love.life.eat
a relentless pursuit of the perfect home + dish
goop’ing it so you don’t have to: millet falafel + carrot salad
Posted on May 11, 2013
My beloved Winona has made some unfortunate choices. There was the Adam Sandler movie we’ll say we talked about, but won’t. In The Informers, she played a bird so fraile, her every movement made the needle on the record player jump. You ached for her because she was WINONA RYDER playing a slutbag whore in an adaptation of Brett Easton Ellis’ worst book. I actually wanted her to die in Autumn in New York just so the movie could end, because it was a little creepy that I was the only one in the movie theater for the eight o’clock show. Her shoplifting scandal? A few years too early for the Kim Kardashian-famous-for-nothing set, but I still bought the t-shirt. Shook my fists, stomped my feet. All for naught, sadly, because deep down I knew she stole those clothes.
Naturally, I blamed Gwyneth Paltrow — the lithe blonde who couldn’t string a cogent sentence together, much less get into college, even with Steven Spielberg’s help — for all of it. It’s imperative to get close to one’s enemies, so I watched all of her films (even Shallow Hall), and kicked a chair over when she won the Oscar for a movie named after an author she’s probably never read. Don’t get me wrong — watching her movies hasn’t been a complete exercise in futility — for every Shallow Hall and Great Expectations (whatever, you just liked the wardrobe and romance of it all), there was Hard Eight and Flesh and Bone. She’s given some vulnerable performances amidst the ingenue roles. Remember when she dated the ketchup king? I do, because I knew a friend of his that confirmed she was an entitled head-case, but now I’m being a petty asshole, so we’ll just move right along.
With the arrival of GOOP, I knew her day of reckoning was upon us. Who would take a woman hocking $900 cashmere throws and $52,000 “aspirational wardrobes” seriously? Apparently, America did. Millions of kewpie dolls went macrobiotic and purchased $500 beaded bracelets, which one could easily make for $5.99. Many wanted the whitewashed life of clean, freckled faces and Jennifer Meyer necklaces. Naturally, I screamed into pillows and prayed for the day when Winona would come like a plague of swallows, and launch a zine that would celebrate the fine art of cheeseburger-eating, Roth-reading and chain-smoking (note: I do not support smoking).
No such luck.
When I say that I’ve been a fan of Winona Ryder since high school, a time when she waxed poetic on Salinger and red lipstick, believe it with all of your heart. From her strange, cultish literary upbringing, to her bizarre films, she was an idol for losers in Long Island. Winona read the books I read. Winona had the corpse-like pallor of which everyone in my high school loved to ridicule.
Brief digression: What I wouldn’t give for a Where Are They Now? about all the rat bastards who tormented me during those forgettable years at Valley Stream South High School.
As you can imagine, I’ve been praying for Winona Ryder’s triumphant return (rosary beads, candles, the whole nine) for years. When I read her latest interview in Interview, I spent the greater part of one evening trying to track down last month’s issue (again, no such luck). Clearly, Winona is classy and will only ridicule GOOP from the confines of her Williamsburg apartment. Surely, Winona will forgive the fact that while I often want to pummel Paltrow, I quite like her cookbook.
THE STRUGGLE.
I’ve a friend coming around tomorrow, and she’s got a gluten allergy. After combing the usual sites and suspects, I discovered the BIG GOOP’ers Millet Falafel recipe. Since I’m allergic to avocado and had a pile of carrots to use up, I decided to nix the relish and go full-on with a carrot salad. Per usual, the goddamn-this-is-delicious commentary ensued, and I even thought the recipe would be better all mashed up, fried and tossed with arugula. I plan to play around with it over the next few weeks, because, quite frankly, if I go through another collapsed ball in the pan, I’m kicking someone. Possibly Gwynnie.
INGREDIENTS: Millet Falafel recipe adapted from Gwyneth Paltrow’s It’s All Good (with adjustments and clarifications); Carrot Salad recipe adapted from La Tartine Gourmande (modified slightly).
For the falafel
1/2 cup raw millet, rinsed
1/2 cup cooked chickpeas (or Garbanzo beans), crushed with a potato masher or using the tines of a fork
4 scallions, white and light green parts only, thinly sliced
1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 lemon
3 1/2 tbsp olive oil, divided (2 tbsp for the falafel, the remainder for the pan)
Coarse sea salt
For the carrot salad
4 large carrots, peeled
1 tbsp flat leaf parsley, chopped
2 tbsp scallions, chopped
For the carrot salad vinaigrette:
sea salt + pepper
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 garlic clove, minced
6 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
DIRECTIONS
For the carrot salad: Grate the carrots and place in large bowl with the parsley and scallions. Since I’m lazy and loathe to grate anything, I bought grated carrots 1 1/2-2 cups worth, and added them to a bowl. In a separate smaller bowl, combine the vinaigrette ingredients in the order listed, whisk together and pour over the carrots. The salad can be refrigerated or served at room temperature.
For the falafel (I made this sans garnish. If you want the whole shebang, GOOP IT.)
