Grill-tastic.

One of the best things about having an actual backyard is the ability to grill with abandon. I really, really miss grilling; it's been almost nine years since I had a grill at my disposal, and, believe me - I feel its absence.

So, of course, I was seriously psyched to get to eat a whole lot of grilled goodies during my trip to Ohio last month. Nick and Louisa are pretty amazing with the grill; Nick's ribs in particular are really. Effing. Good. On this trip, though, we tried to be a bit healthier, and went with slightly less naughty cuts and sauces. We grilled some gorgeous peppers and spring onions one night, to eat alongside...

...this. This is matambre (courtesy of The Gourmet Cookbook), a traditional Argentinian preparation for flank steak. You butterfly the flank steak and fill it with a mixture of breadcrumbs, garlic, parsley, spinach, bacon and carrots, held together with a bit of the rendered bacon fat. Rolling it and tying it for grilling is most definitely a two person job, but once it's ready to go, it's easy to finish.

And super-easy to eat. The meat was seriously flavorful after sitting only an hour or so full of filling; it would probably be even more impressive having sat around for a whole day - which you can totally do. An excellent option for making ahead of time.

Another night, we tried Gourmet's Foolproof Grilled Chicken. It's brined before it's grilled, and once it's cooked, you dip it in a spicy, Asian-inspired vinaigrette made with fish sauce and lime juice. It is, in a word, delicious.

And did I mention...smoky from the grill? Oh yes.

Now that's what I call a vacation.

Gewurtztraminer.

Rosé.

Happiness.

Variations on a theme.

Here in the States, we typically think of gazpacho as a cold, tomato-based soup, usually a bit zingy thanks to the addition of garlic, onion and vinegar. Sometimes it's chunky, sometimes it's smooth, but it's pretty much always tomato-y.

In fact, traditional Spanish gazpacho is a creamy, lush soup made with soaked, stale bread, copious amounts of olive oil (hence the creamy lushness) and flavored with vegetables. Which isn't to say that our interpretation of the soup is wrong or bad; it's just that: an interpretation.

In his Simple to Spectacular cookbook, Jean-Georges Vongerichten spends several pages showing us how varied the interpretations of gazpacho have become. Tomato-melon gazpacho (a twist on the traditional inclusion of cucumber, which is, after all, a member of the melon family), a simple tomato-cucumber-red pepper incarnation, and the most unusual of the bunch: cucumber-coconut gazpacho.

Given my love of cucumbers, I supposed I shouldn't have been shocked by how delicious this soup was, but I admit it took me by surprise. I'd forgotten how rich and complex cooked cucumbers can be, and how delicious they are with fresh herbs, especially mint. And now that they're in glorious season, I'll be making this all the time. I might swap the mint out for some basil next time, and see how I go. Yum.

Cucumber and Coconut Gazpacho
Adapted from Simple to Spectacular by Jean-Georges Vongerichten and Mark Bittman

1 sweet or mild white onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 large cucumbers (or four Kirbies), peeled, seeded and cut into 1-inch chunks
1 tbs. olive oil
1 1/2 cups chicken (or vegetable) stock
1 cup unsweetened coconut milk
3/4 cup mint leaves, whole
Tabasco, to taste
1 tbs. fish sauce
2 tbs. lime juice
Chopped mint (or cilantro, if you prefer) for garnishing the soup
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

In a large, straight-sided skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Once the oil is hot, add the onion and garlic and saute until the onion is slightly softened and the garlic is fragrant. Add the cucumber and sprinkle with a teaspoon or so of salt and a bit of black pepper.

Saute the vegetables for five minutes, then add the stock and cook for five minutes more, until the cucumber starts to turn tender. Add the coconut milk and cook for three more minutes, then add the mint, Tabasco, limes juice and fish sauce.

Remove the soup from the heat and allow to cool slightly. Using an immersion blender, puree the soup until it is very smooth. (Alternately, you can transfer the soup to a blender to puree it; do this in batches, if need be.)

Chill the soup. (If you want to serve it shortly after making it, place the pureed soup in a medium bowl and nestle it in an ice bath - spike the water with a general handful of kosher salt to speed up the process. Stir the soup frequently to aid in cooling it.) Serve garnished with mint or cilantro.

Serves four to six, depending on how hungry you all are.

