Category Archives: Food

This simple and refreshing dish uses a delicious mash-up of crab, tomato, fresh parsley, fresh basil, capers, lemon juice and olive oil to jazz up the delicate structure of angel hair pasta. The key component, however, is the lemon zest garnish – which in this instance is far more than a garnish, it’s an integral part of the meal. It makes all of the difference.

That’s the beauty of a proper garnish. It’s much more than just a pretty addition. It can make or break a dish, much as it makes or breaks a cocktail. Sometimes, yes, it’s for more subtle and decorative purposes, like the ubiquitous sprig of parsley, more often than not dismissed and shuffled off to the side. But in cases, like the lemon zest-inflected dish seen here, it’s the vital element that turns a simple dinner into a gastrorgasmic event.

Pineapple. Grilled pineapple. A few years ago it would have been unthinkable, but having finally come around to the beauty and deliciousness of properly grilled foods, I’m a convert, and a grilling fiend. If it can be eaten, it can be grilled. (We’ve even done an excellent grilled cabbage – a whole head cut into wedges and coated in butter, salt and pepper – that fell apart in the mouth and tantalized in a way that no other method of preparation could have produced.)

In this instance, we have a few rings of pineapple, seared for the sweet finale following a grilled dinner of chicken, until the caramelization has begun, and the fruit has slightly broken down, leaving a soft and juicy body with only the merest accents of smokiness. It was heavenly, and the perfect ending to a grilled meal, when I’m often puzzled as to a seamless conclusion (grilled ice cream has proven impossible.)

It took me well over three decades to get my head around the idea of fish tacos. Once I did, however, there was no looking back, and if they’re on the menu, I have a hard time saying no. And when they’re on the menu of a restaurant like MC Perkins, right on the coast of Maine, they’re going to be very good indeed. Though I’ve already completed the OGT posts for our most recent trip, this particular beauty is worth another look.

The colors, the freshness of the ingredients, the collision of taste and texture – they all come together in one amazing pocket of ground-flour goodness. I don’t know why I was so resistant –being land-locked might have something to do with it. Had I been fortunate enough to live on the shore, fish tacos would have been part of my formative lexicon.

I finished the three seen here in a few ravenous bites, and while we’re on the subject of food, here are a couple of shots of Andy and me at our last dinner in Ogunquit.

Yes, I miss the seafood already.

I miss Ogunquit too, and all that it means to us.

Luckily, there’s only a summer until our next visit, and no one is rushing it.

Here’s an idea whose time has come: cornbread croutons. They form a part of a trout recipe that I tried out the other day, and they are the sole reason for this post. The tomato and parsley and red onion salad that formed the base of the fish dish was all well and good, but it was the croutons that were the star of this show. (And the point of this post, so I won’t get into recipe details just yet.)

At first I was hesitant – I’m not the biggest fan of cornbread, and it seemed just a little too sweet for a savory salad like this. That turned out to be its most pleasantly surprising feature. Countering the sting of the onion and a bit of vinegar, the cornbread mellowed the whole scene, and provided just enough carbs to render an additional side dish unnecessary.

The original recipe came with a ‘See page__ for Cornbread recipe’ which is a notation that I always dread. If I cook, I’m cooking one thing. But Andy found a decent pan of cornbread from the market, so I cheated like Sandra Lee and cut the thing into crouton-sized cubes.

In order to keep the cornbread from crumbling, and to give the croutons their customary crunch, it was necessary to toast them in the oven for a few minutes. This too worked in changing the consistency of the bread for the better.

The rainbow trout was a fine addition, but I could have eaten the cornbread and tomato salad on its own. It was that good.

This sort of pancake can’t be baked with Bisquick. It’s a Vietnamese pancake (Bánh Xèo’) and I had it at Phở Basil in Boston recently.

While I’m not usually a big fan of food that must be eaten with fingers (Ethiopian cuisine being an enjoyable exception) this one wasn’t that unmanageable. Eventually, I broke down and made use of the provided utensils, but until those lettuce leaves were done, I did my best.

