I baked you a cake, because...

Well, because I like you. And also because baking is such an orderly, precise thing. And everything else seems to be a little out of sorts around here.

Today, I went to gather my dirty laundry from the hamper, and discovered with complete horror that its contents consisted almost entirely of pajama-like lounging-around-the-house clothes, and it occurred to me that I have only left the house a few times in the last four days. I'm not even entirely sure what season it is outside. Just today, I roused myself at the crack of noon to walk to the store for some provisions, and put on my favorite green sweater (the one with the hole in the elbow that people insist on pointing out to me, because they assume I must not know the hole is there, since I am wearing it in public, and then I have to be polite and not make things more complicated by telling them the hole has been there since 1998) and I even put on Uggs, but then I opened my front door and was smacked in the face by a sunny, 78-degree day. Apparently it's been warm and sunny for a week now. I wouldn't know, you see, because I haven't been out of my house much.

I have been lazy. Sloth-like. I'm pretty sure I've been committing at least two of the seven deadly sins. After spending the last year working on a new show, meeting the man of my dreams, and planning a wedding with said man, I guess I just needed to do nothing for a few days. Plus, I'm leaving for a quick trip to Colombia in a couple days (mmm... carne asada! arroz con pollo! and fountains of coffee and rum!) so this was a precious week to do nothing.

And I went all the way. Last night I watched Mama Mia!, and then I watched the deleted scenes, and then the director's commentary. I didn't even like the movie that much. And just now, I read an entire play-by-play of Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston's careful avoidance of each other at the Oscars.

Yeah. It's that bad. So, I put down the magazine and baked you a cake!




I just happened to have some over-ripe bananas, and some leftover chocolate from the chocolat chaud, and some walnuts that were begging to be used, and since you have been so nice to me with comments and messages (thanks mom!), I thought the least I could do was make you something sweet. So I decided on a Banana Chocolate Walnut cake, because I know how much you love bananas and chocolate together.




Even the dogs were excited about this cake.



(Paul took that picture, and I love it. The dogs have been on my mind a lot the last few days, because Chicago, the one with the adorable face in the background, hasn't been feeling so swell. Shame she can't eat chocolate, might cheer her up.)



With it's crumbly walnut, cinnamon and chocolate topping that melted on my fingers and transferred to my camera as I tried to take pictures for you, this cake is so gooey and delicious that I must stay in my pajamas and devour the entire thing over the next two days. Now, if I were you, I would add more banana to this recipe. I always tend to feel like there's never enough banana in banana-based baked goods. I know you feel the same, because we are kindred spirits. The recipe calls for 1 1/4 cups, but I would encourage you to be bold and mash up at least an extra 1/2 a cup.

(On a side note, my husband and I bonded over a book about bananas. It's a fascinating read, if you like that kind of thing, and it would go very nicely with this cake. So would a glass of cold milk.)

So, put on your pajamas and enjoy your cake. You deserve it, after all your hard work.


Chocolate Banana Walnut Cake
Adapted from Gourmet

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda

1 stick unsalted butter, softened, plus 2 tablespoons, melted and cooled
1 cup sugar, divided
2 large eggs
1 1/4 cups mashed very ripe bananas (I recommend more)
2/3 cup plain whole-milk yogurt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 (3 1/2- to 4-oz) bar 70%-cacao bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
1 cup walnuts (3 oz), toasted, cooled, and coarsely chopped
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 375°F with rack in middle.

Butter a 9-inch square cake pan.

Roast walnuts on a cookie sheet for 6-8 minutes. Remove from oven and cool, then chop coarsely.

Stir together flour, baking soda, and salt. Beat together softened butter (1 stick) and 3/4 cup sugar in a medium bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy, then beat in eggs 1 at a time until blended. Beat in bananas, yogurt, and vanilla (mixture will look curdled).

With mixer at low speed, add flour mixture and mix until just incorporated.

Toss together chocolate, nuts, cinnamon, melted butter, and remaining 1/4 cup sugar in a small bowl. Spread half of banana batter in cake pan and sprinkle with half of chocolate mixture. Spread remaining batter evenly over filling and sprinkle remaining chocolate mixture on top.

Bake until cake is golden and a wooden pick inserted in center of cake comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool cake in pan on a rack 30 minutes, then turn out onto rack and cool completely, right side up.

Eat in your pajamas while watching something cool and frothy on TV.

Recapturing a memory: A tale of two tarts

In a lifetime, there are only a handful of memories that we carry with us in their entirety. Most memories are like the collage I had on my high school trapper keeper: snippets of words and images that don't really add up to anything meaningful. But I have a few precious memories that are whole and complete, and which I can actually play in my head like a technicolor movie.

