The Ones That Almost Got Away

I'm not sure what it is about the fish tales that makes them so much more apt to wriggle through my narrative net. Looking at my blog backlog, I see that we're pretty much caught up, with only two recent fish feasts having gone without comment. So let's reel in those bad boys.

Salmon is not one of Master's favorites. And I concede that it can be a good deal fishier than many of the mild, white fish I've favored for our Friday dinners. The upshot is that salmon requires some sweetening of the deal. In this case, I took the idiom to heart, baking the fish to a flaky finish in a sweet and tart marinade of clementine juice, brown sugar, balsamic vinegar and minced garlic.

The borlotti beans were acquired during the early legs of a long Wednesday afternoon walk. I had stopped in for a mango granita and found myself unable to resist those attractively marbled magenta, green and white pods. I ended up walking around Downtown for hours, clutching the plastic bag that held my precious freight until numb fingers forced me to relinquish it. The Swiss chard was more of a last minute purchase, though no less irresistible in its leafy abundance. Master was kind enough to shell the beans while I chopped up a fennel bulb, onions, and Roma tomatoes, and waited for the water to come up. The beans boiled, the fennel simmered in stock with a handful of thyme. I was up to my elbows in chard, cutting stems from leaves, which amassed to bury the cutting board, the kitchen counter - even the knife often enough for the task to feel akin to blazing through dense underbrush with a machete. The chard, reduced to manageable bites, sauteed until just crunchy and still rubicund. I squeezed in some lemon juice before serving.

I thought everything tasted great. Master ate, and seemed to enjoy the meal, though I could tell that neither the salmon nor the sides were ever going to be favorites. He explained it as the difference between "mmmm" and "yummy!" He's a tough one to please. But I am not so easily deterred.

And sometimes I do hit that "yummy!" bullseye, as I managed with this dinner of baked flounder, tomatoes Provençal, and gingered carrots. Though you may just see a hodgepodge of herb-y, crumb-y sameness above, I assure you that the tomatoes and the fish were total textural contrasts. Beneath their thin, crackly crust, the breadcrumbs baked into the tomatoes (which had just been plucked from their garden vines) were soft, peppery, and dense from absorbed juices, Parmesan cheese, parsley, and olive oil. The breading on the flounder was crisp and light, flavored with citrus zest and thyme. The carrots were just barely glazed in a sugar-and-ginger syrup, in the manner I've found Master likes best. Every element of the plate was calculated to please and, though I may have gone a bit overboard with the black pepper, it was a huge hit. We only wished I'd made more of the tomatoes. I really thought that a dozen - all that the casserole dish would accommodate - would be enough for two people. Ah, but I should have realized that standard serving math does not apply where good tomatoes Provençal is concerned, and that the only guarantee is that enough is never enough.

Oooooh! Do it again!

Oh, wait. That was Mufasa. And this is moussaka. Close enough.

My brother had come into possession of a ridiculously oversize globe eggplant just as he was due to take off for a long weekend in New York City. I offered to relieve him of his perishable burden, seeing as how Master has always been especially enthusiastic about my eggplant dishes. Me, I'm not crazy about this vegetable, undeniably handsome as it is. It would be fair to say that I am coming to terms with it. The memory of poorly prepared eggplant at its seediest, mushiest, and most bitter still haunts me. And while I've learned to tame these properties, and to appreciate the sweet, dense, velvety character of a properly cooked eggplant's flesh, I will always be wary of just how unpalatable it can be. Perhaps I'm also not just a little scarred by the sights and sounds of eggplants, roasting to make baba ghanoush, exploding in my mother's oven. That kind of thing can traumatize you.

The boon of a secondhand eggplant inspired me to try my hand at a moussaka. Master loves eggplant and adores a nice lasagna, so this Mediterranean favorite should be a home run. For the meat layer, I used ground bison, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg for added sparkle, sauteed with garlic, onion, and a concassé of fresh tomatoes. I peeled and cut up 1/4 of the gargantuan eggplant and fried the slices in olive oil. But I balked at having to make a béchamel sauce with the lactose-free milk we had on hand. Reading up on regional variations of this popular dish presented an answer. In Greece, an egg custard forms the top layer. Master reacts unpredictably to anything that includes too many eggs. I reasoned that I could simulate a passable custard by beating a couple of eggs into a pint of thick Greek yogurt (a foodstuff I'm always trying to sneak into our meals). I wasn't sure it would work - I half expected the 0% fat yogurt to collapse into a curdled, runny mess.

It did not. On the contrary, the yogurt-and-egg mixture baked to a perfect mimicry of a traditional custard - solid, wobbly, and with a melt-in-the-mouth texture accentuated by the yogurt's natural tanginess and the bit of lemon zest and juice I'd blended in. The yogurt custard was as light as the cooked meat and eggplant were hearty, and it came together to make a very satisfying moussaka. Master didn't even complain about the yogurt.

Out of Africa

I had my heart set on fish prepared with charmoula, the savory North African marinade made with cilantro, parsley, garlic, toasted cumin seeds, paprika, lemon juice, salt and olive oil (and chilies, ideally). Alas, other than a scrappy looking salmon fillet, there was no fresh fish to be found at the market. I won't say I didn't panic. A call to check the status of our cilantro (negative), parsley (dubious) and lemon (affirmative) stocks didn't really put me at ease, though it did set my resolve to finish off the economy sized package of chicken thighs we'd stashed in the freezer. A tray of sweet potatoes, lightly oiled but otherwise naked, could roast in tandem with the chicken. I remembered that we had an abundance of garden tomatoes, including a colossal red-and-green striped heirloom beauty - thanks, A! - poised at peak ripeness. I recalled seeing a cucumber in Master's refrigerator, concealed among the deli meats and partially empy water bottles, and I could always count on a big bag of carrots and at least one onion. That sounded like the makings of kachumbari - a sort of Kenyan pico de gallo heavily inspired by the classic Indian cucumber salad (they should have patented it!) - a perfect Summer side.

I sliced the onion, seeded the cucumber, and soaked them in salted water. I find that this extra step, which keeps them mild and crisp, is always nice when they're to be consumed raw. The charmoula started with the cumin and a clove of garlic, pounded together into a paste, then pureed with the herbs, spices, and oil. The roughly chopped tomatoes, a shredded carrot, and cilantro joined the onion and cucumber in a large bowl, to be dressed with only lime juice and sea salt. I turned the thighs and the sweet potatoes once, but was otherwise free to get a jump on washing up the prep dishes while everything hummed along.

The food was delicious but, for me, it was even more gratifying to know how much pleasure Master took in it. He ate heartily, and it made me happy just to see him eat so well.

Surrender

If you're reading this, you probably know me pretty well. And if you know me, then you know how I tend to be a bit, let's just say "control freak-y," wherever food is concerned. It's no secret how I'll tote along my own knives and condiments if I plan to cook at your place; how I could spend hours selecting string beans from the bin at the market; how nothing I order in restaurants is ever quite the way I would have made it myself. It's therefore a positive exercise to surrender complete control of the menu occasionally, as I did this week.

Master was doing his grocery shopping earlier in the day. I encouraged him to pick up whatever he wanted me to make for dinner, and asked only that he let me know what proteins and vegetables I would have at my disposal. Seems not so long ago that planning dinners in this fashion was the rule rather than the exception. I'm not sure at what point I usurped menu control. But this was fun, and it forced me to think on my toes.

When the call came, I was informed that pork loin chops, a head of Napa cabbage, fresh corn, tomatoes, carrots, and cucumbers were all waiting for me in the refrigerator. That sounded like the makings of a fine summer dinner. I needed only to pack a jar of homemade Chinese five-spice powder and to hit up the market for a knob of ginger, chicken broth, a couple of Patagonia pears, and some cilantro - since our little experiment in herb farming was thwarted by thrips (whose voracity for those pungent green leaves is apparently even greater than our own).

It was already past 6 PM by the time I arrived at Master's gate. When I sat and considered the options, braising the meat seemed to be the best way to compensate for a somewhat abbreviated stretch in the marinade (canola oil, ginger, soy sauce, green onion, garlic, five-spice, red pepper flake, and brown sugar, if you're wondering). I shredded half of the cabbage and one of the pears, sauteed them with scallions, garlic and ginger, sprinkled in some dark sesame oil, then wiped the pan out to prepare it for braising the pork.

