Peanut butter is the ultimate kid food. From sandwiches made with little jammy hands to apple slices dipped into a creamy mess, peanut butter makes up its own kid food group. Unfortunately, right now we are in the midst of a major peanut butter recall. It's on the news all the time and grocery store shelves have gaping holes where peanut butter items once sat. Even dog treats are being recalled.

But families should take heart. Except for a few brands of peanut butter I have never heard of (such as King Nut and Parnell’s Pride), the recall is mainly for processed foods made with a mass-produced peanut butter paste. According to the FDA's web site, "Major national brands of jarred peanut butter found in grocery stores are not affected by the PCA recall." This is why jars of peanut butter still sit ready for purchase at your local store. From Jif and Peter Pan to organic creamy and crunchy, those jars are still available and deemed safe by the FDA for consumption. If you don't believe me, listen to Dr. Stephen Sundlof of the FDA.

But what do you do if your kids love peanut butter granola bars -- which are definitely on the recall list --like mine do? Each week I break my no-trash lunch rule and buy individually wrapped Trader Joe's Peanut Butter Chewy Coated & Drizzled Granola Bars because my kids just can't get enough of them. They are the preferred treat for snack time after recess, and I like that they give my daughters both protein and carbs, which in turn gives them the energy to continue sitting and learning until lunch arrives. Yes, I hate the wrappers, but what's one little wrapper (each), I ask myself?

Well, those granola bars disappeared from our pantry and my daughters lunches after the recall was announced. I tried to substitute their favorite treat with everything from yogurt and granola, to blueberry breakfast bars (more wrappers!) and extra fruit. After a couple of weeks of having my kids doggedly ask each morning if they could have their favorite peanut butter granola bar -- "Is the recall over Mommy?" -- I gave up and decided to make them myself. I had a large jar of organic peanut butter sitting in my refrigerator. We'd made our way through about a 1/3 of it by the time the recall was announced, so I knew it was safe as we'd all been eating it and no one had gotten sick. Plus it wasn't on the recall list.

As I no longer had a box of the beloved Trader Joe's bars, I had no idea what they contained, so struck out on my own. I opted for using granola -- you can purchase some or make your own -- to get a nice crunch and added an equal amount of puffed rice for added crunch and also a little chewiness. I really wanted a nice nutty flavor, so recommend crunch peanut butter if you have it. And, because I needed the whole thing to stick together, I threw in a healthy dollop of gooey honey. Finally I added some chocolate chips, because who doesn't love chocolate with peanut butter?

The resulting bar was, according to my husband, hands-down better than the store-bought variety. My daughters, on the other hand, thought it tasted almost as good. The proof, however, was in the fact that they each devoured their bar and then asked for more. If you are avoiding peanut products all together, you can still enjoy this recipe with cashew or almond butter.

I then began to wonder how difficult it would be to make baked granola bars. I loosely based my first batch on my Nut and Fruit Oatcakes recipe, but without the leftover steel-cut oats, it was a bit dry. After adding some corn syrup and also honey, the recipe turned out moist with a nice texture. Unlike the first recipe, I think this one tastes better with almond butter, so you don't even need to worry about the peanut butter recall. If you prefer peanut butter, however, that would also work just as well.

No-Bake Peanut, Cashew, or Almond Butter Granola Bars

Makes: 12 Bars

Ingredients:
1 cup granola
1 cup dried puffed rice (such as Rice Krispies)
1/2 cup chunky peanut, cashew, or almond butter
1/3 cup honey
1/2 cup chopped slightly salted peanuts, cashews, or almonds
1/2 cup chocolate chips
Oil spray

Preparation:
1. Mix granola, puffed rice, nuts and chocolate chips in a large mixing bowl.
2. In a separate, microwave-safe bowl, combine the peanut or almond butter and honey and then microwave for 30 seconds. If you don't want to use a microwave, you can heat these in a pot on the stove on low.
3. Thoroughly mix the peanut butter and honey after it is warmed and add to the granola mixture.
4. Stir until all the granola and puffed rice is evenly coated with the peanut butter and honey.
5. Spray a 9 x 9 square pan with oil.
6. Press the granola/peanut butter mixture into the pan, making sure it is even on all sides.
7. Refrigerate for at least an hour, but preferably longer, so the bars set.
8. Cut the bars into four rows and then make one horizontal cut down the middle so you end up with 12 bars.
9. Keep bars refrigerated until ready to eat.