Combine the millet with 1½ cups of water and a big pinch of a salt in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, cover the pot, and cook until the millet is very soft and all the liquid has been absorbed, 25 minutes.
Stir the chickpeas, scallions, and parsley into the cooked millet. Using a grater, zest the lemon and stir the zest into the millet mixture along with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Using a potato masher, crush the mixture until it holds together a bit.
Preheat the oven to 250ºF and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Set a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat and coat the bottom with a slick of olive oil (1 1/2 tbsp). Drop large tablespoonfuls of the millet mixture into the pan with a bit of space between each spoonful. Press each tablespoonful down with the back of a spatula to form a sort of thick pancake (no need to go crazy shaping these, they should be nice and rustic). Cook until browned and crisp, about 3 minutes per side. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FLIP UNTIL AFTER THREE MINUTES. I experienced a wretched ball collapse, which sent me into hysterics. Set the cooked falafel on the prepared baking sheet and put them in the warm oven while you cook the rest of the millet mixture, adding more olive oil to the skillet if necessary.
Cut your zested lemon into wedges, squeeze a bit of juice over each falafel, and sprinkle each with a tiny pinch of coarse salt. Serve immediately.
eats in biarritz, france
Posted on April 27, 2013
Those who know me well know I’m a creature of habit. Once I like a spot, I tend to fixate on it and ignore everything else within a ten-mile radius. Closing in on a much-needed (we’re talking dire straights, people) three-week European food odyssey, I’ve had my share of mediocre food, so every place I patron is heavily researched and every menu, inspected. There’s also the issue of price, as I’ve passed a few Michelin-starred spots, whose menus are pretty exorbitant.
Naturally, my preferred spots are far from French (cue the shame chorus), but it’s been interesting to see the Basque influence on Italian + Mexican cooking.
Possibly my favorite of the lot is Taco Mex. Located down a steep alleyway, you wouldn’t think much of the place at first glance. You’re greeted with a large billboard of a menu outlined with a glowing cactus, but inside, INSIDE, the food is spectacular and the service, personalized.
The owner not only prepares your dishes in front of you, but guides you to the “taco bar” and explains the magic: sauce pairings, accoutrements and the like. To say that I didn’t dream of the potatoes cooked in chorizo fat dressed with crème fraîche would be a vast understatement. The sauces are extraordinary, the guacamole homemade, and even the CHIPS (homemade) are stellar. I’ve been hitting this place every night and it fails to disappoint.
If you adore Italian food just as much as I do, you will want to check out Al Dente and Il Giardino — a block separates the two. Both have been my go-to lunch spots, as they have a stellar prix-fixe ($13-$16 for a three-course meal), and the homemade pasta is spot-on. Il Giardino won my heart with its gnocchi, puffed pillows covered in a delicate four-cheese sauce and its tender miniature meatballs.
Over the past three weeks, I’ve traveled to capitals and small towns, and never did I think that my memories would be rooted in Tuscany, Biarritz and San Sebastian. Places where I thought I’d pass through, not remain, settle and completely relax.
dispatches from firenze: the finest chicken you’ll ever eat in your life
Posted on April 12, 2013
We tell ourselves stories in order to live…We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the “ideas” with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience. ― Joan Didion, The White Album
Last night I slept on pavement, a sliver of concrete that is a terrace that overlooks the Ponte Vecchio. My journey started one way and ended in another. I tossed. I turned. I fluffed and punched pillows. I read Susan Faludi’s searing profile of the radical feminist, Shulamith Firestone, a woman who sought an unimpeded love but would never find it. I tongued pills and spit them out again. Until finally, I made a makeshift bed on my postage stamp of a terrace and fell asleep.
This is what happens when you allow things to consume you. All this anxiety over two bags making their way, albeit at a snail’s pace, to my hotel in Florence. All the while I convinced myself I was fine, just fine, and I’d prove it by going manic on social media. The equivalent of throwing a blanket over a fire, who knew my thumping heart would be composed of kindling? Who knew I’d burn from the inside out? Who knew the whole of the past two months would plague me, like swallows, and I’d drown in the swarm. Water. Fire. One tends to oscillate between the extremes.
But. But. I refuse to let this happen when I’ve made this brave decision to leave a job that was killing me, when I finally pried open my eyes and mouth, and let all the moth balls flutter out. Then I let all the right people in. No way will I be my own ruin. So I did what I know best to do and took some time, and will continue taking it. We often want to create tremendous noise — a holocaust of sound — all because we’re frightened to hear our own voice. We’re terrified of the words we might say, thoughts that give shape and form to our singular experience. When we say it out loud it suddenly becomes real, and can we bear it out? Can we endure the hours after?
So this is what I tried to do. I spent the early morning hours in the Uffizi, wandering the galleries. What a joy it was to ghost the rooms of a near-empty museum, a place free of phones, cameras and the hoards of chattering groups. It was just me, my own footfalls, and a considerable amount of Botticellis.
