Shrimp Acapulco and Naughty Sunbathing

The title is just a mean trick to see if you're here about the food, or something else entirely. But, it is true, the day I made this, there was some naughty sunbathing involved--NO SUNSCREEN. I know; but my friend, Nina, came down for a girl's weekend visit and gorging ourselves on this fabulous shrimp concoction and being high out of our minds on too many corn chips and some good old fashioned peer pressure led to our naughtiness. After all, girls will be girls.

But, don't be like me and Nina--wear your sunscreen--it's important. However, don't worry about eating too many corn chips, because this Shrimp Acapulco is definitely worth it and a corn chip is the best vehicle to scoop up big tasty mouthfuls.

Chilled Carrot Soup

The dog days of August have me by the ankles! For those who don't know me well, and for those who do but choose to ignore my obsessive personality, let me mention that I like to garden. Unfortunately, I garden pretty obsessively, so that means that I am knee deep in the 24 (yep!) tomato plants that I put in back in May and the 14 (yep!) giant pumpkin vines I planted in June.

But this post is about Chilled Carrot Soup, because no matter when I plant my tomatoes, they never hit full stride until the end of August or the beginning of September. But it's HOT outside (okay, hotter than it's been, but not really hot) and I'm busy chasing down gophers and voles and mulching pumpkins and pollinating them too, but that's another story. And because I love chilled soups and this one is the perfect canvas on which to improvise, I'm sharing my recipe with you.

Cranking Up the Heat with Chipotle Coleslaw

It's well known that when it's hot outside, eating spicy food will cool you down. That's why notoriously hot spots serve up some of the hottest food around.

I'm thinking of all those delicious and fiery Indian and Thai curries, Mexican salsas, Jamaican Jerks, North African Harissa and of course, my adopted Cajun eats.

Adding heat to food isn't only about kicking up your metabolism and firing up that internal air conditioning (hot foods cool us off), but peppers and pepper products have immense health benefits.

Capsaicin, a natural property in hot peppers, is a know anti-inflamatory and adding hot peppers to your diet can provide relief from rheumatoid arthritis, lower your blood sugar and cholesterol, prevent heart disease, heal an ulcer, and even promote weight loss. An added benefit is capsaicin releases endorphins, creating a sense of well being; it's also a natural pain killer and it stimulates your circulation.

So if you're hot today, whip up a batch of my highly addictive and super hot (you can tone it down) Chipotle Coleslaw and give your taste buds an awakening.

Gazpacho and Hot Summer Nights

Okay, so part of that title is a big fat lie. It hasn't been hot at all (but it was) and we are in fact enjoying some pretty darn gorgeous, albeit, cool summer weather. But it's July and I always make gazpacho in July--August, too--so in spite of 70 degree weather, I concentrated on the blue skies and sunshine and got my blender out.

What I'm sharing with you is the simplest, tastiest, and best of the best gazpacho recipes. It's not only delicious, but super healthy, so you'll definitely want to make some soon.

Grilled Caesar Salad

I know people who are so obsessed with Caesar salad that they will do shameful things to get their fix. Of course, I don't know any of these people personally, at least I don't think I do, but nonetheless, I always think of them on those rare occasions when I whip up a bowl.

Organic Romaine was a hot ticket sale item last week, so I bought a few heads in anticipation of a good chopped salad and a Caesar salad and on a day when the Mercury headed to the triple digits, I marinated a thick steak and gave Ken a halved head of Romaine to toss on the grill. Yep; grilled Caesar salad is definitely in my summer repertoire.

Oh My, It's Time for Cherry Pie

Every year, come June, I say goodbye to my comfortable pants and eat my way into a semi-conscious state of bliss. Weeks before it happens, I try to cut back on calories, hit the gym, and even press myself to do a few extra laps in the pool. I feel victorious; strong; almost as if I might, at least once, avoid the (pardon the pun) pitfalls of cherry season. But no sooner do I feel able to withstand the short harvest, that I fall by the wayside and happily succumb.

