Winter Along the Bay and Patchwork Quilts

When this is how it looks outside, your thoughts turn to hearty food — and that's what I've got on the menu for the rest of the week.

Meanwhile, I wanted to call your attention to a new site that brings together "a patchwork quilt" of women bloggers, 100 BloggingBabes. As it happens, a post from this blog is today's feature.

I like the quilt analogy a lot. One of my first important gifts from Grandma Annie was a 1930s-era Sunbonnet Sue quilt, with lilac as its predominant color. I treasured that quilt for years, until I gave it to my niece Molly on the the day she was baptized. I am a firm believer in passing such gifts along in your lifetime. We are only caretakers, not owners, of family legacies.

I do not have ready access to a photo of the quilt. Instead, I share today one of the reasons we like quilts so much: Cold weather. Every bed in my house has at least one quilt. In winter, sometimes two are piled on. So, yes, they keep us warm and comfortable.

But also, quilts are a way of preserving those odd bits of material and memory and a way of paying forward. We've all heard the saying, "When life gives you scraps, make a quilt." Yes, it may be a bit corny, but it reflects my approach to life and often, to cooking.

Finally, quilts have always represented a way for women to bond. Mémére had a quilting frame (long gone, alas!) set up in her sunny living room and I am told that in the 1930s and 1940s, she and her friends often sat there in the afternoons, making warmth from remnants.

How I wish I could have watched them.

A Warm Salmon and Asparagus Salad for a Cold Night

Although I vowed to experiment with chicken in 2007, I am getting a bit bored already. I've had chicken with pistachios, cashews, capers, tomatoes and red peppers since the beginning of the year.

It's Lent and seafood beckons. Looking for something light, I made my version of Kalyn's Warm Salmon and Asparagus Salad from the fabulous archives at Kalyn's Kitchen.

The recipe calls for smoked paprika, which I did not have. Otherwise, I followed the recipe to the letter, adding my own touches: Roasted red pepper and sautéed almonds.

My friends, this is among the best salads I have ever tasted. Roasted asparagus, which I have made before, has an almost nutty aroma and flavor.

I've been a fan of both salmon and asparagus for a long time, and have made asparagus as a side dish for salmon many times. This trumps anything I have done in the past.

P.S. Thanks again to Kalyn who has helped me out many times, the link should now work.

What's in Your Recipe Box?

Sometimes on these snow-bound nights or weekends, if I don’t have a good novel or biography to read, I pore over my recipe collection.

Once upon a time, it was small enough to fit into a couple of three-ring binders. Now it fills at least half a dozen shoe boxes, roughly one for each of the years I’ve been (a) paying more attention to cooking, or (b) writing about food.

A day or so ago, Tanna over at My Kitchen In Half Cups asked what drew us to make a particular recipe. Indeed, what draws us?

Taste is one reason, of course. Over the years, I have been drawn to anything that combined apples and cheese. I have a fairly impressive collection of these, from Apple-Cheese Salad to Cheddar-Apple-Walnut Bread.

Recipes using pumpkins, cranberries, blueberries and limes are also well represented. So are sun-dried tomatoes and anything laced with thyme or basil.

Then, too, I think the promise of romance play a role. I went through a stage where I saved dinner recipes “for two,” hoping, I guess, to impress someone special with my culinary prowess.

My husband married me anyway. Now I’ve made some progress in the kitchen.

(The romance thing might explain some of the chocolate recipes I’ve got stashed away. Wait, no, chocolate needs no explanation.)

A few months ago, I speculated here that the promise of our potential also drew us to a particular recipe. I might, for example, have a ground beef pocketbook but secretly yearn for filet mignon. So I save that recipe, too.

But the reverse is true, too. For years I saved a recipe for pretzel salad. I never made it, but it drew me because it sounded so plebian, if you will. A Saturday night side dish, maybe. I hope I run across that recipe again some day. I’m no big fan of pretzels, but it still sounds interesting.

What’s in your recipe box? What trends do you see? I’d like to know.

The photo, by the way, is the view from my kitchen door.

Spicy Chicken Breasts With Ratatouille Vegetables in a Roasted Red Pepper Sauce

Winter has finally come to my corner of the Upper Midwest. It hit around 3 a.m. on Sunday morning and has been going full force. Schools are closed, kids are inside and the only sound you hear is the cacophony of snowblowers and the occasional freight train trundling through town. Those of us who are lucky enough to be able to work from home are doing that.

After Blowing Us Out Round One on Sunday, my husband made chili. Hot stuff. I made something similarly spicy cobbled together from what was on hand and in the larder: Chicken Breasts with Ratatouille Vegetables in a Roasted Red Pepper Sauce.

It's a fricassee kind of dish, served with strips of eggplant, peppers and zucchini. Since I'm off carbs for two weeks, I had to make up for that sacrifice with protein and heat.

For the Chicken
3 boneless skinless chicken breasts
1/2 teaspoon ground red pepper
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
dash sel de fleur
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 small yellow onion
1 large clove garlic
1 14.5-ounce can diced tomatoes with roasted red pepper
1/2 cup roasted red peppers from a jar
1/2 cup salt-free chicken broth
1 teaspoon dried thyme

Toss seasonings and chicken in a plastic bag to coat. Then, use a heavy skillet to lightly brown chicken in olive oil. When chicken is barely golden brown, remove it from pan; set aside. Add onion and garlic and brown lightly, adding a little more olive oil, if necessary. Cook for about three minutes. Pour in tomatoes and water. Add red pepper. You may chop this into small pieces, or even mince it. Return the chicken to the skillet and cook for about 30-45 minutes under low heat. Since I was using dried thyme, I added it midway through the cooking process.

I always use a meat thermometer to check chicken prepared this way, or any way, for that matter.

I kept checking the sauce and adding more spices. There is no prescribed amount, really; it's whatever you can tolerate.

For the Vegetables

1 medium eggplant
2 peppers, green and red
1 medium zucchini
2 tablespoons olive oil
sel de fleur

While the chicken was cooking, the vegetables were roasting in a 450-degree oven. These I prepared earlier in the day, working with the eggplant first, cutting it into strips, but not peeling it. I sprinkled it with sel de fleur and let it sit for about an hour to remove water. I almost always use a mix of salt and herbes de Provence (above). The peppers and the zucchini were also cut in strips. I drizzled the vegetables with olive oil before putting them in the oven.