Later, tipped off by Lauren, I checked out Trattoria Sostanza (read Elizabeth Minchilli’s astute review). Tucked away on a side street, the eatery is nondescript, homely even, but the word-of-mouth on the pollo al burro was too formidable to dismiss.
I NEED TO PAUSE HERE AND SIMPLY STATE THAT TODAY I’VE EATEN THE BEST CHICKEN I WILL LIKELY EVER EAT. IN. MY. LIFE.
Two breasts are charred while butter browns. The meat is dredged in egg and flour and cooks in cast-iron pan in a pool of sweet butter. The result are tender breasts steeped in butter and thawing the iceberg that is my heart. One would think that the dish would be heavy, fatty, but this is not the case. The technique locks in the flavor, and the chicken is neither greasy or heavy, but rather tender and yielding. OBVIOUSLY I DIPPED EACH PIECE OF MEAT INTO BUTTER. OBVIOUSLY.
And can we talk about the butter lettuce salad? Normally, I’m all blase about an appetizer, but the leaves were so fresh and the oil so perfect I nearly cried eating my salad.
The seating is communal, so I queried folks around me and everyone was thick in the business of cleaning their plate. From thick slabs of beef steak to stuffed tortellini to rich soups, everyone was lapping it up with the fresh ciabatta.
I left, satiated and calmer than I was the following evening. The rest of the day was spent napping, walking, climbing 436 steps to the Duomo cupola and reading Joan Didion.
dispatches from florence: food in firenze {1}
Posted on April 11, 2013
Would you believe that as soon as I dumped my bags at the hotel and yelled at Alitalia, I ran out into the streets of Florence determined to eat. Typing this now, I’m pining for a green juice as I’ve never eaten so much pasta, focaccia, gelato, and parma ham in a span of three days. Imagine the moment when I set eyes on a chicken breast — I nearly cried. Don’t get me wrong, a woman loves her crudo with the best of them, but I am longing for some virtue. Or for my Tracy Anderson DVDs to arrive in Florence. THANKS, ALITALIA!
But onward! When traveling to Florence, elastic is highly recommended. Leggings, yoga pants, anything that will refrain from reminding you that no sane person should be eating gelato at EVERY. SINGLE. MEAL. or BEFORE. AND. AFTER. MEALS. (read: me). I first hit up Venchi, home to artisanal chocolate since 1878. From the cocoa-topped, feather-light cappuccinos to the whipped dark chocolate gelatos to the rows of wrap individual chocolates, you will want to bathe in nougat. Spy on the robust outdoor leather market from the upstairs nook, whilst sipping your coffee.
Since it was a few scant hours since my last gelato fix, I decided to hop into Coronas Cafe. Located near the Duomo, you’ll find unexpected flavors (figs, passionfruit, coconut creme, mandarine, meringue) along with the usual suspects, and the price is pretty favorable for an ice cream that was creamy, light, luscious and flavorful. The space is open + colorful, and if you’re not keen on cones and sweets, swing by the other side for a bevy of mortadella sarnis, crudos, sandwiches, cookies, cornettos and other Florentine delights. You won’t be disappointed, and since it’s been a few hours since my last gelato, I might slip out after writing this post and tuck myself in an alleyway with some passionfruit. Consider me addicted.
Usually I eschew all eateries recommended by hotels, as they’re often in financial cahoots, leaving me with tepid greens, suspicious lighting, and an outrageous bill. However, everyone in the free world has raved about my hotel, which I quite like save for the odd smell in the lobby (for another time, friends), so I decided to break my cardinal rule and ferret out recommendations from the concierge. And I’m glad I did, for Caffe Pitti was an exquisite pick. Steps away from the Ponte Vecchio and located on the Palazzo Pitti, the restaurant offers traditional Florentine dishes with a touch of creativity. Their quite known for their truffles from the natural reserve of San Miniato, a true rarity which highlights Pitti as the one and only place where each dish assumes an extraordinary depth. For fifteen euros, I enjoyed a delicious primi of pesto and perhaps the best chicken I’ve had in years. Soaked in lemon and butter, the breast was tender, falling apart, and begged to be consumed, voraciously. And if you’re not keen on a full-on meal, you can opt to order a DIY sandwich from Botteghina, where you can sample local cheeses and meats from the region — all on fresh focaccia.
Are you surprised that I found a cookie? I stumbled upon Migone, an old-school sweets shop located near the Duomo. Although the prices are steep (I spent $40 for these cookies + a few packages of homemade chocolates), the confections are decadent. You’ll find traditional Florentine sweets including panforte, ricciarelli and cantuccini, as well as delightfully packaged chocolates and candied sweets. Well worth a visit, albeit an expensive one.
Finally, a former coworker informed me of a sandwich spot I would’ve surely missed: All’Antico Vinaio. If you’re aching for a spot that is purely patroned by the locals, this is it. It’s a proverbial shoebox joint, with a great wine list and a terrific selection of fresh meats and local cheeses. The bread, my friends, is FUCKING OUTSTANDING. I stood outside the eatery and devoured my sandwich. Did I mention that the bread was WARM and YIELDING. I will definitely be back for more.
