terrific trifle

One of my favorite episodes of "Friends" is the one when Rachel attempts to make a holiday trifle. She spends all day on it (though her perfect hair and makeup show nary a smudge), and proudly describes each layer to anyone who will listen. There are ladyfingers, and cream, and jam, and of course, "beef sauteed with peas and onions," thus exemplifying the perils of cookbook pages stuck together.

My trifle is woefully lacking in savory ingredients, but it was certainly a labor of love spawned by my husband. He saw about 2 seconds of Paula Deen making a fruit trifle on the Food Network and earnestly, adorably "suggested" I make one for our annual Christmas party.

Of course, I had to go completely overboard and make the pound cake and cream from scratch, so the recipe is definitively my own at this point. I believe Paula used raspberry liqueur for hers, but I couldn't resist use creme de cassis to add a geniunely French twist. Plus I have plenty leftover for Kir Royales!!

Christmas Trifle

1/2 recipe whipping cream pound cake*
Double recipe pastry cream
1 pint blueberries
1 pint raspberries
1 cup creme de cassis

Layer ingredients in the following order: cake, liqueur, fruit, cream. Divide ingredients so you have enough for at least two layers, then add a dollop of cream and a few berries to the top.

*Whipping Cream Pound Cake

2 sticks soft butter
3 cups sugar
6 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups flour
1 cup whipping cream

Cream butter and sugar, then add eggs one at a time. Add vanilla and flour, mixing well, then slowly drizzle in cream. Bake in a greased, floured Bundt pan at 325 for 1 hour and 15 minutes.

birthday tart

Twas my precious mom's birthday the day after Thanksgiving, and though the fridge was packed and our bellies rotund, I had to make something sweet and fresh to celebrate. Cake-from-a-box simply wouldn't cut it for my own mother, so I set out to make a strawberry tart worthy of a patisserie.

I used my tried-and-true crust recipe, bought sliced strawberries, then hunted for a solid recipe for pastry cream... that tongue-coating, lip-smacking divinity that is the necessary middle note between the tartness of the berries and the blandness of the crust. This one comes from allrecipes.com, and it's perfectly easy and delicious.

So delicious, in fact, that it'd make a wonderful summer dessert all by itself, or topped with a couple peach slices.

Pastry Cream

2 cups milk
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
6 egg yolks
4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons butter
1 pinch salt

Place the milk, half the sugar and the vanilla in a saucepan over medium heat. Combine the yolks and the remaining sugar in a bowl and whisk until light in color. Add in the flour and the salt, mix to combine.

When the milk just begins to boil, remove from heat. Very slowly dribble the hot milk into the yolk mixture, stirring all the time. When about half of the milk has been added, place all of the yolk mixture into the saucepan over medium heat. Using a spatula or a whisk, mix the pastry cream as it heats, making sure to reach all of the corners of the pan when you stir. Bring the mixture to a boil. Let boil for about 1 minute, stirring constantly.

Remove from heat and add the butter. Strain for a smooth cream. Pour into a bowl and chill.

hairy coat bears

(That's haricot verts in TexFrench...)



Our Thanksgiving dinner this year was quintessentially Randall - there was poetry, there was film discussion, and there was French food. Each chef in the family contributes one dish, and my two sides were an homage to La Rochelle, where my tiny mother was born. I made my favorite mushroom dish EVER (a la bordelaise... for a later post) and marinated haricots verts.

That disgustingly pretentious phrase simply means tiny whole green beans, but, as my dad would say, it is so much more decadently EUROPEAN to stick to the French term! I mashed two recipes together to create this dish, and it's mild, fresh and lightly sweet.. a perfect treatment of an otherwise dull, salty T-day side.

And do not even THINK about dousing them with canned fried onions. Bouef!!

