Eating

It’s so wonderful to be able to celebrate with friends. Nothing makes me happier than sitting down to a delicious meal with a group of pals in high spirits. If I have made the meal, so much the better. It’s a way for me to express my love, to share a little bit of myself. We had three weekend guests at our tiny cottage, and two more drove over from Stone Ridge for the evening. Because Stephanie is still watching her fat intake (like a hawk), I had to come up with a menu that was virtually fat-free yet could still satisfy all these gourmands. I don’t think anyone left the table feeling deprived.
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Hot tamale. It's an old joke I never tire of. And indeed, though it's a chilly, grey morning, tomorrow is supposed to be unseasonably warm. 80 degrees in April—WTF?! Tamales, however, know no season. Yes, they are rather hearty and, yes, they were a Christmas Eve tradition in our house, but I'll eat them anytime, rain or shine. Tamales were part of any celebration banquet for the ancient Aztecs, who stuffed them with snails, game, boiled fruit, broad beans and fish with chile sauce. They are truly one of my favorite foods. I love untying the little packet and peeling the husk away to reveal the rich, pudding-like steamed masa, redolent of corn and concealing some savory nuggets. I like chicken tamales, cheese-&-chile tamales and, perhaps most of all, pork tamales. They are definitely not something you throw together in 15 minutes, but then neither is a good lasagna. Grab some friends and make it a party, that's the typical Mexican way. Once the weather warms up, we'll start eating loads of fresh fruits and salads and grilled things, so this may just be the perfect time for a little kitchen-intensive slow food. And once you make this red chile pork—earthy, lightly spicy and so flavorful—it will become a staple of your repertoire, equally delicious in tacos or on its own with a shaved cabbage and avocado salad.
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Risotto is one of those dishes that have been made to seem intimidating: all that stirring! the right rice! the stock! Newsflash: it's overrated. Not its deliciousness, that's indisputable, but its difficulty quotient. Simply assemble the right ingredients, have the patience to hang around the stove for 25 minutes or so, and you wind up with a rich, creamy bowl of goodness that works with so many different flavors. As for the right ingredients, it's really about the rice. A long-grain white rice is what you need for a classic risotto (although farro and barley make interesting variations), such as Arborio, Vialone Nano and Carnaroli, known as the "caviar of rice." Riso Acquerello is a kind of Carnaroli grown in Piedmont, and the one used exclusively by Le Cirque for its famous risotto. In a unique process, it's aged for at least a year to develop its structure and ensure that the grains are polished to perfection. A high starch content allows it to absorb liquid beautifully, so the rice retains a toothy "al dente" quality while acquiring a creamy consistency—the two hallmarks of the ultimate risotto.

There are so many different possibilities for risotto: with saffron for a classic Milanese; with the first peas and asparagus of spring; with pureed squash stirred in; with porcini; and on and on. The recipe, below, is inspired by the Italian master chef Nino Bergese, whose Riso Mantecato is decadent with butter and requires absolutely no stirring at all. I've called my version Risotto da Re (The King's Risotto), because it's fit for royalty: unctuous, luxurious and taken to new heights with a spoonful of rich meat stock ladled on top. It was selected as an Editor's Pick on Food52, an honor of which I do not tire.
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I've never gotten into reality TV, never seen Top Chef, so I can only judge Tom Colicchio on the basis of his food which I think is pretty damn good. It was over a luxurious dinner at Craft in 2005 that G requested permission to officially court me. I still remember coyly nodding my head as I stuffed in a mouthful of roasted chanterelles. This was a man who knew the way to my heart. (Which one? you're asking...) I've also been a loyal fan of Craftbar over the years, especially during the reign of Akhtar Nawab, when you could sip some delicious Campari cocktail at the bar while noshing on fried sage leaves stuffed with sausage. These days, in its new location on Broadway, Craftbar is still a fun spot—and a good deal—for lunch. During the abbreviated run of Craftsteak, I had one of the best steaks of my life, a flatiron. But I remember being rather appalled at the blasting air-conditioning (for all those sweaty, rib-eye-eating Wall Streeters) and the equally affronting price tag. Now this huge, wood-filled space has been reincarnated as Colicchio and Sons—a more modest but also more ambitious restaurant. As Sam Sifton of the Times said in his 3-star review last week, "A lot of testosterone has been drained off, and a combination of flowers and a Grateful Deadish soundtrack do much to counter the boom-era feel of the restaurant’s towering ceilings and soft leather seats." I took a friend there for her birthday lunch yesterday but arrived early, so decided to perch at the bar while I waited. Of course this led to a cocktail (at noon!), a wonderful combination of thyme-infused vodka with lemon and ginger ale called the Hard Thyme, accompanied by a teensy bowl of chile-roasted nuts. When my friend arrived, I was pleasantly loose and ready for anything.
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They were all out of the organic whipped butter I favor at Whole Foods the other day and, on a whim, I decided to try making my own. I had read somewhere recently about how easy it is—you just proceed as if you were making whipped cream and keep going! I had no idea how much cream to get so I erred on the side of too much, as usual. But I was remembering how when you make paneer, it takes 2 gallons of milk to get one measly portion of cheese. I guess because cream is fattier it doesn't release so much liquid. In the end, I wound up with more than a pound of butter! I added sea salt and froze about three-quarters of it it as I don't really use all that much butter. Why bother with all this? It was easy, it was fun, it was interesting and, in the end, I wound up with delicious, creamy and golden organic butter. If you have kids, I bet they would get a kick out of joining you in the kitchen for this one.
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I love staring into the fridge and trying to make sense of its sometimes overwhelming contents. All those ingredients are like a puzzle that, with a little clever thinking and some inspiration from the muse, can come together into something beautifully cohesive. Remember that corned beef I made for St. Patrick’s Day? Well, I was left with a lot of gorgeous beef broth that I had strained and stuck in a jar. And I had a beautiful large bulb of celeriac from our trip to the farm last weekend, and a hunk of smoked Gouda from the smokehouse. (Actually too intensely smoky to eat plain!) I could have made a gratin—celeriac is great like that—but with all that good broth I decided to make a soup. The result was incredibly easy and velvety-rich. I recommend you give it a try before we move on to the asparagus and sorrel soups of spring.
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Over the Christmas holidays last year, G and I traveled to Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos with our friends Lisa and Philip. We saw beautiful temples, explored the overgrown wonder that is Angkor Wat, took a boat ride up the Mekong, strolled through the art galleries of Saigon, ate countless bowls of pho, slurped down many coconut frosties, and bought way more Cambodian silk than anyone has a right to. Among the trip's highlights were the many markets we visited. The gorgeous fresh produce, the delicious food being cooked on the spot, sparkling seafood on display and, yes, plenty of other, less appetizing things—like roasted roaches (Philip ate some and said they tasted like nuts), snakes on a stick and a few unidentifiable substances in varying states of decay.