Would you believe this is only my first day? Clearly I’ll need some Crisco to make it through customs at JFK.
dispatches from rome: you can never have enough carbs
Posted on April 10, 2013
Believe me when I say that I worship at the altar that is the CARBOHYDRATE. I light candles, mumble prayers, and hope for a day when my doctor tells me that I can eat carbs to my heart’s content. Lying on my couch, I am free to mainline paninis as I please and gorge on bottomless bowls of pesto. What dreams I’d have! What I revere most about Italian fare is its unapologetic simplicity. You combine the simplest, freshest ingredients, and tend to it as if each dish were your own personal harvest. Every meal is a bloodletting of sorts, where part of you melds into the food that you’re making. This connection is symbiotic, visceral, emotional, and I prefer it over the cold, austere complexity that is the French and Japanese cuisine. Don’t get me wrong, I love French + Japanese food, but I want my meals to feel like home, not mathematics, so I tend to cleave to dishes that are simple and comforting. Perhaps this is why I never went in for the fanfare of patisserie, rather I cloak myself in yeast and bake the warmest of loaves, the sweetest of cakes.
Call it serendipity when I met up with Arlene + Erica, two great, shining lights, and conversation quickly turned to Italian food. After a few hours I felt a kinship with them because we’d always fall rapturously in love with the cacio e pepes of the world and shirk away from the nine-course meals whose ingredients might very well include foam.
Rome was meant to be a quickie, a layover to the glory that is Florence, but I made a point of hoovering pasta at every single meal, and save for one horrific encounter with raw sausage — the smell of which still has me reeling — every dish was exquisite from presentation to taste. For lunch I stumbled upon di qua, located on Via delle Carrozze 85/B. Oddly, I can’t find a single listing for the restaurant online, but I assure you, it’s good. Tucked away from the busy Plaza de Espagna, you’ll not only fawn over the pasta and greens, you’ll also swoon over the rustic interiors. When someone serves me bread in a leather basket and the dishes are charming, I have to believe a lot of love goes into cultivating a sweet dining experience. The staff were so hospitable and took care with inquiring about my satisfaction that I didn’t want to leave. And the pasta? DIE.
Can we talk about Pierluigi, please? The very charming brother to New York’s Antica Pesa, I loved everything about this eatery. Perhaps I’m biased as my sweet friend Arlene is a frequent patron, but I honestly felt a bit like a celebrity. The staff are attentive, effusive and passionate about food. My homemade ravioli was stuffed with pumpkin and dressed in a light sauce and amaretti cookies. After the prosciutto pile-up, I honestly felt I couldn’t consume one more bite, but I gathered all my strength to make a clean sweep of every plate. And while I’m not fond of fish, I was impressed by the handsome display of fresh catch that is presented to patrons before their dishes are cooked. If you ever find yourself in Rome, I implore you to drop your bags and RUN TO PIERLUIGI.
I firmly believe in the power of the leisurely breakfast, the kind where you feast from a succession of thin, delicate plates and conversations ebb and flow. After a magical dinner, I met up with Erica. From barking in Italian to Alitalia to discussing what it means to mother to shifts in Italian politics, we dined and dished for hours at Ciampini, whilst savoring hot cappuccinos, fresh yoghurt and granola and tasty mini-donuts. I was going to opt for the cornetto, which bears a striking resemblance to my beloved croissant, but Arlene wisely relayed that cornettos are made sans butter (quel horror! que lastima!). PASS.
After a long day of walking, I was set on returning to Pierluigi, when I discovered RJ Numbs Campo De Fiori on a lark. Everything about this spot was perfection. Lots of Italian to be heard so I knew that amidst all the tourist traps, this is a spot that the locals still patron. I opted for the prix-fix menu, which included buffalo mozzarella in a bed of prosciutto, my beloved cacio e pepe and a feather-light tiramisu. To say that my meal was exquisite would be an understatement. Terrific service + a bevy of people-watching made this a delightful afternoon spot.
As I walked home, I received a text that my luggage had been found. Naturally, I stopped for gelato.
Tomorrow, I’m off to Florence!
risotto with greens + a decadent chocolate cake — it’s all virtuous!
Posted on April 6, 2013
The hardest part of telling people about the goodness in Gwyneth Paltrow’s cookbook is getting past the hot mess that is Gwyneth Paltrow and that rarified world of which she believes to be our reality. In Gwyneth’s world, we’re sporting $850 leather shorts, charring paper-thin pizzas in our outdoor ovens, and frolicking through reeds of grass whilst munching on Amagansett apples. Part of me hopes that Winona Ryder will resurface from her stupor and launch the anti-GOOP, a noir-hued website where a chain-smoking, cheeseburger-eating life is as good as it gets. However, this idyll is very much a Waiting for Godot situation, and I’ve admitted, albeit grudgingly, that Paltrow’s book is quite good. My friend Hitha has decided to ignore Paltrow and instead give credit to Paltrow’s co-writer, Julia Turshen.
