I wasn't quick enough on the draw to capture the hundreds of gulls that were wheeling and cawing over the grocery parking lot before they swept back out to sea, so I had to settle for another bird: the risotto I whipped up tonight with chicken, onion, garlic, yellow peppers and a touch of chopped pepperoni, for a treble note.
. . . and a bit of bacon, and roasted garlic, and a dollop of cream, and various cheeses, tossed with bisi (sweet green peas) and finished under the broiler: Savory ravioli di pollo al forno.
Perfect for a cool night -- and we've had another spate of them, in the 60s.
(Though the prep and cook time, under an hour, didn't give me enough time to warm up at the stove.)
I've been working on the ultimate recipe for a poached- pear dessert, and though it lacked any Val- entine's-red color, I gave it a quick shot when we got back from dinner with Dwight at Salsa Loca -- just for the two of us, and it maybe took 20 minutes.
Plump up the raisins in rum and orange juice, with a dash of Peychaud's bitters. Poach the pears in simple syrup scented with cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. Plate it all up with a big dollop of mascarpone, and serve on the good china with sterling.
If it had been a dinner-party thing, I would have squiggled the plate with raspberry ribbons and garnished it with mint. But it was just the two of us, and I was missing my squiggler. And the raspberry. And the mint. But it did warm my heart: Robert said it was the best he'd ever tasted. Gotta love an easy date.
Robert let me know about noon Sunday that he was inviting Dwight, Michael and Postal Wendy over for dinner after bingo, and I pretty quickly scoured the fridge and decided that I needn't have a coronary (which Michael narrowly avoided last week).
So I did angel hair with a low-fat grilled-chicken arrabiata sauce, and a quick green salad with balsamic vinaigrette. But for dessert?
I was flummoxed till I noticed the pears in the fruit basket. Halve 'em, core 'em, poach 'em in white wine perfumed with ginger, nutmeg and cinnamon; keep 'em warm on the stovetop and serve with a dollop of mascarpone and a drizzle of berry sauce -- and you've got the perfect finish for a cold winter's night.
I didn't mind that Wendy was a no-show: It just meant chef's privilege for that extra piece of pear.
When the Weather Service tells me a cold front's on the way, I get ready for anti-chill food.
In this case, it was a pot roast -- a beautifully marbled chunk from Fausto's -- that I browned thoroughly, covered in garlic cloves, further blanketed with onions, celery, carrots, little red potatoes, drizzled in red wine and stock, buttoned up tightly and slow-roasted at maybe 225 for several long, savory-smelling hours.
Then very carefully spoon and lift it all out in reverse order into another dish, so you can strain and reduce the liquid and let it all sleep overnight in the fridge (isn't this why they give you long-range weather forecasts?), which makes the liquid a snap to skim before pouring back over everything and slowly reheating.
Sure enough, the cold arrived: It dipped into the 60s this morning. Brrr.
Once you've put all the carb in carbonara, the taste is marvelous, but so are the asso- ciations:
Grating the cheese for dinner, I hauled out the grater Ben had given me for the Kitchen-Aid, and started counting the days till he and Ken get here after Christmas.
And then I raised a glass in a toast: To absent friends.
The old Banana Cafe, down Duval, had four great things going for it:
-- A clever chef (who also owned Mr. Z's, which survives, though Banana has peeled out.)
-- A great roof deck overlooking the street.
-- A good wine list cheap enough to drink.
-- Fantastic grilled meatloaf.
When I first saw it on the menu, I wondered why anyone would want to tamper with a classic. Then I tasted it and realized that refinement is not tampering: The grill adds those Maillard-reaction compounds that taste terrific but will probably contribute, along with so many other delectable things, to my premature demise.
So now I make meatloaf a day ahead, let it rest in the fridge and then slice and grill for more comfort than most food can muster. (And if you want the full Maillard, brush it with some barbecue sauce or ketchup or something else with sugar. It browns, baby.)
I wish this were a scratch-and-sniff picture, so you'd know what I'm talking about.
Because these pots' cool shines belie the heat beneath them, and within, and emerging. And you can't smell the arrabiata sauce simmering on the right, its acid and spice softened a bit by a roast pork reduction, or sense the steam from the pot on the left, ready for cappellini.
As often happens, Robert was on the porch asking me what the hell smelled so good. And it struck me that smell, like taste, relies on direct contact with the molecules of the object in question (a delicious thought when it's an enticing sauce, less so when it's something you've stepped in).
But unlike taste, it allows a distance, savoring from afar. Tonight it's the nose's promise to the tongue, getting ready to be kept, even disguised under stainless steel over blue flame.
So you start out with perfectly low-calorie chicken breasts, sliced thin the long and wide way. Nice low-cal ingredient.
But you turn them into involtini: a slice of prosciutto, a good chunk of cheese, just a hint of pepperoni in the middle because I didn't have any roasted peppers handy, all rolled inside the pounded chicken.
