How patient you have been! My cookbook Comfortably Yum should be available on Amazon any day now. Check back here in a day or two, and I'll give you all the details. (Click on the image above for a larger view of the adorable cover designed by Gary Brown, my uber-talented brother-in-law.)

James got a subscription to Gourmet magazine for Christmas; every month, he pores over each glossy, fabulous issue and decides what to make. Last month, he chose Butterscotch Pudding; this month, he decided to try what was featured on the cover: Strawberry Mascarpone Tart.

Fueled by tonight's success, he's decided to make a Lemon Curd Pavlova with Mixed Berries for Easter. Don't think I'm limiting him to one recipe trial per month; he's just getting going.


Here he is with his masterpiece; we cut it and had a slice about 30 seconds after this photo was taken, and it was delicious. So no, the fruit hasn't fallen far from the tree. And this tree couldn't be prouder.

Here's how it happened:

I told Josh, our butcher, back in October that I wanted to be on his list for one of his organic, free-range turkeys, as we have been for the past two years. He took down my name and told me to call to follow up with him in a few weeks.

Josh gets many of his turkeys from 4-H kids. These birds live in the lap of luxury, and are hand fed and given individual attention by devoted (and cash-motivated) children. When the turkeys' numbers are up in late November every year, they are killed quickly and humanely, and Josh takes over from there.

When Hope and I arrived in Kingston for our pick-up, Josh asked me what size bird I wanted; I replied that I was flexible. I needed to feed twenty people and still have ample leftovers, and James really wanted to try a recipe we'd made in our cooking class: a butterflied, stuffed, and bacon-wrapped turkey breast. I was thinking that we'd do a 'smaller' (i.e., 15-pounds or so) turkey and get a large breast as well.

He told me that he had a few smaller turkeys, but no turkey breasts; those had all been snapped up already. He did, however, tell me that he had a couple of larger birds left. I asked, "What, twenty pounds or so?" He laughed and said, "How about thirty-seven?"

After the initial drop of my jaw, I thought quickly. A turkey that size would certainly give us plenty of leftovers--and give us a breast big enough for our new recipe. "Can you cut it up for me?" I asked. "Because no turkey the size of your average four-year-old is going to fit in either one of my ovens."

"Absolutely," he answered, and got right to it. He cut both legs off, then boned both sides of the breast. While we were waiting, Hope and I chose some cheeses and got some other meat to put in the freezer. We lugged our haul out to the car and got moving. Once home, we roasted the carcass for stock and brined the four pieces: both legs and the breasts. Having the turkey cut up made brining infinitely easier; all four sections fit easily in our small cooler.

On Thanksgiving Day, I roasted one leg on a rack early in the morning. I put the other leg and one breast on a rack over a pan full of stuffing and got that going. This was great, since the dark meat cooks faster than the white meat; once the leg was done, I took it out and let the breast keep going.

James and I got busy with the second breast. We skinned it, then butterflied so that the meat was one inch thick. This translated into a rectangle about two feet long! We spread it with a cornbread-sausage stuffing, then rolled it, draped it with bacon, and tied it up.


We had a fabulous meal. The turkey was all delicious--tender, flavorful, and moist--but the bacon-wrapped breast was scrumptious. Also, I can't endorse brining emphatically enough. We've been brining our turkeys for about 10 years now, and I will never go back. For the best directions on the process, visit Cook's Illustrated online; a subscription to this peerless magazine is worth it for their comprehensive Turkey 101 Guide alone.

What's on tap for Christmas Eve? We'll see; Josh put us down for either a goose or a brace of ducks, if available. And if no 4-H kid comes through for us in December, we'll settle for a beef tenderloin.

Well, what a blast I had today. For the past couple of years, we've been giving the big kids events instead of stuff for their birthdays, and today James and I enjoyed his most recent gift. We spent six hours at the New York City branch of the Culinary Institute of America enjoying the semi-private tutelage of a team of chefs. It was a class for parents and teens--twelve students in all--with the theme "Thanksgiving Favorites," and it was fantastic.

We had a workshop on knife skills; I've always wanted to learn how to dice, chop, and mince like the pros! We made apple pie, duchesse potatoes, green beans in a butter pistachio sauce, and the central jewel in the crown: a turkey breast that we boned, butterflied, stuffed, rolled, wrapped in bacon, and roasted. Afterwards we got to eat the products of our labors: heaven!

James soaked it all in and was a terrific student. Near the end of our cooking time, the chefs were counting down the minutes until we had to plate our creations, and it felt just like we were in Kitchen Stadium. Some of the other kids got a bit snippy under stress, but not James. He stayed calm and cool as he piped the last few of his potato rosettes and finished the pistachio sauce. I was and am immensely proud. We're both excited to try some new things at Thanksgiving this year!

Thank you to everyone who participated in my Book Naming Contest. I'm sorry to have taken so long to decide on a title, but it was a three-way tie in my mind for quite a long time. Many of you had terrific ideas, and every comment made me smile.

The tie was broken when I decided to combine two submissions, which means there are two winners who will each receive formal acknowledgment in the book and her own signed copy.