For the other side, I wanted to make a grilled-corn and grape tomato salad. Thus began the great struggle to cook corn on the Foreman grill. Oh, it looked like it would be easy enough. Heat it up, soak the husks so they wouldn't burn, and let the grill do its thing. But three corncobs do not sit well on the inclined surface of this device. The floating hinge doesn't float high enough, and the cobs roll down to the edge, away from the searing heat. I spent the better part of an hour pushing and poking the corn back into place with a wooden spoon handle, turning each when it looked like rows of kernels were beginning to char - or weren't getting any color at all. When I'd had quite enough of this Sisyphean silliness, I impatiently yanked the corn off the grill and, not even waiting for them to cool (not so smart, that), sliced the kernels off into a bowl - something I've seen done many times, but have never actually tried myself. To my pleasant surprise, the grill had indeed worked its magic on the corn, which tasted unrecognizably vibrant and sweet. I tossed the corn kernels with the tomatoes, halved, lots of finely chopped cilantro, the juice of a lime, salt and pepper to season. Lovely!

I had prepared the pork, the sauteed cabbage and pears, and the corn to appeal specifically to Master's sweet tooth, but in no way was the sense of sweetness overpowering. The five-spice and the ginger cut nicely through the concentrated natural sugars. The lime and the tomatoes gave acidic punch to the salad, whose raw elements also lent an appealing overall lightness with the meat and the cooked vegetables. Master loved everything on the plate, both separately and together. And if we've confirmed our suspicions that Napa cabbage and IBS make for uncomfortable bedfellows, well, now we know. No more cabbage.

Buffaloed

Master keeps buying one-pound packages of ground bison. I'm not complaining - it's good stuff. It's the "ground" part that presents a problem. There's only so much I know to do with ground meat. I can make just so many buffalo burgers, and it's hardly the season for heavy shepherds pies. Stumped, I turned to the library for "outside the bun" ideas. Hours rifling through Bayliss, Bittman, Batali - yeah, kinda got stuck on the 'B's - turned up nothing. Nothing! Grudging acknowledgment of its relative leanness aside, ground bison doesn't get much love in the food world. I suppose it's seen as the ground turkey of meat on the hoof. What if we were to approach this more ethno-specifically? Portuguese, Peruvian, Lebanese, Creole. Nope. The ground beef recipes were still the expected meatballs, meatloaves, meat sauces, and meat pies. In defeat, I jotted down notes and a shopping checklist for a Sicilian ragout with peas. It would do. Or it would've done, if one parting perusal - through a hefty Thai cookbook - hadn't set me on a different course.

The idea of a soup with rice vermicelli, cucumbers and small pork meatballs was immediately appealing. One pot, raw vegetables, and the "bun" noodles with which Master had been so smitten during a recent visit to a Vietnamese restaurant. The evening's forecast threatened severe thunderstorms, which would cool things down enough to justify serving hot soup. I wasn't sure about substituting bison for pork, since they're rather dissimilar where texture and flavor affinities are concerned, but I was willing to risk it.

Beef stock, simmered with sliced ginger, soy sauce, fish sauce, lime juice, brown sugar, and lots of cilantro - roots, stems, and all - served as the broth. The meatballs were very simply seasoned with grated ginger, dry sherry, soy sauce, brown sugar, and lime zest. They cooked in the strained broth until they floated to the surface like meaty little buoys. The cucumbers went in raw, just before serving, as did the rice noodles, softened with a warm water soak.

Master declared the broth "gorgeous" when I set the bowl in front of him. Gorgeous! Such effusiveness caught me off guard, and it was just the preamble. He proclaimed love for the noodles, even if they were somewhat difficult to wrangle without chopsticks, and for the meatballs, too. It all came together nicely, so I will concur on all counts, adding only that the cucumbers, parboiled by the hot soup but still crisp, were quite a treat. And ground bison made for especially light and fluffy meatballs, its delicate flavor accented but not overwhelmed by the ginger and lime.

Faced with a surplus of beautiful black plums, and fearing that the soup would not be enough of a meal for Master - a concern unfounded, as it turned out - I planned to serve a plum crisp for dessert. The fruit, pared and pitted, needed nothing but 45 minutes at 375° to stew down to a tart, soupy, claret-colored concentration - the quintessence of a sultry summer. Though full from dinner, Master and I both found room for a few spoonfuls as we whiled away the lazy evening, playing cards and enjoying one another's company. Life is good.

Turkish(ish) Delights

I turned Master on to the joys of Turkish food - the pleasures of meat simply seasoned and expertly grilled, the tantalizing assortment of appetite-teasing salads and accompaniments. We had tentative plans to celebrate my birthday with dinner at the kebab house, but ended up going out for Thai instead. Which was fine with me, and my moo yang nam tok (spicy grilled pork salad) was fiery and little short of sensational. But I recognized a shared craving, and so I took it upon myself to bring the Turkish - or at least my interpretation of it - to us.

Okay, so maybe I just wanted to keep chicken thighs exciting for myself. Master buys them in such large quantities, and it can be a challenge to find new ways to serve them up. My choice of marinades - yogurt, garlic, ginger, paprika, mint, lemon juice - made these seem like an ideal anchor for a plate of Turkish delights: taze fasulye - fresh green beans cooked "à la Turk" with onions, olive oil, cherry tomatoes, and sugar; and a kisir, or bulgur wheat tabouli, with tomatoes, scallions, parsley, and mint.

I took liberties, using coarse bulgur instead of fine, and adding ribbons of purple basil to the beans. Was it authentic Turkish? Not particularly. Was it delightful? Absolutely. The chicken could have marinated longer - always an issue on Friday nights - but the yogurt still had its desired tenderizing effect and the spices, though subtle, came through in broiling. Master has been snacking on raw cherry tomatoes by the bushel, so I knew the combination with the green beans would appeal. The kisir provided cooling, herb-y and lemon-y contrast, and went very well with the mingled poultry and vegetable pan juices. A meal fit for a pasha, if not a caliph, I have to say.

Greens Days

It's farm-market season, finally. And if the first forays saw little available in the way of vegetables, the variety and quality of offerings has at least been improving from week to week.
Now, if only something could be done about the lamentably ongoing dearth of good fruit.

Vibrant greens seem to rule the day. Most irresistible among recent selections have been the beet greens, with their lank, ruddy stems, great plumes of multihued leaves, and wee, bulbous roots. Hitherto new to me, they've been a most joyous discovery. Tasting faintly of the root's familiar, earthy sweetness, with a crunchy yet yielding texture, they've enlivened two recent menus, and will no doubt continue to inspire as long as they remain in seasonal supply.

Market day is Wednesday, but last week's cullings - the beet greens, a bag of "baby" tatsoi (spinach mustard), and a half-dozen immaculate Japanese eggplants - were deferred by Wednesday night errands and an ill-advised diner dinner until Friday. This afforded me more time to plan and to play. The teriyaki chicken thighs (you may have noticed that both Master and I are dark-meat guys) marinated while the eggplants, halved and scored, soaked up a mixture of soy sauce, dry sherry, brown sugar, dark sesame oil, and garlic. I prepared a cup of quinoa and set it aside to cool. As the chicken broiled and the Foreman grill warmed up, I steamed the beet greens and tatsoi in whatever water remained after rinsing and a quick spin-drying. I believe a squeeze of lemon juice and a minced garlic clove also went into this pan. When the greens were wilted and properly seasoned, I tossed them with the quinoa and an unstinting handful of dried cranberries, coarsely chopped. The eggplant halves went onto the sizzling-hot grill for a few minutes, just until their tender skins were char-marked but still a rich purple, and the sweet white flesh had softened to an almost custardy consistency. Lovely things, inside and out.

The pink tinge that the beet greens imparted to the pearly quinoa was a nice surprise. So was the sapor with which Master dug into this heaping portion of heavenly, healthful food. An excellent meal, this one. As far as I'm concerned, it made up (somewhat) for the unspeakable dietary crimes we had both committed earlier in the week.