Brown in butter and olive oil, and braise in dry vermouth and chicken stock, with herbs to taste.
Serve with risi e bisi, generously sprinkled with grana.
And damn, if you haven't added some wicked calories.
"Cool" is of course relative, but with all the doors open, and a breeze in the 70s wafting through, I decided it was time to perfume the street. Thus last night's risotto: arborio rice, chicken, asparagus tips, sweet red pepper, caramelized onion, parmesan, broth . . . .
And enough garlic to make a Sicilian blush.
One of my favorite segments on each week's "The Splendid Table" is when a caller describes the con- tents of his or her fridge and Lynne comes up with a great recipe idea to blend everything together. I must have been channeling her today.
The flash hit, and I went to the market for peppers. They were out of regular green bells, but the Cubanitos looked wonderful.
And tasted even better, stuffed with leftovers (chicken parmesan, crumbled hot Italian sausage and provolone, all ground together) and roasted on a bed of leftover rice mixed with leftover pasta sauce, studded with capers.
I know I get obsessed by food sometimes, so if you don't get it, click off.
But it was the con- vergence of Franny thoughts and my mom's pasta machine that made me cook Franny's chicken lasagna for Monday's on-premises bridge.
I have to remember at some point that three eggs and 3 cups of flour yield more pasta than one can deal with readily. But beyond that, and the amounts of bechamel and its thickness, it was a sealed deal.
Poached chicken breasts, cream and chicken-reduction sauce, herbs, Jarlsberg, Parm-Reg, garlic -- makes life worth living . . .
And enough noodles, with a bit of the leftover bechamel and pork with juices from the weekend appetizer, ground and augmented, for tomato-red lasagna to give to my mom to serve for a little party while we're away. It'll be the freshest thing in her freezer.
The bridge bunch sent back clean plates, anyway.
We got an invitation from Kathy and Carl for a red-wine tasting -- apparently something they'd bid high on at a charity thing -- and in accepting offered to bring something edible to the party.
Ken had naturally responded the same way, and both of us got a note back joining two of us for the first course. It was to accompany a Beaujolais.
Robert and I had, of course, been through the onset of the great Gamay promotion years ago. Aside from the waiters doing the down-the-streets dance with bottles of nouveau fresh from across the Atlantic on the third Thursday of November -- marketing, marketing, marketing! -- and the discounts on the restaurant menus, the wine was . . . unexciting.
Still, an assignment is an assignment. I consulted various wine guides on the recommended accompaniments and, in half of them, found the advice to choose a different wine.
Well, the rest suggested at least a few charcuterie go-alongs. So there we were, in Ben and Ken's kitchen, assembling and packing the stuff we plated at the party: Roast pork roulades around cornichons from our pantry, salamis with grainy mustard, dates filled with goat cheese, niçoise olives green and black, radishes, pineapple.
At the tasting, every time the distributor's guy talked about the wines and said "soul," one half of the crowd turned to the other and translated: "soil." (Oh, the terroir a region brings!) But we ate and supped well, however we wrapped our mouths around it.
I got to talk to Jo about her doorbell, Meg about her delicious arancini, Mike and Phyllis about living in Red-state dysturbia, Susan about life, another Mike about his truffles and his road trip to visit Muslim and Hindu communities just to tick destinations off his life list and tick off everyone else . . . . Wonderful place, wonderful people, wonderful wine, wonderful food.
Though I did think about walking a block to buy a bottle instead of driving to another county.
Great minds, almost on the same frequency:
As I walked into the kitchen to whip something up for supper, Robert looked up and said: "How about some scrambled eggs?"
I'd been thinking eggs, too -- but also the tomatoes and sweet pepper that Mom had grown and insisted I bring home, and a few other things I had rattling around in the fridge: some Vidalias near their dotage, some cheeses I'd grated for other meals, a little pepperoni. . . .
How about a quiche, I asked.
Robert shrugged: "Eh. It's still scrambled eggs."
I bought "The Silver Palate Cookbook" years before I met Sheila Lukins, one of the co-authors.
And that was almost 25 years ago, even before I had the chance to peek into the newspaper's test kitchen every day, to see (and taste!) what wonderful recipe was being tested before we published it.
Lukins died last weekend, but what a legacy she leaves behind: That book, written with Julee Rosso, is one of the top 10 best-selling cookbooks of all time. It deserves it -- though, truth be told, I mostly used it for advice on methods and combinations; I thought some of the recipes could be improved. To each, his own taste.
So, as refined and proved by the Holly Hill Test Kitchen, here's my take on her chocolate mousse -- which Robert has said (along with others) rivals the best he's had in France. It serves between 8 and 12, depending on your gluttony quotient. Eat it in good health.