I very much like this strategy.
To say that Hitha and I adore food is an understatement. Devoted followers of the gospel that is Michael Pollan, ardent believers in the notion that our body is the home in which we want to live rather than the apartment we’re renting, my sweet friend and I often get together and spend days cooking, eating, and photographing our food. You’ll find us standing on top of chairs, adjusting plates, contemplating linens and trying to find that shot, and I’m humbled to have found such a kindred spirit. So on a day that whispers spring, we decided to give a bunch of Gwynnie’s recipes a go.
On the menu? A virtuous verdant risotto, a kale salad dressed with seasoned turkey bacon (I hope my Twitter friend Michael isn’t reading this!), and a decadent two-layer chocolate cake with “buttercream.” Hitha made the killer risotto and salad, while I focused on dessert, and I have to say that we did a pretty fox job! We marveled over the rich, satiny texture of the risotto (sans cheese!) and the buttercream that had no dairy or butter, yet tasted very much like the real deal. Here’s to eating mindfully and a meal that left us satiated.
Risotto with Greens: Adapted from It’s All Good, with modifications
INGREDIENTS + DIRECTIONS
1 quart vegetable stock
1 lemon
2 tbsp olive oil
1/2 yellow onion, finely diced (about 3/4 cup)
1 leek, white and light green parts only, throughly washed and finely diced
2 garlic cloves, finely minced
leaves from 6 sprigs of thyme
coarse sea salt
1 cup Arborio rice
2 cups baby spinach (we didn’t have this on hand, but will definitely add this next time)
1/4 cup chopped basil
Freshly ground black pepper
Warm the vegetable stock in a small pot and set it on the back burner over low heat. Using a Microplane grater or a zester, zest the lemon and set the zest aside. Cut the lemon in half, juice it and set the juice aside.
Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a large, heavy pot set over high heat. Add the onion and leek, turn the heat down to medium, and cook until the vegetables just begin to soften, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and thyme along with a big pinch of salt and cook until all the aromatics are, well, aromatic, another 2 minutes.
Turn the heat to high, add the rice and the reserved lemon juice and stir to combine all the ingredients. Cook until the lemon juice is just evaporated and then stir in a ladleful of the warm stock. Continue to stir the risotto until the stock is absorbed, then stir in another ladleful of stock.
Continue in this manner until the rice is cooked through and you’ve used all your stock, about 20 minutes. At this point your arm should feel as if it’s going to fall off and the rice should be luxuriously creamy and rich.
Stir in the reserved lemon zest, the greens (these will cook with the risotto’s residual heat), the basil and a few healthy grinds of pepper. Serve immediately.
Kale Salad with Gwyneth’s “Momo’s Special Turkey Bacon”
INGREDIENTS + DIRECTIONS
6 cups of mixed kale leaves, chopped
1 cup shredded carrots
2 tbsp olive oil
Salt/pepper
8 oz pack of turkey bacon (8 slices)
2 tbsp yellow mustard
2 tbsp maple syrup
Mix the greens with the carrots and toss in the olive oil, salt + pepper to taste. Set aside.
Pre-heat the broiler (or oven to 450F). Lay the bacon on a foil-lined cookie sheet. Whisk together the mustard and the syrup. Using a pastry brush (or spoon), “paint” half of it on the slices. Broil for one minute, then turn it and coat the other side of each slice with the remaining mixture. Broil for another 1-2 minutes, or until crispy. Break up the bacon into chunks and toss into the salad.
Chocolate Cake + Darleen’s Healthy Buttercream
INGREDIENTS + DIRECTIONS
For the Cake: Click here for the recipe. Instead of using a cupcake/muffin tin, grease two nine-inch cake pans. Bake for 18 minutes at 350F (the recipe calls for 20, but I thought the cake too done. I’d start checking after 15 minutes), and allow to completely cool for 20 minutes before icing with the buttercream. I like to layer some cream in the middle and on top. Since I like my cakes to be a little rough around the edges, I tend to not go in for the luxe side-sweep, allowing for you to see the contrast of cake and cream from all sides. A woman loves a little crumble on her plate.
One thing Hitha + I noticed that we should bring to your attention. This cake dough is incredibly delicate. I thought this was a result of my flubbed measurements in yesterday’s cupcakes, but since you don’t have egg as the binding agent, the cake will fall apart pretty easily, so handle with care.
Another point to make, the recipe notes that one could use 8 and 9 inch pans interchangeably without denoting the change in cooking times, which is a MAJOR MISS. The density is a marked difference, and I would venture that I’d need 20 minutes for an 8inch pan (as you have a denser cake) and 15-18 minutes for the 9 inch. Although I love the book, I’m starting to see minor errors that can affect the dishes. Not critical for cooking, but tantamount for baking.
For the Buttercream
2 cups Spectrum organic shortening (room temperature). This is a non-hydrogenated palm oil, available at speciality and health food stores, as well as Whole Foods.
