As Halloween Approaches...

...Maybe You Should Clean Out the Refrigerator


I think most of you will agree that this is a universally daunting task. Today, I took it on. Not only did I scrub out months (years?) of food scraps and questionable green stains, but I also discarded a healthy bagful of expired jarred foods: store-bought tomato sauce, with a friendly fuzzy grey substance crawling across the inside of the lid; tubs of non-blue cheese marbled with unwelcome streaks of blue and green; half an onion, half-heartedly swaddled in plastic, as brown and slimy as any Halloween fright you could come up with.

I moved into this apartment in August, and rumor has it nine (9!) human beings inhabited my little abode before the three of us became residents. Furthermore, my current room was most recently vacated by a couple who both took off for the corners of the world, leaving an array of condiments at our disposal. We have THREE JARS of mayonnaise. We have two (large) bottles of sriracha, and something else that looks similar but a tad thinner. There are four kinds of mustard in my refrigerator, as well as five types of jam (techinically two are preserves, but you get the idea). Two jars of capers stand pillared next to two jars of olives, and there is a host of unidentifiable sauces labeled in Asian characters waiting patiently to spice up my next stir-fry.

I bet at this point you think I am going to post about how I used my culinary prowess to concoct a gastronomic miracle out of pickled ginger, a two-week-old cucumber, and three kinds of hot sauce.

You are (thankfully) wrong. But I am going to show you the very nice lunch I put together with sprouting potatoes, summer squash, and the dregs of a package of soy chorizo. There is ample garlic and oregano, a hint of mustard, and a generous dusting of parmesan on top for a proper finishing touch.



The real point of this post: do you know what's in your refrigerator?

Trouble Brewing

If you've been keeping any kind of tabs on the brewing world you know that hop prices have skyrocketed -- not to mention grain prices -- and consequently brewers everywhere are spiking the price of a pint. This is particularly true of the All-American super-hoppy beers, which obviously call for even more hops (money) per batch. However, this Wall Street Journal article on "The Future of Beer" points out that beer sales are nonetheless on the rise. This might, in part, be due to the appeal of a pricey pilsner or pale ale in our current downtrodden economy: "Craft beer is still one of cheaper luxury items people can buy". Good beer is a splurge, but an affordable luxury even in the midst of our crisis. So go on, shell out the extra few dollars and support craft brewers -- and enjoy doing it.

Check out this WSJ video on the hop shortage, and the brewers who are still coming out on top:

Chauvinism or Chivalry?

A friend passed on this New York Times article on gender roles in fine dining atmospheres. Author Frank Bruni notes, "Although the goal in many public places and in much of public life is to treat men and women equally, most upscale restaurants haven’t reached that point. Then again they haven’t really tried all that hard. They’ve learned that ignoring gender is risky, and often foolish, because men and women approach and respond to restaurants in different ways, looking for different things." What are your thoughts on this? Ladies, do you expect to be served first? If you were serving a group of people, who would you expect to order the wine? Does observing gender roles in a dining room enforce an unnecessary binary, or does it simply cater to the different needs already in place?

What do you want when you dine out -- and why do you want that?

Tuesday Omelette

My friend Megan and I have a standing coffee date...so to speak. We do in fact regularly get together, but usually neither of us actually drinks coffee, and we always at least tentatively plan the next round by the end of each rendez-vous. It's a nice way to explore the city, particularly under the pretense of studying (which, again, rarely actually takes place).

San Francisco is nice, but only nice so far. I hoped to fall hard and fast and it turns out we are still uncertain whether our flirtations will lead to a hot and heavy romance or simply a polite and casual acquaintance. However, I must give credit where due and proclaim the cafes of San Francisco the best I have experienced in the wide world (NB: This means SF beats out the likes of Paris, Venice, Rome, Prague, London, Wellington, Sarajevo, Melbourne, Portland -- Oregon as well as Maine, New York, and Nice; but I'm holding out for various locations throughout Austria, Turkey, Morocco, and Spain).

We most recently met at Cafe Du Soleil in Lower Haight, a charming boulangerie-style establishment with enchanting almond croissants and a decent hazelnut iced coffee. We split a bowl of almond granola with yogurt and chopped fruit, but when Megan departed and I tried to attack my overflowing inbox I kept getting distracted by the vegetable quiches lurking invitingly a few feet from my table. Round, puffy, and crammed full of unidentifiable verdure, they seemed an ideal afternoon companion.

However, the owners of this lovely locale, like so many others in San Francisco, decided to board up the various electric outlets scattered around the walls, presumably in a move to "encourage" patrons to move on once their (my) sparse battery power expired. Yes, I could have stayed and gobbled down the coveted quiche, but on principle if for nothing else ("nothing else" being a stand in for "my starving-student bank account") I vacated Cafe Du Soleil and headed home in search of a comparable (superior?) egg dish.

