The Real Secret at the Hidden Kitchen

Somewhere between the apple fritter and spiced cider amuse and the absolutely sensuous mackerel, striped on my plate with grapes and charred leeks, I got the feeling - yes, we were enjoying an incredible lunch at the much raved-about Hidden Kitchen, but almost more importantly - we were going to make some new friends.

After the cleanser and before I sank my California-longing teeth into a smoked tomato posole, the words were mentioned. By the time nearly a bottle of wine per person had been consumed and we were about to wolf down the crunchiest, caramel-iest, cranberry sauce on top bread pudding that I've ever had, several future plans had tentatively been made.

And thus, the dance of dating Liam and I have engaged in for the past few weeks continued. It's kind of like when you're online dating and you find someone that doesn't suck and you think, I could definitely show them my favorite Thai place and introduce them to that fried catfish and basil curry and fish cakes that kind of bend in your teeth and then you remember ... you're not really dating (and you're no longer in Berkeley). But this is what it's like - except that often the people are cooler than your average nice person dating - they're already interesting and leading rich full lives, and can commiserate about why the bank only lets you deposit between 9-12 or how people really throw those dividers down in between your stuff at the grocery store and what is this exhalation sound that's made - is it like exhaustion? frustration? just like a 'um'? and suddenly you are panting to put it out there, casually as to not be rejected, but passionately enough to show you're interested, "we should really get each other's info."


And then several hours after we ate the "nostalgia in a box" - petit fours of s'more and pb+j - known in the silver box as rice krispie treat, chocolate truffle, pb cookie and that fruit gelee candy that i love but never remember the proper French for - and there is a battle of Moleskine books and partners exchanging pens and correcting names and saying, yes, let's hang out soon.

Colonel Comfort Nut

Liam and I have had a tough week. We've gathered our past successes and placed them in a tea cup and then tried to brew them again and again to remind ourselves we will make our new lives here, wondering what will become of our music and writing careers, respectively. It's a lot of pressure we've put on this dear city.

Then tonight, we're at a show of Alela Diana, whom I first saw at Mama Buzz when Liam was doing his Ace of Spades recording series. This was no room of gentrification at formica tables, this was a venue (well, still a tad bit of gentrification) huge and smoky, Liam and I in front with 4 videographers plus 4 photographers in front of us snapping pictures of the gal while their elbows go straight to our faces. Then there's Liam, with the intro from Alela, giving his demo to the guy that works for the label who heard his myspace and liked it and regardless where this leads, I think - this is good. After a week of questions and doubts swelling and receding, it's nice to get some concrete validation. Paris is big. Indie music world is small. We're glad we moved to Paris and not the Cote d'Azure where Liam couldn't find music. We're glad to have done the work we did in Oakland. Now I say we but really it's for Liam, and really, my 10 rejection letters, 8 with notes, are sitting in my brain brewing some confidence in my own mind again.

I have two of the letters on the fridge to remind me that someone read my poems, someone that didn't have to like them, and each morning when I have my tea, I remind myself. Above you can see my new tea shelf, replete with leftover Throat Coat and Ginger tea that came in the suitcase alongside a misty green from Teance and our favorite, Korean barley corn tea. Yesterday, I went to both Mariage Freres and Les Palais des Thes where I indulged first in Indian teas (a crisp clean Assam recommended by new friends and a chai that I was yearning for) and then Chinese (a light, non-astringent green and a lovely basement-y, comfort me with your must pu-erh). I have writerly visions of upping my caffeine intake with the black teas and sipping away each November morning when Liam starts his new job and I sit back to relax and do some writing.

This week though, our favorite has been Korean barley, which I lovingly re-named "colonel comfort nut" (kernel comfort nut) when Liam asked for tea and as it brewed he said, 'what's that Oakland smell?" and thus, our comfort nut tea was reborn.

Haricorts what?

"Does this look like the fucking face of somebody who eats vegetables?"