1 cup tapioca starch (or tapioca flour, which is the same thing)
1 cup agave nectar (or Grade A light maple syrup)
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract
Place all the ingredients in the bowl of an electric (or stand) mixer and beat with the whisk attachment until light and fluffy. The frosting can be refrigerated for up to one month, but bring it back to room temperature and rewhip before using.
While this whipped cream doesn’t taste exactly like the buttercream to which we’ve been accustomed, my knee-jerk reaction was that it resembled whipped marshmallow or marshmallow fluff. The texture is spot-on and the taste light and sweet. Hitha brought her hubby over and this was definitely a crowd favorite.
welcome to your life, day one
Posted on March 19, 2013
I wanted to be a writer, that’s all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it’s all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. — Ed Harris, “The Hours”
A few hours ago, a dear friend sent me a text message which read, What’s the first day of freedom like? What’s left to say after three years of enduring a great love that turned into your greatest heartbreak? It was an autumn three years ago, the warmest we’d known, and I spent a day with scrappy misfits, kids on the verge. Kids hacked away on laptops in the dark. Blasted music and complained about Fresh Direct deliverables. Created memes and raged rap battles on Twitter. I remember leaving a small office in Soho, a place where the doll-sized elevator never worked and the receptionist was whoever was on their way out to lunch, and I remembered feeling something, and that something was possibility. And it was all because of a man who knew how to weave the kind of stories you’d stay up all night listening to. Stories that consumed you, came like swallows. Leaving the office that day I kept murmuring, take me with you.
I spent the next three and a half years telling stories until my voice was hoarse and I could speak no more. Out of respect for a great man and mentor, I’ll never talk about the innards of that time beyond my farewell song, but I’m heartbroken. It’s as if someone carved out my still-beating heart and left it on the carpet to gather lint and pulse out until the dust inevitably covered it whole. And even though I left on my own terms, armed with so much, part of me feels like no matter what you start with it ends up being so much less.
And I’ll leave it at that.
So permit me my mourning. Today I spent time with my champions, old friends, new ones, and myself. From almond croissants in Union Square to carb-loading all things citrus to my heart’s content at Rosemary’s, to pedaling through the dark at Soul Cycle, to thinking about what it means to pray, to listening to boys playing out their hearts, to clinking glasses at Antica Pesa, I needed to be with people I admired, adored and respected. I needed to get past this dark moment. I needed to feel like I felt that autumn, when there was so much possibility.
It’s there, I know. Just give me time and some quiet to see it.
pizza paninis, red leaf salad, and a hand worth playing…
Posted on March 15, 2013
Those are the facts. Now I lie in the sun and play solitaire and listen to the sea (the sea is down the cliff but I am not allowed to swim, only on Sundays when we are accompanied) and watch a hummingbird. I try not to think of dead things and plumbing. I try not to hear the air conditioner in that bedroom in Encino. I try not to live in Silver Wells or in New York or with Carter. I try to live in the now and keep my eye on the hummingbird. I see no one I used to know, but then I’m not just crazy about a lot of people. I mean maybe I was holding all the aces, but what was the game? One thing in my defense, not that it matters: I know something Carter never knew, or Helene, or maybe you. I know what “nothing” means, and keep on playing. ― Joan Didion, Play It as It Lays
Even thought it’s last call, I still want to sing the songs that used to make us laugh, the hymns that once made us happy. Even though the floors stink of chlorine and wet mops and the lights glare bright, I want to belt octaves. Every song comes to an end but that doesn’t mean we stop longing for the music. Instead we lift the needle, settle it down, and play it all again. Hoping that the melody will transport us back to a time we were wide-eyed and wet behind the ears, when every day was filled with so much possibility. It reminds us of childhood when we’d make a mess of things, but we didn’t care; we’d run around until nightfall, until we were called back inside. Until we collapsed in our beds and shut our eyes to the dark. We’d live in this private fiction until the adults found us out. There was always a snitch in the group.
Children create worlds that adults find ways to ruin. Because that’s what we do — wreck beautiful things and spend our lives in disrepair. We bring in the suits with their calculators, shiny gadgets and fast maths and they run the formulas, assess the damages and deliver a report that tells us what we already knew: we should have left well enough alone. The cost of repair is so far beyond what we’ve lost. The suits shake their heads, You should have just let them play it as it lays.
Some of us make it out before we get sick on the nostalgia; shuffling the deck we are determined to play out a new hand. When no one is looking we sometimes hum the songs we use to know. Others lock themselves in their private prison of regret, listening to scratched records on repeat. Few of us never look back.
This week is the first mark of the end of an era. A man who has been an incredible mentor to me has left, and it took everything in me not to cry. During his farewell party I read a speech I’d prepared and my hands shook as I read the words aloud, and I told to a roomful of people that I was a better woman because of his friendship and a better leader because of his tireless mentorship. For three years we stood in integrity and one of my favorite people is gone. He is one of the best men I know; he’s one who pushed me to realize my greatness, and my heart broke when he left. All I wanted to do was stop the clocks, rewind, and go back to the days I sat in his office prattling on about this and that. And although I know that our friendship will grow and he’ll be present in my life, it’s still sad that every day I won’t hear the voice that is the only one louder than my own.