Haricots Verts

1 package frozen tiny whole green beans
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon white wine or tarragon vinegar
Sea salt and pepper
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup toasted almonds

Bring water to a boil and cook the beans for 4 minutes, until crisp but cooked. Meanwhile, whisk together the mustard, wine and spices. Slowly drizzle in the oil, whisking constantly, to create a smooth emulsion. Strain beans and cool, then toss with marinade. Refrigerate for a few hours, then serve with toasted almonds on top.

tarte tatin

There is no greater month than November... it finishes off October's blitzkrieg of business, holds the alluring promise of Christmas, and guarantees an abundance of warm, hearty meals. And what word rolls off the tongue more beautifully? November has the soft, velvet texture of a comfortable idea wrapped in rusty colors and chill mornings.

A crumbly, buttery, decadent French tart seems the perfect way to usher in the autumn nights, and this recipe for Tarte Tatin is scandalously simple. The crust is not a traditional tart crust, but one given to me by a friend's mother that has absitively, posolutely never failed me. The filling is tres riche -- gobs of butter and frosty brown sugar and crisp apples melting together in a cast-iron pan.

This oh-so-French dessert has a delicious little backstory as well: the Tatin sisters, who owned a small cafe in southern France, were renowned for their apple tarts. One day, in a haze of distraction, one of the sisters accidentally poured the filling in before she'd made the crust. Shrugging and grinning, she laid the crust gently over the filling, tucked in the sides, baked it, flopped it out on a plate.. and people were hooked!

Tarte Tatin

Crust
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 cup shortening
6 tablespoons cold water

Sift the flour and salt into a bowl. Cut in the shortening until dough is in pea-sized crumbles. Using a fork, dribble the water over part of the dough, one tablespoon at a time, tossing to mix. Form the dough into a rough ball, lay out onto flour-doused countertop, and pound with the side of your hand, three times horizontally and three times vertically. Roll out, and set aside.

Filling

5 ripe green apples
1 stick butter
1 cup brown sugar

Caramelize apples in sugar and butter in a cast-iron pan, simmering about 10 minutes. Remove from heat. Carefully lay crust over pan, tucking in the sides around the filling. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. When done, allow to cool for 10 minutes, then flip the tart onto a plate. Serve with a splash of cream if you're feeling very French.

les deux salades

The French have a delicious way of throwing together a couple things in a way that ends up being simultaneously effortless and amazing. They do it with their outfits, with their parties, and sometimes, even in their kitchens.

These two salads are perfect for a first course, a light lunch, a snack, a side... they're pretty much awesome any time. They require only a few key ingredients, five minutes, and an accompaniment of good, crusty bread.



Carottes Rapees
(or raped carrots, as we Boones call them)

1 pound carrots
2 shallots
1/2 tablespoon white wine vinegar
pinch of sea salt and sugar
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon sunflower oil

Shred the carrots and shallots in a food processor. Whisk together the rest of the ingredients, slowly drizzling in the oil so it emulsifies nicely. Toss with the salad and leave to stand 30 minutes before serving.



Salade des Concombres

Two cucumbers, cubed
1/2 cup plain yogurt
1 clove garlic, minced
4 mint leaves, thinly sliced
Sea salt

Toss all ingredients together and serve chilled.

the booneburger

Last night, my husband and I drove to the grocery store with empty stomachs and an evening stretched out before us. We wandered around aimlessly, trying to pinpoint what exact dish would hit the spot, and what resulted was the single greatest burger I’ve eaten in my life.

Seriously. I ate two.

Daniel mixed the hamburger meat with bits of uncooked bacon, one egg, salt and pepper, and fixed them on the grill with utter perfection. Then we sandwiched the meat between French bread smeared with Dijon, and one salty slice of Swiss cheese -- a true European amalgam.

But the true revelation came on a whim, with a pile of burgundy onion strings that added juiciness and richness and flavor in a way I never could have predicted. I’ve always wanted to try simmering onions in wine… tres simple, tres elegant… you simply MUST try them for yourself!