This was not the right stand at the Marche Bastille. I understood this place to be a chic marche, one that everyone who's anyone shops at, and even though I saw 1 euro shoe stands and trial size bottles of Dove reminiscent of the Ashby Flea Market, I had faith, I had lucques olives and incredibly fresh apple cider, I believed this was like the Bay, but better, because this, of course, is Paris.

This ain't the Bay though, and my navigation of Paris markets is not as up to speed as I had imagined either. Now, I have been doing my research - I usually go to the stands with gorgeous produce that is fresh, local (from France) and in season, and I seek out the bio (organic) stands as well. I spy and observe and look for the longest lines and people battling to order and I go there - and this involves breezing past the stands that are empty of customers, where the vendor has cigarette ash spilling onto his framboises, where there could possibly be enough time to be mocked.

So here I am, nearly out of the bustling Sunday market tired of my foot being run over by elderly ladies' carts and baby carriages, thinking to myself, "any beet at this market must be pretty good, so of course I can stop at this nearly empty of customers stand on the way out and get two beets."

Liam and I approach the stand. For the second time this week when asking for deux betterave (two beets), I receive one beet (perhaps I am asking for doux betterave, or sweet/soft beet, or even du betterave, 'some beets'). As the man puts my one pre-roasted beet (see previous post for picture) into my brown sac, I implore Liam to ask in French how to cook haricorts coco (pictured above) which I can't figure out but have 500 grams of in the fridge. So after the man mocks by betterave pronunciation ("it was in a nice way," Liam insists later), he points to his: mug, face, mouth (all possible translations of the French he used) and asks his rhetorical question.

And ends, "well, like haricort verts."

Habits Like Beets

There's a particular song about habits that has been running through my mind these days.

As I walked the four miles to my French class Thursday (metro strike)- first crossing the Seine, then past Notre Dame, and finally through the Latin Quarter and Luxembourg Gardens, I thought - this is a habit I can get used to. Earlier in the morning at the boulangerie (after shrugging my shoulders when an Italian woman turned to me for help to tell the boulanger she wanted two of each macaron and I secretly imagined that everyone took me for a hip young French woman who cannot understand the needs of Italian women but obviously still has a true heart of gold and is just commiserating in her own Frenchness with the boulanger...), I walked home with a pan au chocolat so crispy and buttery with about 27 layers on top and melting chocolate inside and thought - I can get used to this habit for sure.

After class, I stopped at Au Bon Marche to buy baking powder to whip up our favorite biscuits with pepitas -- trolling through tea aisles and peppercorn counters, thinking about the moment in French class where suddenly I could understand 90% of what my instructor was saying.. I almost started to feel at home.

Later that night, there was even molten chocolate at this tiny chocolate shop recommended by new friends and a quick walk back across the Seine to our new home so lovely that I've considered proposing Thursday night Hot Chocolate Night (like Thursday Night Out on North Street that I had with my dad growing up, except that chocolat chaud might beat out root beer lollipops at England Brother's every time).

But it's the beets that got me thinking. I love beets. In Oakland, I bought beets nearly every week, tucking them into foil pouches and leaving them be in the oven for an hour while reading or cleaning or emailing. In Paris though, these beets defy my expectations, they change my habits - they come pre-roasted.

Now, I don't miss knives lying around looking all bloody from testing for doneness, and for the time being, I can exist without greens to saute with golden raisins and brown butter over pasta, but there's something about the fact that I didn't 'cook' them, that I didn't bring them from bitter dirt root to pure sweetness on the table, that I can just put some butter, maple syrup (Canadian) and lime juice in a skillet and make them into glazed beauties on our dinner plates, something that feels a little bit like cheating, like I dropped an old habit that was good for me because a new one was just so darn easy.

And yet, I should not complain about the ease of pre-roasted beets when we've just gotten a bank account after one bank wouldn't let us open an account together and then magically, another does. Or groan about how long my carte de sejour takes when it was approved (Conversation in front of us as I'm waiting to get approved when one woman comes to another for advice "I would let him in" our woman says "I don't think we should" replies another, "Well, if it were me I'd let him in" says our woman).

