Happy New Year! On this day of Epiphany, the holidays are finally concluded with a resounding oomph. The weeks of chocolates, cookies, cakes, cheese, candies and Champagne (why do they all start with "C"?!) being relentlessly thrust upon us from all sides are finally over. I did my best to resist, but it's difficult not to buckle in the face of tradition. Who doesn't like a cup of eggnog on Christmas morning? Or a handful of sea salt caramels? Or a celebratory cocktail? Or a rich and complicated dessert to end a festive meal? I am not impervious to any of these charms, but the older I get, the more my body rejects them. I consulted a few different sources online and have determined that, in Ayurvedic terms, I have an excess of Kapha at the moment (you can read about the doshas here). So I have cut out all sugar and dairy, and am also avoiding fermented foods and soy. Even after just a week of this, I am feeling much better—more energetic, more optimistic, more rested. I have been making bone broths with fresh ginger juice and freshly grated turmeric stirred in; steaming bowls of kichari with a squeeze of fresh lemon; and lots of vegetables, roasted and steamed. For a treat, and to make the most of all the gorgeous winter citrus in my fridge, I devised an update of the Orange Julius that I think improves upon the original.

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Remember "Singles," Cameron Crowe's 1992 film about young love and indie music in Seattle? No? I'm not surprised. It really wasn't that good. But I'll never forget how Bridget Fonda's character, who was hopelessly in love with Matt Dillon's indifferent rocker, waited in vain for him to say "Bless you" every time she sneezed. In my family we always said "Salud" whenever someone sneezed. To not say it was unthinkable. Like a jinx. What with spring allergies kicking in and everyone getting those changing-season colds, there's lots of sneezing going on nowadays. If you've got a scratchy throat, runny nose or just a general malaise, try this therapeutic treat. It's a sorbet—from Jeni's, of course—packed with vitamin C, soothing honey and a fiery combination of ginger, bourbon and cayenne. It feels restorative and it will definitely clear a few things right up.
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Those were the days. Sometimes I yearn for the suppleness of youth, its insouciance and capacity for indulgence. But it's a fleeting moment of fantasy because I belong irrevocably to this moment. I inhabit this skin with a sense of purpose and without regret. There are times for looking back and times for looking ahead, but there's no time like the present. As Joni Mitchell sings, in her seminal song "Down To You," Everything comes and goes, marked by lovers and styles of clothes. Things that you held high and told yourself were true, lost or changing as the days come down to you.The salad days that matter now are on your plate. Channel your creativity and your quest for health into this ageless combination of the raw and the cooked. Interrupt the dreary weeks of winter with refreshing concoctions crisp with cabbage, celery, apple and bitter greens, and punctuated with sweet bursts of citrus and pomegranate. By all means toss in some protein—a grated hard-cooked egg; some oily tuna or smoked mackerel; a crumbly goat cheese or sharp pecorino. You're looking to create that perfect balance of flavors and textures: crunchy and creamy, sweet and tart, salty and spicy. As in all things, experience enhances your ability and wisdom makes a superb seasoning.
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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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I love a little tipple before dinner, especially in the summer. It just feels a little indulgent, leisurely. The apéritif was actually a 19th century invention for the purpose of delivering extremely bitter, malaria-fighting quinine. Herbs and spices were added to mask the disagreeable flavor and voilà! A French invention, of course. Although most agree that 18th-century Italians were well versed in the aperitivo. Campari is a perfect example of such a slightly bitter and agreeably complex concoction. I use the word tipple because the apéritif is a light drink, a small amount of alcohol just to awaken the appetite. (For you tee-totallers out there, I am going to do a post on the non-alcoholic versions very soon.) I personally love Lillet, technically called a tonic wine because of the addition of a liqueur of Chinchona bark from Peru which contains quinine.You can create your own version, by steeping citrus fruit in rosé with a few spices. Julia Moskin, in her fantastic online DIY cooking handbook for the New York Times, provides a great recipe, adapted from London chef Sally Clarke. The original version is made with Seville oranges, which I happened to have on hand from making marmalade. Julia adapts it with more readily available citrus. It has a powerful flavor that develops during a 6-week fermentation period. So, if you want to serve yours on July 4th, as I do, you'd better get cracking.