These rare memories, it happens, usually involve food.

Last August, in Paris, I had my first real baguette. I mean, my first REAL baguette. Within a few blocks of the apartment I'd rented in the Latin Quarter were literally dozens of boulangeries, each with gorgeous breads on display in their window. But one shop, Eric Kayser's just off the main street, had a line that stretched out its door from the time it opened, until they were all sold out. So, finally, after I'd practiced my pointing and "sil vous plait" in less popular shops, I got up the courage to get in line.

(That's me, standing with the celery bouquet in my arms like I'd won some sort of vegetable-themed pageant.)

When I finally reached the front, I pointed shyly to a modest baguette, handed the patient french girl all the wrong coins, fumbled for the right ones, and was eventually handed a warm baguette wrapped in wax paper.

I knew. Right then, I knew.

Back out on the street, I ripped a piece from the baguette, the crisp crust caving in to a warm, chewy center, which I pulled at, almost like taffy. I took a bite.

And another. And another. And another, somehow growing hungrier with each swallow.

I went back every day. I stayed up at night, plotting ways to convince my then-fiance that we must walk east, by the magic bread shop, even though the museum we were going to was west of us. Every time I had that warm baguette in my hand, I turned into a carnal creature, and when I'd undress at the end of the day, I'd find crumbs in my bra, like evidence from a secret affair.

This is what that bread did to me:



No shame. No self-control. No awareness of the world around me. Here I am at Place de Vosges, eating my lunch of warm bread smeared with butter, while my future husband sat helplessly next to me. It was a bread-induced tunnel vision: just me, and that modest little flute of crunchy, tender, chewy perfection. It was a lot like being in love, or -- more accurately -- in lust.

I remember every single detail about that bread, and each of the times that I ate it. I know that as long as I live, I will remember every moment and every detail of those days. It's one of my favorite memories.

So, I can't help but want to recreate it somehow, even just a little bit. Which leads us to a recipe from Eric Kayser for a savory tart. (And yes, I know I look rather like a tart in that photo above. I was, in fact, inclined to place a "censored" bar over the cleavage, but, for the sake of complete disclosure, decided that you should know the truth about what that bread did to me.)

Eric Kayser, master french bread maker, published a cookbook of tarts, which my now-husband was brave enough to give me. Greedily hoping to recapture just a tiny piece of that glorious memory by making a distant cousin of the Kayser baguette, I decided to make the Three-Colored Pepper and Smoked Ham Tart, following the detailed instructions for Kayser's crust. I was careful not to knead the dough too much, and followed every word of labor-intensive advice, even making the pastry the night before, as instructed. As I rolled out the herbed dough on my counter, I conjured that first bite of bread I had, hoping it would pass through my rolling pin and into the dough like some kind of culinary osmosis.




The finished tart was, well, lovely. It was smokey and infused with herbs and the crust was not too dense or too flaky. But as I ate the results of my meager attempt to recreate Kayser's brilliance, I couldn't help but find my thoughts drifting away from the meal in front of me, and toward new visions of bread. In fact, instead of being captivated by the tart, I planned tonight's dinner in my head: I'll use the leftover roasted peppers to layer on top of sliced, crusty bread and melted sharp cheddar cheese, with a glass of French Pinot Noir.

Alas, the tart did recapture the essence of what I felt in France last summer. But you never know. Perhaps tonight, with enough wine and enough wishing, dinner will provide just a glimmer -- just a single, bra-captured crumb -- of that bread I had in Paris.


Three-Colored Pepper and Smoked Ham Tart
Adapted from Eric Kayser

1 pound savory pie pastry (see recipe below)
5 large eggs
1 cup heavy cream
1 cup whole milk
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
½ pound smoked ham, finely chopped
2 red bell peppers
2 yellow bell peppers
2 green bell peppers
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste


One day ahead, make pastry and filling.

For Crust:

2 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
2 tablespoons Herbes de Provence (or thyme, rosemary, oregano and marjoram)
½ cup unsalted butter, soften and diced into ½-inch cubes
¼ cup cold tap water

Sift the flour together with the salt into a mixing bowl through a fine sieve. Add herbs. Make a well in the center of the flour and add diced butter. Mix it together with your finger tips.

Again, use your fingers to make a well in the mixture. Pour in ¼-cup water. (Depending on your flour or just the color of the shoes you’re wearing, you might need a tad bit more water. Use your beautifully-honed judgment.) Knead the dough with your fingertips until it forms into a ball.