The lucky winners are:

Charrette! and Deb!

And the title of my forthcoming cookbook is:

Comfortably Yum: Food for Body and Spirit

My goal is to finish up the publishing details on Friday; I'll let you know as soon as the book is ready to ship!

I'm thrilled (and a bit nervous) to announce that I've been writing a cookbook, and that I am self-publishing it through Lulu. If you have ever enjoyed one of my recipes (filed under the Delicious Dish category to the right), then I think you'll find this cookbook to be a great addition to your kitchen shelf. I've been having a blast re-testing many of my recipes to make sure they're worthy of publication; it has been a fun project.

Here's the only problem: I can't think of a title that I like. I've bounced a few ideas around with Patrick, but nothing has really worked for us. So I open the question to you, my faithful and patient readers. Can you think of a great title for my cookbook? Something that is witty, original, thoughtful, and connotes deliciousness? Something that will compel the consumer to buy ten copies as holiday gifts this season?

If so, submit it to me in the form of a comment on this post. (No, Pez, I am NOT just fishing for comments here. No, I'm not.) Do me a favor and run your submission through Google or another search engine beforehand, just to make sure it hasn't been used somewhere before.

If I choose your submission as the title of my book, I'll not only mention you prominently in the acknowledgments, I'll send you a signed copy free!

So put on your thinking caps and get to work! I can't wait to see what you come up with.

That's what's printed on a T-shirt for sale at Fleisher's, my 'local' butcher. It makes me laugh every time.

Last Thursday, I called Fleisher's owner, Josh Applestone, to check on the availability of trotters and suet. Suet he had frozen, he answered, but he was getting fresh trotters in on Friday morning, and he could hold some for me for a day or two if I liked.

I hadn't planned on going up there for another week or so; I had slated Friday to be an all-writing day, and it's an hour each way to Kingston from my house. But fresh trotters were too good to pass up, so I made the trip and bought a month's worth of meat to make it worth my time and gas.

Josh is a great guy, a former vegan of 17 years who now supplies locally raised, sustainably produced, grass-fed meat to everyone from Mario Batali and Dan Barber to, um, me. We chatted about Thanksgiving turkeys (this will be our third year getting our bird from him) while I chose what I wanted. Besides the trotters and suet, I got ground beef and lamb, two gorgeous London Broils, four chickens, some liver, and a partridge in a pear tree. (Just kidding about the partridge; I didn't see any game birds in the front case on this visit.)

Regular readers of this blog know why I avoid feedlot and factory-produced meat whenever possible (but click on the link if you don't). I'm glad to know that the animals whose flesh I buy at Fleisher's lived happy, healthy lives in pastures on small farms and were slaughtered with dignity and compassion.

There's a difference between 'cheap' and 'frugal.' I try to be frugal. We don't eat meat every day, and when we do eat it, I make sure it's the very best quality, and I use every part of it. I use bacon grease and chicken, duck, and goose fat in my cooking. I save the bones from the meat we eat and use them to make stock. I make chopped liver and lard and demi-glace.

I actually don't believe food should be cheap; I think this society has a damaging addiction to cheap food. I'd rather know that when I buy it, farmers and producers are being fairly compensated, not squeezed by big corporations, then subsidized by our government. One way to know that is to make sure you buy locally produced goods, whether from a CSA, a farmer's market, or from a small, independent store like Fleisher's.

I invented these mouthwatering treats accidentally. There I was on the Fourth of July, racing around in the time between the Ward Pancake Breakfast and the arrival of our good friends, who were coming over for an afternoon and evening of fun and games. I wanted to make a treat, and I needed it to be relatively low-input, so I opted for a bar cookie.

I opened up Christopher Kimball's excellent Yellow Farmhouse Cookbook and found something called "Butterscotch Brownies." Yum, I thought, then noticed that the recipe called for an 8x8" pan--which wouldn't be nearly enough for the crew I would have to please. I decided to double the recipe, then monkeyed around with the other ingredients, as is my wont.

They smelled divine while baking. They looked gorgeously golden brown upon their exit from the oven. We let them cool--barely--and then I cut them into squares. As I did so, I suddenly realized that I had doubled everything except the eggs. Oh, no! I thought, but remembered that on the back of any given brownie mix box, one is usually given two options: fudgy (two eggs) or cakey (three eggs). I'm a fudgy gal, so I crossed my fingers and hoped that this new, 'reduced-egg' treat would be passable.

They skyrocketed way beyond passable. They are so good that I simply cannot make them unless there is a social function involved: picnic, party, whatever. Otherwise, I will eat the entire pan.

Hope dubbed these "Brookies." Here's the recipe, without further ado:

Brookies

2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
2 cups packed brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla
2 tablespoons molasses
2 large eggs
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup chopped pecans (optional, but highly recommended)

Heat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 13x9" baking pan. Beat the butter and the sugars on mixer's highest speed for a minimum of 5 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, then beat in the vanilla and the molasses. Scrape down the bowl again and add the eggs one at a time, then beat mixture on high speed for another 3 minutes.

