We came. We cocktailed. We conquered. I feel hungover this morning, but not from drinking. Last night's event was both energizing and exhausting, and I think we can say it was an unqualified success. More than 200 people turned up at Warby Parker's Holiday Spectacle Bazaar to visit Best Made Company's pop-up shop and sip Glutton for Life cocktails made with foraged ingredients and Stranahan's Colorado whiskey. Although I think of myself as a bit of a grumpy misanthrope at times, I was deeply happy interacting with all the lovely people (old friends and new) that stopped by my little makeshift bar to sample the evening's three specialties: The Nutty Professor, Pining for You and Drunken Indian Lemonade. The mood was very festive and everyone really seemed to be having a good time, especially after a cup of the Johnny Appleseed Punch.
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What a week. Did I mention I am making my first personal appearance for Glutton for Life? My dear friend Peter, he of Best Made fame, asked to me to participate in one of three evenings he is hosting at the Warby Parker Holiday Spectacle Bazaar, a SoHo pop-up happening (for lack of a better word) featuring stuff to eat, drink, buy, see and learn. It was initially pitched to me as a hands-on workshop for a couple dozen people, where I could talk about whatever I wanted—oh, and there's a whiskey sponsor. So mixing cocktails seemed like a no-brainer. Then, to put my own little upstate spin on things, I decided to use foraged ingredients. This seemed to pique everyone's interest. Done deal. Then, I find out they're expecting upwards of 100 people. And I stop to consider that the dead of winter might not be the very best time to forage for ingredients. Um, time to regroup.
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My friend Andy Jacobson died on Saturday. He was only 52, and he left behind an incredible wife and two amazing teenagers. I saw it coming but I wasn't prepared. I wanted more time with him, a chance to fix him the Brussels sprouts salad that was the subject of his last tweet to me. In response to my posting this video on the subject, he wrote: "Looks so good! Will you make them???? Pleeeeeze." I never got around to it. Like my father, he had stomach cancer, so he might not have been able to eat it anyway. But still. I'm making it now, Andy, and I'm hoping that whoever else tries the recipe below will think of you, too. An aesthete, a mensch, a quibbler, a devoted father and husband, a loyal friend, a merry prankster. One of G's pals from way back, and like family to us, he got himself licensed so he could perform our wedding ceremony, and he milked that crowd for laughs. The gods are surely smiling today.

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It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. Around here, that's signaled by the annual frenzy of caramel-making that kicks in right after Thanksgiving. A gorgeous snowfall helps, and the strains of Misa Criolla, a traditional peasant mass, and Handel's Messiah are never far behind. Joanne, the lady at our local post office, was in awe of how many packages we mailed out today (around 100, some we hand-deliver) and was curious about how the tradition got started. I actually started making the legendary caramels in the late '90s to give to clients, but the line between clients and friends has blurred over the years, and the word has spread far and wide. It's not just that they are deliciously addictive, but that they are made by hand and with love, and that they appear year after year around the same time. This notion of tradition is so important to us, especially around the holidays. It's rather poignant for me because, with both my parents dead and no children in our house, traditions can seem a bit, well, pointless. Sometimes I am gripped with the sad realization that there will be no one to carry on what I do, but then I rally and realize that's all the more reason for me to do whatever I can, in the best way possible, right here and right now—and to share it with as many people as I can, including you.

What's your idea of celebration? For me it once meant high heels and perfume, a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other. Nowadays, it's just as likely to take place around a bonfire while wearing Red Wings, but the cocktail is still de rigueur. Let me be clear: I'm not a big drinker. I go very quickly from feeling happy to clutching the bowl, so two drinks is my limit and most often I'm happy with one. But make it a delicious one. As you know, I adore bourbon. But about 15 years ago, during the Big Vodka Craze of the '90s, I fell in love with vanilla vodka, and I've decided it's time to bring it back. Oversaturation gave vodka a bad name, but it's really just gin without the spices, and nothing goes better with caviar. Not even Champagne.

I'm very into tea. I've never been into coffee (although I do like the occasional cup, especially with lots of cream and sugar) but I really enjoy the ritual of gripping a steaming mug of something first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I bring G a cup in bed around 7:30am and he brings me one at around 10pm. We favor herbal teas, though my repertoire includes some green and black teas as well. The latter I will often drink with a splash of milk, and a spoonful of local honey goes into almost all of them. In the winter, I will sometimes sip tea all day long. As I write this, I am wondering if this is why my teeth are starting to look yellow. Hmmm. Well, anyway, it's better than red wine. Or coffee. Or just as good. Here are some of my favorites, in no particular order.