Lightly sprinkle a little flour on the working surface and flatten the dough with the palm of your hand. Reshape into a ball. Repeat the process once more. Cover the ball of dough with plastic wrap.

Chill overnight.

Prepare the filling:

In a mixing bowl, beat the eggs with the cream and milk. Stir in the garlic and smoked ham. Season with salt and pepper. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

The following day…

Remove dough from the refrigerator and leave at room temperature for about 15 minutes. Lightly dust rolling pin with flour and roll out the dough to a size slightly larger than your tart pan.

Butter tart pan, and line pan with dough, laying it gently in the pan. Lift the edge up with one hand while pressing lightly with the fingertips of the other hand to fit the dough into the bottom and against the sides of the pan. Allow the excess to hang over the edge, and refrigerate for an hour, to allow for shrinking.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Broil the bell peppers, whole, in the oven for 30 minutes. Peel them, remove the seeds, and cut them into strips. Lower the oven temperature to 350.

Remove the crust from the refrigerator 15 minutes prior to baking. Trim the excess dough: Cut the overhang with a small, sharp knife, holding it at the edge of the pan, and turning the pan while holding the knife still.

Pre-bake the dough. Lightly prick the shell all over using a fork. Place a sheet of parchment or waxed paper over the shell. Cover the paper evenly with dried beans or lentils so the pastry does not rise.

Bake for 20 minutes.

Remove from oven and let rest 15 minutes. Then pour the mixture with the chopped ham into the crust and bake for 25-30 minutes at 350.

Arrange the bell pepper slices over the cooked tart in any such was as might trigger your favorite memory.

Chocolat Chaud

I miss my mommy. Not for any particular reason that I can think of; I feel saturated with good life right now, my heart isn't heavy or sick. I just miss her. I was trying to think of an excuse to call her, searching for some reason I could give her that would produce that sympathetic, comforting tone she gets when she knows I need it, and I couldn't think of a single thing.

It's times like this we need chocolate. Hot chocolate.




Growing up, my parents didn't allow much processed food in our cupboards. Which is not to say our cupboards weren't well-stocked - they were. My parents were passionate about good food. But if you wanted a snack - some cookies, or tortilla chips, or hot chocolate - you had to make it yourself. From scratch.

There was nothing didactic about my parents and their views on food, they simply preferred we eat non-processed, whole foods. And I never thought anything of it. If I wanted hot chocolate, instead of adding hot water to a packet of Nestle, I would pull out the unsweetened cocoa powder and some sugar and milk. And voila! Within minutes I had a steaming cup of chalky, bitter, gritty hot chocolate, complete with that unnerving layer of skin that formed on the top of the milk and seemed to catch the undissolved clumps of unsweetened cocoa.


In France, the hot chocolate (or chocolat chaud) bears no resemblance to the watery instant packets we find so much comfort in. Their chocolate is thick, frothy, rich, tastes bitter on the sides of your tongue and packs a punch that can be a little bit scary the first time you try it. But then, the second sip... and the third... it's pure melted magic, not unlike mom's comforting voice.


There are many varying thoughts on the perfect chocolat chaud -- bittersweet chocolate vs. cocoa powder, cream vs. milk, and if water should be added. The recipe I've used today covers all the bases, combining a full bar of bittersweet dark chocolate containing 70% cocoa, with a small amount of cocoa powder, and milk that has been diluted just a tad so that the warm chocolate glides down your throat and into your mom-missing belly.



Part of what makes this hot chocolate so much better than the hot chocolate of my childhood (other than technique) is the quality of ingredients. I'm sure I was using stale cocoa powder and granulated sugar in non fat milk. Sacrebleu! Good cocoa powder makes all the difference, the way it smells deep and earthy, almost like roasted almonds. The chocolate bar adds the silkiness, as well as a lot of the fun in making the recipe...


Using a serrated knife (I used a tomato knife, because the teeth on it are wider apart and it worked like a dream), run the blade down the edge of the chocolate bar, shaving off thin slices. The chocolate falls off in the most delightful curls, and produces a thrill similar to the one you get when you curl ribbon or shuffle cards. And it makes the happiest little mound of chocolate curls, it's almost too pretty to eat.



Almost.

But what makes this hot chocolate a worthy understudy for mom is the froth.


It's a chocolate cloud on your tongue, and it softens the stun of the chocolate that follows. Amazing. Yields six servings, or four if the drinkers are missing their moms.