I timed it so the vegetables and chicken were done at the same time. Usually, I get the timing all messed up, and one thing ends up being cold or overcooked.

Having nothing else to do (well, nothing else I had to do), enabled me to get it just right.

Let's hear it for snow days.

Any Martin Scorsese fans out there? We usually watch only the last 90 minutes of the Academy Awards. Last night we stayed up to see if Scorsese would finally get his gold statue. How nice not to be disappointed.

Brussels Sprouts with Shallots, Mushrooms and Thyme

For me there is something immensely pleasurable about preparing a meal as night begins to fall, especially as the clouds gather outside and the wind howls. There is no place I'd rather be than in my own kitchen.

So I was thoroughly enjoying myself Saturday about 6 p.m. as I marinated steak for broiling and sliced tomatoes for a simple side salad with black olives and an herb-peppered chevre.

The long-predicted storm had not arrived (it finally hit at 3 a.m.), and as I chopped and sliced and seasoned I kept an eye on the sky.

I’ve sworn off simple carbohydrates for a while, and thus have forced my husband to do so, too, at least on weekends. Without potatoes, rice or pasta, I’m paying more attention to side dishes. It seemed a while since we’d had Brussels sprouts, and I found a recipe on Epicurious that intrigued me.

As usual, I modified it quite a bit to suit my diet and my time constraints.

Brussels Sprouts with Shallots, Mushrooms and Thyme

For Brussels sprouts
3 lb Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved lengthwise
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 tablespoon minced garlic
dash sel de fleur

For shallots
1/2 lb large shallots (about 6), cut lengthwise
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 tablespoons olive oil

For mushrooms
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 1/4 lb mixed fresh mushrooms
2 teaspoons dried thyme
dash salt
dash freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 425. Trim sprouts, douse with oil, sprinkle with garlic and salt. Toss. Arrange in one layer in a shallow baking pan and place in pre-heated oven for about 20 minutes, checking and turning frequently to ensure even roasting and no burning.

While the Brussels sprouts are roasting, sauté the shallots in oil and butter until they are soft to the touch and are beginning to turn golden brown. Remove from the pan and drain.

Using the same pan, add more butter and the mushrooms, sautéing until the mushrooms turn golden brown. Add the thyme about midway through; season at the end. The whole process takes about 15-20 minutes.

Finally, mix all three ingredients and serve.

Note: The original recipe calls for a white wine glaze. This was a pared-down version: I used Smart Balance in place of butter. I also used olive oil as sparingly as I could.

It was wonderful: Both sweet and herby, the tastes of the early spring woods. We will definitely do Brussels sprouts this way again.

My husband thought the vegetables were so good that he was unbothered by the mess I made of the steak. It was tough and tasteless!

Another Chance to Win and a Secret Ingredient

I realize my little contest was unfairly stacked in favor of anyone who has visited this little corner of Paris. So, I said to myself, why not have another one? I have other regional goodies to give away. So here goes:

A few days back, Glenna over at A Fridge Full of Food asked for my Secret Ingredient.

I took this to mean the one ingredient I think makes a lot of things taste better.

Can you guess what it is? I often add it to baked goods, but not only baked goods. There's a sample of Door County coffee with your name on it if you are the first person to guess. It is, mais naturellement, a French ingredient.

(Pistachios are not the ingredient, but they are something that my husband once ate whenever he consumed this ingredient. An odd combination, let me assure you.)

And by the way, Lydia at The Perfect Pantry has been featuring a Bookworm in the Pantry series on weekends to show what bloggers are reading. This week, part of my list makes an appearance. I like to read as much as I like to eat and prefer to do the two activities simultaneously, so it is a long list.

I have been remisss in mentioning both these blogs lately, and for that I apologize.

Thoughts of a Garden on a Gloomy Day - and a Giveaway

For the past four days, the television weather people have been warning us of a bad storm, but we've yet to see any snow.

In fact, we've had only one snowfall of any consequence, and it was more than a month ago. As a result, it looks more like early April than late February.

Nonetheless, we are stocking up and hunkering down, with a tasty plan for our evening meal, part of which will appear here later today (if all goes well; there have been countless dishes I've made but deemed to disastrous to feature here).

Meanwhile, I have some regional food items to give away, and will happily do so if you can tell me the name of the Paris garden featured above.

I realized the contest is unfairly stacked in favor of those who may have visited this particular area of Paris. I'm sorry for that, but I've got Paris on the brain today. Several of you are planning trips in the weeks ahead or later this year. We're counting down, too, looking forward after this busy time to several weeks of not working.

What? There’s a French Carrot Gene, Too?

In college when I traced my family history back to 17th century France, I read everything I could about the French, the French Canadians and the Franco-Americans, as they were once called. I began to understand myself better; I learned where my fears and my prejudices came from. I learned, for example, that my childhood fear of the werewolf or loup-garou was probably rooted in French-Canadian folklore.

A few years back, when I began to teach myself about French cooking, I started to understand where my culinary preferences came from. It turns out that my affinity for bread, cheese, eggs, pork and mustard was a natural thing. Such predispositions are clearly part of the French genetic code.

Well, that's my theory and I'm sticking with it.

Now I find out there’s a French Carrot Gene, too. This discovery occurred, as these things often do, in a rather circuitous fashion.

Yesterday, I visited Chris Late’s The French Journal. I do this because it’s a fine site for Francophiles, full of information from the culinary to the political, and because it is updated frequently and with erudition and wit.

Chris had the perspicacity to offer a link to this site. How can I resist a blogger with such obvious fine taste?

Well, Chris did it again. He listed some links to several blogs worth visiting again and again, and I will add their links to this site on the weekend, when I have had more sleep and am a bit more lucid and able to do such things.

Meanwhile, I invite you to visit two of these sites. (You'll want to visit the others, too I should add.)

The first is French Virtual Café, an ongoing, on-line conversation between father (Alain) and son (Stephane). A recent post provides ideas for winter dining in Paris, a must if you are going there soon.

The second is Living the Life in Saint-Aignan, the daily musings of ex-pat Ken Broadhurst. A few days ago, Ken did a post on carrots, in which an American acquaintance asserts that the French “put carrots in everything.”

That clears it up for me then. I put carrots in nearly everything. Or I eat them raw.

Now if I could just master the Scarf-Tying Gene.

Note: Don’t forget Biscuit Baking Mix Day is now less than three weeks away on March 15. Stamp out — well, maybe call attention to — blogosphere snobbery and snarkery by making either a down-home or up-market dish that includes this humble ingredient.

