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Visit my shiny new blog, KitchenCrasher.

On Colors and Caramel

Lately, I've taken to walking the length of the Greenmarket before work, following my feet and my appetite. I love this place for the way it comes together, then disappears from sight, only to unfold again in shifting shapes and colors.

On the rare and joyous occasion that I've got cash in my pocket and an evening to myself, I'll revel in a bin of produce, dreaming of what to cook for dinner. Last week, I was consumed by kale. This week, I covet Brussels sprouts on the stalk.

But regardless of the medium, the method that will always have my heart is roasting. I'll leave vegetables whole, skins and all, and dress them with oil before forgetting about them in a hot, 450 degree oven. Left to their own devices, they'll crisp and soften, caramelizing all the while.

Once rescued from the oven, preferably just before burnt, roasted vegetables require very little embellishment. I'll toss fingerling potatoes with salt and coarsely cracked pepper, broccoli with Parmesan, Brussels sprouts with fish sauce, sugar, garlic, and chile (at most).

Tomorrow, I'll wander through the stalls again, hoping to discover something new to roast.

Finding Solace in Nutella

It all started with the Muay Thai. In a moment of non-clarity, I had signed up to take a beginner's boxing class at Wat with instructor Phil Nurse. My foray into mixed martial arts did not proceed well. It ended, in fact, with a headlock, followed by what one classmate called "360 instructional knees."

Now I know that Oprah says one should not use food as a means to an end. But I needed something to ease the pain and embarrassment, and nothing quite heals like chocolate and a Kitchen Aid on a rainy night. I immediately thought to try the Nutella Swirl Pound Cake featured in last month's Food & Wine Magazine, and it did not fail to comfort.

Lacking the traditional loaf pan, I baked the cake in a 9-inch round pan, which serendipitously yielded a more desirable ratio of crisp-buttery top layer to fluffy interior. And because I didn't want the Nutella to overwhelm, I opted not to use an entire jar as directed, but rather a half cup instead. Lastly, to facilitate Nutella-swirl creation, I warmed the chocolate hazelnut mixture in the microwave for approximately twenty seconds, or until spreadable.

While not necessarily light, the final product had a looser crumb than that of the traditional pound cake we know (and still love). Eaten hot out of the oven, this cake makes an irresistible dessert, a decadent breakfast, and an effective analgesic.

Nutella Swirl Pound Cake

procure.

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
4 large eggs, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 sticks unsalted butter, softened
1 1/4 cups sugar
1/2 cup Nutella, warmed

prepare.

Preheat the oven to 325°. Lightly grease and flour a 9-inch round cake pan, tapping out any excess flour.

In a small bowl, lightly beat the eggs and vanilla with a fork. In a medium bowl, whisk the flour with the baking powder and salt.

In a large bowl, using a handheld mixer, beat the butter with the sugar until fluffy. Gradually beat in the egg mixture until fully incorporated. Add the flour mixture in 3 batches, beating until just incorporated.

Spread one-third of the batter in the prepared pan, then spread half of the Nutella on top. Repeat with another third of the batter and the remaining Nutella. Top with the remaining batter. Lightly swirl the Nutella into the batter with a butter knife. Do not overmix.

Bake the cake for about 1 hour, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Let cake cool before serving, if you have the patience.

Fall

West Forty-third Street (Yellow Cabs) by Joseph O. Holmes

On my ramble through the streets today, I was met by sudden rushes of chill, confirming Manhattan's awakening from summer slumber. These perfect afternoons will soon give way to cruel, cold days, but while they last, I'm hitting the streets and finding inspiration everywhere I look. As autumn unfurls, I'm determined to keep a record of the many things that move me.

It's good to be back.

Experiment: Couscous

what I just ate for dinner.

procure.

1/2 large onion, chopped finely
1 package Israeli couscous
2 cups chicken broth
1 handful pecans
1 package baby spinach leaves
1 handful dried cherries
good olive oil
salt + pepper + garlic powder

prepare.

In a medium saucepan, saute onion in a bit of olive oil until slightly translucent. Stir in couscous and toast until golden brown. Season with salt and pepper. Add chicken broth and simmer, with lid on, for approximately 8-10 minutes.

Meanwhile, toast pecans in a dry pan over medium heat until fragrant and crunchy. Break or cut into smaller pieces; cool and set aside. To pan, add a bit of olive oil and saute spinach until wilted; season with salt, pepper, and garlic powder to taste. Toss in cherries and pecans, stir to combine.

