New year. New you? Probably not. The same you, with fresh intentions, perhaps. If you didn't read Frank Bruni's recent piece, now would be a good time to do so. It's about what he calls "these wretched vessels," the bodies we are so actively engaged in criticizing at every step of the journey, but especially at the new year when we all resolve to whittle away at them. Here's what he proposes: We should make peace with them and remain conscious of that, especially at this particular hinge of the calendar, when we compose a litany of promises about the better selves ahead, foolishly defining those selves in terms of what’s measurable from the outside, instead of what glimmers within. Though I couldn't agree more that losing ten pounds will not make you a better person, it's only natural to want a little palate cleanser after all that holiday eggnog and gingerbread and short ribs and chocolate. Something cool and frothy, vegetal and light. Or straight from the sea, saline and frigid. So I can't actually say that getting G one of these as a stocking stuffer was completely without guile.
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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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Call me crazy, but in the midst of this heat wave, when the plants themselves seemed to cry out from thirst beneath their green ultrasuede coats of pollen, I got a craving for clam chowder. I guess it was because I happened across a recipe for it on Tasting Table ("the free daily email for adventurous eaters everywhere"). Also, it's a bit like my own Proustian madeleine, because it takes me right back to my first job as a hostess at Gilda's seafood restaurant on the pier (or the wharf, as it was called) in Santa Cruz. I love the seafood tang against the richness of fresh cream and buttery potatoes, and the hint of salty pork. So there I was yesterday, sweat pouring off me (I had actually closed the kitchen windows in an attempt to keep out the pollen and the dust and noise of the guys working on our roof), temperatures soaring towards 100º, boiling potatoes and steaming clams. And then, you'll never guess—the skies began to darken, the ominous rumble of thunder approached from a great distance, a breeze kicked up and suddenly it was pouring. By evening the air was clean and cool, perfect chowder weather.
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There's no place like home. It may be true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but returning to a world rendered lush by endless spring rains, to lilacs in bloom, chipmunks underfoot and jubilant birdsong, turned this into an especially sweet homecoming. Jet lag notwithstanding. G, the world's most stoic man, is in considerable pain, not even able to be up on crutches much yet. He's eager to begin rehab and, in the meantime, being from the food-is-love school of cooking, I'm trying to distract him with a steady flow of treats from my kitchen. At first, after a month in Southeast Asia, big green salads were quite the novelty. But the guy loves squid—something I've rarely cooked with—so I decided to attempt the ne plus ultra rendering of this sea creature. Even the very squeamish tend to forget all about about gooey tentacles when presented with a plate of hot, crispy, melt-in-your-mouth fried calamari. With a blitz of sea salt and a spritz of lemon juice, what's not to like? And when I came across a recipe recently on Food52 from the venerable Mrs. Larkin, I decided to give it a go. Some friends were coming over for a visit, and I thought it would be just the thing to serve with a nice cold glass of local riesling.
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A month or so before we got married in October of 2007, G whisked me off to Turkey for a quick getaway. Although we had big plans to travel around and see lots of sights, after a couple of days in Istanbul we found ourselves holed up in the unbelievably charming Hotel Ada in Turkbuku, in the hills above Bodrum, with absolutely no desire to go anywhere else. This gorgeous stone hotel is built around several 150-year-old olive trees, has a lovely hammam for bathing and steams, and is beautifully furnished in a warm and eclectic style. Our room had stunning views of the Aegean and a private pool where we sunned and swam every day. We breakfasted on juicy peaches and sweet figs on our balcony; lunched on fresh salads and icy cold watermelon juice by our pool; and dined in bed on just-caught seafood. G was especially taken with a pasta dish piled high with what they called "sea delicates"—little scallops, shrimp, squid and fish in a tomatoey sauce. At the time, he did not know that gluten was a big problem for him, so this was truly an instance of ignorance being bliss. Ditto the molten chocolate cake he had for dessert every night.
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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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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.

Cold weather means hot pots which means trips to Mitsuwa, the Japanese superstore in Edgewater, New Jersey. It's on our way home from the city, and we take special delight in our visits there. For one thing, they have the most spectacular soft-serve ice cream in flavors like green tea and black sesame. I'm especially obsessed with the sesame, which is a murky purple color and so smoothly, sweetly seductive you could almost swoon. The enormous store contains aisles of ingredients—from produce to rice to fresh seafood—as well as kitchen tools (rice cookers), a bakery, an extensive sake selection, and several small restaurants serving udon, ramen, katsu, etc. In short, it's tough to get out of there in a hurry. You'll find yourself examining 10 kids of miso and 20 kinds of soy sauce. I have discovered wonderful quick-cooking brown rice; little jars of yuzu kosho and shichimi togarashi; and fresh chrysanthemum leaves. As I've mentioned before, I highly recommend you delve into the world of hot pots. These one-pot meals are super healthy, warming and hearty, and ideal for one or two people.
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We all experience that moment of truth when the dinner hour rolls around, nothing has been planned and it's just you and the fridge in a Mexican standoff. These days, the problem is often that there's so much in my fridge I can hardly maneuver around the jars of whey and pickles and stock; the mounds of just-picked kale and lettuce; the stockpiles of lemons and radishes. This particular evening, I dove in and emerged with a pound of shrimp, a jar of red curry paste and some wild lime leaves. There were snow peas, pea greens and shelling peas from the garden, and with that and a can of coconut milk, a curry seemed possible.
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That's right, 100 notches on my blogging bedpost. Although gluttonforlife launched on Christmas Eve, I had been accruing posts for quite a while before that while we worked on the design. If you look back in the archives, you may run across my recipe for Spicy Shorties, another of my concoctions singled out on Food52's editors' picks this week. It's always an honor to be included among the many talented chefs and interesting recipes in that diverse coking community. I hope you've been enjoying the blog thus far, and always welcome your comments and requests. As Sandra Bernhard so eloquently put it, without you, I'm nothing.But, in the grand scheme of things—and I'm in this for the long haul—100 posts is just a drop in the bucket. So there will be no recipe for a torchon of foie gras here today. I'm saving the lemon soufflé for a truly special occasion. I seem to be on a bit of a seafood roll (watch your mercury intake!), so I'll stay in that vein with this easy dish of shrimp, onions and saffron. I was first served this in the home of a friend in Spain, and I remember being impressed with its simplicity, its intensity of flavor and its beautiful yellow color. It's also reminiscent of my mother's shrimp scampi, a dish requested by my sister Sarita on her birthday every year. It goes well with crusty bread (a whole wheat baguette?), or try serving it with some brown basmati rice to soak up the juices. And a glass of icy Sancerre, of course.
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