Eating

I'm definitely a food snob of sorts. I've been known to get all uppity about faux this and that, things masquerading as other things. Margarine. Tofurkey. Miracle Whip. Why bother? (In truth, I once loved Miracle Whip on a tomato sandwich.) But G's digestive issues have made me realize that substitutions are sometimes necessary. And while gluten-free bread may not be worth the bother, certain gluten-free foods are quite nice in their own right. Anyone who's had treats from Babycakes knows what I'm talking about. So it may not come as a total surprise when I tell you that this recipe for a decadent and velvety smooth chocolate mousse is—wait for it—vegan. That's right—no eggs and no cream. I was very skeptical the first time I made this. It's suspiciously easy, requiring absolutely no whipping at all. Various recipes for vegan chocolate mousse had been popping up online, some with avocado, others with coconut milk—I think I even remember one from Jean Georges! This is the one I arrived at after a bit of experimentation.
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Saw The Social Network last night. I think Fincher's best movie thus far. He really got out of his own way for a change, and Aaron Sorkin's screenplay will probably win the Oscar. It's a great portrait of tortured soul and Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg, whose stupefying mix of arrogant brilliance and crippling insecurity reminded me of half the people I encountered at Harvard, especially the genius-geeks whose shameless misogyny stemmed from never being able to get a date. The film is  less about the phenomenon of social networking than it is about the irony that the dude who creates it is a social outsider. Jesse Eisenberg gives a flawless performance, his face a motionless enigma that rarely jerks into a grimace we come to recognize as a smile. Movie night was preceded by yet another trip to Eataly, this time at the sub-prime hour of 4pm. The place was buzzing but  not overcrowded, and G and I slipped right into a couple of seats at the counter of Pesce. An appetizer of razor clams bathed in olive oil, parsley, garlic and hot pepper was delicious, a harbinger of things to come. Both G's whole branzino, infused with lemon and roasted on a thin crust of half-crispy-half-velvety potatoes, and my smoked black cod with a crackling skin and salad of watercress were fresh off the boat and perfectly executed. A quick trip to the gelato stand (chocolate for G, equally smooth and unctuous pear-vanilla sorbetto for me) and we were off to the races. I love a dose of the city on an unseasonably warm fall day.
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The great pumpkin returns, this time in the tender little dumplings known as gnocchi, meaning "lumps" in Italian. Probably of Middle Eastern origin, they were introduced by the Roman Legions during the enormous expansion of the empire. At that time, gnocchi were made from a porridge-like semolina dough mixed with eggs, which bears a resemblance to the saffron-infused basis for malloreddus, Sicily's signature dumpling. Although potato is what you'll see most often, pumpkin or any sort of squash also make a wonderful addition to these chubby nuggets. The key is to ensure their lightness by using as little flour as possible. If you can get your hands on a kabocha squash (sometimes called Japanese pumpkin), you'll find that their dense, dry flesh can make up the bulk.

 

The making of gnocchi is not an exact science. You take pumpkin or squash, flour, a little egg, some grated cheese and you mix it together to make a dough. You don't want to beat it or knead it a great deal as this can rob it of some of the quintessential lightness that makes gnocchi so irresistible. You roll the dough into long snake-like coils and chop these into the bite-sized pieces you will begin to recognize. Push a fork into each one to create the signature striations so adept at catching sauce and you're done. Simply plop them into boiling water until they float, then scoop them out and serve with brown butter and sage. Or, as I prefer, sear them next in a hot pan with a little olive oil or butter so they get a bit crisp, then top them with anything you like: roasted tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, a scoop of ricotta, pesto, virtually anything goes.

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I  love oatmeal (so does Thomas Keller—apparently it's one of his go-to late night suppers!) and frequently make more than I need just so I can have the pleasure of eating these fried oatmeal cakes. It's another way of getting a little variety into that first meal of the day. I think I got the idea from Mark Bittman, but it's not much of a revelation. Hey, you take leftover oatmeal and fry it up in a pan. Still, it has a lovely, chewy texture and makes a great vehicle for all sorts of toppings. Sometimes I'll have it with in the traditional Irish manner, with some buttermilk and brown sugar, others I'll shower it with sea salt and a good dose of Tabasco.