Burgundy Onions

Two yellow onions
1/2 cup of Merlot

Halve the onions and very thinly slice them into moon shapes. Cook the onions in olive oil over medium heat for 15 minutes. Slowly add the wine, turn down the heat, and let the onions simmer for another 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

a bit of introspection

This beautiful picture of my great-grandmother, Vae Midgley, and my Nanny has been on my mind lately.

I’m sitting on our back porch, surrounded by glorious, dripping, sopping rain, watching the greens of the grass and leaves melt into one verdant pool and writing for the first time in two months. I feel I’ve drifted away from the wonderful kitchen memories of Vae, which were the impetus for writing this blog in the first place. Something in me seems to have stopped for awhile. I haven’t been cooking or moving my fingers over the keyboard except for to weekly emails and lesson plans. Blech.

Granted, I don’t think anyone’s reading this, but it shouldn’t matter, right? This is a way for me to flex my soul’s muscles and explore my “culinary heritage” (I feel absurd even typing such a saccharine phrase…), and if my family’s the only one reading, it shouldn’t matter a whit.

So I’m back. Full of ideas and ready to start another year of writing and cooking. I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I miss my French side, how very few dishes I have that represent such a big part of my blood, and that’s going to change. I want my kitchen to be as full of the smells of rosemary, wine and bread as it is of butter and onion. Today I bought Food & France, a beautiful cookbook that divides its recipes up by region, and I’m going to make at least one dish from it a week if it kills me.

Vittles is now going to represent both sides of me — the Southern and the French, and you’ll see a few small changes in the next week or so. I want this to be a site where I can celebrate Vae and Nanny as well as Alice Madeleine Angele Moreau (that’s my French grandmother’s name… c’est magnifique, non?).

But it only seemed appropriate to return with a Texan vengeance, with a recipe that is so cherished by my dad’s side of the family it practically glows with a hallowed light. Because no one makes custard pie like the Martin-Randall women. Step aside, Paula Deen; my great-great-grandmother’s recipe is so perfect it cannot be improved upon or altered in any way. It’s one of those beautiful pages in my recipe book that is in my grandmother’s handwriting, with my mom’s notes scrawled on it.

I’ll give it to you exactly as it was written for me… but I’ll warn you, I can’t even dare to just call it plain ole “custard pie.” It’s too close to manna, too sacrosanct of a thing to be taken with anything less than reverence. I pray God’s forgiveness for leaking it outside the family even. Sigh. Amen.



Susan Anis Martin’s Custard Pie

Recipe from Vae Midgley and Susan Anis Martin (Nanny’s mother & grandmother)

1 cup sugar
1 scant cup milk
2 eggs
1 Tablespoon flour
1/2 t. nutmeg
1/2 stick oleo

Beat all together in large bowl. Pour into unbaked pie crust. Bake 10 minutes at 450, lower heat to 325, bake 25 minutes or til done. *Makes 2 pies or 1 deep-dish pie

This will be a big hit with the Doctor. (That’s my Dad!)

farm fresh

Look at that.

Just LOOK at that... all that vivid green, lush leafy beauty... carried in from my modest veggie garden by the armfuls, torn from its long stalks and stuffed into a blender. Can't you see it aching to be made into a salty mixture to toss with pasta or smear onto French bread?

Yes, that blenderful of fresh basil was simply begging to be transformed into pesto. And of course, I obliged.

As is my custom, I didn't measure a thing, and my only real tool was that sturdy blender, a rubber spatula, and my tongue. Pesto is such a rich, decadent thing to eat, I figure it should be a rich, decadent thing to make. Pouring olive oil until it glugs with happiness over the leaves, sprinkling pine nuts by the handful, all while relishing that gorgeous, spicy-sweet scent. A waterfall of salt and another handful of parmesan, and it's done. You could eat it by the spoonful.

And you should.

Fresh Pesto

6-8 cups fresh basil leaves
1 cup or so of pine nuts
Several generous glugs of olive oil
1 cup or so of parmesan cheese
Liberal amounts of salt

Blend all ingredients together until smooth.

in a pickle

The afternoon my Nanny first told me we'd be having squash pickles with lunch, I distinctly remember thinking, "Ew." Daddy Tom had fried up a huge mess of crappie that had been plucked from the lake a couple miles from their house, and along with the usual mac-and-cheese, salad, and bread, Nanny brought out the squash pickles.