Note: Some whole peanuts are on the recall list, so be sure the ones you purchase are safe to eat.

Dried Fruit and Nut Granola Bars

Makes: 18 - 24 bars

Ingredients:
2 cups oats
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
2 eggs
1/2 cup almond butter
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup honey
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/4 cup canola oil
1/2 cup walnuts, almonds or cashews
1/2 cup dried cranberries or raisins
1/2 cup dried apricots or peaches
1/4 cup sunflower seeds

Preparation:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees
2. Mix oats, wheat flour, baking powder, nuts and dried fruit in a large mixing bowl.
3. Mix the eggs, peanut butter, brown sugar, honey and oil using the paddle whip in an electric mixer.
4. Mix in the dried ingredients.
5. Line a 13 x 9 inch pan with parchment paper sprayed with oil or just spray with oil.
6. Press the oat mixture into the pan, making sure it’s even on all sides.
7. Bake for 15 - 20 minutes, or until the top is golden brown.
8. Cool and then cut into bars to serve.

Early this week, I received a rather frantic phone call from a friend of mine.

"Hi, I know I only call you when I need a favor...", she said, which is entirely untrue.

"Do you know anyone who'd want a case of live crabs? Like, right now?" I was hoping she meant food-grade crabs. Not pthius pubis.

"I was going to send a case of Dungeness crabs to the East Coast, but that's not happening anymore and I'm... well... I'm not going to touch them."

I told her I didn't know anyone off hand who would want them, but that I would post an alert on my Facebook page, since I've got at least a good 50 food freaks on my friends list who always seem to be online.

I hung up the phone.

And then I thought about it for a moment. Why would a food person (me) who loves crab, turn down a free case of them? Oh, because he's a fool. And he was in the middle of enjoying a week-long battle with a stomach virus that had limited his food intake to baby food: bananas, crackers, rice, and Pedialyte.

I called her back about 90 seconds later to tell her I would be happy to take them off her hands, virus be damned. Besides, I had never experienced a crab boil. I thought it might be interesting.

When I lugged the case up the two flights of stairs to my apartment, I placed the box on my counter and stared at it for a long while before doing anything. How many crabs were there? How big were they? Would they be angry with me? Were they still alive?

I cut open the straps with the same scissors I would eventually use to cut open the crabs' bodies and, feeling somewhat self-conscious of that fact, I quietly hid them out of sight before confronting the crabs themselves. Inside the box, I found a wriggling mass of wet newspaper and Koolit refrigerant packages, not, as I had hoped, a nest of local seaweed, which I would have considered much more appealing to the poor creatures.

I counted them as I peeled away the newspaper. Eight. Eight really large Dungeness crabs. Upon further examination, I noted that two were missing their front claws, another two had a broken, dangling hind leg, and one poor fellow had had his eye poked out. These were not A-list crustaceans. I re-covered them, placed them in the refrigerator, and said, almost inaudibly, "Goodnight, crabs. Sleep well, for I shall most likely kill you in the morning."

And Then There Were Seven

When I woke the next morning, I pulled the box out of the fridge, set a large pot of salted water to boil, and examined my soon-to-be-cooked-alive friends. They barely stirred. My refrigerator, I thought, was too cold. I pulled them all out of the box and took a closer look. The littlest one which had, either by chance of packing or crab-imposed hierarchy, been found at the bottom of the pile, dead. I gave it a little nod and gently placed it in the garbage.

While waiting for the water to come to a rolling boil, I watched the seven surviving crabs slowly come to life, which seemed a waste of energy, given the fact that I was about to kill them in a matter of minutes. Still, it provided a bit of mild entertainment.

When the time came to boil the crabs, I realized it had been a very long time since I'd actively killed another living creature larger than an insect. I consoled myself with the realization that crabs are, in fact, tenuously related to insects. The classes Insecta and Crustacea are both members of Phylum Arthropoda, right? Armed with the theory that I was merely killing giant sea bugs, I set to work with an eased conscience. I very much doubt the crabs shared my opinion.