Ken is supposed to be the strong one, but once I start talking about pies and turnovers, he forgets, and then he starts asking the question, "Is it pie day today?" But he knows as well as I do that we always start talking pie weeks before we start eating pie. I'm not sure why it takes us so long, but I figure it must have something to do with the sheer labor intensity of pitting five pounds of cherries. Yep. Five pounds--for two people. You must be wondering if my pants are ever comfortable, but I assure you, some things just must be done with passionate vigor and I'd say cherry pie is one of those things.

For the Love of Tomato Soup

I know. It's May; almost Memorial Day, and here I am, waxing poetic on tomato soup. In my defense, allow me to point out that we had a rash of rainy and cold weather (cold enough for me to kick on the furnace and pull out my sweater) that gave me a real craving for soup.

The problem was that by this time of year, the ingredients in my fridge have shifted, leaving me very little to make soup. But while rummaging in the deep freeze for a lost ham hock, I came across two containers of fresh tomato puree that I had lovingly and painstakingly put away back in late October. I remembered these tomatoes well, for I had let them stay on the vine and reap the last of the fall warmth and the nightly temperature dips all in the hopes of harvesting the sweetest tomatoes of all. By the time I picked them, most of the leaves had fallen away and the fruits were nicked and not anywhere near the beauty bombshells of the earlier crops. But they were tasty and made me long for tomato soup the way they serve it up in Yountville (very near Napa) at a little French bistro called, Bistro Jeanty.

Eggs and Greens with Thick Spaghetti

Sadly, even with the overexposure to "unusual" foods, when it comes to vegetables, most Americans still eat the basic few. For me, however, I can't think of a single one that isn't, at least on a rotational basis, in my diet. One of my favorite by far is kale.

Rick in vitamin C and K, calcium and beta carotene, kale often makes the top of the list of healthiest foods, most likely because it contains lots of carotenoids (pigments that carry oxygen) and is a natural anti-inflamatory. Basically, people who eat diets high in these dense nutrients live longer lives without disease. If this information isn't enough to sway your thinking, then a bowl of my hearty pasta should do the trick.

I call it peasant food because it's cheap to make and sticks to your ribs, but it's also very dense in nutrients and good for your heart fats (olive oil and walnuts). There's a nice balance between carbohydrates and proteins, which gives one sustained energy, and it's serious comfort food that is simple and rewarding to make.

Secret Meetings and Brown Paper Bags

A few weeks ago at the Farmer's Market, I found myself hanging back in line, keeping a fair distance from the other shoppers. It was way too cold for a late February Saturday morning in California and all I really wanted to do was have a quick, but private chat with the vendor and take myself home. Finally, the line died down and I seized the opportunity to corner Lamb Lady behind her table. "I don't see it on your board, but don't you have some Marguez for sale?" I asked as calmly as possible.

She eyed me a bit suspiciously and after a long pause, repeated, "Do I have any Marguez for sale?" The wind kicked up a bit and my patience started to flag, but she was the only one (to my knowledge) who had Marguez, so I had to keep my cool; I nodded and then she went on into a long soliloquy that covered, in turn, raising lamb, a secret recipe, and an FDA crackdown. I nodded my sympathies and then, in whispered voice, she confided that while she didn't have any with her that morning, she just so happened to have two half-pound packages back at her ranch and could bring one the following week. It took a lot for me to get her to agree to giving up both packs, but after a few more minutes she agreed. It would have to be secret, though, and she wouldn't list them on her board, so if I wanted Marguez, I needed to be there the following Saturday. Period.

Ephemeral Beauties

Along with a wild streak of gray hair over my right temple, age has brought me a deep appreciation for the treasures of each season, something that was entirely lost on my younger self. Lately, the end of fall and the whole of winter has become my favorite seasonal time, especially in regard to the bounty of produce.

I've a deep love and respect for the earthiness of turnips and rutabagas and parsnips, the sweetness of fennel, the bright bitterness of collards and Tatsoi; I love cabbages and radicchio and endive, and the cauliflowers and broccolis, but while my vegetable bin seemed to overflow, the same didn't always seem true of my fruit basket.

