Thanks for reading!

Betty

It’s so nice to have a birthday during the spring. It’s as if the sun is shining and the cherry trees and camellias are blooming just for me. The whole world feels bright and young and fresh, so I can’t help but feel that way myself. And happily, my birthday didn’t fall during Passover this year, so I get to eat what I want. As I write this, the banana cake is baking in the oven, filling the house with a wonderful aroma.

A group of friends are gathering tomorrow to help me celebrate in style. After all it’s not every year you turn 37.

Well actually, that’s not true. I celebrate my 37th birthday every year, and have done so for as far back as I can recall. I’m not like these wasteful young whippersnappers, throwing out a perfectly good age just because it has gotten a little out of date. Sure it’s a bit tattered and has lost all credibility, but it’s a faithful old prime number that has served me well for many years. I’m not abandoning it until a much better age comes along — one that gets me into movies at a discount, or brings me a check every month, or at least lets me ride free on the bus. Otherwise, why be fickle?

Anyway, whatever the number, it’s party time. I’m bringing the banana cake with chocolate frosting myself, because it is too essential a part of the celebration to be left to a mere bakery. I’m glad I’ll get to enjoy it fresh, not frozen this year, and be able to share it with friends on my actual birthday.

But it’s a movable feast this year. I figure, why settle for one day and one party, when you can milk it for a whole month?

By the time you read this, I’ll be heading out the door to fly back east. The ostensible excuse is Passover — my whole family is gathering at dad’s place in Philadelphia for a Seder on Saturday night. An even better excuse is that this will be my first chance to meet my adorable new one-year-old niece Stella, just adopted from Uzbekistan. But I’ll also be milking the birthday angle as much as I can.

Before I even get to Philly, though, I’m planning on another party. I’m swinging through D.C. for a visit, and the poker group has obligingly scheduled a game for the evening I’ll be there. Naturally, I have every intention of cleaning them all out, but in case they call my bluff, I’m hoping they’ll take the sting out by sticking some candles in the pizza and singing off-key, at the very least. I’m dropping a few well-placed hints.

Then I’ll scoop up my winnings (if any) and head on to Philly for a two-day cooking marathon. (If you remember anything I’ve told you about my dad and his kitchen experiments, you will understand that we’re not leaving any of the Passover cooking to him — I’d really hate for this to be my last birthday.) My sister Judy is arriving ahead of me, to shop, make the chicken soup and clean out dad’s freezer when he isn’t looking. I plan to arrive just in time to make the matzo balls and haroses, plus the brandy hard sauce for our traditional leaden dessert. And to make sure we have some candles to stick in it.

Then the next day I’m off again — to Las Vegas, for my birthday present to me. I’m meeting up with friends for a few fun days on the town.

Our planning was a bit faulty, though. Somehow we are scheduled to be there when neither Bette Midler or Cher is performing.

We’re really not big gamblers (I am not dumb enough to think my poker game is up to Vegas standards), and roulette wheels only go up to 36, so I can’t put any chips down on lucky number 37. After we lose a few nickels at the slots, and take in a lounge act or two, we’ll need to find another way to entertain ourselves.

We’ve already seen Cirque du Soleil, so I have a feeling the concentration this visit will be on fine dining. Every chef worth his sea salt has opened up a restaurant on the Strip, so there are a lot of great choices — more than we could explore in a month of gorging. And they may not have banana cake with fudge frosting, but I’m willing to bet they all make something decadent that you can stick a candle into.

The great thing about eating out in Las Vegas is they promise you won’t gain weight. You’ve heard the ads. As I understand it, what you eat there, stays there.

I like a town that can keep a secret. It’s the perfect place to celebrate my 37th birthday.

Yes, 37. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

* * * * * *

We printed this recipe last year, but I’m repeating it. Because, admit it, you forgot to clip it out. Or else you clipped it, but never made it and now have misplaced the clipping. (That’s what I would have done.) But it’s a great cake — and the frosting is even better than the cake. So I’m giving you a second chance. Let me know if you make it this time. Or better yet, stick a candle in it and bring me a piece.

Banana Cake with Chocolate Frosting

Banana Cake

1 1/4 cup sugar

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature

2 eggs

1 cup very ripe mashed bananas (about 3-4)

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. salt

2 cups cake flour, or substitute 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour plus 1/4 cup corn starch

1 cup Greek-style yogurt*

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Grease and flour a 9” round cake pan.

Sift together the flour, cornstarch (if using), baking soda and salt. Set aside.

With an electric mixer, cream the butter with the sugar, then the eggs, mixing thoroughly. Add in the bananas. Then add the flour and yogurt, alternating between the two, until everything is incorporated.

Pour the batter into the cake pan and bake for 45 minutes or until done. Cool on a rack, removing cake from the pan after about 10 minutes.

They say you always remember your first time. Mine was 10 years ago, my very first night in Napa, with Robert Mondavi, and it was amazing.

Are you having impure thoughts? Shame on you! I’m talking about dining. About discovering the subtle and flavorful excitement of foods paired with just the right wines.

I arrived in town that June day, unpacked my bags at my temporary quarters, did my best to put together an outfit that matched the description “wine country casual” (failing utterly – I still have trouble figuring that one out) and pointed my rental car toward a dot on my tourist map called Far Niente, for a party celebrating Bob Mondavi’s 85th birthday.

That evening was the first time I sat down to dinner and found myself virtually barricaded behind an array of Riedel glasses in different shapes and sizes, awaiting the wines that would be poured to match each dish. And discovered a new revelation about the ways food and wine complement one another with every course. (Well, at least through the first three or four courses. Everything got a bit fuzzy after that.)

I’ve lived in Napa for a decade now, and have been to dozens and dozens of events such as that one, featuring a sparkling clear evening, spectacular setting, good company, superb chefs in the kitchen, the freshest possible ingredients, and of course fine wines. I’d like to say that I still am awed by it, but this impossibly high standard is met so often here that I sometimes find myself getting a bit blasé. It’s easy to believe that this seemingly effortless melding of wine, food and conviviality is the new American norm. But I know it isn’t.

