Heavy Metal.

I tried on my wedding ring yesterday. It isn't mine yet, really. We bought it, and our wedding date is engraved inside now, and it looks perfect nestled against my engagement ring. But it's not mine yet.

We found this ring at the little neighborhood jewelry store that my engagement ring came from. We love this place; the first piece of jewelry Michael ever gave me, an Edwardian aquamarine ring, came out of its window, and he bought the diamond earrings I wear every day there too. When we're out running errands on Sunday afternoons, we always stop to look in the window. Or I should say I stop and look in the window and point things out, and Michael nods disinterestedly -- unless it's close to a holiday or my birthday. That is a cliche that has worked well for us. I am very sparkly because of it.

The ring's original engraving was from June 1914, which is about when my engagement ring was made as well. I like to think that the woman who wore this was about five feet tall and had little hands and fingers like mine. I like to think it was bought at a jewelry store on 4th Avenue and given to her at a church in Park Slope or maybe Sunset Park, or maybe, if there was trouble in the family and a wedding wasn't such a good idea, at Borough Hall on Joralemon Street. June 1914 was a turbulent month; all hell was breaking loose in Europe, and so maybe she had an inkling of what the next years would bring. Maybe she tucked a piece of muslin doused in perfume into her corset, and after the wedding, she and her new husband caught an evening train to the shore for their honeymoon. Maybe she wore the ring until she died; maybe she sold it to put food on the table. Maybe it was lost and then found 10 different ways, and she cried each time. Maybe with some coaxing, she let her daughter play with her jewelry, and she watched her with a gimlet eye to make sure that ring didn't disappear into the baseboards. Maybe, during the weeks before her husband gave her this ring, her eyes shone with dreams of what was to come. Maybe, together, she and her husband made them real.

So it's not my ring yet.

Johnny and Me.

I've been trawling the interwebs lately for shirts for Michael's groomsmen, a job made easier by the lovely Maggie, who found the wonderful T.M. Lewin company so I don't have to. Her husband and his court were decked out in gorgeous Prince of Wales shirts for their summer Outer Banks wedding, and when I saw her pictures, I thought, that look is for me. Well, maybe not me per se. But you know.

The point, though, is that I can't wait to see Michael and our friends in Jermyn Street shirts and thick-knotted ties. Anyone who's been across the pond knows that British men clean house when it comes to dressing for the occasion, and I love seeing a good cutaway collar on a man. It makes me think of the first time I went to London, and of a gray day in a smoky pub. It also makes me think of Johnny Apple, and that is the clearer remembrance.

I first saw Johnny while I was in college; he had come to lecture at my journalism school, and I forget exactly what he talked about. It was the first spring after George W. Bush took office, and it may have had something to do with the recount. It doesn't really matter. Much later, he told me that he'd given that speech off the top of his head with a raging fever and upper respiratory infection, but he'd still made it to the Magnolia Grill in Durham for Karen Barker's pie. "Next time you go, tell her Johnny sent you," he told me. (I still have never been.)

But what I remember chiefly, besides Johnny peering over his reading glasses at his audience, was his voluminous shirt. That shirt! Billows of pink-and-white checked cotton, a cutaway collar unbuttoned at his neck, the hem tucked into a pair of rumpled chinos. His feet spilled out of his loafers, and I felt sorry for them; Johnny, I do believe, could be just as hard on his shoes as he was on his colleagues. But his shirt, which was probably made for him by Harvie & Hudson, stuck in my brain. At Johnny's memorial service years later, Charlie Rose made reference to that self-same shirt, as Johnny had worn it or its twin nearly every time he appeared on his show. No one could accuse Johnny of being a style guru, but when he wore that shirt, to me, he was absolutely himself, as he always would be.

I actually met Johnny under far less auspicious circumstances. I was working through my first weeks as a clerk in his office. Johnny and his wife, Betsey, had been on their usual summer jaunts through Europe and beyond, and from Sweden had sent back a grand case of Orrefors crystal. I signed for it and probably 20 other boxes one day, put it away, and forgot about it. Two weeks later, I received a frantic call at home from my boss: where was Johnny's crystal? We must find it. Surely you didn't take it, did you? We must find this box. Johnny is raising unholy hell about it.

I came into the office, hunted in every corner and crack, and no box was to be found. Every employee looked under their desk for it, just in case. We rooted through Johnny's office, tossing aside boxes of files and cases of wine from promoters. No box. No crystal. Oh God.

Later that week, my boss pulled me aside and informed me, in a voice reserved for wakes and firing squads, that Johnny was coming into the office that day, and that I should be prepared. That afternoon, as I sorted the mail, Johnny came into the mailroom.

"Young lady," he boomed, peering at me once again over his reading glasses. "I don't want to beat a dead horse, but that was a thousand dollars of crystal you just blew."

I swallowed hard. "Yes, sir," I said.

He turned on those loafers -- probably a different pair, although these looked just as beleaguered as the last -- and strutted away. He wasn't wearing the pink shirt; it was a ratty pale blue polo shirt that I think he reserved to wear while doing his expenses. I remember seeing it strain over his stomach at his desk, piles of receipts in front of him.

Two days after that, Johnny came padding up to my desk and plonked two bottles of Australian something-or-other next to my keyboard. "I think you'll like these," he muttered, and told me to come back to his office for more whenever I wished.

After that, most of the wine drunk at my house came from Johnny Apple's stash, and we were friends. I sorted his mail and surreptitiously fact-checked his analysis pieces, and he gave me wine and told me where to eat pretty much everywhere I went. (And that damned box was found stashed away by a ditsy secretary who had fretted that the cleaning staff would run off with the crystal.) The winter after the great crystal caper, I had a long layover at Heathrow and saw Johnny's sartorial brethren traipsing through the terminal. I laughed out loud.

Now Johnny's been dead for a few years, and Betsey is out flogging -- her words, not mine -- a collection of his food writing, and there Johnny is on the cover, large as life, in a pink checked shirt, peering over his reading glasses. Were he still with us, he would be exactly the same. We would be the better for it.

Catherine the Great.

I've been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately -- maybe because I've been cooking in an old cast-iron frying pan that belonged to her, or maybe because what I've been cooking reminds me of her. Before dementia and old age stole her senses, she loved cornbread, fried chicken, summer tomatoes in oil and vinegar, stewed squash with onion; peach ice cream made in the freezer on the porch, fresh sliced strawberries, the smell of bacon and coffee in the morning. She loved it all.

When I'm poised in front of this frying pan, wooden tongs in hand, I think of her and her own stance at the stove. I think of summers spent running in from the front yard with my cousins, all filthy feet and sand-behind-the-ears and bug bites, to help set the table for supper. The rule was that if you set the table, you didn't have to help with the dishes, and I hate doing the dishes. We trotted back and forth between the kitchen and dining table, setting out the ugly blue flowered dishes, the pot of crab stew, the platters of fried fish and skillet cornbread. My grandfather took his place at the head of the table by the china cabinet, and she took hers at the end, next to the bookshelf that held her cookbooks. We all scrambled for a place in between, angling to not have to sit on the creaky wooden kitchen stool. With five daughters and multitudes of grandchildren, friends and guests, there were never enough chairs. But there was always enough food.