The following week's farm-market foraging brought more beet greens, another bag of tatsoi, a bundle of young kale, a fresh mesclun bouquet worthy of centerpiece placement, and what will in all likelihood be the last of the year's garlic scapes. A side trip to the Mexican grocery turned up some tempting tomatillos and quality flour tortillas. I had asked Master to defrost a package of ground bison the night before, so I was obligated to feature it in that evening's menu. Whenever I use red meat, I find myself compelled to counter with an overabundance of vegetables. Enchiladas seemed like a good "delivery system" for all that green goodness, especially if we were to forgo cheese for a light, tangy tomatillo salsa verde.

To prepare the salsa verde, I hulled, rinsed, roasted, and skinned the tomatillos, then blended them with diced red onion, garlic, scads of pungent young cilantro (fresh from Master's herb garden), the juice of a couple of limes, and a good drizzle of agave syrup. I added the chopped kale and beet-green stems to a skillet of bison browned with onions and garlic. Mild chili powder, Mexican oregano, more lime juice, and another agave drizzle made for a very tasty filling. The kale leaves, beet greens and whole tatsoi I sauteed separately, adding just a little salt and lime juice when they came off the heat. Each enchilada was assembled by wrapping a warm tortilla around several spoonfuls of the bison and some of the sauteed greens. These I packed into a glass casserole, doused with the salsa verde, and baked for 15 minutes. For those playing along at home, a pound of ground bison made twice as much filling as was needed for 10 tortillas. And seven of these enchiladas, with the mesclun salad - torn, tossed, and served unadorned, was more than enough of a meal to leave Master and me waddling away from the table, pleasantly padded and still licking our chops. That tomatillo salsa was fantastic.

Provisions Unentitled

I've done it again, fallen hopelessly behind. And do you really want to know why? It's because I haven't been able to pull together the past few weeks' menus under a singularly witty banner. Weak sauce, I know. Also not helping matters is that so many of our meals have eluded photographs, either by dint of the camera's absence (or cooperation), because I deemed them not particularly photogenic, or because, if you've seen one pork-and-veggie stir fry, however satisfying, you really have seen them all. So, while I've devoted my time to such DVD effluvia as Drainiac and Monsturd - no, really - you've all been left to wonder what Master and I have been eating. That's not right, and I do, once again, apologize.

Let me see if I can recall enough about some of these bygone morsels to get right by my readers, before you all misinterpret the dust and cobwebs and drift off in search of other food-blog fixes. Hopefully the colorful, clearly toothsome pictures above and below will be enough to reel you back in. The peas are simply parboiled with a couple of crushed garlic cloves. What a joy - albeit one too short-lived - it has been to have access to fresh peas. Because of Master's gardens, I've known the incomparable delight of snacking on the first, youngest crop, plucking each honey-sweet bite from fistfuls of the still sun-warm pods. By this point, though, the peas had swollen with maturity, too staunch and starchy for raw snacking. This would sadly be the last of the peas for the season, but they left us with a lingering hunger for more, and a keen anticipation of next year's bounty.

The hillock of Moroccan couscous, prepared with orange juice and chicken stock, is a fortification edified with orange zest and crushed pistachios. It had to be flavorful to stand up to the zesty sweet-and-sour concoction of lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, paprika, garlic, cilantro, parsley and pepper in which the boneless chicken thighs and carrots were braised. This was an Epicurious find, originally from Gourmet, inspired by a traditional Sephardic Sabbath-eve preparation. I rarely follow recipes to the letter, so I'm sure I worked my own wrinkles into the ingredient list. I only wish I could remember what they were, because this dish was stellar. We were both spooning the pan sauce over the couscous and marveling at the synergy. And the leftover chicken, chopped up with celery, yellow bell peppers, onion, herbs and mayo, made an equally gratifying salad to serve on sandwiches the next day. I was sure I'd snapped a photo, but now I can't seem to find it. Oh, here you go.


Skipping over a number of tasty but unambitious stir-fries (and one fairly disastrous Hokkien noodle experiment), we come to the most recent meal. If you find yourself in these climes, you know that Spring has exited with a show of strength that defies one not to show it some of the respect offered up to Summer. This has made for many an unpleasantly humid day and evenings, one of which fell upon last Friday. I didn't want to overheat the kitchen. Master and I had discussed the possibility of going out to eat, but were both feeling too sodden and weary to make it as far as the car. I had the notion to try out a Thai street-food favorite on him, my interpretation of the famous "glass noodle" salad, yum woon sen - sans green chillies, of course. Even without the hit of heat, the combination of cold bean-thread noodles, ground beef sauteed with shallots and garlic, and dressed with lime juice, soy sauce, fish sauce, thinly sliced scallions and ample fresh cilantro while still hot, once again carried the day. Master was initially reticent when he caught his first whiff of the fish sauce in its raw form. He remained skeptical even as I assured him that magic happens when this stinky elixir meets the right combination of ingredients and temperature. Since he did more than his share to reduce the heap of yum woon sen and supple Boston lettuce leaves to a few tattered scraps, I guess it's safe to say that he's now a believer.

Fishing for Complements

For every Stir Friday, there is now a Fish Friday. Sometimes even a Fish Fry-day, when the impulse to be just a bit bad seizes me. As it did this past Friday. The local market had fresh flounder, which looked fantastic - milky white, opalescent, beautifully filleted - and was hard to resist. Flounder being so mild and unassuming, I knew I had to do something to invest it with a stronger presence. Breading gave it crunch; a sesame, white miso and ginger dressing gave it some swagger. The question was then a matter of sides. I wanted not only to serve something tasty with the fish, but also for the sides to serve the fish in every way. If not raw, I preferred that they'd be at least only lightly cooked, to compensate for the indulgence of frying. I had a head of Napa cabbage to finish up, and was pretty sure I remembered seeing a bag of snow peas in Master's fridge. Yes! There they were! A quick warm slaw of sauteed cabbage and (laboriously) julienned pea pods, very lightly seasoned with ginger, garlic and ponzu, would do nicely. But the plate still felt unbalanced to me. Because the fish was breaded, the flour-and-breadcrumb mixture enlivened with plenty of black pepper, coriander, cumin, sea salt and lime zest, I saw no need for a separate starch. Besides, the last of the flounder fillets had taken its turn in the pan and was already set aside to drain and cool. So it was too late to start up a batch of rice. Back to rummaging through the refrigerator, then, to see what we could find. Basil, Persian cucumbers, ah - very nice. Sounds like a summer salad. Fresh tomatoes - not refrigerated, obviously - a touch of salt and olive oil, and we were done, without breaking much of a sweat. Master loved the breaded flounder, the slaw and the salad, though I noted for future reference that the admittedly assertive flavors of the dressing weren't really to his liking. That's okay. It's not as though I'd worked my palms raw grinding the toasted sesame seeds into paste in the pestle. Actually, I had. But it's still okay.

Another recent Friday fish feast, this one featuring wild-caught steelhead trout, and another challenge of appropriate pairings. I wasn't terribly familiar with this fish, apparently a variety of anadromous rainbow trout, but knew that it was supposed to be very salmon-like in flavor and consistency. The comparison sells the remarkable steelhead trout - delectable, sustainable - short. I'm now among those eager to declare that this was the best piece of "salmon" I've ever eaten. Knowing that salmon takes exceptionally well to Asian flavors, I assumed the trout would hold up to braising in a sweet/sour/spicy butter sauce made with soy, garlic, lots of cilantro and sweet paprika. It did indeed. The butter worked particularly well with the natural richness of the fish. Call me a believer. The leftovers, devoured cold the following afternoon, without even the nicety of utensils, were even more delicious, putting the best poached salmon to shame. This will not be the last appearance of steelhead trout on our dinner table. Trout out the encores, baby!

But Master would probably prefer that I not serve grilled radicchio di Treviso again. He was game enough to try a few bites, punctuating each with a comment about how "different" it was. Well, yes. It is certainly an acquired taste. For me, the play of resonant bitterness and charred sweetness is irresistible, especially when drizzled with balsamic vinegar and good olive oil. And it's just such a gorgeous presence on a plate, with its white ribs and maroon leaves seared brown by the intense heat. Master was far more enthusiastic about the fingerling potatoes, roasted with rosemary, oil and sea salt. I know he enjoyed the variety of colors and the surprising textures - the waxy Russian Banana, the mealier Peruvian Blue, the buttery Ruby Crescent - concealed by the crispy skins. I'm still not sure what he made of the final side, a cold cucumber and roasted beet salad. He does love those beets - I always try to roast a few extra for him to snack on between meals - so my Dijon mustard-laced vinaigrette may have been too sharp for him. I thought it was just right, cutting through both the butter and the bitter, and standing in keen and all-around complementary contrast to the radicchio and roasted potatoes. I'm very proud of this plate.