Marketing, Ohio-style.

Sandusky, Ohio doesn't have a plethora of amazing restaurants (though there are some notable spots, no doubt) or a hopping nightlife, but you know what it does have? Seriously good produce. Louisa and I visited a number of different markets over the course of the week I spent there, and all yielded some good goodies.

At Louisa's perennial favorite, Kramer's Farm Market in Norwalk, we found delicious asparagus, which we promptly seasoned with olive oil, salt and pepper and grilled for dinner.

At the Sandusky farmers' market, held downtown on Fridays and Saturdays, we found sweet cherries, snappy green beans and gorgeous beefsteak tomatoes. We used the latter two in our salade Niçoise.



Last, but not least, the North Union Farmers' Market in Crocker Park. We arrived a little late (prime time seems to be between nine and ten in the morning), but still managed to find some plum, juicy sugar snaps, along with some green onions for grilling.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; the Midwest is, after all, the bread basket of the States. The irony is, of course, that so much of what's produced there is consequently shipped off to the rest of us, or used in processed foods. These three markets, though, are doing their part to share the local bounty with, well, the locals - and that's a damn good thing.

Julia knows best.

It was pretty darn warm - dare I say, hot - while I was in Ohio last week. The last thing we wanted to do was turn on the oven or use the stove too frequently. The solution, of course, was a composed salad. But not just any composed salad - oh, no. We decided to make an old favorite: Julia Child's salade Niçoise from Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Chances are that at one point or another you've all had a version of the Niçoise salad, most likely at a restaurant, and possibly updated with, say, seared tuna. Chances also are that the version you had wasn't half as good as Julia's classic recipe. It's just a salad, sure, but she knows exactly how to make the very best of each and every ingredient.

Green beans are blanched to bring out their sweetness while retaining their snap; farm-fresh eggs are hard-boiled, showing off their impossibly golden yolks; potatoes are boiled and soaked in wine, chicken stock, and vinaigrette while still warm; perfectly ripe tomatoes and simply sliced and sprinkled with salt and pepper. The whole kit and kaboodle is topped with an impossibly generous shower of chopped herbs. (We used a combination of chives, parsley, mint, tarragon and basil.)

The result is a meal for four that surpasses all of your typical salad expectations. It's a meal worthy of summer in the south of France, one that should absolutely be accompanied by a crisp rose (Give De Loach's superlative 2007 O.F.S. a go, why don't you?) and followed by a dessert of strawberries, eaten whole, warm from the sun.

Puppy love.

My friends Louisa and Nick have two of the cutest dogs on the planet. Oscar and Hunter have vastly different personalities (Oscar is a manipulative little cuddle-stealer, while Hunter is a quiet, loyal charmer), but they are equally cute. Each in his own way, of course.
I invite you to share the cuteness with me!

First up, the will-do-anything-to-have-his-own-way rascal, Oscar!

And this is Hunter, who is sweet, smart and an all-around good guy. He also has seriously impressive eyebrows.

So freakin' cute, right?

Ohio-bound.

Good morning, all! It's a bit early for me to be posting, I know. I'm writing this from the American Airlines terminal at LaGuardia, where I'm waiting to board the teeny regional jet that will whisk me away on my annual pilgrimage to Sandusky, Ohio!

No, I'm not going to pay homage to the roller coasters at Cedar Point; I'm going to visit my friends Louisa and Nick! Many of you are already familiar with our culinary pursuits, be they the pork belly-off, homemade banh mi, or dinner at Per Se (just to name a few). This week promises more of the same, though we are aiming to be healthier than is normal for us during these visits.

Don't worry; I'll see if I can't get them to sneak in a cocktail or two. After all, I'm on vacation!

Omelets by Nick.

There's an art to the perfect omelet, one I have yet to learn. I'm blessed, therefore, that Nick became obsessed with perfecting said art a couple of years ago. His touch hasn't worn off, so you can imagine my delight upon entering the kitchen one morning last week to discover him cracking eggs into three separate bowls.


Maybe one day he'll agree to give you all a tutorial, hmmm?

Call me a convert and buy me a bottle of bourbon.

Some of you may remember Nick's excellent cocktailing skills from last summer's posts. Well, let me tell you - he outdid himself this time.