It’s pure Napa. It’s what the rest of the world lusts after when they talk about the wine country lifestyle. It’s the dream that keeps all those tourists pouring onto highway 29.

It’s Robert Mondavi’s legacy to us.

If you spent more than five minutes in Bob’s company in recent years, you heard him talk about his convictions that Napa’s wines were on a par with any in the world, and that fine wines and fine food necessarily go together. (Margrit would always add “and art” to make sure he didn’t forget that other essential ingredient.) From the great chefs program to the opera house, the Oxbow School, Copia, the Mondavi winery’s concert series and the performance hall and programs at Davis, the two poured creativity, energy and money into projects that supported this vision.

They pushed and prodded Napa into becoming the lively community it is today, and I for one am deeply grateful.

I’ve heard some folks grumble that the valley is being remade for the tourists, and is becoming a playground for the wealthy – but I think they miss the point. Bob’s vision wasn’t to create the good life for a few – but to make a better life for everyone here.

Sure we have lots of high-end restaurants, expensive villas in the hills, and a wine auction so pricey that mere mortals can’t contemplate attending. But Bob knew that enjoying life isn’t about money, it’s about attitude. Those multi-course, multi-wine meals are a treat, but they’re just one small part of the picture. It doesn’t take a fairytale setting, or a private chef, or a dozen crystal goblets to make a meal special.

Sitting in my shady backyard sipping a light rosé, nibbling a hunk of local cheese, popping cherries from the farmers market and contemplating a choice of cultural activities for the evening, I know what the good life is – and that I’m living it. “Wine country lifestyle” is about making an effort to savor all the world offers, trying to bring the best to your table and your life

No wonder everyone wants to come visit.

And I want them to. With Bob gone, it’s our job now to show the world the way to a better life. That’s the best way I can think of to thank him for all he did for us.

* * * * *

All those dinners in wine country showed me a new use for my great-grandmother’s demitasse cups. They’re perfect for serving this lovely cold soup for an elegant first course. I’d pair it with a viognier or Riesling.

Fresh Pea Soup

1 tsp. unsalted butter

1 bunch scallions, white part only, finely sliced or 2-3 shallots, finely chopped, or a mixture (about 1/2 cup)

2 1/2 cups unsalted, high-quality chicken stock (preferably homemade)

2 cups fresh or frozen peas

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 cup heavy cream

1 Tbsp. finely chopped fresh ginger

Greek cheese-style yogurt or sour cream

Fresh mint or basil leaves, to garnish

In a saucepan over medium-high heat, melt the butter and add the scallions. Cook for 1-2 minutes until they start to sweat and soften (do not let them brown), then add 1/2 cup of the stock and continue to cook for another 5 minutes, until they are very soft and mushy. Add the remaining 1 1/2 cups of chicken stock and the salt and bring to a simmer. Add the peas and cook for 3 minutes. Add the cream and fresh ginger, and bring the mixture back to a simmer. Then remove from the heat.

Pour the soup into a blender and puree for about a minute. Then cool the soup quickly (to preserve the pretty green color) by pouring it into a bowl set into a larger bowl or basin filled with ice water and stirring it rapidly. Chill in the refrigerator until ready to serve.

To serve: If the chilled soup has thickened considerably, thin it with a little more cream. Fill individual demitasse cups (or shot glasses or other small serving containers), add a tiny dollop of yogurt or sour cream, and garnish with fresh mint or basil.

Serves 8.

What’s your comfort food?

At the cookbook club meeting last week, we tackled food of the Philippines. Some of the dishes were familiar — chicken adobo, empanadas, lumpia (a fried egg roll), sausage, a kind of rice pilaf — and some were a bit more out of the ordinary.

Among the most exotic was a party dish called bringhe, which was billed as a kind of Philippine paella, though it didn’t contain fish or shellfish. It consisted of a glutinous rice-chicken-coconut milk mixture, cooked and then formed into a big round loaf and steamed inside banana leaves until the outside developed a golden brown crust.

The member who made it followed the recipe to the letter, and it turned out perfectly — just like in the picture.

It was impressive, but I couldn’t quite visualize it as the centerpiece for my next party. It was kind of like a big, mushy, coconut-y rice pudding with some chicken hidden in it. It tasted like pure comfort food. But only if you happened to be (or once had been) a Filipino two-year-old

Someone once introduced me to congee — a kind of gloppy rice soup that is a Chinese comfort food — and I had the same reaction. Bland, perfectly edible, but not a culinary sensation.

The cookbook dinner started me thinking about the nature of comfort foods. Bringhe is a lot like some of my go-to foods, and so is congee. But neither satisfies the yen to cocoon. Obviously, the appeal lies not just in the food itself, but in the memories you bring to it. The taste preference is specific, and acquired in childhood, before permanent teeth.

Because for most comfort foods, molars are not required. Actually, neither is strong flavor. Or color. Ask folks to start listing their favorites. You’ll hear mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, hot cereal, chocolate milk, chicken pot pie, noodles, matzo balls — all foods that take them back to their days in a high chair, and are soft and mild and colorless in more ways than one. Many of the universal favorites are white, beige or brown (or occasionally Velveeta yellow or Campbell’s cream of tomato soup pink).

One thing is for sure: comfort foods aren’t green (unless you count creamed spinach). And they don’t require much chewing. You’ll almost never hear anyone cite lettuce. Or broccoli. Or corn on the cob. Despite their blandness, lack of texture and association with happy toddlers, strained peas don’t make the list either

Gerber jars of veggies aside, I feel the draw of childhood favorites these days, what with global warming, gas prices, the miserable state of the economy, the never-ending war and the interminable, slow-motion race for the White House. I have a strong desire to turn off the phone and computer, and crawl under an afghan in my den with a warm, oozing grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of cocoa.

But I firmly believe life should have flavor and texture. Bland and blah doesn’t satisfy me for long. The world looks dire, but even so, I’m putting my bib and blankie into storage. 

No bringhe for me. I have all my wisdom teeth and I want food I can bite into.

I think I’ll go make a big, crunchy salad. The farmers market opened last week, and despite freezes, threats of drought and Washington shenanigans over the Farm Bill, the earth is once again offering up its bounty of fresh greens and veggies.

