release their liquid and are fragrant. Remove and set aside.

Add the remaining two teaspoons of oil to the pan, then add the leeks. Saute over medium heat until wilty in appearance -- approximately 10-15 minutes. Stir in the butter, letting melt completely. Add the salt, pepper, thyme, apples, celery, Port wine, and continue to cook together until apple is tender, approximately 8 more minutes.

In a large bowl, combine apple-leek mixture with chestnuts, shiitake mushrooms, porcini mushrooms, red quinoa, and parsley. Stir until well-incorporated. Crack egg into a separate bowl and whisk yolk and white together. Add egg to the stuffing mixture, and stir again until well-incorporated. Dump contents into baking dish and cover with aluminum foil.

Bake for 40 minutes. Remove from oven and serve immediately or refrigerate and reheat when ready to serve, adding additional liquid as needed. Stuffing will keep well in the fridge 3-4 days.

Port-and-Balsamic-Glazed Plums: I can just play

2011-11-13T09:06:00.000-08:00

I couldn't decide if I looked stylish or like Steve Urkel.

For ten minutes I stood in front of the long mirror in my living room, awkwardly rotating in what amounted to the worst attempt at striking a Cupcakes and Cashmere pose ever. I grimaced at the ensemble, bearing my teeth like a pit bull readying to attack a squirrel. After several moments of said grimacing, I yanked off the built-in belt on my olive green high-waisted skirt and looped on a tan woven one instead.

"Now this will definitely be chic!" I told myself as I tucked my bright orange top back in.

Yet even then something looked slightly off to me. I still didn't see "chic" in the reflection in the mirror. I saw a girl trying to be chic. A girl trying to be effortlessly stylish. Which, of course, defeated the whole point of effortless style.

I love clothes and am perfectly capable of picking out a cute dress at Anthropologie, but I've never been the type of gal who knows exactly what to do with, say, a pair of bright red shorts or a denim collared shirt. I would never even buy a denim shirt. I would walk right past it and pick up a v-neck merino wool sweater in a color I already own. It would look perfectly acceptable on me, but wouldn't inspire the type of reaction I usually have when I see my friend Ashley in a new outfit. Usually along the lines of, "How on earth did you figure out how to put a denim shirt with a wool skirt and suede ankle boots?!"

It's like that scene in Good Will Hunting when Matt Damon explains why he's so wicked smaht to Minnie Driver. She wonders if he has a photographic memory, he responds with a metaphor about Beethoven. "He looked at a piano and it just made sense to him." He says.

I always feel like it's some sort of fluke when I put something stylish together or find a dress that is flattering enough to warrant a compliment. I don't feel like I'm the Beethoven of fashion. I feel like a girl who can't figure out if tucking a bright orange shirt into an olive green skirt makes her look like the female version of the nerdiest character in the "TGIF" line-up.

"Did I do that?"

While it would be fun to be that girl, I'm not too terribly worked up about it. Because even if I will never be able to wear a denim shirt without looking like a cowboy, I have other tricks up my sleeves (no pun intended). I can string words together without grammatical errors (usually), I can run for an hour (or more) without stopping, and I can (effortlessly) make quinoa topped with Port wine and balsamic roasted plums for breakfast on a random weekday morning.

I know that if I boil just shy of a half cup of water to the ratio of a quarter cup of quinoa, it will come out perfectly fluffy after 15 minutes. I know that if I roast plums in Port wine and balsamic vinegar, they will come out deliciously gooey and jam-like. I know that if I ladle them over said quinoa and douse the whole thing in 2% milk, I'll be so busy sighing with pleasure, I won't care that my outfit isn't chic.

This is what makes sense to me. When it comes to quinoa, when it comes to boozy sweet plums, I can just play.

Port-and-Balsamic-Glazed Plums
Makes approximately 1 cup (enough jammy goodness for 2 people)

Notes: Since plums are on the way out the door, feel free to experiment with the more seasonally apropos pears. While I make the plums for my quinoa, I also thing they'd be fantastic with oatmeal, over a bowl of vanilla ice cream (like pie without the crust!), with Greek yogurt and granola, or even served alongside roast chicken.

2-3 largish plums, sliced into 1/4 inch thick slices
2 tablespoons Port wine
2 teaspoons Balsamic vinegar

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Lightly grease a glass baking dish (preferably with butter). Toss plums with Port wine and Balsamic vinegar, then spread out in a single layer in the baking dish. Bake, stirring once, until tender and caramelized, approximately 25-30 minutes. Serve warm.

For quinoa preparation: Rinse 1/4 cup of quinoa well to remove the bitter outer layer. Bring 1/2 cup minus 2 tablespoons water to boil in a small saucepan. Add the quinoa, a few good shakes of cinnamon, a shake of salt and a shake of nutmeg. Cover, reduce the hear, and simmer for 15 minutes untouched. Remove the lid, fluff with a fork, and add a splash of milk. Turn off the heat and let sit for 5-10 minutes before serving. Top with plums and add milk in desired quantity.

Farro with Caramelized Winter Vegetables, Bacon and Fried Egg: Do Look

2011-11-06T14:10:00.001-08:00

"Don't look, DiDi," She warned, her expression affixed into the very reaction she was trying to prevent me from having.

I laughed at my former college roommate's cringing face, flashing her my best attempt at an easy breezy smile. Ali had been sending me emails for the past two weeks leading up to my visit to her home in Chicago. Cryptic emails that read, "I'm nervous to cook for you. I'm worried you're going to think I'm gross."

Unsure what she meant by "gross," I pooh-poohed her concerns as completely unwarranted.

"I eat quinoa, tofu and vegetables most nights," I insisted, "I have simple tastes! I'm happy with just a big bowl of braised kale!"

I didn't realize what Ali really meant by "gross" until that moment in her kitchen when she dangled an entire cube of butter over a frying pan of melting leeks.

I tried to conceal my horror. “Well, there are 14 of us, so that’s really only like 2 teaspoons of butter a person!” I said brightly, while secretly thinking about the cup of heavy cream, generous pour of olive oil and the very unfibrous white bread that was also going into the chestnut, leek and apple stuffing.

I forced my lips into a smile. She forced hers into one too, then plopped the butter into the pan. It immediately began to bleed into the mass of gooey leeks, saturating every pleat and corner. I gulped and walked out of the kitchen, desperately fighting the urge to run over to the stove with a roll of paper towels to sop up the excess fat.

"Thank God I'm making a quinoa salad," I thought as I cemented myself to the couch, completely unaware that six hours later I'd be helping myself to my second helping of the "gross" stuffing during the dinner party -- butter, cream, oil, unfibrous bread and all.

As much as I enjoy my healthy dinners and bowls of simple braised kale, I'm not inclined to pass up a decadent dish that, like the stuffing, is worth every luscious calorie. I just usually prefer that decadence to be added sight unseen, which is why most of my indulgent dining goes on when I'm out at a restaurant. What happens in that kitchen, stays in the kitchen, and I'm quite content to dig into my meal blissfully unaware of just how many tablespoons of oil, butter and cream were used to sauce that oversized bowl of pasta.

But there are instances when I'm cooking at home that I do let my guard down and welcome the fat with an open mouth. Usually it involves a runny fried egg, Parmesan cheese or bacon.

Sometimes, like in the case of this farro with caramelized winter vegetables and ginger -- adapted from an orzo recipe on the Kitchn -- it involves all three.

I use the bacon fat to pan-roast my veggies, I reserve that same bacon fat to fry up my egg, and then I serve the whole thing topped with Parmesan and those crunchy nubs of rendered bacon bits. It gets even better when I break open the center of the egg, letting the yellow interior ooze into the cheese and bacon-studded farro. The caramelized vegetables and hearty whole grains don't stand a chance.

It's grossly good. Grossly decadent for a girl who is accustomed to bowls of kale. And totally worth looking at every glorious gram of fat that goes into it.

Farro with Caramelized Winter Vegetables, Bacon and Fried Egg
Adapted from The Kitchn
Serves 2

1/2 cup farro
1-2 ounces thick-cut bacon (about 2 thick slices)
1 medium sweet potato (about 1/2 pound), peeled and chopped into 1/4 - 1/2 inch cubes
1 medium yellow onion, finely diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons grated fresh ginger
4 ounces shiitake mushrooms, stems removed and caps cut into cubes
2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon soy sauce
2 cups chopped kale
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons grated parmesan
Red pepper flakes
Sea salt

Rinse farro well. Bring 1 cup of water to a boil in a small saucepan. Add the farro, cover, and reduce heat to low. Simmer until water is absorbed -- approximately 25 minutes. Fluff with a fork and set aside.

Heat large nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Add the strips of bacon and cook until it releases its fat, flipping from side to side to ensure an equal rendering. Using a fork, remove bacon from pan and set on a paper towel to cool. Pour excess bacon fat into a small dish, leaving just enough to cover the base of the pan.

Add the cubed sweet potatoes to the pan, arranging in a single layer. Cook them over medium-high heat until they are beginning to caramelize and turn brown -- about 4 minutes. Stir about a bit and let continue to cook a few more minutes or until browned on all sides.

Turn down the heat a bit, and shove the sweet potatoes into a pile up against the side of the pan. Add the diced onions and sprinkle lightly with the sea salt (use a restrained hand as the bacon will already add a component of saltiness to the dish). Let the onions cook, stirring occasionally, until they are starting to caramelize and turn brown -- approximately 10 minutes. Stir in the minced garlic, ginger and a pinch of red pepper flakes, and let cook for a couple minutes together before shoving to the other side of the pan.

Finally, add the diced shiitake mushrooms and cook, stirring once, until they just start to release their liquid and turn brown. Add the farro and mix everything together. Then, while still over medium heat, add the vinegar and soy sauce, scraping up all the bits at the bottom of the pan. Stir together until well combined, then toss the kale over the top so the heat from the bottom lightly steams the greens while you are preparing the eggs.

Heat a large nonstick pan over medium high heat. Add enough of the reserved bacon fat so that the base of the pan is lightly greased. Carefully crack the two eggs into the pan. Sprinkle with pepper and let sit for a a couple minutes. The whites will likely run together -- that's ok. Once they have begun to set, use a rubber spatula to separate the eggs, then flip each over with a spatula to cook for another minute to two minutes.

While eggs are finishing in the pan, toss the kale into the farro mixture, then divide between two plates. Top with Parmesan and the rendered bits of bacon.

Happy Birthday to my dear friend Ali, who, for the record, is not gross at all.

Sweet Potato Biscuits: (In)sanity restored

2011-10-23T20:58:00.000-07:00

I underbaked my brownies on Wednesday night.

I don't know how it happened. I baked them the usual amount of time that I always do -- precisely 28 minutes -- at the same temperature I always do -- precisely 350 degrees -- and made sure to test them with a toothpick like a good little obsessive baker. Yet when I took them out of the fridge to cut them the next morning, they were unmistakingly gooey. I cringed as I surveyed the way the wet chocolate interior clung to my knife like butter.

"This is not good," I thought, as I hurriedly placed the parchment-lined brownies back into my 8 x 8 pan to take to work with me that day.

It was the first time I had made anything for my new coworkers, and I'd wanted the brownies to be perfect, wanted my colleagues to shudder and declare with ecstatic glee, "Diana, you are a baking goddess! Ina has nothing on you!" I wasn't supposed to spend half the brownie-inducing occasion apologizing and explaining, "I baked them the same amount of time that I always do!"

While my coworkers were polite and ate them without complaint, insisting that they like their brownies a bit gooey, I didn't believe them. I don't like my brownies gooey at all. I look at a sticky brownie and I think "Salmonella." I've even gone so far as to throw out a batch that a friend gifted upon me because they looked, in my eyes, like square bastions of disease.

It bothered me the rest of the day, and the subsequent day when my good friend in the office enthused, "Oh when they're cold, the gooeyiness makes them taste like fudge!"

Brownies are not meant to be like fudge. Fudge is supposed to be like fudge.

So I did what any normal (read: not normal) person would do to correct the situation. I woke up this morning and, while the sun was barely peaking out from behind the clouds, I made biscuits. Not just any kind of biscuit, of course -- sweet potato biscuits that, lacking any sort of egg, couldn't possibly transmit foodbourne illness.

"Biscuits will save me," I thought, as I lightly kneaded the dough to eradicate my feelings of self-doubt, disgust and shame that I, the queen of Clorox bleach and all things sanitary, could underbake brownies.

Nevermind that I had to purchase an entire container of buttermilk just for the 1/3 cup I needed for the recipe. Nevermind that I didn't even really want or need a buttery sweet potato biscuit dredged in honey after indulging in a donut crawl yesterday. Nevermind that my coworkers are already planning to bring plenty of baked goods for our potluck brunch at work tomorrow. I was going to redeem myself -- even if I had to throw out the entire carton of buttermilk and half my sanity to do it.

The biscuits are a bit denser than the average, non-sweet potato biscuit, but the interior is still pleasantly pliant -- a proper contrast to the craggly, crusty edges. I inhaled the one I "tested" for lunch today, greedily smearing honey over it, barely pausing to assess whether it would engender the desired reactions from my coworkers. Something along the lines of...

"Baking goddess."

"Just like Ina."

"The queen of all things sanitary."

They're quite simply, a good biscuit. Uncontroversial, unassuming, but perfectly pleasurable on a fall day when the only care you have in the world is whether your coworkers think you are trying to poison them.

Sweet Potato Biscuits
Lightly adapted from Molly Wizenberg via Bon Appetit

Makes 8-10 biscuits

1 3/4-lb sweet potato
1 3/4 cup of all purpose flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons golden brown sugar, lightly packed
1 stick unsalted butter, plus 2 tablespoons for glazing
1/3 cup buttermilk

Do ahead: Peel sweet potato and cut into manageable 1-inch hunks. Steam or boil until soft. Remove from steamer (or drain from pot), and puree until perfectly smooth. Cool completely in the fridge.

Combine sweet potato and buttermilk together in a medium bowl. Whisk together until well incorporated.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and brown sugar in a large bowl. Cut the butter into 1/2 inch pieces and then use a pastry blender or your fingers to carefully knead the butter into the flour mixture. When the dough has reached a somewhat crumbly texture and the butter pieces are about pea-sized, add the sweet potato and buttermilk. Use a fork to stir together until just combined.

Bring the dough together in a large clump and, using your hands, knead into a 1-inch thick patty. Place on a lightly floured sheet of wax paper with extra over-hang to wrap the dough up. Cover it completely with the paper than place in the fridge to chill for approximately 30 - 60 minutes. The key to flakey biscuits, pie crusts, scones, etc. is keeping the butter as cold as possible before baking.

While dough is chilling, preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Remove dough from the fridge. Using a 2-inch diameter-ed glass or biscuit cutter, cut circles out of the dough and place on a lined or greased cookie shoot. Bring the scrapes together to make additional biscuits. Melt the two additional tablespoons of butter and use a light hand to glaze the tops and sides with a pastry brush. You'll likely have a little butter left over.

Bake for approximately 20-22 minutes, turning the sheet once, or until lightly browned on the top and golden brown on the bottom. Cool on a rack or eat immediately, smeared with honey or the seasonally appropriate apple butter.

Biscuits are meant to be eaten within a day or so, but do freeze well as long as they are sealed tight. You know, to keep out any unwanted freezer burn. Or any germs that may somehow exist in the frigid temperature of your freezer.

Peanut Kale with Delicata Squash: A culinary freak flag?

2011-10-18T21:30:00.000-07:00

"Weird." I thought. "This is definitely weird."

I'd been home for a good ten minutes, but hadn't actually made it inside the door. Or even out the car door for that matter. I was sitting in my hot, parked Toyota reading Twitter because I didn't want to move. Didn't want to get up and carry my purse, lunch tote and keys the approximately 30 feet to my front door. It seemed so daunting a task -- far too daunting for me to handle at the moment.

And it wasn't the first occasion.

I regularly arrive home and sit in my car reading emails as I wait to build up the resolve to finally lug myself the momentarily insurmountable distance to my apartment.

I was convinced that no one else could be this weird/lazy/freakish until dinner with a girl friend last Monday night.

"I do the same thing too, Diana!" She confided.

And just like that, I didn't feel so weird any more. The following day I proudly sat in my car for 15 minutes refreshing my Twitter feed while I psyched myself up to open the door and get out. Since I knew at least one other individual was engaging in this bizarre ritual on a regular basis as well, I suddenly felt exonerated to sit and tweet as much as I liked. To wave my freak flag confidently, like only a freak who knows she isn't the only freak can.

The same, of course, extends to food and food combinations that I'm convinced no one else in the world would possibly want to consume. I shamefully eat them in private like I'm a teenage boy watching porn -- pouring milk over my quinoa to eat as cereal; washing chocolate down with Coca-Cola, and drenching everything I can in obscene amounts of lemon juice and garlic -- until someone admits they do the same thing too. That person becomes my savior -- someone whom I look to for reassurance that it's totally normal to use four cloves of garlic and the juice and zest of an entire lemon in a single serving of food, regardless of what the general population thinks.

This past Friday night, as I was whipping up some peanut kale and tofu (a fairly standard pairing, inspired by the version at M Cafe de Chaya), I suddenly got the urge to add delicata squash to the dish. Even though my kale was already lightly steamed and enrobed in a thick mess of peanut sauce, all I could think about was how it would taste with sweet cubes of squash mixed in.

I couldn't shake it. I needed to try it.

"Weird." I thought, as I fired up the oven and began chopping up the squash into neat cubes. "This is definitely weird."

But when the final dish came together, I couldn't get over how not weird it tasted. The sweet, lightly caramelized cubes of squash were an addicting contrast to the salty peanut sauce. It got even better the next night when I added cayenne-spiced roasted squash seeds to the mix. The heat completed the flavor trifecta, adding a sharp bite that helped cut through the muddiness of the sauce.

"I can't be the only one..." I mused as I typed "peanut squash" into Google (from my couch, not my car). The search immediately returned a myriad of recipes for peanut squash (or pumpkin) stew, a common African dish that also incorporates heat, usually in the form of chilies. Yet as I realized just how sane my seemingly insane pairing was, I felt the slightest twinge of disappointment. As though I actually wanted the peanut squash combination to be my culinary freak flag, inspiring horrified whispers of, "She eats squash with peanut butter!"

Deep down I sort of liked the idea of being the only one. Just like deep down I kind of enjoy being the crazy quinoa lady who can't go to Whole Foods without stocking up on at least 2 lbs.of the grain that's actually a seed.

As much as I like feeling that interconnectedness with other "freaks" who find moving from one's car akin to Homer's Odyssey, and as glad as I am to have friends whose taste buds have also become immunized to garlic, every once in a while it's fun to be the only weird one. The definitely weird one.

And the one who might some day eat peanut squash in her car, while reading emails and refreshing her Twitter feed.

Peanut Kale with Delicata Squash, Spiced Seeds and Tofu
Serves 4

2 cups cubed Delicata squash, seeds reserved
1 large bunch kale, washed well and coarsely chopped (approximately 8 loosely packed cups)
1 medium red onion, finely chopped (approximately 1 cup)
4-6 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
Cayenne pepper
Sea salt
10 ounces extra-firm tofu, cubed

Peanut Sauce:
1/4 cup creamy peanut butter
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon mirin
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon sesame oil
Shake of red pepper flakes

For serving:
1 cup quinoa, prepared according to package instructions (optional)

For peanut sauce: Whisk together ingredients in a small bowl. Set aside. If needed, can thin out with rice vinegar or splash or water.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Soak squash seeds in water for 15 minutes to ensure all the squashy bits are cleaned off. Drain and rinse well, then rub dry with a paper towel. Drizzle with a teaspoon of olive oil, a good shake of salt and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Stir to coat evenly, then spread out on a cookie sheet. Bake, stirring occasionally, for approximately 30 minutes or until nicely toasted. Set aside.

Meanwhile, toss squash with 1 tablespoon olive oil, season with salt and roast for 25-30 minutes, stirring occasionally to ensure it achieves a light caramelization on both sides.

While squash and seeds are roasting and toasting, heat large nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Add 1 teaspoon of olive oil, swirling to coat the base of the pan. Add the tofu and stir fry until browned on all sides. Remove and set aside. Add the last teaspoon of olive oil to the pan, then add the garlic and onion. Stirring frequently, cook onion and garlic over medium heat until onion is translucent -- approximately 7-10 minutes. Reduce the heat, add the kale, then a good shake of salt. Cover and simmer over low heat for 10-15 minutes or until the kale is lightly steamed/braised.

Remove the lid, toss in the squash, tofu and then stir in the peanut sauce. Serve immediately, preferably over quinoa. Top with spiced squash seeds.

Brussels Sprouts Salad with Dates, Almonds, Red Quinoa: This I know

2011-10-09T21:33:00.000-07:00

"It's like you are buying flowers for his family," The Apple Store sales associate had told me on Friday night when I was purchasing my new iPod Nano.

"I totally am!" I'd practically squealed, unable to contain my delight at his clever justification of my unnecessary, but totally necessary purchase. "It's even pink!" I'd said with pride.

It had seemed ironic earlier in the day when the sound on my three-year-old iPod had stopped functioning in the middle of my bike workout at the gym. After I'd gotten past the initial horror of having to finish my workout sans musical accompaniment, I'd realized it was almost appropriate given the recent passing of Apple Co-Founder and former CEO Steve Jobs.

Usually this type of technical failure would dishearten me -- another expense to add to the ever-growing list -- but I'd felt empowered that day. "I'm just going to buy myself a new one!" I'd thought defiantly, not letting myself think about the expense of my recent car repairs or the Chicago trip I have coming up at the end of the month.

I felt like a fierce, independent woman as I strode through the Grove shopping mall that night, shiny new iPod in hand. I'd even allowed myself to flirt with the tattooed associate for a few minutes before getting embarrassed and saying, "I have plans when some girl friends," when he'd asked me what I was doing after.

It felt like a victory to me -- a declaration of adulthood and my ability to buy myself what I wanted at the precise moment I wanted it. Just like when I'd bought myself my MacBook computer nearly five years ago. Just like when I'd signed the check on the deposit for my first one bedroom apartment. Just like when I'd slapped down my credit card and said, "Let me get this one," when I'd taken a friend out for dinner a couple months ago.

So today, when I found out the software on that five-year-old MacBook is incompatible with the version of iTunes I need for my new iPod, I felt like a child again. I stared blankly at the Apple Store Genius as he told me that I needed to buy the new software update so I could download the most recent version of iTunes.