As for the phở pictured below, I need to do a proper solo post, but I’m not quite up for it just yet. Some things merit more work than I can muster at the moment. It will come, however, because phở is what got me through this winter.

To go along with the curry meatballs, I wanted something light and cool to temper the spice and heat of the meat, so I came up with this rather plain side dish of rice noodles. It was simple enough – much of the work was simply slicing and dicing, lopping and chopping (which can be just as tedious as mini-meatball-making,) but there is something peaceful about the process.

As is often the case, I took a number of online recipes and pulled the best bits of each, settling on this rather rough mix of fresh veggies and herbs. While the rice noodles were cooking I started with thin matchsticks of carrots and cucumbers.

(The thin rice noodles I used were done in a fast five minutes, at which point I drained them and rinsed them with cold water to stop the cooking and chill them a bit.)

Then I chopped up some scallions and fresh mint to add a bit of flavor. I eschewed the use of salt for this dish, aiming to be a little healthier.

Once the noodles were drained, I drizzled the smallest amount of vegetable oil over them so they wouldn’t stick together, and an even smaller drop or two of sesame oil for a hint of additional flavor.

To the noodles, I added the vegetables and herbs and tossed them all together. They chilled in the refrigerator for an hour or so, then I tossed them again before serving.

Along with the meatballs, they made up a delicious lunch. (And several snacks throughout the next few days.)

When planning a light lunch for a visit with the twins, I decided to go for a twist on spaghetti and meatballs. Since noodles actually originated in China, an Asian aspect made perfect sense, so I tried my hand at a Panaeng Curry Meatball dish, served with a side of rice noodles and fresh herbs (coming up later). Andy has always made the meatballs in our family, but I’m learning how to do things on my own, so he had no hand in prepping these (other than setting up the mixer and explaining how I needed to remove the strings of fat that were left on the paddle).

These pungent little balls (I opted for appetizer size, much to my later chagrin) were bursting with flavor, thanks to the influx of fresh cilantro and lemon grass. Some garlic, fresh ginger, and red curry paste rounded out the taste burst, and a handful of panko bread crumbs added texture to the ground beef.

An egg bound it all together and then it was time to begin rolling the balls. This was definitely the most tedious part. It was simple enough to do – all those years of Play Doh paid off, but the amount of balls that came from 2 pounds of meat was, well, substantial. It seemed the assembly line would never end, but I kept at it, whittling away at the block of beef until it was a neatly-formed army of mini-meatballs, ready for simmering.

At this point in the recipe, you could bake the meatballs for use at a later time, or plop them directly into the sauce if they are to be served immediately. I opted for the latter. (Any chance to eliminate a step, particularly an oven step, and I am on board.) The sauce was a heavenly mix of coconut milk, fish sauce, brown sugar, more red curry paste, Kaffir lime leaves (chopped finely), and fresh basil. It simmered while I rolled the meatballs, and was ready to receive them when at last they were done.

The finished product was better than I could have hoped. Every once in a while I can be a whiz in the kitchen, and this was one of those times. The meatballs were busting with the riot of flavor that their ingredients promised. Just spicy enough to keep the tongue excited, but grounded with the earthiness of the beef and breadcrumbs to keep things on an even keel. I topped it off with a sprinkling of fresh cilantro, and we were ready to eat.

Every once in a while I get on a smoothie kick, at least until the drudgery of cleaning out the blender takes the fun away. For this simple version, I followed a recipe in a new cookbook I found, which focuses on fresh and simple ingredients. It’s a blueberry-pomegranate smoothie, and is quick and simple enough to do for breakfast or a healthy dessert.

It starts with one ripe banana (I like mine exceedingly ripe, with a few bits just beginning to brown.) A handful of fresh blueberries (the recipe calls for frozen, but if at all possible I like the fresh). To retain the coolness and consistency of the frozen aspect, I added a few ice cubes. To this I poured about half a cup of pomegranate juice and drizzled in a good tablespoon or two of honey.