Now that’s what I call comforting.

* * * * *

On my trip last month, I discovered that what stays in Las Vegas is mostly all the money that you came with. We had a lot of fun, and given that the place is designed to pick you up by the ankles and shake all the funds out of your pockets, we did pretty well finding ways to amuse ourselves without going bankrupt. While nursing a $14 cocktail in an over-the-top lounge at the Wynn one afternoon, I found the inspiration for this great mojito salad. (Hmm. Think the IRS will find that sufficient grounds for me to write the trip off?)

The vegetables listed here are my suggestion, but feel free to throw together your favorite combination. Add some cooked shrimp, chicken, salmon or steak to make it an even more satisfying meal.

Mojito Chopped Salad

Juice and zest of 1-2 limes

4 Tbsp. avocado oil or other mild oil

1 Tbsp. water

1/2 tsp. sugar

1/4 tsp. salt, pepper to taste

1 bunch mint, leaves cut in chiffonade

2 cucumbers, seeded and chopped

1 small head Romaine lettuce, chopped or torn into small pieces

1 red, yellow or orange pepper, chopped

1/2 small jicama, chopped

1 medium daikon, peeled and chopped or 1 bunch radishes, trimmed and sliced

2 carrots, chopped

1/2 red onion, chopped

1/2 cup green beans, lightly blanched

1/4 cup Kalamata olives

1/2 cup crumbled Feta cheese

1/2 cup chopped toasted pecans

1 avocado, pitted and chopped

Note: All vegetables except the mint should be chopped into 1/2” dice. To make the chiffonade, pile the mint leaves on top of one another and roll them together tightly from the side to form a cigar shape. Slice across as finely as you can. You should end up with thin ribbons of mint.

Take about 2 tablespoons each of the chopped cucumber and mint, and mince finely. Place them in a small bowl or cup with the finely grated lime zest, and crush with the back of a spoon or a pestle. Add the lime juice, vinegar, water, avocado oil, sugar, salt and pepper, and muddle together. Correct the seasonings to taste and set aside.

In a large bowl, mix together the remaining cucumbers and mint with the lettuce, red pepper, jicama, daikon, carrots, red onion and green beans. Add the dressing, olives and pecans, and toss. Gently fold in the avocado and cheese.

Serves 4 as a main course, or 6-8 as a salad.

If you ever find yourself cooking next to a professional chef, don’t reach for his knife. That’s a good way to get your hand slapped (or chopped off!). Knives are the one kitchen tool chefs refuse to lend, and try not to let out of their sight.

And I can respect that. In fact, I feel the same way. A good, sharp chef’s knife becomes practically an extension of your hand — and is just as essential and personal.

I’ve had my carbon steel Sabatier chef’s knife since college, long before I actually knew my way around a kitchen. I didn’t seek it out on purpose — it was just a lucky buy. A friend discovered a cache of knives on sale for a song at an odd little store in an unfashionable New York neighborhood, and I bought one, mostly because my friend said to, and it was cheap.

Little did I know that the 10-inch blade would become my most precious possession.

I certainly didn’t understand that at the beginning. I threw it in the drawer next to the knives and forks we had purloined from the college cafeteria, and let anyone use it. I allowed it to rust on more than one occasion, seldom sharpening it or even swiping it on one of those edging tools. I used it for everything from cutting twine to chicken bones.

But as clueless as I was, even I could not fail to notice how well it cut, how comfortable it felt in my hand, and how sharp it stayed, despite my ill treatment. Over the years, without my even noticing, it went from being “a” knife to being “my” knife. I even started taking it with me when I traveled, if I knew I’d be cooking at a beach house or with relatives.

When it was about 20, I took a class in knife skills, and discovered that, while I wasn’t paying attention, the world had switched to easy-care stainless steel. When I mentioned my old Sabatier, the chef got a faraway look in his eye, and told me how lucky I was

I looked with new eyes at my old relic. I was finally ready to give it the respect it deserved. I scoured off the rust and started religiously washing and drying the blade whenever I used it. I bought a stone to sharpen it on, and slipped it into a shield to protect its edge.

And it served me faithfully for another decade, slicing through even the toughest foods with ease.

Until a few months ago.

I was cutting an onion and something felt wrong. I looked down and noticed a small hairline crack at the edge of the blade. I sliced again, and suddenly it wasn’t a crack — there was a small half-moon gone from the edge of the metal.

I was bereft. I even shed a few tears. (Maybe it was the onion, but I don’t think so.) Then I got philosophical.

“What can you expect? It’s 30 years old,” I told myself. “It’s had a good, long life, but it’s a goner.” And I sadly put it aside, though I couldn’t quite bring myself to throw it out.

I bought a new knife, and then another one, and another, trying to find a replacement with the right weight and balance. But nothing satisfied me.

Then one day I was in Shackford’s and noticed that their knife-sharpening service quoted prices not just for sharpening, but for something called “restoration.” Hope sprang up in my heart. Could my knife be saved after all?

The short answer is Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! My knife is back, better and sharper than ever. Chopping is once again a delight. Cooking is a joy. I’m hunting for things to slice.

But no. Don’t even think about asking. You can’t borrow it.

* * * * *

I enjoy cutting onions (I guess I love a good cry), so to celebrate the rebirth of my knife, I decided to make some French onion soup. Other than the slicing, it’s a straightforward dish. The only secrets lie in using a good, flavorful stock and giving the onions sufficient time to caramelize and give off their wonderful sweet, rich flavor.

French Onion-Shallot Soup

4 large yellow onions, sliced

8-10 shallots, sliced

2 Tbsp. butter

1/4 tsp. sugar

4-6 slices French bread, toasted

4-6 oz. gruyere cheese, grated (about 1 1/2 cups)

1 qt. high quality chicken or beef stock, preferably homemade

1 cup dry white wine

Salt and pepper

Peel and thinly slice the onions and shallots. (I know, I know, the shallots are a pain to peel.) But they add great flavor. If you’re not as in love with your knife as I am, you can use a mandoline for the slicing. I don’t recommend using the food processor, as it tears the onions.