How to Stuff an Olive (or Not)

I often grouse about the lack of ingredients available locally so I feel it is my duty to report that we now have an olive and antipasto bar at the local Italian market.

The store has always carried an impressive array of pasta and sauces and olives and all the accoutrements of Italian cooking. Its pizza section is huge, and there's a nice little "gourmet" area that includes the basics of French cooking, too. It has never been difficult to adopt a Mediterranean-style approach to cooking and we have gladly done so.

The Italian market just got better. As soon we heard the olive bar was up, my husband and I hightailed it over there to sample the wares.

What a feast for the eyes as well as the palate: Black Nicoise, green Picholene, jumbo Calamata, medleys and mixes of every color and origin. Olive heaven. I bought a medley with garlic (above) and green olives stuffed with blue cheese.

I had a mixed reaction to the latter. Yes, they are two fabulous flavors, but they seemed at war with one another. Too much salt for one thing. I tried stuffing blue cheese into black olives and did not like that either.

(Stuffing black olives with cream cheese was the chore Grandma Annie gave me before family holiday dinners when I was a child. The taste may be a bit bland, but it's still my favorite. The creaminess of the cheese is a good foil for the saltiness of the olive.)

Up here on the tundra, a new olive bar that provides hints of sunnier climates and more opportunities to create Provencal and Tuscan dishes is something to celebrate in winter.

Lenten Sacrifice, Memere's Candy Jar and Billy Gumbo

Growing up Catholic, we took Lent seriously and were encouraged to give something up. Usually it was candy.

Nowadays that doesn't bother me in the least, but it was a difficult sacrifice for a child. My resolve rarely lasted a week. I'd be fine the first three days, and would feel highly virtuous, a feeling I like more now than I did then.

But within two days of Ash Wednesday, I craved sugar with an intensity that made my teeth chatter, and I usually found some way to sneak red licorice or chocolate into my mouth. (Giving up red meat would have been a far easier sacrifice back then, as I loathed the stuff and resorted to all sorts of ingenious ways of avoiding it.)

The entire family (except my father) was sacrifice-prone for the dreary weeks leading up to Easter. Candy jars would go unfilled until Holy Saturday when no one could wait any longer and the deprivation generally ended.

My father ignored such things, as he ignored religion. But he relished the culinary customs of Catholicism. On Shrove Tuesday, he'd prepare some fatty dish and hum "Jambalaya" under his breath, always deliberately mishearing the lyrics so he could ask, "Who's this Billy Gumbo fellow, anyway?"

During Lent, he'd order lobster and clams and shrimp, having some of it flown in from the East Coast (a huge extravagance in those days). It was for the restaurant, of course, but we enjoyed it, too: Lobster with chive-y butter, clam chowder, oysters, scallops, shrimp - oh my!

For school-day lunches, there were fish sticks and French fries and macaroni-and-cheese.

Today I try to give something up, not for religious reasons (I stopped practicing when I got it right), but because it feels good.

Note: The candy dish belonged to Mémére. I noticed today that it has a few small splashes of red paint on it, same as Annie's pressed glass goblets (Sept. 25, 2006).

Shallots and Chateaubriand

"Why didn't you include some history of Chateaubriand?" asked a reader who does not post comments but happens to sit next to me at work.

"Uh, because I forgot," I said. That's the truth. Ideas and information don't seem to stay too long in my brain these days. Stress overload?

Chateaubriand, like London Broil, is not a cut of meat, according to some sources. It is a way of cooking a thick cut of beef tenderloin. Other sources, like Wikipedia, to which I can never successfully provide a precise link, refer to it as a cut.

Does it matter? I think not. It tastes heavenly.

The dish was reportedly created for Francois René Vicomte de Chateaubriand (1768-1848), a statesman and writer. Born in St. Malo, he grew up in a castle in Normandy. He spent part of the French Revolution in the American Deep South, which ultimately influenced several of his novels. He is considered the father of French Romanticism.

The dish that bears his name may have been created by his chef, Montmireil, according to the Food Reference Website.

Here's what else the Web site says, "Sources differ on the other important details of this recipe. Most say it was originally cut from the thickest part of the beef tenderloin, but several state that it was originally cut from the sirloin. Some say it was one very thick cut of beef, seared on the outside and rare on the inside. It may or may not then have had the seared and charred ends cut off before serving. Others state that the thick steak (filet or sirloin) was cooked between two inferior steaks to enhance its flavor and juiciness. The inferior steaks were cooked until well charred, then discarded."

Another site, O Chef, asserts that Montmireil "placed his master's roast between two other cuts of tenderloin, burnt both the outside meats to a crisp, and threw them away, leaving the Vicomte's portion evenly pink through and through."

I must admit that while my Chateaubriand is never well done, it is rarely as pink as it should be in the middle.

There is some disagreement about how thick a real Chateaubriand must be. When I'm flush, mine is thick. When I buy a cheaper cut, it is not. Why must economic reality interfere with culinary art?

There is apparently some disagreement over the sauce. Was it orginally Bearnaise or something made from white wine and shallots?

That's what I like about my recipe. It offers two sauces.

The traditional side dish is small potatoes, called chateau potatoes. They are cut into small shapes about the size of olives and then browned. Not a purist, I use the smallest potatoes I can find, or I cut larger potatoes in half. Even on my weekends, I do not have the time or patience to carve olive-sized potatoes. Also, the recipes often call for russet potatoes. We prefer Yukon Gold.

Carb watchers know that potatoes are high on the Glycemic Index. Who says you must use them with Chateaubriand? Breaks from tradition are welcome, at least in my kitchen.

I must use shallots in the sauce, however. That is a hard and fast rule for me. I like the cross between onion and garlic taste they offer. Supposedly, they offer cancer-fighting compounds, too, another plus. While I usually roast either small or pearl onions alongside my Chateaubriand, I have used shallots, too, intensifying the shallot taste of this wonderful dish.

Chateaubriand with Herbes de Provence and Cognac-Dijon Mustard Sauce

I was a teenager the first time I watched by father prepare Chateaubriand for two. He explained that it was a very romantic dish so of course, I paid a good deal of attention to its preparation, imagining that some day I would make it for someone I loved.

What fascinated me was that there were really no prescribed vegetables to surround this very tasty tenderloin. My father told me it was a good opportunity to serve seasonal vegetables. If I recall correctly, his was made with small potatoes, onions, carrots and green beans. I have made this with broccoli and Brussels sprouts and would like some day to try it with root vegetables.