Mariage Frères teas are expensive, so you know I love them. They are French and very voluptous with fabulously romantic names like Marco Polo and Wedding Imperial and Black Orchid and Eros. They are of course very hard to find unless you are in Paris, but try here or here.
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The grapefruit (Citrus × paradisi) is an 18th-century hybrid first bred in Barbados, a subtropical citrus tree known for its pleasingly sour fruit. It was originally named the "forbidden fruit," though until the 19th century it was called "shaddock." (Huh?)  Its current name alludes to the cluster formations of the fruit on the tree, which look like grapes. My in-laws sent us a baker's dozen from Florida last week, and they are ruby red inside and bursting with juice. My first thought? Sorbet.
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We took advantage of the nice weather the other weekend to really put the finishing touches on the garden. The beds got a last weeding and were cleared of everything but a few kale and collard plants. All the pots had to be emptied and many of the perennials trimmed back. Living closer to the land like this makes you much more aware of the seasons and so of the passing of time. I look down at my hands stuck in the dirt, the beginning of arthritis just starting to swell a few knuckles, and I see my mother's hands. I was blessed with long, slender fingers and have been proud of my hands all my life, but this, along with my dark hair, is just one of the many vanities the years will strip from me. In return I have gained other things, including the pleasure of hearing G crow upon finding a cache of brilliant pink potatoes buried under the straw where he planted seeds late last summer. He had given up all hope of success in this department, so the discovery was that much sweeter. Have you ever seen such a vividly colored spud? I cut one open and was amazed to find that it was a rosy pink inside, and unbelievably crisp and juicy, almost like an apple. The freshest potato I've ever encountered and a sight to behold.
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My baloney has a first name. It's Mortadella. I'll bet you already know that baloney is a bastardization of bologna—actually, Bologna, for the city in Italy from whence this delectable pork sausage hails. But are you aware that it's named for the mortar (mortaio) that in conjunction with a pestle was originally responsible for the finely ground meat that forms the basis of this heat-cured salume? (Salume is how Italians refer to charcuterie or, more basely, cold cuts.) I have no love for Oscar Mayer's offspring, and shudder to think what goes into those inspid, rubbery slices. They're barely fit to kiss the hem of the real deal: a rich, dense and savory concoction, flavored with garlic, coriander, nutmeg and sometimes studded with pistachios.

I get my mortadella at Eataly's fabulous salumeria where I can have it cut to order in a thick slab. For some gathering over the next month I may even make this recipe I came across for "Mortadella Smear" in Saveur. Trust me, it surpasses its unfortunate name in every way. Pureed mortadella enriched with a velouté sauce and a little cream, slathered on grilled bread and drizzled with balsamic. What's not to like? This diverges wildly from the mortadella of yore and is more akin to paté whipped up by a lazy Italian contessa.

Mortadella has a fair amount of fat, so it fries up beautifully crisp. You can do thin slices, which are quite nice, almost chip-like, but I prefer chubby little cubes that come out chewy with crunchy edges. The perfect vehicle for them? A fresh escarole salad tossed with tangy anchovy dressing.

Escarole, also known as "broad-leaved endive" (but not called that by anyone you know) is a member of the chicory family, along with puntarelle, radicchio and Belgian endive. It's slightly sweeter than its bitter brethren and is a sadly under-appreciated green. (Here's a recipe for a very simple escarole soup.) Delicious cooked—sauteed with shallots and chile, wilted in garlicky oil—escarole is secretly a salad diva. Served raw, it's gutsy without being aggressive and has gently curled edges that are made for cupping dressing.

We had this salad one night for dinner along with cups of creamy butternut squash soup sprinkled with spicy toasted squash seeds, and it reminded me that I've been meaning to talk to you about something: GARNISHES. The way you finish a dish can make the difference between good and extraordinary. G calls it "kicking it up a notch"—unabashedly ripping off Emeril's catch-phrase—and it's a call to action in the kitchen. You can always make something just that much better with an extra drizzle of spicy green olive oil, sprinkling of coarse sea salt, frizzle of herbs or dollop of crème fraîche.

This is where the notion of condiments comes into play. Homemade chutney, spiced pumpkin seeds, curry salt, fried sage, pickled onions—these have the power to bring your cooking into focus by adding flavor and textural counterpoints. Use your imagination, your creativity and your palate, and have fun gilding the lily.
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When I was growing up, every 7 years my family lived in Spain. My father was a professor of Spanish literature, and he spent his sabbaticals doing research, writing and collecting the Sephardic ballads that were his specialty. The year I turned 15 there, my sisters (5 and 7 years older than I) were already out of the house, so I was  essentially an only child. I went everywhere with my parents, which meant a very diverse cultural life (opera, theater, dance, symphony, museums, galleries), lots of meals out and visits to some very fancy Madrid residences. Perhaps because we were in Europe—or maybe it had something to do with the almost exclusively adult company—the rules relaxed a bit and I was often allowed a glass of sherry, cointreau or vino tinto. This set the stage for expanding my appetite, too, and I tried many unknown delicacies: octopus, white asparagus, kidneys, membrillo. The latter was a deep-amber-colored jelly that was often brought out with the cheese course (another novelty), a sticky, sweet confection to pair with the rich oily Manchego. At the time, I had never seen a quince, and it's a bit of a leap anyway from that fuzzy, essentially inedible fruit to this jammy nectar of the gods.
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