"But my disc drive doesn't work any more," I protested. "Isn't there any other way I can get the update? Can't I download it online?"

He shook his head.

"Are there any older version of iPods available that would be compatible with the iTunes I have now?" I pressed, not wanting to believe that there wasn't an easy way to correct the situation.

He shook his head again.

I sat dumbly on the bench, waiting for him to come up with some "genius" solution. How he could telepathically update my computer so I wouldn't have to replace my disc drive just so I could actually use the iPod I'd triumphantly purchased two days prior. Surely this couldn't be it. Surely he or the tattooed associate could employ some Jedi mind tricks and just wave their hands over my computer to make everything work exactly as it should.

This was the Apple Store -- the land off possibility, not shaking heads.

"So, there's really nothing you can do?" I asked one last time.

He shook his head once more, a curt, definitive motion that made it clear this was the end of the road. It was time for me to get up and leave and let him not help the next person in the long queue of customers waiting for their Genius consultation.

I walked slowly toward my car, clutching my bag from the Farmers Market that contained a jar of whole grain mustard I had purchased to make my lunch. The pride I'd felt so vividly on Friday was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense helplessness. There was nothing I could do to fix my problem in that moment.

All I could do was go home and make lunch.

Lunch I can fix.

Lunch makes sense to me.

I know that if I toss Brussels sprouts with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast them in the oven for 30 minutes, they will emerge crinkly, crispy and tender to the fork. I know that if I make red quinoa with just slightly less water than the ratio of two parts liquid to one parts quinoa it will fluff up perfectly. And I know that if I combine whole grain and Dijon mustards with apple cider vinegar, honey and a splash of oil, I'll have an assertively tart and sweet dressing ideally suited for an eclectic mix of sprouts, quinoa, dates, almonds, and sauteed tofu.

This I know.

Without using a single Jedi mind trick.

Brussels Sprouts Salad with Dates, Almonds and Red Quinoa
Serves 4

This salad is inspired by one of my favorite deli salads at my beloved Los Angeles cafe Joan's on Third. Collapsing Brussels sprouts are tossed with an assertive whole grain mustard dressing that is counterbalanced by crunchy almonds, manchego cheese and sweet dates. My version includes red quinoa and tofu for a little extra bulk -- my way of turning the side dish I always want to eat a pint of into an actual main course. Feel free to adjust according to personal taste -- leaving out the quinoa or swapping in manchego for the tofu. I think apples might do quite nicely in here as well.

1 lb. Brussels sprouts, stems and outer leaves removed
1 cup red quinoa, rinsed well
10 ounces extra firm tofu, sliced into 1/4 inch thick, 1/2 inch sticks
6-8 Medjool dates, chopped
1/3 cup slivered almonds, toasted
2 tablespoons whole grain mustard
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons + 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided
Salt, pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Slice each Brussels sprout from the top down into four even pieces. Toss with 1 tablespoon olive oil, salt and pepper. Roast in oven safe baking dish for approximately 30 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes to scrape up any leaves that start to stick to the edges of the dish. Sprouts are down when they can easily be pierced with a fork.

Meanwhile, bring 1 3/4 cups of water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the quinoa, reduce the heat, and simmer, covered, for approximately 25-30 minutes. Red quinoa takes longer to cook than white, and is done when the white shells have visibly separated from the red kernel. Fluff with a fork and set aside to cool.

Heat large nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add a teaspoon of olive oil and swirl to coat the base of the pan. Add the tofu, reduce heat to medium and stir fry until well-browned on all sides, approximately 7-10 minutes.

While salad components are coming to room temperature, prepare dressing. Whisk together both mustards, apple cider vinegar, honey, olive oil, and a pinch of salt. Taste and adjust accordingly.

Toss quinoa, Brussels sprouts, tofu, dates, and dressing together. Chill at least an hour.

Just prior to serving, stir in the almonds.

Pudding Cake of Honey, Cinnamon and Plums: Two Plums Up

2011-10-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

My kitchen light went out on Thursday night.

Seemingly not a big deal -- at least not for the normal, "average Joe" type person. It's an easy fix -- requiring merely a minimal amount of intelligence to 1.) Figure out that the light bulb needs to be changed, 2.) Locate a new light bulb, and 3.) Replace the old bulb with the new bulb while repeating the mantra, "Righty tighty, lefty loosey."

This is why there are jokes that begin with, "How many ___ does it take to change a light bulb?" Usually said jokes are at the expense of blondes, the presumption of course being that blondes are not the most brilliant of individuals.

Clearly this stereotype doesn't apply to me.

Usually.

In the year and nine months that I've lived in my apartment, I've never changed a light bulb. Not that I've had an overwhelming number that needed to be changed, but the last time my kitchen light went out, I waited until my dad came up to visit me in LA so he could fix it. Since then, two more lights have gone out -- one in my bathroom and the other in the ceiling fan above my dining room table.

Which was why the kitchen bulb going out was suddenly so momentous and potentially calamitous.

"What now?" I thought in desperation as my eyes traipsed back and forth from the unlit ceiling fan to the kitchen fixture. I knew that in approximately one hour it would be dark outside meaning the majority of my apartment would be as dim as the stereotypical blonde that I am clearly not because I went to Northwestern and can walk and chew gum at the same time.

Usually.

I panicked, as I realized it would be impossible for me to cook my tempeh with roasted eggplant and squash that night without a functioning light.

"Do I call Ashley?" I wondered, clutching my phone in my hand. "I know she'd know how to fix it. She has screw drivers and drills and stuff." (Ashley is a far more rational blonde who also went to Northwestern and can walk and chew gum at the same time. Not just usually -- always.)

I hovered my finger over her number, primed to hit "dial" so my friend could come over and rescue me from my own lazy stupidity. It took only a few moments for me to realize what I was about to do. It took only a few more moments for me to realize that at 28 years of age I might actually be able to fix the light bulbs myself.

I rummaged through my storage closet until I found the floral hammer/screwdriver hybrid that my dad had gifted me when I'd first moved out on my own, located the light bulbs my mother had bought me when I'd moved into the apartment, and then climbed up on one of my dining room chairs.

"Righty tighty, lefty loosey," I repeated as I unscrewed the glass fixture from the overhead light in my kitchen. Less than a minute later, light was flooding through my kitchen again. Two minutes after that, the ceiling fan that had been dark for the past four months, was shining brightly -- triumphantly -- over my dining room table.

Thrusting my fist in the air, I reached for my phone again -- to call someone -- my dad, Ashley, anyone who would listen -- so I could report my victory over the domestic disturbance in my ceiling. It took me only a few moments to realize what I was about to do. It took only a few more moments for me to realize that at 28 years of age, changing a light bulb is not the type of significant activity that invites a "Way to go, champ!" type response.

At a certain point in life, these things are expected. Like parallel parking, killing a cockroach, bleaching the tub. While to me, these things are huge deals -- activities that clearly mean I am an accomplished woman and successful at being a grown up -- to the average person they are everyday type affairs. No more noteworthy than brushing one's teeth or walking and chewing gum at the same time.

So to receive that affirmation that I crave so I don't feel like a child still floundering around in space, I do what to me actually isn't a big deal.

I make cake.

Honey, cinnamon and plum pudding cake that is composed word for word from the recipe that Molly Wizenberg recently posted on Orangette.

It's a seemingly basic endeavor -- reading, measuring, stirring -- but when I triumphantly presented it to my dad for his birthday last night, it elicited the response I'd been wanting to hear when I'd successfully changed not one, but two light bulbs.

"Mmmm."

Which, of course, can be roughly translated to mean, "Way to go, champ!"

Nigel Slater's Pudding Cake of Honey, Cinnamon and Plums
Not at all adapted from Orangette who adapted it from Tender, Volume II

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 slightly heaping teaspoon of baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 slightly heaping teaspoon of cinnamon
2 pinches salt
5 ripe plums, pitted and quartered (I used only 4 because of the large size of my plums. Possibly less because a couple bites may have gotten lost in my mouth)
2/3 cup golden syrup (procured from my local Whole Foods)
1 stick + 1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 tablespoons honey
3/4 cup golden brown sugar, packed
2 eggs
1 cup milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Line an 8 x 8 or 9 x 9 square baking dish with parchment paper. (It's not necessary to grease it, but I usually do on the off chance that the parchment paper might suddenly decide to fail me.)

In a small saucepan, combine syrup, honey and butter and melt over medium-low heat, stirring frequently so the syrup doesn't burn. When the butter has melted completely, stir in the brown sugar. Remove from the heat and let cool a couple minutes.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt in a large bowl.

Using the same whisk, combine eggs and milk in a separate bowl.

Add the syrup-butter mixture to the flour and stir to combine. Batter will be thick and might smell a bit like fall in a bowl. (Do not be tempted to eat.) Pour in the milk and eggs and continue stirring. Do not be distressed if the batter seems to initially reject the milk and eggs -- keep gently stirring -- it will come together!

Pour the batter into the greased pan. It will be quite liquidy (almost alarmingly so) at this point. Evenly distribute the plum quarters across the top, and again, don't be distressed if and when the plums sink to the bottom. It's possible that slicing them thinner might help aleviate the sinkage -- an experiment I will likely try the next time I make this cake. (And yes, there will be a next time.)

Bake for 35 minutes, then cover loosely with a piece of tin foil and bake for an additional 10-15 minutes. When placing the foil over the cake, form it into a bit of a tent so it doesn't stick to the top like mine did (resulting in the swirled affect you see above). When the center is still a touch jiggly, turn off the oven and let hibernate in there for an additional 15 minutes.

Cool the cake on a rack for at least 20 minutes before lifting it out, using the parchment paper as handles. Continue to let cool before slicing.

Of course nobody would hold it against you if you decide to eat it warm, smothered in a scoop of Haagen Daas Five Vanilla Bean Ice Cream. In fact, I highly recommend you do just that. And then triumphantly thrust your fist in the air.

Quinoa Frittata: Thou shalt not be afraid

2011-09-26T18:51:00.001-07:00

All I could think about was ramen.

It didn't matter that I was surrounded by acclaimed chefs and restaurants -- Susan Feniger and Mary Sue Milliken from Border Grill, Suzanne Goin from A.O.C., or Sherry Yard from Spago. Their thoughtfully executed dishes, conceptualized and crafted from seasonal produce from local farmers for the Localicious Gala I was attending, were meaningless to me.

I didn't want a lamb sirloin crostini with tomato eggplant jam or a delicate ricotta-stuffed squash blossom.

I wanted to slurp a hot mess of broth-saturated noodles and pork belly with chopsticks I don't know how to hold properly. I wanted meaty juices to drizzle down my chin like pork-infused rain. I wanted to eat exactly what I was craving in the exact moment that I was craving it.

And, for once, I didn't care if I had to leave the company of other individuals to sit alone at a restaurant to do it.

It had been a good week and a half since my last solo restaurant/bar excursion -- a pathetic outing involving a chick lit book, a pity pour of wine and multiple bemused glances from the resident bartender.

Sean.

The self-imposed socially awkward experience had lowered my inhibitions about solo dining (and imbibing). Eating a bowl of ramen at Robata Jinya, my local Japanese robata restaurant, seemed infinitely less masochistic in comparison. Pleasurable even. I couldn't say my "good byes" fast enough.

"If I can read a Jennifer Wiener book during Happy Hour at Comme Ca, I can eat by myself anywhere!" I thought as I assertively strode down West Third Street in the direction of the restaurant 20 minutes later.

I swung open the door and proudly walked up to the host stand, primed to declare myself a party of one.

"It's just me," I told the stylishly coiffed hostess, an overly extended smile straining the corners of my mouth. "Can I sit at the bar?"

She grabbed a single menu and beckoned me to follow her -- past the tables of equally stylish twenty-somethings sharing sushi small plates -- to the robata bar in the back. I envisioned all of them turning to look at me as I walked by, tilting their heads up to observe me with deep admiration.

"Wow, that girl is awesome." They were all clearly thinking. "She's eating ramen by herself on a Friday night!"

I also envisioned a strapping young bachelor walking over to inform me of this awesomeness -- how impressed he was with my self-confidence and unrestrained enthusiasm for pork and noodles. Taking no notice of the broth dripping from my face or puddle in my lap, he would slide his card across the lacquered wood panel of the bar, flash an electric smile, and say, "Call me if you ever want an eating partner."

The fantasy quickly crashed and burned as I realized where the hostess was taking me. She walked by the empty seats in the front of the bar and pointed me toward a seat in the far corner of the restaurant -- where single women go to die.

I cringed as I sat down, feeling slightly embarrassed that I'd been hidden away in the corner like the bad kid in class. I wanted to be on display -- the totally cool solo ramener who is so at ease with herself she doesn't mind being the center of attention.

"All that's missing is a dunce hat," I mused, as I dutifully reached for my reading material, the "Breakfast" issue of Los Angeles Magazine this time.

While my knight in shining Ashley came swooping in from down the street to join me for a drink 25 minutes later, I did actually feel more at ease on this occasion. It wasn't terrifying for me to sit there slurping my noodles while everyone else in the restaurant was slurping in tandem. And after a few minutes, I didn't even mind being tucked into the worst seat in the house.

It was kind of nice.

This past weekend, I tackled another formerly terrifying situation -- using the broiler drawer in my oven to make a frittata version of "the Kitchn's" omelet with quinoa. The last time I'd used the broiler I'd burned the kitchen floor, likely compromising my security deposit (and part of my sanity) in the process. Yet as I began prepping the ingredients to make my lunch using Heidi Swanson's frittata instructions in Super Natural Every Day, I reasoned that the worst possible scenario had already transpired (short of burning the food beyond edibility).

Just like I'd confidently gone to Robata Jinya by myself (for approximately 25 minutes), I was going to confidently use the broiler to finish my quinoa frittata so the eggs would poof up just like Heidi promised.

I fired up the temperature to 500 degrees, removed the pan in the evil fire-breathing drawer, replaced the grill with my cast iron skillet, and slid it under the flame. Loud snap, crackle and popping noises immediately began emanating from the inner depths of my oven.

"It's the heart of darkness," I thought as I grimaced in pain, fretting like a mother that my poor quinoa frittata was being burned alive.

But when I pulled the pan out a few moments later, the eggs weren't charred beyond recognition -- they were perfect.

I'm kind of thinking I might just be ready to tackle a solo tasting menu.

Or, at the very least, finish a full bowl of ramen at Robata Jinya while everyone looks on and admires my awesomeness.

Quinoa Frittata with Sun-dried Tomatoes, Kale and Goat Cheese
Inspired by "the Kitchn" and Super Natural Every Day
Serves 1

1 tablespoon quinoa
2 eggs
1 shallot, finely minced
1 cup kale, finely chopped
2 tablespoons sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
1 tablespoon milk
Goat cheese, crumbled
Olive oil
Salt, pepper

Bring 2 tablespoons of water to a boil in a small saucepan. Add the quinoa, reduce heat, and simmer covered until the quinoa absorbs all the water - approximately 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat a medium pan over medium high heat. Once hot, add a splash of olive oil, swirling to coat the base of the pan. Add the shallots and saute 2-3 minutes before adding the chopped kale. Season with salt, reduce heat, and cover. Let braise 15-20 minutes over low heat until the kale is satiny in appearance. Add the sun-dried tomatoes for the last five minutes. When done, remove kale, tomato and tomatoes from the pan and toss with the quinoa. Set aside to cool.

Crack the two eggs in a small bowl. Add the splash of milk, season with salt and pepper, and whisk together. Add the cooled kale and quinoa mixture.

Heat a small (6-8'') cast iron skillet over medium high heat. Once hot, add a good splash of olive oil, swirling to coat the entire base of the pan. Pour in the egg mixture and let settle for one minute before nudging the edges in with a spatula so that the uncooked center runs out to the sides. You may need to tilt the pan a bit so the runny eggs run to the underside of the pan. Cook for another minute or so or until the edges are set and the center is just a bit puddly in appearance.

Remove the pan from the stove, sprinkle with goat cheese, and place under the broiler for a minute (maybe two) or until the top of the frittata is puffed and set. Remove from the broiler and let sit for a couple minutes before sliding out of the pan.

Colorful Lentil and Couscous Salad: Lust

2011-09-19T21:58:00.000-07:00

I knew as soon as I saw her I was in trouble.

Sitting there, waiting for me in the car port with her sassy clean white curves, functioning CD player and radio, and passenger door that doesn't squeak when it's opened.

"I'm not going to want to take her back," I told Armando, the Toyota serviceman who'd arranged for the rental while my 1999 Corolla was in the shop.

He smiled knowingly, almost tauntingly, like it was all a part of his master plan.

How could I not fall in love with a brand new version of the car I've owned since I was a sophomore in high school? A car with 125,000+ miles, a severely scratched bumper and a dirty track record that goes far beyond the new brake cylinders it needs... this time.

"Well, just let me know and I'll make sure my guys give you a good deal." Armando said, extending his arm to hand me the keys.

"A good deal." The words echoed in my head as I slid into the driver's seat, immediately noticing how the seat molded around my back, as if it was giving me a warm hug "hello."

"Crap." I said out loud. "It even has that new car smell."

My head pulsed with alternating currents of anger, lust and sadness. "It's not fair," I thought, my stomach wrenched with emotion that I usually reserve for Hugh Grant movies. "They are salting my wound!"

I glared at the warning label still affixed to the driver's side window -- a window that actually rolls up and down on command, and doesn't get stuck like mine does. I stared down the odometer with disgust, gasping when I saw that I was the first person to drive it -- the car that should and could be mine.

If I just let Armando know.

I wanted it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. Even more than the TV I coveted for Christmas when I was in the fourth grade. The year that my mom and dad bought TVs for both my older brother and me, but made the poor judgment call to give his to him first.

I'd cried like the spoiled brat that I was, thinking they'd picked him over me. That I wasn't going to get a 9-inch screen TV that year. That the small package that was on the table in front of me was going to be a pair of socks from the Limited Too -- not the remote to my own white Toshiba TV that was just hiding in the other room.

"It's not fair," I'd thought then.

"It's not fair," I thought as I pulled the car onto the highway on Saturday afternoon.

"It's not fair," I think now, the night before I have to give her, "Camie," back.

I felt sick driving home tonight. I don't want to go back to my old car with her load groans and inferior leg room. I want to keep Camie forever.

Or at least until she needs new brake cylinders, a new CD player, a new paint job, a new fan belt, new shocks, and a new driver's side window too.

So I understood when my neighbor walked by my kitchen window this evening and stared in with lustful eyes as I prepped my lunch for the week -- a "colorful" lentil and couscous salad.

"What are you making?" She asked with wide eyes.

"I'm just sauteing some onions and peppers for my lunches this week," I responded bashfully, embarrassed that I'd been caught in one of my most sacred of rituals.

"It smells so good!" She gasped.

I nodded, knowing exactly how she felt -- intoxicated by the perfume of the salad, just as I'd been intoxicated by the smell of the new car. Wanting what she couldn't have, just as I'd be wanting what I couldn't have.

I'll eat this lentil and couscous salad -- a harmonious blend of sweet peppers and sun-dried tomatoes, laced with a tangy pomegranate molasses-based dressing -- tomorrow before I drive Camie back to the dealership. I'll breathe in the scent, let the flavors linger over my tongue and enjoy the last lunch I have before I say goodbye to the girl who's been my best friend for the past two days.

And then I'll drive back to LA in my old car, secretly hoping that by Christmas this year, there really will be a new Camie waiting for me in the other room.

Colorful Lentil and Couscous Salad with Walnuts & Herbs
Adapted from the Kitchn
Serves 3-4 (3 if you are a hungry person like me)

3/4 cup dry Umbrian or green French lentils
2 cups chicken broth
1/4 cup dry-packed sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
1/2 large yellow onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 red bell pepper
1 yellow bell pepper
1/2 cup whole wheat couscous
1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon olive oil
1/2 cup walnuts, toasted and chopped
1/2 cup flat parsley leaves, roughly chopped
1/2 cup mint leaves, roughly chopped
3 cups loosely packed arugula
1/2 lemon, juiced and zested
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
Sea salt, freshly ground pepper

Rinse the lentils well and pick over for any stones. Bring 2 cups of chicken broth (or water) to boil in a medium sized saucepan. Add lentils, bring back to a boil, and then lower the heat. Cook, covered, for 25 to 30 minutes or until the lentils are "toothsome and tender, but not yet mushy or falling apart." When lentils are done, drain and rinse with cool water to stop the cooking process.

Meanwhile, finely chop the sun-dried tomatoes and place them in a heat-safe bowl. Pour 1/4 cup boiling water over the tomatoes and set them aside to seep.

Heat large frying pan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add the teaspoon of olive oil and swirl it around to coat the base of the pan. Add the onions and garlic and saute over medium heat until onions are translucent and tender -- approximately 5 minutes. Add the red and yellow peppers, a few generous shakes of salt and pepper, and continue cooking for another 2 minutes. Turn off the heat.

Bring 1 cup of water to boil in saucepan you used to prepare the lentils. Add the couscous, lower the heat, and let cook briefly until the couscous starts to absorb some of the water (approximately 30 seconds). Remove from heat, cover with a lid, and let sit for approximately 7 minutes or until couscous has absorbed the water. Fluff with a fork.

Drain the tomatoes (reserving 2 tablespoons of the seeping liquid) and toss into the onion/pepper mixture with the lentils, couscous, lemon zest, chopped parsley and mint, and arugula.

In a small bowl, whisk together the 2 tablespoons of sun-dried tomato water, the lemon juice, pomegranate molasses, and 1 tablespoon olive oil. Salt and pepper to taste, then toss the salad with the dressing. Either serve immediately (topped with walnuts), or taunt your friendly neighbor with the intoxicating fumes of your lunch for the next three days.

Peach and Rosemary Shortbread Bars: Feeling my age

2011-09-15T17:54:00.000-07:00

"I'm 28 today."

"Twenty. Eight."

I kept saying the words over and over in my head when I woke up this morning -- as though repeating them would suddenly make them sound and feel normal.

I don't feel 28, but I never really feel my age. Usually, because I feel older, as though my brain somehow skipped ahead a few years when I wasn't looking. Likely when my fingers were glued to a computer keyboard, typing my rebel-without-a-cause days away while my more carefree contemporaries did tequila shots in their underwear.

But this morning, as I lay in bed, debating whether I should attempt to fall back asleep, I felt far younger than 28. I felt exactly like I did when I was five-years-old.

Too excited to sleep.