Then again, I am the girl with a New England soul walking to French class in an orange dress and brown boots and short hair that got lots of compliments in the Bay while the French women swirl around me in charcoal and black with their long hair hanging past their whimsically tied wool scarves. Who am I to question the arbitrary nature of how things are done in my French experience? Maybe I should simply be grateful that we just have an account here now, count the moments crossing the Seine at dusk or the first bite of maple glazed beets as wins. While the ease might not wipe out the old habits, it doesn't hurt to appreciate some new ones as well - maybe the lesson is that in France, you don't always need to work hard to get something worthwhile.

Adzuki Beans on Brioche: My Favorite French Breakfast

There is something about Japanese pastries that I truly adore - the earthy savor of matcha, the gritty sweetness of adzuki paste wrapped inside smooth glutinous mochi, even the salty sour tang of ume. And it is here in Paris, not just in a visit to Tokyo or LA, that I had all of these tastes in one trip to the patisserie.

I'm not sure where I first read about Aoki pastries, and I can't add much that hasn't already been said here. but I do want to gush for all of those wondering what it's like to see such gorgeous patisseries every day in the shapes of tartes and profiteroles that it is also incredibly delicious to have the French classic mille feuille with matcha, with a cup of toasty hoji-cha (yamamotoyama gen-mai-cha for 1.49/box at Berkeley Bowl, how I miss thee) in a patisserie so modern that it's difficult to tell if you can get in and out the door until you walk close enough to almost smell the intrigue of black sesame eclair. (It was also the perfect place to celebrate good news - Liam has signed a contract for a job!)

Not long after Liam and I crammed the mille feuille, matcha eclair, and two macarons (ume and black sesame) down our parched throats, I walked the perimeter of the tiny shop several times to find something to take home. I considered the box of 16 macaron, but was a bit afraid I'd eat them all in one sitting. Then I found a small shelf with confitures and compotes. I have to say, when you see gorgeous confitures everywhere, it's difficult to tell what's good and what's great, and as amazing as the pastries were, who's to say this guy makes a mean jam? Then I laid eyes on a dream I never knew existed: adzuki bean and milk compote. In broken French and lots of ego (where I pretend I understand more than I do), I asked the woman what she thought of it - I wanted to know something like 'all Japanese crave this and buy it out each week' or something like that. No luck there, but I brought it home and have been consuming it each day on my toast. Ingredients: beans, milk, sugar, vanilla.

Whether it's on day-old baguette from boulangerie around the corner or brioche from our new favorite a few blocks away, this magic mixture turns my breakfast into a bit of Japanese earth on a Parisian balcony, or rather, combines the adzuki grit with the traditional French tradition, nope, really, just on top of warm toast spread first with sea-salt-flaked-butter, it's just the best breakfast I've had thus far. Arigatoo-gozaimasu Aoki-san!

My type

Sometimes you have to just admit you have a type.

Monday was my first day of French class at the Alliance Francaise . Two of us are new to the on-going class. Students open their books to correct the previous week's adjective homework. Examples include: "Japanese are small and intelligent. Swedes are blonde and athletic. Americans are laid-back." After each sentence is corrected for gender and plural, the teacher asks this class of Chinese, Bulgarian, Swiss, Iranian, Israeli, American, Russian: do you agree? (5 minutes in I was asked if I agreed with the American one. I said no, or rather, I shook my hand in a motion that sent a message of 'maybe yes, maybe no.' Actually speaking in my French class is not really something happening yet).

The next part of the lesson involved writing down traits of your gender that you'd like to portray to the opposite sex (soooo French). One woman asked, 'what about homosexuals?" which prompted a reply that I barely understood but seemed to mean: being attractive to 'le sexe oppose' does not have to do with sex, just your gender. If only I had feminist vocabulary a la Francais.

My type? Well, in this world of moving abroad just a few weeks ago and promptly moving into a 25 square meter apartment and near-daily visits to the market, it's embarrassing to admit, but my type is certainly readily available. Primary ingredients? Pasteurized milk and cream, 1.5% pepper, and potassium preservative. Yes my friends, I'll admit it: my type is Boursin.