Uncle Vinny's Chicken Cacciatore

One of my fondest food memories is of the day that "Uncle" Vinny introduced us to the joys of chicken cacciatore. Vinny worked with our father and, having no children of his own, had taken an active interest in my brother and me. Secondhand reports on our progress at school no longer satisfied him, and had given way to an exchange of handwritten letters. Vinny and I shared favorite books and movies, and he became my confidant in any matters of surpassing urgency to a teenager. His advice was wise, well considered, and always weighted more heavily in my mind for his lack of formal family ties. He was the Italian uncle every boy and girl should have, but only the luckiest few get.

The Sunday that Vinny drove down from Mt. Vernon, he was determined to teach us the proper way to eat. He commandeered our kitchen early in the morning, respectful of our father's strictly kosher guidelines, yet fully and admirably in charge. By noon, the range was crowded with pots, which he tended to while regaling us with stories and peals of his boisterous laughter. I didn't know my thyme from my tarragon back then; my successive kitchen awakenings were many years off. So there was still mystery, if not honest-to-god magic, in the act of cooking. I had no idea what base ingredients were being commuted into sauce before our eyes, nor was I even aware enough to ask.

I remember that Vinny declared dinner ready to serve some time well after sundown. By then I was almost full to satiety on the aromas that had filled the house all day. So, while the tomato sauce was surely the finest and freshest I'd ever eaten, the chicken so tender that it had reduced itself to shreds, the meal itself was less of an experience than the production leading up to it. To this day, I find the act of eating to be almost anticlimactic. The real pleasure is to be found in the preparation and in the sharing.

Uncle Vinny passed on in December 2008, a fact of which I became aware only a few weeks ago, when I was attempting to reconnect with him via the social networks. We had fallen out of touch over the years, but the sight of his obituary seemed unreal, impossible. Blinking back tears, of anger as much as grief, I succumbed to a flood of sensory memories, essentially reliving this day in detail.

I don't know if the chicken cacciatore I prepared for my dinner with Master lived up to the standards set by Uncle Vinny's example, but it was good. Very good. And the act of cooking it was not just a little bit cathartic, enabling Vinny to live again, in some small sense, for one more day. I could only guess at what ministrations he had performed, back turned to us, powerful arms working at odd angles, as hot oil crackled and flavorful steam poured from the pots. I imagine he, too, dusted the chicken parts with seasoned flour before browning them in olive oil. Did he also add a slip of butter, knowing that the deeper flavor was worth a little extra fat? Vinny wasn't one to compromise taste for the sake of a few calories. I can assume that he sliced his onions into thick rings and finely minced the rosemary, added the ribbons of fresh basil only at the very end, as the pasta drained. I don't remember if he added carrots, zucchini, crimini mushrooms, and a touch of crushed red pepper, but it doesn't matter. I realize now that I saw and learned that day, even if I didn't comprehend it at the time. It all came back to me as I cooked, and intuition filled in the remaining blanks. I think my Uncle Vinny would have been very pleased. And nothing is more important to me than pleasing people.

Untraditional

Wednesday night's dinner for Master fell on the second night of Shavuot, the Feast of Weeks, when it is customary to eat a dairy meal. If my schooling has not failed me, this is done in acknowledgment that the Israelites had not yet been given the formal laws governing the slaughter of livestock for consumption. Or some such jazz. Observant and reverent fellow that I am, I commemorated the occasion by preparing a pork tenderloin.

As I familiarize myself with the diverse and versatile (diversatile? mine.) cuts of the incredible, edible pig, I can see the tenderloin becoming a favorite. Lean, inexpensive, quick to cook, readily accepting of flavors without the need for prolonged marinating, and just plain packed with porky savor, it may just become my go-to cut during indecisive menu-making moments.

The improvised rub included cumin, cloves, two kinds of cinnamon, brown sugar, orange and lime juices, garlic, olive oil. So it seemed fitting, albeit somewhat heretical, to serve the Moroccan-spiced pork tenderloin medallions atop couscous, effectively (if inadvertently) offending yet another major world religion. I was assailed by the aromas of Tangiers each time I opened the oven door to prod the pork with the meat thermometer, battered into salivating submission until the obligatory several minutes during which the meat rested before carving and serving felt like an eternity.

To accompany, I assembled a salad of fennel, Vidalia onion, Cara Cara oranges, and sliced strawberries, bound with a light dressing of citrus juice, good olive oil, sea salt and balsamic vinegar. Next time I may have to make twice as much, as Master simply could not stop singing its praises. I agree that, to paraphrase dear Charlotte A. Cavatica and keep with the porcine theme, this was SOME SALAD. The oranges have a hint of blackberry musk that marries like a dream with balsamic, the onions were as mild as the licorice whisper of the fennel, and the berries, while still far from their seasonal peak, were like strewn sweetmeats that kept our forks straying from the main course to the side of the plate. Master noted that the fennel salad paired perfectly with the couscous, which greedily sopped up the mingling juices. And we agreed that the tenderloin held its own, with spice and sweetness that remained intriguing until the last satisfying bite.

As a concession to the holiday, I served a micro-sliver of chocolate cheesecake for dessert. Too little, too late to atone for the meal's transgressions? Perhaps. But my bothered conscience demanded the gesture. Jewish guilt, it's a powerful thing.

Tales of Two Chickens (and One Fish)

Since Master makes frequent supermarket runs, and seems to enjoy shopping, I've been entrusting him with the selection of the "protein" for our dinners. We've been eating a lot of chicken. And that's fine with me. What could be more versatile? With so little character of its own, it's a meat that provides a fine canvas for my dabblings in different flavor profiles. It's best when there's time for a long, leisurely marinade, but this isn't always possible. Take last Friday, for example. I had to see Iron Man 2 on opening day. Otherwise, what's the point, right? Even a late-afternoon showing got me to Master's place a little too late to start cooking, prompting a resort to a mutually agreeable Plan B of dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I promised to (over)compensate with a home-cooked Saturday lunch, which had the upshot of giving the chicken breasts the benefit of an overnight soak in white wine, Dijon mustard, fresh-squeezed orange juice, honey, garlic, tarragon and thyme. They were practically tipsy with flavor by the time they hit the oven, on a bed of carrots, celery, onion, and parsnips. Snow peas, steamed along with a quantity of basmati rice and drizzled with a hot vinaigrette, rounded out a plate that more than made up for the prior evening's laziness. The chicken was juicy and full-flavored, and the vinaigrette - shallots, butter, mustard, honey, orange juice, the last of the wine - made every bite of the sweet, crisp pea pods a reason to celebrate. Not bad for an improvisation. I need to start recording my recipes.

It was practicality rather than apathy that led me to douse the chicken thighs with bottled BBQ sauce for Wednesday night's dinner. I'm all for making sauces from scratch... when they don't require a good 2-3 hours of patient simmering. Freshened up with a few thyme sprigs and bay leaves, since I can't leave well enough alone, was more than serviceable. I could hardly have done better. Before the chicken could be baked, though, minor disaster had to be averted. While preheating, the oven belched smoke, sending Master into door-slamming panic mode. And not without reason, I'll say, having now experienced the full-on pandemonium of police and firefighter response instigated by a few overdone pancakes one fateful Saturday morning. Upon inspection, we realized that the oleaginous drippings of some garlic bread toasted without a tray for/by (who can remember?) dinner guests on Sunday evening had fallen on the heating element. No longer nearly apoplectic, though still cursing the carelessness that led to the brink of catastrophe, Master scrubbed away the burnt residue and pronounced the oven once again fit for use.