Maybe I've been thinking about her because, through all this wedding nonsense, I wish she were here. I wish she could meet Michael. I think she'd like him; she would like how funny he is, and respectful to others, and uncompromising. She would roll her eyes at his jokes, if she could hear them. She would show him how to clean shrimp, and find some fault with his table manners and gently tease him about it, and she would feed him. And she would pull me back to her sewing room and show me bits of the lace she used for my mother's wedding dress, and she would say, "He seems like a nice boy." I wish she could know that I, like her, met my husband in New York -- a girl moved up from the south, looking for her way in unfamiliar territory, and finding a home in someone's arms. I wish she knew that.

At my grandmother's funeral three years ago, my mother's aunt looked at me and said, "My lord, you favor Catherine." It was the only time I saw my mother choke up; we are not criers, my mother and me, or not in front of others, and not even in front of each other. Yes, I do favor her. I am thankful for that, for her name and wicked grin and round apple cheeks.

I am grateful for her love of food, too -- her Scottish thrift about it, and her willingness to try anything. I think she would like what I've got for you today: a bacon and brown rice salad, tart with white wine vinegar and Dijon mustard and sweetened up with dill, cooked in her iron skillet. Yes, indeed. She would have liked that.

Brown Rice and Bacon Salad

Adapted from Alton Brown

2 cups cooked brown rice

6 slices good bacon (we use Applegate Farms Sunday Bacon around here)

1/2 red onion, diced

1/2 cup white wine vinegar

about 2 tsp. Dijon mustard (depends on how tart you want the dressing; I use 2 tsp. on the nose)

1/2 cup chicken broth (if you don't have that, just use water)

1 tsp. sugar

1 tsp. salt

black pepper to taste

1 tsp. dill

In a heavy-bottomed skillet, cook the bacon until crispy and crumbly. Drain on a paper towel, and remove all but about a tablespoon of the grease from the pan. In the remaining bacon fat (a little bit won't hurt you) saute the onion until translucent. In a bowl, whisk together the mustard, vinegar, broth, sugar, salt and pepper, and pour the mixture over the onion. Stir around and cook for a few minutes. Then add the cooked brown rice and crumbled bacon to the pan, and cook over medium heat until the liquid is absorbed by the rice. Remove from the heat and stir in the dill. Let cool, and eat at will.

Serves four.

Sweet tart.

I've flown south twice in two weeks, and boy, are my arms tired.

Sorry. Let's try that again.

I've flown south twice in two weeks, and boy, are my pants tight. 

Better?

This is due to barbecue and braised Brussels sprouts with bacon at a joint in North Carolina, a sausage breakfast at Mama Dip's, grits and grillades after dancing to a second line at a New Orleans wedding, a crawfish po-boy and an Abita with friends on Iberville Street, and an about-to-get-on-a-plane-final Bloody Mary at Antoine's. If you haven't done the latter, you must get yourself on a plane -- tickets to New Orleans are almost always cheap -- and run from your cab to the Hermes Bar. Grin when the lovely waiter heralds your arrival with a "Welcome to Antoine's, young lady!" Perch yourself on a bar stool, watch your neighbor sop up the remaining smidges of his oeufs sardou, and eat your pickled green bean very, very slowly. Then stroll back down the Rue St. Louis to the Omni, where the doorman will encourage you to leave New Orleans, because leaving is what makes coming back so good. 

It makes things better, I have found.

Anyway, I am not complaining about my pants, because I can buy new ones. And really -- how could anyone wail about an epicurean run such as that? But this is one reason we're staying north, at least for the moment: if we drifted back towards the home of our hearts, we'd change pants sizes. Twice. Maybe three times. But who's counting.

But I told you I'd have new ideas for you, and here's one, although I'm a little wary of sharing its name with you. It's truly one of the best desserts I've ever had, and I first tasted it at the afore-mentioned barbecue joint in Chapel Hill. It's a rich sponge layer cake with lemon curd filling and a citrus-coconut frosting, the kind of gooey goodness that might make your teeth ache just a little. But its name -- oh, its name. 

Its name is the Robert E. Lee cake. 

My name is Robert E. Lee, and I like cake.

However, while the general certainly chose the wrong side of the war (after a well-documented struggle of conscience), he clearly had good taste when it came to desserts. By legend, this was his favorite cake, and I can see why. The lemon curd is given time to soak into the sponge layers, giving the core of the cake an extra kick of sweet-tartness, and the frosting's citrusy complexity finishes the whole thing off perfectly. After tasting a couple of weekends ago in North Carolina, I went on a hunt for the recipe and found many iterations of it; turns out that the Lee cake is an old, storied dessert, and how I made it nearly 30 years without encountering it, I don't know. Must have been my until-recent aversion to coconut.

So here's the recipe, and it comes with a couple of warnings: one, it is labor-intensive and takes a while to bring all the pieces together, and I would give yourself a good afternoon to assemble it properly. Two, your husband or fiance or partner may not be able to leave the kitchen while you're baking it, and especially while you're whipping up the frosting. They may even endanger their fingertips by sticking them in the bowl while the mixer is still going. This would be a good time to put that person to work by doing the dishes, because you'll be making a big mess. And afterwards, if they do a good job, you can reward that person with a slice of Robert E. Lee cake. 

By the way, in my house, it's now called the Ouiser Boudreaux cake, which stakes a claim to its roots while indicating its balance of sweetness and tart bite. That is, if you know who Miss Ouiser was. 

Robert E. Lee Cake or the Ouiser Boudreaux Cake

whichever suits your fancy. Adapted from Allrecipes.com.

for the cake:

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 tsp. cream of tartar

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

8 egg yolks

2 cups white sugar

8 egg whites

2 tsp. grated lemon zest

2 tbsp. lemon juice

1/8 tsp. salt

for the filling:

3 egg yolks

1 1/3 cups white sugar

2 1/2 tsp. grated lemon zest

1/3 cup lemon juice

1/4 cup butter, softened

for the frosting:

1/3 cup butter, softened

4 cups confectioners' sugar

3 tbsp. grated orange zest

2 1/2 tbsp. orange juice

1 1/2 tsp. grated lemon zest

1 1/2 tbsp. lemon juice

1 1/ cups flaked coconut, toasted if you wish

For the cake:

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees, and grease and flour two 9-inch cake pans. Sift or whisk together the flour, baking powder and cream of tartar. 

In a different bowl, beat the 8 egg yolks and two cups of sugar until creamy and pale. Stir in the lemon zest and juice. In yet another bowl (glass or cold metal are preferable) beat the egg whites and salt with a mixer until soft peaks form. Fold the egg whites into the yolk mixture, alternating it with the dry ingredients. Take care to not over-beat this, since the egg whites will give the batter the sponginess you're aiming for. Spread evenly into the prepared pans and bake for 25 to 30 minutes, watching it very carefully. Cool the layers first in their pans (for about 10 minutes or so) and then on a wire rack, taking care to not break them. Using a serrated knife, cut them in half horizontally.

