Leave the meatball, take the crostini.

Men, overeating, office complaints, swimsuit season, diets for swimsuit season:  There are certain things in life that are best when shared with friends. Girlfriends, to be exact.

Add crostini to that list.

Earlier this week, after my cheese-making binge, I made an Italian dinner for me and Brian. Fresh semolina pasta, meatballs, sauce; it was an all-out festa, especially for a Tuesday night. I was antsy to use (read: show-off) the ricotta I made, and decided to also put crostini on the menu.

Spring is here, I had beautiful, fat asparagus spears, and I was craving something that tasted sunny and green. After toasting crunchy baguette with olive oil, I rubbed a clove of garlic over the top of each slice to impart a subtle, spicy flavor. A sprinkling of lemon zest into the cheese brought it to life, and I thinly sliced blanched asparagus and sauteed the slivers quickly with plenty of black pepper.

The result? For me, it was perfect. Two crostini and a big kale salad, and I was set. Brian's reaction? "Crostini aren't really my thing. Can you pass the meatballs?" Sigh. Boys will be boys.

1. Call your girlfriends.

2. Pop open a bottle of bubbly.

3. Make this crostini.

4. Eat and dish.

5. Repeat as much as possible.

Voted most likely to be adored (by everyone).

Like the popular girl in high school who found a way to befriend every social group effortlessly, cheese knows no bounds. It can hang with the fruit and vegetable crowd and then chill with meat and pasta.

Its flavors can morph from the shy to the obnoxious; its face can change from soft and creamy to pebbled and moldy, and each is intoxicating in its own right. Every food group it pairs with is better for having known it.

What I've neglected to mention here is that I'm actually lactose-intolerant, which is basically a death sentence to my dairy-loving taste buds. So for the majority of the time, I respect that, and my stomach, and try to resist temptation.

But there are other times. Oh, are there other times. There are days when I'll actually plan to have a meal of pleasure and a night of pain. And it's almost always worth it.

A couple of months into culinary school, we had a "cheese day" in the curriculum. We each received a board of about 15 different varieties to taste and compare. By the end, when we reached the strongest cheeses, we were feeling a light-headed happiness brought on by the flavors, textures and (probably) the mold. Once I came down from my Camembert nirvana, I learned the most basic and popular of cheese recipes--ricotta--and was shocked at how simple it is to make on your own.

I mean, really. Why buy this....

...when you can have this*?

* Disclaimer: I don't intend to come off as a Negative Nellie about buying pre-packaged foods. Life is busy, and there are a lot of amazing products out there. BUT if you have the time and the interest, homemade is so rewarding and delicious.

So I'm re-gifting this gem of a recipe to you.

Homemade Ricotta

courtest of Epicurious.com

2 quarts whole milk

1 cup heavy cream

1/2 tsp. salt

3 Tbs. fresh lemon juice

1. Line a large sieve with a layer of heavy-duty (fine-mesh) cheesecloth and place it over a large bowl.

2. Slowly bring milk, cream, and salt to a rolling boil in a 6-quart heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching. Add lemon juice, then reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring constantly, until the mixture curdles, about 2 minutes.

3. Pour the mixture into the lined sieve and let it drain 1 hour. After discarding the liquid, chill the ricotta, covered; it will keep in the refrigerator 2 days.

 

Make a huge batch. Introduce it to honey and figs for breakfast, to sauteed kale for lunch, to fettucine for dinner and to balsamic-marinated strawberries for dessert. You'll thank me later.

A strawberry kind of day.

As I've mentioned before, I'm pining for the bright, crisp flavors of summer produce. Although it's not exactly that time just yet, I came across a carton of beautifully ripe strawberries that I couldn't pass up, no matter how out of season they might be in April.

Last night was a date night for me and Brian. When a marriage is semi-long distance (he works out of town for half of the week), date night becomes a celebration in and of itself, and this week's was no exception. After a very rich, very big dinner and delicious cocktails from Beauty & Essex, I woke up this morning craving a simple, healthy breakfast to balance out the indulgence from the night before.

Gorgeous berries + cleansing breakfast = Strawberries N' "Cream" Oatmeal.

As a kid, the Quaker Oats version of this flavor was my favorite. This morning, I set out to make a grown-up, healthier version without all of the preservatives and chemicals found in the little brown paper package we all know and love.

Good ingredients don't require tons of extra flavors and spices. They sing all on their own. After chopping my strawberries, I was tempted to throw the towel in on cooking and just eat them off the board. I resisted, and breakfast was worth the short wait.

This recipe is healthy, filling and since it uses creamy soy milk instead of regular, is great for healthy eaters, vegans and those with dairy allergies.

Strawberries N' "Cream" Oatmeal

Serves 4

1 c. rolled oats

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. ground flaxseed

pinch of nutmeg

pinch of salt

1 c. chopped strawberries, with 1/4 c. reserved on the side

2 1/2 c. soy milk

2 tsp. agave nectar

1.) Combine the first 5 ingredients in a small pot. Toast the oats and spices over low heat, stirring occasionally, for 4-5 minutes, until fragrant.

2.) Add 3/4 c. of the strawberries and stir to evenly distribute. Once the berries are mixed throughout, add the soy milk and agave nectar.

3.) Bring the mixture to a boil, and then lower the heat to medium and simmer. Stir frequently (scraping the bottom of pot), until the liquid is absorbed and the oats are tender, about 7 minutes.

Serve immediately and use the reserved fresh strawberries to top each bowl with.