I know it's not cool to be fond of one's birthday any more -- especially when there's the big 3-0 looming in the not so distant future -- but I can't help but feel unreasonably giddy about a day that's all about me. I love that everyone from my cousin to a former coworker I haven't spoken to in four years leaves me birthday wishes on my Facebook wall. I love that my brother wakes me up in the morning with a, "Happy Birthday, stinky!" text message. I love that my best friend surprised me with a heaping container of bananas foster last night (I also love that I can justify eating all of it because, well, "it's my birthday").

It's strange in a way. How a day that is supposed to be about getting older instead makes me feel so much younger. How I could barely eat my Greek yogurt, fruit and almonds while I read the food section of the LA Times this morning, usually a leisurely activity for me, because my stomach was too tied up in excited little knots.

I couldn't wait for the day to begin -- to start baking my birthday dessert, to go to my free birthday Bar Method class, to have lunch with a friend at my favorite lunch spot, to sit on my couch sipping pink wine with my hands (predictably) glued to my computer keyboard. I wanted it all to be happening right then. I wanted all the birthday glory in my lap immediately.

It wasn't until I sat down with one of high school friends this afternoon with a cup of rooibos tea and one of these peach rosemary shortbread bars that the anxious anticipation started to melt away.

As I poured our tea, set out my special cocktail napkins and then used a fork to eat the dessert I selected to make because it didn't sound "too sweet," it hit me.

"I'm 28 today."

"Twenty. Eight."

I felt every bit my age.

Peach and Rosemary Shortbread Bars
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen
Yields 9-12 bars

1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/4 cups + 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1 stick + 2 teaspoons cold unsalted butter
1 large egg
1 peach, pitted and thinly sliced (between 1/8 and 1/4-inch thick)
1/2 teaspoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, finely chopped
2 tablespoons oats
1 tablespoon brown sugar

Brown your butter: Melt 1 stick of butter in a small/medium saucepan over medium-low heat. It will melt, then foam, then turn clear golden and finally start to turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently, scraping up any bits from the bottom as you do. Keep your eyes on it; it burns very quickly after it browns.

Preheat the oven to 375°. Line a 8×18 inch pan with parchment paper and butter or grease the paper. In a medium bowl, stir together sugar, baking powder, flour, salt and spices with a whisk.

Using a fork blend the solidified brown butter and egg into the flour mixture. It will be crumbly. Pat 3/4 of the crumbs into the bottom of the prepared pan, pressing firmly. Tile peach slices over crumb base in a single layer. Sprinkle with lemon zest and rosemary.

Mix remaining crumbs with remaining 2 teaspoons butter, brown sugar and oats, then sprinkle evenly over peaches.

Bake in preheated oven for 30 minutes, until top is slightly brown and you can see a little color around the edges. Cool completely in pan before cutting into squares.

BLT with a Fried Egg: Put your hands up

2011-09-11T21:10:00.001-07:00

I had a choice.

Stay home in the sweltering prison of my air conditionless apartment, my pale pink J. Crew ribbed tank top plastered to my back like body armor, or go out, by myself, for a chilled glass of white wine in a cool environment.

I was in a dress and out the door before I had time to over think the decision -- or notice that my bra was not a suitable choice for my dress and was prominently on display for all the world to see.

The whole thing seemed like a fabulous idea as I strode down the block in the direction of Comme Ca, my favorite local locale for wine during happy hour.

"How liberated, am I?" I thought as I walked up to the restaurant, the chorus of Beyonce's "Single Ladies" pumping me forward. "I don't need a bar babysitter. I'm putting my hands up! Oh oh oh!"

The feeling of liberation only lasted so long. Once I spotted the two bar tables occupied with groups of decidedly unsingle ladies and gents, I wasn't feeling so inclined to put my hands or even a thumb up. I wanted to turn around and walk out the door, back to the crock pot of my apartment to be braised alive like a bunch of kale.

Instead, I forced myself toward the bar, where I promptly sat down and ordered the best remedy I could fathom for the socially awkward situation of my own making.

"I'll have a glass of the Sauvignon Blanc, please," I said to the bartender without consulting the menu. Then I dug into my bag and extracted the solid form of liquid courage -- the brand new book my friend had sent me for my upcoming birthday.

I blushed a fierce shade of Rosé as I set the book on the bar, cringing at the title, "Then Came You."

This was not liberating at all.

My glass of wine appeared in front of me. The sommelier bearing the bottle took one look at me with my chic lit book and exposed bra, and drained the remaining contents into my already oversized glass.

He grinned at me, "Might as well finish it."

I smiled and thanked him, but inside I felt trapped.

"I'm going to have to sit here until I finish all of that." I thought. "While I read a book! At a bar! By myself!"

I attempted to relax -- to focus on Jules and Annie and India. But every sentence I read was interrupted by the voice in my head telling me that I was a freak and this was really weird and that the cute bartender named Sean was looking at me and wondering what the heck I was doing reading a book at his bar.

He pushed a candle over to me. I thanked him, blushing again because clearly the light in the restaurant was not conducive for my chosen form of happy hour activity.

"Good book?" He asked.

I casually slid my hand over the title to hide it from his view. "Yeah, it is," I said, even though I had no idea if it was a good book since I hadn't been able to absorb a single paragraph since I'd sat down twenty five minutes prior.

"My friend gave it to me for my birthday." I continued, grateful to have someone to talk to as I tried to get through my trough of wine. "I just picked it up at the post office, and I don't have air conditioning in my apartment, so..."

He nodded in understanding, and, feeling self-conscious again, I cast my eyes down to the meaningless black letters.

The phone clasped in my right hand began flashing the telltale green light to inform me of an incoming message. I sighed with relief when I saw it was a text message from my friend Sarah asking if I wanted to join her and some friends for champagne at another restaurant nearby. I took one look at the still honkin' glass of wine in front of me, the book splayed out on the bar, and the cute bartender who I was too embarrassed to flirt with, and lept up from my stoop.

"Can I get the check please?" I said, as I shoved the book into the bottom of my bag. "My friend just texted me to meet her..."

The translation, of course, being: "See, I have friends. I'm not just a crazy single lady with cats and mud-colored facial masks and an entire library of romantic comedies that all end with the girl getting lifted into the air by Patrick Swayze."

Once the check was settled, I bolted for the door, nearly overcome with joy that I had been summoned to finish my happy hour elsewhere -- with other people rather than fictional characters. As much as I'd wanted to be liberated -- to be a single lady who can go to restaurants and bars by herself and sip of glass of wine like it's the most normal thing in the world --happy hour is not the type of activity that I enjoy doing solo.

Most likely because it's not meant to be a solo activity -- it's meant to be enjoyed with three other girls who find it amusing that your bra is on display and think it's hilarious that you spent 35 minutes in the post office trying to pick up a book while little barefoot children kept running into your legs with their sticky, germ-laden limbs.

Fortunately, not all activities have to be enjoyed with the company of three females bearing sparking pink champagne. (I don't think.)

Eating a BLT sandwich with a runny fried egg at home for brunch is the perfect single girl activity. I don't have to worry about looking gross if the slice of tomato starts to slide off the bread and I need to use my fingers to shove it back into place. I don't have to leave the runny yolk on the plate in an unseemly puddle. I can use the bread to sop it up, animal-style, and then let juices dribble down my chin without immediately wiping them off. With the back of my hand.

And, most importantly, preparing the sandwich does not require arithmetic. Two slices of bread, 1 egg, 1 slice of thick-cut bacon, a few slices of tomato, salt, pepper, and lettuce. No need to break out the calculator to figure out how I can turn a massive recipe into a meal suitable for one.

It's perfectly acceptable exactly as it is.

Single ladies put your hands up. And wrap them around this sandwich.

BLT with a Fried Egg
Serves 1

2 slices of bread, or 1 extra-long, thick slice of farmers market fresh whole wheat bread sliced in half
2-3 slices of heirloom tomato
1-2 strips extra-thick bacon, torn in half
Salt, pepper
1 egg
Handful of arugula

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place bread on tin foil and place in oven. Toast for 5-10 minutes, flipping once so it is crispy on both sides.

While bread is toasting, season the tomato with salt and pepper. Set aside.

Heat nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. add the two bacon halves and cook, turning once, until both sides are crispy. Remove bacon with a fork and set on a paper towel to absorb the grease.

Crack the egg into the center of the hot, bacon-greased pan. Season with salt and pepper. Fry until the edges are cooked through and the white surrounding the yolk is almost cooked through. Carefully flip the egg over and cook for 1 minute.

To assemble: Place tomato on one slice or half of bread. Top with fried egg, bacon, arugula and the other slice or half. Put your hands up in triumph. Eat immediately.

Heirloom Tomato Salad with Peaches and Mozzarella: Simple pleasures

2011-09-04T16:56:00.000-07:00

The mason jar of half-blended pistachio nut butter and I were engaged in a fierce staring contest.

It had been idling in the back of my refrigerator since January when my immersion blender had sputtered to an untimely death halfway through the blending process. I'd disgustedly deposited the pistachio crumble into the aforementioned jar and chucked it into the corner of my fridge, telling myself I'd finish pureeing it later.

I, of course, never did.

So it sat, untouched, next to the two bottles of beer my dad had brought over to my apartment when I moved in over a year and a half ago. They taunted me from behind the carton of milk and Greek yogurt containers I'd placed in a fortress-like construction in front of them. But even when I couldn't see them, when I'd close my eyes and blindly reach into my fridge for the parmesan cheese, I knew they were there. Just like I knew the tupperware I'd shoved into the back of the highest cabinet in my kitchen after discovering a small dead cockroach inside was still there too -- the vestigial limb of the former roommates I'd evicted with 17 roach motels last summer.

It was unbearable. All of it. The bag of items I'd taken home with me on my last day of my former job nearly four months ago. The stack of unsorted junk mail sitting on a stack of health and fashion magazines on the chair by the door. The row of dresses in my walk-in closet that were no longer neatly arranged by color.

My brain would seize up every time I walked into my apartment, unnerved by the chaos and clutter that would attack it from every corner of the space. I couldn't focus on anything -- not even my new trashy television obsession, "Meet the Kardashians," or the mind-numbing text message conversation with my friend Ashley about whether we prefer Khloe or Kourtney. I felt dirty. Unhinged. Embarrassed by the physical representations of my disorganization.

Yesterday, I'd finally had enough. Enlivened by the caloric indulgence of a dim sum brunch with friends, I started cleaning at 12:42 p.m. and spent the next four hours excising all the clutter from my apartment. I opened the beers and drained the contents down the sink. I spooned the pistachio crumble into the trash. I outfitted my hands with extra thick gloves and removed the offending roach from the tupperware -- and then blasted the interior with a hot stream of antibacterial-laced soapy water. I shredded old papers until my shredder overheated. I reorganized my dresses by color.

And when all was said and scoured and banished, I stood euphorically in the doorway, observing all the clean surfaces.

Peace and simplicity at last.

There is nothing more satisfying than a clean, uncluttered apartment.

Except maybe a clean, uncluttered heirloom tomato salad with peaches and mozzarella -- the last vestigial limb of summer.

Heirloom Tomato Salad with Peaches and Mozzarella
Serves 4

2 medium heirloom tomatoes, sliced with a serrated knife
1 large yellow peach, sliced
6-8 ounces fresh mozzarella cheese, sliced (I used Galbani)
Handful of fresh basil, torn
Handful of fresh mint leaves, torn
Balsamic vinegar
Good quality olive oil
Flaky sea salt (I used Maldon)
Freshly ground pepper

Layer slices of tomatoes, peaches and mozzarella across a plate. Sprinkle with sea salt and pepper. Drizzle with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, to taste. Finish with fresh basil and mint.

Quinoa Cereal: A new context

2011-08-28T20:48:00.000-07:00

I think I might go to my ten year high school reunion.

I wasn't planning on going. For the past year I've been telling anyone who asked me that I was completely uninterested in attending.

"I'd rather eat chalk than talk to those people again," I'd say whilst seriously contemplating the palateability of the substance. I imagined grinding it up and stirring it into vanilla ice cream -- a delicious summertime treat. And clearly far less egregious than having to make small talk with my former classmates.

I had no interest in reliving that time of my life. The awkward years of braces, too-short-for-me jeans and an extra-large backpack filled with my color-coded notebooks for each class. I was perfectly content to pretend that I made a gracious transition from childhood to adulthood -- with none of that social pariah nonsense. I didn't need a reunion to remind me of the girl that I used to be. And I didn't want to see the people who made me feel like that girl.

Or so I thought.

Last Sunday I ran into one of my high school cross-country teammates at the farmers' market that's located a half-mile from my apartment.

"Diana!" She called out in the midst of my concentrated inspection of yellow peaches.

I whirled around, confused by the familiarity of the voice. It didn't belong in my farmers' market. It didn't even belong in Los Angeles for that matter. It was supposed to be in New York cohabitating with the husband she'd married at a wedding I'd attended in April.

"I live here now," She explained, telling me that her husband was offered a job in Beverly Hills a little over a month ago. That they'd moved into an apartment in the neighborhood -- my neighborhood. We exchanged mischievous grins as we realized how close we were located to each other. Visions of Comme Ca happy hours, impromptu weekend lunches at Joan's on Third and lazy afternoons and evenings spent gossiping at her and her husband's new air conditioned place filled my head.

I had a new partner in crime -- one of my original partners in crime.

This past Friday night we took full advantage of our newly discovered proximity -- and that happy hour at Comme Ca. Four glasses of $5 P. Cottat Sauvignon Blanc later, we stumbled back to her apartment where we debated the attractiveness of Avril Lavigne in comparison to Blake Lively with her husband, and reminisced about the days when I singlehandedly kept Premium saltine crackers in business.

"We should go to our reunion," She said at one point during our three hour conversation.

"Really?" I said with hesitation, the two glasses of wine no longer blurring my judgment about what is and isn't a good idea.

But she seemed excited about it. Told me that it was the sort of iconic experience that everyone should have at some point in their life so they know what it's like to go to a high school reunion.

"And if it sucks we can just leave and go drink somewhere else." She finished.

It made sense.

And having her in Los Angeles suddenly made sense too.

Walking home to my apartment on Friday, I was overwhelmed with how right it all felt -- having a friend who knew me back when saltine crackers were an essential part of my diet living so close to me again. Someone who knew and liked me even when I wore long Guess overalls over red t-shirts and memorized every single detail in my AP Biology text book. The girl who followed me in a red truck during my driver's license test. The girl who I sat next to in Algebra II with Mr. Sizer. The girl who I sprinted away from my dad with when he caught us drinking Dr. Peppers and Doritos in my garage when we were supposed to be at track practice.

Completely out of context, but completely comforting.

Just like having a big bowl of quinoa with fresh fruit and milk for breakfast.

Seemingly awkward, seemingly out of place, but some how perfectly sensible.

Quinoa Cereal
Serves 1

1/4 cup quinoa, rinsed well
1/2 cup water
Salt
Cinnamon
Pinch of nutmeg
1/3 cup milk (I use 2%)
Strawberries, blueberries, peaches or nectarines
Toasted walnuts

Bring 1/2 cup of water to a boil. Add the quinoa, a pinch of salt and nutmeg, and a few good shakes of cinnamon. Lower heat and simmer, covered, until the quinoa absorbs the water -- approximately 15 minutes. Remove the lid, fluff with a fork and let rest for 5 minutes uncovered. Spoon quinoa into a bowl and cool slightly in the refrigerator (approximately 10 minutes).

Remove quinoa from fridge, add milk and top with fresh fruit and walnuts.

Flirting with Bacon

2011-08-21T21:28:00.000-07:00

His name was Nathan.

I know this because I forced myself to commit his name to memory rather than just letting it drift in and out of my mind like I usually do when we are "meeting" and "greeting" at church.

"Nathan, Nathan, Nathan," I repeated over and over again.

I'd been waiting for the moment ever since I'd purposely sat down in the pew in front of him. When I'd purposely flipped my hair and purposely sat just slightly askew so he could see the side of my face when I laughed at Pastor Brewer's lame jokes and would know that I'm the good-natured sort. The sort that laughs at lame jokes. Perhaps his lame jokes. Over bowls of tagliatelle verde at the Mozzarella Bar at Osteria Mozza.

I hadn't even much minded when two not-so wholesome looking ladies whose names I did not commit to memory sat down in the pew next to me, forcing me to scoot down further and almost out of his direct line of vision. I told myself that he -- Nathan -- would immediately recognize their short dresses and artfully made-up faces as the physical manifestations of high maintenancey and below average IQs. In contrast, my trim floral knee-length skirt and severely under made-up face would seem like a breath of fresh air.

"They are just making me look more attractive," I thought as I simultaneously cursed myself for not applying mascara or plucking the two visibly straw hairs I'd noticed peaking out from underneath my left eyebrow before I'd left my apartment.

"He'll appreciate my au natural state," I decided while slicking my lips with the gummy nude lip gloss I'd found lurking at the bottom of my bag.

Satisfied that at least my lips were momentarily out of disrepair, I cast my eyes up to the alter, focusing on Pastor Brewer's sermon like a good Christian -- a Christian who isn't fantasizing about intimate pasta dinners with the boy sitting in the pew behind her.

"Nathan, Nathan, Nathan."

Because this was church -- a place of worship -- clearly not the locale for picking up next Saturday night's date or Mozza meal ticket.

"Nathan, Nathan, Nathan."

I mean it would be totally inappropriate to turn around when the Pastor remarked on all the crazy single people there are in LA and say, "Yeah, how about those crazy single people. You should totally date a non-crazy person like me." Because that would obviously make me seem completely sane. The physical manifestation of normal.

"Nathan, Nathan, Nathan."

So I didn't say anything at all. I kept my legs crossed underneath my trim, floral knee-length skirt; the eyes underneath my untrimmed eyebrows cast to the front so I could laugh at Pastor Brewer's lame jokes on cue, and I left the service without asking him -- Nathan -- if he came there often or wanted to come often with me. Come often to church, of course. (I do go every Sunday.)

I cursed my inability to say anything other than the obscenely appropriate, "Hi, my name is Diana," all the way home. Once there, I ripped off my stupidly conservative skirt, plucked my eyebrows with the be-all-end all Tweezerman tweezers and put on my short short gray sweat shorts. Then I went and corrupted my other place of worship in the worst way I could imagine.

I put bacon in my quinoa.

And I devoured every inappropriate bite.

"Q-BLT" Bacon, Kale and Tomato Quinoa with a Fried Egg
Serves 1 Crazy Single Person

1/4 cup quinoa, rinsed well
1 thick-cut slice of bacon, chopped into 1/2 inch pieces
1/3 yellow onion, finely chopped (approximately 1/2 cup)
2 heaping cups chopped kale
*Slow-roasted tomatoes (can be prepared ahead of time)
1 egg (brought to room temperature -- it fries better when not too chilled)
1 teaspoon lemon juice.
Salt, pepper
Olive oil

Bring slightly less than 1/2 a cup of water to a boil in small saucepan. Add the thoroughly rinsed quinoa, reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for approximately 15 minutes. Turn off the heat, take the lid off, fluff with a fork and set aside to "air dry."

Heat large frying pan (fitted with a lid) over medium-high heat. Add the bacon pieces and sauté until bacon has released a good amount of its fat and come to a satisfying crispy texture. Remove bacon pieces with a slotted spoon or fork and set on a paper towel-lined plate. Add the onion to the hot pan, and sauté for 3-5 minutes or until translucent. Add the kale, a pinch of salt, reduce the temperature to low, and cover with the lid. Braise for 25-30 minutes or until kale is silky in texture. Squirt with lemon juice just prior to serving.

Heat nonstick frying pan over medium-high heat. Add a splash of olive oil to the center, spreading out with a spatula to coat the inside surface of the hot pan. Crack the egg in the center, being careful not to break the yolk. Salt and pepper to taste (my taste involves generous salting and peppering). Let sit undisturbed until edges of white are fully cooked through and only a puddle of white remains uncooked around the yolk. Carefully flip the egg over and let cook for 1 more minute over medium heat to ensure the white is fully cooked, while the yolk remains gorgeously runny. Turn off the heat.

Toss quinoa, kale, a handful of slow-roasted tomatoes and bacon together. Plate immediately and top with fried egg.

*Slow-roasted tomatoes: Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Slice cherry, baby heirloom, grape or other small tomato of your choice in half. Spread halves out, seed-side up, in a glass baking dish. Sprinkle with salt and roast until shriveled in appearance -- approximately 45-60 minutes. Tomatoes freeze beautifully so don't be afraid to make a big batch. I store mine in the freezer in airtight containers, placing the tomatoes in single layers on sheets of wax paper.

Chopped Miso Salad: When not to compromise

2011-08-14T20:43:00.000-07:00

I tried to go to a pool party today. It seemed like a great idea at the time -- "Screw writing!" I thought as I began slathering my face with sunscreen and bronzer. I tossed my gray sweat shorts on the floor and replaced them with the blue and white striped bikini that I've worn approximately three times since I purchased it three years ago, and hopped into my car.

"See, I can be spontaneous," I told myself as I accelerated down Melrose Avenue with visions of floatation devices and sparkling Rosé drifting through my head. I was going to have fun -- relax, laugh like one of those people who has nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than drink wine by the pool.

I didn't anticipate that by the time I arrived at the party my planned street for parking would be bumper to bumper cars. And I didn't anticipate having to traverse the hilly, one-lane streets of the neighborhood with my groaning, sputtering 1999 Corolla that has seen far far better days. Twenty minutes of unsuccessful sputtering later, I gave up. I chucked spontaneity in the toilet and drove home to sit on my couch, in my bikini with sunscreen in my eyes.

This has been the story of my weekend. Failed, frustrating missions.

I bought the wrong kind of rice vinegar at the grocery store yesterday. The drug store was out of the rubber gloves I use for cooking and cleaning (don't ask). The movie theater only had front row seats left for the 7:30 showing of The Help last night. And when I found this out, I told my poor friend who bought the tickets for us that I didn't want to sit that close -- and we didn't end up going at all.

Because I'm not a go-with-the-flow person. I'm rigid. Inflexible. And anxious about anything that isn't in my neat little zone of comfort. I'm scared of getting neck and eyestrain from sitting too close to the screen; paranoid that if I drive or park on a hill, my car will roll back into another car; and opposed to using a different kind of rice vinegar that is not the one that I always buy and always use for my rice vinegar-inclusive recipes.

"What if it's not the same?" I think, as if it's the worst possible thing that could happen.