With the mixer on its lowest speed, stir in the salt and the flour and mix until incorporated. Add in the chips and optional nuts and stir. Transfer batter to pan and smooth with a spatula. Bake for 45 minutes, turning the pan halfway through. The top of the mixture should be dark golden brown and should crack in a few places; otherwise, the center will be too gooey. (Though you can eat all the edge pieces and rebake what's left for about 15 minutes; don't ask me how I know this.) Let cool in pan and cut into small squares.

If you try them, let me know what you think!

Lately I've been buying beans. Not canned beans, mind you: Dry beans. Bags of dry beans that only cost 65 cents, beans that have to be soaked overnight, beans that you have to sort very carefully to make sure there aren't any chunks of gravel in there.

This is my response to an impending recession, my move to scale back and batten down the hatches for the coming economic storm.

Heather, I'm totally with you, babe. In fact, I may have a bit of an edge in the dried bean department. Let me 'splain.

For decades, leaders of my Church have been asking members to set aside food, water, and money to be used in times of emergency. When we lived in a 900-square-foot apartment in Manhattan, we stored what little we could, but when we moved to a house with a basement, we knew it was time to start following the counsel we'd been hearing for years. We took the 'building up' phase slowly, but now we're in the happy situation of being able to rotate and maintain a year's supply of food for our family. (Have I mentioned recently that there will soon be eight of us? Yeah. That's a lot of food.)

It's quite a comfort knowing that we could feed our family if disaster struck. It wouldn't have to be an earthquake; I've known families who ate well using their food storage for months on end when jobs were lost or providers were disabled. I know other families who 'practice' living on their food storage alone for a few weeks at a time, just to make sure they can do so comfortably. (This is a good way to find 'holes' in your storage that can be filled later.) They then bank the cash they would have used for groceries during that time, which adds to their emergency savings.

I've heard of some bunker-mentality folks who buy guns so that they can "protect what's [theirs]." This attitude is anathema to me. Theodore M. Burton said,

Some members of the Church have said to me, “Why should we keep a store of food on hand? If a real emergency came in this lawless world, a neighbor would simply come with his gun and take it from us. What would you do if a person came and demanded your food?” I replied that I would share whatever I had with him, and he wouldn’t have to use a gun to obtain that assistance either.

My dear friend C had quite a bit of fun poked at her by movers when she and her family relocated to Puerto Rico and took their massively bulky food storage with them. But when a hurricane laid waste to their side of the island months later, they fed their entire neighborhood for the two weeks it took for power and transportation to be restored.

If something similarly devastating happened here, I'd immediately let our neighbors know they were welcome at our table. (Just another reason for you to buy the house that's for sale next door, people.)

My food storage isn't perfect; we need more honey, for example. But here's what we've got.

Wheat:

Yep, we actually eat it. I have a wheat grinder and a bread machine, both of which get regular use. I also have an awesome Wheat Berry Salad recipe that I make a lot in the summer. We've also had sweetened cooked wheat berries for breakfast in times past. It's rib-stickin.'

Other Bulk Items: Above are buckets with sealed mylar bags inside for super long storage: oats, other grains, beans, etc. That stack is three buckets deep.

Here are the 'open' buckets, with these awesome 'Gamma Seal' lids on them.

I have a few freeze-dried things in #10 cans, but not a ton, because we don't really like the stuff. Tip: don't store what you won't eat.

Deep Freezer:

We generally buy our grass-fed meat and pastured poultry in bulk: a few chickens, a side of beef, a whole hog or lamb, etc., at a time. We need to find a new supplier this year. In years past, I have also blanched and frozen excess garden or CSA greens and squash for winter use. This year, I hope to expand to putting up frozen fruit.

Garden: I've got a post in the works about this year's garden; but for now, here are our seedlings. I started the tomatoes and herbs a few weeks ago. The cucurbits, planted last week, are just starting to sprout. I'm trying to rig up my light above them, because it's supposed to be cloudy all week.

Equipment:
In addition to the electric wheat grinder, I have a food dehydrator, a hand grain grinder, a sprouting kit, and a large thermos (passive heat for grain cooking and yogurt making). I didn't photograph them, but we also have two 55-gallon drums filled with water and a siphon to go with them. I also love that we have a creek running behind the house; I have a lot of water purification tablets, if need be.

Books: Could I write a post like this without mentioning the books I own on the subject? Doubtful. All these are incredibly useful; they are, clockwise from upper left: Keeping Food Fresh, Eating Off the Grid, Nourishing Traditions, Cooking with the Sun, The Laurel's Kitchen Bread Book (buy it used; it's the best whole grain bread book ever, but it's now out of print), and (the book with the best title of all time) Apocalypse Chow. If we lost power for days or simply couldn't pay the propane and electric bill, I'd still have a plethora of options for food preparation.