For the filling:

In the top of a double boiler (or in a mixing bowl over a pan of water), mix the sugar, egg yolks, lemon zest and juice over high heat, stirring constantly until the mixture thickens and everything is completely combined. Watch your heat carefully; you don't want chunks of egg yolk in this. Remove it from the heat and stir in the softened butter. Let it sit and come to room temperature.

For the frosting:

Cream the butter until fluffy, and add the sugar, zest and juice gradually until completely combined and smooth. Mix in half a cup of the coconut.

To assemble:

Spread about 1/3 of the lemon filling on a half layer, and put its top on. Then do the same with another half layer, and then yet another until all four are used up. Frost and sprinkle the remaining coconut on top. Let this cake sit for a day or so to let the curd soak into the layers; it'll make it that much better, I promise.

Serves 12 to 14, depending on your sweet tooth.

The perfect fit.

My goodness. I go away for two weeks, for no really good reason, and it turns to spring, all fluttery pink and cream breezes and melting ice cream cones. This spring has a special tang for me, and I'm not sure why. I have slowed down. I don't trot across the footbridge on the way home anymore, and I meander everywhere, even to the mailroom at work. It is a pace that seems out of touch with this hustly-bustly city of mine, but I like it. It's nice to ride the tide, rather than trying to beat it.

I'm home alone this week, my betrothed being ensconced in an Alabama cabin with a stack of books, a bottle of bourbon, and his father. Over a patchy roaming connection, he's been relaying stories of old damned dogs wandering onto their porch and older men reminding him to celebrate Confederate Memorial Day. We both have deep roots in the south, and it's still easy to slip into the rhythms of a spring day down there. Even though he's not here, maybe I'm keeping company with him, trading a caffeinated strut down Broadway for a honeyed ramble through the fields. I can feel my voice relaxing into its old -- original? -- drawl, even just while on the phone at work. I am grateful for the comfort of our two worlds, even as they pose a constant quandary for us.

Maybe I miss the south, and him being in it this week makes me ache for it even more. Or maybe it's the spring winds buffeting my skirts as I walk to the subway. Whatever it is, I feel very slow right now, like molasses scootching into a gingerbread batter. 

Tonight, I came back from a slow run in the park (where a bug flew right down my gullet, the fool) just in time for our grocery delivery. I tore open the boxes, shoving cans of beans here and there, until I smelled what I was looking for: my strawberries. It's still too early for them yet, really, but I couldn't resist; they beckoned from Fresh Direct like twinkly diamonds. These were a luxurious red, and they even smelled red. I don't know how berries do that. I really do think that a blackberry -- a good, ripe one that explodes in your mouth -- smells like its own dusky deep color, and a good ripe strawberry smells like a strawberry color. And these, oh thank goodness, did. 

I washed some and cut their tops off, and curled up on the couch with a bowl of Greek yogurt, a big glass of water, and my berries, and ate it all very slowly, winding my tongue around the spoon to get every smidge of yogurt. I ate the strawberries like I ate cookies as a child -- bit by bit, one small bite at a time until there was nothing left but a few scattered seeds in the bowl. There is some food that is riotous, like a sizzling fajita or a tower of chocolate mousse, and there is some food that is sort of jokey, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off, or maybe a bowl of cherry Jell-O. But my dinner was quiet food, suited to this particular slowness that I've been simmering in for the past few weeks. It was perfect.

I'll be concocting a dark chocolate and Chambord torte for the Bake for the Cure next week, and I hope it's good enough to share with you. In the middle of that, though, I'm heading south to look at some wedding locations, and I hope to bring back some more ideas for you, and some more grits for me. In the meantime, find the food that fits you right now. It is a blessing.

 

A brave taste

I might as well just jump into this: I don't like green peas. Never have. It started, I am sure, during some traumatic meal when I was four, a prolonged affair that ended in a stare-down between my parents and myself, the offending peas growing ever colder as I pushed them around the plate like marbles. I am sure I got up to some caper like spitting them all into my napkin and spiriting it to the kitchen, where I dumped them into the trash can. And I am sure that, as an unpracticed miscreant, I neglected to cover them up, leaving a bemused parent to yank me into the kitchen and demand some sort of reason for why my peas were perched on top of the banana peels and coffee grounds like scattershot on tree bark. I am also sure that I received some sort of punishment for that particular transgression, and I am sure that that punishment involved eating more peas.

I really don't like peas. One night last month on our Grand Irish Family Adventure, Michael's mother ordered fish and chips with a side of "mushy peas" -- chunky green goop, steaming in a metal gravy boat next to her fried cod. Michael force-fed me a taste as my own mother sat next to me, laughing so hard that she could barely eat her meal. I think he might have seen his future: a brown-haired child with a snub nose and round cheeks, zipping her little mouth shut at his efforts to feed her peas. In that future stand-off, I'm not sure whose side I'll be on.

Disregarding the Irish pea incident, I really have tried to come to terms with them as an adult. There are other foods that I avoid, and I've developed decent reasons -- to my mind -- for most of them. Jell-O: the texture and I are not friends. Hot dogs: I read the labels, and no thank you. But peas? I just don't have a good reason, except to say that I do not like them. I feel like I should be put in the corner just for saying that, as if I'd just stamped my feet and kicked the door.

So why, may you ask, am I rambling on about a dislike of peas? Why am I burdening you with this? Why are you still reading?

This is why: I think I've found a way in which peas and I can come to a detente of sorts, and for those of you who already have a friendly relationship with peas, this might even make it better. It is green pea soup, a springtime concoction with roasted garlic, onion and a wave of dill that ties the whole thing together with an unexpected twinkle. I'd been thinking of such a dish over the weekend, wondering how to make do with what was in my kitchen (I'm horribly lazy about going to the grocery store.) We'd reached the end of the good frozen vegetables and were left with a bag of green peppers from our CSA, another of brussels sprouts, and two bags of organic green peas. I buy them to throw into tuna casserole and other warming winter comfort dishes, and I always have more than I'll ever use. 

So, staring at the freezer door, I started thinking -- what could make green peas taste better? Roasted garlic is always a good start, and a little salt and pepper, and what else tastes good? Dill, of course....and so it went. And then Google told me that Nigella Lawson had already made a form of this soup, which was a little disheartening, but I ultimately took it as a good sign, and very good footsteps to follow. The roasted garlic gives the sweet peas a blast of warmth, and the dill helps the whole thing out with a little fresh spring-ness. Sprinkled with pepper and fresh grated Parmesan, it's not certainly not the worst thing in the world, as if anything with fresh grated Parmesan and roasted garlic could be.

I feel like maybe -- just maybe, and give us some time -- peas and I are going to be friends after all.

Green Pea and Roasted Garlic Soup

Adapted from Nigella Lawson and a hundred other variations

This soup is extremely easy and cheap. Just make sure your garlic is fresh and your stock is good. If you can't make your own or get your hands on some good store-bought stock, use water instead. Bad stock makes for bad soup, in my experience.