I focused on the slaw. It was my interpretation of one of Master's favorites, the broccoli slaw at Café Martin in Shelburne Falls, MA. I'd only sampled a few forkfuls of this house special, so it was always going to be a loose rendition. They finely chop their broccoli; I decided to shred mine. But two medium broccoli stems don't grate down to much. Even with a couple of carrots added as filler, it was necessary to stretch the portions further with some mixed shredded cabbage. If it means Master eating more raw vegetables, I have no problem with that. My dressing of sour cream, mayonnaise, honey, lemon juice and parsley was thicker than theirs but no less delicious. Ultimately, the only thing our two slaws had in common was the dried cranberries. But Master seemed just as enamored of mine as he is of Café Martin's, so I'll call it a success and expect many encore requests for this one in the near future.

I'd been eager to put the "new wisdom" regarding the preparation of asparagus, as reported in a recent New York Times Sunday magazine, to the test. So I was happy that Master had picked up a bundle during his grocery shopping. Typical of Stop & Shop produce, these spears were freakishly large. I was concerned that the revisionist, parboil-shunning saute method cited above wouldn't work as well for such thick asparagus. I was mistaken. Eight minutes in a hot pan with a few tablespoons of olive oil produced succulent, ever so lightly caramelized, and thoroughly cooked spears. A little butter and fresh lemon juice, and a sprinkling of toasted almonds, made this the best asparagus I've ever tasted or served. Here's one vegetable I will never boil again.

The plate above was the result of a rare collaborative shopping effort. Master and I had ventured out one Friday to the Big Y in North Branford, lured by a special deal on strawberries. The strawberries were sold out, alas. But the seafood department had beautiful line-caught salmon to offer, and dark, leafy kale and (a personal favorite) Persian cucumbers were to be found in the produce section. I remember that it was a very warm day, so I kept the meal light. Boiled new potatoes with parsley and a hint of butter and the sauteed kale accompanied broiled salmon, sauced with mustard, white wine, and fresh tarragon. The cucumbers, thinly sliced, salted, rinsed, and tossed with slivers of ice-cold shallot, were the surprise hit. I was concerned that the citrus dressing was too tart, but Master couldn't get enough of it. I think I've broadened his palate since we started dining together. If that's the case, I couldn't be prouder, or happier.

Catch-Up with Relish

Wait! Come back!

Computer issues - namely, not having one on which the photos could be processed - have precluded me from keeping up with MC updates. I've had your best interests in mind, hoping to spare you from an excess of intrusive e-mails. But I'm back up and running again, on a machine that starts like a dream, purrs like a well-oiled kitten, and has been blessed with all the Windows 7 buttons n' bows that will allow me to prettify the pictures.

Since so many meals have gone by, I'll try to bring you up to date. The past is the past, however delicious, so let's not dwell on it. Forward, always forward. To relieve my muzzy memory of the burden of chronology, I'll gloss over prep details and present the plates in an entirely arbitrary order.

I don't believe we were all together for my first chimichurri pork. It was an off-the-cuff weeknight dinner, risky in that I couldn't be certain how Master would take to Argentina's beloved condiment, possessed as it is of a green, garlicky bite and pronounced vinegar sting. As it turned out, he loved it. This Friday encore had the luxury of a premeditated marinade, allowing for the end-cut chops to soak up every ounce of flavor from the cilantro, parsley, mint and garlic. I believe the earlier iteration was finished on the Foreman grill. These chops were topped with thick slices of red onion and baked instead. All the better an excuse to keep the oven hot for a tray of roasting parsnips. Not just roasting, nay. Caramelizing. In a few tablespoons of butter, with just a sprinkling of salt and black pepper, transforming these wan, woody roots into something extraordinary. Mashed, moistened with a little chicken stock and white wine, they were sweet enough to put many dessert-cart items to shame, while still retaining their pert and savory identity. I expected them to be tasty, but Master and I were both blown away by this parsnip puree. It may even have overshadowed the chimichurri chops, which were moist, flavorful, and perfectly delicious. It certainly outshined the rice dish they were served alongside, about which I don't remember a thing.

Sliced up for wraps, the leftover pork needed only a schmeer of "refried beans" - fudged using a can of black beans, simmered with stock, cumin and oregano, then blended with sauteed onions and garlic, and finished with a drizzle of agave syrup - and some improbably decent fresh tomatoes to make for a fine Saturday lunch.

It must have been an unseasonably warm day that prompted the dumpling experiment. I know we were returning from an afternoon trip to M&M Farms, made while neither of us was feeling hungry enough to think about dinner. I grabbed some five-spice tofu and a package of wonton skins, figuring I'd attempt to replicate my roommate's fantastic Shanghai-style dumplings. She'd walked me through the process just once, her fingers too quick and nimble to follow. For her, this was as natural an exercise as taking a breath. But her confidence (and disregard for recipes, English names of vegetables, or measurements) rendered at least half of the ingredients in the large mixing bowl inscrutable. Scallions, ginger and garlic were the only givens. She usually made her dumplings with minced shrimp and a stalky green vegetable - maybe an Asian variant of celery? - diced impossibly fine. I opted to substitute mushrooms and strips of blanched Napa cabbage. Actually, pulling together the filling was the easy part. Assembly, which she'd made look so effortless, wasn't going quite as smoothly. The flavoring liquids (yuzu, shoyu) and beaten egg added to bind the mixture made even the scantest dollop ooze out faster than the delicate wrappers could be pleated. Realizing that this was going to take time, I tried to pull a Tom Sawyer, enlisting Master's assistance. Halfway through one failed, frustrating attempt, he threw his hands up and walked away. I muddled through it, improving my gathering and pinching technique as the sloppy, mishapen dumplings piled up. At least I remembered her trick of allowing the water to come to a boil twice, adding a cupful of cold water each time. My ugly dumplings may not have impressed a Sichuan housewife, but we were pleasantly surprised to find that they tasted great. Since Master wanted to use up a stray sauce packet from a bag of frozen potstickers, I was free to throw together my own dipping sauce, spiked with fresh-squeezed ginger juice and yuzu (it's "not his favorite"). I tasted both. Mine was better.

We weren't observant, but my Mom always honored the Sabbath in her own way. It was the one meal of the week for which we all tried to corroborate our evening schedules. No social engagement was ever allowed to trump the familial obligation of Friday night's dinner. We four convened as the candles flickered. Joined in ancient song, we ushered in the Sabbath angels and bid them welcome, then sat silent and attentive as Dad intoned the blessings over the wine and bread. Friday night was when favorites like chicken schnitzel - no veal in our household! - were served, always with vegetables, often an Israeli salad, and a fresh loaf of challah.

The occasion of what would have been my Mom's 64th birthday must have left me nostalgic for these happier times. She never made panko-crusted chicken cutlets or minted peas. I'm not even sure that panko breadcrumbs were to be found on the supermarket shelves during her lifetime. Not one for fussy preparations or culinary airs, she would have wondered where the herbed mayonaisse came from, or the notion to mix orange zest and fresh thyme into the egg wash for breading. But I know she would have recognized the spirit in which the meal was prepared, and the love which went into every step of its preparation. And she would know that this was love not only for her blessed memory, but for Master as well, whose kindness and companionship I strive to reward with the best food I've ever made.

And this sentimental fool is now too choked up to continue. The lasagna rolls and frittata will have to wait for another day.

Quality Miso Soup is Strained

Ate some questionable takeout manicotti for lunch, and all day I've sensed that my system is on the verge of retaliation. I'm 99% sure that any problem is entirely a manifestation of my neuroses, but I've stuck to a regimen of water and thick, vitally probiotic Greek yogurt, just to be on the safe side. If malicious entities have indeed encamped, and they're fixing for a fight, they've got it.

Peckish but still wary when dinner time rolled 'round, I opted for a preemptive strike with miso soup. Cultural conditioning dictates that chicken soup should be the most dogeared recipe in my food pharmacopoeia. But it is miso soup by which I swear. And yet, until this evening, I have never made proper miso soup, only a vegan-friendly facsimile thereof. White miso paste added to boiling water has met my simple needs for a savory broth in which to parboil delicate somen noodles. Spiked with mirin, a little sriracha, perhaps a sprinkling of scallion whites and some reconstituted wakame, it has bolstered me on many a cold or fever-wracked night.

