The Curry Cure

I like curry. Really like it.

But, I have to be honest right away and tell you that I did not make this recipe. Not even a little.

As tempted as I am, my husband doesn't eat it. I know, right?? Crazy talk.




That fact, combined with a pot of amazing curry and my tendency to not. stop. eating. it....is a recipe for a New Delhi Belly.

However, when a PC-reader let me know that she is on strict orders to completely omit wheat, dairy, yeast, nuts and sugar from her diet, I had to get a decent meal to her before she died of boredom over her plate of steamed vegetables. No one wants that.

Enter the mighty curry. Flavorful, rich, silky and spicy--a sumptuous curry dinner is exactly what said reader needs to perk up her plate. Plus it kind of goes with almost everything: Vegetables, Fish, Chicken, Tofu.

Even chocolate and cookies are invited to the party. It's the little black dress in your recipe repertoire. Peanut butter just lost that title.

So let's get down to business. Here's a delightful (and easy!) sauce that pairs well with whatever you choose to curry...

Coconut Curry Tomato Sauce
Adapted from Food & Wine


Ingredients

1. 2 tablespoons peanut or canola oil

1. 1 medium onion, thinly sliced

1. 1 garlic clove, minced

1. 1 jalapeño, seeded and minced

1. 1/2 tablespoon minced fresh ginger

1. 1 1/2 tablespoons mild curry powder

1. One 28-ounce can peeled tomatoes, chopped and juices reserved

1. One 14-ounce can unsweetened coconut milk

1. Salt and freshly ground pepper

1. 2 tablespoons chopped cilantro

Procedure


In a large saucepan, heat the oil until shimmering. Add the onion, garlic, jalapeño and ginger; cook over moderately high heat, stirring, until softened, 5 minutes. Add the curry powder and cook until fragrant, 1 minute. Add the tomatoes and their juices, the coconut milk and sugar; bring to a boil. Season with salt and pepper and simmer over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until slightly thickened, 20 minutes. Stir in the cilantro and transfer to a bowl.

The sauce can be refrigerated for up to 5 days. 

NOTES 

Use as a poaching liquid for chicken, shrimp, lamb, pork and vegetables. Add to a sautéat the last minute. Toss with boiled potatoes or serve over rice. Mix with chicken stock and vegetables or seafood for a quick soup.

Soup's On.

I've made it my mission to cook more this year. Yes, I blog about cooking, but over the past few months there have been too many meals out. Although they were delicious, there's something even more gratifying about making your own feast and sharing it with family/friends/spouses at home.

Oh, and it's healthier. And cheaper. Do you know what's not gratifying? Having an amazing meal at home and then facing a kitchen filled with dishes, pots and pans to wash. Suddenly, the euphoric food coma evaporates and you're breaking a sweat trying to scrub every last corner of the stove.

Enter my reignited love for one-pot dishes--soups and stews, specifically. Throw everything together, season well, decide if you want to blend or not and start chowing down. Love it.

This recipe is definitely hitting our table this weekend. Comforting, protein-filled and fiber-rich, this lentil soup is all kinds of delicious.

And since there will only be one lonely pot waiting for me, I'll have extra time for dessert. Naturally.

Vegan French Lentil Soup
(Courtesy of Robin Robertson)
Serves 4
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
1 celery stalk, chopped
3 garlic cloves
2 tablespoons dry sherry or white wine
1 cup French lentils
1 14.5-ounce can petite diced tomatoes, undrained
2 teaspoons herbes de Provence
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
5 cups vegetable broth
4 cups baby spinach

What You Do:

1. In a large pot over medium heat, heat olive oil. Add onion, carrot, celery, and garlic. Cover and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in sherry, then add lentils, tomatoes, herbes de Provence, salt, pepper, and broth.
2. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer. Cover and cook until the lentils are tender, about 45 minutes, adding more broth if needed. Taste and adjust seasonings. About 5 minutes before serving, stir in the spinach. Serve hot.

How to dine out with the boss.

There are small number of people in my life that pop up, every month or so, like clockwork, with the same question:

"My boss wants restaurant recommendations/I'm going to lunch with my boss/My company is taking out clients. Where should we go?"

The whole dining-out-with-superiors situation can be an intimidating one, especially if you're the one suggesting the location. I've answered this question enough to have formed a definitive an opinion on what is and what is certainly NOT okay when it comes to choosing a restaurant.