I have a long history of embracing trashy cheese during times of stress. It may have started when my treat as a child at the public pool in the summer was a well-earned (as in begging my parents repeatedly) snack of these orange cheez-it like crackers (they were round) with squeeze cheese on top. This treat was so lacking nutrients, I believe my sister and I had to eat it as a dessert.

On a bit of a higher plane, was my other childhood favorite: Wispride Port Wine Cheddar. This spreadable beauty of fiery hues was always good on Stoneground Wheat Crackers.

And then, there was my quite unhealthy obsession with Kraft Parmesan - throughout college I would toss it onto 'hot air popped' popcorn (with this contraption to make 'hot air' popped popcorn in my microwave) and lick every last crumble of the stuff out of my bowl.

And so, my dirty history with my type. Today or tomorrow we will be on our way to the fromager to find a soft sheep's milk like the brebirousse that Jasmine brought to our last meeting of cheese club or a chevre that is beautifully chalky and creamy in that dry way in the middle - and yes, you will find Boursin on our kitchen table as well - maybe hidden in the nook of an endive or in a bowl to dip the gorgeous French radis in, or maybe just slathered on yesterday's baguette as my lunch for French class. Let the stereotypes begin.

muscat comfort

I used to be addicted to muscat gummy candy. I would head to my favorite Echo Park grocery, A1 Grocery, each week in LA my first year teaching and pick up the same things: taro cake to fry in flour and oil for lettuce wraps, rice paper wrappers and mint and basil and rice noodles to make fresh spring rolls, and for my treat, muscat gummies. If I hadn't blocked out portions of that time, I would be able to state more accurately, but I believe I ate this every night for an entire semester. I made chili-garlic sauce and peanut sauce and created myself a plate each night. I have no idea when exactly I became enamored with the transparent color and alluring aroma of muscat gummies to close the meal, but they are easy to tuck into pockets and tote bags when you're off to teach each morning.


No, I haven't located muscat gummies yet, nor have I even ventured into the Vietnamese restaurants of Paris, but we did buy some fantastic muscat grapes at the market. I don't know if it's just me, and perhaps my Bay Area friends can help out, but why did I never eat muscat grapes in Oakland? Can you even get them there? California is the grape capital of the US, yes? When we were visiting Liam's sister in the south of France this weekend, she had a bowl of them on the counter, as she usually does, and I forgot how addicted I became to them when we visited last year. I promise that once you start eating them, you may never return to regular grapes (and I don't even like grapes unless I've juiced them with green apples and strawberries).

We ate the bunch in two sittings, seeds crunching and all. I'm ready to get more at tomorrow's market - and they're not even bio (organic), although I hope to locate those soon as well. There is surely a comfort in the sweetness of muscat that transcends week two in Paris of navigating French bureaucracy.* Now, if I could only find some good green tea.

*Bureaucracy update II: joint bank account. We cannot get a joint bank account until I have an official plastic-stamped carte de sejour, even though I have a temporary one. I cannot get a carte de sejour without showing our joint account savings. Liam needs an account to get paid from his forthcoming French job, but he cannot open an account until he gets paid. The dollar is falling (1.44 euro = $1) so we want our money changed over before it falls more. My appointment to get my official carte de sejour is not until December 20.

sooo french

There was a woman at the French Consulate in San Francisco that Liam and I began to call 'So French.' She was hot, helpful, and once wore a pink off-the-shoulder sweater with the words 'so french' across the front (we assume it's a brand, but ourselves are not French-enough yet to know). She would smile sweetly at Liam, beckoning monsieur Carey over to say hello. She would ask us our wedding plans. She would tell me that my application would be denied if I showed this and accepted if I showed that. She was kind about speaking English and she smiled. I miss 'So French.'