Over low hear, melt the butter in a large saucepan and add the onions and shallots. Cook covered over low heat for about 15 minutes, checking to make sure they are softening and becoming translucent, not browning. Remove the lid and cook until the liquid has evaporated. Then turn the heat up to medium, add salt to taste and the sugar, and continue cooking until the onions are a rich brown, about another 15 minutes.

Add the stock and wine to the pan and bring to a boil. Simmer for 15 minutes.

Pour the soup into individual ovenproof soup bowls, or into a single casserole dish. Float the bread slices on top of the soup, and cover them and the surface of the soup with a thick layer of grated cheese. Place the bowls under the broiler until the cheese has melted and is golden in color.

Serves 4-6

Note: Posts in this blog originally appeared in my column, Amuse-bouche, in the Napa Valley Register. this one is from March 2008.

Like most girls in the pre-feminist era, I was required to take Home Ec in eighth grade, to learn the housewifely skills of sewing and cooking. The only thing I remember learning, however, was how to boil water — although they called it chicken-noodle soup. We used dried Lipton Soup mix. (No joke, they actually taught this in school.) My first attempt wasn’t very successful — I was busy gossiping in the back of the room and forgot to put the noodles into the water on time, so they were just a little crunchy. But I studied hard and eventually I got the hang of it.

Needless to say, I graduated from the class fully prepared to run as far away as possible from the stove.

My mother didn’t help. She was an excellent cook, but not much of a teacher — her main interest was in getting dinner to the table on time. I think her most frequent instruction to me was “Get out of my kitchen, you’re in the way.”

Occasionally, she’d call us in when she needed an extra pair of hands to help with baking cookies or rolling meatballs. But I didn’t really cook until I was in college.

My sophomore year, a group of us shared an apartment-style dorm suite, one that came complete with a kitchen. After barely surviving a freshman year of inedible meal plan food, it was heaven to be in control of our own diet.

Thanks to Debby, our hyper-organized, extremely obsessive roommate, who herded us all into it, the four of us set up a dinner cooperative. We pooled money for groceries and shopped once a week, then each of us was responsible for one meal, Monday through Thursday. It was truly the blind leading the blind, as at first none of us knew how to prepare more than one or two simple dishes.

I gravitated toward “ethnic” food, so my specialty was vaguely (very vaguely!) Chinese: stir-fried beef with peppers and tomatoes. Other standbys included broiled chicken, hamburgers and spaghetti. A big splurge was a package of Uncle Ben’s Long Grain and Wild Rice. For potluck dinners, we relied on my skill at boiling water — we made Kraft Mac ’n’ Cheese (the kind where you cooked the macaroni and added gooey cheese from a little can inside the package), earning us an entirely unmerited reputation among our male friends for being fabulous cooks.

Debby had a small step up on the rest of us, as she had actually spent the previous summer working as a cook for some wealthy people at their beach house. This did not signal that she knew how to cook, however — just that she had enormous chutzpah. She’d gotten the job by lying through her teeth (she wanted to spend the summer at the beach) and she managed to bully the family and their guests into eating only dishes that she could look up in the Joy of Cooking, her only cookbook. She couldn’t flip fried eggs over without breaking them, so she made up a check-off menu for them to order breakfast, and only offered eggs scrambled or sunny side up. Problem solved.

From her, I learned that confidence goes a long way in the kitchen. And if you can read and follow directions, you can make pretty much anything — though how it tastes depends on if you’ve picked a good recipe in the first place.

From Margo, I learned to appreciate my mother’s insistence on fresh ingredients. Until I met her, I didn’t know that vegetables even came in cans — and Margo didn’t know that they came any other way. She had some flavor revelations that year — though to this day I think she still prefers canned peas to fresh.

Joanne’s cooking made me less cautious. The recipes she got from her mom consisted of a list of ingredients and nothing more. She threw dishes together without measuring — she’d just toss things in until it tasted right. She used herbs with verve, instead of doling them out in pinches. I still make tuna salad her way, with chopped scallions and plenty of dried dill.

As for me, I think I pushed them all to be a bit more adventurous (though on reflection, it’s quite possible my disastrous Welsh Rarebit experiment had the opposite effect).

The occasional inedible cheesy flop aside, I learned a lot that year in the kitchen. It wasn’t the Ivy League education my folks thought they were paying for, but over time it has proved at least valuable as my college coursework. Cooking taught me to go beyond the textbook, to dive in and try things fearlessly, to accept failure, to learn from my mistakes, to trust my instincts and to open my mind and appreciate the differences as well as the similarities to be found in others’ experiences and backgrounds.

And the most important discovery of all that year was the fun of cooking and eating with friends. The long dinner conversations we shared night after night are some of my best memories from college.

The food? Not so much.

* * * * *

Like the styles we wore in the sixties, foods from that era have cycled in and out of fashion several times in the intervening years. This macaroni salad recipe was my favorite back in the day, when pasta salad was a brand new concept. Nowadays with its “secret” ingredient of Kraft Catalina dressing, it seems retro, and extremely unsophisticated  — and I can imagine a thousand more interesting variations. But I still make it this way once in a while, for old time’s sake. (Note, this is a Joanne recipe, so all ingredient amounts are approximate.)

Macaroni Salad

1 lb. elbow macaroni

1/3 cup mayonnaise

1/4 cup Kraft Catalina dressing

4 Tbsp. white vinegar

1 Tbsp. (or less) sugar

Salt and pepper to taste

2 cucumbers, seeded and diced

4 carrots, diced

1 onion, diced

2 green or red peppers (or one of each), diced

1-2 zucchini, diced

Boil a big pot of water (see, Home Ec does come in handy), add salt and cook the macaroni according to the package directions (about 7 minutes). Drain and turn into a large bowl. Mix together the mayonnaise, salad dressing, vinegar, sugar, salt and pepper (adjusting the dressing to your taste) and toss into the noodles.

Add the chopped vegetables and toss. Chill for at least half an hour, to let the flavors blend.

This is great for picnics or potlucks — it makes a huge bowl and serves 12 to 20.

Note: posts in this blog originally appeared in my column, Amuse-bouche, in the Napa Valley Register. This one is from March 2008.

