Due to my previously mentioned upbringing (college professors for parents, etc), I'm kind of a prig when it comes to language. Some might even say I am less than rational when it comes to being exceedingly irritated by changes to the lexicon, especially when they involve loose grammar. Which is not to say I don't embrace slang. And occasionally a newly coined term or phrase will capture my fancy. When I first heard the expression "to marinate on something," I was instantly won over. Mostly because I knew exactly what it meant. Sometimes you just need to soak up new information, letting facts and emotions seep in through your pores. You emerge steeped in whatever it was you had to mull over, newly flavored. And of course culinary metaphors are always big with me.In the kitchen, marinating is part of your arsenal. It can take the place of cooking, as with ceviche, or just be the first step in infusing flavor into your food. Although acidic or enzymatic ingredients are commonly used to tenderize proteins, marinades can also be like a kind of dressing that slowly penetrates vegetables and fruits, without going all the way to becoming pickles.

I come from a very linguistically focused family where all sorts of word games (not to mention mind games) were the order of the day. I'm very into language and its limitless possibilities for manipulation, including the humblest pun. Never can resist. Ingredients are sort of like words, able to be tossed together in seemingly infinite combinations, so that cooking becomes a kind of jazzy poetry (rap?!) or improvised narrative. The kishu is a sweet little grace note, an ampersand between clementines and satsumas. This tiny mandarin, only slightly bigger than a jawbreaker, originated in China and arrived in Japan around the 17th century, where it is known as mukaku-kishi. Mukaku means seedless, which they are. They have a super-short season and are not that easy to come across. I got mine through Local Harvest, a locavore network that helps you find farmers' markets, family farms and other sources of sustainably grown food in your area, and through which you can buy produce, grass-fed meats and other coveted items. My kishus came from Churchill Orchard, a small organic farm in Ojai, California.

Our bathroom remodel finally got started yesterday, almost a year to the day after we first began thinking (and writing) about it. Sadly, due to various factors (the size of the bathroom, the size of our doorways) we had to give up the idea of a soaking tub. But we are replacing literally everything—all the tile and fixtures, even the walls. More about all that later. We are so fortunate that a dear friend has loaned us his gorgeous, spacious and light-filled weekend place, just a quick drive from our cottage. A relocated Frenchman, his home is filled with beautiful antiques, including hefty, hemstitched linen sheets and amazing stoneware pottery. I covet these rustic dishes, and have made a mental note to scour ebay and local thrift stores for the American version of them. Incredibly strong and durable, stoneware has long been used for cooking and was the predominant houseware of 19th century North America.

Valentine's Day is approaching. Do you even care? Even if you do, the last thing you'll be planning is dinner out with your sweetie. We all know what a disaster that is, right? Surrounded by tables of clammy-handed twenty-somethings trying to express their devotion through over-priced specials at restaurants with mood lighting? No, thanks. If you want to be truly romantic, prepare a lovely meal at home. In the next couple of days, I promise to post some richly satisfying and epicuriously exciting dishes worthy of this over-hyped occasion that you can consider whipping up for your beloved(s). You might even try this one, a fairly simple, easily customizable recipe for stuffed poblano chiles, those gorgeously green and glossy creatures you've undoubtedly admired from afar.
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There are days when you wander into the kitchen feeling vague and slightly grumpy, with no particular plan in mind and the dinner hour approaching. You haven't made it to the market, you haven't defrosted anything. You throw open the fridge and gaze into the frozen tundra. The forlorn assembly of half-empty containers and shrunken, foil-wrapped leftovers seems to offer no hope. You root around in the pantry, coming across dusty bags of dried porcini and mystifying jars of grains. And then, inspiration strikes: I'll order takeout! Lucky you. Those of us who live far from the madding crowds (and from any semblance of civilization) cannot simply pick up the phone one minute and be sitting down to world-class dan dan noodles the next. Instead, we must dig down deep and practice the art of fridge foraging. This special ability, a sort of sophisticated version of dumpster diving, is what separates the dames from the ditzes—in the kitchen at least.
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Winter citrus: it may not be exactly local, but it's American and it's in season now. Just when you couldn't possibly feel more desiccated, chapped, pasty or vitamin-C deprived, there is a burst of juicy refreshment in the form of tart-sweet oranges, grapefruits, lemons, limes and kumquats. Peel some grapefruit segments and toss them into a salad with thinly sliced radicchio, toasted walnuts and pecorino. Grate some orange rind into your morning oatmeal. Or make grapefruit brulée by dotting a half with brown sugar and chopped fresh mint and sticking it under the broiler for a few minutes. Add some zip to your fizzy water with lemon-rosemary syrup. Or make lemon curd and spread it on store-bought shortbread or a piece of sourdough toast or your finger. Toss sliced kumquats with arugula and toasted almonds. Squeeze fresh orange juice and mix it with good tequila and a little pomegranate molasses. Make some clementine granità. If you're really lucky, you might come across some wild (kaffir) limes, like the ones I brought back from LA (see above). I've been doling them out to make them last longer—their tropical perfume is so fantastic. Squeeze just a quarter of one into a glass of water and it becomes an exotic elixir. I just used the last one in a pineapple sorbet. Snow? What snow?
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Actually, this wintry soup has none of those letter-shaped bits of pasta. This is a post-modern alphabet soup, one you can load up with vegetables that represent virtually every letter, from artichoke and broccoli to winter squash and yam. The more the merrier, basically. I'm not eating any grains or starches for a while, so I used shallots, leeks, onions, garlic, celery, fennel, carrots, mushrooms, green beans, chard and tomatoes. Potatoes, parsnips, wild rice, farro and/or pumpkin would also be lovely additions. You can make it with water, but vegetable stock—or beef or chicken—will vastly improve the flavor. I used stock made from our Christmas goose carcass! This is such an easy recipe. Throw it together in 20 minutes, let it bubble on the stove for a while and then serve it with some delicious bread. You don't even need a salad because it's so loaded with vegetable goodness.