I knew the process to get a carte de sejour (residency card) would be annoying. As a former Los Angeles USD teacher, I thought 'I've had my fair share of wasted institutional days' and yet, nothing prepared me, not even Liam's sister's stories of the same nature, for our two hour wait at the police station yesterday just to find out I did not have the right paperwork to apply. *

With my birth certificate copy en route from my mom (why do you need to see a birth certificate when I have a passport showing US birth? "We need to see your parents' names" can it be a copy? "a copy that is stamped by a translator is acceptable" are you sure we really need this? "not necessarily, but sometimes."), and our new landlord, a sympathetic ex-pat, writing us up a lease, we went to a covered market to find something for dinner.** Looking for something so good, so French, we passed a fruit stand with fraise des bois.

I have never had these european sweeties, so although they looked as though they had spent time navigating the residency card with us, we purchased them anyway (to the tone of 4.80 E = $6). I popped one in my mouth at home and found the texture to be weird and taste so sweet and fragrant it was as though someone made a fruit based on a candy. I decided to put them in a bowl with some Activia (Liam's favorite french yogurt that is really plain Danon and promises to make your insides regular if you eat it for 15 days. I think it recently made it's US debut? It was named 'Bio' in a previous French life.) and found some sugar/vanilla grinder that the owner has and sprinkled that on top - Voila!- it was a fantastic dessert with the fragrance captured in the creamy yogurt and the crunchy sweetness on top. Dare I conclude - a sweet ending to a long day, and soooo French.

*"So French" told me to just bring the same paperwork I showed in the US to France. Unfortunately, in France, they want none of the same paperwork and asked for others I didn't have.

**We are now stringing a cord across the tiny kitchen to use the kitchen unit with the burners. In fantastic news - we move into an apartment in the Marais in another week that has a full kitchen and stove (and tub) - unfortunately, at the expense of a bed, but more on our sofa-bed future soon.

market daze

Bienvenue a Paris! Fresh out of the freeze of Iceland, I was thrilled to find myself at the tiniest of organic markets in Monparnasse on Saturday morning - armed with an Oaklandish tote bag and a desire for a fresh salad after days of eating travel food, I bought the first few things I saw for a salad - cucumber, pear-shaped tomotoes, long brilliant strings of haricort verts and of course, pre-roasted beets. Boring as it may look, it was the kind of market salad that can sustain a gal after eating several portions of fried fish in Massachusetts and Rhode Island (come on, I had to eat my last clam roll!)



My eyes lit up most today though when we visited the market closest to our short-term rental, referred to (in its covered version - it has open and covered each day) as 'remaining a colourful Arab and North Arican enclave closet to the Bastille' (Marche Beauvau). It was incredible in the sense of it being more crowded than Berkeley Bowl on a Saturday morning with the sellers hawking their vegetable wares. The best buy was an enormous celery root (pictured below) - as big as a canteloupe. I was in a constant negotiation - can I touch? Can I not touch? Does Liam need to order in French for me or can I handle, "une corgette, framboises et radis s'il vous plait" At which point, the seller spoke to me in English.


I am cooking on a two-burner stove top that sits on an 'oven.' This evening it conveniently cut the electricity in the entire apartment as I cooked both pasta and boiled the celery root at the same time. Thank god Liam had made friends with the upstairs neighbor and helped him put wires into a long tube to run from his kitchen to the basement (don't ask, don't tell) so that when the electricity went, we were able to borrow a flashlight and attempt to find the fuse box, which proceeded to keep blowing because the cooking unit was still plugged in. We have determined now that it is unsafe to run both burners at the same time. The apartment we're staying in is a fantastic apartment in all respects, except, I guess, the kitchen part. I am hoping to go on more culinary adventures this week - tried a saffron macaron today (tried a chevre but it fell to the ground before I could put my greedy mouth on it) and hope to do more in the coming days. I also hope to be less jet-lagged and back to my regular, funnier, happier self when we've been here more than two days, but wanted to share the market highlights from today.

icelandish food

When my sister writes to me about picking berries or apples or peaches in an orchard each weekend in upstate New York, I get a bit jealous. Living in the Bay Area, I have few complaints, but I do miss the New England/upstate NY orchard scene. How glad was I then, to receive the cutest jar of purple raspberry jam in my bridesmaid's favor bag for her wedding this past week.