Chocolate Chaud
From Pierre Herme

2 1/4 cup whole milk
1/4 cup filtered water
1/4 cup (generous) superfine granulated sugar
1 31/2 oz bar dark chocolate bittersweet chocolate (70% cocoa),
finely sliced with a serrated knife
1/4 cup good quality cocoa powder (Valrhona is good), loosely packed

In a 2-quart saucepan, stir together milk, water and sugar. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Add chopped chocolate and cocoa powder and bring to a boil again, whisking until the chocolate and cocoa are dissolved. Reduce heat to very low, and whisk until mixture has thickened a bit.

Using an immersion mixer, blend for 5 minutes, until thick and foamy. (Alternately, you can whirl the mixture in a standard blender for 2 minutes.)

Honk if you're hungry

I very recently returned to Los Angeles from my honeymoon in Maui. So recently, in fact, that I'm still on Hawaii time and can't seem to wake up before ten. That's the excuse, anyway.

Now, Hawaii isn't necessarily known for its groundbreaking cuisine. This is, after all, a place where you will find spam commonly offered on menus, especially as a breakfast meat option. They also eat poi, which is a paste made from mashed taro root, and kind of tastes like, well, paste.




When I tasted poi, I thought I was misunderstanding its use and immediately went home to research how it's intended to be eaten. Do you spread it on something? Is it like peanut butter, or humus? Surely you are supposed to add sugar or fruit or salt, or maybe even spam? My google search informed me that there are many devotees to this stuff, but, alas, it is what it is: a purplish mush that you eat with your fingers, and which, apparently, is an acquired taste. (Which is ironic, since the problem with poi is it seems to have no taste at all.)

Also, there is the plate lunch, the most common local meal, which can be found in strip malls everywhere (paradise is peppered with strip malls) and which universally consists of two mounds of unseasoned white rice, a mound of plain macaroni salad with mayonnaise, and a mound of some kind of meat, often in teriyaki form. It's cheap, and tastes exactly like you'd expect, but not quite as good.

On the other hand, there is the Hawaiian coffee. The glorious coffee. Kona's is best known, but Maui has some amazing beans, too. Medium, not too bitter, with a touch of sweetness. Hawaiian Village Coffee makes their espresso with Maui beans, and it totally made up for the spam and poi. As do the local Maui lagers, especially Bikini Blonde, and Honolua Lager.



And, of course, there are the pineapples and bananas and coconuts, and everything that is made with them. This is what I was in pursuit of.

Because we are white people and were on our honeymoon in Hawaii, we rented a soft-top Jeep.



With this Jeep, we decided to take the Road to Hana, an intensely winding road that takes you past (and sometimes through) waterfalls and all kinds of island-y things. It's that thing that every travel guide book tells you you MUST do... drive the 68-mile Road to Hana to see the magical waterfalls.

What the guidebooks don't tell you is what this road really is: a surreal acid trip full of rainbows and strange sights and smells and people selling food out of their houses. Think Salvador Dali meets Willy Wonka meets James Franco's character in Pineapple Express. Up to two-thousand tourists drive on this remote one-lane road every day, and with no real restaurants to speak of nearby, the handful of residents on this twisted trail have started selling food from their driveways. It's a way of life, and I imagine there aren't a lot of other (legal) ways to make a buck in the middle of a jungle.

The first spot we stopped at was on the North side of the island, and it promised us the Best Banana Bread on the Planet. For miles, we saw bright green, hand-painted signs counting down the miles -- "Julie's Best Banana Bread on the Planet, 2 mi ahead!" Keep in mind, on either side of our jeep's windows was nothing but jungle, lava rock, the occasional rusted Pontiac Grand Prix remains on an impossibly treacherous cliff...



..and banana trees. Which is why we followed the fluorescent signs all the way to this tiny shack in the middle of nowhere.


The banana bread was not the best on the planet, but it was warm and moist and tasted extra banana-y. What they should be advertising is their fresh coconut candy, which was chewy and spicy, and better than the banana bread.

For 12 hours and 68 miles, we drove on this road. Surrounded by tropical paradise, all I could notice were the kindergarten-quality signs at the bottom of people's driveways, inviting tourists up to their house to eat. Signs like "Chinese food Today!" And, "Mahi Mahi Tacos for sale!"

And then we hit pay dirt.




On a blind corner, at who knows which mile marker along this wild ride, we came upon Coconut Glen's Big Dumb Coconut Stand. Pulling into his driveway, we found a pile of wet lumber, a machete placed next to a mound of coconut shells, two dogs in the yard, and a cartoonish sign that spelled "Honk if You're Hungry."

We weren't sure what we'd gotten into. But before we could manage the 9-point turn out of the driveway, Glen came lollying down the driveway, Hawaiian-style: barefoot, shirt unbuttoned, scratching his beard with a smile and offering us "homemade, dairy-free, coconut candy ice cream."

