I am suddenly turned on by the thought of graham crackers. And that is just the sort of attitude that would make Reverend Graham turn in his grave, since I am undoing all of his good work. Not Billy Graham. He's still (barely) alive, though he also may not approve. I'm talking Sylvester Graham, the inventor of the eponymous cracker.

The graham cracker was created in tandem with the Graham Diet, which advocated fresh fruits and vegetables, whole wheat, and lots of fiber, and denounced meats, alcohol, and spices. Dairy was to be used sparingly. A forefather of Dr. Kellogg and his cornflake-fueled sanitarium, Graham firmly believed that a bland diet would prevent people from having impure thoughts, therefore preventing masturbation (which Graham believed lead to blindness and insanity).

Yes, that is correct. The graham cracker was originally invented to curb sexual desire. I think that is a lot to ask from a cracker, don't you?

Small wonder graham crackers play no major role in my adult life, save at the bottom of the occasional pie or cheesecake, but they were an ever-present staple in my household throughout my childhood. It's enough to make me think my crafty mother was fully aware of this cracker's mystical, anti-inflammatory powers.

How clever, too, the scoutmasters of this country for popularizing the s'more. Leaving a group of adolescent boys out in the wild seems to be asking for trouble, but stuff them with enough graham crackers and parents can rest assured that the only sticks those boys will be rubbing together will be to make a campfire.

If you uncover any more graham cracker-related conspiracies, please contact me. I need to know.

If the heat of summer has got you all sweaty and lathered, I propose cooling your jets with some homemade graham crackers. For extra measure, substitute saltpeter for cinnamon in the topping as listed in the recipe below.

Graham Crackers

Everyone seems to be in agreement that Nancy Silverton's recipe for these beauties is the very last word, so who am I to argue? Here is her recipe, more or less. Mostly more.

Makes about 10 4" crackers or 20 2" ones. The math is easy.

Ingredients:

2 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons unbleached pastry or all-purpose flour. Unbleached. Dr. Graham loathed bleached flours, so please bear that in mind.
1 cup dark brown sugar, lightly packed
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes and frozen
1/3 cup honey (mildly flavored, like clover)
5 tablespoons whole milk
2 tablespoons vanilla extract

For the topping:
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Preparation:

1. In the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade, combine the flour, brown sugar, baking soda, and salt. Pulse just enough to incorporate the ingredients. Add butter and pulse until mixture is the consistency of coarse meal.

2. In a small bowl, whisk together the honey, milk, and vanilla extract. Add to the flour mixture and pulse until the dough just comes together. Don't worry, it's supposed to be sticky.

3. Turn dough onto a lightly-floured work surface and pat the dough into a rectangle about 1 inch in thickness. Wrap in plastic and chill until firm; anywhere from 2 hours to overnight.

4. Prepare the topping by combining sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl. Set aside.

5. Divide the dough in half and return the unused half to the refrigerator. Sift an even layer of flour onto your work surface and roll the dough into a long rectangle about 1/8" think. The dough will still be sticky, so flour as needed. Trim the edges of the rectangle to 4" wide. Working with the short side that should be facing you, cut the strip every 4 1/2". (I chose to make mine 2" wide, but that is a personal preference.) Place crackers on a parchment-lined baking sheet, sprinkle with topping, and refrigerate. Repeat rolling and cutting actions with the second half of the dough. If you are frugal and not lazy, gather the remaining dough scraps, re-form, refrigerate and repeat. The crackers should chill to firm for another 30 to 45 minutes.

6. Preheat your oven to 350º F and adjust the oven racks to the upper and lower positions.

7. Make a vertical line through the middle of the crackers, being careful not to cut all the way through the dough. Score them. That's the better word. Prick the dough in decorative rows. But not too many. Mine look rather like dominoes.

8. Bake for 25 minutes, until browned and slightly firm-to-tough. Rotate baking sheet (or sheets, depending on how many you are making) half way through baking to ensure an even doneness.