Because with this chopped miso salad -- an addicting combination of cabbage, noodles, sugar snap peas, sauteed tofu, crispy shallots, crunchy almonds, and the perfect miso dressing -- it actually would be the worst thing that could happen. I wouldn't dare compromise the collusion of all those deliciously snappy textures slung together with that be-all-end-all miso dressing by using a (gasp) different rice vinegar.

Just like I wouldn't dare compromise my overextended vehicle by parking on a hill; instead electing to drive all the way back home to sit on my couch, in my bikini, with sunscreen in my eyes and no glass of pink, bubbly wine in my hand.

You know it's a bad weekend when the highlight is a tofu salad. Even if it is a really really good one that, incidentally, is the perfect way to go about actually fitting into that bikini that only gets worn around the house.

Chopped Miso Salad
Adapted from 101 Cookbooks
Serves 4

1 1/2 cups of dry whole wheat spaghetti, snapped into 1-inch pieces
10 ounces extra firm tofu, sliced into julienne-like pieces
1 1/2 cups shallots, skinned and thinly sliced
4 cups shredded cabbage
2 cups sugar snap peas, sliced on the diagonal
1/2 cup slivered almonds, toasted
2 teaspoons olive oil
Salt

Miso Dressing
2 tablespoons white miso
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons brown sugar
1/4 cup rice vinegar (unseasoned)
1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

Combine miso, Dijon and brown sugar in a small bowl. Whisk in the rice vinegar, then the sesame oil. Dressing should be smooth.

Cook whole wheat spaghetti according to package instructions. Drain, rinse with cold water to stop the cooking process, and set aside.

While spaghetti is cooking, heat large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add the olive oil, swirling to coat the pan. Stir in the shallots, tofu and pinch of salt and reduce the heat to medium. Continue stirring every few minutes so the shallots and tofu get browned on all sides. Keep a close eye so they don't burn and reduce the temperature if they seem to be cooking too quickly. Once well-browned (approximately 15 minutes), turn off the heat and let sit while you are preparing the other ingredients.

In a large bowl, toss cabbage, noodles, snap peas with the miso dressing. Divide among four plates, then top each with the crispy tofu, shallots and almonds. Eat immediately for optimal crunch factor.

Do Not Pass the Pig Ears, Please

2011-08-11T18:39:00.000-07:00

Pig knuckles and chicken feathers. These were my mother’s favorite scary stories when my brothers and I were growing up.

“When I was a little girl I had to pluck the chickens,” she told us of her days spent visiting her grandmother Mamie on her farm in Arlington, South Dakota. She went on to provide vivid details about their butcher and how even after the chickens’ heads had been chopped off they’d still run around the yard.

“And the smell,” she continued, pausing for emphasis as she described how Mamie would soak the chickens’ lifeless bodies in the sink so it was easier to remove the feathers. “It filled the entire kitchen. But it was nothing compared to the time I had to eat…(dun, Dun, DUN!)…pig knuckles!”

(Click to continue....)

Quinoa with Currants, Dill, Zucchini: As luck would have it

2011-08-06T12:51:00.001-07:00

When I was in the second grade, my best friend Andrea invited me to join her family for a visit to Disneyland. I still remember every detail of our trip -- her asking me to say "Mississippi" on the car ride over (I had an unfortunate lisp at the time), nervously standing in line for my first Splash Mountain experience (terrifying), and later chickening out of going on Space Mountain because I was scared of all the flashing red and blue lights.

It was a great day, I tell you -- the besssst.

It was also during this equally parts delightful and emotionally-scarring visit that I paid 25 cents to have my palm read by "Esmeralda" the fortune teller. I placed my hand on a germ-infested receptor and the machine spit out a survey that told me various facts about myself. Among other startling revelations that I can no longer recall, Ms. Esmeralda informed me that my lucky color is green.

While I had no reason to believe the mechanical doll with the large turban (I was a pink-loving girl through and through), I couldn't get it out of my head that green was and is my lucky color. I wasn't sure how a color could be lucky -- it's not tangible like a rabbit's foot or lucky pair of underwear -- but after that fateful day I was constantly on the look out for opportunities when green would bring me good fortune.

Perhaps it meant I was going to have a fruitful life tending to a large garden filled with shrubbery and those large ivy sculptures in the shapes of various animals. Or maybe I would meet an Irishman and lead a blissful existence in the Emerald Isle. Maybe every time I wore the color green something wonderful and stupendous would happen. I wasn't sure how or when, but Esmeralda had me convinced that my life was destined to be impacted by the color green in some momentous way.

So even today, twenty irrational years later, every time I put on my sole pair of bright green underwear I think, "These'll bring me luck!" And even though I've never noticed the color of my underwear having a positive impact on my fortune, I proceed to go through life with this tiny little sliver of consciousness that it might. Some day.

Unless, of course, Esmeralda was referring to having luck with green foods rather than green under things or plants. Suddenly it would make sense why my produce bin looks like a shamrock exploded inside of it at the beginning of every week. Why I would rather eat a giant mound of braised kale for breakfast than a donut. Why I drink an obscene amount of green tea every morning. And why the rate of my pulse increases in direct relation to the amount of green things I get to consume.

This massive heap of quinoa loaded with shredded zucchini, dill, arugula, and green onions is exactly the type of salad that makes me believe that maybe green really is my lucky color. Or at the very least, my stomach's lucky color. It would be far more convenient than having to move to Ireland to marry an Irishman.

Quinoa with Currants, Dill, Zucchini, and Tofu
Adapted from recipe on 101 Cookbooks
Serves 4

3/4 cup quinoa, well rinsed and drained
1 1/4 cups water
1/3 cup dried currants
1 teaspoon olive oil
1 10-ounce package extra firm tofu, cubed
3 small-medium zucchini, grated on a box grater
4 green onions, chopped
Zest and juice of one lemon
1/4 cup chopped fresh dill
1/3 cup slivered almonds, toasted
2 cups arugula, roughly chopped
Salt and pepper

Rinse quinoa thoroughly in a fine mesh strainer. Bring 1 1/4 cups water to a boil in a medium sized pot. Add the quinoa, reduce the heat, and simmer, covered for 15 minutes or until kernels have separated from their shells and all the water has been absorbed. Add the currants, fluff with a fork, remove the lid and let sit for another 10 minutes for any additional moisture to evaporate.

Heat large frying pan over medium high heat. Add the olive oil, swirling to coat the pan, then add the cubed tofu. Stir fry over medium heat until browned on all sides.

Toss quinoa with zucchini, green onions, dill, lemon zest, lemon juice, arugula, tofu and almonds. Salt and pepper generously to taste. Salad may be eaten immediately or chilled for later use.

Quinoa Corn Cakes: A perfect match

2011-07-31T17:29:00.000-07:00

I'm this close to joining Match.com again.

Okay, maybe more like this _______ close.

Putting all those bus-riding grad students and over-salting former jocks who don't appreciate a woman who photographs her food aside, I really have been thinking about it the past few weeks. You know, during those precious few moments when I'm not busy contemplating the meaning of food, the pursuit of sustenance and my personal quest for quinoa.

As much as I love being able to lick my Trader Joe's chocolate ice cream bon bons in private, blow dry my hair while I attempt the triangle pose, and clip my toenails during "The Bachelorette," it would be nice to have an initial in my life so I can say things like, "J and I went to Target today and bought paper towels." Or "B and I love staying in and eating eggs on Sundays." Or something else that's totally annoying to other people, but fun for me because I get to use that weird relationship speak whereby the significant other can only be mentioned as a single letter.

"T is so cute when he's ignoring me and leaves his dirty dishes in the sink."

Of course, it only gets better when the relationship reaches the point where the initial can also be replaced by the pronouns "he" and "him" or the noun "boy." I can't wait to say ambiguous things on Twitter like, "He thought my lipstick was a magic marker" and not need to explain who "he" is because everyone already knows that "he" is "the boy" and "the boy" is the initial and the initial is the boyfriend.

Who's obviously madly in love with me because I get to refer to him as "he" on Twitter.

Of course, being able to use relationship code isn't the only reason I'd consider pursuing love instead of ice cream . I mean, yes, it is high on the list of perks, but I'm also this______ close to joining Match again because the relationship that comes with the code also makes it perfectly acceptable to do nothing on a Friday night. Or a Saturday night. Or a Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday night.

Because just the presence of a "he" or "P" or "boy" means that even when we are slopping around in our sweatpants drinking wine and eating pizza at home, we're still doing something. When I do that I'm the sad single girl who may or may not clip her toenails while yelling at Ashley on "The Bachelorette," and who may or may not attempt to blow dry her hair while doing the triangle pose. (Multi-tasking, people.)

So it would have been nice when I stayed home a few Fridays ago to make salmon and quinoa and corn cakes instead of meeting friends for drinks, to be able to come up with a better excuse than, "I can't stop thinking about what quinoa corn cakes would taste like, so I'm going to stay in and cook tonight."

On a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the lamest excuse to not go out ever, it ranks about a 25. But if I had an "R," and "he" and I were staying in to make quinoa corn cakes together it would only rank about a 15.

These are the things I think about when I hear those obnoxious Christian Mingle commercials on CNN telling me that I need to find God's match for me. I really just want God to find a match for me so I can justify staying home to eat quinoa. Again.

But the dirty truth is that these quinoa corn cakes really are a perfectly acceptable reason to ignore those commercials and the friends who roll their eyes when I tell them I don't want to socialize with other initials. They are sweet and savory, a touch indulgent, and far more glamorous than tucking into a mountain of quinoa like I may or may not do when I'm in the privacy of my home.

I don't even feel the need to multitask and do the tree pose while eating them. As it turns out, C and Q are a perfect match. And I'm this close to making them instead of going out for drinks again.

Quinoa Corn Cakes
Makes 12 small cakes

1/4 cup quinoa
2 ears of corn
2 medium leeks, washed and chopped into 1/4 inch squares
1 egg
Salt, pepper
Olive oil

Rinse quinoa well. Bring 1/2 cup water to a boil in a small pot, add the quinoa, reduce the heat and cover. Simmer until quinoa absorbs the water and the shells separate from the kernels. (Approximately 15-20 minutes.) Fluff with a fork and set aside to dry out and cool.

Bring large pot of water to a boil. Add the corn, cover with a lid, and cook for 3 minutes. Drain and rinse with cold water to stop the cooking process. Once cool enough to handle, shuck the corn from the ears. Reserve 1/2 cup of the kernels. Puree the rest using an immersion blender.

Heat nonstick pan over medium high heat. Add a teaspoon of oil and swirl to coat the base of the pan. Add the leeks and saute until tender and lightly caramelized -- approximately 5 minutes.

Mix together quinoa, corn, corn puree, leeks, egg, salt, pepper in a large bowl. Refrigerate for at least 1-2 hours so they are easier to handle when forming and cooking the cakes.

Once chilled, shape into 12 patties. Heat large nonstick pan over medium high heat, add enough oil to coat the base of the pan, then begin cooking the cakes in batches over medium heat. Cook for 4-5 minutes per side or until golden brown and set in the center. Serve immediately.

A Small Bite of Ludo Bites America

2011-07-21T19:36:00.000-07:00

Pssst... I have something to show you.

And no, it doesn't involve quinoa.

At least not today.

I wrote a little something for the Sundance Channel blog, "SUNfiltered" in honor of the new Sundance show "Ludo Bites America" that premiered on Tuesday night.

It's very exciting. Ludo goes Mike Tyson on a scale (for the record, I would have too), Krissy saves the day, and all the people of Sante Fe, New Mexico rejoice. Oh the power of good food. And, apparently, chilies.

My little piece of the "Ludo Bites America" puzzle is actually related to next week's episode, which takes place in Omaha, Nebraska at a soul food restaurant located in a HS cafeteria. Yes, I realize this is about as far away as quinoa as it gets, but I do manage to sneak a bit about wine in there.

Because wine is totally soulful, no? Mmmhmm. That's what I thought. Like sun filtered into a glass...

Scott Conant's Egg Bruschetta: The real "Carmaheaven"

2011-07-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

I've secretly been looking forward to it for weeks.

"It," of course being "Carmageddon," the great 405 shutdown of 2011 that has been the talk of the town for the past two months. "Expect Big Delays," read the flashing freeway signs on every major and minor highway in Southern California to warn residents of the impending traffic disaster.

The message was clear: Stay home. Don't step foot outside your front door for the entire 48 hours of July 15th - 17th. Have a staycation in your apartment. Be one with your couch. Shellac your hand to the remote.

I was practically giddy about it.

"I'll clean out the refrigerator!" I thought with pleasure. "And refold all the clothes in my dresser! And watch the Kardashians. And cook stuff! Loads of stuff!"

Stuff like homemade tomato sauce.

And, with that dutifully simmered and constructed sauce, Scott Conant's egg bruschetta, a recipe he demonstrated how to make during one of Infiniti's "food and wine moments" at the Concours d'Elegance last summer.

It was a good moment. A really good moment.

So even though I suspected that "Carmageddon" wouldn't really be the end of life as Los Angelenos know it, I pretended to be just as freaked out as the rest of the city. I grasped tight to my pledge to not use my car other than to make the rounds to the three different grocery stores I frequent. I was going to be as lame and boring as humanely possible. (Which, incidentally, isn't all that different from any other day.)

I tuned out the new reports announcing that "Carmageddon" was actually "Carmaheaven" for commuters, telling myself that it was all a farce -- that should I leave my apartment, I really would be met with doom and despair and never ending gridlock.

"I'm making sauce, gosh darnit!" I thought with defiance as I washed my fifteen roma tomatoes for my "Carmageddon" project.

"And I'm going to finally make that egg bruschetta. This is my moment! Carmageddon fo' life!"

I tended to my sauce like a mother babying an infant. I let it simmer for longer than the recipe instructed -- an hour and a half instead of 25 minutes. I let the sweet oozing tomatoes scent the air, imagining that I was in Italy instead of trapped inside the suffocating walls of my West Hollywood apartment. I let myself relax -- because clearly I had nothing better to do than spend over two hours preparing lunch.

When the sauce finally reached my preferred level of thickness, I began to sauté some onion and garlic in a frying pan. I cranked up the oven to toast two slices of a crusty whole wheat loaf of bread, and I readied the Parmesan, fresh basil and egg for the last few steps.

"This is the real Carmaheaven," I thought as I bit into my soft scrambled egg bruschetta a few minutes later.

A chance to breathe. And a chance to eat really good eggs at home with the Kardashians playing in the background.

Egg Bruschetta
Adapted from a recipe demonstration by Scott Conant
Serves 2

Four slices crusty bread
1 teaspoon olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup chopped white or yellow onion
1/2 cup prepared tomato sauce (specific recipe forthcoming!)
2 eggs, whites and yolks separated
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan Reggiano
2 tablespoons fresh basil, sliced into thin ribbons
Salt, pepper

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Heat nonstick frying pan over medium high heat. Once hot, add teaspoon of oil, swirling to coat the base of the pan. Add the onion and garlic and sauté until translucent and lightly caramelized, 5-7 minutes. While the onion and garlic cook, begin toasting the bread in the oven.

When onion and garlic are tender, stir in the tomato sauce, then add the egg whites. Season with salt and pepper, and cook together until whites are set. Add the yolks and cook just long enough for them to warm, but not cook through -- approximately 30 seconds.

Divide the egg mixture between the four slices of bread and top with the Parmesan and basil. Serve immediately.

Shiitake, Asparagus, Goat Cheese, Dill Frittata: Beating eggs and parking structures

2011-07-14T21:29:00.000-07:00

Parking structures.

Just hearing the words out loud is enough to make me break out in hives. I hate them. Despise them. Curse the day they were born (in 1918, according to Wikipedia).

While I understand the practicality of having a multi-story structure as opposed to a lot that only allows for a single layer of cars, I'm always slightly terrified when forced to enter one. Like I'm being sucked into a cement vortex where only bad things can happen.

I mean I could lose my car. My goldfish could die while I'm looking for it. And I could get caught peeing in the corner by a police officer. (Thank you, Seinfeld.)

So I avoid them. I walk (yes, walking does exist in LA) to the malls that are in my general vicinity -- the Grove and the Beverly Center. And, when I'm actually forced to park at the Grove (my preferred shopping venue), I always opt to use the open-air, single level Farmers Market lot -- even when I have no business to do there.

Parking in said lot does, however, require validation from the Farmers Market, which I usually have no trouble securing. I'll buy an apple from the Farm Boy stand, maybe a couple medjool dates if I'm feeling extravagant, and be on my merry little way. I always feel impossibly pleased with myself that I cheated the system. That I championed over the evil parking structure and its neverending circles and nonsensical arrows.

A few months ago during one such trip to the Grove, I opted to swing into Sur La Table at the market to pick up my validation. I figured I'd buy a spatula or something else inexpensive, but completely functional, and call it a day. Yet as I held the $14.95 spatula in my hand, I was suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of what I was about to do.

"Really, Diana, you are going to spend $15 on a spatula just so you don't have to pay $4 for parking in a lot without validation?"

"It's the principle," I argued back. "I WILL NOT PAY FOR PARKING!"

And that's when I spotted it. The small cast iron pan that was also $14.95 -- obviously a much better buy than the spatula that would have been the fourth member of my multi-colored spatula family.

I leapt on it. Clasped the handle tightly in my hand and nearly thrusted it into the air like it was a sword and I was Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

"I will make loads of frittatas!" I reasoned as I strode forward to the counter, again completely tuning out all rational thought. Clearly, it was completely sane that I would rather spend $15 on a pan I was designating for something I'd never ever made before than, A.) Pay for parking, B.) Venture into a parking structure like a normal human being, and C.) Buy a brother for Suzy the spatula (she's hot pink and sparkly).

In my mind what I was doing was totally sensible. I was going to be the frittata queen, after all.

Of course the pan didn't even make it out of the bag for the first month. Then, when I finally managed to move it to the cabinet, it continued to sit untouched with the label affixed for the next two months.

It wasn't until last weekend that I finally decided to attempt the frittata I had been so excited to make three months ago.

I was a little nervous as I cracked my eggs into a bowl and whisked them about with a touch of milk, salt and pepper. I carefully added my sauteed (and slightly cooled) shiitake mushrooms, asparagus and shallots, and then stared into the cast iron pan, still a bit unsure about what I was about to do. My head was filled with images of the egg shellacking itself to the pan -- burning into an unrecognizable state and destroying the pristine finish of my newest nonsensical kitchen acquisition.

I turned the heat on, drizzled in enough olive oil to coat the base of the skillet, then carefully eased my egg mixture in. I started at the sound of the sizzle. Cursed myself again for not buying Bob the blue spatula, for being afraid of the parking structure and for my unwillingness to ever pay for parking. Ever.

But then something extraordinary began to happen. The egg mixture started to look frittata-ish. I jammed the hot pan into the oven and waited, breathless, for the top to set. In less than three minutes it was done -- ready to be clobbered with goat cheese and slid onto my plate.

"I beat the structure," I thought as I stared at my creation.

And three months later, I beat some tasty eggs too.

Shiitake, Asparagus, Goat Cheese, Dill Frittata
Serves 1

2 eggs
1/2 cup sliced shiitake mushrooms
1 shallot, finely minced
1/2 cup thinly sliced asparagus
2 teaspoons fresh dill, chopped
Goat cheese, crumbled
1 tablespoon milk
Olive oil
Salt, pepper

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Heat 8'' cast iron skillet over medium high heat. Add splash of olive oil, swirling to coat the base of the pan. Add the shallots and saute 2-3 minutes before adding the asparagus and mushrooms. Season with salt and pepper and continue sauteing over medium heat until vegetables are tender, approximately 3 additional minutes. Remove from the pan and set aside. Allow to cool slightly.

Crack two eggs into a bowl. Add the milk, salt and pepper to taste, then whisk together. Gently stir in the vegetables and dill.

Wash and dry cast iron pan completely. Return to medium high heat and then add enough olive oil to lightly coat the base of the pan. Pour in the egg mixture and let settle for one minute before nudging the edges in with a spatula so that the uncooked center runs out to the sides. Cook for another minute or so or until the center starts to set.

Remove the pan from the stove and transfer to the oven. Bake for 3-5 minutes or until the top is completely jiggle-free. Top with crumbled goat cheese then slide out from the pan onto a plate.

Sweet Corn Scottish Scones: "I don't even know who you are any more"

2011-07-02T21:58:00.000-07:00

I burned my mouth on Thursday night.

I didn't realize it until last night when I took my first bite of my restorative quinoa supper. The delicate kernels -- normally an unobtrusive intruder on my palate -- grated against the scorched roof of my mouth like unsanded pebbles.

"What the..." I thought, initially perplexed by how I'd possibly managed to burn myself. Dark chocolate, wine and quinoa salads (my default diet) are usually not hot commodities.

As I reached for a second contemplative bite, it all started to compute. Scenes from the previous evening began replaying in my mind in that slow-motiony, foggy flashbacky way.

The lamb burger. The beer.

The second beer.

The proposition from well-meaning friends: "We're going to Beer Belly after."

The decision to join.

The third beer.

And then the order of fried artichoke chips with rosemary aioli.

"So good," we had said as we stampeded through the steaming thins of artichoke.

I'd spotted a large chunk of fried heart and went for it, greedily plunging it into the subtly herbaceous mayonnaise before lunging it into my mouth.

"Hot!" I'd half-shouted, waving my hands up and down as if the motion would somehow cool down the freshly fried vegetable that was searing my gums.

"Drink beer!" She'd half-shouted back, and I'd nodded, clasping my hands around my glass of Lady Face Blind Ambition like it was a fire extinguisher.

A couple desperate gulps later, I'd wiped my lips and exhaled with relief. The pain had passed. Feeling had once again been restored to my tongue. I'd taken another sip of beer and turned to my friend.

"I want to order the fried Oreos next," I'd announced.

She, the girl I've known since sophomore year of college, had stared at me in shock.

"I don't even know who you are any more," She'd said. "But, I like it!"

And in the moment, I did too.

Until I woke up yesterday morning.

As I lamely ran through the streets of West Hollywood, my eyes blurry with exhaustion, I cursed the three beers, lamb burger, fried artichoke chips, fried cornbread stuffed with okra, and fried Oreos with nutella and vanilla ice cream. I felt moderately better after the cleansing run, a large pot of Jasmine tea and a light breakfast of Greek yogurt and blueberries, but by mid-day I could barely keep my head up. The five hours of sleep, the rich food and the heavy beers were delivering a swift blow to my system.