On the night I arrived, Nick made us each a bourbon sidecar. Now, you all know what a traditionalist I am when it comes to cocktails - I like gin in my martinis, and a martini without vermouth is just a shot of cold gin. That said, I have been converted completely when it comes to the swap of bourbon for the original cognac in a sidecar.

I like brandy as much as the next girl, but I vastly prefer bourbon's complex smokiness to cognac's smoother flavor. Combined with the sidecar's traditional lemon juice and triple sec (Nick used Cointreau), bourbon becomes the perfect folly for the acid and the sweetness.

And, of course, you can't have a sidecar without a lemon juice and sugarcoated rim. Yum.

L-O-L-A, Lola...

On Thursday night, Nick, Louisa and I piled into Nick's car for the hour-long drive into Cleveland for dinner at one of the city's most beloved restaurants, Michael Symon's Lola. The menu is heavy on the pork and the cured meats, which seemed a good sign.

Lola is on East Fourth Street, an area targeted for revitalization. Walk two blocks in either direction, and you're in a rather dead area of downtown Cleveland - but Fourth Street is alive and bustling, full of people walking, drinking, and eating.

We had reserved three seats at the chef's table, and the hostess seated us graciously (despite our being a few minutes late). The chef's table is an elevated, bar-like spot right next to the open kitchen, with a fantastic view of each and every station - a circumstance which only made it harder to decide what to order. I ordered a gin gimlet and got down to the business of choosing.

For my starter, I ordered the pork belly with coffee, apricot and almonds. While I enjoyed the play of salty and sweet (I do love bacon and fruit together, as you know), I thought the dish could have used a bit more spice (maybe more of the pepper that seemed more of a garnish) and a little more contrast in texture: the pureed apricot sauce was silky and well-made, but didn't do much to offset the soft, fatty texture of the belly.

My main was the far more successful duck with romesco sauce. Romesco is made with nuts (usually almonds or hazelnuts), roasted red pepper and garlic. This version used smoked almonds, which added different twist that went well with the rich duck. Along with haricots verts and a sprinkling of shaved almonds (seemingly a favored garnish at Lola), the duck came with a few charred scallions.

The dish was topped with thinly sliced zucchini that tasted somewhat bland on its own, but worked like alchemy with the duck and sauce to elevate the sauce's garlicky zing. My only complaint here was that there simply wasn't enough of the charred scallion to go with every single bite; I had to ration it out. I ate every last bit of this dish, and it took all my dignity to keep from licking the plate clean.

For dessert, I went for the 6 A.M. special, billed as French toast with maple-bacon ice cream and maple syrup. Quintessentially American in its flavors and playfulness, but still a bit refined, this dish captured the spirit of the restaurant - midwestern ingredients and flavors crossed with techniques imported from the wider world, and all done with a healthy dose of fun.

Banh mi mania.

Once you have terrine and chicken liver pate on your hands, the next logical step is, obviously, to make some banh mi.

If you're one of the unlucky few who has yet to encounter banh mi, let me introduce you to this most delicious of sandwiches. Inspired by the various street sandwiches available in Vietnamese cities, banh mi are a perfect example of the country's fusion of Asian and French flavors. There's no standard, but most banh mi include at least one kind of charcuterie (usually either a rustic pâté or a more spreadable one), some kind of porky filling, fresh herbs, mayonnaise and pickled vegetables - all on a crusty baguette.

We based our homemade version on the recipe from Hot, Sour, Salty, Sweet, and tried to be enterprising with what we already had on hand.

We took our last crock of chicken liver pâté, let it come to room temperature, and mixed in a healthy dose of cinnamon. Next, we sliced some gorgeous Kirby cucumbers, made a quick pickle with daikon and carrot, and followed the cookbook's instructions for a ground pork stir fry for the filling. Finally, we sliced the terrine (one slice each was plenty).

We laid out fresh herbs (mint and cilantro - basil would have been nice, too), dished up some cornichons, and got down to the business of assembling our sandwiches.

Banh mi should be so messy that eating them in front of strangers is a bit embarrassing - and these delivered. Fatty, fragrant, fresh, crunchy, salty, sweet and meaty, they were pretty much the best sandwiches any of the three of us had ever tasted. The sheer act of eating them felt somehow debauched, given all the pork and offal on hand - not to mention the pickles, mayonnaise, and white bread.

