We've scarcely had any rain up here in the hinterlands. I've even considered doing some sort of little dance in an effort to placate the gods. A winter without snow means no melts to form the vernal pools where frogs and salamanders spawn, and it can also lead to precious few mushrooms. (And this was to be my year of tracking down morels!) But driving home late the other night, we came across a yearly event that would seem to indicate that things are mostly proceeding according to plan: smashed frogs on the road. Yes, every year they make the trek from the ponds behind our house to the ones across the way. I know not why as it seems like a dangerous endeavor. A good number give up their precious lives along the journey to greener pastures. Out in the woods, we found other signs of spring, too.
Read More...

The Pavlova is a truly historic dessert. I first posted about it way back in the Early Bloggian period, here; and it made another appearance at an Eastover celebration a couple of years ago, here. It's truly one of my very favorite desserts, so texturally complex, light yet satisfying. And I also adore its provenance: created in honor of the Russian ballet dancer, Anna Pavlova, during one of her tours to Australia and New Zealand in the 1920s. The nationality of its creator has been the cause of controversy between the two countries for many years, though formal research seems to indicate that New Zealand is the original source.

Read More...

The main course for our Eastover celebration was this bacon-wrapped halibut and I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out. I had originally wanted to serve local trout but there was none to be had. Those few days of exceedingly warm temperatures had me (and many of my plants) fooled into thinking spring had actually arrived, but the sad reality is that it's been dropping to the 20s at night. G is outside right now building two new raised beds and we're itching to start planting...but I digress. I arrived at the fish market last week, firmly intending to buy 17 whole branzini (sea bass), but changed my mind when I realized how much work that would be for some of my guests. Instead, I came away with two enormous, thick and gorgeous wild-caught Pacific halibut filets. (Need to know which fish are sustainable and thus a better choice? Go here.) My plan was to wrap them in bacon and roast them in the oven.
Read More...

Let me just say, that picture does not do them justice. Quenelle is a generic term for a mixture of creamed fish, chicken or meat, sometimes combined with breadcrumbs and lightly bound with egg. Essentially glorified dumplings, they are usually poached and were often used as a garnish in traditional French haute cuisine. Quenelle has also come to refer to the gently rounded shape, made by passing the mixture from one spoon to the next, until it resembles a tiny football. I'm not sure where I tasted my first quenelle de brochet, the pike mousseline version that is a classic of Lyonnaise cooking, but it remains one of my favorite treats. Rarely seen on menus at this point (and when they are, you'd better be at a reliably good French restaurant), you'd have to go to France to sample one—or man up and make them yourself. I envisioned them as the perfect replacement for the much-maligned and rejected gefilte fish—essentially a cold, butter-&-creamless version of the quenelle.
Read More...

When it comes to entertaining, I'm a bit of a control freak. (OK, even sometimes when I'm not entertaining.) I happen to like things just so. When I invite people over I want them to feel relaxed and indulged. To me, this means the proceedings should be well-conceived, flow comfortably and add up to a pleasant experience for all the senses. I like soft lighting, good tunes, incense or scented candles (subtle and spicy, nothing cloying), comfortable places to sit, beautiful flowers, excellent company and good food. I get as much done ahead of time as possible so I can kick back and have a lovely time along with my guests. This particular Eastover menu had me in the kitchen a little more than I like. And a number of people brought hors d'oeuvres, which resulted in lots of food I hadn't planned for, albeit all quite delicious. Let me tell you about it.
Read More...

Our annual combined celebration of Easter and Passover came and went in a frenzy of cooking and eating, as usual. I was in charge of the bulk of the menu this time but, as always, our 15 friends brought traditional treats and specialties that really pushed things over the top. I'm going to spread out the telling of this event over the week, posting a different recipe each day, or else it will be too overwhelming for both of us. As you can see from the photo, above, we gathered at Beaver Dam, the gorgeous upstate home of a very chic French gallerist I am lucky to call my bosom friend. Big dogwood branches, hyacinths and other spring blooms came from the city, as most plants are still dormant up here. The sun was shining, the air was cool and fresh, and we had a roaring fire going. Spirits were high as the advent of spring always brings a rush of renewed energy.

I grew up in a family obsessed with language. To this day, try as I might, I sometimes cannot stop myself from correcting someone's grammar or droning on about semantics. I still remember the day it dawned on me that the word breakfast was derived from the act of breaking the fast. Another interesting tidbit that has stuck with me is something my father taught me: all the Spanish words that start with "al" are of Arabic derivation. "Alambre" means wire, a material used by the Moors in their ornate filigree; "Alhambra" is, of course, their castle in Andalucía; and "alcachofa" means artichoke, cultivated by the Moors as early as 800 AD in the countryside around Granada. I grew up in California near the epicenter of artichoke production and have been eating these delicious thistles my whole life. I recently shared a plate of them "alla Romana" with G at Boulud Sud, where they were fried to a greaseless crunch and accompanied by a lemony aïoli—perfection! I also adore the big globe artichokes, steamed and doused in lemon. I love to scrape each leaf with my teeth, savoring the green mineral flavor, until I've worked my way to the heart in all its creamy glory.
Read More...

My love affair with mangoes goes way back to summers spent in Mexico. Late afternoons on the plaza, after the rain had doused everything, fidgeting with anticipation as the mango man peeled me a big ripe one with his blackened steel knife, pierced it with a stick, then drenched it with lime and sprinkled on salt and earthy red chile. Sweet, slick, soft almost to the point of slimy and oh, so juicy. These flavors reach back inside me and conjure up memories of bustling markets, the smell of burning leaves, the delight of a pirulí—that brilliant red elongated pyramid of a lollipop that I twirled and twirled in my mouth. Ah, childhood. Every year at this time I can get it back for a moment when I eat my first mango of the season.
Read More...

Life is so short. And every year it seems to slip by more quickly, doesn't it? So I try to focus mostly on doing what I want, being with those I love and feeling as good as possible. This doesn't mean I don't have the occasional hissy-fit or melt-down, but I've worked hard to create a life that keeps those to a minimum. Recently, I read an article that ran in New York magazine about the popularity of Xanax and how anti-anxiety drugs are so commonplace and essential in these fraught, post-911 times. We're all deeply aware that the economy has collapsed, the environment is not far behind and terrorists could strike any time, any place. As the article, written by Lisa Miller, says, "The crises people face in these early months of 2012 are individual and circumstantial, yes, but they’re global and abstract as well, stemming largely from the haunting awareness (it’s certainly haunting me) that the fates of everyone in the world are intertwined and the job of protecting civilization from assorted inevitable disasters seems to have fallen to no one." But I'm wondering: is the world really any scarier than when we were afraid of "The Bomb," or of AIDS, or of polio, for that matter? How did people get through the Great Depression without Ativan? And why is everyone now so sure that relief lies in taking a pill?
Read More...

In September of 2009, after nearly 25 years in New York City, I decamped for the little cottage in Sullivan County that had been our weekend escape. It was among the best moves of my life. Recently, I read in World of Interiors magazine (one of my greatest sources of inspiration) about an artist residing in the most spare and beautiful cottage on the rocky coast of England. She said that being so far from the city enabled her to resist the trends and tug of consumerism so present in a throbbing metropolis, and fueled her artistic endeavors. Like her, I often go all day without speaking to anyone, except perhaps Titi, my boon feline companion. I am more in touch with my self and my creative impulses than ever before. I ebb and flow with the rhythm of the seasons now; the natural world is compelling and so alive to me. If this sort of existence tempts you, consider making a move of your own. There is an amazing little compound with a Victorian church for sale in the Hudson Valley that could be the answer to your dreams.
Read More...