At some point I realized this had more to do with my own mindset than reality, and off I ventured to the local farmer's market. It would be a trip that would forever change my life, particularly because at the time, I lived in Southern California and in spite of all the agricultural land that fell to new home construction, citrus was still a booming crop. It was there that I discovered the Myer lemon, a cross between an orange and a lemon, and, an all time favorite, the Blood orange. But a funny thing happened over the next two years--Blood oranges disappeared from the farmer's market and the fruit stands that lined the old highway that snaked inland  from the coast; they had never been available at the grocery store so I made no attempt to look there. As par for the course, this only made me crave them more and sent me in search of them-- an odyssey that would last many years.

It's Artichoke Season!

Hooray--for who wouldn't want to sit around the table and pick over a heap of artichokes? Well, probably a lot of people because it's been my experience that there are two camps when it comes to this prickly thistle: Love 'em or Hate 'em. If you hate them, there are only two possible reasons: they are challenging to prepare and leave your fingertips cracked and discolored (latex gloves are a handy way to nip this in the bud) or there simply isn't much to eat on an artichoke. True; I've known many a person to utilize an artichoke leaf as a vehicle for a dipping sauce, and it's even more true that there is just a little bit of 'meat' for one's teeth to scrape away on each leaf, but eating a pile of artichokes is as fun, rewarding, and delicious as spending an afternoon picking crabs? Not to mention, once you pick your way through all of the leaves, you get the real prize--the heart. So, it's fairly safe to say that if you can't fathom a better way to spend the day, then you come down in the other camp--a bona fide artichoke lover.

That's me. So, when Ken came home the other night with a lumpy brown paper bag and a Cheshire grin on his face and announced he had a surprise for me, I knew that the Artichoke Man must have stopped by his office. When I opened the bag and peered in to see 7 beautiful, medium-sized artichokes, I was thrilled, for not only would I get to eat artichokes, but it also meant that Spring was on its way and soon enough, all the delights of the new season would be bountiful and ready to enjoy.

Before I espouse on how to cook, or even eat, an artichoke, perhaps a bit of artichoke trivia to brighten the day. First off, the artichoke is truly a Mediterranean discovery. First discovered in Sicily, the ancient Romans actually would candy the hearts with honey and cumin seed, which is sort of fascinating to me as well as how someone somewhere hit upon the genius idea of actually preparing and eating an artichoke the way we do now; it must have been hell to have been an early artichoke aficionado--one's mouth literally torn to pieces from the sharp leaves and well, raw artichokes, at least the older ones, are very bitter. Anyhow, discover a better way to eat them, they did, and the artichoke moved around Europe and gained popularity, eventually riding the seas to Louisiana with the French and then soon after, taken by the Spanish to California. Now, virtually every artichoke eaten in the United States originates from Monterrey County, which just so happens to be about 90 minutes up the road from me, and, 80% of all artichokes are grown in a little town called Castroville, which is located in Monterrey County. Finally, just to note, in 1947 Marilyn Monroe was crowned the Queen of the Artichokes in Castroville, which is a bit ironic since at one point, the artichoke was also considered to be an aphrodisiac.

This Spud's for You

Behold--the humble potato. In spite of her cross-eyes, blemishes, dirty skin, and thick waistline, she is loved by--dare I say?--everyone from one end of the globe and back around again. As Americans, in a single year, we EACH consume 140 pounds of potatoes, and as a nation, 4,000 million pounds of french fries. Some historians credit the potato with the expansion of Industrialism across Europe; it was the cause of a war, aptly named, The Potato War, where opposing forces, due to crop failures, literally raided their enemies and took their potatoes, and due to a blight that caused the potatoes to rot from disease, it was the root (pardon the pun) of a decrease of over two million people from Ireland during the Great Potato Famine (1845-52),  gone to either starvation, or to America in search of work and food.

Personally, I adore potatoes, probably given to the fact that my mother cooked a lot of potatoes. In fact, to this day, I have never met anyone, myself included, who could work a potato over in quite the way that my mother can. Among her repertoire: crispy hash browns, wonderful potato pancakes, fried homestyle potatoes with thick rings of smothered onions, mashed potatoes, potato casseroles, baked potatoes, scored potatoes, and roasted potatoes. We ate, thinking back upon those days, a significant number of potatoes. I believe, although my grandmother, by coincidence, worked at the National Potato Board (how cool is that? A marketing agency for the potato!) that the real reason we consumed more than our fair share of the tubers was due to being poor, but I'm also certain that my mother cooked them so often simply because they were good and satisfying.