I was warned the recipe I selected for last month’s cookbook club meeting was labor intensive, but did I listen?

It was “Lemon Lover’s Lemon Tart,” so I couldn’t resist. I love lemons — and tarts. And the picture of red-sprinkled lemons topping a perfect crust was gorgeous. So I signed up for it.

Our book club idea is simple. The host picks the cookbook, everyone gets a copy and selects a dish to prepare for the meeting — which isn’t so much a meeting as an absolutely fabulous dinner party. During dinner we each describe our experience with the dish we made. There’s only one rule. In order to properly judge the book, we all pledge (much as it goes against the grain), to follow the recipe.

The day before the meeting, I read the instructions all the way through, and the tart looked pretty straightforward. A crust, a creamy filling, fruit on top, glaze and garnish (the red sprinkles). Sure that was a lot of steps for one small tart, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

I started with the garnish. Turns out the red sprinkles were actually lemon zest, candied in grenadine. The recipe called for cutting the zest in julienne, candying it, then chopping it finely. No problem. I grabbed my zester and quickly had a pile of long skinny lemon rind shreds. I dropped them into the simmering grenadine and they soon turned a lovely red.

The next step was to drain them, let them cool, and chop them.

Hmm. Somehow. The grenadine had gotten quite sticky. I drained off as much as I could, cooled the rind and set about chopping it. But it wouldn’t chop. It was kind of gummy, and just slid around under the knife. And the pieces were all stuck together. In desperation, I got out the kitchen scissors and cut the mass into bits, attacking it over and over again.

I checked the recipe, and it said this was going to be sprinkled on top of the tart. Huh? The pieces were now tiny, but they kept adhering to one another. If I tried to sprinkle them, I was going to end up with misshapen lumps and clumps. In desperation I spread the gooey mass out on a sheet of waxed paper in the freezer. After it froze, I placed another sheet of waxed paper on top and pounded it with a hammer. Success! Garnish ready to sprinkle. And it had only taken two hours.

Next, I made the filling. It was fairly simple — egg yolks, lemon juice, lemon zest, sugar, butter and vast amounts of whisking over slow heat for what felt like an eternity. Only after it was done did I realize that it was virtually identical to the lemon curd I made as holiday gifts this year. Too bad — I still had two jars of it sitting in the fridge that really needed to be used up.

I stretched my tired biceps, and moved on to the crust. It was a classic sweet pastry recipe, with a twist — it started by scraping the innards of an entire vanilla bean into the mix. In case you wondered, it takes forever to scrape out all those little seeds. (And have you priced vanilla beans lately? Ka-ching.)

Anyway, time-consuming and extremely expensive crust made and baked, it was time to attack the fruit topping — sections of lemon candied in sugar syrup. I got out my small, serrated knife and started to peel away the rind.

Have you ever tried to section a lemon? Grapefruits are easy. Oranges aren’t too bad. But lemons? Try it. Let me know if you figure out the secret. I sure don’t know it.

Three hours and a dozen lemons later, I looked at the minuscule pile of intact sections and realized I was going to need more. Fortunately, I have a lemon tree.

After another hour (and a dozen more lemons), when it finally looked like I had enough, I made the sugar syrup. Following the instructions exactly, I cooked the sections in small batches for a couple of minutes per batch, then drained them on a rack.

Finally, I was ready to assemble the tart!

I spread the chilled lemon curd over the crust. Carefully arranged the fruit sections on top in concentric circles. Brushed it all with strained, melted apricot preserves. Sprinkled on the weird red-colored bits of rind. Dusted the edges with confectioner’s sugar. It was stunning — just as pretty as the picture, and almost worth the seven hours of prep time.

I proudly took it to the dinner, and everyone oohed and aahed. And then we served it.

It was a tart lover’s tart all right. Seriously tart. After all that work, those “candied” lemons were sour enough to cause some major puckers. You had to be the kind of lemon lover who likes to eat the fruit raw. For this I dirtied every pot in my kitchen?

And talk about truth in advertising (or lack thereof)! Did I mention the title of this month’s cookbook?

It was called “Simply French.”

* * * * * *

I had a lot of time to think while I was baking the tart, and mostly what I thought about was ways to make it easier. So here is my version — which actually tasted better, and was every bit as pretty. I used the same pastry, but instead of a vanilla bean, substituted vanilla paste (a great pantry basic from World Spice in the Oxbow market). For filling, I used the homemade lemon curd in my fridge — but you could easily substitute the prepared kind from the store. For fruit topping, I sliced whole lemons crosswise on the mandoline (it took two minutes), and thoroughly cooked them in the sugar syrup. The lemons were already shiny, so I skipped the jam. For the garnish I sprinkled red sugar (the kind you use on Christmas cookies).

Now that’s what I call simple. And by the way, delicious.

Lazy Lemon Lover’s Tart

(adapted from Patricia Wells, “Simply French,”)

Crust

4 Tbsp. butter, room temperature, plus butter to grease the pan

1/2 tsp. vanilla bean paste

1/2 cup confectioner’s sugar, sifted

2 egg yolks, room temperature

1 cup flour, sifted

pinch of salt

Filling

1 jar lemon curd*

Topping

2 whole lemons

1 1/4 cups sugar

1 cup water

Red decorating sugar (optional)

Blend the butter and vanilla paste in the food processor until smooth and light. Add the sugar and process, then the egg yolks. Once everything is well blended, add the flour and a pinch of salt, and pulse several times just until the flour is incorporated. (Don’t keep going until it turns into a ball.) If it is very wet, you may need to add another tablespoon or two of flour.

Scrape the dough from the container onto a piece of waxed paper, and pat it into a flat disk. Wrap and chill for at least an hour, or overnight.

Butter the inside of a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom.