The killing was swift, but not the process. Two crabs per pot, boiling for approximately 10 minutes. One pot + seven crabs = forty minutes of standing around by myself, trying not to think about what I was doing.

My mind wandered to the other, far less pleasant to have, yet likely much-more-enjoyable-to-get, crabs.

A Brief Aside

When travelling the world in his younger days, a good friend of mine picked up a case of pthius pubis somewhere in Germany, which is, if you weren't aware, a country in Europe that is, ironically, noted for its cleanliness. Not speaking the language, but in great discomfort, my friend marched into a chemist's shop, took out a pen and paper, and proceeded to create a delightfully simple pictogram-- something very similar to this:

He pointed to the drawing of the crab, then pointed to himself. He was immediately given the necessary materials for proper treatment.

I have always admired my friend's straightforward communication skills. He has since come to make a good living off them.

When the slaughter was over, I was faced with seven big, orange-red, steaming crab carcasses. Now what? Now nothing. I placed the crabs on a tray and shoved them back into the refrigerator, where they would no longer complain about the temperature. I had work to do. I had a therapy appointment at which I proceeded to discuss the fact that I had just taken the lives of seven fellow creatures.

Upon my return, I set to work upon the crabs. Slowly at first, being rather inexperienced in the exercise of extricating edible meat from crustaceans. The scissors came out of hiding, as did a pair of pliers, and a hammer. The hammer made a splattering mess when used, the pliers suffered from a chronic case of lockjaw, and I was remarkably, irritatingly frustrated.

What the hell was I doing? Standing alone in my kitchen, I felt absurd cleaning the meat out of these damned crabs, but I was committed. I had a certain obligation to these creatures to see that their flesh was put to good use.

I have always thought that a crab boil was a social event, not one designed for a single man with a stomach virus standing alone over his sink. No beer, no butter, or Thai seafood sauce. Just a guy in an apron and a pair of cargo shorts with crab matter all over his hands, forearms, and apron front.

I was determined that, when I felt better, I would go to town with the two pounds of crab meat I now had before me. Crab cakes, crab and corn chowder, crab salad, crab ice cream. Whatever it took to use it all up. It needed to be shared, not consumed in solitude.

I placed the crab in a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, removed as much air as possible, double-wrapped the bag in heavy duty aluminum foil, and placed it gently in my freezer, where it sits awaiting better times.

I look forward to a day in the near future when I can share it with my friends. But how? In my little apartment, a full-fledged dinner party is out of the question. But small gatherings with cocktails and nibbles are ideal. Shall I make tiki drinks to serve with a Crab Rangoon? Deviled Crab with dainty glasses of fino? Or a much more plebeian and fitting-for-the-times crab cakes and ice cold beer?

Whatever I decide, one thing is for certain. I'm going to share my crabs, and share them with people I love. They'll thank me for it, I just know they will.

During my senior year of college I spent a semester in Spain. I lived in a large piso (a flat) in the heart of Madrid. There were six of us, all women—three American students and three Madrileñas, all from very different backgrounds. My priorities back then were quite different than they are now. I was determined to see as much of Spain as possible in my 5-month stint. But funds were seriously tight, and food became a lower priority than train tickets or a stay in a pension.

But great food can be had in Spain for the price of a beer, and I often found myself eating in bars, even for breakfast (tapas are a great thing, and you quickly learn who serves the yummy stuff). On the few nights that I stayed in, my meals would often revolve around some permutation of eggs and potatoes. Occasionally I would eat a bit of chicken with a squeeze of lemon. And if I got really crazy, I’d sprinkle Parmesan on top—a true luxury.

One evening I decided to teach my two American roommates how to make a Spanish tortilla (one of my top egg-and-potato standards, and one of my ultimate comfort foods). If you’ve never had it, a Spanish tortilla is nothing like a Mexican tortilla, but more like a frittata. Made from only a handful of ingredients—eggs, potatoes, olive oil, and salt—it is not only very cheap to make, but you probably have most of the ingredients in your pantry already. I would consider it the national dish of Spain, and you can find it in various forms throughout the country.

I’d been making tortilla for a while by the time I lived in Madrid, and it had already become a staple in the college-budget repertoire (I first learned to make an authentic tortilla prior to living in Spain from my college roommate Shannon who lived in Madrid for many years).