While we're on the topic of books about food, let me put in a plug for Michael Pollan's latest book, In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto. It will certainly make my Top Ten Books Read list this year. It is a clear-eyed look at modern America's unhealthy relationship with "edible food-like substances," and proposes simple solutions not only to what Pollan terms "orthorexia" (an unhealthy obsession with healthy eating), but also to our rapidly expanding waistlines, our continent-wide health crisis, and global environmental issues. LDS readers: this book dovetails beautifully with a certain Section 89 (except for a couple of paragraphs on red wine).

We have ample food here at the Perkins Homestead, and plenty of cheer and song to go with it. Stop by any time!

When I had fewer kids and more energy, I would really go all out when it came to birthday cakes. I made Thomas the Tank Engine cakes; Dalmatian cakes; Cinderella/Little Mermaid/Sleeping Beauty cakes; cakes upon which intergalactic Star Wars battles were re-enacted.

Oh, well. They're great kids; they don't complain. Here's newly-nine-year-old Hope, last night, thinking up a really good wish while we sing to her.

And it's a pretty dang fantastic cake, I must say. If you are a serious baker, you must own Rose Levy Beranbaum's The Cake Bible. To make Chocolate Lace Cake, use Rose's Chocolate Butter Cake and Neoclassic Chocolate Buttercream Frosting recipes. Then follow my instructions here to make the lace.

'Brown' as in chocolate, of course. Ahhh, Valentine's Day: another excellent reason to eat chocolate. Today, my Valentine to you is the fantastic recipe that follows. Here's why I love it, my trifecta of recipe requirements:

1) It's delicious.
2) It's impressive to serve.
3) It's easy. Really.

I cut the recipe out of The New York Times Magazine at least 12 years ago; I say that because I believe Christian was a baby the first time I made it. I've made it many times since then--sometimes for Epiphany, with a clean coin hidden in one of the servings, sometimes at this time of year, or anytime I need something quick, elegant, and scrumptious (come to think of it, that should be nearly every day). It is adapted from a famous dessert served at Manhattan's Gramercy Tavern.

First of all, you need 8 small (3 to 4 oz.) heat-proof ramekins. Those tiny Pyrex bowls with the fluted edges work well, and you can usually get those in a package of 4 at the supermarket. Or splurge at Williams-Sonoma, or some such spot, and get the classic French white soufflé molds.

Chocolate Soufflés with Melted Chocolate Centers

1 tablespoon butter
1/2 cup, plus 1 tablespoon, sugar
2-1/2 oz. unsweetened chocolate
2-1/2 oz. semisweet chocolate, plus 8 additional chunks, approximately 1 inch long, 1/2 inch wide, and 1/2 inch thick
(don't use chocolate chips; use something good, like Green & Black's)
1/3 cup warm heavy cream
2 egg yolks
5 egg whites

1) Preheat oven to 425 degrees F. Butter the 8 ramekins, then dust the insides thoroughly with the tablespoon of sugar (this step is key; your soufflés will not climb up the sides of the ramekins without the traction the sugar crystals provide). Place the ramekins on a cookie sheet and set aside.

2) Melt all the chocolate except the chunks in a heavy saucepan over low heat; watch it carefully and stir it well. Add the warm cream and stir until completely combined. Remove the pan from heat and whisk in the egg yolks and half of the 1/3 cup of sugar. Transfer this mixture to a large mixing bowl and set aside.

3) In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until frothy. Add the remaining sugar and beat until the egg whites form soft peaks. Using a rubber spatula, fold 1/3 of the egg whites into the chocolate mixture. Fold in the next 1/3, and when the mixture is well combined, gently fold in the remaining 1/3.

4) Fill the ramekins to the rim with the chocolate mixture, dividing it evenly. Place a chunk of chocolate in the center of each and bake for 7 to 10 minutes, until puffy. Serve immediately with whipped cream or really good vanilla ice cream.

Here's the fabulous news about this recipe. You can make it up through step 2, then let it sit (put the chocolate mixture in a warmish spot and put the egg whites in the fridge). Assemble the remaining ingredients and equipment, then have the rest of your fabulous dinner party. Once your main course, salad, and cheese have all been consumed and your guests are regaling one another with witty repartée, slip into the kitchen and complete steps 3 and 4. It won't take you more than 5 minutes to do it.

Have a wonderful day! As always, if you try the recipe, let me know how it works for you.

In one of the first scenes of the movie The Two Towers, several orcs argue over what to do with Merry and Pippin, their hostages. Some of the monsters would like to eat the hobbits; others are determined to follow orders and bring them back to their master. A fight ensues; one orc is killed in the process. The mob is momentarily shocked into silence, until its leader, Uglúk (pictured above) utters the memorable line that titles this post, and the orcs fall to.

It's one of the few times director Peter Jackson indulges in a little action-movie-crowd-pleasing cheesiness; it's the "Hasta la vista, baby" line of the film. As grisly as it is, I love the scene; the way I see it, the orcs are making the best of a bad situation. They've found the silver lining to a pretty dark cloud.

I went to the mailbox this morning with more than my usual apprehension; somehow I knew unpleasant news waited inside. Sure enough, I pulled a self-addressed, stamped envelope out of the stack; it was another rejection letter. This is the third I've received since sending out a gaggle of eleven query packages at the very beginning of the month (five on The Holly Place and six on ZF-360).

