Let’s face it, cabbage is a tough sell. Even though it’s what makes coleslaw coleslaw and it’s a crunchy companion to a fish taco, most people associate it with their grandmother’s boiled cabbage fouling up the air with its death-like aroma. That’s why I’m titling this post Sexy Cabbage Sexytime because the other night, I came up with a way to cook it that’s so terrific, so genre-shifting, it’ll forever change the way that you think about cabbage.
The Jewish diaspora is the kind of phrase you only use in college, and even then you’re not sure what it means. But I know this much: Jews in Boca Raton, Florida make good bagels. I’ve long sung the praises of Bagelworks on Glades Road near the Turnpike–my favorite bagel destination when I visit home (I always get “the works” with two scoops of white fish and one scoop of nova spread)–but, traditionally, my mom always buys bagels for the house from Way Beyond Bagels on Jog Road, next to the Starbucks.
It’s considered a hard and true fact in the food world that baking is a precise discipline and that cooking–sauteing, roasting, salad-making–is looser, freer, more of a vehicle for personal expression.
Why does that always have to be the case? Isn’t it possible that, if you know a thing or two in the kitchen, you can whip up a batch of cookies with as much freedom and joie-de-vivre as you might employ while making am omelet? I decided to challenge the status quo yesterday by making a batch of cookies without following a recipe.
I am new to persimmons.
I’d heard of them, Pim once gave me a delicious jam she’d made from them; but purchase them and eat them in the real world? I had not. And then, on a recent trip to the Hollywood farmer’s market, I saw piles of them everywhere.
You may recall, when we first moved into our L.A. apartment, that I described a courtyard with a lime tree in it. I’m embarrassed to say that even though I have many dishes in my repertoire that involve limes–oatmeal with ginger, coconut milk and lime; sea scallops with citrus risotto–I haven’t once plucked one off the tree and used it, not even in a drink.
You thought you might avoid it here on my blog–the Thanksgiving deluge that happens on all food sites this time of year–but this weekend I broke down and cooked a Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving for Craig and his aunt and uncle. (I’m not cooking for my family in Florida this year–we’re eating out so I can relax and spend quality time at home.) Here’s the breakdown of what I made with links to all of the recipes. Hopefully it’s a handy Thanksgiving guide, delivered just when you need it most.
Finally, there’s the turkey itself. For years my mom tried to convince me to make just a turkey breast for the Thanksgivings I’d make at home. And for years I refused because I’d never made a whole turkey before and wanted to document that experience for the blog.
But because I was cooking a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving for just Craig and his aunt and uncle on Saturday, I knew a whole turkey didn’t make sense. And so it was that I bought a 2 1/4 pound turkey breast at Gelson’s already tied up and everything.
I love cranberry sauce. You can keep your stuffing, your gravy (blech!), as long as you give me my cranberry sauce, I’m happy.
What’s astonishing to me about cranberry sauce is how insanely easy it is to make. The idea that people open a can of that gelatinous mound of cranberry goop is mind-blowing to me. If you buy a bag of cranberries (and Ocean Spray pretty much has them in every grocery store this time of year) and add them to a pot with sugar and a splash of water, turn up the heat, you’ll have a cranberry sauce in five minutes. It’s really that simple.