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I love pancakes on a Sunday morning. To me they mean long, lazy breakfasts with the paper in hand (maybe The Star) and many cups of tea (chai?), some great tunes playing in the background (Van Morrison). It's nice to improvise with what's around: bananas with walnuts; fresh blueberries; buckwheat and buttermilk. But always, always, warm maple syrup. It used to be I had to have melted butter, but now I often substitute virgin coconut oil. I love the subtle taste, and I'm always hoping that the lauric acid will be beneficial for G's digestive tract. (To read more about how coconut oil supports good health, go here.) Right now I have many different types of squash and pumpkin on hand, and I had cut up a big Cinderella pumpkin into quarters and roasted it so I could stock up on puree. I've now got a huge jar of the stuff in my fridge, and I see gnocchi and maybe soup and even a pumpkin cake in my future. But today it was pumpkin pancakes, light and fluffy, fragrant with ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. The pumpkin adds a sweet richness and guarantees these will never be dry. With a crumble of buttery pecans mixed in and a drizzle of warm maple syrup, this is a breakfast of champions.
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This seductive soup is pronounced "fuh," like the word for fire in French. I had wanted to post a gorgeous "pho"-to of a big, steaming bowl of it, but we ate the entire pot before I got the chance. So instead, here's one of a woman in the market in Saigon scarfing down this wonderful national dish. Pho is traditionally eaten for breakfast in Vietnam, but it goes down like a charm for lunch and dinner, too. It's great stuff for cold weather eating, but that doesn't prevent South East Asians from having it in the raging heat. A rich but clear beef broth, infused with star anise, clove, cinnamon and ginger, it is traditionally served with slices of raw sirloin, shallots, bean sprouts, cilantro, Thai basil, mint, lots of slippery, chewy rice noodles, a squeeze of lime and maybe some chile. It's not so complicated; mostly, it just takes time. I love how you char ginger and onions directly over the flame of your burner; it imparts just a hint of smokiness that is very reminiscent of outdoor cooking in Asia. As with all stocks, you make this ahead so you can skim off the fat, and it's quite a healthful and nourishing dish because of the good nutrition from bones. Of course, I urge you to make this with meat from a happy cow, please. For its sake, and for yours.
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Fruit leather! You can make it with practically any fruit you have on hand. Chewy, lightly sweet and loaded with delicious fruit flavor, it's ideal to stash at the office, pack in lunch boxes or take along on a hike. Better than what you can buy—because you've made it yourself with organic fruit, honey and spices—it virtually makes itself. You just cut up fruit, cook it down to a puree, pass it through a sieve, sweeten it a little and spread it out on baking sheets to dry in a very low oven. I made the mistake of leaving mine in overnight, so I couldn't monitor its progress and the edges got a little too dry, but even so they are like wonderful shards of stained glass that crunch and dissolve in the mouth.
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I'm crazy about shiso and was thrilled that we were able to grow several plants in our garden this summer. Turns out they like a spot that is a bit shadier, neither wet nor dry. We had to rescue armloads of the stuff before the first frost as it immediately and tragically goes black and limp. But then there I was with tons of shiso and only a few ideas as to how to use it. I've always enjoyed the crystallized shiso leaves, coated in a brittle crust of sugar, that are part of the dessert plate at Matsuri, but I couldn't really see making them at home. And I do like the pickled umeboshi-plum-and-shiso roll that is on every classic sushi menu, but that would use up just a few leaves at most. I did go ahead and make a simple syrup infused with the smaller quantity of red shiso I had—great for cocktails and to mix with soda water—but that still left me with vast quantities of the green. A quick scan of the web revealed virtually no inspiration, aside from an edamame salad enlivened with chopped shiso. So I put on my special Glutton's Thinking Cap (looks something like this, or perhaps this), gazed deep into the vast recesses of the fridge, and came up with a rather inventive way to use large handfuls of deliciously pungent, minty shiso.

A surfeit of green tomatoes had me racking my brain—and scanning the web—for recipes that called for neither frying nor pickling. I came across one that looked pretty easy and interesting on Melissa Clark's blog. You've probably read her column in the Times, but may not know that she has collaborated with all the best chefs on a zillion cookbooks, including Daniel Boulud's Braise, a particular favorite of mine around this time of year. (It features fantastic recipes for short ribs; grouper with fennel and cashews; and carbonnade with Belgian beer and gingerbread, among many others.) So she knew what she was doing when she threw together this dish of country-style pork ribs slow-braised with green tomatoes, citrus and vermouth. And, if I do say so myself, I knew what I was doing by serving it with fresh, warm cornbread.
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We had tons of yellow cherry tomatoes from two plants this summer, and they continued to produce long after I could figure out what to do with them. They filled bowls and trays, rolled around our kitchen counter, and generally beamed up at me like small blonde children. In the end, I came up with a perfect way to preserve—and even intensify—their sunny sweetness. I simply roast them in the oven at a relatively low temperature and then pack them into jars with olive oil. Are you familiar with Craisins? They are Ocean Spray's attempt to make dried cranberries more palatable by piggybacking on the popularity of raisins. Well, in a stroke of pure marketing genius, I have dubbed mine Tomaisins. Although they aren't totally desiccated, and I don't especially foresee adding them to trail mix, I think they have a lot of potential.

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