I now prepare it at least once a year for my husband. My father's recipe was in his head. Here is mine, adapted from one I found online somewhere years ago.

Chateaubriand Chez Moi

2 pound trimmed tenderloin
2-3 large cloves garlic, slivered
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
4 medium shallots, minced
2 cups beef broth
2 tablespoons grainy Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon dried herbs de Provence
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
freshly-ground pepper

Bearnaise sauce or one package Bearnaise sauce mix

Preheat oven to 450.

Cut 3/4-inch deep slits in the underside of the tenderloin. Fill these with minced garlic. Brush tenderloin with 2 tablespoons olive oil. Heat the third tablespoon along with one tablespoon butter in a heavy skillet. Brown meat on all four sides, using tongs to turn it over so that it browns evenly. This process takes about 4-5 minutes.

Once meat is browned, set it on the top rack of roasting pan (I use the one that came with my oven, for best results.) Surround it with the vegetables you are using and bake for about 30 minutes for medium rare meat.

While the meat is in the oven, place one tablespoon of butter and shallots in the skillet. Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently. Add broth, which will deglaze the pan. Turn up the heat and reduce the liquid by half before adding the Cognac, mustard and herbes de Provence. Whisk into butter. Season with pepper.

Prepare Bearnaise sauce from scratch or according to package directions. I use skim milk and Smart Balance.

Once the Bearnaise sauce is ready, add it to the shallot-Cognac sauce in the skillet and blend, whisking. As the sauce cools it will thicken.

Serve the tenderloin on an oval platter surrounded by vegetables. Cover the entire dish with sauce.

Note It's a good idea to check the vegetables and the meat, every 5 minutes or so, especially if you are including brocolli. Sunday I used pearl onions, Yukon gold potatoes, young green beans, baby carrots and button mushrooms. We like to pair this with Cabernet Sauvignon, something a little oak-y.

I try not to add salt to my Chateaubriad, especially when I used a canned beef broth, which I do when I am pressed for time. I used a Bearnaise mix today. Come and get me, food blog police.

Our Valentine's Day celebration was a bit delayed, but we celebrated twice. Saturday night we enjoyed pomegranate martinis, beef risotto with sage, lobster bisque with saffron and curry, tenderloin with cherry sauce and whipped parsnips, and a heart-shaped flourless chocolate cake with vanilla-raspberry sauce and another bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon at our favorite restaurant.

A much simpler diet awaits us starting tomorrow.

A Belated St. Valentine's Day and a Dish My Father Taught Me to Make

Sadly St. Valentine's Day falls at a time of year that is very busy for me (and for my co-workers).

As a result, when Valetine's Day is on a weekday, my husband and I must postpone our celebration. And we do celebrate, because the day coincides with our first date and his only-slightly romantic proposal. (No, he did not propose on our first date. But I knew.)

In years past, we've had quiet nights at home followed by gala nights out the following weekend. A few years ago, we joined 10 other couples for a dazzling seven-course meal in a room filled with candlelight and white flowers and a swirling disco ball. The Champagne and the ball made me dizzy with excitement.

Another time, we ran into my husband's cousin who was staying at the inn where we were dining. He joined us, and so I enjoyed a fine meal with two handsome men. The three-wine-bottle evening ended with glass of Armagnac.

This year, my husband made ribs for our Valentine's dinner. We've got reservations at one of the local inns again Saturday night. I think lobster bisque is on the menu.

I'll be able to spend long hours in the kitchen on Sunday, preparing a romantic meal for two that my father taught me to make.

I'll send a sampler package of Door County coffees to the first person to guess what that might be!

Hint: It includes pearl onions.

Radishes, Thoughts of Spring and a Light at the End of the Tunnel

I was paging through my photo library when I should have been working and stumbled upon this photo taken seven months ago.

It made me think of sweet, tender late spring mornings, and not surprisingly, the sharp taste of new radishes dipped in cream cheese that has been flavored with green onion or chives.

It's still cold in Wisconsin. But every February, there is a day when I sense within my being an attitude shift. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and I can feel spring on the way. I feel lighter.

In a week or so, the mourning doves will return and begin their early morning cooing from the roof of the old horse barn.

Meanwhile, my gratitute to all those who have posted here in the last few days when I've been too busy to do much Internet travel. You are the best!

Big Plans for Tarte Tatin and a Dash of Reality

I had big plans for this week.

Tarte Tatin, Red Velvet Cupcakes and a heart-shaped cake in my new Williams-Sonoma pan were among them.

But real life — in the form of deadlines and special projects — has intervened. I have no time. What time I do have is spent curled up on the sofa or soaking in a warm tub of bubbles.

I was supposed to — per Glenna of A Fridge Full of Food — share my Secret Ingredient. Now it will have to wait.

Let's just say the Secret Ingredient is Love.

This week, isn't that enough?

The Right Ambience

For our first meal in Paris, my husband and I ordered Croque Madame.

“You did what?” shrieked a well-traveled friend. “That’s like ordering a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich.”

Maybe. But it sure tasted good.

We were in Paris! And it felt like we were in Paris. The restaurant, whose name I have long since forgotten, was warm and glowing inside, with lots of dark wood and red fabric.

For us, it was not simply in Paris but of Paris. I forget all the specifics, but the framed sketches on the wall and the little odds and ends were Parisian. What you expect Paris to be. A bit worn, a little showy. A little like an old madame who still puts on rouge and dangling earrings.

Never mind. It was proof we were finally there. In Paris.

Years earler, on one of our first dates, we ate at a long-gone Chinese restaurant in downtown Madison, Wis. The Golden Dragon? By this time, I was a seasoned Madisonian, but I’d never been to this place. The jade and black wallpaper, the ornate carvings, the odd bits of tacky decorations — it all transported me.

I felt elsewhere. Not home. An interesting — and delightful — feeling to have on one's own stomping grounds. It was unexpected.

Of course, that had a direct relationship to the food I ate. It was good. Really good. I do not recall what it was, exactly — possibly something with shrimp — but I do know I enjoyed it.

And of course, the company had a lot to do with that. Or the memory of it.

We had a similar experience at a Calabash seafood place near Myrtle Beach once. The place was casual and more than a little overdecorated (I am seeing a trend here).

But it was elsewhere and it felt like it.