9. Let the them and your passions cool, put on a nice Andy Williams album, place a cracker or two in the unhairy palm of your hand and enjoy with a wholesome glass of milk.

I love barbecuing in the summer. Well, actually my husband does most of the grilling, but I really enjoy the results. All of that intense heat just caramelizes meat and vegetables so beautifully. I also happen to love stuffing. So in an attempt to marry grilling and stuffing, I have been on a mission to create a repertoire of stuffed recipes for the barbecue (which some of you may have guessed as it seems half my posts are about stuffed and grilled vegetables this summer). Grilled stuffed chicken is the latest, and it's one I plan on repeating often.

As much as I enjoy stuffed chicken, I had never thought of grilling it until a month or so ago when I was making my grilled stuffed artichokes. For some reason I ended up making more filling then needed, but I hated to throw away perfectly good stuffing so looked for an alternate use. Nearby on the counter sat my marinated chicken ready for the grill and the rest is history. Just as the School House Rock video tells us, without Mother Necessity, where would be be? Sure, they may have been talking about the cotton gin or light bulb, but at my house, Mother Necessity lives in the kitchen.

And now for a small tangent: I have always been a big School House Rock fan, spending endless childhood Saturday mornings singing while flopped out on the couch. Mother Necessity is a particularly good one, right up there with Verb and Conjunction Junction, so here it is for your enjoyment.

And now back to the chicken...

I had marinated a whole cut-up chicken earlier that day in olive oil and lemon juice with some herbs. As the stuffing I made for the artichokes included these same ingredients, plus some bread crumbs and a few other items, I thought it would pair well with the chicken. For obvious reasons, I just grilled the legs as they were. The thighs and breasts, however, had potential. Because they were not deboned, I opted to place the filling under the skin. I was a little worried the stuffing would fall out, but this ended up not being a problem. We then grilled the chicken as we normally would on indirect heat, starting skin side down. After cooking both sides of the chicken, we were ready to dig in.

Not only did the meat look great, it was succulent and tender. The combination of skin and stuffing had created a type of moisture barrier for the chicken, keeping the juices inside. This was especially true for the breast, which is easy to dry out on a grill. The stuffing was also the perfect texture, not crumbly at all and full of flavor.

Made with thighs or breasts, grilled stuffed chicken is a nice alternative to the standard barbecued chicken of summer. I'm sure Mother Necessity has hung a plaque on her sitting room wall to honor it.

Following are some tips for making your own grilled stuffed chicken along with recipe ideas.

Tips for Grilling Stuffed Chicken

• Use chicken thighs or breasts as these are easier to stuff.
• Marinate your chicken for 2-24 hours in the refrigerator. This will both flavor your chicken and help keep it from drying out on the grill.
• Be sure to purchase chicken thighs or breasts that are covered entirely on one side with skin.
• Carefully tuck the stuffing under the skin on each piece and then pat it down. I like the stuffing to be about 1/4-inch thick.
• Grill your chicken pieces as you normally would, although being a bit more careful when placing the chicken skin-side down so as not to spill the stuffing.

Recipe Ideas

Mediterranean Stuffing: Combine zest from one lemon, 1/2 cup bread crumbs, 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, 1/4 cup cooked pancetta or bacon, 1 minced garlic clove, 2 Tbsp chopped Italian parsley, 3 Tbsp olive oil, 2 Tbsp water or white wine, and salt and pepper to taste.

Moroccan Stuffing: Combine zest from one lemon, 1 cup cooked couscous, 1 minced garlic, 2 Tbsp chopped parsley, 2 Tbsp chopped mint, 2 Tbsp chopped apricots or dates, 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon, 3 Tbsp olive oil, 2 Tbsp water or chicken broth, and salt and pepper to taste.

Asian Stuffing: 1/2 cup panko bread crumbs, 1/2 cup chopped mushrooms, 1 tsp minced garlic, 1 tsp minced ginger, 1 tsp minced spring onions, 2 Tbsp soy sauce, 1 Tbsp rice vinegar, 2 Tbsp water, and salt and pepper to taste.

