cook pot stories

A friend of mine is moving into her first apartment soon. She's full of excitement and terror, this is a big step for her. She loves cooking, so to make the leap a little easier I'm preparing two gifts. She already knows about the selection of spices I"m giving her, all pulled from my spice cabinet. The other is a surprise. I'm writing down a bunch of recipes I've cooked for her in the past, food she's loved. My mother did something similar for me when I moved out on my own and I deeply appreciated it. Noodle kugel Chicken soup Butterscotch brownines These are all foods she could find recipes for online, but they wouldn't be my recipes, not the food she's eaten when needing comfort, so it wouldn't be the same. Beef stew Roasted veggies Latkes It's odd for me, writing all of these recipes down, I've never done this before. Sure, I've jotted down notes, but most of these are foods I learned how to cook from my mother or things I figured o...

There is a popular fairy tale from the Brothers Grimm that tells of a soldier, on his way home from war, who stops in a village and asks the townspeople for a bite to eat. They all refuse to share anything with him though they clearly have plenty. He is a wily man, so in his desperation he finds an old pot, builds a fire in the middle of the town square and heats the pot filled only with water and a stone. One by one the townspeople who had refused him come by to see what he’s doing; he tells them he’s making stone soup, the most delicious soup in the world. None of them want to admit they’ve never heard of it so all agree that yes, stone soup is exquisite. For every visitor who agrees with him he then sighs and says that his stone soup would be better still if only he had some carrots. Or cabbage. Or onions. Or… And one by one each of the villagers says that they have carrots. Or cabbage. Or onions. Or… They run back to home to fetch their ingredients for the pot. By the end the whole...

I started this blog thinking I would write about transcendent food. I'm finding myself writing about comfort. About history. About the meaning of what I eat. And so often what is meaningful seems to be what isn't quite healthy. What that says about me may be transparent but I'll choose not to investigate it. I was in Philadelphia this past weekend, helping out a friend. I grew up in Philly, though I left 20 years ago. It's a city with a distinct cuisine, one I miss even though I have certainly embraced the cuisines I've moved to. Steak sandwiches. Soft pretzels. Hoagies (no, not subs or grinders or heroes. Hoagies). This is the local food of my hometown. Sure, you can get a steak or a hoagie anywhere. But it's not the same. Maybe it's the air, the water, the accent of the cook. I don't know. But local foods - should I say regional foods instead? - need local flavor to taste right. A steak anywhere else just isn't as good. When I moved to Boston so ma...

When I was a little girl we would go for long drives in our VW van around Pennsylvania and New Jersey (NJ is more than the Sopranos, you know). Sometimes we would go for camping trips with our old canvas tent, look at the stars and stop off at farm stands. Sometimes we'd go to some farmland we owned in rural Pennsylvania.  At the farm stands we would get tomatoes. Real tomatoes. Red and heavy and tangy and god! were they good. I still have not recovered from my love of Jersey tomatoes bought at farm stands. And peaches. A bushel at a time. We just couldn't resist them. They were so lovely and coy and cheap. The car would be redolent with that scent, warm and sweet.  As soon as we piled back into the van we would start to ask each other, "What are we going to with all those peaches?" But we knew. We would go back to our campsite or home and eat. I would press the fuzzy flesh to my lips, letting it tickle just a little bit and smell the dusty summer scent. My teeth woul...

When I was in Rio a few years ago I was served a slab of palm heart, bark still attached, in a fancy restaurant. I was told it was a salad, though it looked kind of like a tree to me. I ate it with some initial trepidation, not quite sure how to eat a tree, but found it had a wonderful taste and texture. I felt like a panda might feel upon finding a particularly delicate bit of bamboo. I remember slicing into the ivory flesh in that dim space, surrounded by voices full of silibant Portuguese and knowing I was someplace very far from home. I have become fond of palm heart salad since then. It's as much a textural food as a taste food and, while I can't duplicate the slab-o'-tree, with canned palm heart and good olive oil I can pretend I'm in the tropics again, surrounded by heat, humidity and possibility. Palm heart possibility salad Drain one can or bottle of palm hearts. Give them a quick rinse in a stream of cool water, but don't let them soak or linger in the wat...

I love chinese food. This is not a short-lived, little fling, no, not this love. This is one of the great passionate true loves of my life. Actually, let me clarify. I love good chinese food, not cheap suburban overcooked, too-greasy, chinese food cooked by people who have forgotten the history and mystery of the land that spawned the cuisine. I know saying chinese food is a misnomer. China is a huge place, encompassing many different languages, cultures and foodways, but at least in America when we say "chinese food" we're referring to a general type of cooking. It's likely the food is cut into pieces small enough to be handled with chopsticks, there is a wok in the kitchen and white rice is served. And for me, it includes comfort, variety of flavor and texture, potential adventure and more. A few nights ago I had wonderful spicy dumplings from my local chinese restaurant, Fuloon . I'm fortunate, this place is within walking distance and is very good. I don'...