This letter was the least desirable type of rejection: an impersonal form letter on which even the signature was photocopied. It's the kind of information that makes me realize how large, yet how pathetically fragile my ego is. I know dealing with rejection is a part of any professional writer's life, just as frogging is a part of knitting and diapers are a part of mothering. I also know that querying is to getting published as dating is to getting married; you've got to find just the right partner to make things work. I know these things intellectually, so I'm trying to buck up and not take the rejection personally.

(But it feels personal. I told a writer friend the day I mailed the last of the packages off, "My babies are going out into the world. It feels like sending Christian [my 14-year-old] off to college." She answered, "No! It feels like sending Daniel [my 4-year-old] off to college!" And she was right.)

I decided when I got today's letter that I'd make my own silver lining: Christian, Daniel and I would go out for lunch (Christian is home early all this week due to mid-term exams). When I need to restore my sense of well-being, a thick, juicy cheeseburger is just the ticket, so we headed down to Garrison Market and indulged. It wasn't fresh orc, but it was mighty tasty.

So this is me, striving for sanguinity. At least the black dog is nowhere in sight; I really am fine, and I've got great plans for the rest of the day. I'll spend the evening at the Manhattan Temple with Patrick and another dear friend, and then the three of us will try out the highly rated and fabulous-sounding Café Gray, where not only meat like Pan-Seared Duck Breast, but also deliciousness like Skate Schnitzel, Lobster-Watermelon Salad, and Cherry Brown Butter Tart are featured on the menu.

And who knows what tomorrow's mail will bring? When it's all said and done, I'm sure the right thing will happen. Right?

(If you don't, then see the post just below this one.)

On our last trip to London, Patrick and I met Carmen at the fabled St. John, Fergus Henderson's shrine to creative traditionalism. I'd read, used, and loved Fergus's fabulous cookbook, Nose to Tail Eating, and I couldn't wait to see what he had in store for us. Imagine my delight when the waiter announced that the special was a Roasted Pig's Head (meant to serve two).

I ask you: How could we pass up such an adventure?

After our lovely appetizer, Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad, Carmen snapped this photo of our brown and crispy piggy, and we fell to eating. The meat itself was delicious, but Patrick ate a bit too much of the rich fat and ended up having a bad sense memory of the experience. But I loved it (even though I'm pretty sure I ate an eyeball).

We're going to London again in April for the opening of the new musical Gone With the Wind (P's client, William David Brohn, is doing the orchestrations). We're planning a side trip to the newly renovated spas at Bath, complete with visits to Stourhead and Longleat. Patrick has never been to Hampton Court Palace, so I must take him. But I'm hoping he and Carmen will consent to a return trip to St. John. For Patrick, it will be a palate-of-the-mind cleanser; for me, it will be another exciting pilgrimage to one of the high priests of English cuisine.

Friends of ours from the City recently moved about ten minutes away. (This is joyous thing.) One of them emailed me last week; she and her husband wanted to eat out that night, and she was soliciting input on local restaurants.

Instead of tossing off a few ideas in reply, I spent a half hour writing detailed and strongly opinionated reviews--complete with rapturous anecdotes on specific dishes or snide comments on the abilities (or lack thereof) of the chefs--on every restaurant within a fifteen-mile radius.

(Granted, we live in a tiny town surrounded by national and state parks, but it was still a pretty long list. You can't have this many Manhattan ex-pats living in close proximity without a few decent food joints.)

I cc-ed Patrick on the list, knowing he would have passionate comments of his own to add. And he did--but afterward he emailed me this simple message: "We're freaks."

We are both freaks about food. It's a darn good thing we have each other, because we understand one another. Oh, I know all of you have foods that you like or you don't like. I suspect, though, that you are not as far down the food-obsession continuum as we are. We aren't just disappointed by mediocre or downright bad food; we get mad. We don't just savor delicious things; we are transported, practically Meg-Ryan-in-When-Harry-Met-Sally-style.

I love to go back and read my journal of our first trip to Paris. It reads something like, "We walked past the Eiffel Tower, then ate at the most exquisite café. The flaky, buttery, oranais pastry was filled with ethereal vanilla cream and topped with mouth-watering apricots that tasted like they were just picked. The hot chocolate was thick and dark--it didn't pack quite the punch of Café Angelina's, but its warm creaminess was still heavenly, like drinking straight ganache...."

See what I mean? This was not an isolated incident, either. Over and over, I mention in passing iconic, world-famous monuments while getting to the important stuff: blow-by-blow descriptions of every single meal we consumed. (I do wax rhapsodic about specific artworks and the birthplace of Marcel Proust, however. I'm not a total barbarian.)

Our addiction was enabled for many years by the fact that we lived in Manhattan, which is pretty much Mecca for restaurant goers. We never could bear to repeat-visit places (take-out was another story) because there was alway something new to try. A few exquisite exceptions: Picholine, Bouley, and the late and very lamented March. But those are once-a-year-type (for our budget) places, anyhow.