Butternut Squash Thai Curry

When we were little, our parents taught us not to talk to strangers. I sometimes wonder if my boyfriend's parents ever warned him of the dangers, because he talks to strangers all the time.

He's a master chatter. He makes best friends with cashiers, older ladies love him, and he somehow induces perfect strangers to tell him their life story.

And so it went when we paid Barry from Craigslist a visit to see about some copper pots. One thing led to another, and before long we were two hours deep in conversation about his past life as the executive chef of a cruise ship making its maiden voyage in 1969. We left Barry that afternoon with a smile on his face, confident that his prize pots had found a good home. And we walked away 3 copper pots, a handful of cookbooks, and a few stories richer.

Sticky rice cooked in a prize pot

I've grown particularly fond of one of the books we picked up, The Best of Vietnamese & Thai Cooking, written by Mai Pham, chef/owner of Lemon Grass Restaurant in Sacramento, and Barry's former instructor at the Culinary Institute of America.

When I spotted Pham's recipe for Thai Seafood Curry with Pumpkin and Fresh Basil, I was reminded of one of my favorite dishes from Osha, Pumpkin Curry. While Pham's recipe calls for mussels, salmon, and shrimp, I decided to go with simplified, vegetarian version using roasted butternut squash and a touch of tomato paste. I also happened to have some leftover pan-fried, extra firm tofu on hand, so I threw that in for some more substance.

You will fall in love with this fragrant and full-flavored curry. The two magic ingredients I discovered in this recipe are lemon grass and Kaffir lime leaves, both acquired at Whole Foods (along with my red Thai curry powder). They infuse the curry with the most seductive aroma. Fresh and citrusy, with a touch of spicy floral essence. Do not skimp on these ingredients. They will transform your dish.

Minced lemon grass

Lemon grass can look intimidating, but don't be scared. To prep and make the most use out of it, first peel off the tough, outer layers of the stalk. Thinly slice from the fatter bulb end first. Stop when you get to the green parts of the stalk on top. Cut these top green parts into 2-inch pieces and set aside. You can use these for your curry, simply bruise them with the back of your knife, splitting the stalk open and releasing the essential oils. The thin slices from the bulb can then be minced (use a food processor to make your life easier) and stored in Ziploc bags for up to 4 months or so in the freezer.

Kaffir lime leaves

I store my lime leaves in the freezer as well to extend their shelf life.

Gutted butternut squash, nuked and ready to peel

A trick I learned when working with butternut squash -- it can be tough to cut through and peel when the squash is raw. If you microwave the entire thing for a few minutes, it will soften up, allowing you to slice through it easily.

Roasted butternut squash

Pham cooks her squash right in the curry, but I found that roasting it first really develops its flavor and is totally worth the extra time! Serve it over some coconut rice and you will be in Thai heaven.

Chaokoh: best brand of coconut milk

Coconut Rice with Mango

Coconut rice is used in a popular Thai dessert, served with slices of sweet, juicy mangoes. It also happens to make a wonderfully aromatic base for your coconut milk-based curry.

After craving it for all these years, turns out coconut rice is just cooked rice mixed with a simple coconut sauce. If you have a rice cooker, all you really have to do is whip up the sauce (just don't try dumping the sauce in with the uncooked rice all at once…that um…doesn't work out too well). And if you don’t have a rice cooker, steaming rice in a pot is easy too.

So there you have it. A complete delicious Thai meal, made in a pair of beautiful copper pots. Thanks, stranger.