My real affair with the potato actually began when I was in my early thirties and living in San Francisco. Ken decided to take me to a wonderful little (and I do mean little) restaurant on the edge of North Beach (the Italian sector) called, Cafe Macaroni. After folding ourselves into one of the few tiny tables in a dining room made even smaller by the ginormous refrigerated display case brandishing a good fifty antipasto treats, Ken ordered the wine while I scanned the menu. "Don't even bother," he said. "I am going to order you the most perfect thing ever." And with that, we raised our wine glasses in a toast passing time, until the beautiful, young, I-can't-speak-much-English-but-I'm-Italian waiter arrived.

The dish that was placed before me was gnocchi. And even I, who had lived between the pages of cookbooks and had a subscription to not one, but two, highbrow food magazines, and who--seriously--had traveled in Italy, had never even heard of gnocchi. I was sheltered and naive and my soon-to-be husband was introducing me to a ball of boiled dough--no, a drug--that would plunge me squarely into the depths of addiction, for once that first little dumpling crossed my lips and my brain lit up with euphoria and my heart raced through my chest, I was hooked.

But this post is not about my battles with the dumplings, which is a sad and heartbreaking tale on its own, but rather, a moment where I give pause in my day to commiserate with my fellow human beings south of the equator in Argentina, who so love gnocchi, that on the 29th day of every month, they celebrate Dias de los noquis--Day of the Gnocchi--but February, a most uncooperative month, only gives us 28 days. I've never been to Argentina, so I'm not sure what that means, but from what I've read, the only time one can find gnocchi is on the 29th day of the month. Does that mean that these poor people will have to go without gnocchi since their last feast of January 29th until their next one on March 29th? There's no telling; but I will be frank by saying here, out loud and for everyone (well at least the half-dozen or so people reading this) that I would revolt--I would--in fact, I WILL eat gnocchi today, even though it is only the 28th, and I hope that you, too, will lift up your fork in solidarity.

But, where, you ask, can you buy gnocchi? My friends, making gnocchi is not as hard as you think, especially when one's addiction rarely allows time to go off in search of the 'stuff' available on the street.

Nice Buns!

Here's a secret that I found out about Ken right before I married him--his first love was the Cafeteria Lady at his elementary school. He loved her even before the Danish babysitter (whom I am fairly sure was more fair in memory than in reality) whom he swears was the sweetest, kindest and prettiest woman ever. But--she couldn't make rolls like the Cafeteria Lady who was much older and a lot less sweet, but had such a place in Ken's heart that we even have--no joking--a letter that he wrote to his mother during a first grade penmanship lesson. To quote, the letter says, "Dear Mom. School is fine. Lunch is good."

He wasn't talking about the spaghetti, or the meatloaf, or event the fried chicken; instead, was writing about the rolls. These rolls would take on such a significant memory for him, that they would become one of the many topics of conversation in our lives and on many occasions, although he never came right out and said it, he inferred that his life would be perfect if only I could duplicate those rolls.

Up From the Deep Blue Sea

So, I woke up feeling like I had been swallowed into the deep blue sea. You know, one of those brief periods where you are on full-throtle, running swiftly through life, time seemingly passing too quickly, and then--BAM! you're back in with the living. Anyhow, that metaphor made me think about this really delicious--no--incredibly awesome--fish dish that I concocted a few weeks back.

In case you don't remember me mentioning, we celebrate "Fish Fridays" in our house, which means that every Friday brings fresh fish and the opportunity to try something new. I have my favorites, simply prepared, such as delicate Sand Dabs broiled with lemon, caper, parsley, white vermouth and a drizzle of olive oil, or a vibrant piece of wild salmon flashed under the broiled and served with nothing more elaborate than a sprinkle of sea salt and a drizzle of lemon infused olive oil. Truth be told, all of the fish dishes that grace my table are simple, because the point is to pick up the faint taste of the ocean with each savory bite. While the picture of my halibut, decked with tomatoes and bread crumbs might look complicated, nothing could be further from the truth. The real secret--the tomatoes--are actually leftover from a previous meal (roast chicken) but were the most marvelous of all compliments for the meatiness of the halibut.