Roll the dough out between two sheets of waxed paper, into a circle roughly 11-12 inches across. Using the tart pan as a template, cut out a dough circle the size of the bottom of the pan, and place it in the pan. (This is a very shallow tart, so you will be building the edge rather than taking the dough all the way up the side of the pan like you would with a pie.) To make the edge, take the dough trimmings and, using your fingertips, roll them into skinny cylinders about 1/2 inch across. Brush the edges of the pastry disk with water, and place a single row of the cylinders around the outside edge. Use a bit of water to attach segments together. Then take a chopstick or similar rounded object and, working on a diagonal (rather than perpendicular to the edge of the pan) gently crimp the top of the pastry edge all the way round, to make a decorative edge.

Chill, covered, for another hour, using the time to make the fruit topping (see below).

To bake, preheat the oven to 375 F. With a fork, puncture the bottom of the dough all over. Bake for 5 minutes and check. If areas are bubbling up, puncture them again with the fork, and continue baking. Check frequently. It should be done in about 15 more minutes, when it is golden brown, but it will overcook quickly.

To make the topping, thoroughly wash the lemons and slice them crosswise with a mandoline, discarding the end pieces. Slightly thicker slices work best — the rind should form a full circle.

Combine the water and sugar in a saucepan over moderate heat, and bring to a simmer. Add the fruit slices, return the syrup to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes. Then turn off the heat and let the lemons cool in the syrup.

To make the tart, spread a layer of lemon curd all over the bottom of the cooled, baked crust. Fish the lemon slices out of the syrup and drain them, then arrange them over the top of the filling. Sprinkle with red sugar. Keep chilled until ready to amaze your guests.

Serves 8

I was having lunch with a friend on my last trip east, and spotted a menu item I hadn’t seen in a long time. Stuffed cabbage.

It was a nasty, rainy day — kind of like it is today, as I write this. So I had to order it.

It’s one of those dishes I think of as Grandmother food. It takes you right back to peasant roots in warm kitchens in the old country. Sitting at the worn wooden table while Nana imparted her wisdom, and taught you how to form the rolls just so, and lined them up in the old, chipped ceramic baking dish that you still cherish …

Who am I kidding? This is clearly somebody else’s childhood I’m channeling. Or possibly I’m remembering it from one of those lovely ethnic memoir cookbooks that I’ll never be able to write.

I grew up in a typical American post-WWII suburban house, where vegetables came frozen in square boxes and soup came in cans. My mother was a very good cook, but her recipes were from cookbooks and magazines, not learned at her grandmother’s knee. She was the youngest of five, with a brother in college while she was in diapers. By the time she came along, her mother was busy running the family store, and very tired of children and meal preparation. Grandma died at a ripe old age when I was 10, without ever giving me a single cooking lesson.

My other grandmother — who I gather was a “roast beef on Sundays prepared by the help” kind of a cook — died when I was three. Our only remaining close relative from that generation was my father’s aunt, who couldn’t afford “help,” so came to our house for the roast beef. I’m sure I must have eaten at her home, but if so, the food was unmemorable.

Which is not to say we were entirely bereft. Our next-door neighbor was Russian, and her mother, who had also emigrated, often came and stayed with her daughter’s family for weeks at a time. She became unofficial grandmother to my sisters and me, along with her own grandchildren. Everybody called her Bobbie (a Russian version of “grannie”). When not at her daughter’s, she lived in New York. When I was in college there, she used to invite me for dinner in her small, cramped very Russian apartment.

Unfortunately, she was a terrible cook.

One of my favorite dishes (favorite being a relative term) was her stuffed cabbage, which was basically hamburger wrapped in cabbage leaves, cooked in canned tomato sauce, with a lot of dill thrown into the sauce. It was fairly edible, once you piled sour cream on top of it.

In fact, I even made it a couple times myself, in my poverty-stricken graduate school years, but eased it out of my repertoire once I developed taste buds.

So my expectations weren’t high when I spotted stuffed cabbage on the menu. It just sounded right for the weather. Plus they were pairing it with mashed potatoes, the ultimate winter comfort food. So I took a chance.

And what a revelation it was! This version clearly came from someone with a lot deeper ethnic roots than mine — and a lot better kitchen skills than Bobbie’s. The sauce was a little sweet, a little sour — and rich, hearty and flavorful. Miles removed from my childhood memories, and infinitely better.

I came home determined to make it myself. Googling brought up zillions of variations, plus endless blog chats arguing about country of origin, ingredients and names. I was overwhelmed, and not sure where to start. So I bought a cabbage, some hamburger and a can of tomato sauce, figuring I’d try to spruce up Bobbie’s recipe.

Fortunately, before I started cooking, I was chatting with my friend Daryl, and mentioned my current quest. Lucky girl, she actually had a grandmother who cooked! And stuffed cabbage was one of her specialties. Her version was included in the cookbook put together by the ladies of her synagogue that she had bequeathed to her granddaughter.

Without much prodding, Daryl dug it up and copied out the recipe for me.

It was really good. With a little tweaking (when did I ever not tweak a recipe?) it was really great. Better even than the restaurant’s version, a fantastic winter comfort food that took me back to my childhood as well as to hers.

Even my mother would have liked this recipe. One of the secret ingredients is canned tomato soup.

* * * * *

The other secret ingredient in this recipe is stranger than the soup — it’s gingersnaps! They add body as well as flavor to the sauce, so don’t leave them out. You could skip the soup in favor of more tomato sauce or another tomato product, though for nostalgia’s sake, I don’t. The meat in the original recipe was very bland and boring, so I added some flavor to it with onion and dried herbs — dill in memory of Bobbie; mint and basil to balance it and add some sweetness.

If this dish isn’t in your repertoire, start a tradition — make this with your kids or grandkids, and let them help roll up the leaves.

Sweet and Sour Stuffed Cabbage

Sauce

4 onions, sliced

4 beef soup bones

1 cup raisins

8 gingersnaps

1 can (15 oz.) tomato sauce

1 can Campbell’s tomato soup (the concentrated kind)

6 cups water

Juice of two lemons (or more, to taste)

1/4 cup sugar (or more, to taste)

Salt, to taste

Cabbage rolls

1 large head of cabbage

2 lbs. lean ground beef

1 cup cooked rice

2 eggs

1 onion, grated

1 Tbsp. dried dill

1 Tbsp. dried mint

1 tsp. dried basil

Salt (1-2 tsps. at least) and pepper, to taste

Plain (not dyed) wooden toothpicks

Combine all the sauce ingredients in a large, ovenproof pot with a lid. (A Le Creuset-type large enameled pot is ideal.) Bring to a simmer and cook while preparing the cabbage rolls.

