It's a moment for feasting. Wherever we turn, we're inundated with images of glistening roasts and spun-sugar delights—and with the real things, too. No one arrives without a bottle of champagne or a plate of cookies. Fudge abounds. The scent of bacon permeates the air. No wonder we're all bloated and cranky, popping Tums and yearning for naps. Go for it, if you must. But remember, every meal doesn't have to be a pig-out just because "it's the holidays." While everyone else is tempting you with nutella-frosted monkey bread and seventeen-cheese lasagna, I'm going to present you with a lighter option that doesn't skimp on luxurious flavor. It's great cocktail party fare and makes a lovely lunch, or a light supper if you've had an over-indulgent day. Consider it my gift to you.

(And don't forget to leave a comment here to be in the running for my giveaway of three superb spice blends from La Boîte à Epices!)
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You go along in life, understanding the course of things, but never really imagining that what you see others endure will befall you. That might be the definition of youth. Because, inevitably, it happens to you. To paraphrase Mia Farrow, life is a series of losses and it's all about the grace and resilience with which you respond. My former mother-in-law once looked at a photo of Liv Ullman on the cover of the New York Times Magazine and said, "Ugh, she's really let herself go." Never mind that the Swedish actress was being lauded for directing a film, what mattered to this woman was that a former beauty now looked like the 62-year-old she was. And I remember feeling disgusted by that, and vowing to forever construe "letting oneself go" as something quite liberating and wonderful.I let my grey hair come in over the past 2 years and there was a certain loss that needed to be mourned there; quietly, mind you. I went from a tousled brunette to an elegant silver without more than a whimper. But now that I am finding it difficult to fit into any of my clothes, now that my skin is becoming slacker and my muscle tone less defined—all those clichés of middle age—I begin to feel a bit of that desperation that sends women under the scalpel. I'm not going to start in with the whole I'm invisible routine. Unless you're Elle Macpherson, that pretty much sets in after age 40. And I'm lucky enough to have a husband who tells me I'm beautiful all the time. But, pathetic as it may be, I am newly committed to holding on to what I have for as long as possible. That entails lots of exercise and watching what I eat. Because, to me, being a glutton is all about expanding your palate not your waistline. It's being greedy for the things that are good and good for you. It means that lunch is about salad.
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The birthday is past, but the celebration continues! The lovely Miriam treated me to luncheon at The John Dory yesterday, both of us braving snowdrifts and delayed trains, serendipitously arriving on the very day Sam Sifton’s rave review appeared in the Times. (Just missed scooping him by one day!) Like The Breslin, the restaurant is adjacent to—and part of the same building as—the Ace Hotel; upon inquiring, we were informed that the frigid indoor temperature was a result of the entire shebang losing its heat. I ate with gloves on and the cold endowed the whole venture with a sort of pioneer quality. Things began shaping up from the moment our hot toddies arrived. Cocktails, you gasp, in the middle of a workday?! Yes, I must say, it was rather Mad Men of us, and ushered in a mood of general excess.