My DON'T list will hopefully come in handy. Or at least it will alleviate one layer of awkwardness the next time you and the Big Cheese break bread.

DON'T choose a restaurant....

-That offers a too-trendy menu. Assuming that your boss will be into fried, bacon-wrapped hot dogs topped with kimchi is a mistake.

-That does tapas. Sharing may be awkward and ordering one small plate to avoid sharing will leave you both starved and grouchy.

-Whose entire staff either wears skin-tight denim, rocks the bed head, looks too cool to wait tables, or sports disturbing, nature-defying facial hair.

-That's brand new. There are kinks to be worked out, lines to wait in, and music that will have your boss feeling older that he/she is when said boss realizes they can't hear a thing.

-That's too old. If your boss is successful, it's for a reason. They think ahead of the curve, are smart and on their toes. Being surrounded by retired geriatrics at a sleepy, Upper East Side piano bar insults their relevance and hip-to-the-jive sensibility.

-That's too expensive. Unless they say, "I'm looking for a three Michelin star experience," the main course shouldn't cost more than $35. Tops. If it does, it's probably coming out of your bonus, you ingrate.

-Known for it's avant-garde menu. A riff on my first point, your boss may not appreciate being unfamiliar with everything on the menu. Creativity is fine, but sous vide sweetbreads served en croute with confit byaldi and Parmesan foam? I think not.

That said, stick to the classics, take note of the type of food they usually eat, play it safe and throw in a curve ball once in a while. It's just a meal, after all.

Bon Reservation-Making!

Night of the Living Mushroom

For years, I was terrified by mushrooms. Yes, mushrooms.

Brian likes to tease me because I equate every uneasy, unpalatable situation as "my worst nightmare." Some of which include awkward conversations, tsunamis, mosquitoes, getting kidnapped (adult napped?)...you get the point.

But as a child, smelling any mushroom being cooked in any way was my worst nightmare. Forget eating them. The putrid, earthy, weird odor was enough to relegate myself to my room, door closed, until the fog cleared.

I've always kind of been open minded about trying new things. As kids, we all had pretty hearty appetites; we didn't couldn't fuss over what we wanted or didn't want to taste. But those shrooms. The  smell alone caused a gag reflex--a hideous, socially unappealing reflex--that made me a very unpleasant dinner mate when those ugly brown vegetables were on the table.

Do they even classify as vegetables? I used to think that if they smell that badly, have no sign of vibrancy, and can kill you if you choose the wrong one, they were probably mislabeled somewhere along the line by someone important that nobody questioned...like George Washington Carver. That definitely happened.

Still, after a certain point--I'm going to go with 14 years old, when you're taste buds apparently take a turn for the more mature--I stopped dry heaving in the presence of portobellos.

Then I ate a few.
Then I tasted truffles.
Then I became a shroom addict.
Then I had to eat less because no one should have that much fungus coursing through their body.

No, the moral of the story is not to form a mushroom addiction via truffles. But maybe once in a while we should all remember to do something outside of our comfort zone or "worst nightmare." Imagine if each of us tried something everyday that we deemed unlikely or even impossible?

We might be deliciously surprised with the results.

Creamy Polenta with Wild Mushroom Ragout
Serves 6, Courtesy of Food & Wine

For the Ragout:

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
4 shallots, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 pound chanterelle mushrooms, cleaned and halved
1/2 pound oyster mushrooms, trimmed and halved
1/4 pound shiitake mushrooms, stems discarded, caps thickly sliced
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1 cup rich chicken stock (see Note)
2 large thyme sprigs

1.  In a large, deep skillet, melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Add half of the shallots and garlic and all of the chanterelles and oyster mushrooms and cook over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally, until softened and golden, about 6 minutes. Scrape the mushrooms onto a plate.
2. In the same skillet, melt the remaining 1 tablespoon of butter in the remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Add the remaining shallots and garlic along with the shiitake mushrooms and cook over moderately high heat, stirring occasionally until softened and golden, about 6 minutes. Return all of the mushrooms to the skillet, season with salt and pepper and cook for 1 minute. Add the rich chicken stock and thyme sprigs to the skillet and simmer for 5 minutes. Discard the thyme sprigs.