The challenge for us, on these homebound winter days, is to create someplace new in someplace old. The right dishes, centerpieces, lighting arrangements, scented candles and music have a lot to do with that. They help the food taste better.

To achieve this newness, I have lots of odd bits of glassware, a lot of mismatched pieces that can be arranged and rearranged to create something new. A different palate of colors for a new palate of tastes.

It’s a hit or miss thing. We don’t have an eat-in kitchen, so everything takes place in the dining room. Fortunately, it is a room that lends itself to disguise and the occasional subterfuge.

To be sure, the food takes center stage. But I know I have been successful when the supporting players do their parts.

Five More Things About Me

Those food lovers and photographers extraordinare, Husband and Wife over at My Husband Cooks, tagged me for this meme. I was tagged before but I was certain I could come up with five things to say, especially if they are related to kitchens or to France.

(1) The first time I made brownies, I put peanuts in them. The problem was, I didn't chop the peanuts, so the brownies fell apart. My father, who liked food jokes more than anything, roared at my folly. I never heard the end of "Whole Peanut Brownie" jokes.

(2) When I cannot fall sleep at night, I read anything written by MFK Fisher. She has a writing style that somehow relaxes me. My favorites, of course, are her memories of living in Aix-en-Provence and of visiting other places in Provence. She has written so wonderfully about Le Train Bleu at Paris' Gare de Lyon. I intend to dine there in May.

(3) One of my favorite things to do on Saturdays is go out to lunch, usually at a brew pub sort of place, and then come home and make homemade pizza. My diet relaxes a bit on weekends — I eat a few things that may not be so good for me (in moderation). One of the best Saturdays in my memory was a warm March day a few years ago when we went to a local hamburger bar — you know, the kind that cheers for local high-school teams — for burgers and beer.

(4) My friend Sylvie shares both my passion for food and France. Born in the Province of Quebec, she has also lived in the American southwest. She recently started a travel blog called Queen of Cheap Travel.

(5) I have always collected kitchen things, old utensils, mortar-and-pestle sets, egg cups and garlic jars. Everything I like somehow relates to food and kitchens. I should have read the signs long ago. My career would have been very different.

A 53-year-old Cookbook and an Onion Salad

During my first semester at college, my roommate Vivienne and I talked about food incessantly and prepared food almost as often as we talked about it.

We were trying very hard to become gourmets or at least decent cooks, and we made lots of dishes with rice, mushrooms, leeks and garlic. The tiny Pullman kitchen in our apartment-style dorm got a real workout, and we were constantly scouring local markets for new culinary finds.

I must have come home for the holidays jabbering on and on about cooking because that Christmas Grandma Annie gave me not only the cheese basket I talked about on Feb. 5, but also my first cookbook.

It must have been a last-minute gift, for it was a cookbook culled from her own large collection and it had her name written inside: Mrs. H.J. Doran. This she covered up with a strip of paper that bore my name in capital letters, produced no doubt on her battered Underwood.

It was a first edition of “Betty Crocker’s Good and Easy Cookbook,” a small, handheld cookbook that now sells for up to $75in the online auctions.

By the time Annie gave it to me, many of the recipes were already outdated. But others were classics, and for years this was my only cookbook. I augmented it with a few French cookbooks that I picked up cheap at the used booksellers on Madison’s State Street.

A Meaning Beyond Recipes

I can tell which recipes I used again and again, for those pages are stained, and there I’ve jotted down notes and calorie counts. Among my favorites were Spanish Rice, Chicken-Rice Bake, Miroton of Sea Food, Chili Con Carne, Tuna-Broccoli Casserole, and Peanut Butter Cookies.

Of course, many of the recipes I did not make, believing as I did at the time that great meals come from the heart. I rarely used cookbooks for recipes, only inspiration.

The book must have meant something to me even in my callow youth, because at one point I wrote, “First cookbook, Christmas gift from Grandma” inside the cover.

It means so much more to me now.

It is an historical document of sorts, a primary source for understanding the way people ate in the 1950s, that time of unbridled optimism when convenience foods were viewed as miracles of progress.

The cookbook is also part of my grandmother, for it sat among her own collection for decades, unused, until she thought I needed it.

For more than 25 years, it has been among my equally vast collection of cookbooks and has held a place of honor there. I could not fathom giving it away, even though I have not used it in years.

But I opened it the other night and I don’t think I can accurately describe the wave of something — nostalgia? — that poured over me.

I felt good, I felt comforted, I felt wrapped in love and security.

Perhaps this humble gift was more than a cookbook, I thought. Perhaps it was — it is — part of me in a way other cookbooks, other books even will never be.

A Culinary Epiphany

Great food artfully prepared dazzles me and sweeps me off my feet. It is like seeing the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe for the first time.

Humble dishes nourish my soul in a way nothing else can. They are like an old friend, or a good and long marriage.

Here is one from the book that I think stands up across six decades, with a little tweaking. I lowered the salt and added bacon.

Onion-Roquefort Cheese Salad

1/2 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
3 ounces Roquefort cheese
1/4 cup bacon, cut into small chunks or bits
1/2 teaspoon sugar
dash sel de fleur
dash freshly ground pepper
dash paprika
4 sweet onions, thinly sliced or cubed

Blend all ingredients, save for onion. Pour over onion and chill. Serves six. This would be a great side for hamburgers.

Well Worth Checking Out: For a thoughtful treatise on seasonal food choices, please read the Feb. 1 post at Lucy's Kitchen Notebook.

Also, there are two blogs, one new and one not-so-new, I'd like to call your attention to: (1) Charles at Bi-Coastal Cook, which is new and out of Maryland; and (2) the not-so-new but oh-so-spot-on Molly at My Madeleine, who also writes about taste, memory and experience as well as food (thanks to Terry B of Blue Kitchen for the link. I will be adding these to my blog list later today.

Thanks to Chris L. at The French Journal and to Erika at Tummy Treasure for links and mentions of B-Day and thanks to ChrisB at Ms. Cellania for the link today.

As part of my desire to be kinder and gentler, I vow to be better at thanking people for links.

Bisquick Day Morphs to Biscuit Baking Mix Day

Cold as it is in Wisconsin now, I found the responses to my "Bisquick Day” idea heart warming.

Most bloggers who commented following my Feb. 7 post seemed to think it would be fun, and many remembered Bisquick from their childhoods.

Some expressed concern about trans fats, something I did not think about because I used the low-fat formula, Bisquick Heart Smart.

There are lot of other ready-made mixes out there, all designed for pancakes, waffles and biscuits.