As I was saying, I decided one night to teach my American roommates how to make tortilla. My Spanish roommates found this hilarious. A young American trying to teach someone to make one of their most cherished dishes! In true Spanish spirit, they decided to make a party out of it. The music came on, the tapas and wine came out and we got to work. All eyes were on me and as I chopped and stirred and sautéed, I knew I was being judged. Finally, the tortilla was ready and the time had come. All was quiet as tortilla was passed around and sampled. The grins and the laughter and the “wows” told me all I needed to know. I’d passed the test.

I love telling that story. And I make tortilla so regularly now that it has become a favorite of many of my friends and family (in fact, my dad counts it as one of his all-time most loved foods). There are so many great things about tortilla: it’s super delicious; it’s made with very few inexpensive ingredients which you probably already have; it can be served hot, warm, room temperature, or cold; and it can be dressed up with a salad for dinner or sliced and served on bread as a sandwich on-the-go. Best of all, it’s the perfect night in: crack open a bottle of Rioja, make a tortilla and a simple green salad, and save some dough.

Spanish Tortilla

Serves: 4–6

Ingredients:
2 lb russet potatoes (about 5 small), preferably organic
2 medium yellow onions
Olive oil
3 large eggs
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preparation:
1. Fill a large bowl half full of cold water. Peel the potatoes. Cut the potatoes in half lengthwise, then slice them crosswise into thin slices (about 1/8 inch thick). Put the potatoes in the water to remove some of the starch and keep them from browning.

2. Halve the onions lengthwise, peel, then slice them about 1/4-inch thick. Put in a large frying pan with lots of olive oil (at least 1/2 cup) and saute over medium heat until starting to wilt. Drain the potatoes, then add them to the frying pan. Cook, stirring, until the potatoes and onions are tender.

3. Drain the potatoes and onions in a fine-mesh sieve set over a bowl. Reserve the olive oil. In a large mixing bowl, add the eggs and about 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Whisk together the eggs, then add the potato mixture and gently toss together to incorporate the egg.

4. Over medium heat, warm a frying pan (I usually switch pans at this point and use nonstick; it’s about the only time I’d recommend nonstick, but you will not regret it) and add about 1 tablespoon reserved olive oil, swirl it around, then add the potato mixture.

5. Flatten it out into with the back of a spatula, and use the spatula to keep the tortilla round while it's cooking. Cook for about 5 minutes, gently shaking the pan back and forth to keep the tortilla from sticking.

6. Invert a large flat plate over the top of the tortilla and then invert the pan and tortilla onto the plate. Put the pan back over medium heat, add another tablespoon of reserved olive oil, swirl the pan, and slide the tortilla, uncooked side down, into the pan. Use the spatula again to keep the tortilla round.

7. Cook for about another 5 minutes, gently shaking the pan back and forth to keep the tortilla from sticking. Invert a large flat plate over the top of the tortilla and then invert the pan and tortilla onto the plate. Serve!

Socola Chocolatier

One look at Socola Chocolatier's whimsical mascot, a flying white alpaca named Harriet, and you just know that this won't be your typical gourmet chocolate. No, Socola Chocolatier is anything but typical. The promising, Oakland-based enterprise is young, exciting, and full of modern day sass. "Delicately Daring" is quite the perfect motto sister entrepreneurs Wendy and Susan Lieu have chosen for their business.

This Valentine's Day, when the market crowds over with cliché tokens of love, surprise your (guy, girl, self) with something witty, something sexy, something Socola.

Socola Chocolatier's Valentine's Day offering is an assorted box of 12 chocolates ($25) featuring playful flavors like:
• Cupid's Coffee Fix: because all that love stuff can wear a cherub out -- sultry Vietnamese espresso ganache with rich condensed milk, topped with French chicory grounds
• Chambord Shimmie: a pretty little number -- dark chocolate ganache with a hint of raspberry liqueur, blushed ready to shine in her pink glimmer
• Give It To Me Guava: unapologetically bold -- dark chocolate ganache kissed with a tender guava reduction
• Matchmaker Matcha: a sweet match made in heaven -- creamy white chocolate truffles infused with green tea matcha, subtly seductive.