With your hands, mix together all the remaining ingredients except the cabbage.

With a sharp knife, carefully cut around the core of the cabbage, to help loose the leaves. Bring a large, deep pot of water to a boil. (A stockpot is ideal for this.) Add salt, and drop the head of cabbage into the water. With tongs, pull off the leaves as they loosen, laying them on a pan or counter to cool. They should be soft, but still somewhat firm.

If you like, you can cut off the remaining stem on each leaf, to ease rolling (but I don’t find it necessary to do this). Starting with the largest leaf, form the meat mixture into lozenges about 1 1/2 inches thick, matching the size of the lozenge to the leaf. Place the meat on the leaf, fold the stem end over it, and roll up, folding in the sides as you roll. Use a toothpick to hold the roll together. Repeat, until all the meat and leaves are gone. If you have extra meat, form it into meatballs.

Taste the sauce and correct the sweet-sour balance, to taste, by adding more lemon juice or sugar, and more salt if needed. Carefully place the rolls (and meatballs, if any) into the sauce, pushing them down to make sure they are all covered. Simmer, covered, on the stove for two hours. Then, heat the oven to 300 F and cook uncovered in the oven for another 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

Serve, remembering to remove the toothpicks from each cabbage roll. (Otherwise, someone may have a nasty surprise.)

Serves 6 – 8

I’m always so happy to see Valentine’s Day arrive. Not because I love the day — I don’t. I’m no fan of Hallmark holidays in general, and this one is particularly commercial. But I welcome it for what it represents.

The end of Dating Lent.

As someone who has spent way too much of her life single, I can say with some authority that if you are not safely in a relationship by Thanksgiving, you might as well swear off the other sex until February, and try to get religious credit for it.

It’s one long extended minefield.

Christmas is bad enough: How much to spend? How personal? What if he gives me something really expensive and thoughtful, and I just regifted him a jar of jam? What if I give him something really expensive and thoughtful, and he just regifted me a key ring?

Then, even if your budding relationship gets past that, you are immediately faced with the New Year’s Eve dilemma.

If you’ve just started dating and you are not yet sure where things are going, do you take him to a party to meet all your friends? Or go with him to his friend’s party, and get sized up by all his buddies (and probably three or four of his ex-girlfriends)? What if you want to take it slow and he plans a really big, romantic evening? Or even worse, what if there’s less than a week to go, and he hasn’t asked you yet? Do you make other plans? Drop hints? Do you even want to know if he has plans with someone else?

No one in their right mind starts dating someone new in December.

But then suddenly it’s January — a time for new beginnings. You wake up eager to get out there and face the dating world again. But wait. What are those red hearts everywhere? Some sadist has created a February holiday even more couple-y and romantic and fraught with expectations than New Year’s. And the bad memories it awakens! I don’t know about you, but the trauma of elementary school Valentine’s cards is still with me.

When I stick my nose outside and see the red satin ribbons go up, I make like the groundhog and climb back inside for another six weeks of dating winter.

But this week, daffodils are popping up in my yard, mustard is blooming in the vineyards and Valentine’s Day is almost upon us. For other folks, the Lenten period has just started, but the end of mine is in sight. I’m eyeing the prospects and gearing up.

And foodwise, I’m already thinking about that great standby of the single girl — the dinner invitation.

Of course, that too takes timing and finesse. I’m thinking about it now, but I generally don’t plan dinners until I’ve dated someone a month or more. You need to get in a few great meals in classy bistros before you reveal that you could do just as well at home, or you risk never seeing the inside of a restaurant again. And you have to check out your date to make sure he has a compatible palate. There’s nothing worse than spending hours preparing a fabulous dinner only to discover that he detests the key ingredient.

You also have to decide if this will be a candlelit dinner for two, or a dinner party —which can either diffuse the date pressure, or emphasize your couple-ness, depending on who else you invite.

And then you have to get the food right. Raw garlic and onions — not good if you expect to smooch. Beans or cabbage? Perhaps not the smartest idea you ever had. Spa cuisine? It’s easy to be tempted when your guest (and you) could afford to lose a few pounds. But don’t be surprised when he bolts out the door early, so he can get to In N Out Burger on the way home. Recipes that keep you in the kitchen during the hors d’oeuvres? You run the risk of him chatting up one of your single girlfriends over drinks while you are toiling away like a galley slave. A rich dessert? Always a plus (unless you decide halfway through the dinner that the guy isn’t for you. Remember, you’re eating it, too — and one should never underestimate the seductive power of chocolate.)

Here’s what I’ve learned: For old friends and well-established beaus, it’s fine to experiment with untried recipes and exotic ingredients. But when the object is romance, it’s comfort food all the way. I recommend slow-cooked dishes that can happily sit for hours in the oven without any attention.

That way, you’re free to get distracted in case the romantic atmosphere starts to work earlier than expected.

And braised dishes get better with time. So if the date’s a dud, at least you can look forward to the leftovers.

* * * * *

I don’t tend to eat much beef, but that may change now that the Five Dot Ranch stand has opened at the Oxbow Market. They had beautiful short ribs, both on and off the bone, this week. I prefer them bone-in, for added flavor, but either works for this dish. I decided to pair the beef with star anise, to push it in an unexpected direction. Something about the smell of the anise and the wine made the dish cry out for coffee, so I threw half a cup into the braising liquid as well.

Short Ribs Braised in Red Wine with Star Anise

3 – 4 lbs. beef short ribs

2 star anise pieces

2 tsp. kosher salt

2 tsp. black peppercorns

1 Tbsp. oil

3 medium onions, diced (about 3 cups)

3 large carrots, diced (about 1 1/2 cups)

2 stalks celery, diced (about 3/4 cup)

1 leek, white part only, cleaned and thinly sliced

4 Tbsp. tomato paste

1 1/2 bottles red wine (I used Two Buck Chuck shiraz)

1/2 cup strong coffee (optional)

Break one of the star anise pieces in half and grind the half, along with the salt and peppercorns, in a spice grinder. Rub the spices into all sides of the pieces of meat. Set aside for 15-30 minutes or longer to allow the meat to warm to room temperature and the spices to penetrate. (I use the time to chop the vegetables)

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Heat a large, ovenproof Dutch oven or other pot over medium-high heat, and add the oil. Brown the meat pieces on all sides. Don’t crowd the pan — do it in batches if necessary. Remove the browned meat pieces to a plate.