Blend until smooth, then add about a cup of plain yogurt and blend again. Pour and serve immediately. It turns into this pretty purple color, and is chock-full of antioxidants. It’s not too sweet, which is good.

(I can only stomach one Shirley Temple a year.)

Whenever I find myself in trouble – emotionally speaking – I tend to do something that gives me a sense of control. When my heart breaks or my world falls apart, I cling to the simple tasks that I can master and see through. Whether it’s washing the dishes or cleaning the house or cooking a meal, it’s a questionable embracing of mundane tasks that I wholeheartedly perform in a sort of act of penance. It’s a way of beginning the healing process, and getting over things. It’s also a reminder that if it came down to it I could take care of myself, as I’ve done in the past.

In the frozen January of 1998, I found myself in such dire straits, nursing a wounded heart, and facing a terrifying loneliness.  Staying with the sister of a friend, in a strange city where trouble found me no matter how good I tried to be, I stood in the kitchen and watched as she prepared her family’s pepperoni sauce. On the verge of tears, I held onto the counter and willed the salty water away. Gina assembled the ingredients, dropping a bit of olive oil into a pan and chopping the pepperoni. I asked her to teach me. I wanted to be busy, to occupy my head with something – anything – else.

She added the pepperoni to the pan, along with some garlic. Soon it sizzled and spat and filled the kitchen with a delicious scent. We opened two large cans of crushed tomatoes, and a small can of tomato paste, stirring them into the pan. A mixture of Italian seasoning, some salt and pepper, a bit of sugar, and a cup of water completed the recipe. Then it was time to let it cook down, when the real magic happened, as the sauce thickened over a couple of hours. That was the big realization for me. It could not be rushed if it was going to be good.

As quickly as I wanted the pain to subside, as fast as I wanted the hurt to limp away, there was no way out but by going through. One couldn’t make it boil quicker or thicken instantly – these things took time, and they would not be hurried. The heart was the same way. To this day, I find comfort in the cooking of dishes like this – the ones that need hours of simmering – hours in which to contemplate, or to clear the mind.

The half-home-made part right up front: these spring rolls, purchased at Fresh Market because I was in no mood to finely chop vegetables for ten hours. I’d have made a mess of the rolling too. One day I’ll tackle that assembly line. For now, it was enough to make the chicken dish that follows.

Both Andy and I are fans of curry. One of our favorite moments is when the kitchen is filled with the pungent aroma of a curry dish bubbling away on the stove, wafting through the hallway and teasing the nose. It lifts the darkest mood, warms the coldest evening, and makes the house feel like a home. It was one of the first dishes I introduced to him a few months after we met, and he took my Chicken Curry in a Hurry recipe (a misnomer if ever there was one) and transformed it into something wondrous.

This is a Vietnamese version of chicken curry (Ca Ri Ga), which is slightly lighter than its Thai counterpart, and sets itself apart with the use of sweet potatoes and Kaffir lime leaves. Lacking Vietnamese curry, I had to settle for a Madras curry.

Vietnamese Chicken Curry (Ca Ri Ga)

Makes 6 servings 

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

1 large yellow onion, chopped (1 1/2 cups)

6 kaffir lime leaves, crumpled in hand, but intact

2 tablespoons Vietnamese or Madras curry powder

Salt

3 or 4 pounds chicken, cut into 8 serving pieces, or 3 pounds of bone-in chicken parts

2 1/3 cups unsweetened coconut milk (about 1 1/2 cans)

1 cup water, plus more as needed

2 1/2 pounds sweet potatoes and/or russet potatoes, peeled and cut into 2-inch chunks

Heat the oil in a large pot over medium heat until the oil starts to shimmer. Add the onion and kaffir lime leaves; cook for about 2 minutes, stirring, until the onion has slightly softened. Add the curry powder and 1/4 teaspoon of salt and cook for about 15 seconds, stirring, until fragrant.