We accepted (because we were in the man's driveway), and he disappeared back into his house while we waited nervously, not knowing what to expect. Eventually, Glen reappeared, making his way down the driveway with two glistening cones: single scoops of God Knows What.

(That's Glen headed to us with those ice cream cones. I'm petting the Sheba the dog.)

"Five dollars a piece," he said.

Remember that scene in Pulp Fiction, in which Uma Thurman orders a $5 milkshake, and Travolta harasses her for it? This, this small scoop of possibly-poisoned, probably not homemade coconut candy ice cream was definitely worth five dollars.

It was creamy, but not thick on the tongue, so it was refreshing. It was slightly pink from the spices on the candy (similar to what we got from Julie at the banana bread stand), and was LOADED with tender chunks of fresh coconut. We (i.e. Paul) paid Glen the $10 and watched as he made his way back toward the house at his island pace, as we licked at our ice cream in bewilderment.

Was this ice cream for real? Was this an elaborate scam, and he was buying gourmet ice cream from a local purveyor and selling it for profit to the white people on their honeymoons who pulled their rental Jeeps into his driveway? Or was that barefoot, shirtless, bearded, Coconut Glen some kind of undiscovered ice cream genius?

Last night, I couldn't stop thinking about that candied coconut ice cream. In a fit of insomnia, I googled "Coconut Glen" and eventually found a semi-professional cooking video that he apparently made with a film student. As it turns out, Coconut Glen, our aleged hippy island drop out, is actually a classically-trained chef who has traveled the world perfecting his craft.

This was a revelation! That ice cream was real! It wasn't a scam, or an accident. Glen is living in the middle of a jungle, making ice cream out of the coconuts that grow in his front yard, and scooping it up to anyone who happens to be hungry enough to honk is or her horn from his driveway.

So now, I'm on a quest. A mission. I must find this Coconut Glen, and get that ice cream recipe. Given that I'm not completely certain there was running water or electricity on that part of the island, chances of email contact seem bleak. But I assure you, faithful reader(s), I will stop at nothing to find Coconut Glen and get that ice cream recipe. Even if I have to drive through 68-miles of waterfalls, spam and poi to get it.

Developing Story...

And so we begin...

Recently, something happened. Actually, a lot of things have happened recently. I married Paul (yes!), I spent two unforgettable weeks in Paris (oui!), I read Julia Child's My Life in France, and I became unemployed. And somehow, the combination of these events seemed to catalyze a desire that has been brewing in me, without foster, possibly since the time I became obsessed with getting the perfect crust on my banana pancakes when I was ten.

And now, after years of enjoying good food, I suddenly want to learn everything about it. Not just from books and the Food Network (although, sometimes from books and the Food Network), but mostly from rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands dirty.

And I want to share it with everyone.

I'm typically a fairly shy person, though I don't always come across that way. I will secretly spend the last hour of a party worrying about how to say goodbye to people so I can leave. But this LOVE of food, and of culinary disasters in the name of discovery, and the way your mood can change because of a few simple/perfect ingredients, and the daily miracle of good food actually making the world a better place... THIS I want to shout out to everyone. Shyness be damned.

So, I'm going to give this a try, and share what I love and what I learn with people who might enjoy it as I do.

Here is what I am conspiring to do...

I want to explore food in intimate and dangerous ways, from the gooey jar of anonymous apricot preserves in my fridge that I am currently smearing on everything I eat, to the black-market raw milk cheese I'm planning on smuggling in from Paris. (Yes, I would break the law for cheese. Details to follow in future posts.) Sometimes there will be recipes, sometimes a review of whatever I ate at a restaurant, sometimes I'll just share whatever food item or ingredient I'm obsessing over.

Food is a conduit for adventure, and it's led me to some of my favorite memories. (Washing a slippery 23-pound, apple cider-brined turkey in my bathtub because of an ill-timed plumbing debacle last Thanksgiving; ordering an oyster shooter at a sushi house with my best friend/savior Patrick after a particularly abominable week, and finding complete escape in a terrifyingly tall shotglass full of oyster chunks, fish ovaries, hot sauce and raw quail egg, which took four FULL gulps and a lot of cold sake to get down.)

I want to learn from trying things, as well as mine information from epicurean experts. My kitchen is now officially a laboratory. And, like Fred Rogers, I will take you around the neighborhood (wherever I may be) to meet the people who know about food -- from cheese shops, to farmers' markets, to meat counters.

Basically, if I read/see/hear/taste/make/step on anything delicious, I'll tell you all about it.

This is me, doing something that I love, and sharing it with other people.

And so we begin.