Liam and I had disagreed about bringing back apple jelly from his family at Christmas (we just had carry-ons), but now that we were travelling 2 bags a piece, I was all about putting the jam in my check-on. Little did I know, this purple raspberry jam from Hurd Orchards would save us in Reykjavik.

We arrived in Iceland freezing and exhausted and stunned at every corner at the prices, despite the fact we'd researched and budgeted as such. To spare the day-to-day details of prices and whining and impulsive-decision-making, I will say that it was the bread we bought at a local bakery with the organic Icelandic peanut butter (above with jam) and gift from my sister that made our forays into the intense and icy and volcanic world of Iceland that much more warm. We slathered both on the pre-sliced bread with a knife we borrowed from our hostel, I mean hotel (bright and clean and nice staff and our room is pictured on the website), and found ourselves savoring both jam and pb -not in an ex-pat 'i cannot find peanut butter anywhere' way (it was our 2nd day out of the US), but in a completely yummy way.

Iceland is intense and amazing and with the food so expensive, this was a good choice. We saw curry for $30 a plate, an upscale restaurant serving a bagel with cheese for $15, and teas were never less than $5/each. Our best meal was 'cheap' vegetarian food at $25/person for a plate with falafel, green salad, rice, and tomato sauce - good place - a Naestu Grosum (reviews linked). Most of the food on our plate was quite good.

In an infuriating sidenote - we were turned down at Einer Bar. When the waiter said, in front of an absolutely empty living room, 'we are fully booked' and I replied, 'fully booked?' he affirmed and walked away. We then found ourselves back at a Naestu Grosum. Alas, we were thrilled to be en route to Paris (they did have fantastic tea in the Reykjavik airport though ... I do have to end on that note).

World Vegetarian Feast

I have been obsessed with Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian for years. I had it on my shelf for a long, long time and then when I first started to get my CSA box, and had more tomatoes one August day than I knew what to do with, I made Tomato Choka w/ Roti. Another time, when I had too much okra and I went to Deborah Madison who recommended that I just skip it since it's too slimy, I went to MJ and found a handful of fantastic recipes. This cemented my faith in MJ so that when my cookbook club decided to do World Vegetarian for my last meeting before moving, I couldn't resist.

I held 2 feasts to warm-up before the cookbook club meeting: a Persian feast (thank you Zand's for the key ingredients like dried persian lime) and a mediterranean inspired mezze meal.

For the Persian Feast there was rice with dried lime, yogurt with walnuts and eggplant, lavash (Zand's), and black eyed peas. Additionally, Berkeley Bowl and I fell back in love when I arrived to find a) fresh black eyed peas and b) sour cherries (which resulted in sour cherry chutney - Afghani, but 'very tasty and very easy' according to MJ). The yogurt dip was the hit by far, and while the pilaf fell (it was supposed to come out like a layer cake), and tasted pretty darn good, I'm not quite sure that the 'black gold' of the dried limes came through the way I wanted it to. We ended the meal with Zand's baklava - Persian and the regular.

For mezze: another batch of yogurt, the amazing yogurt with feta and green peppercorns,

leftover rice, whole chick pea hummus, and more. We needed more lavash.

I don't know if I'll miss Cookbook Club, the Bay Area, or cooking for my Oakland friends more, but I'm definitely feeling the sadness of leaving them. Y'all should know though, MJ made it into the suitcase to Paris though ......

PANEER

I (heart) Eggs

When Jennifer and Mat suggested we take off to Mar Vista last November when I was tired from teaching, starting to get ill, and wanting and Thanksgiving Break get-away, I had no idea what we were getting into. Having grown up in the Berkshires, the idea of coastal mountains on the coast was intriguing, as well as getting rid of the phone and computer for the weekend. We packed our bags, prepared to cook for two days, and prayed for one thing more than kale in the garden.