For the Polenta:

2 cups whole milk
2 cups chicken stock or low-sodium broth
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 cup instant polenta (about 7 ounces)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon mascarpone cheese
1/2 teaspoon finely chopped rosemary
1/2 teaspoon finely chopped thyme
1/2 teaspoon finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
1/2 teaspoon finely chopped marjoram
1 tablespoon freshly grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
Salt and freshly ground pepper

1. In a large saucepan, combine the milk, stock and butter and bring to a boil. Whisk in the polenta and cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon until thick, about 8 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in the heavy cream, mascarpone, herbs and Parmesan. Season with salt and pepper.
2. Spoon the polenta onto plates, top with the mushroom ragout and serve right away, passing more grated Parmesan at the table.

The Easy "A"

I've been getting a few requests for the 'special meal'. The meal that can impress a boss, best friend or boy. This is an important one.

Sure, anyone can prepare an impressive meal when you have expensive ingredients, tons of time and endless energy to spare. But what if you're a kitchen newbie or trying to get dinner together with no time to waste? This is the meal for you and whomever you're aiming to win over.

Mustard-Crusted Salmon with Dill Rice and Tomatoes. Now we're cookin'.

It starts with a big 'ol slab of fresh, pretty salmon.

Women like salmon. Men like salmon. Fancy types like salmon.

It's the elegant and approachable fish of the sea. And it's pink.

Then we make what just might be the easiest sauce/marinade/crust ever.

Two mustards meet olive oil, herbs and lemon zest. The flavor is mind-blowingingly good.

Followed by some easy prep for the dill rice and tomato garnish.

Note the candle, flowers and probiotic drink. Kitchen-turned-zen haven.

Gawwwgeous, dahling. Let them think you slaved for hours.

Mustard-Crusted Salmon with Dill Rice and Tomatoes

Serves 4-6

4-6 portions of salmon filet (about 1.5 pounds)

2 cloves garlic, minced
2 Tbs dijon mustard
2 Tbs whole grain mustard
1 tsp. Herbes du Provence
1 Tbs white wine
1 Tbs olive oil

1 lemon, zested

salt and pepper to taste

1 1/2 cups white jasmine rice
1/4 cup chopped dill
1/2 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
Olive oil, salt and pepper

1. Preheat the broiler. Combine the garlic, mustards, herbs, wine, zest and oil in a bowl and mix until well combined. Set aside.

2. Arrange salmon fillets on the baking sheet and sprinkle them with salt and pepper. Broil for two minutes and then spoon the mustard sauce over the salmon. Continue cooking until the fish is done and the mustard sauce begins to brown, about 5 minutes longer.

3. Meanwhile, cook the rice according to the package instructions (one part rice to two parts water) and season well. Once the rice is tender, remove from the heat and stir in the chopped dill. Lightly dress the tomato halves with olive oil, salt and pepper. Everything on the plate should be tasty!

4. Serve salmon over the rice and garnish with tomatoes and extra dill.

Chili days, spicy nights.

Many of you know me as a vegan. Most of the time. For a couple of years now, I've been convinced that a plant-based diet is the healthiest way to go. Cut me open and you'll find kale bits coursing through my healthy little veins.

However. The other day I found myself out to dinner with a friend just dying, dying, for a morsel of pecorino off her cheese plate. And then I stopped being desperate and started getting bitter about it. Not fair! She's eating cheese. Why can't I eat cheese?

Yes. These are the lame, childhood logic-laced dialogues I have with myself. But then another, more exciting, kind of logic occurred to me...

I imagined God meeting me at the pearly gates after I die, and after cluing me in on the behind-the-scenes of my life's performance hearing him say, "By the way, you could've had the pecorino. Really. No big deal."

That silly moment of clarity brought me here: If I'm living this life to its fullest, I'm not leaving the occasional slice of Prosciutto behind.

As I'm learning more and more how to balance things--priorities, emotions, relationships--I'm learning that I could use a little more edge on my good-girl dinner plate. Which is why I took a flying leap off the bandwagon and made...CHILI. Spicy, flavorful, welcome-back-to-the-club chili.

Game day, plus a cool night in NYC, plus a husband who's a meat-lover--I had all of the excuses I needed to take the plunge. And I went back for seconds.

Chili is just not photogentic. This pretty pot is courtesy of Frog and Princess.