But good miso soup is so much more, and even the sorriest sampling to be found in restaurants has greater complexity than my quick-fix approximation. The soup that arrives tableside is clouded and heady, evocative of both earth and ocean. To ignore the fish component of miso soup is to deny its soul. Fortunately, I now have a bag of katsuo-bushi, shaved "bonito," and I need no longer settle for soulless soup.

A skipjack tuna out of seawater is an unhappy fish, and so water is not fit for swimming until it has soaked up the marine character of dried konbu. In four cups of water, the umami liquor leached from the seaweed was almost imperceptibly faint. Yet I suspect that dashi prepared with salted water would be lifeless if not unpalatable. Arrested just on the verge of boiling, the spent seaweed is fished out, and a cup and an additional heaping handful of the gauzy gray and pink fish flakes are allowed to simmer, off the heat, until they surrender to the familiar oceanic echoes of the broth and sink to the bottom of the pan. Strained and still steaming, the dashi was ready to receive the miso paste, which dissipated rather than dissolved as it was stirred in with a wooden chopstick. The residual heat was enough to bend the fragile somen, and they collapsed into the broth, softening almost instantly.

After a few bowls of this elixir, I was feeling hale enough to wrestle a tuna, let alone stave off a piddling ptomaine offensive. Eastern medicine triumphs yet again.

An Exultation of Sparrows

Maybe asparagus isn't the demure darling I made her out to be.

A text earlier in the week alerted me that Master had picked up a bundle of asparagus during his shopping rounds. Ah. Not content with my rhapsodic praise, still smarting from being upstaged by carrots and crustaceans, the statuesque jade diva now demanded star billing. And I was forced to oblige. That effectively scuttled my plans, tentative as ever, for Wednesday night's menu.

How best to placate Spring's prima donna? Shower her with presents! Drape her in satiny saffron-infused cream. Festoon her with pine nuts, parsley, Parmigiano-Reggiano and petite peas, shallots melted in butter, batons of baby zucchini, cubes of imported ham. Set her high atop a platform of premium tagliatelle, and let her sing her heart out.

And sing she did. After a quick, invigorating bath in boiling salted water, she belted, trilling her triumph in clear, pullulating notes. Her grand adornments, flaunted proudly, only drew attention to her brilliance. The pasta fawned at her feet.

It was Master shouting "brava!" and "encore!" throughout the meal. I took the bow.

M&M Revisited

I usually do my dinner-day market hopping, hunting and gathering alone. This particular Wednesday, Master was accompanying, and he even indulged me in a excursion to Milford's M&M Farms. I'd visited this sprawling produce emporium only once before, during a venture so memorable that I have begged and pleaded with every auto-owning associate for a return visit ever since. The early evening hours at M&M didn't present quite the same bedlam milieu of jostling carts and the commotive Babel of foreign clamor that I so fondly recalled, but the store was lively enough. And, while perhaps not peak season for produce, the array of offerings was impressive, with heaped bins stretching as far in every direction as one's eyes could hope to take in. If not quite as wanton as the open-air market tableaux I've envied in friends' photos, magazine spreads and foodie-baiting travel shows, they scratched the same itch. It was all mere (and momentary) distraction, however, from the narrow, crowded aisles of the Asian specialty market that lay just beyond the panorama of produce. Equally allured and repelled by a whiff of asafoetida - perceptible within moments of entering the store - I surrendered almost involuntarily to its stinky siren-like call and found myself not among the array of apples and asparagus, but entranced and drooling before the dried spices. It's a testament to the thoroughness of my pantry that I did not actually need anything here, other than a bag of whole coriander seed with which to fill the satellite jars I'd set up in Master's cupboards. And as I drifted dreamily between shelves, from spices to sauces to sweets, the mile-long wishlist I maintain mentally proved useless. All I could recall was bonito flakes, ponzu sauce and jaggery (unrefined sugar - cane, in this case. Palm remains elusive), each of which I was able to locate and snap up without much effort.

But I was here to shop for dinner. And, when I alit and rejoined Master, bagging pears and somewhat (rightly) annoyed by my tendency to wander off, I turned my attention back to provisions. Master threw me quite a curve ball by getting excited about the red beets. It's rare to see him so enthusiastic about a greengrocery item. I knew that I wanted to make polenta, maybe with a saute of mixed mushrooms. The plan could easily be adjusted to accommodate roasted beets. I picked up a few large and lovely parsnips, which would end up unused, and a quantity of small red onions. The plum tomatoes looked (and, more importantly, smelled) promising enough to be worth a chance. But the mushroom selection was limited to cellophane-wrapped packages of the standard white-and-brown button variety. How uninspiring. Moreover, there was no fresh basil, and the eggplants just weren't speaking to me. At this point, I yearned to return to the alien comforts of the jarred pickles, impenetrably labeled cans, and foil-bagged jellyfish in the specialty shop. An apple-crumb muffin from the in-store bakery restored my waning faith, being as decadently rich and buttery as I remembered. While Master checked out, I ducked into the adjacent deli for a container of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. A quick Stop & Shop run on the drive home provided basil.

When I mentioned my polenta intentions, Master insisted that I had made it for him before. I insisted that I had not. No matter how long the stirring spoon, or how high the sides of the pot, preparing polenta always proves a painful, memorable experience. The seething cornmeal slurry hisses and spits angrily, inevitably resulting in a slew of minor scaldings. Sure enough, the quick-cooking polenta - they're not kidding! - spattered as I stirred it, leaving my fingers battle-scarred. As the porridge came together, with finely-cut basil and a lusty amount of Parmesan and ground pepper, I tasted it. Yum! I proffered a sample for Master to sample. He winced, his brow creased. He did not love the texture. "It's like something that shouldn't even be food." At least he admitted that, no, I had not made polenta for him before. I gloated silently and assured him that, once it had set and was lightly fried, he'd find it much more agreeable. He looked skeptical.

Peeling roasted beets always makes the kitchen counter seem like the set of a splatter film. But they are worth the effort, and an hour at 425°F really brought out their nutty, sweet charms. The tomatoes, roasted in tandem, slipped out of their jackets as easily as exotic dancers, and they were soft enough to mash with a fork. I added both to the saute of onions and mushrooms, the beets instantly staining everything the brilliant burgundy you see above. With a little white wine and a final sprinkle of sea salt, it was ready to be set aside to free up the pan for frying the polenta. Fully set, it came out cleanly, firm and slightly slick from the oiled dish. So a brief dry fry - just enough to crisp and color the outside while leaving the inside contrastingly creamy - was all that was necessary before presentation.

To my great relief, Master enjoyed the finished polenta, pronouncing it not just food-like, but downright tasty, and felt that the beet-and-mushroom accompaniment was a great complement in both flavor and visual effect. In all, this was a fun meal, burns and all.

He did refer to the leftovers as "cornbread." He's lucky I love him so.

Rainy with a Certainty of Meatballs

For a while now, I've been meaning to attempt albóndigas, based on a hazy memory of a lone delicious encounter with same at a tapas restaurant. But something or another has always intervened, and the high-quality ground beef I keep purchasing with the intent of making meatballs has been put to any purpose but. With a cold Friday drizzle seeping into my head, ushering in what would be a sopping wet and intermittently raw weekend, my thoughts turned first to soup, then back to those unrealized albóndigas. This time nothing would keep me from my mission.

Memory can be such a funny thing. I distinctly recall rice and cumin in the albóndigas I'd sampled, but not much identifiable beyond that. I couldn't even have told you what meat had been used. So I did some research, comparing different recipes, and came to the conclusion that no one agrees on what constitutes a Spanish meatball, or even on what should go into the traditional soup. I took this as a license to improvise. Beef alone didn't seem quite right. Chorizo would have been my first choice, but Master's aversion to anything spicy preempted it as an option. A length of locally made Italian pork sausage, flecked with red pepper flakes but not overwhelmingly assertive, felt like the right addition to the meatball mixture.

As a small quantity of white rice steamed and cumin seeds toasted, I surveyed the pantry. Garlic, of course; maybe three small cloves, grated raw. Mexican oregano. Breadcrumbs? Flour? No... coarse cornmeal. I raided the refrigerator for an egg and cilantro, eyes darting from shelf to shelf as the minimalist and maximalist in me waged war. We would compromise, keeping the albóndigas very basic (and hopefully "traditional") while being more ecumenical, if warranted, with regards to the soup. It's always nice when you can get yourself to agree on something.