Sardines are like the girl who is considered frumpy and uninteresting in high school, and then suddenly becomes a hot anchorwoman or a triathlete. Familiar but surprising. They've always been there, hanging out in the cupboard in their dusty can with the peeling label, but guess what? It's time to tuck in to those silvery little fish. They've got game. Because they occupy the bottom of the aquatic food chain and feed solely on plankton, sardines don’t carry the high concentrations of heavy metals and contaminants that other fish can. And they're brimming with nutrition. Not only that, they've got culinary cred. Gabrielle Hamilton, the chef of Prune, in New York City, serves canned sardines on Triscuits with Dijon mustard and cornichons. She swears by  the Ruby brand from Morocco. I've had good luck with Matiz Gallego from Spain, Angelo Parodi from Portugal and Bar Harbor from Maine. For other recommended brands, see here.
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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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I never met her, nor dined at her restaurant, but I could tell from her food, and the joie de vivre that radiated from her face, that Rose Gray was a glutton for life. We lost another great one to cancer today. She was only 71. Co-owner and co-chef of London’s River Café, opened in 1987 in a converted warehouse on the Thames, she was a self-taught cook who fell in love with the cucina rustica of Northern Italy while living in Lucca. After her friend Nell Campbell invited her to run the kitchen at Nell’s, a New York hot spot in the 80s, Ms. Gray caught the bug and decided to open her own place, along with her friend Ruth Rogers (seen above), another self-taught chef.In honor of this great lady, I include here one of her pristine recipes, a classic Sicilian pasta dish comprised of just a few ingredients. It was in simplicity that she found much of the pleasure and excitement in cooking. I hope you will, too. Eat well and raise a glass to Rose.
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Have you been to Txikito yet? As its name indicates (a Basque version of  the Spanish "chiquito," which means tiny), this Chelsea restaurant has only a few tables, and you'd be lucky to grab one on any night (or at lunch). Chefs and owners Eder Montero and Alexandra Raij turn out some wonderful regional Spanish food that takes me back to the years I spent in that beautiful country. My father was a professor of Spanish literature and, every seven years, would take his sabbatical there. I attended the 4th and 10th grades in Madrid, and went back for two semesters off when I was in college. I fell in love with the place, the people, the food, the language. Some of the dishes at Txikito work upon my memory in the way that Proust's madeleine did his: the fat, silky white asparagus of Navarra; the crisp croquetas with their centers oozing creamed cod or chicken; the boquerones, subtly saline white anchovies; but, most of all, the ensaladilla rusa. (Little Russian salad, supposedly invented by a Russian in the late 19th century.)

I used to eat this delightful version of potato salad, a classic Spanish tapa, almost every Sunday morning when I lived in Madrid in my twenties. They served it at a little café right on the edge of el rastro, the big flea market. The most outrageous punks would go there, flaunting their sky-high mohawks, tight leathers and scary piercings. I remember feeling super cool, kicking the sawdust on the floor, smoking my Marlboro reds and taking leisurely bites of this rich, creamy salad. Txiquito's version—potatoes, peas, carrots and bits of green olive bound together with homemade mayonnaise and mounded atop a salty layer of oil-cured tuna—takes me right back there.
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Have you discovered colatura di alici, an amber elixir of anchovy made around Italy's Amalfi coast for the last 2,000 years? Slow Food International has officially declared it a "protected" ingredient. (I ordered my first bottle online here.) When anchovies are salted for curing, they’re layered in wooden barrels, then pressed and weighted down. From small holes in the barrels drips this salty, funky syrup—thus the word colatura, from colare, “to drip” in Italian. Somehow, although more concentrated, it’s a bit less overtly fishy than anchovies. And it’s not quite as rank or muddy (or old gym sock-y) as Asian fish sauce—an essential pantry item, by the way. It's the modern version of garum, a fermented fish liquid (sometimes made from just their blood and guts) that was a sort of salt substitute in ancient Rome. The process was so smelly that production was apparently limited to outside the city walls!
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Some people, it seems, just can't slurp down enough soup these days. It really is the perfect thing for cold weather, a warming bowl of  comforting goodness. Below, you'll find recipes for four, count 'em, low-fat and nutritious soups you can whip up without any bother whatsoever. That's all this post is about: soup. Get it while it's hot.
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"Just when you think it couldn't possibly get any better, it's time for lunch!" That was the motto for our trip to Kerala in December 2007. A couple of months after G and I got married, we took a five-week honeymoon in India. The first two weeks were spent in southern India with our friends Lisa and Scott, part of the time on these amazing old-style boats that floated along the canals. We spent the days lazing, reading, obsessively bird-watching, and observing daily life along the water's edge. We had our own cooks on board and we stuffed ourselves silly on their delicious regional cuisine, based largely on coconut, ginger and seafood. It's not what you would necessarily think of as "typical" Indian food (although of course it is).