But we're not snobs. Give me a plate of really good biscuits and gravy, or a bowl of granola and milk, and I'm a happy girl. Patrick enjoys such low-brow delicacies as Kraft Singles and Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies on occasion. We're not snobs, but we are very picky. We want whatever we're eating to be the very best it can be. Otherwise, why bother?

I was surprised and thrilled to receive an award this week. The stylish and bionically witty Deb Barshafsky of the great food blog Bitegeist named me the 2007 Fan of the Year. The next day, my prize arrived in the mail: a lovely Israeli goat cheese in its own little insulated case! Delish, Deb; a thousand thanks! I'll try to wear the crown with dignity.

Last night Patrick and I ate at Grifone, which is near his office in the City. It is truly a hidden gem: quiet, elegant, with real waiters (not actors marking time) who know their business. I started with a Cold Seafood Salad that was to die for. I've never had squid so tender and non-chewy; the plump shrimp were also perfection, all tossed with crisp celery, a little butter lettuce, and the perfect vinaigrette. Then I had the Tagliatelle with Ragu Sauce (NOT the stuff in the bottle). The pasta was homemade, with that unmistakable, velvety texture and superb sauce-holding capability. The sauce tasted like pure-Italian-Grandma-love. Someone had simmered it for hours; the meat almost melted in my mouth (which is now watering at the memory).

P had some lovely mussels and a beautiful Osso Bucco; his chocolate cake, though, was the star of his line-up. I've never had such a good chocolate cake in a restaurant. My dessert was also stellar: a simple Pear Tart. We floated off to Grand Central for the train ride home, a little dreamy in the wake of a perfect meal.

Food-obsessed? Absolutely. But neither of us is seeking treatment for this particular malady anytime soon.

Last night we hosted our annual church Christmas Open House; we had about 70 people show up with lots of holiday treats to share, and everyone seemed to have a grand time. The highlight for me was lighting the candles on our Christmas tree and singing carols with all of our friends. There's nothing like the sound of that many voices to fill up your living room; it was glorious.

I went to bed happily exhausted, mentally running through the next hurdles on our Christmas journey. All the presents wrapped: check. Food items to bring to the in-laws' house on Christmas Day afternoon: check. I looked forward to the fact that Christmas Eve would be just the family, with maybe some quiet games, a puzzle, and a movie or two to while away the peaceful hours while Patrick completes his annual Christmas Eve Day Manhattan shopping extravaganza with a couple of old friends.

Suddenly I realized that I had no plan for Christmas Eve dinner. What to fix? Nary a clue. Patrick jokingly suggested hot dogs, but I was officially stumped. I decided that I would figure it out in the morning.

This morning I pulled out my trusty copy of The Way to Cook, knowing that Julia Child would give me guidance. I flipped through many tasty options: Designer Duck, Beef Wellington, Lobster Thermador, etc., but I kept coming back to the Steam-Roasted Goose page.

Goose: of course. What could be more Dickensian? Julia recommends steam-roasting for duck and goose in order to render out a lot of the fat that lies just under the skin of these particular birds. It sounded pretty straightforward. Sous-chef James and I set out together to Adams, the Hudson Valley's gourmet supermarket, to see what we could find. I had a rough Plan B in mind--Oyster Bisque--in case there was no goose to be found.

But there was! She was an eleven-pound, free-range, all-natural lovely from Whetstone Farm in Indiana. The only wrinkle was that she was frozen solid. James and I decided to gamble that we could do a quick hot-water bath defrost to have the bird ready for go-time. We put her in the sink at about 11:00 a.m. 2:20 p.m. The goose is thawed, praise all the saints. Julia recommends some preliminary surgery to make post-roasting carving easier; I remove the wishbone, cut off the wings at the elbows, and dislocate the remaining stumps. Then I dislocate the legs and truss the bird as directed. I know the goose is too long for my covered roasting pan (a necessary accessory for steam-roasting), so I bone the legs. I've boned a duck while leaving the skin intact for a pate recipe before, so I know it wouldn't be hard to bone the legs, tie off the stumps, then break the bones and remove them. Here she is, all ready to go. No, your eyes do not deceive you, knitters. I ran out of kitchen twine, so our girl is trussed with some Sugar n' Cream cotton yarn in the Arc-en-Ciel colorway:
Houston, we have a problem. Even with the leg bones removed, our girl is too long for the roasting pan. I remove the tail, hoping to cross the legs into the vacated space; she still doesn't quite fit.

Radical idea: I butterfly the goose. I've butterflied many a chicken and every turkey we've roasted for the past five years; I know that this is a space-saving solution. But will it work for a goose? Only time will tell. It won't be the picture-perfect Cratchit goose at this point, but hopefully it will taste good.

4:04 p.m. The house smells great. The goose is done steaming on the stove top; I take her out to cool for a few minutes. Meanwhile, the neck and other discarded parts have been roasting and are now simmering to make the stock for the gravy. My sister Stephanie calls from Utah; she's deglazing her turkey pan and thinking of me (in our family, that's a compliment). We have a nice chat until I've done everything I can do one-handed; I regretfully ring off and get back to work.