Breakfast is served!

(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

Gremolata Fingers

My announcement that I had enrolled in culinary school was met with an equal mix of high-fives and incredulous stares.

"But why would you do that when you're a writer?" "Do you honestly want to work as a cook?" "That's so exciting, you can be a food writer!"

Because I wanted to get into the culinary world. I did, actually, want to work as a cook. Many intelligent women actually manage to pull this off brilliantly every day and they aren't derelicts. And yes, I sort of wound up a food writer. Unintentionally, but still.

I spent the summer before starting culinary school working for a mammoth catering company on Long Island. There were some things I witnessed that I was not proud of--cooking in mass production is never a pretty sight--but I also learned other important work habits that proved invaluable both in and out of the kitchen. Maintain a sense of urgency, work clean, know how to prioritize, be precise, do it right the first time.
By the end of the summer I had found my way around a knife, and that September, I confidently marched into The French Culinary Institute, thinking I had this in the bag.

The first day of class we worked on knife skills. Our chef-instructor showed us the different cuts we were to practice--the juilienne, the brunoise, the macedoine, and so on. I was proudly whizzing through each cut, putting into practice what I'd learned that summer. The chef has even commented on my success, and deep down I felt highly satisfied with myself.

You know that saying, "Pride comes before a fall"? There's a reason people say that; there's a reason why that actually gets passed down through generations. I soon found out why.

We were working on mincing and I had a pile of parsley on my board. I looked away for a second. One second--or the amount of time it took me to realize that I was missing a fingertip. I cut the top of my finger off. On the first day of school. Before our lunch break. What am I doing here?

After rushing to the bathroom, avoiding passing out, and dissuading my chef from sending me to the hospital, I realized that I instinctively threw the other part of my finger into the recycle bin. I couldn't even get sorting the garbage right.

If taken to the task of creating a litmus test for how badly I wanted this, cutting a finger off was the way to quickly figure it out. I returned to class, silently digesting a wedge of humble pie.

But today I didn't make pie. Today, in an effort to redeem haughty herb-mincing, I made gremolata. And my hands are still in tact.

Gremolata is a condiment made of fresh herbs, lemon and garlic. Although it can be made with a number of herbs like cilantro or mint, it is classically made with flat-leaf parsley. Gremolata is most often served with osso bucco (veal shanks), but also lends bright flavors to steak, seafood and vegetable dishes.

Gremolata

1/4 cup flat-leaf parsley, minced
1 garlic clove, minced
zest of one lemon
1 T. olive oil
pinch of salt to taste

Combine the ingredients and set aside until ready to serve.

Simple roasted lamb chops are a perfect springtime dish to showcase this humble, but, worthy condiment.

Gourmet Wishes with Gratin Dreams

Gourmet magazine might have been my first introduction to the idea that cooking could be both fun and fantastical. Flipping through the pages of every issue, starting with its enticing cover and traveling to the well—that glorious, uninterrupted stretch of feature articles near the back of the issue—filled with zoomed-in produce and attractive people cooking in a lakehouse (or some variation on that theme), took me to another realm.

I had recently moved into my first studio apartment sans roommates. This relatively roomy pad seemed like a dream at the time. Yes, it was a basement apartment and once winter hit I would learn that there was no heat; an ever-present chilly draft seemed to float from the floor straight to my bones. But at the time spring was in the air, and I was feeling optimistic enough to not only read Gourmet as I ate dinner, but to actually cook my dinner from the Gourmet I was reading. Scandalous.

This Zucchini Rice Gratin was and still is one of my favorite things to make. Part of that is due to the fact that taking a bite of the cheesy, roasted vegetables takes me back to that summer of independence. With a fresh, green salad or a knob of crusty bread, this is a perfectly satisfying little dinner. I’ve also substituted other vegetables, like eggplant or butternut squash, for more of a rib-sticking variation. Perfect for the frigid, heatless winter that was headed my way.

Zucchini Rice Gratin
(courtesy of Gourmet, March 2008)

1/3 cup long-grain white rice
1 1/2 lb zucchini (about 3 medium), sliced crosswise 1/4 inch thick
6 1/2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1/2 lb plum tomatoes, sliced crosswise 1/4 inch thick
1 medium onion, halved lengthwise and thinly sliced
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon chopped thyme
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, divided

1.) Preheat oven to 450°F and cook rice according to package instructions.

2.) While rice cooks, toss zucchini with 1 tablespoon oil and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a shallow baking pan. Toss tomatoes with 1/2 tablespoon oil and 1/4 teaspoon salt in another baking pan.

3.) Roast zucchini in upper third of oven and tomatoes in lower third, turning vegetables once halfway through roasting, until tender and light golden, about 10 minutes for tomatoes; 20 minutes for zucchini. Leave oven on.

4.) Meanwhile, cook onion and garlic with 1/2 teaspoon salt in 2 tablespoons oil in a large heavy skillet, covered, over low heat, stirring occasionally, until very tender, 15 to 20 minutes.

5.) Stir together onion mixture, cooked rice, eggs, thyme, 1/4 cup cheese, 1 tablespoon oil, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Spread half of rice mixture in a shallow 2-quart baking dish, then top with half of zucchini. Spread remaining rice mixture over zucchini, then top with remaining zucchini. Top with tomatoes and drizzle with remaining 2 tablespoons oil, then sprinkle with remaining 1/4 cup cheese.

6.) Bake in upper third of oven until set and golden brown, about 20 minutes.