2 full heads of garlic

12 oz. frozen green peas (I used Cascadian Farms, but Birds Eye or your store brand is just fine)

1 onion, chopped 

a generous glug of olive oil

2 cups chicken or vegetable stock (pork stock might make for an interesting twist as well)

1/2 cup, give or take, of milk (if you're feeling luxurious, cut back the amount and use cream or half-and-half)

1/2 tsp. dill, or to taste

salt and pepper to taste

2 tbsp. fresh grated Parmesan

Chop the top off the heads of garlic, making sure each clove is exposed. Drizzle a little olive oil over both, and wrap in aluminum foil. Roast at 350 degrees in the oven until the cloves are golden and tender but not burned. This can happen more quickly than you think, so keep an eye on them. I'd give them about 25 minutes, and then check on them. Pull out from the oven and let them cool so as to avoid burned fingertips.

Give an onion a medium chop. Saute in olive oil -- enough to cover the bottom of a heavy-bottomed pan or Dutch oven -- over medium heat until softened, but not completely translucent. Add the green peas, still frozen, and the two cups of stock. Bring to a strong simmer, and cook for about 15 minutes, or until the peas are cooked through. Add the garlic and combine completely. 

In a blender, pulse the whole mixture, adding the dill and salt and pepper, until it's finely pureed. Be careful with the salt, because the Parmesan will add some on its own. If the soup is too thick here, start adding the milk until you achieve the texture and consistency you want. Serve in individual bowls, sprinkled with Parmesan and a little pepper. This would go well with a crusty bread, a green salad and a glass of dry white wine.

Punch-Drunk Love.

Well, then. After two blessed weeks of being betrothed, my brain has turned into something resembling pineapple-flavored mush. I say pineapple because I love punch, and I think I'm the only person who still does, but I am a total sucker for frozen pineapple rings and 7-Up swirled together in a big silver bowl, and would it be OK to have that at my wedding even if no one drinks it but my grandmother, my cousin's two-year-old and me?

I hear that my brain will calm down eventually -- that after the first few exhilarating weeks of being engaged, the march of Champagne and toasts will end, and I'll be left with a stack of wedding magazines and an actual event to plan. Last Saturday afternoon, we hunkered down in a bar with a couple of drinks and tried to figure out what was what. We know we want good food, trees and a lovely spring breeze. We want a dear friend to lead us into marriage, rather than a person of a faith that we don't adhere to. We want bourbon and lots of dancing, and a place where people can take their shoes off, loosen their ties, and talk and laugh until the wee sma's.

Then we went home and watched the Carolina game, and pretty much forgot everything we'd decided upon.

I am not forgetting that we're getting married, and that we'll have a marriage, not just a wedding. But you can't plan a marriage. I am thrilled to the tips of my toes for the surprises of our life to come, and I don't want to know any of it. I have no idea where we'll live in five years, or what our child's name will be, or if we'll be able to have a child. I don't know what will devastate us, or when. I don't know who will wreck the car first, or which puppy will tear up the living room carpet, or what job will take us someplace we'd never considered. This, I think, is the central tenet of a marriage -- the not knowing, and the willingness to keep going, hand in hand. To keep saying yes, as Shauna says.

However, you can plan the unholy hell out of a wedding. And so, for the last week, my subway time has been filled with thoughts of bridesmaid dresses, and Champagne vs. Prosecco, and a barn in the Catskills or a hilltop in the Appalachians. It's not like I was solving the global financial crisis before we got engaged. But hoo-eee, has my brain gone soft, just like a big bowl of buttercream icing.

This is the sort of cake I won't be having.

All this is to say: I haven't got much for you today, and I am sorry. In fact, last night was the first time since we returned from vacation that I cooked a full meal for just the two of us. But the good news is, I made a discovery.

Last April, my mom and I rented a little apartment between Pisa and Florence and wandered the Italian countryside by day, exploring Siena and Lucca and eating way too much gelato. On the way home each night, we stopped at the local Coop and picked up bits and bobs for dinner. One night we steamed the prettiest petite purple artichokes and dipped their leaves into a heavenly garlic aioli; the next, we sliced up a couple of blood oranges and ate them with half a bag of Pernigotti chocolates and some salami. This is exactly why I love traveling with my mom. She likes roaming a grocery store just as much as she likes roaming an art museum.

Anyway, it was at the Coop deli counter, in my idiotic attempts at Italian ("bene? bene! si bene!") that I found the greatest roast chicken of my life. I pointed to it, and the deli lady threw it unceremoniously into an aluminum bag, as if she had no idea what she'd just given me. Back in our little apartment, my mom and I cut into this chicken, took one bite each, and put our forks down in awe. The skin was perfect -- thin enough to maintain a light crispiness, but still substantial and savory. The little breast -- so unlike an American chicken, with its overfed bustiness -- was expertly salted, juicy with a strong chicken-ness. And I can't even talk about the dark meat. We spent the next half hour trying to figure out how a grocery store deli chicken could be one of the tastiest things we'd ever eaten.

I think I got it last night, and the answer is "pollo buono," which is the name of this Italian heritage chicken I'd ordered from Fresh Direct and had been defrosting for the past couple of days. I didn't think much of it when I unwrapped and washed this chicken, although I did notice how very thin the skin was, and how the chicken's thighs dwarfed its breast. In my haste to get dinner started, I salted it well, dumped some olive oil all over it and threw it in the oven at 400 degrees. And then I looked at Wedding Crap online for an hour.

But when I pulled our pollo buono out of the oven, I saw the deli lady's face, vaguely annoyed by me and her blue paper hat, and I smelled the spring air floating into our kitchen in Tuscany. This is it, I thought. We ate it with some roasted carrots and parsnips and watched UNC decimate Michigan State, whose very depressed bench, during the last few minutes, made me truly sad.

Yes, I just rhapsodized over a chicken that I want you to try (seriously: Fresh Direct "pollo buono," or try to find a local Italian heritage chicken at your butcher). Yes, I just expressed feeling for the opposing team. As my grandmother said, it takes all kinds.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a new Martha Stewart Weddings to attend to.

The rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used

The first time Michael held my hand, it was under the table at the Howard Johnson's in Times Square, a place that now only exists in memory. We were sitting across the table from a friend and one of her various hangers-on, and everyone was sharing ice cream. I couldn't eat; it was early September and sweltering, and the ice cream was so welcome, but this strange man sitting a little closer to me each minute was distracting. I'd invited him out with us, wondering if the drinks and dinners we'd shared over the summer were just friendly or more than that, and what was he up to, anyway, being so teasingly sweet and attentive?

I remember when I called him and asked, he cut me off. "Absolutely," he said. "Right now."

That night, we all wanted ice cream, and so after work we ended up at the Ho-Jo's. I ordered a dish of something and pushed it around as it melted. I kept casting glances at this guy next to me, this generous, funny man in a navy t-shirt with a ratty neck, the kind that has been washed so many times that hope is the only thing holding it together. His summer haircut was growing out on his neck, and his glasses kept slipping down his dignified slope of a nose. (I love his nose.) I didn't know what to think. 