If these inspired love potions aren't reason enough to shed your jaded anti-cupidism, Socola's story will certainly warm your heart.

Wendy (left) and Susan Lieu (right), co-founders of Socola Chocolatier

Chief Chocolatier Wendy Lieu is a graduate of UC Davis with a degree in Managerial Economics. A self-taught chocolatier, she juggled her management consulting job with pastry school to gain additional expertise last year.

Chief Chocolatier Wendy Lieu

Sister Susan is a Harvard alum whose passion for activism and social justice are deeply woven into her business plans for how Socola Chocolatier can play its part in improving social capital and engage the community it brings pleasure to.

Susan and I met up at a local coffee shop in SoMa, and as she told me about how Socola (which means "chocolate" in Vietnamese) was born, the story became much more than just about chocolate. She leaned in and her eyes glowed with conviction. She said, "It is in our blood to start something. Our parents were boat people and fled Vietnam in ’81. They came here and they were entrepreneurs. Our parents opened nail salons, a gardening service, and worked seven days a week for nearly 30 years. Wendy and I started Socola because we too wanted to create."

Apparently sweetness is in their blood too. The girls' grandfather had 11 children, and his family lived in the same house as his brother who had 12 children. He fed his family by making pastries and sweets that his wife sold every day at the market.

The inspiration for many of Socola's flavors come from the wandering travels of the sisters. For example, Give it to Me Guava was inspired from the time Susan spent in Baracoa, Cuba as a humanitarian aid worker. Wendy visited her while she was abroad and every morning the sisters would have guava jelly on toast as the morning sun warmed their faces. Susan also recently returned from a year-long stint in Vietnam developing sustainable cocoa production practices with local farmers in the Mekong Delta where her family used to call home.

Socola Chocolatier's Gold-Dusted Truffles

Socola's chocolates are beautiful, sensual, and they make you feel good. The Socola Sisters are living the dream and pushing forward in their quest to create. Memories, experiences, and a desire to keep seeking are intertwined in the flavors of their labor of love.

Socola Chocolatier is Femininity, Strength, and Spirit. Delicately daring? Yes, I think so.

Note: The Valentine's Day Offering can be pre-ordered online. Online orders must be placed by Friday, February 6th, 2009 to ensure receipt by the 14th .

Chocolates can also be purchased at:
• Alameda Natural Grocery Store 1650 Park St. #L Alameda, Ca
• Daily Delectables 3249 Grand Ave. Oakland, Ca
• (Whole Foods in early March)

Recently, my cousin was in town and I took her to 826 Valencia in the Mission. The store is a fun, mind-warp of a place where you open drawers and find rocks and ropes, and mops get dropped on your head. Children can get a prize by telling a joke, or doing a dance. You can sit and watch an aquarium in a small theater built for two. But the 826 Valencia store only scratches the surface of this non-profit's mission -- to support children with their writing skills and to help teachers get their students excited about the writing. Dave Eggers, local writer, was one of the founders of 826 Valencia, and its impact has spread nationwide.

While at the store, I picked up a copy of Seeing Through the Fog: A Gateway to San Francisco, which is one of the projects to come out of 826 Valencia last year. It is a tour guide of San Francisco of sorts, written by 72 seniors of Gateway High School. Essays cover a wide spectrum of the city.

"Love Spots S.F." by Michael Cordova gives us the best make-out spots, like Inspiration Point:

"Its panoramic views of Angel Island and the overlook of the Presidio forest make it a magical place, which can create a very romantic and inspiring atmosphere (hence the name Inspiration Point!)."

In "San Francisco's Overrated Spots," the author Kuji Sadiq tells tourists to avoid places like Pier 39:

"This is a tourist trap with overly expensive entertainment. It's no different from the same tourist stuff you probably have in your city. Just walk through and look at all the stuff that you could buy, but hopefully your intelligent mind will tell you not to. The carousel is very good-looking as far as carousels go."

Throughout the book, you will find food recommendations. Student Michael Feyock wrote an essay focused on the best burgers around San Francisco: Slider's, Bashful Bull, Bill's Place. There are several recommendations for El Farolito throughout the book, and Gary Guan gives recommendations for barbecue, Chinese food, Korean food and even Argentinean food around the city.