E. coli scares and frequent recalls made me wary about undercooking red meat, and I can't say I trusted the heat of the soup to cook my meatballs through. I reasoned that they should be prepared separately. At the risk of smoking us out into the rainy night - Master's smoke detector is as sensitive as his stomach, and it's wired directly to the fire station - I chose to brown, then braise, the albóndigas in an open, unoiled skillet. Master reacted as expected, leaping momentarily from his ABC Nightly News-hour repose to strike up the air purifier. Oh, come now. It wasn't that smoky. But I held my tongue and, once the albóndigas had taken on color on several sides (insofar as round things have sides), added a little stock and covered the pan. I tried a tiny one, after it had cooled, and the recognition came immediately, in a rush of memories of not only the albóndigas, but of all the other tapas tasted during that meal. Success!

That left the soup. I realized my carrots, celery and onions weren't cooking because I'd turned on the wrong burner. D'oh! They caught up quickly, with the addition of stock, water, a can of crushed tomatoes, half a jar of (very) mild salsa, a touch of smoked paprika and the scrumptious drippings from the skillet - I knew there was a good reason for finishing those meatballs first - deglazed with oloroso sherry. In went the albóndigas, for one last unifying simmer while the table was being set, a few fistfuls of fresh cilantro, a bit of basil. And it was time to ring the dinner bell. Always more welcome than the fire alarm.

The Beurre Necessities

Feeling a bit decadent last night, and the fresh lemon sole at the local market looked too good to pass up. It also seemed to be begging to be bathed in butter. Who was I not to oblige?

Now, I have nothing against the generic unsalted sweet-cream butter that is always at hand and usually suits my humble purposes. But this called for something special. Perhaps a whole brick of high-butterfat-y Plugra? Told you I was feeling decadent.

The inspiration was Eileen Joyce's Sole with Herb Butter (c/o Bon Appetit). It's no exaggeration to say that I could have eaten the bowl of butter, whipped to ambrosial, airy creaminess and compounded with chives, thyme, dill and lemon juice, with a tablespoon. But I behaved myself. I knew I wanted to broil the fish. At the last minute, I decided that it should be breaded as well, if only to provide a contrasting crunch and another layer of flavor. A few minutes of broiling, a good dollop of the herbed butter atop each fillet, another minute or so under the element, and the sole was good to go.

Since I'm still just a budding dinner-table hedonist, I rationalized that such a decadent main course called for more sensible sides. A brown rice and orzo pilaf - out of the Middle East box, I confess, but with shallots and an improv(is)ed "spice pack" of cumin, coriander, smoked paprika and lemon zest - fit the bill. And a ratatouille, made with Delicata squash, zucchini, baby eggplant, celery and red and yellow peppers, rounded out the plate. The pilaf was still a touch soupy and underdone when everything came to the table, so back on the burner it went. That seemed to do the trick. And the ratatouille really deserves more attention, perhaps even an equal allotment of my usual adjective-laden verbal arabesques. But I'll abstain, and allow the fish - and the butter - to bask in the limelight.

I think the photo speaks for itself. Everything really was as delicious as it looks. Master had a look of utter contentment as he put away the last bite of his second full portion. And that speaks for itself, too.

Soup's On!

Yes, that really is the best caption I can come up with at the moment. All the inspiration went into Friday night's mammoth-sized pot of minestrone, along with most of the contents of my and Master's refrigerators and pantries.

Is there any better way to fortify one's self and intimates against a snow-lashed late February night? In keeping with the Campbell's creed that soup is a) good food and b) should eat like a meal, I made sure that mine was overstuffed with tasty things. To think that it all started with the pancetta, pan-rendered to crackling, golden-brown bits, and oozing unctuous, seasoned fat which made quick work of a knoll of onions and garlic. After that, I confess that it all got delightfully out of hand. Kale, fennel, carrots, potato, petite peas, Parmigiano-Reggiano rind, cannellini beans, roly-poly ditalini, tomatoes, celery leaves, chicken stock, marjoram, parsley, oregano, sea salt, an armload of fresh basil. In the ensuing abandon, a zucchini marked for the soup pot actually managed to escape unscathed, concealed amid the clutter of cutting boards, cans and plastic bowls. He lives to face another saute.

As a bonus, there was plenty of minestrone left to share with friends on Sunday. And what's the point of making a big pot of soup if not to share with all comers?

There is no hard photographic evidence of its fleeting existence, but I should spare a few words for the third attempted apple crisp. Or is it the fourth? Master does love his apple crisp. To prove it, and not being one to do things by half, he mail-ordered an entire case of Sylvia's soul-kitchen certified Apple Crisp Mix. Which I now feel obligated to deplete. Last time around, we had both failed to notice that the directions call for a can of apple pie filling. With the relatively brief baking time of 25 minutes, the results of using fresh apples instead were ... underwhelming. I frown upon overly sweet and preservative-laden canned fruit. So this crisp started as a one-pound bag of Granny Smiths, cooked down (during a particularly impetuous Saturday morning moment) to a compote, with sugar, cinnamon, orange peel and juice. Tasty and substantial enough to be served as applesauce, it was even better with Sylvie's butter-bolstered topping. I still miss those rolled oats, though.

Ode to a Sparrow Grass

There's something so primeval about asparagus, each bite tasting of the sun, sea salt and earth that nurtured our species during the slow passage from the waters onto the sandy shores. The first appearance of (affordable) asparagus in the markets occasions a meal that celebrates this delectable herald of Spring, so I chose to give it a starring role in the weekend's stir fry. The elements imbibed by the woody shoots allow the spears to pair particularly well with sweet, briny shrimp. Yet asparagus is not so aloof that she will not mingle as amiably with other vegetables. In fact, when it came time for her close-up, she graciously ceded the camera's spotlight to the celery, snow peas, and zucchini, to the broad, eye-catching slices of carrot, and especially to the demure, blushing shrimp nestled in the tangle of buff fettuccine. So you will have to take Master's and my word that the asparagus, crisp and svelte in her emerald finery, was still the leading lady, her brilliant, grassy character dominating each forkful, even upstaging the glossy citrus, soy and sherry sauce in which the whole dish was draped.

Keeping Up Appearances

"It looks like a piece of meat, like the leg of some dead animal."

Master wasn't mistaken. In fairness, though, he was referring not to the food I'd prepared for last night's meal, but to my first (awful) digital photos of that meal - manicotti stuffed with broccoli rabe and chicken sausage - taken before realizing that the plate needed to be gussied up a little for its Master's Chef closeup. Otherwise, I concur that they did look more like crime-scene footage. This was not the case when the dish emerged from the oven, still entire and smothered under a thick blanket of melted mozzarella. But all that cheese obscured the telltale ridges of the pasta, and much of the gorgeous green broccoli rabe peeking out from within. A bit of doctoring reveals dinner in all its colorful glory, though it still doesn't quite convey the delights of the homemade tomato sauce, studded with just-crunchy bits of celery and carrot, and lush with torn basil leaf.

I was concerned about overcooking the broccoli rabe, which had already endured blanching, the shock of an ice-water bath, and a quick saute, with onion, garlic and the crumbled sausage, in olive oil and white wine. So I took a chance and stuffed the manicotti, with Master's gracious assistance, while it was still uncooked. The theory being that the moisture in the sauce and the stuffing would suffice to cook the pasta through during the baking, the result was that it did come to the table just a touch underdone - about a whisper away from al dente. That's how I prefer my pasta, anyway. And Master told me he had no problem with it. Good to know. For those keeping track, one box of manicotti - 14 tubes - made for generous dinner portions and lunch-ready leftovers for two. Had mine today. Undercooking the pasta paid off, as a few minutes in the microwave brought the manicotti those few shades closer to perfection.

On my own for dinner tonight, as Master and his cat take time to recover from winter colds, so I will probably indulge in something spicy. Lillian Chou's Korean-style Warm Tofu with Spicy Garlic Sauce, as popularized by Ruth Reichl and the much-missed Gourmet gang, is a prime candidate. If you can stand the heat, I urge you to get into the kitchen and try this recipe. One of my favorites - dead easy, yet delicious.

