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.