The Best Ever 'Fried' Rice

I had to come up with something to make on the fly and since my new bent is to try and use up whatever is leftover in the fridge, on this particular January night I was left staring blankly at a pot of cold steamed jasmine rice. Then I heard Ken's tires hit the gravel as he backed into the driveway and the realization that I had forgotten to plan for dinner was clearly evident by the two scrawny boneless, skinless breasts that I had thawed out. My mind flashed back to the spartan lunch I sent with him that morning and the even more austere breakfast that I had served him before he left the house--over NINE HOURS earlier. My panic was underscored by the slam of the front door because I could tell in its very tone that he was hungry and a hungry husband is far more frightening (and real) than the approach of 2012.

Thank God I'm a fast thinker and a clever woman for before he even cleared the kitchen doorway, I had the frying pan piping hot and as he bent to kiss me, I was pouring in the last of the farm fresh eggs, so that as our lips met, the only sound I heard was the sizzle of the pan.

A Healthy Duo

This week, I caved into being sick--I put up a good fight, but in the end, the chest cold beat me into submission. What really sucked was when I lost my voice. I had a hard day of teaching, but Ken, the ever wonderful husband, hooked me up with a bowl of homemade Pho. Out of gratitude, I rewarded him with a healthy carrot cake. Check out the recipes and light your stoves--I'm off to the farmers market to see what my local farmers are harvesting this week.

A Winter Repast

I'll never understand how winter vegetables and fruits are so underrated by the masses. Over the next few weeks, as I keep true to my resolution to visit the farmers market on a weekly basis, I will be waxing poetic on the joys of winter fare--kale and chard, rutabagas, turnips, parsnips, fennel and blood oranges, Myer lemons and whatever else I am forgetting to mention.
This post, however, is about a simple Tuesday dinner that I threw together; one that serves as a winter staple in my house and that is also deeply soul satisfying and healthy. With all the recent health problems in our families (diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure), I decided to start incorporating a few posts of the things I cook, which are heart healthy and pretty simple. Hopefully, these 'inspirational' dishes will inspire my family members.

Creme Fraiche and a Slew of Resolutions

I spent New Year's morning lounging in bed and channel surfing. It wasn't that I had too much to drink (I didn't) or that I was delaying the start of 2011, but it was rainy and windy and cold outside and it certainly required a bit more motivation on my part. Anyhow, Food Network had all their shows centered around breakfast (by the way, I think that is fabulous thinking on their part) and of course, I wound up glued to Bobby Flay's take on the morning meal.

I'd like to point out here that I really do love breakfast--especially for dinner. But, I do have some weird quirks when it comes to what I like and what I don't. First off, I am not at all about pancakes or waffles, I don't care for donuts or sweet rolls or coffee cake (although, I wouldn't be opposed to those on a rare occasion at another time of day); when it comes to eggs, I like mine over medium and trust me when I tell you that that is an impossible request--people just can't cook an egg that way. I also like poached eggs--a lot--which means that I could easily be viewed as high maintenance when it comes to sliding into the local dinner.

There are things, too, that I adore about breakfast. Chiefly, potatoes--any way, any style, and with any added ingredients.  I also like sausage, but only sausage patties and those are fairly hard to find and I rarely order them. Usually, for me, breakfast out consists of an order of potatoes, dry sourdough toast and extra, extra sides of salsa with Tabasco. Then, while my dining companions are munching away on the normal fare, I concoct potato and salsa sandwiches.

What's Better than Fall?

Frankly, I can't think of anything better than fall, at least not season-wise. What's not to love? It brings all the best things in life--giant pumpkins, changing foliage, crisp apples, sleeping under an extra thick down comforter with the window open. It's potato weather, too, at least in my house. We don't eat potatoes during the summer months, with the exception of a potato salad here and there as it's just too darn hot to turn on the oven. But not now; I'm in gnocchi heaven...and oven fries and mashed territory.

Harvest

I just harvested what will probably be the last of my heirloom tomato crop, although there are still a few beauties--green, though--clinging to the trellis.