I could continue to quote from this charming book all day -- it is a great read, and so fun to see San Francisco from the point of view of a high school senior. I'll leave you with one more quote. In his essay called "San Francisco's Best Asian Restaurants," author John Philip Hallman V gives recommendations ranging from PPQ on Irving at 19th to Banana Island in Daly City. He ends his essay with this statement:

"Now you know what locals eat. We don't eat fancy, and we don't eat expensive, but we do eat well. You won't find us on top of Macy's eating cheesecake or at Fishermen's Wharf eating overpriced junk food as many of the typical tourists do. Instead, we eat from our own world class Thai or pho restaurants. We know what tastes good here, and we know how to eat here, all while saving our pocket money for tomorrow's meal."

That's a kid after my own heart.

"Seeing Through the Fog" can be purchased from the 826 Valencia site, or via Amazon.

As a Californian trapped indoors by East Coast snow, I was running out of things to eat. It was way too cold to leave the house. A whole day stretched ahead, wide and open. If you have a TV, then you're set. If you don't…well, thank goodness for friends who happen to have a big dining room table, a pile of apples in the corner and enough curiosity to humor a restless house guest.

Because, to pass the time, I suggested a lesson on stretching strudel. My host, who once watched his grandfather from the Old World make the famously flaky pastry, had never tried it. We set about updating his memories to include an actual recipe. One day soon, he'll be able to pass along the tradition to his own little daughter when she's ready to tie on an apron.

Austrian apfelstrudel is one of those desserts that require patience and practice more than rare ingredients or exacting recipes. It's a most astonishing experience to watch, let alone feel, the dough transform from a little round ball to a wide, silken sheet. For jaded cooks, it's a reminder of the simple magic of ingredients and the ingenuity of our ancestors.

Sweeten the filling to your own palate. Grate on some lemon zest if you want. Include rum-soaked raisins, orange juice-soaked raisins, or no raisins at all. Don't forget crumbs from leftover bread, crackers or cake -- they will absorb juices to keep the pastry's rolled layers light and crisp.

Whatever the flavors, be sure to give the dough plenty of time to rest. For a relaxed dough that will stretch very thin, knead well to develop the glutens enough to create an active network of reinforcing proteins, but afterward, let the dough rest several hours at room temperature or overnight in the fridge. Wrap well to prevent any drying on the dough's surface.

Some strudel recipes call for an egg in the dough; some don't. If this is your first time making strudel, include the egg to give your dough some softness and flexibility. Once you've mastered stretching the egg-based dough, you can then try your hand at an eggless version. It will be more difficult to stretch, but the end result will be noticeably flakier and lighter in a side-by-side comparison. Most folks won't notice, though.

Both versions are delicious. And both versions are equally fun and impressive to make with friends and family.

Apple Strudel

With just one afternoon of practice, you'll be able to stretch this recipe's dough to a large round that's supple enough to drape a four-foot table and thin enough to reveal the day's news.

Makes 12 servings

Ingredients:

Dough:
1 large egg
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or melted butter
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 cups all purpose flour

Filling:
4 to 5 tart apples, peeled, cored and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped
1/4 cup raisins
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 cup fresh cake or bread crumbs
1/2 cup butter, melted

Preparation:

To prepare the dough: Whisk the egg, oil or butter, and salt with about 3/4 cup cold water. Combine just enough of the liquid with the flour to make a soft dough. The dough should feel resilient but remain very slightly sticky. Drizzle in a tablespoon or more water if the dough is too ragged, or sprinkle in a small amount of flour if it is too moist and mushy. Knead for ten minutes until smooth, soft and warm. Form it into a smooth ball, wrap in plastic film, and let rest for at least 1 hour, preferably 4 hours.

To prepare the filling: Toss together the apple slices and lemon juice. Add the walnuts, raisins, sugar, and cinnamon and toss until evenly coated.

To assemble: Spread a table with a clean cloth and sprinkle evenly with flour. Place the dough in the center of the table, flatten with your palms into a 1-inch thick round, and then begin stretching the dough from the center to the edge. Use a combination of the sides of your hands and the tops of your knuckles to work the dough gently and evenly. Continue stretching the dough until you can see light through it. If there are occasional holes at the center, just pinch together to seal. Don't worry about holes or tears near the edge of the dough.