I bit into one, and distinctly remember thinking, "Wow, these are light, sweet, crunchy, and delicious and may be better than any normal pickles I've eaten. I simply must obtain the recipe!"

(Okay, I was really thinking along the lines of "yum," but I digress...)

And since my second cousin planted a big bag of homegrown squash in my mom's hands and the yellow jewels ended up in my fridge, I finally had the opportunity to make my very own jar of weird pickles. I wish I had some fried crappie to go along with that, (sigh), but they're pretty awesome all on their own.

Squash Pickles

8 cups squash, sliced
2 cups chopped bell pepper
2 cups chopped onions
1 large jar pimiento

Mix the vegetables and soak in 3 quarts of water and 2/3 cup salt for one hour. Drain and rinse, set aside. Then bring the following to a boil:

3 cups sugar
2 teaspoons celery seed
2 teaspoons mustard seed
2 cups white vinegar

Once the sugar-vinegar mixture is boiling, drop in the vegetables and bring back to a boil for one minute. Remove from heat and pack in jars. Let cool, then refrigerate.

a brantastic welcome

(Please forgive the terrible wordplay in the title...)

My thoughtful mother has always extended her thoughtfulness to those she hardly knows, namely, anyone who moves within a block of her home. When I was little, I remember hearing of a new neighbor, and Mom's immediate reaction was to take out the cookbook and turn to the bran muffin recipe. She'd whip up a dozen or so and we'd carry them down the street.

That's true Southern hospitality, and from a woman who isn't even a born-and-bred Texan!

And now that we have our own beautiful home in a rolling, tree-filled neighborhood, I feel compelled to continue the tradition. A retired couple just moved in on our cul-de-sac, and out came the bran flakes and flour. This recipe is wonderful, very simple and quick, and produces muffins that are just lightly sweet and perfect with your morning coffee. Or a neighbor's.

Bran Muffins

1 1/4 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups bran flakes (all-bran cereal works fine)
1 1/4 cups milk
1 large egg
1/4 cup vegetable oil
Sprinkle of nutmeg

Stir together the first four ingredients and set aside. In a bowl, let the bran flakes sit in the milk for 3 minutes. Pour into a stand mixer and add the egg and oil, mixing well. Add the flour mixture and stir until just combined. Spoon into a greased muffin tin and bake for 20 minutes at 400 degrees.

susan's squash

I made good use of the shockingly sunny produce my mom passed along from my second cousin’s summer garden -- a whole mess of crookneck squash! I fixed them my favorite way, and it’s so simple you could go pick some and have them on a plate in 15 minutes flat.

(It’s a short post for a short recipe. Hope you don’t mind.)

Perfect Squash

Several yellow squash, firm and bright
A shallot
Olive oil
S&P

Thinly slice the shallot and squash. Warm olive oil in a pan, add the veggies and S&P, and sauté for a good 10-12 minutes. Wait till that dark brown crust just touches the edges of the squash… you won’t regret it.

led by our stomachs, part 2

The next morning we drove the hellish, abandoned stretch of earth toward the border and ended up in Terlingua, a desolate place with a single open restaurant and, seemingly, 12 inhabitants, all sitting immobile on the porch of the trading post with cigarettes in hand. We ate at the Ghost Town Café, and Daniel had great chili (as well he should, considering Terlingua hosts the statewide chili cookoff) and I had a good patty melt. The owners watched us carefully for our reactions, and we smiled weakly, mainly because even the air conditioning couldn’t defeat the oppressive heat.



