The year 2017 is upon us! I'm a January baby, so this month always feels like a fresh start. I'll be turning 54 in a couple of weeks; well past the halfway mark, which is a bit startling somehow. I think about death a lot—have done ever since my father died when I was 26 (he was 64), and then my husband died when I was 40 (he was 41) and my mother died that same year (she was 76). For me, a big part of living is preparing to die and I don't feel this is morbid or maudlin. I want to die in peace and without regrets and this means striving to live in a state of grace. For those of you who haven't yet made it to this age and are curious about what lies ahead, here is what I can report: I have plenty of energy, dreams and plans. The world continues to be full of surprises and challenges. I am never bored. Slowing down is something I do to improve the quality of my life. There is always something new to learn, including about myself. The longer I live, the more I turn to nature for guidance, nourishment and wisdom. Any time I can be outside or interacting with plants is a source of joy for me and making bitters is an extension of that. 

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I'm always lecturing you about cutting out sugar and eating more greens, right? There are so many blogs you could be reading instead, blogs that give you recipes for cheese-laden pastas and bacon-studded scones and chocolate tortes. And yet here you are, learning about whey and sunchokes and making your own pickles. And I love you for that, you sexy thing. While I don't think it's smart to consider food as a reward, I do believe that into every life a little sweet must fall. Especially with the holidays upon us, it's best to have some pragmatic treats on hand that can shield us from the cheese twists and peppermint bark and pecan rolls that will soon materialize at every turn. So here's a recipe for a tasty little biscut that is sugar-free and gluten-free, yes, but also rich and crunchy and packed with flavor. Trust me, that's not the taste of deprivation.
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I visited Lior Lev Seracarz in his studio a few months ago, but I haven't written about it until now because I wanted to spend time really getting to know some of his spice blends. You may remember me mentioning this chef-turned-spice-wizard and his gallery/store, La Boîte à Epice, in Hell's Kitchen, or perhaps you read Susan Choi's profile of him in Food & Wine; it won the James Beard Foundation journalism award this year. A quick bit of background on Lior: he's Israeli (yep, he did his military service), but his family has roots in Belgium, Germany, Transylvania and Tunisia. He trained as a chef in France and apprenticed with Olivier Roellinger, the Michelin-starred chef who also has a spice business now. In 2006, after 4 years working at Daniel in New York (where they built him his own spice shelf), Lior decided to go out on his own. But he wasn't sure exactly what that would entail. Unlike many chefs who have a laser-like focus on the usual trajectory that ends with their own empire of restaurants, Lior dreams of immersing himself in everything from classical music to finance. In a world of specialists, he's something of a Renaissance man. Lucky for us, then, that his love of spices rose to the fore.
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I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that the firm white head of the cauliflower is referred to as "the white curd," for it looks like nothing so much as a big virginal cheese. Of course it comes in other colors—orange, green, even purple—but it is the white that is the most common, the most classic and perhaps the most invitingly pristine. It's lovely baked with cheese sauce, pureed into a creamy soup or steamed whole and dressed with a caper vinaigrette and toasted breadcrumbs, but it's also a rather surprisingly capable foil to far more assertive flavors. This Indian "dum," a type of steaming done in a tightly sealed pot, traditionally over a wood or charcoal fire, transforms the cauliflower into a velvety heap cloaked in a fragrant and highly-spiced sauce. You can make a simple meal of it along with a pile of nutty basmati rice, or serve it as part of a larger repast with braised lamb or grilled chicken. Either way, it's certainly no wallflower.
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Ever get a craving you just can't shake? A couple of weeks ago, I began dreaming of gingerbread: dense and dark, with chewy edges and chunks of crystallized ginger. The cakey kind, not the drier, more brittle sort used for gingerbread men and their over-decorated houses. I'm partial to a tangy lemon glaze on mine. The crackle finish it makes on top and the way it seeps into the crumb is simply irresistible. You don't need anything else with this gingerbread—no whipped cream, no ice cream, no applesauce—just a nice strong cup of tea. I don't recommend it after a hearty stew or pasta, you'll feel too leaden. It's the perfect cold-weather breakfast, lazy afternoon snack or highly anticipated finish to a light dinner.