We arrived there with Liam green from driving up the 1 and me singing 'Don't Go Back to Rockville' on repeat 8 times to dissuade my own brain from motion sickness. When the proprieter offered us fresh eggs, I don't know how else to describe it except to say, it was a turning point. I'm a sucker for a hip, simple pallette and natural aesthetic - and these eggs were with me 100%. To begin to describe the colors would be an injustice to the hens. Blue, gray, beige, tan, cream, ivory. Liam fried them up in a cast iron pan and we toasted some oatmeal whole wheat bread I obsessed over last fall. I fell in love immediately (yes, with Liam, but more so, with the eggs). The eggs had the brilliant orange hue of free range, mist-fed hens. Their taste, was so incredibly 'egg-y' but in a way that would reform the most serious anti-egg-head.

I retell this anecdote to say how thrilled I was to hear from Jasmine, messenger of all things fantastic about food in the East Bay, that Riverdog Farms was selling a dozen farm fresh eggs for $6 at the Saturday Berkeley Farmer's Market. Obsessed as I am, I was running into the market at 10:10 (Jasmine said they sell out!) saying, 'I heard a rumor you have eggs,' at which point the guy pointed to the front. Enthusiasm un-matched, I shelled out my $6, picked up some new peas and golden beets, swung by La Farine for some rustic baguettes (which we missed), and came home for Liam to fry these up in our own cast iron pan. See the beauties above, and help me not hoard them so long their freshness withers as I determine ice cream? Meringue? Batter for Marcella's cauliflower with parmigiano-reggiano batter? It's hard to figure out how to showcase these babies best.

ice cream wars

Jasmine wanted to make salted caramel ice cream, and I had this Recchuiti cookbook from my sister, so I decided on burnt caramel. A week later, for a dinner club theme that I created - gussied up comfort food - and in response to pleasing Liam (he didn't ask, but I thought it was perfect), I also made cinnamon toast ice cream (picture to the left). There was something about both of these ice creams that made others adore them, and oddly enough, left them in my freezer for a week (this doesn't happen with meyer lemon ice cream). The burnt caramel, as forewarned by Recchiutti himself, was incredibly soft. Jasmine and I decided the texture was nice, but even after a full freeze and days in the freezer, the stuff stayed soft as cream almost. The cinnamon toast ice cream, which inspired oohs and ahhs at the dinner club table, was almost more work for me than I wanted. The flavor is simply incredible, that's for sure, with a deep toasty essence (due to the toasting of bread crumbs, soaking them in the 2x boiled cinnamon milk and then pressing them out to contribute to the base) and truly crunchy toasts throughout. The reviews said it took 2 hours, and it did, and it might be because I was on the phone for the first hour and had to go back to instructions multiple times because they were unfamiliar to me, but I wasn't sure I'd make it again.

Either way, I am almost comforted by my blase response to Rebecca saying, 'you should open up a restaurant' ... perhaps ice cream parlor is not my way to go, but once I conquer olive oil gelato I'm ready to be the fill in pastry chef at a restaurant ... and you think I'm kidding ....

cheese biscuits

I think Jasmine and I became friends because of these cheese biscuits. In fact, I ate them so much last fall, I do believe they were reasons for my ability to perservere through a difficult teaching assignments as well as my digestive downfall. I arrived at the doctor's office last winter and she asked if I ate many bread products and in my mind flashed the biscuits, 3-4 at a time, days a time. I admit this publicly only because they are that delicious, that soft on the inside and crumbly on the outside, streaks of cheddar running through them and fresh out of the oven, with a pat of butter melting lusciously on the inside, there's not much else you can ask for.

Essentially, I've been using this recipe - it's in the Gourmet cookbook, but I think I was using a similar one, but different, previously. Fickle about onion family as I am, I always leave out the scallions. This week, because I had Montgomery's Cheddar left over from The Dairy Queens, I used this. It made the biscuits so earthy and complex, each bite barely needed the pat of butter.

My excuse last week was that we were having Black Bean Chili (also from Gourmet, published from San Francisco's Greens Restaurant) and they would go well with it. Meanwhile, all week I was scooping out my chili with tortilla chips and savoring 3 biscuits for breakfast. I'm so obsessive about them, they might as well be labeled 'mine' in the freezer where I put them to stay fresh until I pull them out, barely days later, to re-heat while I shower and get ready for work.