Add the chicken, skin side down; cook for 3 to 4 minutes on each side, until lightly browned (the chicken will not be cooked through).

Add the coconut milk and 1 cup of water, then the potatoes. Make sure the chicken pieces and potatoes are submerged in the liquid; add water as needed. Increase the heat to high and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low, cover and cook for at least 1 hour and preferably 2 hours. When the dish is done, the chicken will be fall-apart tender, and the gravy will be thick from the starch of the potatoes. Add 2 teaspoons of salt, or to taste.

Remove the kaffir lime leaves before serving.

Serve with freshly steamed rice or French bread.

It’s best to allow the curry to sit overnight so the chicken really absorbs the flavors from the spice-rich gravy.

I made some minor modifications: for the chicken, I used about eight chicken thighs. I’m a fan of the the darker meat when it comes to poultry – it’s juicier and more flavorful, and I find it more tender than something like a breast. I used two cans of coconut milk (slightly more than the recipe called for) and went lighter on the water. It simmered for about two hours, but the next time I’d wait an hour before adding the sweet potatoes, which turned out less-firm than desired – almost too soft to stay intact in fact.

Overall, though, it was a resounding success. Andy said it smelled just like the dish he had at Van’s a few weeks ago. I attribute it to the magic of the Kaffir lime leaves. They made all the difference.

For our first dinner from the new kitchen, we kept it simple. An introductory bowl of Marcona almonds, a plate of Italian meats and flatbread, and a collection of olives was on hand to greet the guests. That was followed by an arugula and shaved fennel salad with a Dijon vinaigrette, and then a dish of baked ziti and a dish of spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, and… sardines. (The latter was supposed to have been anchovies, but I made a mistake at the market. Not of cilantro/parsley proportion, but a mis-step nonetheless. Fortunately, everyone was kind enough to say it was just as good.) No matter, it’s the company that makes the evening.

A decadent indulgence.

A bittersweet meeting.

A savory melding.

The marking of a moment, the end of a day, the memory of a loved one ~ and each made slightly sweeter with a treat. Sometimes even the strongest among us need a little chocolate to get through the darker seasons.

This box of Poco Dolce’s Bittersweet Chocolate Tiles is the perfect way to self-splurge, and to honor the little joys in life. They’re there for the taking if we just learn to open our hands.

Tonight I feast on a few before dinner (yes, before) ~ the subtle blossoms of grey sea salt, the only-slightly-savory sesame toffee, and the balance of bittersweet chocolate combine to create an altogether different entity. When two become one, wondrous things can happen.

The whole world opens up.

Everything is new again.

Love is on the tip of my tongue.

When traveling on my own, I will, on occasion, feel the slightest tinge of loneliness. It doesn’t happen often, and it doesn’t last for long, but at this time of the year, when dusk comes so early, and a cold wind bites at the neck, I’ll seek out a late lunch or early dinner of comfort food. There are moments when a small dish of macaroni and cheese will do, or a hearty burger, or a bread bowl overflowing with New England clam chowder, but those are not typical choices.

For me, there is no greater dish of comfort than Pad Thai. The most well-known of all Thai dishes, it is substantial and warm and rich with bits of peanut and hefty noodles. Accents of chicken and shrimp dot the flavorful mound of goodness, while scallions lend it some textural crunch.

When ordered as a main dish, I like to amend it with an overture of dumplings or spring rolls. In this case, the lunch special included a roll and a bowl of miso soup. On such a brisk day, it was the perfect combination of culinary coziness and comfort, and as I watched the sidewalk darken, the candles of the restaurant glowed warmly in the window.

Leaves blew by, thrown wildly in the rising wind, and strangers quickened their pace with the falling temperature. From the mostly-empty restaurant, I sat alone at a table for four, sprawled out comfortably, biding time until meeting a friend later. The loneliness subsided by the time the last spoonful of miso soup slid down my throat, and when the Pad Thai arrived, I ate in happy solitude, sustained by a friendly waiter and warmed by a steaming dish.