Spicy Beef and Bean Chili
Serves 6-8

2 lbs. quality ground beef (Yes, it exists.)
2 yellow onions, diced
5 garlic cloves, sliced
2 jalapenos, sliced (including seeds)
1 red bell pepper, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped
2 Tbsp. ground cumin
2 Tbsp. chili powder
1 1/2 tsp. paprika
2 cups vegetable stock
1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
1 15 oz. can pinto beans

*Sharp cheddar, sour cream, chives and avocado to garnish

1. In a large pot or Dutch oven, brown the meat until cooked and set aside to drain on paper towels.
In the same pot (with the beef drippings), heat one tablespoon of olive oil and add the onion, garlic and peppers. Saute until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes.

2. Add the dry spices to the pot and mix until the vegetables are coated. Continue to cook almost until the point of burning the spices. You want to toast them throroughly to bring out a depth of flavor. When you're at the point, add the stock to the pot and vigorously scrape the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon to release the brown bits of meat and veggies.

3. Add the tomatoes and beans to the pot and return the meat to the pot. Stir together and add two teaspoons of salt. Bring to boil and then lower to a simmer. Cook for at least 45 minutes--it can continute to cook for up to two hours, but keep in mind that the longer it simmers, the spicier it will be. Taste again and season as necessary.

4. Serve hot and garnish as desired. It's fun to set up a little chili bar with tons of toppings to choose from!

Poof, (blues) be gone.

I had a dream. A dream about soup and sandwiches.

More specifically: Creamy Tomato Soup + Grilled Cheese -- comfort food, defined.

I'm not sure if it's the gloomy weather, or the end-of-summer doldrums, but something about a simple soup and cheesy sandwich seems so right.

If I'm eating this, the corners of my mouth are slightly, almost undetectably turned up.
If I'm eating this on a rainy day, watching a movie and refusing to change out of my sweatpants, things just got magical.

I'm doing something right.

When you're making a meal as simple as this, the only thing you need to worry about is using the best ingredients you can get your little, comfort food-lovin' paws on. A proper grilled cheese shouldn't have any orange cheese in the middle. Last I checked, milk only comes in one color...white.

Get crazy with it. Be creative with a mash up of cheeses and condiments. Maybe even do a little dance while the sandwich fries. Just ideas, folks:

Fontina + Pickled Figs.
Brie + Green Apple.
Gruyere + Caramelized Onions.
Chevre + Olive Tapenade.

YES.

As for the soup, this recipe is pretty perfect. San Marzano tomatoes and fresh herbs are the stars here. Plus, sandwich bread replaces the need for cream, which makes my stomach all kinds of happy.

Do yourself a favor: Make a big pot, don your favorite lazy outfit and bask in the sweet simplicity of a rainy day dinner. Post-summer blues don't stand a chance.
 

Look Ma' No Cream! Creamy Tomato Soup

Serves 6-8

2 Tbs. olive oil

3 shallots, sliced

1 garlic clove, sliced

1 medium carrot, sliced

2 tsp. fresh thyme, chopped

3 (14-ounce) cans whole San Marzano tomatoes

1 Tbs. brown sugar

3 pieces fresh white sandwich bread, crusts removed, torn into pieces

2 cups low-sodium vegetable stock

1/2 cup fresh basil, finely sliced (to garnish)

salt and pepper to taste

 

 

Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat and add shallots, garlic and carrot and saute until the shallots and garlic are translucent and carrots are softened, about 4 minutes.

 

 

Add the tomatoes, thyme, sugar, and bread, and stir together, gently breaking down the tomatoes as you go. Bring to a boil and then lower the heat so the soup simmers and continue to cook until the bread is saturated and begins to break down into the soup.

 

 

Using an immersion blender (or transfer to a traditional blender in batches), puree the soup until smooth. Add the stock, return to a boil and season to taste.

 

 

Serve immediately and top each bowl with a drizzle of olive oil and fresh basil.

She needed a plan.

Brian (read: husband) and I dated for nine years before tying the knot. Yes, that's a long time. But when you only see each other once or, if you're lucky, twice a week during that almost-decade, there still remains a lot to learn about the other person. That was the case with us.

During the last three years before getting married, he worked an overnight shift while I kept more traditional office hours. So almost every day during this period, we would talk from 7:45PM-8PM, during his drive to work. Those 15 minutes were fast and efficient. We updated each other on our day at work, quizzed each other on availability for social outings, talked logistics and/or wedding plans, and said our 'I love yous'.