And then, as Jenny was rattling on about something, his hand slowly migrated to mine. It was tentative, and then rushed, as if he had to grab it before it disappeared. And then I felt us float away from the Ho-Jo's and into a midnight space of our own, where the only noise was the rushing of water and a steady thump-thump of hearts, and we plummeted down, down into a fizzy, sparkly pool, where our fingers entwined like roots growing toward each other. 

We wandered out into the warm fall rain and made our way to the steps of the New York Public Library, where, to the amusement of several homeless people and late-night passersby, he kissed me until the sun peeped over the midtown skyscrapers. The lions kept watch over us, and a white limousine sped past us down Fifth Avenue, screaming toward the dawn. 

That was almost five years ago, and we are still growing toward each other. And last Tuesday, on a cold, windy cliff in Ireland, we reaffirmed what we'd known before: that it was still just the two of us, floating together, holding each other in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, welcoming what may come. He asked me to marry him, and I buried my face in his raincoat, holding onto him so tightly as if he would float away if I didn't, and my legs went all jelly beneath me, threatening to tumble me into the verdant moss. And then I started to laugh, great giant gasping laughs that shook both of us, and I squeaked out, "Yeah. YES."

Yes to it all: laughing and melted ice cream, and a shredded navy blue t-shirt, and arguing and sleeping in and sharing the last glass of wine, and passport stamps and quiet mornings and runs in the park, and bank accounts and dogs and old milk and new babies and the newspaper. All with him. Just us.

So. We're getting married. And wouldn't you know, I already have a recipe for a groom's cake.

Red Velvet Cake

adapted from The Lee Bros. Southern Cookbook

I made this cake a couple of weeks ago, when I had absolutely no inkling of what was coming. It's the insect-like thing here, and it was supposed to be an armadillo. Those of you versed in magnolias will know what I'm talking about.

This cake has a hint of citrus thanks to a generous dollop of orange peel, but I think you can leave it out if you want a pure chocolate-y cake. The gray icing, of course, is up to you.

2 and a 1/2 cups sifted, bleached all-purpose flour

1 tsp. salt

2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. baking soda

1/4 cup cocoa powder (not Dutch process)

1 ounce red food coloring (that's a whole bottle. Embrace it.)

1 1/2 tbsp. water

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

2 cups sugar

3 eggs

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 cup buttermilk (whole or lowfat, it's up to you; I used buttermilk powder mixed according to the directions, and it turned out fine)

1 tbsp. grated orange zest, about one whole orange

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grease and flour two cake pans (round or square, up to you), or line the bottoms with greased wax or parchment paper.

Sift the flour, salt, baking powder and soda together at least twice. You don't want any white lumps in this cake -- it will ruin the aesthetic. Then in a small bowl, whisk the food coloring, cocoa and water until it makes a smooth paste. It will look vile. Don't worry.

Beat the butter with an electric mixer until fluffy, and add the sugar, 1/4 cup at a time, until completely mixed in, and it has a light texture. Add the eggs, vanilla and orange zest, making sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl. Add the red paste and mix thoroughly. 

Add the dry ingredient mixture to the butter/sugar mixture about 1/2 a cup at a time, alternating it with a dollop of buttermilk. You'll want to mix this together with a wooden spoon or spatula, so as to avoid overbeating the cake. Give it about 12 strokes with the spoon until everything is evenly mixed up, and divide the batter into the two cake pans. Bake until a toothpick comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Watch it carefully; you'll want to avoid any tough edges or hint of overbaking. Cool the cakes on a rack.

For the icing:

1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened but NOT melted

2 packages of cream cheese, softened (Neufchatel cheese works fine if, for some reason, you're counting calories)

1 lb. sifted 10-x sugar

a little milk or half and half

Beat the butter, cream cheese and sugar together until fully blended and smooth. If you think the icing is too stiff, add a little milk or half and half. Here's where you'll also want to add the food coloring, if you're looking for a gray icing. I don't have a formula for it; all I did was add one drop of each color in the pack until the icing started looking like a stormy sky.

Ice the layers as generously as you see fit. Feeds a bunch -- I'd say a good 12 slices, with a little left over. 

The girls of 469

I moved to New York five years ago this month. I can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed -- I feel like I'm still unpacking my bags, and I only moved up here with one suitcase. But I can see how the five years have washed over my face, leaving little lines near my eyes where there were none before. There was my first year here, feeling my way around a strange, fascinating city from a sanctuary of a room in Brooklyn; there were the second and third, finally used to the jang-bangling of the A train, going home to my very own tiny studio with the crazy neighbor and Pepto-pink bathroom. The fourth was more complicated, full of difficult days that toughened my skin and opened my heart. It's fitting that a fifth-anniversary wedding gift should be a timepiece. I feel as though for the first time in my life, I know that time is ticking away, and the hands on the clock are moving ever faster. 

My first real home here was the front room in a Brooklyn fourth-floor walkup with two other girls. I remember the first time I walked into 469. The apple-red hallway stretched all the way to the back of the house, where the door to the sunny back bedroom was open, and my roommate's clothes were tumbled all over the floor. Next door, I could hear our 2-year-old neighbor running back and forth, dragging something heavy and disinclined to be pulled. In the front room -- my room -- the April afternoon light burst through the two windows facing the blooming street, and the inlaid floors shone with a hundred waxings. The shelf in the bathroom held a cacophony of nail polish and tweezers and ten types of bath salts. The dishwasher hummed in the kitchen.

I thought, my goodness: I am here, where I should be.

The apartment came with several lovely women -- roommates, friends of roommates, or ex-roommates, and who all felt that 469 was, in some way, their home too. They brought with them recipes, laughing on the couch, hours of sitting on the kitchen floor and playing dress-up in the living room, lots of cheap red wine and bad television. We dragged a free couch off the street at 2 a.m.; had dinner parties up on the roof, Manhattan flickering in the distance like a jeweled crown; ate Indian takeout and dribbled it all over the living room floor. We danced at weddings, made guacamole like it was going out of style, and kept each other's counsel. We were a joyful coven of cackling women, happy to be in each other's company.

Four years later, it is much harder to get us all in the same room. School, work, dates, boyfriends, husbands and life pull at us. But good things have happened for the girls of 469; the apartment seems to hold some witchery for those who have sojourned there. And every once in a while, with some Herculian planning and aligning of stars, we do manage to get together. So on Saturday night, with men banished down the street, we convened in my apartment for good food and a movie that never fails to open the waterworks. We drank more cheap red wine, dug into some cheese, and piled into the kitchen to make one of the greatest dishes of all time, all of us together.

If you can figure out what this thing is, you'll know what movie we watched.

Years ago, a man named Bill Neal opened Crook's Corner, a restaurant in Chapel Hill. He was not just any man, and Crook's is not just any restaurant, just as, I believe, Chapel Hill is not just any town. We lost Bill in 1995, but we still have his shrimp and grits. And while those who understand his culinary legacy still shake their heads at his demise, they'll never shake their heads at another plate of shrimp and grits. When I was in college, Crook's was too expensive for my burritos budget, and I didn't care for grits anyway. I didn't realize what I had been missing until a few years ago, when I dragged Michael to Crook's to give him the proper Chapel Hill education, never mind that my own had a few holes in it. I took a deep breath and ordered the shrimp and grits, wondering if I could stomach a whole plate of mushified, pasty grits. But when the steaming platter of perfectly curled shrimp and pale brown gravy landed in front of me, I thought: what in the hell has been wrong with me? 