And now we're getting to it -- what a prologue for this little Tuesday omelette. However, I assure you this omelette warrants the prologue and perhaps a thoughtful after-word as well. Walking home I realized that in addition to craving eggs, I really, really needed sun-dried tomatoes. Immediately. There were other unmet needs I identified as well, and the bus ride home was quite nearly excruciating (we see that someone has let her hunger go a tad too long unattended). When I arrived home I set right to work:

1/4 onion, chopped, fried (ok, I meant to sweetly saute, but in my impatience I let the oil get just a little too hot and I can't say I'm sorry). 2 Tablespoons sun-dried tomatoes, nicely lubed up in their packing oil, sliced and given just enough time to flirt with those with those sizzling onions and let things heat up a bit. A shake of dried oregano and a few nice dashes of powdered coriander for some subtle spice, then in go two eggs beaten (aggressively) with a healthy spoonful of grated parmesan and generous pinches of sea salt and cracked pepper. Cook; flip; serve on sourdough toast with a rim of sriracha.

It was a hot kind of day.

Tart and Juicy Something-or-Others

When I moved into my apartment in early August we were in the middle of a perfectly frigid San Francisco summer. I didn't leave the house without at least two thick layers, and I found myself drinking copious amounts of hot tea.

My godmother generously stocked my new abode with a bagful of lemons fresh from her backyard, and this juicer. I had never seen such a thing before (nor had I ever met a juicer I liked), but now that they're part of my kitchen lexicon I see them everywhere, working their magic one citrus at a time.

I take Bikram yoga, which is that crazy yoga practiced by crazy people in a heated room (supposedly 108 degrees is ideal, but I've definitely seen the febrile arm of the thermometer fervently wobbling to the 116 mark). This means I am thirsty, constantly. My favorite instructor in Philly could and would literally read my mind: during one of the more sweltering classes in the dead of a Philadelphia summer (NOT frigid), I had been fantasizing about the extra-tart glass of lemonade I was going to whip up at work as soon as I got out of class (sometimes working in a bar has it's advantages). Leo leaned over and whispered into my teetering bow pose, "Sometimes, I just think, 'Lemonade'."

When I am really thirsty -- and I mean really thirsty -- I crave tart. I'm sure there is a biological explanation for this reaction; in Bikram, the instructors sometimes advise us to squeeze a healthy dose of lemon juice into our water to help the recovery period and expedite the hydration process. For me, lemonade, limeade, kombucha -- even a particularly vinegary vinaigrette will do the trick. Tart: "Sharp or acid in taste"; "Dress or make oneself up in order to look attractive or eye-catching" (there's a third definition related to promiscuity, and a fourth involving pastry shell, but we'll ignore those for the time being). Something about that sharp, biting quality is alluring, even if laced with a hint of severity.

Back in San Francisco, exiting class to a foggy, windy sixty-degree day tended to waylay my cravings for tart, juicy something-or-others. Fortunately our Indian summer has finally made it's much-anticipated entrance, and we are enjoying ideal limeade weather. Hence, today's selection:

Dissolve one heaping teaspoon of honey in a pint glass with a bit of boiling water. Add the juice of three limes, and fill with ice. Top off with water (sparkling or still). Sip, slowly -- if you can gulp it down it isn't tart enough.

Oblatory Potatoes (Secular)

Ever since my Penina (like My Antonia, but Jewish and Jersey) departed San Francisco to make a name for herself in the wilds of Brooklyn, I've struggled with the concept of cooking for one. It's just not as fun. I could and would cook Perrin breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and maybe an afternoon snack for good measure, but when it comes to feeding myself I'm just not as ambitious, nor as nourishing. In fact, cooking for one notably lacks the element of nurturing that I find so pivotal to the joy I garner from my culinary endeavors. And I don't just mean the act of solitary eating can be monumentally less satisfying, but more importantly that cooking, for me, is inextricably wrapped up with the idea of nurturing someone. It's a kind of offering: here, eat my food, absorb my affection, accept my care. Let me share with you. Share with me.

And so when I recently had the opportunity to cook for someone, I pulled out all the stops. I served a highly-tinkered version of this salmon ceviche with pickled cucumbers and tomatillos (don't let anyone, particularly the fishmonger at Whole Foods, tell you that salmon is a bad choice for ceviche); Smitten Kitchen's rosemary flatbreads (but substituting chives and wheat flour); my now-classic stuffed baby potatoes; wilted spinach salad goat cheese packets and a warm honey-balsamic vinaigrette; and drunken peaches with ginger sorbet. My guest's selection of a Macon-villages Chardonnay complemented my culinary choices surprisingly well, and a spot of pear brandy with dessert rounded out the meal. It's nice to have a hand in the kitchen, but mainly nice to have company in the kitchen...and help with the dishes certainly doesn't hurt.



These potatoes can be a bit time-intensive, but a good choice if you have a minion, er, assistant to help out. I particularly enjoy them as a tapas-style offering as they travel well and make good finger food. If you're especially finicky about presentation, cut off the rounded bottoms so that they sit flat -- myself, I'm a fan of curves.

8-10 Baby potatoes
3-4oz Goat cheese
~2 T Coarsely chopped herbs of your choice (I used chives and a sprinkling of dried thyme)
2-3 Cloves garlic, crushed
A few healthy pinches of sea salt and plenty of fresh cracked pepper
Capers (or, olives)

Boil potatoes with salt until just tender. Rinse, let cool, halve, and scoop out the fleshy insides. Mix with everything except capers/olives, check seasoning, then pack into potato skins. Top with capers or olives, garnish with chives or parsley, and chili oil if you're feeling especially decorative.

NB: You could also sprinkle with breadcrumbs and broil for a few minutes, but I prefer them cold, despite the persistent San Francisco summer fog.