What didn't get talked about was a lot. We would make up for it when we finally saw each other in person at the end of the week, but there was one question that never got asked until recently, when Brian finally transfered to Manhattan full-time, meaning that we now see each other every night:

"What's for dinner?"

Oh, yeah. Meal planning. Something I rarely, if ever, did. I'm Italian-American, which means I definitely think about my meals. The we-just-finished-breakfast-what-do-we-want-for-dinner syndrome is alive and well in my bloodline. The only thing was that seeing my boyfriend/fiance during the weekends only meant that weeknight dinners were catered to me and only me.

Fruit and Granola. Salad with Sauteed Tofu. Hummus and Crackers. Blissfully simple for me; utterly boring for him.

I needed to get on my A-game. This recipe for a summertime quinoa salad helped me get there. In fact, we scarfed this down in such a fast and furious manner that taking photos didn't even occur to me until I was doing the dishes. Oops.

I riffed a bit on Kalyn's recipe by adding crispy shallots and garlic and toasted sunflower seeds. I also omitted the cumin. Just a personal preference.

Did you know that quinoa is also a complete protein source, which means it contains all essential amino acids? Definitely extra credit points for me with my protein-loving hubs.

Easy recipes like this remind me how fun sharing meals can be. Cheers to one of many dinners we are finally eating and enjoying together. Let me know how you like it!

My taco, my way.

I love Mexican food. And by Mexican, I mean anything with an avocado, lime, cilantro and heat. That pretty much sums up my expertise on the topic. I have several friends who are los aficionados; they know their mole ingredients and how to make a proper tomatillo salsa. I surrender to them.

I'm perfectly fine with being a novice in this area. Sometimes food tastes better when you don't know what you're missing out on. Ignorance at the table can be bliss, and here's my point:

This was my dinner last night when I was craving "Mexican". Make a note that this is about as far removed as Mexican gets, but the flavors were there and I'm not gonna lie...I ate two.

So, what are you looking at? Whatever I had in the fridge that seemed like it would get along in the pan:

1. Shallots + Garlic + Mushrooms = sauteed together with a squeeze of lime juice to brighten it up.

2. Firm tofu 'steak' rubbed with some hot pepper and a smidge of tomato paste, also sauteed until golden with a nice crust.

3. Sliced avocado, fresh arugula, cilantro and cherry tomatoes, all dressed with a lime vinaigrette on a corn tortilla.

A total culinary mashup. Simple farmstand vegetables disguised as something south of the border.
Sometimes a little creativity and naiveté go a long way. It is your dinner after all.

Write your own recipe!

Give the girl a chill pill.

Wednesday night dinners are fun for me. That, along with Saturday, constitutes my and Brian's date nights for the week and I generally try to make it special. Last night I made dinner.

It was a fail. Big-time fail.

Don't get me wrong. On the table, everything looked delicious. But when you know how something should taste, and you realize you missed the opportunity to nail it, you're just not going to enjoy dinner the way one should. This was my plight.

Romesco Cauliflower with Dijon Sauce? Undercooked.
Brown Basmati Rice? Undercooked.
Spanish Tempranillo wine? Needed to air more. The first sip tasted like lighter fluid with notes of burning nasal passages.

The underlying theme of the menu was impatience. Patience isn't a virtue I was given. The people on the sidewalk should be walking faster, the waiter should have greeted us sooner, the cake should have risen three minutes ago (as I open and reopen the oven door to check on it). I'm annoying myself as I write this.

More often than not, my impatience is more a relflection of ME than anything else. At least now, in my late 20s, I've learned this. The cake isn't bothering me, no. What's bothering me is that I don't trust myself to have followed the recipe closely enough to successfully bake the cake. I'm not (that) unhappy at my current job; I'm impatient that I haven't landed my dream job yet. I'm not upset that I can't find the right word; I'm doubtful that I have anything to say at all. Please tell me I'm not the only one suffering from this over-texted, over-Facebooked, great expectations era? My mind can be everywhere at once, concentrating on nothing.

My impatience with my day yesterday spilled over at the stove and even if the rice wasn't cooked, it was finished. Oh yes, to the table you go. And after a truly unsatisfying dinner (sorry, Bri!), I'm reminded to stay in the moment more, to worry less and to stay patient even in the most doubtful of circumstances.