After a long, dry, monotone trip through the Big Bend Nat’l Park (not as cool as you think it’d be…), we left the dusty stretch of West Texas behind us and traveled to the Hill Country, perhaps Texas’s most beautiful body part. Gentle rolls of land swathed in emerald and streams criss-crossing, it’s also home to the great tourist stop of Fredericksburg, which hosted Daniel’s favorite dinner. We ate at Der Lindenbaum, an (obviously) German restaurant on Main Street, and he adored the pepper-topped wiener schnitzel and fuchsia cabbage. I had the traditional schnitzel with potatoes and found it quite yummy.



That ended up being a blessed day, because we happened upon MY favorite restaurant that evening, back near our motel in Kerrville, a tiny, elegant room hovering over the Guadalupe River, which was solidly dark as melted sapphire and just as lovely. The place was called River’s Edge, and I had a Bolognese so spicy it made my annoyance of a cold clear up for one precious hour.



On our last day away, we drove to Blanco for the lavender festival and had lavender lemonade, one of the best drinks I’ve ever had in my life! It was cold and crisp and just kissed with lavender sugar, and I simply must try it soon. Will post recipe, I swear, because how chic would it be to serve lavender lemonade to your next guests?



The final restaurant on our list was the ages-old Bluebonnet Café in Marble Falls. We arrived at 1:45 and had to wait in line to be seated… and there were a LOT of tables. But it was obvious why the place was so packed from the second she set down my plate, shimmering with fried eggs and stacked high with fluffy biscuits. Oh. My. Goodness. I went all out and even got the breakfast plate with chicken fried steak, and I did not regret it.



But the Bluebonnet is known primarily for their pies, and once you catch sight of a slice, you understand completely. The meringue-topped varieties are piled with 6 inches of cloudlike meringue, and the apple pie made me swear off my hatred for apple pie instantly. The real kicker was the peanut butter pie, creamy and eggy and rich and delish. A very sweet ending.

led by our stomachs, part 1

At yesterday’s twilight, we rolled into our driveway, bellies full and legs stiff from an ambitious road trip across our great state (former a republic, lest we forget) centered almost exclusively around food. Where most people would spend time deciding on recreational activities, nice hotels, and cultural fripperies, we spent hours finding quirky restaurants in strange towns. I mean, why else would ANYONE intentionally drive to Amarillo, the un-deodorized armpit of Texas?!

Our first stop was not far away, the Chef Point Café in Watauga, just northeast of Fort Worth. Guy Fieri of “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” had done a piece on this eatery that says it’s a “five-star restaurant in a gas station,” but we found it a bit underwhelming on the quality side. Certainly charming and full of local yokels, the café sports fold-up tables and paper napkins with escargot and scallops on the menu.



I tried the stuffed blackened pork chop, which was actually TOO stuffed with crab, though it swam in a delectable asiago cream sauce. I’d go again, but I’d stick to a cheaper entrée, like the chicken scampi, which was less ambitious and more delicious.



Next was the famed Big Texan Steakhouse in Amarillo, and it’s one of those wonderful places that advertises its 72-oz. steak-eating challenge every few exits for 100 miles outside the city. We had steak, predictably, rolls, potatoes and mac-and-cheese, and it was good and fun, though eating under such a wide variety of dead, stuffed animals was a tad creepy.



For breakfast the next morning, we were the first customers at Biti Pies, a bakery that specializes in itty-bitty pies. (And yes, the primary reason we had to go was my female obsession with all things miniature.) Went to a local coffeehouse to eat them and discovered the best darn chocolate meringue pie I’ve ever eaten. Though the buttermilk, pecan, and coconut cream varieties were just as perfect!


We drove down the flat, crusty expanse of the Panhandle down to the flat, dusty expanse of Odessa for lunch at Rockin’ Q Smokehouse and had pulled pork that just about melted in your mouth. The ranch beans were sweltering with jalapenos but the cole slaw cooled it right off.



On to Marfa, to see the fabulous Prada Marfa and see the alien lights dipping over the horizon (and yes, Scully, we saw them!). We were out so late our only option was a 24-hour diner near our motel in Alpine. Nothing to write home about.

I shall continue relating our culinary adventures on the morrow.

fresh at last!