I cleaned my plate -- I won't say I didn't lick it -- and ever since that meal, I make sure to bring a bag of Crook's grits back to New York with me. It's caused some trouble with the T.S.A. people at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, but no matter. This stuff doesn't just show up at Fairway, you know.

So last night, we made Bill Neal's shrimp and grits. I turned the bacon, Stacey stirred the grits, Laura grated the cheese, Sarah Jane sliced the mushrooms and scallions, and Johanna put out the bowls and kept everyone's glasses filled. It was home. We were home.

Bill Neal's Shrimp and Grits

adapted from the Crook's Corner grits bag

1 pound shrimp, peeled and cleaned

6 slices bacon

2 cups sliced fresh mushrooms

1 cup sliced scallions

1 or 2 large cloves of garlic, depends on your taste

juice of one whole lemon

hot sauce (Tabasco and Texas Pete are good; do steer away from the Sriracha variety)

chopped fresh parsley

salt and pepper

1 recipe of cheese grits (below)

Clean the shrimp, wash them and pat them dry.

Cook the bacon over medium heat until crispy. Drain the bacon on a paper towel, and leave the grease in the pan -- you'll need it.

If there's not enough bacon grease in the skillet to cover it, add a little peanut or canola oil and turn the heat back up to medium. When it's hot again, add the shrimp and stir around. As the shrimp starts to turn pink, add the mushrooms and stir for a few minutes. Add the scallions and garlic, and cook until the whole thing is done, but not overcooked. Season to taste with the lemon juice, hot sauce, parsley and salt and pepper. Spoon it all over the cheese grits (it's easiest to do it in individual bowls), crumble the bacon over it and serve immediately.

(A note for those avoiding meat: we cooked a portion of the shrimp mixture in oil instead of bacon grease, and I can say with confidence that they're good either way. Just depends on your preference.) 

for the grits:

4 cups water

1 cup grits, not quick-cooking

1/2 tsp. salt

4 tbsp. unsalted butter (not margarine. Butter.)

1 cup grated sharp Cheddar cheese

1/2 cup grated Parmesan

1/4 tsp. cayenne, or to taste

a few grates of fresh nutmeg (please avoid the already grated stuff. It tastes like licking the floor.)

Bring the water to a boil. Stir the grits in slowly, and reduce the heat and cook for about 20 minutes, or until the grits are thickened and cooked all the way through. Stir frequently, making sure to get rid of any lumps. Stir in the butter, cheeses and spices, until all are melted into the grits. Keep warm and put aside.

Serves four.

Kid Bento

Bento #4
Originally uploaded by mgtrott

One of the cutest freaking things I've ever seen. The genius behind this is Mena Trott, known to the world as a founder of Six Apart and mother to a cutie-cutiekins.

In Which Garlic Saves the Day

Yesterday was a bad day. It was full of dumb problems -- middle class and trite, to be sure, but still problems, and they were still mine. Problems like, What if the French transit system goes on strike the day we're flying to Paris? and, Where did my motivation escape to, and can I join it? and, My pants are too big and right now, I have no money to buy new ones, and so I'll just hold them up with one hand while I walk down the hallway, and what are you looking at, anyway?

They were just that, so insignificant and eminently solvable that I'm embarrassed to share them with you. But the point of this is, I found a panacea for all of them, and it was in a jar in my fridge. To me, that's nothing short of a small miracle.

By the time I got home -- and my house was so dark and cold; we'd left the windows open and the fog had rolled in, grazing everything with a creepy dampness -- I couldn't bring myself to turn the stove on. It was too bad, I thought, because our fridge is bursting with tasty things that just need a little heat and salt. I'm truly grateful to have a full cupboard. But all I wanted was a drink and someone to feed me straight from a plate.

So with a quick survey of our options, we decided to just eat this and that, and maybe a couple of macaroons. I pulled out the leftover spaghetti from our local cheap Italian place and gave it a baleful stare. It wasn't doing anything wrong, per se; but cold noodles with a paltry bit of sauce are a terribly discouraging meal. And then I remembered the jar on the door in the fridge. Suddenly, those noodles looked more like a waiting canvas than a pathetic impromptu dinner.

Last weekend while my horrid chocolate cake was baking, I made garlic confit for the first time. I wasn't sure what I should expect; will the cloves be golden brown or brown brown, and should the oil be tossed or saved? I followed the most basic of instructions, which were to take a few full heads of garlic, peel them, and simmer them into some olive oil. Half an hour later, I saw exactly what I had hoped for -- golden garlic twitching and bubbling away, the cloves enveloped in an oily sweetness that I could almost taste. I drained the cloves out of the oil and threw them in an empty cornichon jar, and put the garlicky oil in the fridge. And then, because my cake was a flat failure, I completely forgot about both.

So last night, I reached into the fridge for some Parmesan, and my exhausted eyes fell upon the confit. Eureka! Instead of leftover spaghetti, I had a Thomas Keller-inspired pasta dish, with a mash of fragrant, gentle confit swimming in the noodles and a drizzle of garlic-infused olive oil over it all. A few grinds of black pepper and a toss of salt, and I had a meal at least worth crossing the street for. It was sunshine on a plate, warm and sweetly savory, and exactly what I didn't know I wanted.

Thus, I am recommending it to you. Not the lamentable noodles that you pull out of the fridge -- be smart, unlike me, and just cook some fresh pasta -- but the garlic confit. As a "building block" for your pantry, I can't overstate its importance and incredible ease. It doesn't even really need a recipe, although I should tell you this: apparently (and if I'm wrong on this, please, someone set me straight) botulism spores can hang out on garlic and, placed in a warm, oily, anaerobic environment, can create a fine mess indeed. So don't let this stuff sit in your fridge too long. It tastes so good, though, that there's probably no danger of that.

Easy garlic confit
adapted from Marian Burros, The New York Times

4 heads of garlic, separated into cloves or peeled
1 generous cup olive oil
ground black pepper as needed

In a very small saucepan (you want the cloves to crowd together and the oil to cover them all) pour the olive oil over the cloves. Simmer at the lowest temperature possible for about an hour, until the cloves are completely golden. Drain the cloves from the oil and store both separately in jars in the fridge. Will keep about a week. Use the oil for quick salad dressings (toss with white wine vinegar, fresh herbs, a shallot and some good Dijon mustard) or stir into freshly cooked beans or vegetables. I dumped a little into some Puy lentils the other night, and they were transcendent.

A fine mess.

Until about 10 minutes ago, this is what my kitchen looked like: 

It takes a little courage to show you this. It's like showing someone the inside of my wallet, or a bit of work that's unpolished, or the arrangement of my sock drawer. My wallet is full of ancient receipts and undecipherable notes about who knows what, I wilt like old lettuce in the face of criticism, and I have socks that have not seen their mates in so long, they've given up hope and have moved on to different colors. What I'm trying to say is, right now, on the cusp of my 30th spring, I am still a mess.