And, frankly - we were pretty proud of ourselves for undertaking the effort at all. Banh mi is one of those recipes that require you to make at least three or four other recipes to make the whole thing happen. As Nick pointed out, it was a pretty badass attempt, and a successful one at that.

To drink alongside, we heartily recommend mint juleps - hell, you already have the mint on hand, you know?

The only change I would make next time? The addition of pickled jalapenos. I cannot believe we didn't think of it on the spot. Ah, well - an excuse to do it all over again.

Challenging ourselves usually turns out pretty darn good.

So far, each visit to Nick & Louisa has yielded one culinary challenge. Two years ago, it was brioche. Last year, the pork belly-off. This year, it was terrine.

Louisa bought a terrine ages ago, but hadn't worked up the nerve to tackle the job. Sometimes, though, all you need to get the job done is an extra set of hands. And, as it turns out, terrine is remarkably easy - it just has a few delicate assembly-like tasks mixed in with the cooking.

Terrine comes in many varieties, including seafood, vegetable, and offal. For our first foray, we chose something more traditional and basic, Julia Child's terrine de porc, veau et jambon (pork and veal pate with ham). This recipe looked tackle-able and gave us a chance to try out Louisa's other new and slightly intimidating toy, her Kitchen Aid meat grinder attachment.

Louisa ground the pork and half the veal with the lard (oh, yes, indeed) while I marinated the other half of the veal in a mixture of cognac, allspice, thyme and shallots. That marinade was eventually added to the ground filling, along with some sauteed onion, minced garlic and a port reduction.

While Louisa busied herself with the stuffing, I blanched some bacon, which we needed to line the terrine and seal the pate together. Blanching bacon is just like blanching vegetables: drop the slices into boiling water, cook for a few minutes, then cool in an ice bath to stop the cooking. This is an essential step, since it prevents the bacon from shrinking when you bake the terrine.

Once the bacon was cool, I used it to line the terrine, leaving some overhang to fold over the top. Louisa filled the terrine with alternating layers of the forcemeat, the marinated veal, and some sliced, boiled ham. We placed the lid on, and put the terrine in the oven to bake for about 90 minutes.

Once the terrine was done cooking, it was time to turn it from meatloaf to pâté by compressing it with weight. We cut a piece of carboard to fit snugly into the terrine, then stacked four cans of soup on top. The terrine sat on the counter for the next five hours, squishing itself into the right texture.

Five hours later, we pulled the improvised weights and cardboard away to reveal the juicy exterior of the terrine. Ideally, you would refrigerate the terrine for another few hours, still weighted, to allow the fat in the mixture to firm up a bit and hold things even more closely together - but we had banh mi to make, and couldn't help ourselves. (We did refrigerate the weighted terrine overnight once we'd taken a few slices for dinner.)

The terrine sliced easily, and didn't fall apart, even though it hadn't yet been chilled. Inside the bacon wrappings was a gorgeous interior of tender pork & veal (all the more tender for being home-ground), bits of the marinated veal, the juicy ham, and the slightly boozy and autumnal flavors of the cognac, port and allspice.

The terrine was fantastic on our banh mi (more on those soon), and delicious on its own, served on baguette with a smear of grainy mustard, topped with a cornichon. Well worth the effort, it was more tender and flavorful than any commerical pâté I've tried.

I'd love to try adding some cognac-soaked prunes or some more aggressive seasonings to the mix - one of the cool things about pate is what a great canvas it is for experimentation. After all, the original purpose of charcuterie was to use up scraps of this and that - so why not begin at the beginning and get creative?

A cold supper for a warm evening.

Sunday was kind of a lazy day here in Ohio. We'd eaten a (fantastic) dinner at Nick's cousin's place in Rocky River the night before, which meant we didn't get home until midnight. Factor in an early morning at church (I attend rarely, but the opportunity to sing in the choir was too good to pass up), and we were beat by Sunday afternoon.

Sunday dinner, as a result, was a low-key, improvised meal. Nick grabbed the rose from the fridge, I sliced up some gravlax I'd cured Saturday morning, and Louisa arranged a kickass cheese & charcuterie plate, complete with a crock of the chicken liver pâté we'd made the day before.