Use whichever you prefer. I plan to try several recipes, using low-fat Bisquick and at least one other mix.

You can even mix your own.

So, with these adjustments, we’ll call the event Biscuit Mix Day. How does that sound?

This really isn’t about Bisquick anyway. It’s about being kind and open and tenderhearted, like being the first one to post a comment on a new food blog to encourage the new blogger.

The food world, I’ve learned, is as brutal as advertising, maybe worse. There is real snobbery here. People who won’t let certain ingredients pass their lips. People who ridicule someone for using a store-bought ingredient.

Well, not here, not on this blog. People who post comments here on a regular basis are very, very warm and kind people. There have only been a few times that I found comments to be a bit rude and, thankfully, those people commented once and then did not return.

It bothers me when I see meanness and pettiness in the food blog world, because I know there is so much goodness here. (Silly me, always the idealist.)

What Biscuit Mix Day is really about is keeping the warm spirit going.

For one thing, it’s fun. Who can resist the idea of making some sort of chi-chi dessert with a workhorse ingredient?

Secondly, it’s about taking something that was part of our childhoods and using it again. Have you ever opened a box that was packed away and found an old sweater, dog-eared book or stuffed animal? Of course you have, so you know what I mean.

Finally, it’s a way of preventing “He/She uses Bisquick, for gosh sake” from becoming the “Your mother wears army boots” epithet of the food world.

Well, OK, maybe we can’t prevent that one. But everyone should be made to feel welcome here.

Biscuit Mix Day is March 15. If you would like to be listed here, let me know by March 10 and I will provide a list of links. If the timing is bad for you, please feel free to post your recipe and photo earlier. Or, we can make some other arrangement.

Will your recipe be up-market or down-home?

Here's how to make your own mix:

9 cups all purpose flour, sifted
1 tablespoon salt
2 cups shortening, a brand that does not need refrigeration
1/3 cups double-action baking powder
1 teaspoons cream of tartar
1/4 cup sugar

Blend ingredients by sifting. Cut in shortening until the mix looks like corn meal. Mix can be stored in a covered container at room temperature for up to six weeks.

Shopping from the Heart: Annie and the Jewel Tea Man

My grandmother always looked forward to visits from the Jewel Tea man, a door-to-door salesman who kept her supplied with everything from tea to dishes.

Jewel was founded in the waning years of the 19th century as a door-to-door venture that sold coffee. By 1902, the firm was called Jewel Tea Co. The business eventually acquired a grocery unit.

Jewel Tea Co seemed to sell everything else, too, from toys to clothing. It was Grandma Annie’s equivalent of television’s home shopping channels. The Jewel Tea man brought the world to Frenchtown.

Many of you collectors will undoubtedly recognize Jewel Tea as the purveyors of the Autumn Leaf china. Yes, Grandma Annie had that line of dishes. They now reside in my mother’s kitchen.

(I do not know where Annie got the three Depression Glass sherbet dishes in the photo. They were among the pie plates and dessert dishes and goblets that became mine when, sadly, the family home was sold after 125 years. The goblets are uneven in size, which suggests they may have been some sort of giveaway or premium and not purchased as a matched set. But, like Annie's Jewel Tea purchases, they are important reminders of her that are still used in my kitchen.)

Annie must have spent a bundle with Jewel Tea, buying gifts for everyone and many, many items for her kitchen. Perhaps the salesman found her an easy mark.

I prefer to think of her as a kind woman who wanted to do kind things for the people she loved.

My father was like that, too. In the later years of his life, he often bought trinkets from people. Was he an easy target or just too soft-hearted to turn someone away?

It matters not one bit to me.

I find, oddly, that my love and respect for my father and maternal grandmother grows and matures the older I get. Their little idiosyncrasies are endearing to me. It seems that they are with me still as I go about my kitchen, trying to perfect a technique or a dish.

A few nights ago, I had a dream that a sheaf of papers was found in Annie's home. Among them were copies of my first food articles, written more than 20 years after Annie's death.

"She's so proud of you," said the couple who bought the house and brought it into its third century.

Somehow, I felt she was.

Beez-qweek? Ooh la la!

“You’re a bit subversive, aren’t you?” said my husband with a twinkle in his eye when I told him about my plan to hold Bisquick Day.

“Who? Moi?” I said in disbelief.

Well, maybe a little subversive. But I’ve got to say it stuck in my craw early in January when a West Coast blogger made a crack about Rachael Ray using Bisquick on another site.

Now, let me say that I am no big fan of Rachael Ray. I don’t even know if she uses Bisquick. But it was a slap in the face to a third blogger and a not-so-nice comment all around.

I don’t like that. I always cheer for the underdog. Don’t mess with the underdog in front of me.

(Let’s get one thing straight about Rachael Ray, too: I might not cook the way she does. Well, I might sometimes. But I would never say EVOO instead of extra-virgin olive oil. I used the term “yum,” but never “yum-o.” I give her credit for teaching people that good-tasting food need not be hard to make. End of subject.)

As for Bisquick, it has saved my derriere more times that I can recall. When I was a very poor college student, holding down several jobs and struggling to pay the rent and go to a Big Ten university, I always kept Bisquick on hand for the days before payday, when I had no money for baguettes or bagels. (Those were my heavy carb-eating days). I made biscuits and that got me through.

My husband makes dumplings with Bisquick so we always have some around. From time to time, I use it, especially for quick desserts.

March 15: Le Jour de Bisquick

In the comments following yesterday’s post, we’ve sort of joked about having Bisquick Day, a day when we make something using this 77-year-old product, photograph it and share the recipe with readers.

I hearby declare March 15 Bisquick Day. Your challenge, fellow bloggers, is to make something either up-market or down-home with Bisquick (or any other pre-made mix, even one you mix yourself).

If you want to participate, e-mail me by March 10 and I will prepare a post on March 15 that offers a link to your sites. Specify which category — up-market or down-home — your recipe falls into. You can share the name of your recipe if you like, or it can be a surprise.

As for moi, I plan to find some way to incorporate Bisquick into a classic French recipe.

Or, maybe I will make something I can stack and tie.

Not Really French, Maybe Not Even Food, But it Worked for Me

A few weeks back, I came down with a bad case of stomach flu.

It crept up, as these things do, in the middle of the night. In my experience, the bug is usually gone by mid afternoon the following day, but this time, I was not so lucky. I called in sick and languished on the sofa all day, devoid of enthusiasm for anything. Around 3 p.m., I dragged myself into the kitchen to make tea, using my Yixing tea set, shown above.