But if you look closely, you'll find a clue about what I've got for you. See those little white flakes stuck to the pan? That's coconut, something I used to abhor. Can you imagine, having such scorn for something that's so sweet and innocent and gentle on the palate? As I realized tonight, it's like avoiding sea spray or soft sheets, or a good bourbon. Given the choice, would you do such a foolish thing?

I won't, not ever again. Especially if it's toasted and eaten with a spoon like a decadent cereal, or -- and I think this is even better -- it arrives in the macaroons that I made tonight. I'll take it either way.

I'd been thinking about what to make for you all week, and I just couldn't make up my mind. On Friday night, we devoured a lovely riff on chana masala that I still want to tell you about, and we followed it with Scott Peacock's gingerbread, which is truly spectacular and needs to be shared as well. On Saturday, I had every intention of baking a chocolate cake for you, and I did, but I took one bite and felt deflated. This is a very, very good chocolate cake that I've baked for birthday parties and celebrations at home, and sometimes just because. But sadly, this weekend's cake was like Longfellow's little girl with the curl in her forehead; on Saturday, it was not just bad. It was horrid.

So today, when I was rummaging through the freezer for something, I found a bag of coconut flakes and bounced on my toes for joy. I'm not sure how it came to be in my freezer, but it presented itself at just the right moment -- which is to say, it saved me from my own desperation. Because of this fortuitous find, I got to bake macaroons. And with one luxurious spoonful of toasted coconut, I let go of a silly, ancient disdain for something that just wants to make me happy.

These macaroons are sort of a cross between the hotly debated, almond-based macaron (minus the filling, of course) and the coconut-heavy macaroon that Americans are used to. If you're looking for a very coconut-y macaroon, these may not be for you. But they have an airy chewiness that I love, and the chocolate certainly doesn't hurt. I'll be taking them into my office tomorrow, where I hope they disappear and, thank goodness, I won't have to be tempted by them anymore.

I hope they make you happy too.

Chocolate-dipped macaroons

adapted from Chez Panisse Desserts

2 heaping cups of coconut flakes, unsweetened

2 egg whites

1/4 tsp. cream of tartar

3/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup ground almonds (this will take about a medium handful of raw, whole almonds)

1/2 tsp. vanilla

a pinch of salt

Heat your oven to 325 degrees. Toast the coconut and almonds for about 8 minutes, until their aromas are released and the coconut is faintly golden. Be sure to stir the coconut frequently to avoid burning it. Let the coconut and almonds cool, and grind the almonds in a food processor or spice grinder until fine. Don't eat all the toasted coconut right off the pan.

Beat the two egg whites and cream of tartar until they hold stiff peaks. Add the sugar, salt and vanilla, and beat until the mixture holds stiff peaks again; at this point, the batter should have a satiny sheen. Fold in the ground almonds and coconut until fully mixed. Don't worry if the batter doesn't quite stick together; it'll be fine in the oven. Spoon dollops about a teaspoon-sized each onto a baking pan lined with parchment paper or a Silpat, making sure they're about an inch apart. Bake for around 10 minutes, until the tops are golden. Cool on a wire rack.

For the ganache: 

5 oz. semi-sweet or unsweetened chocolate, chopped finely

1/2 cup heavy cream

In a double boiler over medium heat, whisk the chocolate and heavy cream together until the chocolate is completely melted into the cream, and the mixture is smooth and even. Take special care not to scorch the chocolate, because you'll have to start all over again if that happens.

After the macaroons cool, dip each one into the bowl of ganache and cool down again on a rack or parchment paper. If the ganache starts to harden in the bowl, put it back over the heat and whisk until it's liquid-like again.

Makes about two dozen. 

Seeing red

These are Scarlet Runner beans.

Aren't they pretty? They remind me of Michelle Obama's dress from Election Night, the red and black Narciso Rodriguez confection that caused such an unholy ruckus. All things considered, I might rather have the bean than the dress. After all, I can afford a Scarlet Runner. A whole bag of them, actually. Which is exactly what I bought on Sunday.

I took myself on a field trip to Kalustyan's, which is the kind of store that makes me realize again and again what Candyland could be like. But instead of lollipops and molten chocolate, Kalustyan's has walls of spices and beans, and a hundred different chutneys and forty kinds of rice and nuts and dried fruit, and boxes of fresh baklava and other honeyed treats. Being there made me think of the first time I had Turkish Delight, having wondered what it was ever since I read about the temptation of Edmund Pevensie. I was in Istanbul once and bought a little box from a shop in the shadow of the Blue Mosque, thinking it was the proper thing to do; we'd been drinking Turkish coffee, and we'd already eaten loads of kebab and bought a rug at the Grand Bazaar, so of course I needed to find out about Turkish Delight. I was also finding out about this guy who said sure, he'd go to Turkey with me, even though it had never really occurred to him -- this man who still held my hand after a week of searching through Istanbul and each other, discovering corners where new tales and old secrets lurked.

I took one bite of the gummy, sticky Turkish Delight and threw it out. But I kept the man.

Anyway, I'd been searching for a place in New York for Scarlet Runners and other heirloom beans, and Kalustyan's is it. I love ordering from Steve Sando, but I wanted to find a source in my hometown before having some shipped from the other side of the country. I can't tell you if these beans are truly heirloom -- I have a sneaking suspicion that they're not -- but they're good. So good, in fact, that I couldn't even wait to cook them, and threw them in a bowl of water to soak as soon as I got home.

So on Monday night, we had Scarlet Runner beans with garam masala and onion over sauteed cabbage, and it was so tasty that I wanted to tell you about it. I realize I'm advising you to cook beans and cabbage; it sounds like something served to rotten children in a Roald Dahl book, not far from a few potatoes and onions bobbing in a weak broth, being slurped up by little boys with hollow eyes and peaked faces. But believe me, these are not just any beans. When soaked, the Scarlet Runner swells up to the size of a date, and its flesh is so rich that it could almost be called meat. You soak and simmer the beans until done and then cook them up with some warm spices and onion, and heap them over sweet, tender cabbage with a little coriander seed for zest. It's a good meal for curling up on the couch and listening to the wind howl outside.

Scarlet Runner beans with garam masala

You can use this recipe as a guide, but play with the spices until you find a combination that you like. That's the gift of beans, I think -- their healthy flexibility.

1 cup Scarlet Runners

1 onion

2 cloves garlic

2 tsp. garam masala, at least

1 tsp. turmeric

1 tsp. paprika

1 tsp. cumin

1/2 tsp. salt

black pepper

olive or grapeseed oil

Soak the beans overnight in cold water. Drain and put into a pot with enough water to cover them amply (give them about an inch extra; they'll need it), and bring to a boil. Cover and let them sit on a strong simmer for about an hour and 10 minutes, or until they're tender all the way through.