Nick sliced some apples and sprinkled them with lemon juice (a stroke of genius), Louisa poured the gravlax's espresso mustard sauce into a little dish, and we got down to the business of eating.

The cheese was, obviously, no work at all, and the pâté and gravlax were barely more than that; seriously, I highly recommend both of these as either starters for a dinner party or as part of a perfect, cold supper.

The curing process turns the gravlax a bright pink (these photos don't do it justice) and takes on the texture and flavor of salty, sweet salmon candy. The pâté is just chicken liver sautéed with onions, garlic and brandy; you purée the mixture, add some plumped currants, and let things set up a bit in the fridge.

Serve with apple slices and crackers on a deck in the setting sun, and you have perfection itself.

A banner arrival.

The first thing Louisa and I did when we got home from the Cleveland airport? Pore over some cookbooks, of course! Each year when I visit, we cook up a storm, and this week has been no exception. We set to work planning the week's meals and treats, and made a preliminary grocery list to get us started.

Up first, the cover recipe from Gourmet's April issue - a strawberry mascarpone tart with a port glaze. It was a raging success - we managed to find some just-ripe strawberries, despite its being a bit late in the season, and the grocery store had scads of mascarpone on offer. (Not always a done deal out here in northern Ohio.)

The tart is remarkably easy to make. You make the pastry in a food processor and press it into the tart pan - no rolling out required. The crust itself is flavored with lemon and vanilla, which takes it beyond the usual pâte sucrée. Chilled in the freezer for a few minutes, it bakes up golden and flaky. Just before serving, you mix the mascarpone with a little confectioners' sugar, lemon, vanilla and salt, make a glaze with some port (and the reserved juice of your macerated berries), and put the whole thing together.

It's a great dessert for warm weather - the only baking required can be done a day in advance, so you won't turn your kitchen (or entire apartment, in my case) into a hellishly hot den for your guests. It's easy, but it also makes a visual impact - and it tastes pretty damn good, too.

And, in the spirit of leftovers: we had a little extra filling left, and we spread it on our scones the next morning. We think we might make the filling by itself just for this purpose from now on.

And...she's off!

Hello, my darlings!

As you read this, I am making my way to Sandusky, Ohio for my annual pilgrimage to visit my friends Nick & Louisa, former New Yorkers and college classmates both. (That's me and Louisa up top, in Strasbourg on our 2006 trip to Europe.)

It promises to be an exciting 10 days - we always manage to have one or two culinary adventures together (see the evidence of last year's pork belly-off right here), and there are few dogs I enjoy more than their border terrier, Hunter. I mean, check this out:

But not to fear! I'll be posting on a regular basis from the wilds of Middle America, and promise to report on any exciting encounters with farmstands or funnel cakes.

Take good care of the island while I'm gone, will ya?

Share these with your friends.

One of the great pleasures of entertaining overnight visitors, or of being a houseguest, is enjoying breakfast with your friends. Sure, we city-dwellers enjoy our fair portion of shared brunches, and more than our allotment of shared dinners, but we rarely see our friends spreading jam on toast while still wearing their footsie pajamas.

Maybe it's because I live alone, but, to me, eating breakfast with friends is a real treat, a true novelty, and something I really look forward to when traveling. And it doesn't have to be a fancy pancake breakfast, either (though those are fun, too) - sometimes the best breakfast is just coffee and a brioche smeared with butter and jam.

Louisa and I made our first loaves of brioche together last summer, and during my visit this year we decided we couldn't let the opportunity to create a true tradition pass us by. This time, though, we decided to make one full loaf and six small, traditional brioches, the better to snack and breakfast on.

The little guys were just as easy to make as the big one - we followed the same recipe as last time and used half the dough to fill Louisa's silicon brioche pan (with a cookie sheet underneath to lend stability to the flexible material) and half for the loaf. You could also use the more traditional brioche molds - again, just stick them on a cookie sheet to make the whole thing easier. We topped the individual brioches with the same egg wash used on the loaf, and added some muscovado sugar for added crunch (and to make things all pretty-like).

The result? A loaf for French bread and sandwich-making, and six perfect breakfast treats, perfect for enjoying with friends and a big pot of coffee.

A talent has been unleashed upon an unsuspecting world.

My friend Nick is really into cocktails these days.