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OK, I'm going to say it: I'm OVER winter. Jeez. More snow? Is this really what we need? And still no working sink or shower in our bathroom. So where's the motherfucking silver lining? (Wow. In real life I have a mouth like a truck driver, but on the blog I rarely stoop so low.) But wait. Yesterday I made marmalade, and today there are five gorgeous jars of the stuff glowing on the kitchen counter. Canning doesn't have to be such a big deal, you know. It's not imperative that you slave over a hot stove for hours and hours, putting up jar after jar of whatever it is. You can simply look in your fridge and see that you have an enormous bowl of malingering kishu mandarins left over from the 10 pounds you ordered on a lark in January—plus the odd Meyer lemon and pink grapefruit—and decide that you're going to make a discreet quantity of marmalade, just for yourself and the occasional very lucky friend.
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I come from a very linguistically focused family where all sorts of word games (not to mention mind games) were the order of the day. I'm very into language and its limitless possibilities for manipulation, including the humblest pun. Never can resist. Ingredients are sort of like words, able to be tossed together in seemingly infinite combinations, so that cooking becomes a kind of jazzy poetry (rap?!) or improvised narrative. The kishu is a sweet little grace note, an ampersand between clementines and satsumas. This tiny mandarin, only slightly bigger than a jawbreaker, originated in China and arrived in Japan around the 17th century, where it is known as mukaku-kishi. Mukaku means seedless, which they are. They have a super-short season and are not that easy to come across. I got mine through Local Harvest, a locavore network that helps you find farmers' markets, family farms and other sources of sustainably grown food in your area, and through which you can buy produce, grass-fed meats and other coveted items. My kishus came from Churchill Orchard, a small organic farm in Ojai, California.

Winter citrus: it may not be exactly local, but it's American and it's in season now. Just when you couldn't possibly feel more desiccated, chapped, pasty or vitamin-C deprived, there is a burst of juicy refreshment in the form of tart-sweet oranges, grapefruits, lemons, limes and kumquats. Peel some grapefruit segments and toss them into a salad with thinly sliced radicchio, toasted walnuts and pecorino. Grate some orange rind into your morning oatmeal. Or make grapefruit brulée by dotting a half with brown sugar and chopped fresh mint and sticking it under the broiler for a few minutes. Add some zip to your fizzy water with lemon-rosemary syrup. Or make lemon curd and spread it on store-bought shortbread or a piece of sourdough toast or your finger. Toss sliced kumquats with arugula and toasted almonds. Squeeze fresh orange juice and mix it with good tequila and a little pomegranate molasses. Make some clementine granità. If you're really lucky, you might come across some wild (kaffir) limes, like the ones I brought back from LA (see above). I've been doling them out to make them last longer—their tropical perfume is so fantastic. Squeeze just a quarter of one into a glass of water and it becomes an exotic elixir. I just used the last one in a pineapple sorbet. Snow? What snow?
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I'm a sucker for citrus. It's such a relief when oranges, grapefruit and lemons begin flooding in from California and Florida at this time of year. Although I adore very tart lemons, I also love the lightly sweeter and more perfumey Meyer variety. Their smooth, thin skin is an electric golden yellow that seems to compensate, just a bit, for the lack of sunshine these days. I grabbed an armload at Fairway yesterday and, since they are a bit fragile and don't keep for so long, I'm going to immediately turn them into syrup and marmalade. The former will make wonderfully refreshing spritzers, especially with the addition of fresh rosemary. The latter will nicely cut through the rich fattiness of roasts or perhaps even our Christmas goose. And, of course, you can always preserve some lemons, as I've done again this year. Here's a recipe from last spring, along with one for chicken tagine, and a place to order organic Meyer lemons, if you're so inclined.
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On a blustery day in the city, I used to love to pop into the tiny bakery at Balthazar where fresh breads and piles of scones and canelés fogged up the windows. Passing up all the baked goods, I would come out with my frozen hands wrapped around a steaming cup of their housemade ginger-citrus tea. Often, it would be so acidic that my teeth would squeak against each other, but I loved the way its spicy sweetness warmed my blood. Now that I don't live near Balthazar—or anything resembling a bakery, or even a café for that matter—I have devised my own recipe and, being rather better balanced, I actually prefer it. That said, I was able to procure Balthazar's recipe and so also offer that to you here. Frankly, I've never tasted either cinnamon or mint in their version, and so did not include that in mine. Suffice it to say, either way this delectable brew is sure to help you ward off a chill and possibly even the flu as we head into winter's cold embrace.
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