We were pretty restrained about eating on the street like that, having picked up assorted parasites on other trips (and having all become violently ill on this one after eating the homemade paté de foie gras of a French expat at his tiny bistro in Siem Reap). But thanks to the fabulous Australian Luxe guides we were turned on to a fantastic restaurant with branches in both Hanoi and Saigon. I think they were both called Quan An Ngon, but since the guide described them as being as big and packed as "Pam Anderson’s bra," that's how we referred to them.
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This cake came about because I found some gorgeous-looking hazelnut flour when I was poring over the Market Hall Foods website and I had some lovely fresh ricotta from the farm upstate. Plus I'm always looking for new, gluten-free treats for G so he doesn't feel deprived in this wheat-centric world. Sicilians make a ricotta cheesecake with chopped hazelnuts, perfumed with lemon zest, so that—and the classic Italian hazelnut cake—was my inspiration. It's sort of my own hybrid, so I've called it Torta "La Cosa Nostra," but after sharing it with you, I won't have to kill you. Light yet rich, it has a dense but crumbly texture. As with my orange-almond flour cake, I like to sprinkle the top with demerara sugar (a raw cane sugar with a large crystal) which forms a lovely crunchy crust. The cake is pretty irresistible served warm with a dollop of creme fraîche or a scoop of lightly sweetened ricotta. It's also good accompanied by fresh, macerated or stewed fruit. (Some suggestions: fresh blood oranges; strawberries macerated in balsamic vinegar; stewed apricots.)
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I've had some positive feedback on my round-ups of ingredients, so here's a new one for you. This time it's vinegar, in some of its many permutations. As children, my sisters and I called each other "Vinegar Pig." This originated from our love of drinking glugs of white vinegar straight from the bottle while dyeing Easter eggs. I've never been one to shy away from sour pickles or throat-scratchingly tart salad dressings, and I'm still known to take a swig from the bottle of balsamic, but I think by now I've learned how to employ vinegar to slightly more subtle effect.
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Our journey north yesterday was so much fun! Visiting River Brook Farm in Cochecton really got me excited about the arrival of the new season—though in the wake of gale force winds and freezing rain that still seems a ways off up here. Still, nothing says spring like cuddling with a baby goat. They are so silky and sweet-smelling, so lovable and mischievous, nibbling on your hair and your fingers and your collar. As you can see, I was in ecstasy. It was also great to see the farmers, Alice and Neil, whom we hadn't visited in a couple of months. They're all revved up for planting season, super-organized and already cutting bags of salad greens—spinach, mache, miner's lettuce, etc—from their greenhouse. And they've still got several kinds of potatoes, jars upon jars of rare heirloom beans, and hardy vegetables like squash and celery root.

After a prolonged stop at the farm, we made our way up to Delaware Delicacies, Ray Turner's smokehouse in a remote corner of Hancock, New York.
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