Brush the entire strudel dough evenly with butter. Sprinkle half the crumbs on one half of the dough, and on the same side arrange the apple filling in a long row close to the edge of the dough. Sprinkle with the remaining crumbs. Fold over the edge and roll the strudel into a log shape, using the cloth to help support and roll the pastry. Tuck in the sides and roll up completely, arranging the strudel seam side down.

Transfer carefully to a buttered or parchment-lined baking sheet, curve the log into a crescent shape, if needed, to fit the roll onto the pan. Brush with butter and chill for at least 30 minutes (or overnight).

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Bake the strudel until golden brown, 30 to 40 minutes. Let cool slightly before cutting and serving.

For a high-profile chef from New York City, it takes a certain amount of moxie to stand up at the recent Ecological Farming Conference at Asilomar and admit how much you love foie gras. It's especially provocative if you’re Dan Barber, buddy of Michael Pollan, chef of the acclaimed Blue Hill and Blue Hill at Stone Barns restaurants, and very vocal advocate of local, seasonal, and sustainable cooking.

Sitting in the main reception room, a few minutes before the afternoon plenary session was to begin, I overheard Barber catching up with a farmer colleague. It seemed he’d just found out that he was expected to lecture, not just answer questions, on the panel alongside Annie Somerville of Greens and Judy Wicks of Philadelphia’s White Dog Cafe. "I'm just going to tell the foie gras story," he said, sounding exhausted, and I thought, “Foie gras? At Eco-Farm? Does this man know where he is?” After all, this is a confab of organic farmers and food-justice activists. Sure, there’s a passion for deliciousness, but in general, the talk is kale, not champagne.

Onstage, Barber was unapologetic: for all his dirt-first politics, he’s a chef in love with flavor and texture, and to him, foie gras was the epitome: sweet, fatty, unctuous, able to make anything paired with it taste fantastic.

Why? Because it is, essentially, a small amount of liver flavoring a whole lot of fat. It gets that way due to gavage, a controversial practice of force-feeding ducks and geese until their livers swell to several times their normal size. Chicago recently repealed a two-year ban on serving it in the city’s restaurants; Governor Schwarzenegger signed a bill outlawing the making and selling of force-fed foie gras in California by 2012.

Barber, however, had a mission. He followed his declaration with a detailed story of going to Spain to seek out Eduardo Sousa, a man who’d recently won France’s highest gastronomic award for foie gras. “When I arrived,” Barber related, “He was lying in the grass taking cell-phone pictures of his geese.” Sousa’s geese were pasture-raised, and his fences were only electrified on the outside against predators. Electrifying the inside would be insulting to the geese, Sousa insisted; they would feel themselves prisoners. Instead, as a third-generation goose steward, his job was to give his geese everything they needed to be happy (short of dying of old age), so they’d have no need to leave.

Sousa didn’t practice gavage; instead, he followed the geese’s natural inclination to stuff themselves before winter. Come fall, as the days shortened and the temperatures dropped, he increased the amount of food available to his geese. They gobbled, and then, fat and happy, they met their end. Living on an herb-rich pasture as well as grains, their meat was layered with flavor, pre-seasoned from the inside out. “Who was the chef,” Barber found himself asking as he ate with Sousa, “And who was the farmer?”

Back home in New York City, Barber did his research: Sousa’s method, he claimed, was the origin of foie gras. As Barber told it, Jewish communities in Egypt enjoyed foie gras as a natural by-product of winter-slaughtered geese. Upon tasting it, the pharoh demanded a year-round supply of the delicacy for the court, and so gavage was invented, to mimic the natural autumn voracity of the birds.

Earlier in the panel, restauranteur Judy Wicks had described her mission as “using good food to lure innocent customers into social activism.” Barber ended his talk by insisting, “The best decisions are almost always the most delicious.” Personally, I don’t eat foie gras, having no stomach for either the taste or the method. But for those who do, could pleasure reward compassion, making humanely-produced foie gras into a seasonal, winter-only delicacy offered by local poultry producers? It’s already a luxury item; why not make it a humane one, too?

Dan Barber, making a similar case for humane foie gras at the Taste3 Conference in Napa.