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.
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More rain. Lots more. Enough that thoughts begin to turn away from corn salsas and tomato salads and toward cozier soups and stews. So the tomatoes and eggplant that have finally started trickling in from our late-producing garden inspired me to make a dish I'd never before eaten, much less cooked: moussaka. This Mediterranean eggplant-based casserole, eaten as far afield as the Balkans and the Middle East, comes in a few different versions, usually with ground lamb and tomato sauce, and sometimes with a topping of béchamel or custard (á la Elizabeth David, the seminal British cook). I've never been the hugest fan of shepherd's pie, but I thought this might be a slightly lighter and tastier variation on that general idea. I found a recipe online at Saveur, but it called for a layer of potatoes, which seemed a bit excessive (plus I didn't have any on hand), so I simply left them out. I also didn't have currants (I used raisins) or bell peppers (ick, in general), but the dish didn't suffer from the lack of either. Although the recipe does look like a lot of steps, it's actually a pretty simple process of making three distinct layers: fried eggplant; a garlicky lamb-&-tomato sauce with piquant spicing; and a rich, creamy topping. With a green salad, it makes a relatively easy and quite delicious weeknight dinner.
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G is wild about octopus. At Fairway, he'll often grab a container of vinegary octopus salad that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I come across it in the fridge. OK, I admit it, I'm a bit of an octopussy. I find its alien appearance—the purply sheen, the suction cups, the encephalitic head—rather unnverving. I've sampled some delicious octopus dishes in my time, usually by taking a bite from G's plate. It's almost always served  grilled: in a salad with bamboo shoots and pickled chiles at Momofuku; with discs of buttery potato and smoky chorizo at Colicchio & Sons; and, recently, in a tasty salad at Eataly. But it's not really something I order (I still pick around the tentacles on a plate of calamari, and I can't abide the spidery crackle of a soft shell crab), and certainly not a food I have ever welcomed into my kitchen.

So when G brought home two enormous, slimy purple tentacles and announced his intent to cook them up, I was something between horrified and awe-struck. But soon I was googling away, and read about an octopus dish made at Le Bernardin, that temple of all things from the sea. It called for first braising the octopus in a rich chorizo broth, then marinating it in miso before being charring it to order. I don't know about you, but you could do that to a shoe and I would eat it.
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