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I would so love it if I had a fabulous little chai wallah to come around every morning bringing me tea. I got pretty spoiled on my honeymoon in India, especially when we were staying at Aman-i-Khás in Rajasthan, on the edge of the Ranthambore National Park. We went on safari every morning, setting out before dawn in open Land Rovers in the hope of glimpsing a tiger. In the frigid dark we would be handed hot water bottles and camel's hair blankets, and upon our return, in the stone patio now flooded with sunlight, we were greeted with steaming cups of masala chai. (For a more in-depth explanation of chai, visit an earlier post, here.) I'm writing about it again now because this is the time of year I really begin to crave it. It's full of such a wonderfully warming mix of spices and if you make your own, you can customize a blend that emphasizes what you love best. In India, masala chai is made with strong black tea and assertive spices like clove, fennel, ginger and pepper. The Kashmiri version is made with green tea and often includes more subtle flavors like almond, cardamom and saffron. I'm enjoying mine so much these days thanks to the raw cow's milk I brought back from Vermont, but it also tastes delicious with almond or hemp milk.
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The season of eating is here. Not that we don't eat all year long, duh, but you know what I mean. The holiday lunches, the cocktail hours, the office parties, the extended family feasts—all lined up in a sticky, fatty, calorie-laden row stretching out until New Year's Eve, when it comes to a close with one final champagne-fueled blow-out. And then? Remorse and penance. Juice fasts. Salad. Guilt-induced exercise binges. More salad. And still, visions of sugarplums dance in your head. We know that moderation is an option. We've all read those "how to handle the holidays without packing on the pounds" articles. Stick with wine spritzers and vodka on the rocks. Choose the celery sticks over the chips. We know the drill. These are truly first world problems. So let me present you with one first world solution. A dessert so beautiful and festive it's worthy of your fanciest dinner table, yet so low in fat and calories you can enjoy it without a second thought. Because between stressing over whether the roast is overdone and wondering if your sister is going to kill her husband right then and there, you've got enough on your mind without having to worry about a case of gout, right?
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Torrential rains accompanied by great gusts of wind have brought many of the fall leaves cascading down in whirling colors. Now the birds are more visible, darting around, and you can see the squirrels—red and grey—perched on branches, nibbling pinecones like corn on the cob. The apples stand out like ornaments on the trees, tempting the deer, which are gorging themselves silly on the sweet fruit. We went back to Julia's ancient orchard to harvest a few more; I wish I knew what they are—2 green and 2 red, heirloom varieties for sure, each more delicious than the next. I decided to cook down their wonderful, winey essence into that most traditional of all preserves: apple butter. It's essentially just a highly concentrated form of apple sauce, produced by long, slow cooking of apples with cider or water to a point where the sugar in the apples caramelizes, turning the rich stew a deep brown. There's no actual butter involved in the product; the term refers only to the thick, soft consistency, and its use as a spread for breads.
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I arose this morning to the deep silence of new-fallen snow, a world blanketed white. Today is a holiday. An opportunity to putter about guilt-free, reading yesterday's paper, enjoying a leisurely cup of chai. Thoughts turn to the cubes of lamb I pulled from the freezer to defrost overnight. Something warming is in order, a comforting braise of some sort, but nothing that requires too much work. Perhaps a spicy vindaloo is just the thing. It can marinate for hours, and then G can stir it on the stovetop while I'm at yoga this evening. A group effort, and yet not much effort at all. Brown rice, sauteed spinach and a little raita. That's dinner on this Meaty Monday. A day off for you might mean ordering in, but it's actually much more indulgent to inhale the wonderful smells of aromatics and spices, knowing that a delicious curry is in your future.

Scared you, didn't I? You thought this was going to be about some weird condiment made with offal. This chutney is definitely assertive in its own right, but it is strictly vegetarian. It is, however, from the original nose-to-tail chef, Fergus Henderson of St. John in London. I've never met Fergus, nor have I eaten in any of his restaurants, but I love the man. His seminal cookbook, Nose to Tail Eating: A Kind of British Cooking, is a window into his wonderfully warm, witty and ultimately quite sensible approach to food and life. (Did I mention he has Parkinsons?) You've never seen a less fussy cookbook. He doesn't get all bothered about quantities or times, but rather helps you to be an intuitive cook. Some choice phrases: "Do not be afraid of cooking, as your ingredients will know and misbehave." (As though an onion was a young horse feeling its oats!) Eating aoli "should be an emotional experience." And, with regard to this chutney, "There is nothing finer, after having a good stock up your sleeve, than having a reserve of chutney." I believe we've conquered the stock thing, and so are ready to proceed to this very British, quite rustic and highly addictive chutney.
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