I bought the set a few years ago in April. The sleek jade green teapot and cups were my gift to myself after an especially taxing and stressful winter. I use it for green tea only, this time making green tea with mint. It helped. I think the beauty of the tea set was soothing, too.

But what really made me feel better was supper. When my stomach is upset, I crave French toast, which some say is the American version of the French "pain Perdu," or lost bread. French toast and milk.

So my husband, who is nice about these things, made me French toast. He was tired, after a long day of meetings, and made it from what we had on hand. Which happened to be somehting no self-respecting foodie would admit to eating: Mrs. Karl's Bread.

For the unfamiliar, Mrs. Karl's in its blue-and-white check wrapper, is like Wonder Bread. You get the picture.

My husband and I differ on the issue of bread. I grew up in a household where it was baked regularly, by my father, or his mother. I love baking bread. I love kneading bread. I love the aroma and the taste of freshly baked bread.

I loath most of the stuff for sale at grocery stores.

But on this particular night, the French toast my husband made was the sweetest and most delicious supper I could have eaten. It settled my stomach. It made me feel cared for and loved.

The toast melted in my mouth. The butter was soft and, well, buttery. The syrup was sweet (Mrs. Butterworth, meet Mrs. Karl). I felt better after the first bite. Plus, it tasted like childhood.

Sometimes, the love with which a meal is prepared and served makes the most ordinary food taste good. That is one of the secrets of cooking from the heart, my reoccurring theme this month. (It also helped that I was feeling so lousy.)

When we were kids, mother would make beanburgers at the end of the week. We loved 'em, but as my brother once pointed out, they were probably served because they were cheap and it was the day before payday. Same principle.

(OK, food blog police: Come and get me. Just remember, Tanna, who recently made a delicious-looking onion-cheese bread with Bisquick, and I want kitchen privileges.)

Now, we've all had these meals. Maybe it was a quick bite from a street vendor after a bracing walk in winter. Maybe it was the time you and your best friend (or lover) bought sandwiches and ate them at a park in the middle of town or at the lighthouse. Maybe it was a meal mom cobbled together during hard times. Share?

A Basket, Tomatoes and True Love

My first gifts of food were, not surprisingly, from my maternal grandmother.

I am speaking not of the Lady Baltimore cakes she made for our birthdays, but the first food gift for my home, the one that made me feel like a grownup. It was my first semester away at college, and Grandma Annie gave me a cheese sampler basket, probably from Wisconsin's own Figi's.

A humble gift, to be sure, but one that delighted me and started me on a lifelong passion for baskets. There was also a cookbook that Christmas, but that is for another post.

Recently I weeded down my basket collection to a mere dozen. Of course, the first basket stayed with me. As you can see, I filled it with cherry tomatoes for the photo above.

I will never let go of that basket.

Since I love tomatoes so much — and since Grandma Annie did, too — it is only right that I matched the basket with tomatoes.

On Jan. 30, I reviewed Laura Florand's delightful "Blame it on Paris," a book in which tomatoes (and other salad ingredients) have a minor but essential supporting role.

Let's put it this way: In Laura's book, tomatoes demonstrate the potential to stand between two people in love. Who knew?

But, I have a solution. A variation on a previous theme, you might say.

You can read about it at Laura's blog, starting Tuesday, Feb. 6.

Gingery Pear Crisp with Salted Almond Topping

Tarte Tatin and Apple Clafoutis not withstanding, pears are the fruit I have always associated with a true French kitchen.

When Grandma Annie wanted fruit, she usually chose a juicy pear. Her mother, Mémére, loved them, too. It took me years to develop a taste for pears, but now I've got it.

After reading Christine's original recipe for Roasted Celeriac and D'Anjou Pear Soup, I was craving pears Saturday night. It was too cold to go out, even to the grocery store so, as is my custom, I took stock of leftovers, and uncovered one D'Anjou pear and a trio of Boscs. The latter are best for eating fresh, but they were looking a bit scruffy so it was time to use them. While rummaging through the cupboards, I spied some salted almonds that were about to get old and my newly-purchased jar of candied ginger.

The thought of salted almonds with a hint of buttery sweetness, coupled with juicy pears tempered by ginger galvanized me. Here is my original (I hope) recipe:

Pear-Ginger Crisp with Salted Almond Topping

6 D'Anjou pears, peeled and cut into small chunks
one tablespoon candied ginger, cut into small chunks
1/4 cup Splenda or other sweetener
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup salted almonds, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/2 cold cup unsalted butter or Smart Balance, cut into small pieces
1/3 cup Spenda/Brown Sugar Blend

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Chop the pears and ginger and combine with sweetener, cinnamon and vanilla extract in medium bowl. Toss to ensure each piece is well coated. Set aside.

Chop nuts, and blend with flour, butter and sugar. You may start out with a pastry tool, but I find there is nothing like plunging your hands into the mix until it is coarse and grainy.

Pour the fruit into a greased 8-by-8 inch baking pan. Tamp down. Spread the crust mix evenly over the top; again tamping down. Bake for 45-55 minutes or until crust turns golden brown. Garnish with candied ginger.

Note: The crust smelled so good while I was making it, and I sampled a fair amount before I put the crisp in the oven. I love the mix of sweet and salty.

The flavors here are subtle and delicate. That was my intention. I really did not want any single taste to overpower the others. This would be good with Celestial Seasonings' Pefectly Pear White Tea.

This light dessert passed the Ultimate Taste Test, and I ate it for breakfast with a hunk of low-fat cheddar cheese.

Red Pepper Dressing for Roasted Vegetables

One of my favorite lunch places, the sunny backroom of a bed-and-breakfast inn, offers a roasted vegetable sandwich on panini with red pepper spread. Delectable, but loaded with carbs.

The chef told me how simple it is to make: Vegetables, balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

My husband was making what I call his Not-Very-Chi-Chi Chili, which consists of meat and cans of beans and tomatoes, and simmers for hours. Very high sodium, but very good, in a homespun, Wisconsin-in-winter way.

I was seeking a lighter lunch. What about vegetables and dressing without the panini?