I stumbled around Whole Foods, nearly collapsing when I bent down to scoop up a week's supply of quinoa (code #5887) from the bulk bins. I lugged the bag with me to the register, scarcely cognizant that I was leaving the mothership without stocking up on extra firm tofu, chickpeas and Greek yogurt.

I'd gone too far. Indulged too much. Taken too many strides outside my cozy comfort zone of crisp Sauvignon blancs, braised kale and whole grains.

And I had the burnt mouth and blood shot eyes to prove it.

These sweet corn scones, Molly Wizenberg's scones retinkered a little bit, don't take things too far. They push the boundaries without dissolving them. They keep things interesting without keeping things too interesting.

In other words, eating them does not lead to delirious stumbling through Whole Foods. Nor does it cause one to cement themselves to the couch for the next 24 waking hours.

I don't think.

Smeared with honey, the scones take on a biscuit-like personality and flavor, but still maintain the integrity of their sconeness courtesy of the lighter, less-leaden crumb. Even with the flare from the corn, they are, at their essence, still scones.

Completely recognizable.

And completely delicious.

Sweet Corn Scottish Scones
Adapted from Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life
Makes 8 scones

For Corn Filling
1-2 ears of yellow sweet corn, shucked from the cob (approximately 1 cup)
1 tablespoon brown sugar
2 teaspoons butter
Salt

½ cup half and half (plus additional for glazing)
1 egg
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
½ stick unsalted butter, cubed and chilled
3 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons lemon zest
Honey, for serving

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Heat large non-stick pan over medium high heat. Add the butter and let it melt across the the pan just until it stops bubbling. Toss in the corn, brown sugar and a good shake of salt, and saute until corn is tender (approximately 2-3 minutes). Remove corn from the pan and let come to room temperature.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt. Using your hands, rub the butter into the flour mixture, squeezing and pinching with your fingertips until the mixture resembles a coarse meal and there are no butter lumps bigger than a pea. Put the bowl in the fridge for a good ten minutes while you let the corn cool and prepare the rest of the ingredients. (Like with a good pie crust, the key to a tender, delicate scone is keeping the butter as cold as possible.)

Pour ½ cup half-and-half into a small bowl or measuring cup and add the egg. Beat with a fork to mix well. Set aside.

Remove the bowl from the fridge, and add the sugar, corn and lemon zest. Whisk to incorporate.

Pour the wet ingredients into the flour mixture, and stir gently to just combine. The dough will look dry and shaggy, and there may be some incorporated flour at the bottom of the bowl. Using your hands, squeeze and press the dough into a rough mass and return it to the fridge for 15-20 minutes to firm up again.

Turn the dough, and any excess flour, out onto a lightly floured board or countertop, and press and gather and knead it until it just comes together. Do not knead the dough more than 12 times…you don’t want to overwork it. As soon as the dough holds together, pat it into a rough circle about 1 inch thick. Cut the circle into 8 wedges.

Place the wedges on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Pour a splash of half-and-half into a small bowl. Using a pastry brush, gently brush the tops of the scones with a thin coat to glaze.

Bake 12-16 minutes, or until pale golden. Transfer them to wire rack to cool slightly, and serve warm with honey.

Warm Quinoa Salad with Fried Egg, Spring Vegetables and Herbs: A few small tweaks...

2011-06-25T17:35:00.000-07:00

I forgot to set my alarm on Wednesday night.

I never forget to set the alarm. I'm anal about setting the alarm -- always checking and rechecking that the time is right and that the correct alarm has been activated. Sometimes, I even set two alarms -- the one by my bed and the one on my phone, and, yes, fine, there have been a few occasions when I've taken my mother up on her offer for a wake up call.

You know, just in case there happens to be a power outage and/or my cell phone alarm malfunctions and/or I some how manage to sleep through the blaring beeps coming at me from less than a foot away, but not the ring of my telephone.

It could happen.

So I was stunned when I woke up on Thursday morning to the sound of nothing (!!!) and to the sight of a bedside clock that read 7:53 am instead of 7:03 am. My first thought, as I ran like a mad woman in the direction of the shower, was, "I won't have time to eat breakfast!"

A close second was, "Should I skip putting on my makeup to save time?"

Both thoughts were equally horrifying to me.

It's not that I'm high maintenance. Oh no, no one could ever mistake me and my disreputable unpolished fingernails and perpetually wrinkled clothing for being one of those girls. I can scarcely be bothered to spend more than five minutes on my hair in the morning -- precisely the amount of time it takes me to blow it dry with my head dangled upside down.

But going without makeup is a completely different story. It's not an option.

Never an option.

I'm always shocked when I read those surveys in Glamour and other similarly girly mags where guys say they prefer "their" women sans makeup. Clearly these men haven't seen me when I'm fresh out of bed and sporting a splotchy complexion with highly visible pores and a bright red shiny nose.

It's like Rudolph the Pock-Marked Reindeer, I tell you.

Definitely not fit for human eyes. Especially not the eyes of my unattainable crush, who I just happened to bump into a couple weekends ago in my most vulnerable, ruddy-faced state.

Oh yes, he caught me on the one Saturday I decided to venture out of the house without makeup. In a bright green hoodie no less.

Like I said, never an option. At least not again.

So as I ran around my apartment on Thursday morning, I frantically choked down a nectarine and vanilla Greek yogurt instead of my usual oatmeal with peanut butter so I would have few precious minutes to smear some sustenance... on my face.

It doesn't take a lot of smearing -- a little foundation, a bit of bronzer, a few coats of black (occasionally plum) mascara, and then some subtle pink lip gloss. In less then five minutes, I go from Rudolph to... well, not-Rudolph.

Those few small tweaks completely transform my face. I feel like a completely new person.

And as my dear friend tells me with a touch of honesty that only a dear friend can get away with, "You look... different [when you don't wear makeup]."

We won't go into what she means by, "different."

So even though I've already written about a recipe with quinoa, asparagus, peas, egg, and shallots, I'm not at all hesitant to post another one. Because with a few small tweaks, those raw ingredients turn into something completely... well, different.

Whereas the previous recipe for Spring Fried Quinoa Rice was enlivened with garlic, soy sauce, honey, sesame oil; this Warm Quinoa Salad with Fried Egg, Spring Vegetables and Herbs gets its pizazz from arugula, basil, mint, lemon zest, lemon juice, and Parmesan.

Plus, I fry the egg and put it on top, instead of scrambling it into the quinoa.

Like I said, completely different.

And totally worth waking up for on those mornings when the alarm actually does go off.

Warm Quinoa Salad with Fried Egg, Spring Vegetables and Herbs
Inspired by recipe on WrightFood (brought to my attention by the amazing Esi from Dishing Up Delights)
Serves 1

1/4 cup quinoa
7 spears of asparagus, sliced on the diagonal
1/2 cup fresh or frozen peas
1 large shallot, minced
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
1 egg
1 cup of fresh herbs, chopped (I use a mix of arugula, basil and mint)
Salt, pepper to taste
2 teaspoons olive oil

Rinse quinoa well. Bring 1/2 cup of water to a boil in a small saucepan. Add the quinoa, reduce the heat, cover and simmer until quinoa has absorbed the water (approximately 15-20 minutes). Fluff with a fork and set aside to dry out a bit. The texture of the salad will be lighter if you let the quinoa rest a bit before tossing it with the rest of the ingredients.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Toss sliced asparagus with salt and pepper and roast until tender -- approximately 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat large frying pan over medium-high heat. Add a teaspoon of olive oil and swirl to coat the base of the pan. Add the shallots and cook until just translucent. If using fresh peas, add them now, reduce the heat, and cover the pan for approximately 5 minutes or until peas just lose their bite. If using frozen peas, simply saute them with the shallots uncovered.

Once peas have reached their desired cooked state, reduce the temperature to low, and add the quinoa and asparagus to the pan. Toss to combine. Turn heat off, and stir in the lemon juice and zest, and fresh herbs. Plate, then clean out the pan to prepare the egg.

Heat the pan over medium-high heat. Once hot add the last teaspoon of olive oil and swirl it to coat the base of the pan. Crack the egg in the center, season with salt and pepper, and fry according to desired preference. I like to fry mine for a couple minutes on one side and then will flip over for a minute so the white on the other side gets completely set. Doing so, I'm still able to maintain the integrity of that precious runny yolk.

Place the fried egg on top of the (slightly) warm quinoa salad and then top with the Parmesan cheese. Eat immediately. And then make it to work. On time.

Gwyneth Paltrow's Corn Vichyssoise and Other Unacceptable Things

2011-06-19T18:23:00.000-07:00

I'm not used to this.

Being ridiculously, deliriously, unacceptably happy.

Not that I was a complete basket case before. I certainly had more than my fair share of moments when life seemed like a summer picnic under a cloudless sky. They usually occurred when I was eating quinoa and/or drinking wine.

At, you know, a summer picnic.

But back "then" (and I use this term loosely because "then" seems to imply a period of time much further away than just four weeks ago) those highs came with some serious lows. The anti-summer picnic, if you will. A junior high cafeteria lunch before Jamie Oliver came around flashing his fresh produce and plain cartons of milk.

I never talked much about the cafeteria here and still don't really want to talk about it in concrete terms beyond saying that I had a challenging work situation. It made me cry. It made me angry. It made me frustrated that I wasn't "living up to my potential." The world was supposed to be my oyster, after all. Not someone else's oyster.

Yet even back "then" when I wasn't ridiculously, deliriously, unacceptably happy, I still felt like it was just a temporary blip -- a slight shadow on an otherwise sunny day. I still considered myself a positive person; I was just a positive person stuck in a bit of a rut.

I didn't want everyone to know about that rut. I wanted it to be my secret rut. That just happened to be slowly sucking the life out of my otherwise perfectly delightful existence.

So today, post-rut, I'm struggling to know exactly how to accept this (mostly) constant state of happiness. It can't really be normal for a person to actually like -- no love -- their job. Nobody is excited to get to the office in the morning. People don't actually look forward to reading and responding to work emails. I mean that's totally weird, right?

Being this happy scares me. It doesn't seem natural. I keep waiting for someone to do a take back -- to announce that I'm on "Candid Camera" or that it's all just been a dream. Because clearly this sort of thing isn't allowed. Life isn't supposed to always be a summer picnic. That's why there's such a thing as winter. And high-waisted pants. And olives. And Bacardi lemon rum.

I'm trying to let myself believe that this unacceptable happiness might actually be... acceptable. I mean stranger things have happened. I bought a romper and actually wore it. My brother got married and had a kid. Gwyneth Paltrow was on the cover of Bon Appetit. And her recipe for corn vichyssoise was actually good.

The kind of thing that would be perfect at a summer picnic under a cloudless sky.

Gwyneth Paltrow's Corn Vichyssoise
Serves 2
Adapted from the recipe in the June 2011 issue of Bon Appetit

Adaptations: I doubled the amount of leeks and quadrupled the amount of lemon juice, used sea salt instead of kosher salt, and finished the soup with basil olive oil instead of creme fraiche and chives. I also served the soup warm instead of chilled.

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, divided
2 medium leeks, white and light-green parts only, coarsely chopped (about 1 1/2 cups)
2 ears shucked corn, kernels cut from cobs, cobs reserved
1/2 cup coarsely chopped peeled potato
2 cups good-quality vegetable stock
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 cube Dorot's frozen basil

Combine two teaspoons olive oil with 1 cube of Dorot's frozen basil. Set aside.

Heat one teaspoon of olive oil in a large heavy pot over medium heat. Add leeks and cook, stirring occasionally, until they begin to soften, about 5 minutes. Add corn kernels, reserved cobs, potato, and stock. Season lightly with salt and pepper. Increase heat to high and bring soup to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer, cover with lid slightly ajar, and cook until the vegetables are very soft, about 35 minutes.

Discard corn cobs; let soup cool slightly. Working in batches, purée soup in a blender until very smooth. Set a fine-mesh strainer over a large bowl; strain, discarding solids. Return to the pot and bring back up to a simmer. If too thick, thin with water by 1/4-cupfuls. Once reheated to desired temperature, stir in lemon juice, and season with salt and pepper. Serve immediately. Finish with basil oil.

Whole Wheat Fusilli with Grilled Nectarines and Ricotta: What I do when I'm not texting while driving

2011-06-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

Exactly 72 days ago, I was pulled over and ticketed for texting while driving. At the time I was completely devastated -- I was embarrassed that I was, yet again, one of those "bad" people who gets ticketed, I was sickened by the cost, and I was furious that I'd been singled out for my delinquency.

"Everyone does it," I complained to friends, "Even my mom checks her text messages at stop lights! How am I so unlucky?"

Like a petulant child, I stewed and pouted over it for days. I found every excuse to talk about it -- to tell people my poor plight in exchange for their pity and assurances that yes, they text when stuck in traffic too.

"Why me?" I kept asking. "Why did I have to be the one to get caught?"

In my mind, it was just another indication of how my life is like a sitcom -- amusing for others to watch, but painful for me, the star, to experience.

A few days of textless driving later, I experienced what a certain former daytime talk show host calls an "aha" moment.

"What if I wasn't unlucky?" I wondered. "What if getting pulled over was actually the luckiest thing that could have happened to me? What if that ticket saved my life? Saved someone else's life because I'm no longer distracted by text messages?"

Suddenly I didn't feel like pouting any more.

Since getting that ticket, I haven't used my phone in my car at all. I haven't texted, I haven't tweeted, and aside from the one (legal) hands-free call I made to my mother when I got my new job, I haven't made any phone calls either.

Instead, I've been actually paying attention to the road and the other cars on it.

It's strange to not use the time it takes me to get from my office to my apartment to catch up with my mom. It's even stranger having to sit in traffic without the entertainment of Twitter to get me through those seemingly endless stretches of red brake lights. I don't know what to do with myself. Sometimes I actually catch myself twiddling my thumbs.

For the record, twiddling is not nearly as exciting as finding out what @MyLastBite had for her last bite (probably bacon).

So, of course, my mind starts to wander when I'm sitting there scanning the road for potential hazards and checking my rear view mirrors every few seconds like all those good drivers are supposed to do.

I start thinking about food.

I start thinking about what I want for dinner.

I start thinking about crazy recipe ideas for that dinner.

I start thinking about whole wheat pasta.

With ricotta.

And nectarines.

And then I have to go home and make it.

This recipe for whole wheat pasta with ricotta, grilled nectarines, fresh herbs, and edamame was born on a recent drive up the 405 from Orange County to Los Angeles. By the time I had reached my apartment (60 textless minutes later), I knew I had to make it for dinner that night.

And make it I did.

The sweet nectarines, fresh herbs and subtle ricotta found their perfect partners in the nutty pasta and edamame. Despite my initial qualms that I was really diving into the deep end with this strange conglomeration of flavors, I was completely enamored by the dish. I scraped the bowl. I photographed the heck of it.

And I used my phone to (legally) tweet about it on Twitter from the safety of my dining room table.

Whole Wheat Fusilli with Grilled Nectarines and Ricotta
Serves 2

2 cups dry whole wheat fusilli pasta (I prefer Bionature brand)
1 large or 2 small yellow nectarines sliced into 1/2 inch slices (approximate 1 cup)
1 yellow onion, sliced into thin slivers
1/2 cup shelled edamame, cooked according to package instructions
1/2 cup ricotta cheese
1 teaspoon lemon zest
Juice of 1 lemon
1/2 cup fresh basil leaves, chopped
2 tablespoons fresh mint, minced
2 cups arugula
Salt, pepper
Olive oil

For onions: Heat large frying pan over medium-high heat. When hot, add a teaspoon of olive oil, swirling it to coat the entire surface of the pan. Add the onions and saute over medium to medium low hit, stirring frequently, until the onions are caramelized and come together in a some what gooey, jam-like clump (approximately 20-25 minutes). Add the teaspoon of white balsamic vinegar and a good shake of salt and continue letting it simmer over low heat until ready for use.

For ricotta sauce: Using a fork, combine ricotta, lemon zest, lemon juice, salt and pepper in a small bowl. Whisk until smooth.

For nectarines: Heat a grill pan over medium-high heat. Add a splash of olive oil to lightly coat the surface, then place each slice of nectarine on the grills in the center of the pan. Cook over medium heat for approximately 2 minutes a side. When both sides have "grill" marks, remove and cut into bite-sized chunks. Reserve four whole slices for a garnish.

For pasta: Prepare fusilli in a large pot of salted water according to package instructions, taking care to not let it go past “al dente” since the pasta will cook more when mixed with the sauce. Reserve ½ cup of the pasta water, then drain.

To finish: Return fusilli to the pot and add the onions, ricotta sauce, edamame, arugula, and nectarine chunks. Add pasta water as needed to help thin the sauce to desired preference. Season with salt and pepper, then turn off the heat. Toss in the basil and mint and stir until just combined. Serve immediately garnished with reserved slices of nectarines.

Wild Salmon with Corn, Peas, Zucchini and Pea Puree, and How I Burned the Kitchen Floor

2011-06-05T21:08:00.000-07:00

I burnt my kitchen floor last night.

I'm not sure how it happened exactly. Well, no, I do know how it happened, what I mean to say is I don't know how things progressed in that direction -- how I went from being in complete control of the cooking situation to burning the floor.

I had the whole thing planned out in my head. I was going to recreate the salmon dish I'd had at Akasha Restaurant in Culver City the previous night -- a special for the evening that involved a glorious piece of crispy-skinned copper river salmon strewn over a bed of fresh corn, peas, zucchini, cipollini onions, and pea puree. (I'm assuming the pea puree was Akasha's -- not Ed's.)

Either way, the dish (and pea puree) totally sung to me -- the cornucopia of fresh spring vegetables, the buttery salmon tucked under a salty chip-like skin, the clean flavors unmuddied by oil or overaggressive seasoning.

It was pure cooking at its finest. And I couldn't wait to have it again -- the next night.

It seemed relatively simple to make. I know how to boil and shuck corn. I know how to peel and roast cipollini onions. I know how to turn peas into pea puree (I'm excellent with an immersion blender).

The only question mark was the salmon -- and that essential crispy skin.

I'd recently read in Glamour's "How to do anything better guide" that the key to perfect, crispy salmon is to take some softened butter and rub it on the skin prior to cooking. The salmon should then be placed skin-side up back in the fridge for the butter to harden, before being transferred buttered side up to a sheet pan. According to the guide's consultant for the piece, Claire Robinson, the host of "5 Ingredient Fix" on the Food Network, the sheet should then be placed under the broiler for 8 minutes. "Presto -- foolproof perfect salmon," she writes.

It seemed easy enough, and I was totally with Ms. Robinson up until I reached the broiling stage. I buttered the slick salmon skin like an ear of corn, seasoned it with some salt and pepper, and returned it to the fridge for the "hardening" period. I finished prepping my other ingredients while it chilled and then readied myself for the final stage of the cooking process.

And this is was when things started to go horribly wrong.

My oven isn't the digital kind. It's a gas stove with a gas oven that has a pull-out broiler drawer -- a broiler drawer that I'm terrified to use.

I know it's irrational. I know it's completely crazy and neurotic of me, but I hate everything about that drawer. I shudder at the sound it makes when I turn the broiler on -- like the oven is coming alive and is going to start shooting out sparks like a fire breathing dragon. I can't stand the thought of putting food in that incinerator of a drawer, especially if it means placing said food on the broiler pan that comes with it.

So, I decided to crank up my oven instead. I figured if I roasted the salmon at 450 degrees, I'd still achieve presto, crispy-skin perfection, and I could avoid the horror that is the drawer.

It was a win win.

Or so I thought.

When I pulled the salmon out to check on it five minutes later, the skin was still flaccid and the inch-thick piece of fish was already starting to ooze white -- a clear sign that the salmon was close to being overdone. I yanked my baking sheet free from the hot oven and in a moment of panic, charged up the incinerator with hopes that a few moments in the evil broiler drawer would crisp things up.

Moving quickly, I pulled out the broiler sheet and set it on the floor, and replaced it with the baking sheet that already contained the salmon. I peered in at the blow-torch type flame that was now scorching the surface of the delicate fish.

It didn't look good.

Lest the salmon cook itself into a straw-like state, I removed the baking sheet and set it on a towel on the counter. I then reached for the broiler pan that was sitting in the middle of my kitchen floor to slide it back into place.

And that's when I saw it -- the ugly brown square-shaped mark on the linoleum.

I'd burned the kitchen floor.

I cursed the broiler. Cursed the pock-marked salmon skin. Cursed the pea puree that had turned a muddy green color while I'd been attending to the fish.

I slumped down at my dining room table, glass of Rosé in hand, feeling defeated.

"All that work for nothing," I thought, angrily scooping up my first bite of my not-so-presto-perfect dinner. I readied myself for disappointment, readied myself to throw the entire contents of my plate into the trash. Readied myself to kick the broiler right where it hurts.

Disappointment never came. Even with all the mishaps, my dinner was still good -- really good. Worth burning the kitchen floor good.

But I still won't be using the evil broiler again any time soon.

Wild Salmon with Corn, Zucchini, Peas and Pea Puree
Inspired by dish at Akasha Restaurant
Serves 1

6-ounce fillet of wild salmon, skin on
4-5 cipollini onions, peeled
1 ear of fresh corn
1 small zucchini, cut into 1/2 inch chunks
3/4 cup fresh (or frozen) peas
Handful of torn basil leaves
2 tablespoons lemon juice, divided
2 tablespoons chicken broth
Salt, pepper
Softened butter
Olive oil

For onions and zucchini: Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Toss peeled cipollini onions with a splash of olive oil. Place in an oven-safe baking dish and sprinkle with salt. Roast for approximately 35 minutes, turning every 10 minutes. During the last 10 minutes, add the zucchini to the baking dish. Sprinkle with pepper and then roast with the onions until both are tender.

For corn: Husk corn and cook in 2-3 inches of boiling water for 3 minutes. Remove, rinse with cold water to stop the cooking process and set aside until cool enough to handle. When cooled, cut the kernels from the ear and set aside.

For peas/pea puree: If using fresh peas, steam them in a vegetable steamer until just barely tender. (Frozen peas can be prepared in a microwave.) Using an immersion blender, combine half the cooked peas with 1 tablespoon lemon juice, 2 tablespoons chicken broth. Reserve the rest to toss with the other vegetables.