Butternut Squash Thai Curry with Coconut Rice
Adapted recipe from “The Best of Vietnamese and Thai Cooking” by Mai Pham

Serves: 4

Ingredients:
2 lb. whole butternut squash (or 1 package pre-cut)
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 (13.5 oz) cans unsweetened coconut milk (Chaokoh); reserve 2/3 c. for coconut rice
3 (2-inch) pieces lemon grass stalk bruised slightly with the back of a knife; or 1 tablespoon minced lemon grass stalk
2 Kaffir lime leaves, cut in thirds
3 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon red thai curry
½ teaspoon turmeric
½ teaspoon salt
2 ripe red vine tomatoes, thinly sliced
Cilantro or fresh basil to garnish
Coconut Rice (recipe below)

Preparation:

1. Preheat oven to 450 F.
2. If not using pre-cut butternut squash, microwave whole squash for about 5 minutes to soften so it’s easier to cut.
3. Remove skin, scoop out seeds, and cut into 1 inch cubes. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon olive oil, pinch of salt and pepper, and roast for 30-40 minutes until browned.
4. Remove squash from oven and allow it to cool.
5. Meanwhile, heat a large saucepan over moderate heat. Skim off the top thick, creamy part of the coconut milk, about ½ cup, and add it to the pan. Add the curry paste and stir to dissolve. Let mixture sizzle and bubble for 2 to 3 minutes.
6. Reserve 2/3 cup coconut milk in a small saucepan for the coconut rice. Add the remaining coconut milk, lemon grass, lime leaves, sugar, fish sauce, tomato paste, turmeric, and salt. Increase the heat to high and bring to a simmer.
7. Add the tomatoes and let cook for about 10 minutes until they dissolve. While this simmers you can prepare the coconut rice (recipe follows). Add roasted butternut squash and allow to simmer for another 5 minutes.
8. Serve over coconut rice and garnish with freshly chopped cilantro or julienned basil.

Sticky Coconut Rice and Fresh Mangoes
Excerpted from “The Best of Vietnamese and Thai Cooking” by Mai Pham

Serves: 4

Ingredients:
Rice
1 ¼ cups water
1 cup Thai long-grain sticky rice, soaked in warm water for 1 hour and drained (Adaptation note: I used California Calrose rice, a medium-grain sticky rice, and washed but didn't bother soaking)
2 tablespoons sugar

Coconut Sauce
2/3 cups unsweetened coconut milk (Chaokoh)
¼ cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/3 cup water

Garnish
2 medium to large ripe mangoes, peeled and cut into slices
2 tablespoons sesame seeds, lightly toasted

Preparation:
1. If you have a rice cooker, mix together the 1 ¼ cups water and 2 tablespoons sugar, and combine with the rice. While the rice cooks, prepare the coconut sauce.
2. If you do not have a rice cooker, bring the water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Quickly stir in the rice and add the 2 tablespoons sugar. Let boil for 2 minutes, then reduce the heat to very low. Cover and simmer only until the water has evaporated and the rice is tender, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove pan from heat and let sit for 20 minutes. Uncover and fluff rice with a fork or chopsticks. Set aside.
3. Prepare the coconut sauce: in the small saucepan with the coconut milk reserved from before, add the ¼ cup sugar, vanilla, and salt. Bring to a boil.
4. In a small bowl, mix the cornstarch and 1/3 cup water and stir until dissolved. While the coconut sauce is simmering, slowly drizzle in the cornstarch mixture and stir until sauce is thick enough to coat a spoon. Remove from heat and set aside.
5. Drizzle the coconut sauce over the rice a few tablespoons at a time to taste.
6. If you're serving this as a dessert, place a small mound of sticky rice (about ½ cup) in the center of a serving plate and surround with mango slices. Drizzle some more coconut sauce over each mound and sprinkle with sesame seeds.

If you are a fan of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, you probably buy chunks of it. You grate them and devour them. Eventually you are left with rinds that are too small to grate, but too precious to throw away.

If you are like me, these rinds pile up in the cheese bin of the fridge. At $16 a pound or more, how could you possibly throw them away?

Then the time comes to utilize these rinds. Tossing them in a stock or soup is a time-honored tradition. So is simmering them with fresh tomatoes for a pasta sauce.

Parm rind in a pot of stewed tomatoes, later to be strained for a soup

Yet there are other ways to utilize these rinds. I am sharing a method I learned from a line chef at Oliveto, after I asked him about pasta recipes for a dinner party.

