At this gastronomically obsessed point in the 21st century, few of us think of food as simply sustenance. Do you eat for pleasure? For energy? For nutrition? Hopefully, these are all factors you consider. What about food as medicine? Some of my best friend are doctors (no, really) and I can see them rolling their eyes already. Look, I afford Western medicine its due; I see my internist and gynecologist for regular check-ups. But they often don't/can't give me the sort of fine-tuning I get from my nutritionist or my cranial-sacral therapist. And, to be perfectly frank, after watching my father, my mother and my husband (before G) die slow and agonizing deaths—all three in the care of very good doctors—I'm just not much of a believer in sticking to that one path. I think what we put in our bodies can have a huge impact (positive and negative) on our health. So I was so happy when my good friend Stephanie, who has recently suffered some painful gallstone attacks, decided to try to avoid the surgery that was immediately prescribed. I was even more thrilled when she went to see Sally Kravich, my wonderful nutritionist, to see how she could manage this condition with diet. And I was flattered when she asked me for some soup recipes to help get her through this period without feeling too deprived.
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Air travel can now be lumped in with some of life's worst experiences, along with root canals and visiting the post office. I think it's safe to say I will never book another ticket on Delta. Not only did we have to pay to check one suitcase apiece, but G got hammered with another $90 because his bag was 7 pounds over their maximum. Imagine how much revenue they could generate if they charged for the excess weight around most of their customers' waistlines instead! In-flight headphones? Another charge. Crappy "snacks" that no one should be eating anyway? Get out your wallet. Sadly, we did not board with our usual stash of tasty treats, so we were forced to make do with a bag of trail mix and some water. This made dinner in LA something to look forward to with relish. Driving through torrential rains to our friend Lisa's fab Spanish-style triplex in West Hollywood, I had AOC on the brain. It's the second restaurant of much-lauded chef Suzanne Goin, a woman with an inspired palate and the face of an elfin angel.
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You asked for soup, you got it. This rich and creamy combination of kabocha squash and fennel is a wonderful winter recipe from Suzanne Goin. She's an LA-based chef and I really recommend her cookbook, Sunday Suppers at Lucques. (I hope to eat at Lucques, or at AOC, her other place, when I'm in LA later this week.) The kabocha called for is a rich, sweet and dry-textured squash that used quite a bit in Japanese cooking. It's sometimes referred to as Japanese pumpkin. Like all squash, it's good for you—high in fiber and in vitamins C and A. It has a darkish green, striated outside, sometimes tinged with orange and yellow.This is a hearty vegetarian soup (although you can make it with chicken stock) and, along with some cheese and salad, I think it will leave you quite satisfied.

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By now you've probably all heard Michael Pollan's edict, "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." It's an approach to healthy eating that takes into account everything we now know about artery-clogging animal fats and the global ramifications of factory-farming; about the stress caused by over-eating and the benefits of calorie deprivation; about the value of antioxidants and flavanoids and fiber. But let's say you're too busy to read the books (Fast Food Nation, The Omnivore's Dilemma, In Defense of Food, Eating Animals), you haven't seen the movie (Food Inc.) and you just want to know a few things you can do every day, realistically, right now, to improve your diet. Again, my disclaimer: I am no health professional. I have simply read a lot about these issues and experimented with changing my own eating habits. I am not into deprivation. I am into consuming delicious foods that help me thrive.
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Fresh juice is a great way to start the day. You've probably already read my proselytizing about the many benefits of ingesting live, vital vegetable and fruit juices. (Quick primer: you get energy, antioxidants, digestive health, clear skin.) But on these frigid days, something warming does seem in order. I'm not a coffee drinker, never have been, though I do enjoy the occasional cup (especially as a vehicle for cream and sugar), but I am partial to chai. Actually, chai simply means tea. It derives from cha, the Chinese word for tea. What I'm really talking about here is masala chai—masala being an Indian word for spice blend. In India, masala chai is drunk like we drink coffee. It’s sold on the streets by chaiwallahs (and I think you all know what that is, having sat through Slumdog Millionaire.) Instant chai is available, but it tends to be loaded with sugar and fake flavorings. I’ve been known to order a soy chai latte from Starbuck’s (oh, the shame) and the best I can say about it is that it’s not very authentic. One prepared version I do like is from the venerable French tea company, Mariage Freres, called Chandernagor after the former French colony north of Kolkata (Calcutta). It’s a classic blend of black tea with cinnamon, cloves, ginger, green cardamom and black pepper. Sometimes chai will also include ajwain, a pungent relative of caraway; allspice; coriander; bittersweet chocolate; fennel, star anise or licorice root; nutmeg; and vanilla. My favorite tea to use in a chai blend is an Assam, whose assertive taste and slight smokiness can stand up to all the spices. Rooibos tea makes a pretty good caffeine-free alternative. Why not make your own masala chai blend in quantity and store it in a jar or tin? Then you can simply steep it in a combination of milk (cow, goat, soy) and water, adding whatever sweetener you like. I use honey, but sugar, agave nectar or even sweetened condensed milk work well. The spices really enhance the warming effect, and are a great way to get your blood moving on these cold winter mornings.