For salmon: Rinse salmon under cool water. Pat dry, then season both sides with salt and pepper. Brush the skin side with softened butter, then return to the fridge for the butter to harden. Once hardened, place salmon skin side up on a baking sheet. Broil for approximately 5-8 minutes depending on thickness of salmon fillet.

For assembly: When you put the salmon under the broiler, combine corn, zucchini, onions and peas in a hot frying pan. Toss together over medium heat until warm. Turn off the heat, toss with the basil leaves and remaining tablespoon of lemon juice. Meanwhile, gently heat pea puree in small saucepan over low heat until just warmed. Spread pea puree over one side of the plate, heap the vegetables on the other side. Top with broiled piece of presto perfect crispy-skinned salmon.

The Turban Man and Me

2011-06-04T20:06:00.000-07:00

This is not a story about food.

This is a story about the Santa Monica bike path, a man in a turban and me.

I woke up unreasonably early this morning. I cringed when I saw the angular numbers on my alarm clock that read "6:15." I tried to fall back asleep -- tried to hush the thoughts away of everything I had to do before meeting my friend for lunch.

It was a futile effort. After approximately 25 minutes of willing my eyes to remain shut, I gave up.

"It's really better if I get up now," I reasoned as I tugged myself free from my tangle of pink sheets and trudged into my living room to find my running shoes.

"I'll avoid the traffic. I won't have to worry about the sun scorching my skin cells at the beach. I'll have time to go to the Santa Monica farmers' market after. I can get corn. I can get asparagus. I can get English peas." My thoughts stumbled out in a rush, desperate to erase the absurdity of getting up before 7 am on a Saturday morning.

I arrived in Santa Monica a little after 7:15. The sky was still a groggy grey and the bike path that is normally cluttered with joggers, bicyclists and Midwestern tourists was blissfully unadorned. I smiled as I began striding down the sidewalk -- past Casa del Mar, past the red and white Hot Dog on a Stick shack, past the pier.

"This is why I love coming out here," I mused as I surveyed the empty stretch of path ahead of me. No stoplights. No cars. No police officers pulling me over for jay-running.

On the Santa Monica bike path, I can just go. I can just run. And I can daydream to the point where everything else around me fades away into a blurry haze of nothingness -- grey like the sky.

I continued down the now familiar stretch that winds through a seemingly endless Sahara dessert of sand. Despite the early hour, there were still a few bicyclists and other joggers and walkers battling exhaustion with me. There was a man running approximately 25 meters ahead of me -- a man in a turban. He wasn't moving particularly fast. His feet were thumping the ground in a sluggish, uncoordinated rhythm, and I was gaining on him quickly. In just a few strides, I would easily pass him.

I picked up my pace as I ran by, eager to get away from the sound of his shoes clomping on the pavement.

"Terrible form," I thought as I turned up the volume on my iPod to drown out the increasingly grating noise. "My high school couch would not approve."

I continued speeding up -- trying desperately to escape it and escape him, the mysterious turban man. But it seemed that no matter how fast I ran, no matter how high I turned up the volume on Lady Gaga, the clip-clopping of his feet was still there. It stabbed a hole through my daydreams of what I was going to make with my asparagus, corn and English peas. It stabbed a hole in my blissful mood. It stabbed a hole in my quiet, idyllic run by the beach.

"He's not going to let me pass him!" I finally realized with alarm.

Every time I quickened my lightly-falling snowflake steps, he quickened his sledge-hammer steps too. Anger seeped into my straining muscle, my eyes descended into fierce narrow slits, and my jaw contorted into an aggressive, masculine posture. I was a pit bull ready to snap. And the man in the turban continued on my tail like a freeloading roommate.

"I will break you," I thought as pushed my legs to move even faster. I was flying down the bike path now -- running faster than I have in months -- possibly years. I was channeling Prefontaine. I was running with the Buffaloes. I was running like I was Forrest Gump.

But he wouldn't be broken.

I looked desperately to the people biking and running in the other direction for sympathy. I wanted them to yell out in my defense, "Hey turban man, stop harassing that poor girl. Just let her run. Dude."

But they didn't yell. They didn't come to my rescue. They waved. They smiled. They cheered him on.

They all seemed to know him. They all seemed to love the turban man.

I did not.

I whipped around, squared my face into my fiercest angry runway look and snarled, "Stop riding my ass! Run your own race!"

I restrained myself from adding, "freak."

The turban man stared at me with a blank expression -- his tan, bearded face not giving away any emotion. Despite my outburst, he made no effort to slow down or run ahead. He remained stoically in his place -- directly behind me.

When I reached my turnaround point at 26 minutes -- approximately four minutes faster than I had the week prior -- I whipped around without hesitation. I was not going to continue playing his sick game. I wanted peace, dammit. But his face haunted me for the rest of my hour long run. It was glued in my head -- seeping into my daydreams like a viscous odor.

I had to tell someone about him -- someone who would share my horror at the man who wouldn't be passed.

As soon as I picked up my friend for lunch this afternoon, the story came tumbling out. I made dramatic pauses, I varied the inflection of my voice, I arched my eyebrows up and then down for further animation. I couldn't wait for her to gasp and groan in sympathy.

But she didn't gasp. Or groan.

"He's famous!" She shrieked. "He plays a guitar!"

And, according to Wikipedia, his name is Harry Perry.

Memorial Day Weekend: There's no better way...

2011-05-30T15:35:00.000-07:00

I dreaded Mondays when I was in high school. Not for the typical reasons that most kids (and, well, adults) dread Mondays (the whole having to start a whole week over again), but because of the question.

The "what did you do this weekend?" inquisition that was par the course for Monday mornings in homeroom.

I hated admitting that I hadn't actually done anything social that weekend -- that the only thing I'd done other than studying and running a track meet was renting a movie with my parents.

"Yeah.... we made it a Blockbuster night," I'd say, my cheeks burning with shame as I pretended (unsuccessfully) to act like it was no big deal that I was whittling away my teenage years parked on the couch at home.

I was always impossibly jealous of my classmates who were doing the kind of things that normal high schoolers did -- going to the mall in mass groups, watching American Pie at an actual theatre and chugging beers at the house parties I was never invited to. I couldn't wait to graduate, go to college and finally be part of a social scene that did not revolve around my parents.

This might explain why I elected to go to school 2,000 miles away from them.

Some where along the line of playing "flip cup" at house parties and going to the Century 12 Evanston Theatre for study breaks, however, I started to miss those "lame" nights spent at home with my family. I distinctly remember one evening in particular when I called my mom while my brothers and future sister-in-law were over for dinner. She was making salmon -- my favorite -- and I could hear all of them chatting and laughing in the background. My heart stung with longing. Suddenly I was desperately jealous of my brothers that got to be home with parents while I was stuck in Chicago going to yet another football party.

Suddenly spending time with my family didn't seem so lame. When I graduated college a couple years later, it was one of the reasons that I immediately moved back to Southern California. I wanted to be able to see my parents and brothers on the weekends. I wanted to be able to tell people I'd had a "Blockbuster night" with my mom and dad when they'd asked me what I'd done on my Saturday night.

Tomorrow when I go to work, I won't feel any shame when I reveal what I did on my Memorial Day weekend. I'll be excited to tell my co-workers that I drove down to my brother and sister-in-law's house down in Rancho Santa Margarita. I'll gush about the artichoke heart and caramelized onion bruschetta my brother made. I'll rave about the grilled steak he served over corn puree, and the braised chard that some how rivaled creamed spinach in decadence. And my cheeks won't burn with embarrassment when I tell them how much fun my family and I had drinking wine, inhaling the platter of brownies I'd baked, and chasing my two-year-old niece around the house while she shrieked with joy.

In my mind, there's no better way to spend a Sunday night. Good food and good wine with the best company -- the people who loved me even when I was a painfully awkward track dork that nobody wanted to invite to their parties.

Apricot Chicken: A change

2011-05-27T17:30:00.000-07:00

This week my entire world flipped upside down. It was "opposite week" -- an extended version of "opposite day," which I loathed as a child. I never failed to forget that "yes" really meant "no," and that if I said I was a girl my classmates would immediately start snickering that this confession meant I was actually a boy.

I won't go into my thoughts on "Friday Flip-up Day" when the threat of one's skirt being flipped up loomed in the air, so I'll let it suffice to say that I was not a fan of days that disrupted the usual state of things -- especially when it involved wardrobe malfunctions.

Thankfully, this week involved none of that nonsense, but it was still a shock to my system. I'm driving east rather than west, I'm working in an open loft space with a view of downtown rather than a lonely yellow-walled office with a view of the parking lot, and I'm busy. Challenged. Excited in a way that keeps me up at night because my mind won't shut down.

And I don't want it to shut down.

As much as I hated "opposite day" as a child, I'm loving these changes and loving the breathless, exhilarated feeling that comes with it.

It's put me in a different state of mind. I feel like for the past three and a half years I've been forced to order the same bland bowl of mashed potatoes every day, and I've suddenly been presented with a brand new menu for my life. I can have duck confit! I can have gnocchi with English peas! And I can have apricot chicken.

I haven't been cooking much chicken this past year. Since moving to an apartment without a dishwasher, I find myself feeling less and less inclined to work with a protein that necessitates sterilizing all the items that touch it with boiling water (my neurosis continues to be an issue). But when I was strolling through my local farmers' market this past Sunday, I couldn't resist the fresh apricots that my favorite vendor was selling for $2 a pound. I remembered the apricot chicken recipe I'd printed from Simply Recipes the year prior and knew I had to make it. Even if it meant sterilizing everything in my kitchen when I was done.

So I bought my first ever jar of Tabasco sauce, I bought a package of chicken for the first time in five months, and I cooked up a dinner that was the opposite of what I normally make for myself.

I wasn't sure how the melange of different flavors would work together -- rosemary, cinnamon, Tabasco, and apricots aren't inherently complimentary -- but the final product was unexpectedly delightful. Initially, a bit jarring to my palate, but ultimately, delicious.

It was a good change -- a good opposite. And way better than that bland bowl of mashed potatoes.

I'm taking that item off the menu. Forever.

Apricot Chicken Recipe
Lightly adapted from Simply Recipes
Serves 2

Adaptations: I reduced the amount of olive oil and sugar, omitted the butter, and increased the proportions of cider vinegar, onion and Tabasco sauce.

1/2 pound fresh apricots, chopped, pits removed and discarded
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
2/3 pounds skinless chicken breasts, cut into chunks
Sea salt
2 teaspoons olive oil, divided
1 yellow onion, diced
3/4 cup chicken broth
1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary
1/4 (heaping) teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon Tabasco

Place the chopped apricots in a large bowl. Stir in the sugar and the vinegar. Let sit while you brown the chicken in the next step.

Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add 1 teaspoon of olive oil to the pan, swirling to coat the base. Add the chicken, sprinkle with salt, and stir-fry until browned and cooked through. Remove chicken and set aside.

Add the remaining teaspoon of oil to the pan and sauté the onion until it begins to brown. Once the onions have browned a bit, add the chicken stock and lower the heat to medium.

Put about 2/3 of the apricots, along with any juice they have given up, into a blender and blend into a purée. (Can also use an immersion blender.) Pour the purée into the pan with the chicken stock and onions.

Add the cinnamon, rosemary and Tabasco and taste. You may need to add some salt. Bring to a simmer, then lower the heat and gently simmer for 10-20 minutes.

When you are ready to serve, put the chicken and the remaining apricot pieces into the pan and simmer gently for 5 minutes.

Serve hot over quinoa or rice.

Someone bought me flowers...

2011-05-22T21:52:00.000-07:00

I've never been much of a flowers person. Even though I grew up in a household where flowers were a constant presence on the dining room table, I've never really understand the point of them. They're fine at weddings and other hoity toity-type events, I suppose, but the whole vase full of roses on the table where I'm supposed to be eating my oatmeal kind of perplexes me.

It's like a real life game of "something here does not belong." Flowers should be in the ground -- not on my bedside table, not resting on the tank of the toilet, and most certainly not coerced into the form of a wreath to be hung on the door.

My dislike of cut flowers is only further substantiated by the annoyance of their arrival and departure. They always seem to be gifted at an inopportune time -- presented by a well-meaning dinner guest when the hostess is already scrambling to get a pot roast out of the oven, or at a restaurant where there are no vases or convenient places to put a bouquet of flowers.

It gets even worse when they start to wilt and decay after a mere 24 hours -- leaving behind a trail of green sludge that the recipient must then clean up.

Green sludge does not a happy recipient make.

So for years I've been going about my life without feeling any modicum of sadness when my birthday passes by without any special delivery from a florist.

"I don't need no stinkin' flowers!" I scoff when I see other girls around the office with big lofty arrangements on their desks that seem to say, "Someone loves me much more than anyone loves you." I shake my head in pity as I watch their pink faces contort into happy-go-lucky grins.

"Just wait till the green sludge comes," I think. I know they won't be feeling so happy-go-lucky then.

So when my good friend Sook showed up to a celebratory dinner at Sotto this past Thursday night bearing a floral bouquet larger than my head, my initial reaction wasn't one of unbridled glee. I didn't gush or blush or squeal, "For me?!"

Clearly, I've never received flowers from a boy before.

Yet, as I sat there at dinner, the paper-wrapped bouquet of tulips, roses and hydrangeas perched on the booth next to me, I started to feel it. A warm sensation drifted over my limbs, my heart started doing that achy thing, and before I could stop myself, I started to feel just the slightest bit... special.

"Someone out there loves me enough to buy me flowers," I thought. "ME! Flowers!"

Suddenly, I couldn't wait to get them home so I could put them on display smack dab in the middle of the dining room table where I eat my oatmeal.

I couldn't wait to tear the paper away like a Christmas package.

And I couldn't wait to put them some place they didn't belong.

In my big blue teapot.

The inside crevices are going to be impossible to get clean.

Strawberry, Corn, Basil Quinoa Salad with Sautéed Tofu: Fork optional

2011-05-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve been holding out on you.

Keeping this quinoa salad – the ultimate summer salad – a dirty little secret.

I’ve eaten it no less than 10 times since sweet corn and strawberries made their debut at my local farmers’ market a few weeks ago. Every time I extract the salad from my lunch tote at work, I’m nearly crushed by excitement. I can barely stand to eat it with a fork – I want to shovel it up with a giant spoon, my hands, my mouth to ensure every bite contains each glorious, summer-saturated component.

I live in fear that someone will walk into my office at the precise moment that I’m using my sticky, quinoa-coated fingers to set a stray toasted almond sliver or a cube of sautéed tofu onto my fork to complete that all-inclusive, perfect bite. Our eyes will meet from across the paper-cluttered room. I’ll try to stammer out an explanation as to why I’m eating my lunch with my fingers.

But it will be too late. They’ll already be backing away – not wanting to know – not wanting to see what I do when I’m behind my not-so closed office doors.

“It’s the salad!” I’ll finally scream, once they are safely down the hall. “It’s just too good! You’d do it too!”

This is what I tell myself.

That any reasonable person would lose all decorum when confronted with this mix of sweet strawberries, corn, basil, arugula, red onion, and tofu, slivered almonds, quinoa, and a pitch perfect balsamic dressing. That any reasonable person would abandon their utensils to turn lunch into a competitive eating sport.

Victory over this salad will be mine. All summer long. Regardless of the judgment doled out from my co-workers eyes.

Strawberry, Corn, Basil Quinoa Salad with Sautéed Tofu
Serves 4

Note: You may be tempted to omit the tofu, but that would be a grave mistake. The sautéed cubes of extra-firm tofu add a satisfying heft to this salad without imparting a distracting flavor to take away from the true stars of the show – the strawberries, corn and basil. The texture of the tofu is what is key here, as are the crunchy almonds and delicate kernels of quinoa that bring everything together into one hot (well, actually cold) delicious mess.

¾ cup dry quinoa, cooked in 1 ½ cups water and then cooled to room temperature
1/3 cup red onion, minced
1 carton fresh strawberries, stems removed, chopped
2 ears fresh white or yellow corn, husked
8 ounces extra-firm tofu, cubed
2 cups arugula, chopped
½ cup fresh basil, chopped
½ cup slivered almonds, toasted
1 teaspoon olive oil

Balsamic Dressing
3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
2 teaspoons honey
2 teaspoons olive oil
Juice from half a lemon
Salt, pepper

Combine dressing ingredients together in a small bowl. Whisk together until well-combined. Taste – if tart, add extra Dijon or honey to balance out the vinegar.

Soak red onion in small bowl of cold water for 15-20 minutes (this will help reduce some of that red onion bite). Drain and set aside.

While onion is soaking, bring enough water to cover the two ears of corn (roughly 3 inches) to boil in a large pot with a lid. Once boiling, add the corn, cover with the lid, and cook 3-5 minutes or until the corn is just tender enough to be pierced with a fork. Drain immediately and rinse with cold water so it doesn’t continue cooking. Using a chef’s knife, cut the corn kernels off the ear.

Heat a large nonstick frying pan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add the teaspoon of olive oil and swirl it to coat the base of the pan. Add the tofu, reduce the heat to medium, and sauté until the tofu is golden on all sides. Remove from the pan.

Combine quinoa, red onion, corn, and tofu, and toss with the balsamic dressing. Refrigerate until cool before proceeding.

Once chilled, stir in the strawberries, arugula, basil, and almonds. Serve immediately. With or without utensils.

The Be-All End-All Brownie

2011-05-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

I blame the cake.

Yes, that cake – the winning-hearts-and-minds cake that my mother nearly decapitated two Sundays ago with one fell swoop of her ungraceful hand.

I still haven’t gotten over it.

Any of it – the almost decapitation, the damage to my nervous system that can’t handle fell swoops, and the way the deformed cake tasted once we’d covered up the mangled top with a whipped cream concealer.

It was like fudge and brownies and chocolate soufflé had a baby in an 8-inch round pan – a baby that I subsequently had to abandon at my parents’ house in Orange County.

The single slice I’d eaten that night was a dull knife to my heart. I felt like someone had cut the cable five minutes into an episode of “How I Met Your Mother” or told me I could only have one lick of an ice cream cone. I couldn’t stop thinking about chocolate the entire week. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I was going to silence the incessant noise in my head – the clanging, clattering voice that demanded to know why I hadn’t taken a piece of the cake back to LA with me.

I was certain it was having abandonment issues.

Because I was having abandonment issues.

There seemed only one way to remedy the hole in my stomach that was growing larger and emptier and angrier by the second.

I had to make brownies.

But not just any brownies – certainly not the boxed variety that brought doom, despair and wobbly bits to my and my roommates’ thighs in college – I had to make from-scratch brownies. And they had to be perfect. The be-all end-all brownie that all the other brownies want to be when they grow up.

Amanda Hesser’s brownies.

It was an obvious choice. The recipe she includes in the Essential New York Times Cookbook is simple and uncluttered with any sort of peanut butter, caramel, espresso, mint, Oreo, or cheesecake nonsense. Her description as to why she selected this particular recipe says it all:

I settled on this unadorned version, with classic proportions of butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and chocolate, which I believe is the best kind of brownie; a little buttery, a little bitter, a little salty, but mostly about the chocolate. These brownies also exhibit my favorite brownie detail, a shiny, chewy crackled surface.

Chewy crackled surface. The words echoed in my head, finally bringing peace to that accusatory voice and my stomach’s abandonment issues.

This was the be-all end-all brownie that I desired. And it was the first thing that popped into my head when I woke up at 7 am on Sunday morning courtesy of an unexpected downpour outside my bedroom window. I told myself the rainstorm was God’s way of telling me to bake them. Immediately.

I made the brownies without hesitation – ate them without hesitation too. One after lunch, two after dinner – a consequence of my week-long period of chocolate cake deprivation. I cursed the brownies for their rich and sassy demeanor. I cursed their crackly surface and the satisfyingly chewy bits around the edges.

And I cursed the cake.

Yes, that cake. The cake that started all the trouble – decapitation, abandonment issues and my subsequent discovery of the ultimate, be-all end-all brownie recipe. My thighs will never be the same again.

Brownies
Lightly adapted from Amanda Hesser’s Essential New York Times Cookbook
Makes 16 brownies

Adaptations: The only changes I made to the original recipe are procedural in nature – using a double boiler instead of a saucepan to melt the chocolate and butter, and going a different route to cut the brownies.

¼ pound semisweet or bittersweet chocolate (I used Ghiradelli 60% cacao chips)
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar
½ cup sifted all-purpose flour
½ cup chopped pecans (or other nuts)
1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter an 8-inch-square baking pan and line the base with parchment (I extended the parchment to come up the edges of the pan so I could use the overhand to lift the brownies out for cutting purposes).

Melt the chocolate and butter in a saucepan (I used a double boiler) over low heat. Remove from heat.

Beat the eggs with the sugar until the sugar is mostly dissolved, and add to the chocolate mixture. Add the other ingredients and mix well. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top.

Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out almost, but not quite, clean, about 25 minutes (mine took 30 minutes). Let cool completely.

Once cool, place the pan in the refrigerator for an hour to chill. (This will make them easier to cut.) Run a knife around the edges of the brownies that are touching the baking dish, then use the parchment paper to lift them out of the dish. Set on a cutting board and cut into 16 squares.

"Diana Takes a New Bite"

2011-05-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve always shied away from it – talking about my blog on my blog. In my mind, it’s the equivalent of breaking character in a play – giggling in the middle of a serious scene or turning to the audience to speak directly of the action taking place on stage.

It kills the moment.

And it kills the perception of voyeurism for the man watching in the third row or the girl reading at her computer. Addressing the art itself – that the play is being consciously acted out, and a blog’s posts are deliberately conceived and not merely a free-flowing array of words – is kind of a buzz kill.

I never wanted anyone to know just how much work and thought I put into what I say here. I never wanted anyone to know that “Diana Takes a Bite” isn’t just the script for the reality show that is my life of eating and cooking food.

But this little pink blog that I started three years, one month and eight days ago is undergoing a change in direction – one that I feel compelled to address lest I leave my loyal readers scratching their heads as they try to figure out, “What happened?”

I’ve never mentioned it before (at least not publicly), but “Diana Takes a Bite” first came into being because I didn’t get a job. At the time, I was a hardcore “Yelper,” spending countless hours penning silly reviews that I hoped would win me “Funny,” “Cool,” and “Useful” votes, new “fans,” and the coveted “Review of the Day” honor.

I was pretty darn good at being irrelevant.

And I loved the rush I felt whenever someone would send a compliment my way for that irrelevance.