Easy Roasted Vegetables with Red-Pepper Mayo

1 slender eggplant
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 medium zucchini
1 green pepper
1 yellow or red pepper (or both)
1 purple onion
3/4 to 1 cup roasted red peppers, from a jar, puréed
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/2 cup salad dressing
1-2 teaspoons minced onions
Salt and pepper to taste
Dash dried red pepper flakes
Dash Parmesan cheese, grated

Cut the eggplant lengthwise in strips. Soak for one hour in sea salt. Drain and dry the eggplant strips with paper towels.

Cut the zucchini and peppers in strips. Quarter or slice the onion. Place vegetables in a bowl and drizzle with balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil for about an hour.

Pre-heat oven to 400. Arrange vegetables, including eggplant, in a shallow glass baking dish or a parchment-lined cookie sheet. Roast for about 20 minutes, turning frequently.

Meanwhile, purée roasted red peppers. Pour pulp into a small bowl and add mayo and dressing. For a tangier taste, use salad dressing instead of mayo. Kraft's Miracle Whip will do. Blend thoroughly with a hand-held mixer. Stir in the minced onions. Turn up the heat with the red pepper (be heavy handed) and even a dash of cayenne, if you like. Top with a small amount of grated Parmesan cheese. Makes two heaping plates.

I served the cold dressing over the warm vegetables. It was a tasty light lunch; we had the chili for supper.

Note: The addition of about a half cup of cream cheese turns this dressing into a dip for raw vegetables (excellent with cauliflower) or chips. And yes, it passed my Ultimate Taste Test: It is even better the next day.

Chestnut Tagliatelle With Mushroooms and London Broil

I'd never tasted London Broil until my husband, in the early days of our marriage, tossed together a quick meal of it with French fries on the side and deli cole slaw.

The meat was a surprise to me: I thought London Broil was something you made from scratch. Somehow I missed the fact that it can be purchased in a cute little spiral shapes in most meat departments.

London Broil is not a cut of meat, but a way of preparing either flank steak or top round roast. It can be a bit tough, since it's threaded with muscle, so marination is necessary. It is not London at all. In fact, it is a purely American invention, I am told.

You can certainly prepare your own London Broil, of course, and when you do, it looks different than those little meat department packages. But since at our house it's a meal reserved for nights of limited time and energy, we purchase it. I marinate it for several hours in red wine and olive oil with garlic and onion. I spread a bit of crushed garlic on top, along with a very small amount of mustard and some dried herbes de Provençe and stick it under the broiler, turning often. When the meat is finished, I top it with sel de fleur and freshly ground pepper.

One of these days, I will make it instead of buying it and then report back. Maybe during spring break, when I only have my day job to worry about.

Here's what accompanied our London Broil last night: Quick Chestnut Tagliatelle with Mushrooms.

1 small onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, crushed
2/3 cup low-sodium beef stock
8 ounces button and crimini mushrooms, slice or quartered
4 tablespoons red wine
2 teaspoons tomato puree
1 tablespoon low-sodium soy sauce
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
dash sel de fleur
dash freshly ground pepper
8 ounces chest tagliatelle
grated Parmesan cheese

Pour stock into heavy sauce pan. Add onions and garlic and cook until tender, 4-5 minutes. Add the mushrooms, wine, tomato purée and soy sauce. Cook under medium heat for about five minutes. Continue to boil until liquid is reduced by about half. Add chopped herbs, a dash of salt and pepper.

Toss with freshly cooked and drained tagliatelle and top with Parmesan cheese.

Note: The chestnut pasta offers a slightly sweet taste that contrasts nicely with the earthy mushrooms. You could certainly use other pastas.

The dish passed My Ultimate Test: It tasted better the next day.

P.S. Am I the only lazy slug who uses store-bought London Broil? Anybody else want to share techniques or marinades?

Chef James Haller: Cooking From the Heart

Welcome to February!

I like this month because it means we are closer to spring and up here on the Wisconsin tundra, we usually get a few warmer days. February is the month that my husband and I mark the anniversary of our first date and our engagement, which came just before Valentine's Day — by sheer coincidence, not planning.

So I thought I would concentrate on matters of the heart this month. What is cooking, if not a matter of the heart?

I asked Chef James Haller (see Jan. 5 post) to write a guest post to kick off the month. He kindly did so, in his usual graceful style. I have added a link to his site at the left, someting I should have done weeks ago. He is, as you can see, in a class by himself.

Cooking from the Heart
By James Haller

I've always thought that cooking for someone is one of the most loving
things you can do. The nourishment of the food, and the nourishment of
someone knowing they are "being cared for" make it truly a gesture of love.

A few years ago a friend was celebrating a birthday and wanted to have his family for dinner including seven children: the eldest aged six, the youngest age two.

For the birthday cake I made a chocolate Genoise cut into three layers and filled with a lavender mousse. I made a plain white, powdered sugar frosting for the cake. When dinner was over we cleared the table and I filled seven little pastry bags with different colored icing, handed them to the kids and said, "Okay, why don't you all decorate Uncle Jack's cake?" I showed them how to hold and squeeze the bags and with-in minutes the artful decoration was underway. The youngest, the two year old, had to stand on top of the table over the cake to have room. The event lasted for almost a half hour, a very long time to keep kids interested, and when they finished, the cake was truly lovely though I must admit it was a little abstract, a sort of multi-colored, very sweet Jackson Pollack.

But the enjoyment and the effort and the involvement of the kids to make Uncle Jack's cake beautiful was a gesture of love they still talk about.

Cooking has always been a passion for me, even before I ever thought I would become a chef. Part of that passion was a desire to see people enjoy what I had cooked for them. To hear the oohs and ahhs as they smelled the aromas of a wonderful chowder made from wild mushrooms and prosciutto, or a chicken breast stuffed with pears and duck breast in an orange and fig dressing, is the reason cooking continues to make me happy almost forty years since I first walked up to a stove professionally.

My whole approach to cooking has always been instinct, almost what you might think of as design. The dinner is designed with tastes rather than presentation, and although presentation is commendable, I feel the dinner is going into your stomach and not the Louvre. Never repeat an herb during a dinner, use cream only once, either in a soup or an entrée or maybe an
appetizer, don't repeat foodstuffs. Designing each taste so that it compliments the last and sets you up for the next is a constant effort to create a new taste. In the sixteen years I owned Blue Strawbery I never repeated a menu.

So it doesn't matter if you only make hamburgers, creamed chipped beef on
toast or a chateaubriand, this Valentines day set the table, light a couple
of candles, open a bottle of wine that you like, and as you're dishing out
the food lean over and whisper to that wonderful person, "I love cooking for
you."