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This post is a command performance. I need a recipe for lentils, said Stephanie. Madam, this one's for you. Before I get down to it, I'm going to interject a bit of shameless self-promotion. (And now, a word from our sponsor, or something like that.) There is a sweet little review of GFL on the Be@Home section of the Pocket Change shopping blog. Take a gander, here.Now, back to business: the lentil. I'm a big fan. I like the khaki brown ones in a creamy soup garnished with spiced yogurt; I like soupy yellow dals with Indian food; I like the orange ones pureed with coconut milk and garnished with cilantro. They are all nourishing and satisfying and delicious. But I especially love the Puy lentils (lentilles de Puy), the small, blackish-green legume (aka pulse) that hails exclusively from the Auvergne region in France. Somewhat similar to the black beluga variety, Puy lentils are less starchy than brown lentils and retain their form when cooked. Their nutty, mineral-rich flavor is attributed to the way they are grown: in volcanic soil, without watering or fertilizer. They carry the AOC (appellation d'origine controlée) that guarantees their provenance and quality. (For a look at other types of lentils, see here.) Puy lentils' firmness makes them ideal for salads, and they are delicious eaten with sausages or salmon or cheese.
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I've been quite taken of late with all the little vegetable dishes on offer at restaurants of all sorts. Starters often include numerous ingeniously composed salads that really let seasonal produce shine. Sides are no longer merely a choice between boring steamed broccoli or french fries, and I've been known to make a whole meal from the enticing options—pureed squash with hazelnuts, chile-sauteed broccoli rabe, ragù of mushrooms, polenta with gorgonzola, fennel braised in cream. I think I've mentioned to you a few lovely meals I've had recently at A Voce, Missy Robbins' Italian-inflected restaurant in New York City's Time Warner Center. The lunch menu includes a selection of verdure, small vegetable dishes like eggplant with calabrian chile; beets with pistachios and orange; cauliflower with almonds and raisins; and a delightfully simple salad of radishes with an anchovy vinaigrette. After trying this last combination, I began craving it at home. It's crisp, salty and satisfying while still being light and healthy.
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With all those rich roasts and braises, the patés and terrines, the confits and caramels, the puddings and petits fours, you need something tangy and vibrant to spark your palate, no? I've been enjoying cooling glasses of seltzer, lightly flavored with lemon-rosemary syrup. Quite a tonic. And a tart, juicy clementine can really hit the spot. I also rely on green juices to keep me honest, though I don't suppose that's actually a good way to kick off a holiday meal. But what about a bowl of brilliant orange carrot soup enlivened with lots of spicy ginger and a warming hint of cumin? The great thing about this soup is that you can adapt it to suit your mood and what you've got in your fridge. Stir in some buttermilk, or a tiny bit of cream. Add chopped jalapeño, or cilantro or dill. Got some stale bread? Make croutons to float in your soup. You can even forget the carrots and ginger and use broccoli, or potatoes, or squash. What I'm trying to say is that you can invent a fantastic vegetable soup by following a few basic steps I will lay out here for you.
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