So when a Yelp Community Manager position became available in Orange County, I immediately applied for the gig. Suddenly, all those hours I’d wasted discussing my affection for the color pink in the middle of a review about an Italian restaurant didn’t seem like such a waste.

Clearly, it had all been leading up to this point. I was going to get the job, move back to Orange County and be the coolest girl in my hometown. At least, according to Yelp.

Except I didn’t get it.

After dragging my heart along for a month, I was informed that they “were intent on finding someone with a professional writing background for the role.”

Apparently, the list of “Signs you are spending too much time/money in a clothing shop” that I wrote for a review of Anthropologie did not qualify me as a “professional” writer.

Instead of wallowing in my sorrows that I was not going to be the ultimate “Yelper” or the coolest girl in Orange County, I turned the crushing disappointment into a catalyst for something else. I’d been obsessively reading “The Delicious Life,” “Caroline on Crack” and “LA and OC Foodventures” for a while, and had been toying with the idea of starting my own blog as well. Not getting the Yelp job put the fire in my belly to actually go for it.

“Screw professional writing experience,” I thought smugly, as I signed up for an account on Blogger. “I’m going to be the next Delicious!”

Now that we are friends, Sarah and I joke about the moronic email I sent her (when I’d never so much as interacted with her on Facebook or Twitter) asking for “Blog Advice” and pointers on how “to do all the fancy blog tricks.”

The low point was when I signed off my message with a charming, “Keep up the good eating!”

As if she needed the encouragement.

Somewhere in the midst of all this idiocy, I found my “voice,” and eventually, a place in the LA dining community – without all those “fancy blog tricks” I thought I needed. To this day, I still pay no attention to things like SEO. It’s only recently that I even learned how to adjust the white balance on my camera. (Count one toward the “fancy blog tricks” that Sarah has patiently taught me.)

Throughout this whole time that I’ve been doing this whole technologically-unsavvy blogging thing, however, I’ve secretly been hoping to turn my passion for food and writing into a career. I’ve also secretly known that once I got to that place, things would change – that I wouldn’t be able to continue my blog in its current state.

Last week, I finally arrived at that point. I’ve amazingly – Praise the Lord! – found a way to do what I love most for a living (hence the celebratory dinner at Osteria Mozza last Tuesday night).

While I’m sad that it signals “the end of an era,” it feels somehow appropriate that the blog that came into being because I didn’t get a job is going to change because I did get one. I’ll still be here, plugging away on recipes, sharing my horrific dating stories, and pontificating on whatever else is going on in my world, but, because it presents a conflict of interest, I won’t be writing about restaurants any more.

Not even about Osteria Mozza. Or Golden State. Or FarmShop, where I devoured this amazing open-faced tuna sandwich for brunch last Sunday. (The smoked trout-stuffed deviled eggs, pictured above, were no slouches on the couch either.)

I do promise this though – no matter where this new job takes me, I’ll always keep up the good eating.

It should be a little bit easier now that I don’t have to lug a camera around to do it.

Spring Fried Quinoa Rice: How I fly by the seat of my pants

2011-05-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

My favorite movie growing up was Pretty Woman. At the time I didn’t understand half of what was going on – partially because the version I was watching was edited for TV – but I loved all the fairy tale-esque moments that I did understand.

Over the course of the three dozen times I watched the film when I was home sick from school or because “Full House” was a rerun, I became intimately familiar with all the scenes and dialogue. It got to the point where I could recite the exchanges word-for-word (a useless skill I still possess today). One of the exchanges between Edward (Richard Gere) and Vivian (Julia Roberts) shortly after they’d checked into the “Reg Bev Wil” was particularly memorable to me.

“Do you plan everything?” Vivian asked Edward.

“Always.” He responded.

“Yeah me too!” She piped up, before continuing. “I'm actually – no, I'm not a planner. I would say I’m a kinda fly by the seat of your pants gal, you know moment to moment. Yeah that’s me, that’s...yeah.”

Even at the age of seven, this floored me – a precocious, perfectionist child who already possessed a day calendar. (It was mostly filled with the birth dates of my stuffed animals.)

Twenty years later, I’m still in awe of those people – men, and, well, prostitutes – who don’t plan out every second of their existence. While I don’t always write things down (I lost the ability to use a pen and paper three years ago), I always have things plotted out in my head. By Sunday morning, I already know what I’m going to eat every day and night that week, and if I’m going out to dinner, I already know what I’m going to wear, how I’m going to screw up my hair, and what I’m going to order.

In my mind, it’s the only way to live.

So last night, I was completely thrown for a loop when I got a text message from my friend asking if she could get a rain check on our dinner date. I wasn’t upset with her – I completely understand and encourage the need to stay in when the mood so strikes – I was more stupefied by what I should do since I hadn’t planned on what to make for dinner and I am not, as Vivian so eloquently says, “a fly by the seat of [my] pants kind of gal.”

I was supposed to eat at Robata Jinya, and order the spicy ramen with an egg added and some grilled broccoli for a green side. That was what was supposed to happen. That was what I’d been gearing up for since my friend and I had finalized the restaurant location at 2 pm earlier that day.

I couldn’t think straight. Did I use up the rest of a head of suspect cauliflower? If I cut off the tiny flecks of black mold could I still eat it without compromising my immune system? Or should I play it safe and make something with the asparagus I bought at the farmers’ market on Sunday? I wasn’t sure I wanted asparagus – or what I would even have with the asparagus since gal-who-does-not-fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants also cannot eat asparagus alone.

For 30 minutes, I stared blankly at the contents of my cupboards and refrigerator. Nothing sounded good except for fried rice – which I was seemingly incapable of making because I didn’t have any of the proper foodstuffs for it. Namely rice and an acceptable fried rice vegetable mix-in like broccoli or snow peas or even green beans.

I had asparagus.

Finally, after several more minutes of debate (which included a weak moment where I contemplated extracting the partially spoiled cauliflower from the trash can), I decided to go for broke with a “Spring Fried Quinoa Rice” dish. They were my pants and I was going to fly by them any which way I wanted. So help my taste buds.

I wasn’t sure how the dish was going to come together when I began roasting my asparagus, preparing my quinoa, and mincing an indecent amount of garlic and shallots. But when I sat down to my spontaneous supper less than 30 minutes later (take that Rachael Ray!), it tasted as though I’d spent all day planning to make it. So good in fact, that I’m already thinking about making it for dinner again tonight -- instead of my original plan for quinoa with asparagus, slow-roasted tomatoes and pesto.

Because that’s the way I fly by the seat of my pants -- sort of, kind of, not really at all.

Spring Fried Quinoa Rice
Serves 1

¼ cup (dry) quinoa, prepared with ½ cup of water
7 spears of asparagus, sliced diagonally into 1-inch pieces
2 shallots, finely chopped
2-4 cloves of garlic, minced (amount can vary depending on size and personal tolerance for garlic breath)
1/3 cup frozen peas
1 egg
2 teaspoons soy sauce
Juice from 1/4th a lemon
1 teaspoon honey
½ teaspoon sesame oil
Red pepper flakes, to taste
Salt, pepper
Olive oil

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

In a small bowl, whisk together soy sauce, lemon juice, honey, and sesame oil. Set aside.

Toss asparagus with salt and pepper and place in a glass baking dish. Roast until tender – approximately 15 minutes. .

While asparagus is roasting, heat a large, nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Add a splash of olive oil, swirling it to coat the base of the pan. Reduce heat to medium, then add the shallot and garlic. Sauté together until onion is translucent, then add a pinch of red pepper flakes. Reduce the heat to low, cook together for a minute, then add the quinoa. Let cook over low heat for 1-2 minutes so the quinoa can begin absorbing some of the flavor from the garlic/onions. Remove from pan and set aside.

Add a splash of olive oil to the pan and reheat over medium high heat. Crack the egg into the pan, and scramble until just barely set. Add the quinoa, shallots, garlic, asparagus, and frozen peas to the pan, and stir to combine. Toss the quinoa fried rice mixture with the soy-lemon sauce until well-integrated throughout. Serve immediately.

Winning-Hearts-and-Minds Chocolate Cake: The Ace of Cakes

2011-05-09T09:00:00.000-07:00

It was perfect.

Well, perfect, except for the alien baby head that was poking out of the top.

And the tiny, truly miniscule, sliver of egg shell that some how got lost in the deep chocolate batter when I wasn’t looking because I was too busy being… perfect.

But those were really inconsequential matters. The chocolate cake – Molly Wizenberg’s “Winning-Hearts-and-Minds Cake" that was, incidentally also her wedding cake – was a thing of gorgeous, alien-headed beauty. The edges were slightly crackly and soufflé-like, just like Molly had said they should be, and the center only displayed a whisper of jiggliness. I knew just by looking at it that it would set up… perfectly.

Because that’s how I do things. Perfectly.

I’d taken extra care with this cake – a mother’s day present for my mom whose affinity for chocolate is even greater than mine. I’d weighed my Ghiradelli 60% cacoa chips so they came out to exactly 7 ounces. I’d spent the extra effort to find European-style butter, which has a higher percentage of butterfat and creamier consistency than regular butter. And I’d vigilantly whisked in each of my five eggs, one at a time – just as Molly had instructed.

I’m an excellent whisker.

So, being that the cake was all perfect and what not, I was nervous about the process of extracting it from the 8-inch round pan. Molly had provided notes on how to do it – popping the delicate cake unto a flat, foil-lined plate before positioning the serving plate on the bottom so it could be flipped over, right-side up – but I was terrified of mutilating it in the process.

There were alien babies at stake here.

“You do it,” I’d told my mother who seemed nonplussed by the instructions.

“I know exactly what to do,” she’d said, taking charge with the plates and foil like a seasoned cake-flipping pro.

An “Ace of Cakes,” one might say.

I was so proud.

But then I saw it. The cake that she had flipped onto the foil-lined plate wasn’t lined up with the serving plate she was transferring it to. I started to yell, “Stop!” but by the time the word had formed in my mouth, quivering and anxious and ready to pounce on her with all the bravado and intensity of a dire warning, it was too late.

She’d already flipped it over.

And a huge chunk of the cake that was supposed to win hearts and minds was falling off the edge of the glass dish.

“You missed the plate!” I shrieked in horror, unable to contain my panic that my cake – my perfect egg-shell-containing, alien-head-baby cake – was about to be irrevocably ruined.

“Get me a giant spatula!” She commanded, thinking she could just shift the cake over into the center of the plate.

I shook my head in defiance.

I couldn’t stand idly by and watch the destruction.

Moving fast, I cut in, plopping the cake back onto the foil-lined plate, before transferring it back onto the serving platter.

It landed perfectly in the center.

Relief hit first, then anger. An acrid anger that rose up from stomach and into my chest as I stared at the dislodged portion of my perfect mother’s day present for my, clearly, not-so-perfect mother.

She was not the “Ace of Cakes.”

She was the “Disgrace of Cakes!”

I snatched up the dessert and stalked into the other room – terrified to leave it in the path of this woman who had missed the plate. She couldn’t be trusted.

My eyes began to narrow, assuming the position of my winning evil eye that makes hearts tremble and minds turn into wobbly bits of putty. Oh would she be sorry for missing that plate. The eye was going to get her.

My mother.

Yet, as I stood there, glaring at the cake and gearing up for a storm of adolescent-like rage the likes of which my parents' house hadn't seen since 1999, I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be angry at her – the woman who had given birth to me and has put up with my neuroses for the past 27 years. It was Mother’s Day.

I had to forgive her.

Just like she’d forgiven me when I’d broken her crystal Swarovski swan when I was running around the house as a child. Just like she’d forgiven me when I’d hit a pole approximately a month after getting my driver’s license. Just like she’d forgiven me when I’d eaten half of her precious box of special mint Abdallah’s that her mother had shipped to her from South Dakota.

I tucked the evil eye away and went back into the kitchen, willing myself to move on.

When I sliced up the cake later that night (careful to avoid the shattered, disgraced portion), I didn’t hesitate to top each sliver with a generous dollop of the whipped cream she’d made. The smooth peaks oozed down the sides of the glossy mousse-like cake, hiding all sins, eggshells and alien babies within.

It was perfect.

And all hearts and minds were won.

Gâteau au chocolat fondant de Nathalie, or, Kate's Winning-Hearts-and-Minds Cake
From Orangette, who adapted the recipe from Je veux du chocolat!, by Trish Deseine

7 ounces (200 grams) best-quality dark chocolate
7 ounces (200 grams) unsalted European-style butter (the high-butterfat kind, such as Lurpak or Beurre d’Isigny), cut into ½-inch cubes
1 1/3 cup (250 grams) granulated sugar
5 large eggs
1 Tbs unbleached all-purpose flour

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit, and butter an 8-inch round cake pan. Line the base of the pan with parchment, and butter the parchment too.

Finely chop the chocolate (a serrated bread knife does an outstanding job of this) and melt it gently with the butter in a double boiler or in the microwave, stirring regularly to combine. Add the sugar to the chocolate-butter mixture, stirring well, and set aside to cool for a few moments. Then add the eggs one by one, stirring well after each addition, and then add the flour. The batter should be smooth, dark, and utterly gorgeous.

Pour batter into the buttered cake pan and bake for approximately 25 minutes, or until the center of the cake looks set and the top is shiny and a bit crackly-looking. (I usually set the timer for 20 minutes initially, and then I check the cake every two minutes thereafter until it’s done. At 20 minutes, it’s usually quite jiggly in the center. You’ll know it’s done when it jiggles only slightly, if at all.) Let the cake cool in its pan on a rack for 10 minutes; then carefully turn the cake out of the pan and revert it, so that the crackly side is facing upward. Allow to cool completely. The cake will deflate slightly as it cools.

Serve in wedges at room temperature with a loose dollop of ever-so-slightly sweetened whipped cream.

Osteria Mozza: Celebrate good times

2011-05-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

Something new. And not at all blue.

Burricotta with radicchio, spiced walnuts, honey and fried rosemary ($16)

Bufala mozzarella with jumbo white asparagus, sieved egg, bottarga, and meyer lemon ($21)

Fava bean ravioli with English peas, spring lettuces and lemon ($21)

Linguine with clams, pancetta and spicy Fresno chiles ($21)

Chocolate and tangerine gelato

Osteria Mozza
6602 Melrose Avenue
Los Angeles, CA
(323) 297-0100

Din Tai Fung Dumpling House: Definitely, maybe, far better than fine

2011-05-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

She mentioned it on Friday.

That maybe we could stop in the San Gabriel Valley for soup dumplings on our way back from Camp Blogaway on Sunday.

“Din Tai Fung,” she said.

And in a second, I was sold – my hopes dangling on that “maybe” like it was referring to something far more important than merely satisfying the whims of my stomach.

My brother – who, incidentally, doesn’t even live in LA – had told me about Din Tai Fung last year. He’d fallen in love with the soup dumplings during business trips to China, where the original Din Tai Fung was established before the operation migrated across the globe to Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Korea, Indonesia, Malaysia, Australia, and in the United States, Bellevue, Washington, and Arcadia, California.

While more expensive and obviously more “corporate” than many of the mom and pop shops that sell dumplings in the San Gabriel Valley, Din Tai Fung is widely popular – patrons will wait well over an hour to score a table at the two locations that are adjacent from each other on South Baldwin Avenue.

I couldn’t wait to be one of them.

Even though I’d been thinking about the dumplings all weekend, I feigned indifference when I reminded Sarah about her suggestion on Sunday morning.

“Do you still want to stop at Din Tai Fung on the way back?” I asked, as though her answer didn’t have the power to either crush or uplift my spirit.

“Sure! If you want to…” She responded, her voice equally nonchalant.

The brief exchange was only the beginning of our coy verbal dance of, “I will if you will,” “I’ll go if you want to go,” and the worst offender of all, “I’m fine either way.”

Politeness can be excruciating.

Especially when you aren’t really fine either way, but want to pretend to be in case the other person isn’t fine either way either, but in the opposite way that you wouldn’t be…

Fine.

But as we reached the stretch of the 10 freeway that borders the Valley that is famous for housing the best Chinese food in Los Angeles – possibly in the country – we both finally, thankfully reached the same decision I’d been anticipating for two days.

We were stopping for dumplings.

We were assigned number 76 at the first Din Tai Fung location – the original, across the street from J.J. Bakery – and were dismayed to learn that they were currently on number 42. It would be a long wait, we thought, until the hostess suggested we check at the larger, more stylized location around the corner.

Within 15 minutes we were seated at a table for two upstairs – the small size of our party a boon on this particular afternoon, as many of the people in front of us were larger groups.

Sarah immediately took charge with the menu, checking off boxes with the dexterity and confidence of a seasoned Din Tai Fung diner. One order of the Juicy Pork ($7.25 for 10), one order of the Chicken Dumplings ($7.25 for 10), 1 order of the Pork Wontons with Spicy Sauce ($7.00).

“The best,” She said with a wink. “Do you want anything else?”

“I’m kind of curious about the Green Melon and Shrimp Xiao Long Bao ($8.00 for 10)…” I said.

“Get it!” She declared with finality. Then she promptly ex-nayed the sole vegetable that was to be included in our ambitious queue of requests – the sautéed bok choy ($7.50).

“We don’t need vegetables.” She explained.

I gulped, thinking to myself, “We don’t?”

But she was, as usual, right.

The dumplings came out in a steady stream mere moments after we’d ordered them. I was glad that I’d recently watched ABC 7’s “Eye on LA” special on ethnic cuisine, in which they’d described how to eat Din Tai Fung's dumplings – placing one in a soup spoon with a splash of vinegar and few strands of fresh ginger. On the show, the reporter had expressed girlish concern about putting the whole dumpling in her mouth at once.

I was not going to make the same rookie mistake

I plopped the entire ginger-topped, vinegar-spritzed juicy pork dumpling in my mouth as though I’d been eating them forever. It immediately burst open, a hot stream of porky broth oozing out of the delicate dumpling skin.

In a second, I was sold. I had no interest in consuming anything green.

The dumplings are impossibly light making it far too easy to go through 10, 15… 20 in a single sitting. We easily polished off all the juicy pork dumplings, as well as the pork wontons in spicy sauce – which, incidentally, were, as Sarah had promised, “the best.”

The chicken dumplings were a nice interlude to all the pork, and the subtle flavor of the shrimp and melon purses were also a pleasant addition to our order, but our soup spoons were most delighted with the pork-filled varieties. They are the ones that will linger in my mind, tempting and teasing me until I’m able to convince someone else that it is a brilliant idea to drive out to Arcadia to wait an hour for dumplings in the hot sun.

But only, you know, “If they want to.”

Because, “I’m really fine either way.”

“I’m completely ambivalent about the whole thing.”

Except, now that I’ve tasted the dumplings, I couldn’t possibly pretend to be ambivalent about going to Din Tai Fung ever again.

Din Tai Fung
1088 S Baldwin Ave
Arcadia, CA 91007
(626) 574-7068

Kale and Avocado Salad with Tofu: A little reminder

2011-05-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

It was cold.

I had to sleep on a bunk bed – in a cabin, in the woods, up in nature. The air was dry, my skin was cracked, and there was no quinoa or Wifi to be found. Instead, there were 90 other food bloggers, a dozen marketing representatives, and one fearless leader, Patti Londre, an experienced food marketer and PR maven who also writes the food blog, “Worth The Whisk.”

For the 24 hours that I spent up at Camp Blogaway with Sarah, the brains behind TasteSpotting and The Delicious Life (recently nominated as one of the best restaurant blogs in the country at Saveur), I was constantly surrounded by the friendly chatter of other people. We talked about blogging and food, of course, but also about where we were from, about how cute the representative from Wente Vineyards was (one of five males present), and how we wished fascinators had been required attire for all campers.

(The latter might have been just my personal fantasy.)

It was a fun, but draining weekend, and by the time I arrived back to Los Angeles yesterday afternoon, I was relieved to have a moment of silence.

And a hot shower.

After speeding around town to get my weekend errands done (ie. grocery shopping – always priority number one), I returned to my empty apartment with a bit of a hesitant step. As I looked around the space that was completely devoid of noise, fresh mountain air and the constant companionship I’d been treated to the entire weekend, I was met with a pang of loneliness.

Suddenly the silence I’d been craving didn’t seem all that golden any more.

Despite my reservations about dirt and bunk beds, I wanted to cling to the weekend that had already passed by in a 24-hour flash. I couldn’t help texting Sarah, who I’d just spent every waking second with, about finding the Fiji water we’d gulped down up at camp at Trader Joe’s for a relatively reasonable price. I felt compelled to check in to see what my new and old friends were up to on Twitter. And when I started thinking about dinner, I knew that it had to involve the avocado I’d taken back with me courtesy of the California Avocado Commission – one of the many parting gifts we received.

I’d been eying Elf’s Kale and Avocado Salad recipe ever since it was featured in Saveur last year, so decided it was the perfect time to make it to sort of commemorate the weekend. I made several adaptations to the original – lightly braising the kale with minced garlic and red onion rather than just steaming it, using sunflower seeds instead of the optional hemp seeds, and including extra-firm tofu cubes for more bulk and protein.

The final product was the perfect template for my perfectly ripe avocado. The creaminess of the avocado added just the right amount of decadence to the kale, and the citrus dressing chimed in with a subtle touch of sweetness.

When I finished my dinner, I felt a little less lonesome for the community I’d left behind up in Angelus Oaks.

The salad had been a pleasant reminder of my weekend getaway. And the red quinoa I served alongside it was a pleasant reminder that I was home – in an apartment, in LA, with a queen bed that I didn’t have to share with anyone.

Kale and Avocado Salad with Tofu
Adapted from Saveur
Serves 2

¼ cup fresh orange juice
1 ½ tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon honey
1 tablespoon olive oil, divided
2 tablespoons minced garlic (feel free to use less if it is your preference)
½ cup red onion, chopped
1 bunch kale, finely chopped
½ avocado, cubed
6 ounces extra-firm tofu, cubed
2 tablespoons sunflower seeds
Salt, pepper

Whisk together orange juice, lemon juice, honey, soy sauce, 1 teaspoon olive oil and pepper to taste. Set aside.

Heat large nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Once hot, add 1 teaspoon of olive oil to pan, swirling to coat the base. Add the tofu and sauté over medium heat until browned on all sides. Add 1 tablespoon of the dressing and cook with tofu until liquid has evaporated – approximately 1 minute. Remove tofu, set aside.