So forgive me as I try on sadness for size. Today I told someone that it’s so fucking sad. What’s sad, he asked. All of it. Every last minute of this. Think of it like the loss of a great love. You know that this person isn’t the one, but the break still hurts regardless. You still bruise and ache and cry your eyes out.
What stops me from stepping into that prison and listening to those scratched songs is that there’s a bigger hand left to play.
So I came home, mourned a little, cooked a little, and started shuffling the deck.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe courtesy of Blue Apron
3 cloves garlic
1 small onion
1 shallot
1 persian cucumber
1 carrot
1 sprig fresh oregano
1/2 head red leaf lettuce
fresh mozzarella
1 16oz can crushed tomatoes
2 tbsp parmesan cheese
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
5 tbsp olive oil
1 tsp dijon mustard
2 ciabatta rolls
DIRECTIONS
Get your mise en place: Peel the garlic, onion, shallot, cucumber and carrot. Finely dice the onion, garlic and shallot. Thinly slice the cucumber and carrot. Pick the oregano leaves off the step and roughly chop. Wash, dry, and roughly chop the lettuce leaves. Slice the mozzarella.
Make the sauce: Heat 2 tbsp of olive oil in a pan and sauté the onions and garlic for one minute under low heat. Add in the can of tomatoes, salt and pepper to taste. Cook on medium-low for ten minutes until the sauce thickens. I loathe chunky tomatoes so I used an immersion blender to smooth out the sauce once it was done. But this is me and I have texture issues so if you love the chunk, embrace the chunk.
Make the dressing: While the sauce is cooking, whisk the shallots, 3 tbsp olive oil, mustard and vinegar in a bowl until completely combined. Set aside.
Assemble the panini: Slice the ciabattas in half. Spread a thin layer of sauce on both rolls. Top 2 halves with 2-3 slices of fresh mozzarella and sprinkle half of the oregano on each. Season with salt, pepper and sprinkle a tsp of parmesan cheese over both halves. Carefully put the two halves together.
Grill the panini: I’m privileged that I had a panini press so I went crazy and added the sandwiches to the press. If you don’t have one, don’t fret. Heat a large pan until medium-hot and add the sandwiches. Place a heavy pot to weigh them down. Cook about three minutes a side until the cheese is melted and the bread is toasty.
Dress the salad + serve!: Toss the greens, carrots, cucumbers and dressing together in a large bowl and prepare half of the salad on two plates. Serve with the piping hot paninis, careful not to burn your mouth like I did!
seeking comfort from arugula pesto
Posted on February 28, 2013
When you’re under the weather {I’ve always wondered about this term and its origin. Could someone possibly be over the weather? I digress}, the only thing that’s not cumbersome is simple comfort food. For the past two days I’ve succumbed to the infectious plague that has become New York, and I’ve taken to my apartment, sustaining on green juices, tea and fresh pasta — in between chugs of DayQuil, naturally. Because, quite frankly, the idea of cooking anything complicated is inconceivable.
So I invite you to serve up this peppery version of the basil classic, and hope that I’ll be soaring over the weather come this weekend.
INGREDIENTS
8 oz fresh pasta (I oped for a tagliatelle, but you can use fettucini, linguine, etc)
3 oz washed + dried arugula leaves
1 large clove garlic
2 tbsp pecorino romano cheese
1 1/2 tbsp toasted pine nuts
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp cracked black pepper
1-2 tsp of the reserve pasta water
DIRECTIONS
Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Your pasta water should be briny, much like the ocean, but don’t overdue it as fresh pasta absorbs more salt than dried. I tend to put 1-2 tsp of salt into my water. While the water is coming to a boil, blitz the arugula, garlic, cheese, toasted pine nuts, salt and pepper until it’s a thick, chunky paste and then stream in the olive oil until satiny-smooth. Scrape out the pesto and add to a large serving bowl.
Once the water has come to a boil, add in the pasta and cook to al dente, 2 minutes. Reserve 2 tsp of the pasta water and drain the pasta. Add the pasta to your pesto and mix to combine. Add in the pasta water to thicken the sauce.
This dish serves two, so dig in or reserve for lunch the next day!
vegetable kebabs with curried chickpeas and yogurt sauce
Posted on January 23, 2013
If you want to find your passion, surrender to your heartbreak. Your heartbreak points towards a truer north, + it’s the difficult journey. — “How to Have a Year That Matters”
Speaking to so many different people lately who are out of sorts, or, more specifically, trying to find their way home. Whether they’ve lost jobs they’ve never really wanted or they’re forced to uproot their lives to move to a new city halfway across the world, the air feels nomadic. We’ve become itinerant, our year an Odyssey in miniature. Already this year presents so much change, unrest, indecision and flux, and we can either choose to drown in the mess of it or swim our way to shore.
So I’ve been thinking about change, great, earth-shattering change. The change of loud songs and kaboom, and I’ve been thinking about risk and change and love and life and what that all means. For me.