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I once read somewhere that were he to come back as a kitchen tool (literally), David Chang would want to be a chinois. So called because of it’s alleged resemblance to the straw hat worn by the Chinese, the chinois (or chinoise) is an elegant little device that will elevate your sauces and soups to a new level of sophistication. This conical sieve with an extremely fine mesh is used to strain out the very smallest particles from custards, purees, soups and sauces, thus producing a smooth, velvety texture. It’s a rather expensive tool, not to be confused with the cheaper “China cap,” which has much larger holes. The chinois usually comes with a dowel that looks a bit like a pointy pestle, which is what you use to work soft foods through the mesh. It lets you easily press every last bit of juice and flavor from the solids. Some chinois come with a stand that is useful for holding it upright over a pot or bowl. Try using your chinois next time you’re making stock, pureed soup, jelly or custard. You will be shocked (pleasantly) by how refined the texture becomes and, because you can press on any remaining solids, you will notice a deeper, more intense flavor.
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As we become better acquainted, I hope to impart to you my love for Indian and Southeast-Asian cooking. I guess the first thing I would tell you is that you need to have a good source for ingredients. Many ethnic markets also carry requisite cooking tools, such as this sticky rice steamer you can pick up at almost any Thai market. Often, they'll even have a selection of mortars and pestles (mortar and pestles?), a tool which comes in handy prepping this type of food. In New York City, I recommend a visit to the Bangkok Center Grocery in Chinatown, on Mosco Street between Mott and Mulberry. First of all they are the nicest people in the whole world and will always greet you with "Sawat dee." And then they have a wicked green papaya salad that you will take home and be unable to stop eating even when your lips are burning off. They also carry hard-to-find fresh produce, like wild lime leaves (also known as kaffir).

Stock up on some cans of curry paste (the Masaman is flawless, served with a cucumber relish—recipe soon, I promise) and of coconut milk, and grab a bottle of fish sauce and you are in business for an easy, quick and delicious meal. You can simply follow the instructions on the can! I have gone to the effort of making my own curry pastes and, though they are quite good, I can't really say they're any better than the Maesri brand. But this post is really to tell you that making your own sticky rice at home is no big deal. All you need is the right steamer and the right rice.
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Isn't there something faintly S&M about this illustration? I just love it. Kudos to Jan Richter for her great eye and accomplished technique. (And I happen to know she makes a mean coq au vin.) This is just the sort of plump organic bird you want to find when you're setting out to make any number of cold-weather dishes. G makes the classic Jewish penicillin when I get sick (about once a year, knock wood) but I often look further east for something therapeutic. This recipe tips its hat to a classic Hispanic arroz con pollo but shifts gears with anti-inflammatory turmeric; lots of warming, healing ginger; and a hit of fish sauce. I think it's similar to the Filipino arroz caldo. You keep cooking the rice so it's somewhere between risotto and congee, that perfect comforting texture. And the bright yellow color is like a ray of sunshine.
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As in, cold enough to freeze the balls off 'em. Love that British expression. Somehow a bit classier than the old witch's teat reference, still hanging on from the days of the Salem trials. My point being: it was damn cold today. We were out snow-shoeing in 13 degrees. I have a deep dread of slipping on the ice, but those metal teeth really do grip into even the slickest surfaces. Realized that the large and interesting tracks we had seen the other day and were sure were from a bear turned out to be our own. How embarrassing. Now I'm finally convinced that the bears are hibernating and so I can stop imagining Werner Herzog-worthy scenarios where one chases me into a snowdrift and mauls G who has run to my defense. Tromping on crusted snow, I could almost see the North Wind puffing out his cheeks and blowing an icy blast our way. It sent the delicate top layer of powder gusting through the air, like a frigid version of the apocalyptic ash that's always drifting down in Cormack McCarthy's brilliant The Road. (Read the book; skip the movie. Sorry, Viggo.)
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Gnocchi means "lumps" in Italian. Not an especially glamorous name, and one that doesn't seem to fit something so ethereal in texture. This traditional Italian dish has been around for a couple of thousand years at least, spread through Europe by the Roman Legions and made according to whatever was at hand: potatoes, wheat flour, semolina, bread crumbs, ricotta. The French even make a version with choux pastry, but that's neither here nor there. I make mine with a delicious sheep's-milk ricotta and serve them with brown butter and a light sprinkling of smoked sea salt and tangy tomato powder. I suspect they may suffer slightly from the addition of gluten-free flour. They were perhaps not as light and springy as they will be for you, using unbleached all-purpose flour. Next time, I may try gnudi instead, as they call for even less flour (but also require that you drain the cheese and refrigerate the dough at several points), or perhaps just pair the gnocchi with a heartier sauce (roasted tomato? porcini?) that can stand up to the slightly denser texture.
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