Eating

You've earned it. The right to put your feet up. To zone out. To nap. To sit in front of the fire reading that book that's been tempting you for months. To try a new recipe, listen to music, have a long, meandering chat with a loved one. To trawl the interwebs for loot. To watch silly YouTube videos, favorite movies and fabulous TV shows. To stuff your face. To get drunk or high, or both. To go for a run, a ride, a hike. To pray, to celebrate, to review the past year and meditate on the future. To be grateful for what and whom you have. Remember, even though the kids are melting down and your mother-in-law is irritating and your sister is crying and your husband is gone: This is your time. Carve out some space for yourself and do exactly as you please.Here are some links I've been compiling for you. May they bring you pleasure, inspiration, knowledge and fun, as you sip some delicious wine (or sparkling cider) and dream of what's to come.
Read More...

Oil is one of the iconic symbols of Hanukkah, meant to remind us of the oil that kept the Second Temple of ancient Israel lit with a long-lasting flame. This miracle is celebrated with the consumption of all manner of fried treats, and the latke is front and center. Latkes are usually made from potatoes, but can often incorporate other vegetables, including sweet potatoes, celery root, apples, beets or whatever's on hand. This type of pancake is found in the cuisines of Luxembourg (gromperekichelcher), Latvia, Lithuania, Austria, Belarus (draniki), Germany (Kartoffelpuffer), Poland (placki ziemniaczane), Ukraine (deruny), Hungary, Slovakia, Persia and the Czech lands (bramborák)—not to mention India and Korea (pa jeon), among others. It's a simple fritter—easy to make and easy to enjoy—with a very universal appeal. I made some last night for the first night of Hanukkah, and wished my dad were alive so I could share them with him.
Read More...

From the time that I was 11 until I left for college at 17, I lived with my parents in an extraordinary architectural house in the redwoods at the top of a mountain looking down over rolling hills and the town all the way to the ocean. My father was the provost of Stevenson College at UC Santa Cruz, and that house came with the job as did a mandate to do lots of entertaining for both students and faculty. Fortunately for my father, he was married to my mother, a consummate hostess. She threw many legendary parties, not the least of which was the annual Christmas party—really two parties. While the adults got plastered on Fish House Punch upstairs, the children ran amok downstairs. There was a 20-foot tall Christmas tree, a visit from Santa bearing a huge bag of gifts, live music, and an endless stream of cookies and savory delights, including little phyllo-wrapped pastries. Someday I hope to have a big house that I can fill with loads of people (I can only manage it in my screened-in porch on July 4th), but for now I will content myself with making burek.
Read More...

My friend Jim has been chomping at the bit for this mushroom lasagna. I mentioned it in passing on my GFL Facebook page (Still haven't "liked" me yet? Hustle over there and help me boost my numbers, yo!) and he started drooling and envisioning a cozy Christmas Eve gathering with this as the irresistible centerpiece. Never mind that I basically kiped the recipe from a recent article in the New York Times in which editor Sam Sifton waxed eloquent about "a gooey thrill of savory sweetness, salty astringency and the meaty pong of wild mushrooms"—a lasagna made by Monica Byrne of Brooklyn's Home/Made. Sifton adapted her recipe for home cooks with a few shortcuts, including no-boil noodles, and I adapted it further to use what I had on hand. Living in the sticks, you can't just run out to the corner store for a ball of smoked mozzarella or some truffle oil whenever the whim strikes. But one of the many beauties of lasagna is that it's pretty forgiving, as long as you're using a light touch and very fresh ingredients, whatever they may be. Personally, I'm not the biggest fan of those leaden layers with all kinds of meat and sausage and an overly seasoned tomato sauce. But this recipe eschews meat altogether in favor of radicchio (though I could definitely see adding in some pancetta or bacon), and the sauce is a garlicky béchamel. It's a rich and creamy dish that's pretty much exactly what you want for dinner on Christmas Eve—unless you're making tamales. Or duck. Or paella, which is what I'll be eating on the 24th.
Read More...

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.
Read More...

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.

Read More...

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.
Read More...

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.
Read More...