Towards the end of cooking the beans, chop up an onion (a medium chop is fine) and mince up the garlic. Stir over medium to high heat in a good dollop of oil, until the onion's edges are nicely browned and the kitchen smells good. Lower the heat to a low medium and add the spices, and let them mingle in the oil for a few minutes. Drain the beans, keeping about two cups of the cooking liquid, and mix them into the onions and spices. Add about a cup of the cooking liquid and let the whole mix simmer for about 15 minutes. The liquid will reduce, making a savory sauce. Feel free to add more liquid if you think it's cooking down too much.

For the cabbage:

1/2 head of cabbage (I used plain old cabbage, but I bet a Savoy would be lovely in this)

2 tbsp. rice vinegar

1 tbsp. coriander seeds

olive or grapeseed oil

Over medium heat, warm up about 1 tablespoon of olive or grapeseed oil in a frying pan (you can also add the coriander seeds now, if you want them to have a little extra time to release their flavor). Chop the cabbage into 1/2-inch strips and add to pan. Cook, stirring frequently until the cabbage is tender. Mix in the rice vinegar and coriander seeds.

Heap the beans over the cabbage, and add some of the bean sauce to the bowl. Feeds two, with enough left over for lunch the next day.

To market, to market

(OK, yes, I took this in Italy, not Brooklyn. But isn't it just the loveliest sight?)
Right now, I feel like I’ll do almost anything for a berry. Strawberry, blueberry, raspberry – I don’t care. I long for a loose pint of inky, chubby blackberries, the kind that are so plump and ripe that the skin almost bursts at the touch, and you gleefully stain your lips and fingertips as you pop them into your mouth. I want strawberries on my spinach salads again, and raspberries? Oh my. I think I just made my own mouth water.

It doesn’t help that everywhere, I see signs of spring, and yet it’s still so far away. The wind’s knife edge has dulled just a bit, and my skin’s winterized rawness is slowly fading away. It’s no longer pitch black when I leave work, and the evening sky is turning that spring-y royal purple. And yet.

I want my farmer’s market to come back.

That’s really what this longing is all about. I want berries, of course, but also the crisp chards and tender spring onions, the mottled creamy garlic bulbs, the lacy dandelion greens — all the fresh food that my market brings to me from farmers just a couple of counties away. It doesn’t open up for another two months, but I can’t help already planning what I’ll do on its first day back. I’ll get up early-ish that Sunday – I think 9:30 is perfectly reasonable, as far as spring weekend wakeup calls go – and slowly drink a cup of coffee at the dining table, making out a list on the back of an envelope. The list won’t matter much in the end, but it will be so satisfying to make one, just the same. I’ll think about caramelized Cipollini onions, and the meaty purple potatoes from the first booth, and maybe a quick stop at the Flatbush co-op for a chicken to salt and roast. I’ll flip through a few cookbooks to remind myself of the spring dishes we like; Alice Waters is a good start, of course, but the Lee brothers and I have become awfully good friends lately. And then, there’s always what Edna Lewis has to say. What would she serve for a spring feast?

I’ll tell Michael I’ll be back soon, and reach into the hall closet for a hoodie – because early May mornings still hold the promise of a chill – and a couple of canvas bags. The distance from our building to Cortelyou Road is not short, but the path winds through a neighborhood so full of beautiful homes and yards that I almost have no choice but to walk. I’ll save the bus ride for when I come home with overstuffed bags and sagging shoulders.

When I get to the farmer’s market, I’ll go all the way to the end of the row to the flower man. His booth is my weekend treat; we don’t need flowers the way we need onions or greens, but his bouquets of wildflowers are spring songs wrapped in brown paper. I’ll buy one and take care not to knock it into the strollers that will be crowding the sidewalk. I’ll move on to the pepper-and-tomato stand and pick up some sunny yellow peppers, a couple of jalapenos and a few tomatillos. Maybe I’ll grab some blue corn chips, and we’ll have nachos with cojito cheese, beans and warm roasted tomatillo salsa that night. Or maybe I’ll braise some young spinach and gratin some potatoes from the very last stand, the one with the gorgeous purple cauliflower and fennel bulbs the size of a softball. Or maybe we’ll have the fresh ravioli from the egg people, the pasta so tantalizingly tender that the ricotta spills out into the sauce at the first poke of a fork. I’ll buy it all, just in case.

Or maybe, because it’ll be Sunday night and I just might not feel like cooking – maybe we’ll have peanut butter on sunflower bread from the bakery upstate and a few slices of whatever fruit I find, chased by the bakery’s chocolate-cranberry cookies and a mug of tea. Because after all, we’re just at the beginning of spring’s bounty. And we haven’t even gotten to the berries yet.

Blueberry muffins for the fruit-deficient

I made these earlier this week, when I was thinking of spring and jonesing for some berries one night. And then I remembered the blueberries from our winter CSA, hidden in the back of the freezer. I nearly leapt into the kitchen.

6 tsp. unsalted butter, softened
1 ¼ cups sugar
2 eggs
2 cups flour (I used King Arthur unbleached, but I don’t think it matters)
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
½ cup, plus a couple of tablespoons, of plain yogurt (I used low-fat, but I have nothing against whole milk)
1 pint, give or take, of blueberries, washed and picked free of stems
raw sugar for topping

Using a hand mixer on low to medium speed, beat the butter and sugar together until smooth, and add the eggs one at a time until fully combined. Whisk the flour, baking powder and salt together to get rid of any lumps (I hate sifting, but whisking, I can do all day), and mix into the wet ingredients, about half a cup at a time, until smooth. Mix in the yogurt until the batter is a consistency you like; a thick batter will make for a denser muffin. Feel free to add more yogurt for a looser batter. Fold in the blueberries, taking care to distribute them evenly throughout the batter.

Line a muffin tin (I do this because my boyfriend hates scrubbing muffin tins, but if the person in your house who does the dishes isn’t so persnickety, feel free to just butter them) and butter the top of the pan, so the muffin tops won’t stick. Fill each cup about ¾ of the way full, and sprinkle a little raw sugar on the top, if you’d like a little extra crunch. Bake in a 350-degree oven for about 30 minutes, or until the tops are a mottled golden brown with flecks of blueberry peeping through. Cool them down on a baker’s rack.

I prefer these eaten at the table by the window, smeared with honey.

The starting line.

It turns out that with all the things I think about during these short, grey days -- the recession, people losing their homes, what in the world am I going to do with this life so graciously given me, why are my calves so tight -- what I want to do most is cook. And eat. And look at food, and read about food, and read what other people are writing about food, and decipher recipes that haven't seen the light of day for many years but deserve a second and third chance, and think about our palates and why we eat what we eat. Or maybe just why I eat what I eat. 

And so, this is an attempt to corral a few things: my wishes for good food and for others to have good food; the thousand daily thoughts about food that fly scattershot across my brain; and the constant, never-ending ferris wheel of: why aren't you writing?

So: here, I am. Writing. Mostly about food, I hope, and the life around us that is fed by it, sometimes poorly and sometimes too much. And as much as it pains me to say it, to those who are out there -- would you tell me what you think? My gratitude is yours.