Pour off excess oil from the pot, then add the onions, carrots, celery and leek. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables soften, about 8 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and cook for another minute.

Place the meat pieces on top of the vegetables, and pour in a bottle of red wine and the coffee. Add in the remaining 1 1/2 pieces of star anise. Bring to a boil and cook uncovered for a few minutes.

Cover and move the pot to the oven. Cook until the meat is tender and falling off the bone, about 2 1/2 hours. While cooking, check it occasionally and add more red wine if the level of liquid drops.

You can serve the dish right away, or cool it overnight and reheat it the next day, which will give it even more flavor. If you cool it, take the opportunity to remove any congealed fat before you heat it, and pull out the bones. Serve with noodles or mashed potatoes to capture the sauce.

Serves 4-6

When I was growing up, boys got chemistry sets to play with in the basement. Girls got E-Z-Bake Ovens.

So it’s not entirely my own fault that I was science-phobic in high school — so much so that I signed up for two languages in order to avoid having room in my schedule to take chemistry.

I’ve never been particularly troubled that I missed out on memorizing the periodic table and making strips turn pink (or is it blue?) to indicate acid. I’ve gotten a lot of use out of French and Spanish.

And I didn’t end up completely ignorant about science — I’ve managed to pick up a smattering of basic chemistry over the years, and I can generally grasp most everyday applications. But I admit I was feeling a bit anxious last month, when I attended what actually proved to be a fascinating session at the CIA in St. Helena. It was presented by Ted Russin, a food scientist from CPKelco, a San Diego company that makes a lot of those multisyllabic scary-sounding ingredients that show up in the fine print on food labels.

The point of the seminar was to demystify some of those ingredients — which, by the way, you’re already eating, whether you know it or not — and free chefs up to express their creativity.

In particular, Ted and his colleagues were showing off the properties of hydrocolloids like gellan and xanthan gum.

Admit it. If you’re like me, you hit the word “hydrocolloid” and your eyes started to glaze over. At the same time, you began bristling at the idea of weird new additives from the test tube messing up perfectly good food. But stick with me.

First of all, it turns out hydrocolloid is just a fancy word for thickener. Like when you use cornstarch or flour to make gravy. And second, it turns out these ingredients are natural — and not all that scary. Some of them are even up for certification as organic.

Have you ever made (or eaten) jelly? It’s thickened with a hydrocolloid — pectin, which is derived from citrus peels. You’ll find carrageenan — made from sea algae — in Philly cream cheese, toothpaste, and soy milk, among other places. Another seaweed derivative, agar, shows up a lot as well.

When you get to the newer thickeners, the sources are admittedly a little more esoteric. For 25 years, scientists have been scouring the globe for specimens, creating a library of freeze-dried organisms from everywhere imaginable.

Xanthan gum —used in pie fillings, ice cream and pet food, among other places — is produced by the bacteria that turn cauliflower black. Not too appetizing a source, but not too exotic either. Gellan, the newest wonder gel, took more scientific sleuthing. It’s produced by bacteria found growing on a lily pad in Pennsylvania.

OK, I agree, at first glance, bacteria don’t sound like the food crop you’d most want to cultivate — or eat. But what do you think causes fermentation? Do you like cheese and wine? Bacteria turn out to be a pretty important part of our diet.

It’s worth getting over any lingering prejudices — because these new hydrocolloids are cool! Imagine liquids that look like Jell-O — and slide down your throat like water. Vinegar as thick and intense as reduced balsamic — but with a fresh flavor unaltered by cooking. Fruit sorbets that don’t get icy or break down. The possibilities are amazing.

Chefs are already using them in astonishing dishes. The next time you’re out to eat, you may encounter deep-fried mayonnaise, or a soup that is half hot and half cold in the same bowl, or something that looks like noodles, or caviar — but tastes like something else entirely. It’s not all weird, experimental foods, either. Hydrocolloids could revolutionize dieting, replacing starches with no-cal thickeners that feel luxuriously rich. These gels are the next frontier.

And they’re getting closer and closer to the home kitchen. While you won’t find gellan at the supermarket — yet — you can get it online from a small San Francisco restaurant supply company called Le Sanctuaire (www.lesanctuaire.com), and it’s starting to show up as an ingredient in recipes.

Not quite ready to turn your kitchen into a laboratory? Be open-minded. Remember, even such old stand-bys as baking powder and instant cocoa were once new-fangled inventions. I’m getting over my science phobia, and you can too.

In any case, the good news is, we don’t have to worry anymore about damaging our children with gender-stereotyped toys. Before long, an E-Z-Bake oven will actually BE a chemistry set.

* * * * *

During his talk, Ted kept slipping and referring to recipes as “formulations” — and I figured out why when I surfed the web looking for gellan recipes. This is not yet a convenience product, sold in premeasured packets like Knox’s gelatin. The existing recipes do read a bit like formulas, and they require scientific-type measurement. I don’t currently own an accurate scale that can measure in grams, or a good instant-read thermometer, though both are on my list of needed upgrades. So I haven’t actually made the following recipe. I’m providing it in the hope that one of you will try it and let us know how it is. You can’t really go wrong — whether or not it gels, it sounds like the basis of a delicious cocktail!

Pomegranate and Vodka Fluid Gel

1 g low acyl gellan (0.5%)

90 g pomegranate juice (about 3 ounces)

6 g water (about 1 1/4 tsp.)

100 g vodka (about 3 1/2 ounces)

Heat pomegranate juice and water to 65 C (149 F.).

Add gellan, blend with an immersion blender, then continue mixing with a spoon until cool and partially set. Add vodka and blend with an immersion blender.