Favoring Curries

I'd noticed that the white surfaces in Master's kitchen have yet to be stained faintly yellow by spilled turmeric powder. The counters and stove top are so pristine, one almost wouldn't know that I'd ever been there. Can't have that. Besides, ever since he spurned my too-hot Thai-style coconut curry, I've been determined to redeem the good name of the curry in his eyes. So a second curry attempt was clearly in order.

But what kind of curry? I considered a keema mattar - ground lamb and peas - though I worried that it would be severely compromised without a heap of fresh chillies. I had sweet potatoes and Japanese eggplants on hand, which suggested more of a coconut milk-based curry. Instincts and indecision led me to combine elements of both. It may not have been traditional, but it sure was tasty.

One of the things I love about making a curry is the sense of "shopping" the cupboards to pull together the perfect spice mixture. After the cumin and coriander seeds have been toasted, it's entirely up to caprice. Cloves? Sure. Fennel seed? Why not? Black cardamom? Let's be crazy. You only live once. I can't remember everything else that went into the grinder this evening - probably a handful of peppercorns, paprika, Korean red-pepper flake, a dried chili, cinnamon - but it made for a dark, robust curry powder of almost coffee-like color and intensity. I packed this into a small plastic box, with a couple of bay leaves, extra cinnamon sticks and black cardamom pods. I grabbed a bag of naan from the freezer, cilantro and Sriracha from the fridge, coconut milk from the pantry, and it was off to Master's - after a call to confirm that he still had frozen peas.

Chop, chop, dice, grate, stir, stir, simmer, wait. There's not much to relate about the cooking. So I'll digress to talk about the skillet. Master has been exceptionally generous, in so many regards, and especially where kitchen upgrades are concerned. I've learned that I have to be very careful what I mutter or mumble within his earshot. Innocent comments - "I should have brought my slippers," "I want to be buried with my Microplane grater," "This can opener isn't cooperating tonight," "We might want to look for some cheap mixing bowls next time we're out," and "There's this new Thai horror film titled P that's going to be a bitch to search for on eBay" - have resulted in a growing pile of gifts. A friend joked that Master is like a personal genie; I need only rub him and make a wish. Crass, but true.

It must have been during a recent Target excursion that I made the mistake of musing aloud that a large covered skillet, like the one I have at home, would be nice. I saw Master's ears prick up, and I immediately steered us away from the kitchenware aisle. But it turned out to be only a temporary save. A few days later, he proudly presented me with a new ... covered skillet, tags still attached. He'd been unsupervised at Wal*Mart that afternoon, apparently. And, without me there to voice my disapproval, he just had to make it one from Paula Deen's signature line! Now, we'd nearly come to blows earlier over a ceramic Paula Deen casserole - a purchase I was loath to condone, wishing in no way to offer monetary support for her inexplicable crusade to poison America with sugar and artery-clogging fats. He ended up buying the casserole and, because he liked the speckled burnt-orange finish, the skillet as well. I can protest all I want. I just can't win. It's a good skillet, I'll admit. Even if the unusually high copper content does tend to turn garlic and onions blue-green as they saute - passing strangeness that always makes me pause.

So, yes. I die a little every time I use that skillet. And he knows it. But the results are what matters, and I have no complaints. Neither did he. Master loved my chimeric curry, and especially the naan - for which neither I nor Paula Deen can take credit.

Abandoned alternate titles for this post: Curry Up and Wait, Cash and Curry, A Curry Affair

Cowed

Better late and out of sequence than not at all, here's the story of Stir Friday (Part III, in Glorious 2-D!) past.

It was the best of days, it was the worst of days. Actually, I don't remember anything about the earlier events of the day itself. But it was the day on which I decided to confront my apprehension of red meat. Slabs of raw, bloody beef just aren't my métier, I'm afraid. As expected, I experienced my first qualms as I unwrapped the pound-plus of flank steak I'd just purchased, and proceeded to rinse it under the tap. In my hands, the flesh felt alien - heavy, fibrous yet fragile - and smelled unnervingly of, well, bovine. As I traced the lightly iridescent surface of the meat with my finger, aversion gave way to fascination. I was determined to master this intimidating substance, confident in the knowledge that I possessed a formidable arsenal with which to do so. While the flank steak soaked up a garlic-and-hoisin sauce marinade in the fridge, I reviewed YouTube videos and FDA guidelines. I made notes, which were checked doubly and triply. Guided by the wisdom of the ages, I moved the meat to the freezer to make for easier slicing. I stirfried the carrots, broccoli and sugar snap peas while the meat set up slightly. I could feel that my rhythms were slightly off this evening, perhaps a nervous effect of working with an unfamiliar meat. I was disoriented, and I kept misplacing items - large and seemingly conspicuous ones, like the salt container and the big bottle of canola oil.

The beef, sliced thin, went into the wok, with garlic, ginger, scallions, soy sauce and more hoisin. It cooked through quickly, smelling outrageously good as it did. I taste-tested a piece and practically swooned. Buttery soft, flavorful through and through, with just a hint of charring from the hot wok. I set the beef aside to rest and started the water for the Chinese egg noodles. At this point I was still unsure whether I intended to serve the noodles boiled or fried. I opted for the latter, knowing that Master would appreciate the novelty and the crunch.

Final prep - the vegetables and beef reunited in the wok for one last consummation of flavors, then ladled into a serving dish. The noodles drained and fried in hot, shallow oil, then flipped onto a plate for perfect presentation. Eh, close enough. But how does it taste? Master really loved this one, proclaiming it as good as - and possibly superior to - the chicken and broccoli he always orders when we're at his favorite Chinese restaurant. I had to concur. The beef hadn't tripped me up at all. For all my red meat-related misgivings, this ended up being a Stir Friday for the books. Which it now is, I suppose.

Belts

With both Master and myself trying our hardest to budget more frugally in the next few weeks, I wanted to use up as many pantry and refrigerator items as possible in Wednesday night's dinner. The extra fennel bulb from last week's salmon dinner and a bunch of leeks I'd nearly forgotten about gave me the idea for a veggie pasta bake. I had only to pick up two small eggplants to supplement, to be diced, salted and pressed, per custom, then sauteed in olive oil with the leeks and fennel. A spoonful of sugar, a generous splash each of half-and-half and chicken stock, a sprinkling of dried Herbes de Provence and fresh orange zest, tossed with farfalle and a generous amount of shredded Mozzarella, and baked in a casserole until crunchy on top. The vegetables weathered the twice-cooking well, the eggplant becoming meltingly soft and sweet, the fennel just tender. Served with salad greens, the baked pasta made for another well-received meal. As we reclined after dinner, I was amused to note that a meal made to accommodate belt-tightening measures in fact found us both loosening our own and patting our contended bellies. This is what I do. Homey, comforting food, deserving of equally unadorned prose. Not a fancy feast. Then again, we aren't cats.

Song of Salmon

If memory serves, as the honorable Chairman Kaga used to open each classic episode of "Iron Chef," there wasn't anything especially noteworthy about the preparation of this dinner. That fact bears little weight on the food itself, which I would rate among my proudest moments. The wild salmon fillets had proven irresistible, at just under $10 per pound, and I feel I showed them proper respect with my homebrewed hoisin, coriander seed and orange-based marinade. I baked the fish in aluminum foil, on a bed of fresh fennel and carrots, and served it with a quinoa tabbouleh. I'd been looking for an excuse to introduce Master to the joys of this fluffy, faintly nutty grain, and this one seemed as good as any.

From Master's compliments and apparent savor, I can only conclude that he enjoyed this dinner as much as I did. Which, considering my intensely positive feelings toward it, would be a tall order indeed. The salmon, savory and moist, permeated with each element of the marinade as well as the delicate sweetness of the carrots and the fennel's aniseed essence, sang with flavor. The citrus notes of the marinade were in harmony with the light dressing on the tabbouleh, the crunch of diced cucumbers and red onion serving as counterpoint. I honestly don't know how I could have improved this meal. Well, better tomatoes would have been welcome. But I've bemoaned the quality of winter tomatoes before, and at length. Soon enough the warmer seasons will be upon us, and these bland, oddly textured nonentities will be but a fading recollection. I count the days.