Now the goose needs to braise in the oven breast down (she steamed breast up). I pour off the steaming liquid; look how much fat we've rendered out so far. That's all golden goodness to be saved for Fabulous Dishes Future. I put the fat in a jar and pour a bit of the steaming liquid back into the roasting pan along with some white wine. The rest of the steaming liquid goes into the stock.

I saute a carrot, a celery stalk, and an onion in some goose fat, then put these aromatic vegetables in and around the goose with a sprinkling of thyme. After a double layer of heavy-duty foil and the lid, she's ready to go back in. I add a couple of blocks of soapstone on top of the lid to help keep the braising liquid in.

5:03 p.m. I think we'll be eating closer to 7:00 than our usual 6:00. No matter; I've got veg and dip and Brie and crackers to stave off the masses in the meantime. Now it's time to get everything else ready: blanched, sautéed green beans, roasted beets, and mashed potatoes. If I have time, I'll make a salad as well.

5:40 p.m. It's good that we're eating late; Patrick is just now leaving the City. The goose is done braising now; she's breast up again and entering the final browning stage. This should take about another half hour.

6:06 p.m. Ahh, there's nothing like dismembering an animal, then cutting up raw beets to make a girl feel like Sweeney Todd. And at the risk of sounding like M. Stewart, I have to say that having two ovens is a Good Thing. The beets are roasting, the goose is browning. The potatoes are boiling, and the blanched green beans are waiting for their sauté in butter and finely chopped onion. So far, so good. Knock on some wood for me, would you?

6:11 p.m. The goose, while smelling fine and having arrived at the proper temperature, is not brown. I've taken off the lid and I'm giving her another ten minutes.

7:18 p.m. Success. The breast meat was slightly dry (perhaps brining next time would fix that), but the legs were tender and delicious. The meat is very rich, as is the gravy; a little goes a long way. The rest of the meal turned out great; everybody gobbled it down in a hurry. I would definitely make goose again.

"There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration. Edged out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish) they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows." -- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

God bless us, everyone!

A-scavenging we'll go, today with the help of one of the greats of blogdom: Radioactive Jam. I really can't say enough good about this certified Blog Diety. Always engaging, clever, and thought-provoking, RaJ is kind enough to share the inner workings of his eclectic and vigorous mind with the rest of us.

Not only does RaJ post consistently terrific content, but he also goes out of his very busy way to encourage the more inexperienced among us in the most gracious and self-effacing manner. He's a National Treasure. Maybe I'll create the National Treasure Blog Award and give it to him to add to his already full-to-bursting trophy case.

RaJ asked me to post about 'a rutabaga.' How timely! It's the season of the year in my hemisphere for hearty, filling root vegetables like this one that Hope is embracing in the photo above. Rutabagas, swedes, yellow turnips, neeps: they're all the same thing.

Long maligned as 'famine food,' rutabagas are only now coming back into vogue with the heritage/heirloom vegetable renaissance. But thrifty and omnivorous yankee that she was, Julia Child knew of their value years and years ago. Here's my favorite way to cook and serve rutabagas, straight out of my very favorite cookbook in all the world, The Way to Cook. I took this dish once to a church supper, and it got rave reviews.

Julia Child's Gratin of Rutabaga

1-1/2 pounds rutabaga, cut into 3/4-inch dice (4 to 5 cups)
1/2 tsp. grated fresh ginger
1 large clove of garlic, minced

3 TB butter
3 TB flour
2 cups milk
Salt and pepper to taste
3 TB bread crumbs
3 TB grated Swiss cheese

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Butter a 6-cup baking dish generously and set it aside. Place the rutabaga in a steaming basket with the ginger and garlic. Cover and steam over 1 inch of boiling water for about 10 minutes, until almost tender. Remove the steamer. Boil down the steaming liquid to 1/4 cup; reserve.

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan, then whisk in the flour to make a smooth paste. Stir together for 2 minutes; the butter and flour should foam together without coloring more than a buttery yellow. Remove from heat. Pour in all but 1/2 cup of the milk at once, whisking vigorously to blend thoroughly. Then stir slowly, reaching all over the bottom and sides of the pan, until the sauce comes to a simmer; simmer 2 to 3 minutes, stirring and thinnning with dribbles of the remaining milk. The sauce should be thick enough to coat a spoon nicely. Whisk in the salt and pepper, tasting carefully as you go.

Add the reduced steaming liquid to the sauce and stir well. Fold the rutabaga into the sauce and put into the buttered baking dish. Spread on the crumbs and the cheese. Bake for 90 minutes. The top should be nicely and lightly browned and the sauce almost completely absorbed.

Now my mouth is watering; I'm off to eat some turkey leftovers.

We eat a lot of pasta here at the Perkins Homestead. Why? Because it's so very good.