1½ pounds (24 oz.) semisweet chocolate chips
½ c. espresso or very strong coffee
½ c. Grand Marnier or other flavoring *
½ tsp vanilla extract
4 egg yolks
8 egg whites plus a good pinch of salt
1 c. heaviest cream, chilled
¼ c. granulated sugar
Melt chocolate chips in a heavy double-boiler or a copper bowl set over medium-simmering water. Add espresso by dribs, and whisk to incorporate and re-smooth chocolate. Remove from heat, add vanilla and add flavoring by drabs, again whisking vigorously to re-smooth chocolate. Add egg yolks one by one, whisking each till smooth.
Beat egg whites and salt to soft peaks; in another bowl, whip cream and sugar to soft peaks. (You can do these steps, IN THIS ORDER, without cleaning the beaters; if you reverse the order, the fat in the cream left on the beaters will keep the egg whites from reaching their maximum volume.) With a rubber spatula, carefully fold egg whites and cream together. Do not overmix, because each mixing drives out some air, and this finished mousse is quite dense enough, thank you.
With your spatula, blend one-fourth of egg white/cream mixture into chocolate mixture to lighten it. Gently fold the two mixtures together completely. Again, do not overmix. You'll know when the mixing is complete when a good turn through the bottom of the bowl results in no dark-chocolate ribbons.
Pour/scrape the mousse into individual serving cups/bowls or into one large bowl for the table. Cover with airproof wrap and chill an hour or two until set. It'll hold for a day or so, refrigerated.
Serve by itself for a pure chocolate encounter, or garnish with whipped cream and/or fruit, or pass cream/fruit separately.
* You may also use Kahlua, Amaretto, Framboise, Frangelico, creme de menthe or any other chocolate-friendly liqueur. Non-alcoholic hazelnut syrup (Da Vinci Gourmet is a good brand) is also good, but cut the amount to a tablespoon or two, or to taste. Alternatively, try a few drops of tangerine essential oil and garnish with candied citrus peel.
----
For whipped cream to garnish:
1 c. heaviest cream, chilled
¼ c. granulated sugar
(up to 2 tbs liqueur to match mousse flavoring, optional)
Mix well, then whip into soft peaks. Chill bowl and beater for best results.
"Pappare" means to gobble up, in Italian. And pappardelle are my favorite noodles, wide and wonderful.
So when I discovered a classic pasta roller, vintage 1970, in my mom's garage -- complete with original sales ticket for 20 bucks, plus attachments for turning out spaghetti and fettucine, and even making ravioli -- and noticed that it had never been used. . . .
Well, I determined to use it. Simple: flour and egg, a while to rest, and then start cranking to roll and roll and roll and roll.
Then make a sauce: Get pancetta, garlic and pine nuts crispy. Add cream and the best parmesan, coarse-ground black pepper and tiny tomatoes, sage and basil from the garden. Toss it all. Add more cheese. 
Always more cheese.
All you need then is a fork and a mouth: Pappar- delle alla Romana.
Robert took a bite and said the nicest thing: "Velvet!"
My version of the recipe at La Bodeguito del Medio in Havana:
½ lime
6 fresh mint leaves
1 sloppy tablespoon of simple syrup
2 oz. rum
club soda
Ream lime half fully, extracting all juice into a tall cocktail glass, and drop reamed half into glass. Add mint leaves and syrup, and crush mint leaves thoroughly with a muller (you cannot overdo this unless you break the glass; extract as much essence as possible). Add rum. Fill glass with crushed ice and then fill with soda. Mix with a long spoon, and garnish with extra mint.
¡Lo mejor!
Steamy pots and savory smells are the perfect answer to clammy days.
So I harked back to Budapest, and came up with caraway-scented red cabbage and chicken paprikash.
Actually the "sh" is an S with a dot, but we're restricted by English here. Not that I'm an expert in Hungarian -- but one word I do remember is "etterem." It means "restaurant."
I took a stromboli to cocktails with Ben and Ken at Kathy and Carl's place on Saturday, and it disap- peared somehow. So did my chicken satay, though it wasn't as photogenic by far.
Nobody seemed to be embarrassed to take the last pieces -- usually one of the frustrations of a host who wants to clear trays away, but doesn't want to be wasteful.
It's hard to beat ham, salami, pepperoni, roasted peppers and cheese wrapped up in a toasty crust.
But only in Tennessee: As I was ordering up the salami at a deli, a worker yelled over: "You better warn him. There's wine in it." Pronouced "wahn."
"There's wine in it," the woman filling my order solemnly told me. "That's why I've never had it."
I made a quiche lorraine a few weeks back because we had the perfect storm of leftovers sitting around in the fridge: eggs, cream, onion, cheese and bacon. Delish.
So this week when some leftover picadillo got to the use-it-or-lose-it stage, I figured we might try a variation on a theme.
Mexican queso instead of Jarlsberg, and of course that picante mix of beef, onions, garlic, raisins, olives and spices.
I loved it. Robert not so much. I think he's had all the variations on a picadillo theme he can take for a while -- but I sure have the recipe down pat.