It has been an atrociously long time since I last cooked or wrote, but you may blame the taxing needs of young Mexican children running about the disorderly charter school where I teach.

The summer has begun with two wonderful things: a huge sigh of relief (anyone who thinks teachers have an absurd amount of time off should spend a single hour in a classroom) and my first harvest from my fecund veggie/herb garden!

A solitary banana pepper, pale and pendulous, hung from a rather spindly green plant, and I watched it devotedly for weeks until it almost fell off in my hand. Then I split it open, cut it into tiny slivers, and spread it on a grilled turkey-and-cheese sandwich. Its flavor was crisp, light, and ever so delicate, and my mouth sang!

Then, a week later, another jewel: a firm jalapeno, ripe and dying to dive into a vat of salsa (as soon as tomatoes are ready). It is now waiting with the shallots and garlic near my stove.

*Sidenote: Tomorrow Daniel and I leave for an extraordinary trip, one governed entirely by food. Many colorful blogs to come.

tipsy carbs

My staunchly Baptist nanny eschews alcohol without a second thought. And yet, she recently gave me a recipe for a dish that includes an ENTIRE CAN OF BEER.

(tsk, tsk, Nanny. I'm e-mailing your Sunday School teacher to alert him to your sinful ways!)

Now, she might insist that a 400-degree oven blasts away any trace of mind-altering substance, but I think we both know she's living large. Pushing the limits. Dangling off a precipice. And all under the guise of "beer bread."

This stuff is quite delicious and extraordinarily easy, though of course, if you prepare it, it means a trip to the liquor store. And in Smith County, where Nanny's from, it means a trip over the county line. (See how devoted she is to this supposedly innocent food?) But it's divinely buttery and redolent of a sweet, yeasty taste that will have you coming back for more.

Non-Alcoholic Beer Bread

3 cups self-rising flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 can beer (we like Shinerbock)

Mix ingredients; it'll be sticky. Spray pan, pour in dough, bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes. Pour 1/4 cup melted butter over top. Bake 15 more minutes. Yummmmmm.

soupe a l'oignon

I’ve been spending some time getting back to my beloved French roots… in the kitchen, at any rate. I’ve been slightly terrified of trying to make my own onion soup -- it’s one of those delicious, hearty French staples that is so classic, and so terribly emblematic of simple, French country cuisine. Hence the terror.

And yet, one unseasonably chilly evening I spilled a quantity of multicolored onions on the counter and got to slicin’. My eyes were pouring by the time I finished, and I had nothing more than a general idea of what to do to make these piquant crescents into a salty, rich soup, but I threw them in a big silver pot, convinced their natural onion goodness would prevail.

It actually worked, too!

Thrown-Together Onion Soup

8-9 onions (yellow, purple and white)
4 cups chicken broth*
4 cups beef broth*
2 cups water
Plenty of S&P
A splash of white wine and Worcestershire

*best if homemade!

Strip, slice and caramelize the onions in a hot pot smooth with olive oil. Pour broth, water and spices over the onions, and bring to a low boil. Simmer for 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Top with gruyere or swiss cheese, and serve with crusty bread.

quel quiche!

So far, our spring break has been packed with eggs, milk, crust, and cheese. Yum! In a span of a scant 5 days, I have made two quiches, both entirely homemade, from the crust to the meaty fillings. And best of all, I’ve made my distinctly non-francophile husband drool and beg for quiches, to the delight of my quarter-French heart.

The fabulous thing about quiche is that not only does it taste stupendous when cooked well, but it’s also a great way to get rid of leftovers. Five days ago, after staring at the tubs of leftovers in our fridge with much consternation, my eyes clapped on a bagful of roast chicken and a bowlful of baked ham from the weekend. Voila! That took care of two of my three favorite quiches: quiche lorraine (ham and swiss) and roast chicken and gouda. (The third, my dear quiche au poireaux, was sadly neglected, as I had no leeks.)