Let's make risotto--a delicious dish that requires diligence and full attention. The reward is spectacular.



Photo courtesy of Gourmet, September 2009

 This recipe for risotto with radishes mixes bright flavors of springtime produce with warming comfort food. And again, the constant stirring and tending to the rice makes for a therapeutic cooking session.
Gourmet takes top prize once again!

Romano Risotto with Radishes
Serves 6 (main course)

For risotto:

6 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth (48 fl ounces)

2 cups hot water

3/4 stick unsalted butter, divided

1 medium onion, finely chopped (1 cup)

3 garlic cloves, finely chopped

1 pound Arborio rice (2 1/2 cups)

2/3 cup dry white wine

1/2 cup grated Pecorino Romano

For radishes:

1 tablespoon white-wine vinegar

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 pound trimmed radishes, julienned

1 tablespoon finely chopped chives

Make risotto:
Bring broth and water to a simmer in a 3-to 4-quart saucepan. Meanwhile, heat 3 tablespoons butter in a 4-to 5-quart heavy pot over medium heat until foam subsides, then cook onion, stirring occasionally, until just softened, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, 6 to 8 minutes. Stir in rice and cook, stirring, 1 minute. Add wine and cook, stirring, until absorbed, about 1 minute.

Stir 1 cup simmering broth into rice and cook, stirring constantly and keeping at a strong simmer, until absorbed. Continue cooking and adding broth, about 1 cup at a time, stirring frequently and letting each addition be absorbed before adding next, until rice is just tender and creamy-looking but still al dente, 18 to 22 minutes. Thin with some of remaining broth if necessary (you will have some left over). Remove from heat. Stir in cheese, 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon pepper, and remaining 3 tablespoon butter.

Prepare radishes:
Whisk together vinegar, oil, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/8 teaspoon pepper. Toss radishes with dressing and chives. Serve risotto topped with radishes.

(acorn) squashing writer's block.

I was an English major. For me, this meant learning to navigate murky post-modern novels, while dissecting Shakespeare and writing decent papers. In my first semester, I heard two contradicting sentences uttered by my professors that altered my relationship with my pen.

Statement A: Philosophy Class. “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.” –Socrates

Statement B: Journalism Class. “Write what you know.”

Statement A rang very true for me. Usually, when you think you’ve figured it out, whatever it is, you find yourself back at square one, admitting that you, in fact, still need to figure it out and learn a little more. 

Statement B was downright scary. Write what I know, I thought. What do I want to devote myself to learning enough about, to know that I can write about it? I didn't know.

If I write what I know, and I know nothing, then I write nothing.

And that’s what happened, dear friends. For the next ten years, I put writing aside. Well, let me clarify. I wrote professionally about weddings and beauty products and other people. When it came to me, there was radio silence. The expansive white computer screen was intimidating beyond imagination. With every blink of the cursor, I was reminded that I was speechless.

But everyone has stories to tell.

Thankfully, I've learned that jumping head first into something is the best way to learn/cope/get out of your comfort zone. Dipping my toes in the water allows too much time to think about whether I'll sink or swim. So now, whether or not I feel inspired or chatty or creative, I write. It has to be total submersion or bust.

When a lack of inspiration strikes in the kitchen, this little all-in-one dish saves the day. 
The stalls at the farmer's market were looking a little sad this week, still offering the sloppy seconds of winter's produce: squash, root vegetables, onions. The stuffed acorn squash that ensued turned a bitterly cold day into a brighter one. The best part is that they can be assembled in advance with whatever vegetables you have on hand and baked off when you're ready to eat--comfort food at its best.

Roasted Acorn Squash with Parsnip Stuffing
Serves 4

2 acorn squash, halved with seeds and pulp removed
3 T. extra virgin olive oil

2 large parsnips, grated

2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

1 leek, white part only, thinly sliced

1 cup roasted broccoli florets

½ cup dried cranberries

½ cup toasted pecan pieces

Salt and pepper to taste

4 T. butter

¼ tsp. nutmeg

Pinch cinnamon

Minced chives to garnish
1/2 cup shredded fontina cheese (optional)

1.) Arrange squash halves cut side up on a sheet pan and drizzle with olive oil. Season with salt and pepper and roast at 350 degrees for 35 minutes, until cooked through.