Clean out the pan. Reheat over medium-high heat. Add last teaspoon of olive oil, then toss in the garlic and onion, sautéing over medium heat until the onion is slightly translucent – approximately 4-6 minutes. Lower the heat, add the chopped kale to the pan, season with salt, and then cover the pan with a lid. Let kale lightly simmer with the garlic and onion for 5 minutes.

Remove lid, turn off heat, and stir in the dressing, tofu, sunflower seeds, and avocado. Serve immediately. Salad is best when it is at room temperature, so feel free to let it sit for a few minutes before digging in.

Roasted Red Pepper Goat Cheese Dip: Pita's new non-negotiable spread

2011-04-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

This past Tuesday, as I was tearing into a scoop of that crazy burger ice cream, my friend Matt and I somehow got into the subject of drinking wine at restaurants. (Burger ice cream is clearly an obvious inroad to pontifications on wine.)

I’d told him that the last guy I went on a date with didn’t drink – actually, a rather pleasant bloke despite his imbibing inhibitions – and Matt looked at me as though I’d just informed him my date had an arm coming out of his forehead.

Or had told me my voice sounded like Sarah Palin’s, had proclaimed he didn’t know what pupusas or gnocchi were, and then let me drive him home from the restaurant because he’d taken the bus there.

I giggled at Matt’s appalled reaction, but ultimately found myself agreeing with him. Neither of us could imagine dating someone who didn’t drink, and we certainly couldn’t fathom having a nice meal at a restaurant without wine.

Pasta without a spicy Italian red to go with it?

Oh the horror! The horror!

The horror.

Suddenly I wasn’t so heartbroken that the nice sober bloke didn’t text or Tweet or Facebook message me about going out on a second date.

Matt and my conversation got me thinking about other things that I’ve become particular about with regards to food and dining. I don’t consider a meal complete unless it contains a vegetable (garlic counts), I would almost prefer skipping breakfast completely than eating it without a big pot of green tea, and I absolutely cannot have a bowl of soup without a piece of bread to go with it.

It’s a mealtime deal breaker.

So when I made this curried lentil soup a few weekends ago (prior to the dry, heat wave that is currently massacring my desire for it to be summer), I spent a considerable amount of time thinking about what sort of doughy item I would pair with it.

Because the soup does contain a significant amount of curry, the obvious choice would of course be naan, but I ultimately settled on pita because it’s something I’d be more inclined to use up. Once I’d decided on pita, however, I realized that just like I can’t have soup without a bread-type item, I can’t have pita without something to spread on it.

And butter just wouldn’t do.

Instead, I whipped up a roasted red pepper goat cheese dip that I thought would not only pair well with the pita, but the soup that the pita was initially intended to partner with, as well. Unlike my pleasantly dry date and I, the combination really was a match made in heaven. The sweetness of the red peppers was the perfect companion for the tangy goat cheese, and the touch of lemon juice I added helped brighten up the flavors even further. It was glorious spread over the warm pieces of pita – so much so that I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat the rest of the package in my freezer without the dip to go with it.

And perhaps the requisite glass of wine I can’t fathom giving up when dining at a restaurant – sometimes even when that restaurant is my home.

Roasted Red Pepper Goat Cheese Dip
By Diana

4 ounces goat cheese
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 red pepper, sliced into one-third inch strips
4 cloves of garlic
Salt, pepper
Olive oil
Toasted pine nuts (optional)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Toss red pepper slices with a splash of olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Spread onto the bottom of a glass baking dish with unpeeled garlic cloves. Roast until garlic is tender, approximately, 15-20 minutes. Remove garlic from pan, crank the oven up to 400 degrees, and then return the red pepper to the oven to continue roasting for another 10-15 minutes or until the slices can easily be pierced with a fork.

Combine goat cheese, red pepper, garlic, lemon juice, and a pinch of salt and pepper using an immersion blender (or blender) until the ingredients form a smooth spread.

Once blended, the dip can be chilled and served cold, or can be used immediately in its slightly warm state, topped with the optional toasted pine nuts. Either way, it should be accompanied by warm slices of pita. And, if you are feeling so inclined, a glass of crisp white wine.

Scoops Westside's Burger Ice Cream: An experiment gone right

2011-04-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

My first reaction was horror.

“Scoops Westside isn’t really serving burger ice cream?” I thought, practically gagging when I read yesterday’s tweet that loudly declared they had a bacon, jalapeño and cheddar ice cream available that day.

I could see cheddar working by itself – possibly in an apple pie and cheddar flavor, and am well aware that bacon’s salty, smoky qualities can also be a positive addition to a dessert, but jalapeño?

Really?

In my head, I pictured a grossly orange yellow ice cream, topped with jumbo slices of jalapeño and bacon, as though it was a baked potato. I shivered at the thought of actually ingesting such a travesty to ice cream, but as the day wore on, I couldn’t help wondering what it would actually taste like.

In my mind, it seemed as though Scoops Westside owner Matthew Kang was triple dog daring me to try it. I know the Tweet wasn’t specifically directed at me – they have 1,655 other followers who wait with bated breath for each day’s flavor announcements – but in my morphed way of thinking, it was a challenge.

A challenge that I had to overcome with a mini plastic spoon.

So when I left the office last night, I scraped my original plan to hit up Nordstrom for the Clinique foundation I’m dangerously low on, and made a byline to Scoops to sample proprietor Tai Kim’s burger ice cream experiment.

“Ok, where is it?” I said to Matt as I strolled into the well-groomed shop that he is continually personalizing with art work, new furniture and magazines for his loyal customers who linger over Intelligentsia coffee and tea.

He laughed in response and immediately scooped up a sample of the bacon, jalapeño and cheddar ice cream, which will also be available this Thursday and Saturday.

It looked decidedly more normal than the image I’d been picturing all day – there were no discernable traces of cheddar nor that egregious-sounding jalapeño, and the crystallized red flecks of bacon looked almost like sprinkles. If someone hadn’t told me what I was about to eat, I would have assumed it was just a normal scoop of vanilla ice cream.

That is until I actually tasted it.

It’s a subtle ice cream – the cheddar only apparent through the lingering mouth feel of something more texturally apparent than just milk and cream. The jalapeño is applied with an equally delicate and precise hand – it doesn’t wrest itself onto the palate with an overpowering wallop of heat, it merely adds a touch of spice that almost comes across like cinnamon. The bacon is the most dominant of the three flavors. It’s well-rendered and chopped into fine cubes, then crystallized in sugar so that it doesn’t become soggy when generously strewn over the top of the ice cream.

It’s sweet, salty and divinely crunchy – basically the best ice cream topper imaginable. It would create a frenzy if Matt added it to his sprinkle bar at the end of the counter. People would use it on everything – would possibly even request just a cup of the bacon crystals – hold the ice cream.

But I think I like it best as it is in this conception – a crisp companion to Tai’s sublimely refined burger ice cream. Not disgusting, not superfluous, and not even a challenge to appreciate.

It’s just right. And I triple dog dare you to say otherwise.

Scoops Westside
3400 Overland Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90034
(323) 405-7055

True Food Kitchen: The true way to order

2011-04-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

We’ve figured it out.

After four visits to the Newport Beach location, and one to the original Phoenix location, my mom and I now know exactly how to order at True Food Kitchen, a Fox Restaurant Concept that specializes in healthy, globally inspired cuisine.

That’s not to say that we were ordering all that poorly before.

We quite enjoyed the chicken chopped salads and edamame dumplings we selected on prior visits – so much so that we chose to return specifically for those items. And we would have continued returning again and again for them had we not decided to switch it up when we dined in the sun-splattered space two Saturdays ago.

“Let’s do something different,” my mother said as our settled into our bright yellow booth on the patio, our sunglasses plastered to our faces in typical So Cal fashion.

I bristled at the word, “different” – both of us tend to get into ruts when we find dishes we love – but agreed to take part in her spontaneous eating plan. There was a quinoa salad on the menu, after all, and it seemed imperative that I give my signature seed a chance to romance my palate.

I do have a reputation to uphold.

So for our third visit to True Food Kitchen, which will be opening a fourth location at Santa Monica Place soon, we opted to split the Herb Hummus with whole wheat pita, tomato, red onion, cucumber, and feta ($10); the Tuscan Kale with lemon, parmesan and bread crumbs ($8); and two half orders of the Spring Chopped with snap peas, strawberries, walnuts, goat cheese, and balsamic dressing ($6); and the Quinoa Tabbouleh with watercress, beets, pomegranates, lemon and cold pressed olive oil ($6).

We were ecstatic with our choices – particularly the hummus, kale and quinoa. The kale salad is composed of dinosaur kale, which is slightly sweeter and more delicate than the traditional curly kale that is more readily available. The textured dark blue-green leaves are sliced raw and treated almost like a ceviche – the lemon and olive oil dressing “cook” the slivered slices so they lose some of the coarseness that is typical of the hearty green. It’s a simple dish, but the clean flavors and mangled textures of the kale and bread crumbs are addictive – particularly when paired with the quinoa tabbouleh.

The tabbouleh is made with red quinoa, a prescient choice since the red variety is more substantial than the more delicate white. It stands up to the large chunks of sweet beets and crunchy marcona almonds that add a touch of elegance to the also simple dish. But the simplicity is warranted – the restaurant concept relies on high quality, fresh ingredients to create flavor rather than overcomplicated sauces and dressings. It’s the type of food that people want to eat every day.

Which explains why my mother and I felt compelled to go back for a second dose the following Saturday – when we finally figured out exactly how to order from now until we fall in love with another dish on the menu.

The herb hummus is a must – a substantial plate to counter the lightness of the salads – and full orders of both the kale and quinoa tabbouleh are essential, as well. A half order of each just isn’t enough to split, and because the two dishes compliment each other so well, it’s only natural that they be ordered in tandem. Any additional items on the table only complicate matters – and create too much havoc on the individual plates.

Finally, the Red Moon “natural refreshment” with pink grapefruit juice, yuzu, agave, and soda water ($4) is imperative for the optimal True Food Kitchen “ladies who lunch” experience. It adds just the right amount of festivity to the occasion and only enhances the spa-like feel of the restaurant.

The only mystery yet to be solved is what to order for dessert. Rumor has it that the Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp with Dairy-Free Pistachio Ice Cream ($7) and the Flourless Chocolate Cake with Vanilla Ice Cream and Caramel ($7) are hot commodities. Especially if the pistachio ice cream is subbed in for the vanilla that comes with the chocolate cake.

My mom and I will gladly investigate these claims the next time we go.

Which, according to our very unspontaneous schedule of eating, could very will be this coming Saturday.

True Food Kitchen
Fashion Island
451 Newport Center Dr.
Newport Beach, CA 92660
(949) 644-2400

Sugared Vanilla Donut Muffins: The first dessert

2011-04-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

I could have chosen anything.

A thick slice of carrot cake, dripping with heady tufts of cream cheese frosting; a batch of Oreo-stuffed chocolate chip cookies, hot from the oven; or something truly over-the-top like a warm homemade brownie, clobbered with salted caramel ice cream, marshmallow fluff, and candied peanuts.

With bacon bits tossed over the top for a "garnish."

But when I woke up this morning -- the morning that marked the end of my second dessert-free Lent -- all I could think about was how excited I was to make and eat donut muffins.

I'd been waiting 46 days to make the sugar-coated bundles of hot dough that first captured my attention at the Village Bakery in Atwater Village this past January. Two of my fellow Eat My Blog committee members had whipped up homemade versions of the humble, yet addictive baked good with sublime results, so when I began thinking about what I wanted to break the streak with on the first day of Lent, the first sweet thought that popped into my head was that darn donut muffin.

And I couldn't shake the thought for the next 45 days.

The anticipation was tortuous. It seemed the donut muffin was popping up everywhere as I sipped on tea and hacked my way through six bags of Trader Joe's dried mango slices. I had dreams about the sweet, doughy pastry -- dreams that I couldn't take it any more and started inhaling them by the fistful, paying no attention to the sugar that was covering the bottom half of my face like a beard.

I'd wake up in a cold sweat, my tongue tingling for the donut muffin, but I'd be relieved that I hadn't actually broken my Lenten pledge. As the weeks went by, I held strong, confident that it would taste even better after an extended period of deprivation.

As it turns out, I was right.

When I sank my teeth through the crunchy blanket of cinnamon sugar that coated the tender muffin earlier today, I couldn't contain my delight. I ignored the glass of Rosé that was perched by my right hand. I couldn't be bothered with the heaping portion of my mom's "white trash" egg casserole that was quickly cooling on my plate.

All I could think about was how perfect that donut muffin tasted.

And how glad I was that I wasn't eating a thick slice of carrot cake, an Oreo-stuffed chocolate chip cookie, and a brownie sundae with bacon bits.

Sugared Vanilla Donut Muffins
Lightly adapted from G-ma's Bakery who adapted it from Grace Sweet Life
Makes 10

Adaptations: My only change to this near perfect recipe is the addition of cinnamon to the muffin's sugary coat for a little extra spice!

3/4 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cup whole milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, for brushing
1/2 cup sugar, for rolling
1 teaspoon cinnamon, for rolling

Preheat oven to 350° F. Lightly grease a standard muffin tin with cooking spray or using a pastry brush, coat muffin cups with vegetable oil.

In a large bowl, using an electric mixer, beat together sugar and egg on medium-high speed until light in color.

In a small bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, salt and nutmeg. Pour flour mixture into egg mixture and beat to combine. Results will be a bit clumpy. Pour in vegetable oil, milk and vanilla extract, and beat until smooth.

Divide batter evenly into 10 muffin cups, filling each about 3/4 full. Bake for 15-18 minutes, until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean.

While muffins are baking, melt butter over low heat in a small saucepan, and pour the 1/2 cup sugar and 1 teaspoon of cinnamon into a small bowl. Stir with a fork to combine.

Let muffins cool slightly in the pan for a minute, then carefully remove and place on wire rack. Lightly brush the top, sides and bottom of each muffin with melted butter and roll in sugar. Cool completely on a wire rack.

What to Eat at Scarpetta's New Sunday Brunch Buffet

2011-04-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Even though I was born and raised in Southern California, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for a locale at the complete opposite end of the cultural and geographic spectrum – Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Every summer my brothers and I would spend three weeks in the sleepy Midwest city where my mother grew up – making faces at the giant brown bear at the Zoo, playing tennis at the local college near my grandma’s house, and visiting nearly every park in the city.

My fondest memories of Sioux Falls, however, involved all the food we were allowed to eat while we were there on vacation. We’d gorge ourselves silly on my grandmother’s ginger cookies, lick hot grease off our fingers from the fried chicken at Bob’s Cafe, and one Sunday during our stay, we’d troop to the local country club for an epic brunch buffet.

Brunch at the Westward Ho (yes, that’s the actual name of the country club) was the highlight of every trip to Sioux Falls. There was an endless array of pastries, pancakes and thick Belgium waffles with real maple syrup. There was an omelet bar, a salad bar, a carving station with roast beef and turkey, a hot bar with mashed potatoes and other savories, and an entire table devoted to dessert, including an ice cream sundae station.

It was a food paradise, but nearly impossible to eat everything available to us. After years of going to the brunch, however, my brothers and I learned to focus on our favorite items instead – for me this meant the waffles, country-style potatoes, turkey, fruit, and, of course, the desserts. I delighted in every bite, and still consider the brunch one of my favorite food memories from my childhood.

Even though I delight in taking many bites these days, I haven’t been to a brunch buffet since moving to Los Angeles nearly six years ago. I didn’t think anything like the Westward Ho’s spread existed here, so was positively ecstatic when Cathy from Gastronomy Blog invited me to accompany her to a media event at Scott Conant’s Scarpetta at the Montage this past Sunday for the debut of their new brunch buffet.

I was even more excited upon reading the laundry list of offerings the culinary teams at Scarpetta and Montage would be whipping up for the decidedly decadent affair. They promised (and subsequently delivered) a sushi and raw bar, a pasta station – with Scarpetta’s famed $24 spaghetti, an egg station for customizable omelets and frittatas, waffles and pancakes, a carving station, fruit, pastries, bacon, sliders and crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for younger diners, and an artful cheese display by the Cheese Store of Beverly Hills. And to finish? “An extraordinary dessert presentation by award-winning executive pastry chef and Food Network’s most-winning champion, Richard Ruskell, who is currently competing on Last Cake Standing.”

I was full just reading the description of everything that’s included in the $68/person mid-day masterpiece of a meal.

Of course, as a seasoned brunch buffet diner, I knew I’d be able to handle it. After all, I’d been perfecting my buffet strategy since I was three feet tall (nearly half the height I am today). The name of the eating game is selectivity, and after taking careful surveillance of the offerings on Sunday, and sampling only small portions of each before going back for more of my favorites, I was able to focus my energies on the best of the brunch.

To start, I went straight for the daintier offerings – the salads, raw bar and the grilled branzino with spring garlic vinaigrette. The grilled asparagus paired with a tangy tomato dressing was a perfectly pleasant way to begin the meal and was my favorite item from the salad bar that also included mixed greens, Caesar salad, roasted beets, and roasted cauliflower with minted bread crumbs. While vegetables are usually a hot commodity for me, I didn’t dabble too heavily in the greens – especially after tasting the grilled branzino, a dish that is also offered on the regular Scarpetta dinner menu.

Grilled whole with the skin on, the flaky white fish retained much of its moisture and tasted incredibly fresh – particularly when paired with the spritely, well-balanced spring garlic vinaigrette. I went back for seconds of this dish toward the end of the meal.

As a rule, I’m not particularly partial to raw bar offerings, but I spared a bite for the yellowtail with olio de zenzero and pickled red onion, also an item from the regular Scarpetta menu, before heading on to heartier pastures.

While Scarpetta offers a host of traditional breakfast and brunch dishes like pancakes, waffles, French toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, oven-fried potato wedges, omelets, and frittatas, I elected to select the more unique items available. The small bites I took of the bacon, artichoke frittata and potato wedges didn’t dazzle me enough to tempt me away from the more dinneresque offerings.

The roasted lamb with mint salsa verde was an immediate victor, as was that darn $24 spaghetti, which I couldn’t seem to stop eating. This second time around, I realized that the secret to the dish’s popularity isn’t in the sauce, it’s in the noodles. Texturally, the egg yolk-heavy thick ropes almost remind me of lo mein. Despite my previous claim that the spaghetti isn’t my favorite item on Scarpetta’s menu, I found it absurdly addicting on Sunday – even when faced with a buffet of other foods competing for my attention. With its mushier texture, the other pasta on tap – ricotta raviolini with baby stewed tomatoes – was quickly lost in the shuffle.

Since I couldn’t enjoy Chef Ruskell’s desserts because of Lent, I let the Cheese Store representative put together a plate of their cheeses for my brunch finale . He loaded my plate with a smorgasbord of their offerings, including epoisses, but the highlight for me was the Buffalo Pecorino with truffle honey. While I was disappointed I didn’t get to partake in the vanilla-cream filled donuts, the yuzu meringue tarts and the rice pudding trifles, it more than satisfied my need for one last decadent bite.

While I still miss those Sunday brunches at the Westward Ho in Sioux Falls, Scarpetta’s feast brought back all those fond memories of being a kid in a food paradise. And with the charming patio and adjacent European-style courtyard, in this case, it actually felt like paradise.

Scarpetta
225 North Canon Drive
Beverly Hills, CA 90210

(310) 860-7970

The Oaks Gourmet Market: My grilled cheese pinch-hitter

2011-04-19T23:27:00.000-07:00

I am terrible at making grilled cheese.

The worst ever.

Complete rubbish, as someone with a British accent might say.

It's not that I don't know how to make grilled cheese. I know how to make a grilled cheese. The cheese should be grated -- not sliced -- so it achieves the proper, uniform melt. The bread, preferably a white, spongy entity, should be buttered prior to grilling -- one should never butter the pan instead. And once the sandwich does reach that hot, ungreased frying surface, it should be fried at a low temperature so the bread doesn't burn before the cheese inside has time to melt.

Nobody likes biting into an under-melted sandwich. It's almost as tragic as biting into a mushy apple, a cold slice of blueberry pie or a salad that doesn't contain quinoa.

Given my vast-ish knowledge of how to properly compose and sear a grilled cheese, I should be stunningly successful at the rather humble kitchen feat. I should be the opposite of rubbish at it -- I should be a treasure trove of skill with a spatula.

But, I'm not.

And never will be.

Because I don't use enough cheese or butter.

It's impossible to achieve grilled cheese perfection without using enough butter to coat the entire surface of the exposed bread slices and enough cheese to create the signature strings that ooze forth when the sandwich is sliced in half and pulled a part. Without an indecent amount of butter, the bread won't get crispy -- and without at least two-three ounces of cheese, it won't do much stringy action at all.

Even though I know all this, I have no intention of overcoming my inability to slather with abandon. While it's fiscally irresponsible of me, I'd much prefer leaving all that nonsense to "the experts" -- the ones who grease, smear and overload that malnourished bread in a kitchen (or truck) far far away from my eyes.

What I don't see won't hurt me, I tell myself.

Or at least it won't until I stop going to Bar Method -- or stop putting quinoa in my salads.

So tonight, to cure my craving for that slick sandwich that is, incidentally, taking center stage this Saturday, April 23rd, at the Grilled Cheese Invitationa l in Los Angeles, I turned my blind eyes to the Oaks Gourmet Market in Los Feliz. To gear up for the epic grilling battle, the stop-and-go neighborhood market's Chef Luke Reyes created a special sandwich featuring Tillamook Sharp Cheddar, Black Forest Bacon, Homemade Tomato Jam, and Sourdough Bread ($9.95). While the Oaks usually reserves such specialties for their Wednesday grilled cheese night, this sandwich is available every day this week.

For, you know, all of those freaks who desire to get their Tillamook Loaf Love on without having to actually see just how much love goes into it.

Though the grilled cheese arrived with tomato slices instead of the aforementioned tomato jam tonight, Reyes' creation is undoubtedly a fine representation of the sandwich I'm too wussy to make for myself. The entire surface of the sourdough bread is crisp -- not just the outer edges around the crust. The golden cheddar cheese is luxuriously applied, but not overbearing. The accompaniments -- the fresh tomato slices and sweet slabs of well-rendered Black Forest bacon -- are not lost within it.

It's a simple offering, but wholly satisfying courtesy of the exact execution that I will never ever be able to replicate at home.

I'm complete rubbish, I tell you.

Or at least I am until someone else lovingly prepares and gives me a blissfully buttery, ooey gooey grilled cheese sandwich to eat.

The Oaks Gourmet Market
1915 North Bronson Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90068
(323) 871-8894