Make these, I dare you, and your memories of Bisquick drop biscuits will disappear and every time you have cheddar in the fridge, you will find the 30 min to make them. I swear.

Salted Chocolate Caramels

It all started with Michael Recchiut's Fleur de Sel Burnt Caramel . I fell in love with the combo, came to understand that it had origins with others, and have yet to branch out because I'm so addicted to his. That said, this holiday season, I decided to try Gourmet's salted chocolate caramels. I made them amazingly perfect, the ganache frothing up in the caramel, the sea salt sitting on the chocolate, each one sitting in its own (albeit slightly greasy in a buttery way) spot in the containers for Liam's family. After everyone realized that yes, in fact, one can create caramels in the home kitchen, they were hooked too.

I made them again last night for our Dinner Club. The salt, again, seemed to be the key. Someone who didn't even like sweets was convinced to eat one, and come back again and again. Others kept taking the small pieces as they melted in chocolatey, caramely goodness with flakes of Maldon sea salt sticking to your teeth (not the caramel). I think I could've improved them slightly by letting the caramel turn 'deep golden' and what for me was most likely 'tawny' before adding ganache. I also upped the ante with Plugra, and thought this fat may have made them a bit more gooey than I had anticipated (these are the benefits of a Dinner Club with actual trained chefs!) They still taste amazing and are amazingly easy to make if you watch the caramel (and despite recipe reviews on the site, I did keep it until 255 without a problem - I had lower heat and kept them on the stove maybe twice as long as the 15 min. suggested).

The Dairy Queens, Volune 1

It took a while to get this reblochon. Earlier today, I didn't even know what it was, but before that, I dragged Liam with me to the Bowl and then out to the Cheese Board only to find that the Bowl was a crazy Sunday-ness (Liam accidentally elbowed a child in the eye in the check-out), and the Cheese Board isn't open, and La Farine doesn't have a single baguette until 1:30, and so there I am at the Cheese Shop in Rockridge with my list of cheeses straight outta the Cheese Primer, suspect enough that the guy asks, 'where did you get the idea for these cheeses?' Next thing I know, he's offering me a Sainte Maure instead of a Saint-Marcellin, and I know this is wrong because I'm supposed to bring cow's milk. Not goat.

The idea of a cheese club came about after I decided I needed to know more about cheese as my culinary goal for 2007. Jasmine and I talked about it, then Sara said she wanted to embark on a thematic project with cheese: read, experience, create. Out of this, 'cheese club' was born. (How lucky am I to have these friends?For the record, I do have a cookbook club, a book club, knitting gatherings, and used to have a craft club)So here we are today with the first meeting of The Dairy Queens, armed with cheese in one hand and Steven Jenkins The Cheese Primer in the other. We each chose one of his favorite cheeses, or one that inspired us. New Englander that I am, I went for a Somerset Cheddar. French as I try to be (not in a Franco-phile way, more like Liam is half-French and wants to move there some day so I'm trying), I got the Reblochon. My cheeses were the most boring.

Despite my aversion to the phrase 'bloomy rind,' Sara brought an amazing French goat with that part between rind and inside that we all adored. She also couldn't resist a gouda goat that was so soft and slightly piquant and creamy, that we all adored it (trying to learn from Jenkins' words AND use my own here!). Jasmine took the cake, in my cheese book, with the Sardinian pecorino with truffles. Earthy and mushroom-y and even beefy. We took chunks of La Farine's sweet batard (same incredible dough as their 5-star Rustic Baguette), and slathered with each. The cheeses were incredible enough to shadow the Medjool dates and Marcona almonds on the side.

I used to be lactose intolerant. It was a long, slow road of admission after denial, conquering the problem, and eventually, dismissing it with 8 weeks of Dr. Andrew Weil's Optimum Health (I swear). Today, as I ate each of these pieces of fromage while flipping through Jenkins' opinions on everything from Brie (not worth buying) to rind (to eat or not, you can pretty much decide yourself), I thought, "we are dorky and delicious - the Dairy Queens."