2.) Heat a medium skillet and coat the bottom with olive oil. Add the leek and garlic and cook until softened, about 4 minutes. Add the broccoli and parsnips to the mixture and saute for 3 minutes--parsnips should be soft and golden, but not heavily browned. Stir in the pecans and cranberries. Season to taste.

3.) Make the sauce: Slowly brown the butter in a small skillet over low heat. The butter should take on a medium golden color and have a warm, nutty fragrance. (If it becomes black or starts to smoke it's gone too far.)
Once the butter is browned, add the nutmeg and cinnamon and a pinch of salt to season. Set aside.

4.) Fill each squash half with the vegetable mixture and drizzle one tablespoon of the brown butter sauce over each half. Broil on low for 2 minutes until the tops are golden. Cut each squash in half, sprinkle with chives and serve. Note: If you're a cheese lover, and who isn't, sprinkle the tops with shredded fontina and broil until a golden crust forms on the top.

Photos by Jamie Federico

It all starts here

Growing up, I knew absolutely nothing about cooking. That’s not to say that our house was void of delicious things to eat. Quite the opposite, actually. I had the gustatory pleasure of growing up in an Italian-American family, with matriarchs ‘throwing together’ a red sauce and slinging fresh zeppoles as easily as if they were placing an order for takeout. The effortlessness at the stove was inspirational. I remember when I began asking for the recipes for some of my favorite dishes. My mother never knew them. My grandmother would fire off vague instructions. At one point, the evasive responses prompted me to think that they were keeping the saliva-inducing secrets of their culture to themselves, as a sort of Sisterhood of the Traveling Ravioli.

My mother was and is the ultimate caregiver. She relished the role of wife and mom in a way that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to. She never asked for help; never called me over to the pot to see what she was creating. She was in her zone. One time I sidled up to her as she was frying meatballs. “How much onion do you use?” I asked. “Not too much,” was her response. “How do you know when they’re finished?” I pushed. “It doesn’t take too long,” she countered. This was my ominous culinary training—a red flag if there ever was one.

Fast forward a decade only to find myself starting college and dating my first boyfriend (now husband), Brian, with only scrambled eggs and cookies on my recipe resume. The eggs were a necessity. That was my breakfast of choice at the time, and cracking an egg into a pan is a fast and cheap way for a freshman to eat. The cookie skills, however, were the spawn of a torrid love affair I have with carbs. Sweet carbs. The chocolate-covered, peanut butter-laced kind. These random dishes needed friends. I was dating someone who never said no to a plate of food, regardless of what was on it. I needed to feed that ravenous, passionate hunger of his and cooking seemed like the easiest way to impress.

One complicated internet search later, I came up with the perfect anniversary dinner.

I would make. From scratch. "Scratch" was a revolutionary and frightful idea back then.

This menu struck the balance between elegant and doable. As I type this, I cringe.

But, hindsight is always 20/20.

Anniversary Menu

Steamed Flounder with Carrots and Broccoli

White Rice

Salad

Heart-Shaped Chocolate Cake

I went to my family’s local fish market, a sleepy little place with plenty of fresh, Long Island catch, to pick up the flounder. Stop & Shop provided the rest, including the box of Betty Hines cake mix. At home, I started furiously prepping, waiting until the last minute to pull the fish from the back of the refrigerator—the icy, cold part that kept it…icy and cold. As the fish was baking, with the vegetables and lemon juice, in the Reynold’s aluminum foil (so simple, so delicious!), I attacked the layer cake, attempting to shape it into a heart, freehand. The clean curves of the heart—and my heart, literally on that plate—began to come undone, crumbling down onto the plate, with the still-warm cake shifting to one side. I quickly melted chocolate in the microwave to create a fix-all “ganache” frosting. I’m a genius, I thought.

As we sit down to eat, with the candles lit, I’m glowing at how brilliantly I’ve pulled this off. This is the meal when he realizes that he can’t live without me. This is the meal that goes through his stomach to his heart.

Brian digs in to his flounder and his fork stands straight up, at attention. The thin, delicate fillet, carefully preserved in the coldest part of the refrigerator, is completely raw in the center. I unravel. While Brian tries to console me, putting back into the oven, I dig into the cake hoping for solace. “This was supposed to be perfectttt,” I whine. He continues saying sweet things, like how delicious the undercooked rice is, and aims for some comic relief. “Don’t worry, little Emeril. Everything’s perfect.” And it was.