And this weekend I had a friend come ’round and we passed the time watching old horror movies, the black and white kind, and feasted on these yummy kabobs. Talking about our mutual chrysalis.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe courtesy of Blue Apron (Serves 2; 450 calories/person)
1/2 head of cauliflower, chopped into small florets
1 can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
2 carrots, cut into 1/2 inch rounds
8 brussels sprouts, cut in half
3 cloves garlic, fine dice 2 of them and smash and grind the third into a paste
1 small onion, finely diced
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp curry powder
1/2 cup plain Greek yoghurt
1 bunch mint, fine dice (2 tbsp)
1 bunch parsley, fine dice (2 tbsp)
4 wooden skewers
DIRECTIONS
Pre-heat the oven to 450F and line a baking sheet with tin foil. Set aside. Chop all your veggies as noted above and set aside. Place the cauliflower, carrots and brussels sprouts on the skewers, alternating vegetables as you like. If you have leftover veggies, don’t sweat it — chop them up finely and add them to the chickpea mixture later. Drizzle the skewers with salt, pepper and olive oil and roast them for 12-15 minutes, until they’re slightly charred and crisp.
While the kebabs are roasting, drizzle olive oil in a pan with medium heat and sauté the onions, 2 cloves of garlic, a little salt and remaining vegetables for 4-5 minutes. Season with salt/pepper to taste.
Add the rinsed chickpeas, turmeric, cumin and curry, as well as a few tablespoons of water to the pan and sauté for another 2-3 minutes. The sauce should thicken and become fragrant.
While the chickpeas are cooking, add the parsley, mint and garlic paste to the yoghurt and mix well (the recipe calls for adding the parsley at the end but I loved it in the sauce). Set aside.
Once the kebabs are done, divide the chickpea mixture between two plates, add the kebabs and drizzle the sauce over both plates. ENJOY!
ligurian chard with pine nuts, quinoa + feta
Posted on January 19, 2013
To say that I’ve an addictive personality would be an understatement. I tend to cleave to things, people, to an excess, to the point where the very thing I once love begins to sicken me. From the blueberry muffin to the glorious almond croissant (I won’t quit you!) to toxic girlfriends, my addiction has run the gamut so I’ve got to be careful.
One of the reasons why I subscribed to Blue Apron Meals {brief parenthetical: I’m in no way, shape or form being compensated or incentivized to prattle on endlessly about these guys — I just seriously love the service and have gotten scores of my work colleagues hooked} is the fact that it affords me meal diversity because I tend to get into a food rut when under considerable work stress. Then all of a sudden the delivery guys have my phone number programmed into their cell phones, and my garbage bin is piled high with leftover tubs of gnocchi pesto. NOT GOOD, PEOPLE. No wins in this scenario and a month of wearing leggings is the epitome of the downward spiral.
So today after French class I raced home and cooked up some healthy and FLAVORFUL chard with pine nuts, feta and quinoa. Not only do I feel virtuous about the food I’m eating (and the money I’m saving), I’m not hitting the Italian restaurant on speed dial.
INGREDIENTS: Recipe courtesy of Blue Apron Meals
1 bunch swiss chard
1 cup quinoa
1/4 cup golden raisins
4oz feta cheese
1 tbsp pine nuts
1/8 tsp red pepper flakes
3 cloves garlic
8-10 Kalamata olives
1 cup vegetable broth
1 small onion
1 lemon
DIRECTIONS
First, put a medium pot of water to a boil. Wash the chard, shake off the excess water. Next thinly slice the greens, onion and garlic. Finally, pit and chop the olives and set everything aside.
Add the quinoa to the boiling water, add a little salt, and cook for 8-10 minutes. While the quinoa is cooking, toast the pine nuts in a dry pan over high heat for a few seconds. Keep an eye on the nuts as they can burn and then you are left crying because pine nuts are EXPENSIVE and you’ve just ruined them. Trust me, I’ve been there. Remove the pine nuts from the heat and set aside.
Once the quinoa is done, drain it well and mix with the golden raisins, half of the pine nuts, half of the cheese, and the juice of half of a lemon. Season with salt (go easy on this as the feta and olives are quite salty) and pepper to taste.
Drizzle a little olive oil (1 tbsp) in a medium pan and turn the heat to high. Sauté the onion, red pepper flakes, and garlic for a few minutes, or until the onions start to soften. The last few Blue Apron recipes I tried I had to dial down the temperature and time as my garlic was getting chard. I had it on medium heat for 2-3 minutes, adding a little salt so the onions could sweat, and I was golden. Then, add the chard and sauté for a few more minutes until the leaves start to wilt.
Next, add the broth to the pan and simmer over medium-high heat. Cook until the broth reduces a bit, 5-6 minutes. Season with salt/pepper to taste.
Divide the quinoa between two plates (or pack a separate tupperware for work, as I do), then serve the chard over the top. Sprinkle the chopped olives over the quinoa and greens. Garnish with remaining cheese and pine nuts, along with a lemon wedge. Enjoy!
