In many ways, Greece was as I had imagined it. Athens was hot and bustling, with the presence of the ancients hovering everywhere. (More about that soon.) Syros, a small island next to Mykonos, was even hotter, with quaint stone streets and sun-bleached buildings against the dazzling blue of the Aegean. What I didn't expect was an almost total lack of fresh seafood. Whether it's because tourist demand exceeds the supply, or the waters are regulated due to overfishing, we saw only frozen octopus and no fresh fish on the menus. Only once, when we were on Syros, did we enjoy wild mussels and red shrimp, which were truly wonderful.  So for much of our time in Greece, we stuck to a classic that never gets old: Greek Salad.

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I don't know what to say about the school shootings. We all spent the weekend besieged by those images. I am haunted by the spectre of Adam Lanza—the skeletal face punctuated by wide, alarmed eyes, that strange sculptural cap of hair. Our president says that these tragedies must end, but that is a passive statement. We must end them. Through action. If you have not yet signed this petition, I urge you to do so, and make a contribution to the Brady Campaign as well, if you can.

Period. New paragraph. I haven't yet given you a list of my favorites from this year's crop of new cookbooks, and there were many. I did tell you about Naomi Duguid's wonderful Burma: Rivers of Flavor (my review is here). Andrea Nguyen's Asian Tofu is another excellent one. I look forward to delving into spicemaster Lior Lev Sercarz's newly published The Art of Blending. And I plan to attempt many more experiments under the tutelage of Sandor Katz's essential The Art of Fermentation. But for the sheer temptation of bold, bright flavors packed into relatively quick and easy recipes, I will be turning time and again to Yotam Ottolenghi's new book, Jerusalem, written with his business partner Sami Tamimi.
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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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