When couscous is tender, stir in spinach-cherry-pecan mixture. To finish, add a bit of good olive oil and season to taste.

partake.

Lovely with some grilled salmon at the end of a long Monday. Serves 1 hungry girl for 4 days.

Table for Two: Bistro 33

On far too many a weekday afternoon, I eat a far too overpriced, underwhelming meal. A sandwich. A salad. A carton of soup. The types of food one grabs, then consumes -- with incredible haste and lack of grace -- in punishable form by the computer.

What luster we indentured servants forfeit with the eaten-in-the-cubicle lunch, we strive to recover in the proper meals we eat with another, with someone. Long a fundamental courtship ritual, the dinner-date provides us with the opportunity to experience, rather than merely consume, our food. On first dates and anniversaries alike, the act of sharing a meal becomes a vehicle for expression, a metaphor for emotion. And for better or for worse, the relationship between food and sentiment becomes particularly apparent on Valentine's Day.

Thus, on the eve of this national holiday dedicated to romantic expression alone, my heart went out to all the (poor) guys pressured to think about what to offer their sweethearts in the way of food, and all the girls wondering (as always) what all of those choices meant. More importantly, perhaps, I pondered whether the theatrics of Valentine's Day inherently undermined the intent of the ritual itself.

Could dinner bear the weight of expectation?

Seeking an answer to the question at hand and eager to escape the love-struck masses, I happily, curiously trekked to Astoria's Bistro 33 with D. What we found was a sepia-hued eatery with aspirations to French-Japanese cuisine, and little desire to encroach upon Manhattan's trendier behemoths. The corner slice of an apartment complex on Ditmars Boulevard, Bistro 33 houses little more than a handful of tables for two, and doesn't mind it a bit. Neither did we.

My initial disappointment at the replacement of the usual menu with a prix-fixe Valentine's Dinner was tempered by the breadth of the offering, a narrative of textures. A simple coat of toasted almonds on slices of raw tuna brought body and warmth to the familiar (albeit welcome) sashimi. Subtle crunch and silk soon gave way to velvet, in the form of lobster macaroni and cheese. While I longed for the kick of cayenne's heat, I could not deny the mild comfort of penne in its cashmere swath of fontina, manchego, mozzarella, and black winter truffles. (We spied a woman across the way exuberantly expressing her desire to "crawl into the pot and stay for a while.") A sushi roll of fried oysters provided a welcome counterpoint with overt crunch, the freshness of scallions, and firm green papaya.

Pan seared scallops might have made a wonderful final course, but left something to be desired. If not for the smear of orange miso beurre blanc that brought some intrigue to the plate, I might have dwelt too long on the salad, an undressed overabundance of cilantro and dill. And while D and I agreeably scooped into the chocolate dessert (who wouldn't?), we were off-put by the grainy texture and unfinished quality of both the brownie and the accompanying espresso stout ice cream.

Despite these shortcomings, I could not help but feel that dinner had not only survived, but was bolstered by the pressures of the day. To the dismay of my little cynic within, Valentine's Day will return every year in all of its heart-shaped, candlelit glory. But at the very least, and at its very best, it encourages us to eat food the way it was meant to be eaten: together, at the table, with nowhere to go but down the path of languid conversation, digestion.

And that's something any cubicle dweller can appreciate.

Confessions

This, quite frankly, terrifies me. I do not know what a blog is, or what it is supposed to be. Those who know me will say that this project of mine won't last, and they have every reason to believe it. I abhor (but, as my dear friend points out, admittedly resign to) Facebook, e-mail, instant messaging. Not until a few months ago did I know how to send a text message. I still refuse to take pictures on my cell phone.

At the root of my reservation lies a certain aversion to speed, the undigested, weightlessness. I am a deeply private person with a penchant for etching words in paper, for crafting sentences just so because they are meant for someone. I am still not sure how I feel about casting these words off into an oblivion of sorts, only to resurface on a distant screen.

So why this blog? Perhaps I write for me, out of selfishness, a desire to reflect quietly upon that cacophony of light and sound that is my life in this city. While I am unsure of many things, I am confident in my fondness -- no, love -- of food, and so I anchor my thoughts to this. As its title suggests, this blog will serve as a space for contemplating the experience of dining and all that I consume. Be forewarned: I eat a lot.

So thank you, dear reader, for your interest in my musings and your patience as I continue to shape digestus. I will try not to take myself too seriously here, as I have a tendency to do.

But I must admit that food is quite the serious matter.