So I’ll divulge these two oh-so-French varieties in the recipes below, but rest assured that you can toss most any vegetable, meat and cheese in a quiche and it will still taste delicious. And feel free to use the prepackaged crust — that little cheat alone makes the entire quiche-prep process a mere 5 minutes.

P.S. Please forgive the hazy amounts listed below… I really measure and cook by feeling more than number. It makes it difficult to nail down recipes.
P.P.S. I know you’re thinking, “Then why do you have a food blog in which you share recipes? Clearly you are too flighty, emotional, and scatterbrained to create trusty recipes.” To this I shall respond: “Who has the food blog? You or me? All right then.”
P.P.P.S. My skills of debate are about as mediocre as my aptitude for precision.

Basic Quiche

1 deep-dish crust
8-9 eggs
Approx. 1 1/2 cups milk (About three hearty glugs)
S&P
A baby sprinkle of nutmeg
Possible fillings: 1 cup each of chopped ham and swiss, 1 1/2 cups sliced leeks, 1/2 cup sautéed onions and 1 1/2 cup cheddar, etcetera

Whisk together the eggs, milk, and spices. Place the fillings in the crust, then pour the egg mixture over the filling. Bake at 350 until the middle is set, about 50 minutes to 1 hour.

violet vegetables

I went to the grocery store in an adventurous mood and left with two tomatillos and three potatoes of an extremely abnormal color. When you clean them, the skin is dark indigo and actually shimmers. When you cut them, the flesh looks streaked with red wine. And when you cook them, ah! They arrive in all their shocking, purple glory.

I sliced, boiled, and sautéed them, then sprinkled them with shredded asiago cheese. Daniel and I spent most of our time at the dinner table trying to pin down the very subtle differences between the violet variety and the all-purpose yellow kind. We decided that they’re strangely creamy and bit softer in flavor.

But the greatest discovery is that these babies would make a beautiful mess of mashed potatoes, and nothing could be more delightful than serving our next dinner guests a pile of purple mush with absolutely no explanation. Imagine the awkward small talk!

chocolatey goodness

Things have been more than a bit crazy in my crazed, attempting-to-get-novel-published mind, so I'll leave you with a rich little tidbit of a recipe. The perfect thing to whet your appetite -- or douse on fruit, bread, cake, peanut butter, fingers, you know, anything.

Ganache

1 cup of good, semisweet chocolate
1/4 to 1/3 cup heavy cream

Melt chocolate over a double boiler (metal bowl over a pan of boiling water), stirring often. Stir in cream. Eat with a spoon.

hippy love

Don't these little jewels just reek of Valentine’s Day cuteness?

My mother thought I was slightly deranged when I asked permission to harvest rose hips from the front garden one rainy day in December. “But they’re pretty,” I said, “and I’ve always wanted to make jam out of them.”

So I ambled on out to the garden, armed with scissors and a wal-mart bag, joined by my intrigued dad and a continual dusting of light rain. (And in case your mind goes kinda fuzzy when I mention rose hips, these are the beautiful, often colorful berries left after the blooms falls off.) We clipped and picked and filled just the bottom of the bag, and despite my father’s considerable doubts, I did in fact glean enough to make a pint of jam.

And make jam I did! With just two cups of perky, coral-colored “berries” and a ton of sugar. They happen to release the most lovely, subtly strawberry-esque fragrance as they cook. The results were less than spectacular, considering I let them boil too long, but I’ve amended the recipe, positive that your results, should you care to dedicate a couple hours to them, will be positively spectacular.

Rose Hip Jam

2 cups rose hips
2 cups sugar
Water

De-stem and clean rose hips with a paring knife, then soak them in about 2 1/2 cups of water for an hour. Boil hips in the same water for 15 minutes to soften them. Remove from heat, strain liquid into another container, and roughly chop the berries. Add them back to the water, stir in the sugar, and set to boil for 12-15 minutes. Remove from heat (even if it seems too liquid!), pour into a jar, and refrigerate.

black beauty

My ardor for cooking is unflagging. It has survived many things… smoke alarms, microscopic galley kitchens, chunky cheesecake, missing ingredients, ill-timed meals… I haven’t substituted salt for sugar yet, but it’s only a matter of time given how scatterbrained and clumsy I tend to be.