Actually, wait - let me give you an idea of what it means when Nick is into something. He doesn't just do a hand-waving, half-assed exploration of a topic. Oh, no. When Nick is into something, he goes whole hog. Like the time he decided to become an expert in Web 2.0 taught himself Ruby on Rails (he's now the online media editor for a newspaper in Ohio), or the time he decided bridge was the world's classic card game and got really, really mad at me when we were partnered up and almost lost because I got silly on Manhattans. (He was making the Manhattans, by the by, and we did win, so I think it's probably time for an apology, actually.)

This tendency to go deep into a subject makes Nick really easy to shop for - he can never have enough books about the thing he's learning about, and since I love to buy books (and since he's a man with very particular tastes, which makes him scary to buy clothes for), we're a gifting match made in heaven. So, of course, this year, I gave Nick two books on cocktails (this one and this one), assuming he would be ready to help me tipple my week of vacation away with Sazeracs and Gin Fizzes.

Little did I know he'd been crafting his own signature cocktail, which he's tentatively named the "Gin"-ger Lemonade. It's ginger syrup (basically simple syrup reduced with slices of fresh ginger), gin, seltzer, lemon juice, and a mint garnish. And, holy man, is it good. (Actually, it's even good without the gin, which is saying something).

Did I mention that when Nick gets into something, he usually becomes really, really good at it?

The first annual pork belly-off, part four: me!

For my pork belly entry, I wanted to try something truly seasonal. I've been craving watermelon, but it just never seems practical to buy a whole one just for myself, and I try my best not to buy anything that's been chopped or prepped ahead of time, when it can be helped.

So, I made Nick carry one to the car for me at the market, and we were off and running.

A couple of years ago, I went to Degustation (a nifty restaurant in the East Village with only 12 seats) and had a delicious little egg dish topped with pickled jalapeño. Ever since then, I've been looking for the perfect way to showcase the slices of tart, tangy, hot deliciousness in a dish of my own, and pork belly with watermelon salad seemed the perfect candidate.

I rubbed my slice of belly on all sides with salt and pepper and braised it for about an hour in chicken stock. Meanwhile, I mixed up a salad of cubed watermelon, lime juice, and some torn mint and basil. I put that to marinate in the fridge and set to work pickling the jalapeños.

Finally, when everything had swum in its respective juices long enough, I seared the pork belly, topped it with a few slices of pepper, and put it on the plate and surrounded it with some chopped cucumber. I strained the liquid out of the watermelon salad, tossed it with some fresh, finely chopped mint and basil, and piled it onto the belly.

Pickling is pretty basic - you blanch the veggies (a step I actually forgot about last week, which resulted in washed-out peppers) to help keep the color and prep them to absorb the pickling liquid. Then you cook up a quick formula (some combo of water, vinegar, sugar and spices) and poor it over the veggies. Canning is a whole other art; however, even without true canning, these pickles should keep in the fridge for at least a month, if not longer.

Delish!

Pickled Jalapeños

1/2 to 1 lb. jalapeño peppers
1 c. water
1 c. white vinegar
1 c. sugar
1 tbs. salt
1/4 c. assorted peppercorns (white, black, pink, green - whatever!)
1/8 c. coriander seeds
1 tbs. mustard seeds
1 bay leaf

Set a medium saucepan of water to boil and fill a medium bowl with water and ice. In the meantime, slice the jalapeños cross-wise into 1/8 to 1/4 inch rounds, discarding the stems. Blanch the peppers in the boiling water for about a minute, then, using a slotted spoon, transfer to the ice water to cool. Once cool, use the slotted spoon to transfer them to a clean, 1 liter Mason jar.

Rinse the saucepan (watch out - the steam is full of jalapeño oil and can sting your eyes) and return to the stovetop. Add the water, vinegar, sugar and salt to the pot and bring to a boil, stirring till the sugar is completely dissolved and the liquid is clear.

Add the remaining ingredients to the vinegar mix and stir for about a minute. Turn the heat off and ladle the liquid and spices into the mason jar, covering the jalapeños. Allow to cool on the counter for about an hour before sealing and storing in the fridge.

The jalapenos are great with pork belly and watermelon salad, but also on sandwiches or homemade pizza, in guacamole, or as a tiny, tart, spicy snack!