I use the pasta sauce recipe Patrick taught me when we first got married. His sauce is one of the countless reasons why he is the perfect man for me. Patrick went on a two-year mission for our church to Rome, and some angel in the form of a little old Italian woman taught him how to make red sauce. Someday in heaven, I will find her and thank her profusely. Here's what I've done with that second-hand-authentic tutelage.

Patrick's Pasta Sauce
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
1 onion OR 1 carrot, peeled and chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced or pressed
2 teaspoons dried parsley OR a handful of fresh, chopped
1 teaspoon dried basil OR a handful of fresh, chopped
1 teaspoon dried thyme
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes (I prefer Cento or Muir Glen brands, but Contadina works, too. Some other brands DO NOT.)
Optional: 1 lb. ground beef OR sweet Italian sausages, removed from their casings
Optonal: 8-10 oz. fresh mushrooms, washed and sliced, and a splash of white wine
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter
3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
1 pound dry pasta

Put the olive oil in a heavy, medium-sized pot over low heat. Add the onion or carrot and sauté until soft, about 5 minutes. If adding mushrooms, add them next along with the wine and cook them until they release their juices, another few minutes. If adding meat, add it now, raise the heat slightly, and brown while stirring well to prevent big chunks from forming.

Add the garlic and herbs and stir for a moment or two. Marcella Hazan calls this process 'insaporire,' when you are infusing the oil with the heat-released flavors of the herbs. But keep it moving and be brief; you don't want to scorch the garlic, which is easy to do when it's in such tiny pieces. Add the crushed tomatoes and stir well. Taste and add salt and pepper as needed. Add the butter and cook the sauce until the butter is melted and the sauce is heated through.

Cook the pasta according to the package directions; drain, toss with a couple of tablespoons of butter, and serve with sauce and grated cheese.

This rich, intense sauce goes a long way; you might need less than you think to cover a serving of pasta. Because of this, even if you are feeding seven people, you'll probably have a fair amount of sauce left over.

Here's what I do the next night. Add a cup or two of cream to the leftover sauce and reheat it very gently. Meanwhile, slice and sauté a couple of zucchini in a little olive oil and salt. Once it's cooked but not mushy, add it to the sauce and stir well. Serve over more pasta--maybe a different shape, so the kids don't mutiny.

This is also the sauce I use for lasagne and pizza; I double the recipe when making lasagne and almost always use a béchamel sauce instead of ricotta cheese. Unbelievably good.

I never get tired of eating summer squash, but my family doesn't always share my enthusiasm. A couple of years ago I searched through my recipe books to find some new and exciting way to showcase (or hide) all the zucchini we were getting from our CSA share. I didn't have to look far; after Julia Child, the cookbook author whom I consult most often is Marcella Hazan.

Marcella's Italian Kitchen features "Il Fricandò di Casa Mia." A fricandò (pronounced "free-can-dough," NOT "frickin' doo") is a mix, a hodge-podge, or a medley. In summers past, I have adapted this recipe depending on what I have had on hand, either from the garden, from the Farmer's Market, or from the CSA. Here's a loose guideline:

Key:
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
3 ripe plum (or other) tomatoes, chopped
2 medium zucchini or other summer squash, chopped
Olive oil or 1/2 stick of butter (or both)
Salt and pepper

Optional and Delicious:
1 bell pepper, seeded, cored, and chopped
2 ears fresh corn, shucked (or leftover fresh corn, already cooked and cut off the cob)
Fresh snap beans, snapped
Fresh basil and/or parsley, chopped fine

Blanch the optional snap beans and/or corn in boiling water; cut the corn off the cobs and set aside. Saute the onion in the oil and/or butter over low heat until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and tomatoes and cook for another few minutes.

Add all the other vegetables you're using, the optional herbs, and a sprinkling of salt and pepper and cook until the vegetables have given up their juices, the resulting liquid has reduced down almost all the way, and the vegetables are tender (test the zucchini or a green bean). Add more salt and pepper to taste. Don't overcook it; you don't want a mushy mess. At least, I don't.

I made a very fine batch of this the other day; everyone here gobbled it down in a flash. I almost never grow the same variety of vegetable from year to year, but this year's summer squash is so delicious that I'll be buying the seeds for this variety again. In case you're interested, it's Baker Creek's Patissons Golden Marbre.

**Updated** I forgot to mention that this dish + rice = a terrific vegetarian meal. We are not vegetarians, but we do try to limit our meat consumption. So...there it is.

Some of you only visit me here when you're searching for a recipe; I can live with that. In fact, I'm making a Recipe Index on the sidebar just to make things easier for you. See? I love all my readers, no matter what.

Alchemy Casserole
Birchmount Potato Salad
Blueberry-Lemon Breakfast Bars
Buerre Café de Paris
Chocolate (or Peanut Butter) Chip Scones
Chocolate Drop (Mostly) Dead Cookies
Chocolate Soufflés with Melted Chocolate Centers
Confetti Salad
Cranberry Pecan Upside Down Tart
(The Only True and Living) French Fries
Fricandò
Grilled Mushrooms
Lucky Egg Drop Soup
Mother of Invention Muffins
Patrick's Pasta Sauce
Sourtastic Lemon Bars