But this culinary passion of mine has conquered all disasters, including the truly obnoxious existence of electric stoves with coils. Every apartment (that’s reasonably priced) has them, and I balanced sauté pans on them faithfully for 3 years until becoming a homeowner. Then, prettily housed within a blinding array of strawberry-dotted wallpaper, another kind of electric stove greeted me. A kind that has not been reproduced since the 80s, and for good reason -- the solid, cast-iron plated electric stove.

They take 18 years to heat up and 18 years to cool down. They look hideous. They’re impossible to clean. If they didn’t happen to be immovable, they’d be worse than the loathed coils.

Yet lo and behold! A light shineth in the distance, and that light was a brand-new Frigidaire glass-ceramic stovetop that is flat as a pancake and glossy with promise! Thanks to Conn’s and my husband’s prowess, I am now thrilled to announce that I can plop four frying pans on that baby with nary a wobble or shake.

Sigh. Frigidaire, I love thee! (Ahem… you, too, honey…)

olive oyl

I tasted tapenade for the first time in Paris, smeared on crusty bread and redolent of salt. And every time I’m in the condiment aisle at the grocery store, its blackish sheen, trapped inside a pathetically small bottle, catches my eye. Then the $7 price tag propels my feet onward.

(By the by, tapenade is this divine purée of black olives, capers, olive oil and anchovies that Europeans adore. Like olives and salt had the most delicious baby ever. Too creepy?)

Spurred by a random streak of inventiveness, and my husband’s recent obsession with gin-and-tonic-soaked olives, I bought two cans of olives -- green and black -- but couldn’t find capers or anchovies. C’est la vie. So I drained and chunked the little buggers in a food processor along with a clove of garlic and, voila! Out came a most delicious olive relish that cannot truly call itself tapenade, but makes my mouth just as happy.

It’s fabulous on a baguette, or try it on good bread with salami, ham and provolone and you’ve got a Muffaletta -- one of only two good things that came out of Louisiana. (The other being Harry Connick Jr.)

Mock Tapenade

1 cup green olives, pimiento-stuffed
1 cup black olives
2 cloves garlic

Blend all ingredients well in a food processor.

a fresh start

It may not seem a likely choice for a cold-weather culinary entry, but considering it’s 80 degrees outside and most of the trees are still fully clad in green leaves, iced tea is the ideal drink for a day like this. And it’s such a lovely, crisp thing to swirl in your mouth, to cleanse out all the fatty, rich foods you’ve probably been cramming in your mouth since November, that I just couldn’t resist.

My husband is a great tea-drinker, and when I type “great,” I mean, he puts most big Southern boys to absolute shame. Waiters tend to find him tiresome because he requires refills every ten minutes (not an exaggeration.) Our gallon-sized pitcher is well-worn with use, because he grows through A WHOLE PITCHER OF TEA PER DAY. I kid you not.

This quantity of tea, however, has not dulled his palate at all. Daniel is persnickety about his tea - he wants it lightly sweetened, preferably with Sweet-n-Lo, with a touch of citrus and a subtle-rather-than-strong flavor. Sigh. It took me a whole year to figure out exactly how to craft this fragile balance by the pitcherful (this is the picture of true love). I borrowed from Nanny’s method and tested multiple batches on the man himself until I came up with a foolproof way to make perfect tea. Even I’m hooked now!

Barely Sweet Tea

2 family-size bags Luzianne or Lipton tea
1 small bag of orange-and-spice tea
5 packets of Sweet-n-Lo

Dunk the tea bags in boiling water and let steep for about 4 minutes. Pour the sweetener in the bottom of a gallon-sized pitcher and pour the tea over it to dissolve quickly. Fill the pitcher with cold, clear water, pour over ice, and gulp.