His suggestion was simple. Take a large rind, and simmer it in a pint of cream or more. Add herbs, sauteed garlic and/or grated cheese. Season with salt. Work your cooked noodles into the sauce with some pasta water, add a pop of butter and serve.

I followed his instructions, using fresh hand-made pasta. My friends were in awe. One friend, Rex, said I had served him the best dish of pasta he'd ever eaten.

Clearly Rex doesn't get out much, but he was right: The dish was a delight. By slowly cooking the cream with the rind, the earthy, rustic taste of the Parmesan was infused throughout the pasta, which was draped in a velvety sauce.

So give it a try, especially when friends come over. If you are going to prepare a dish with this many calories, it is always better to share.

Gemelli with Parmesan rind cream sauce, roasted squash and tomatoes

Pasta ala Parmigiano Reggiano rind

Serves: 4-6

Ingredients:
1 rind of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, about 2x4 inches, and 1/4 inch thick
1 pint of heavy cream
3 tablespoons butter
2 cloves finely chopped garlic
Up to 1 cup of reserved pasta water
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
1 pound of dried pasta, or 2 pounds of fresh egg noodles, either homemade or store bought
Kosher salt for pasta water

Preparation:

1. Clean rinds, if needed, with a damp towel. Grate cheese and chop garlic.

2. As water starts to heat in your pasta pot, cook garlic slowly in a separate skillet with the olive oil. Do not let it get brown, but cook it until most of the raw garlic taste is gone.

3. Add cream and parm rind to skillet. Turn up heat until cream bubbles and foams, and then turn down to maintain a low simmer. If cream gets extremely thick, turn off heat and let sit.

4. Once your pasta water comes to a boil, add a small handful of kosher salt to the water, stir and add pasta to the water. Cook until just short of al dente. Remove from water and save at least one cup of the water.

5. Add pasta to skillet. Turn up heat and serve. Ladle a small amount of the pasta water to the skillet as you stir. You want to maintain a creamy but not a thick or soupy sauce. Add butter and stir. When pasta is al dente, add half of the cheese and stir. Check a noodle for seasoning, and add salt, if needed. Turn off heat and use tongs to place pasta onto plates. Sprinkle remaining cheese on top of each plate and serve.

Note: This dish lends itself to multiple treatments. Cook chopped leaks with the butter instead of garlic. Top the final pasta with blanched vegetables, such as asparagus or green beans. I added the parm cream to gemelli noodles and topped them with chopped roast squash and tomatoes.

Outside of Schmidt's looking into restaurant. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

One day last week, the lady and I had plans to visit Schmidt's for dinner. When we're deciding what to eat, we tend to favor collaboration and compromise, at least I do. Sometimes, rarely, our tastes don't intersect, and I always want to find dishes we both want, even if it means passing on something I'd really, really like to try. In the case of Schmidt's, a sleek, two month-old German eatery in the Mission District, I knew what I wanted, and would accept no proxies: hasenpfeffer, a red wine-soaked saddle and leg of rabbit with braised lingonberry-sweetened cabbage. In the hours leading up to our meals together, we typically examine menus online and discuss what appeals via texts and emails. Frequently, we have a pretty good idea of what we'll order before we walk through the restaurant's doors. On this occasion, I'd done my research, and knew, without question, that I had to hit that hop. The problem was, I wasn't so sure my lady would dance with me.

I positioned myself accordingly. At around 1:00 p.m., I sent off a quick text:

Was thinking about bunny. Now not so sure.

Her swift response, even more succinct, confirmed my fears:

I will not eat the bun.

Disappointed yet far from resigned, I honed a strategy. It was too early for negotiations. I ate lunch and crafted a diversionary text, giving the impression I was feeling flexible and perhaps willing to eat something else altogether:

Salad good. Still hungry. Tonight maybe fish if on special.

Rabbit is a polarizing meat. The world is full of people like my lady: hyper-carnivorous, adventurous gourmets who gleefully inhale piles of Korean barbecue, fried chicken dinners, and entire flocks in the form of steaming shawarmas, yet turn meek and wane at the prospect of the Easter Bunny, sauteed, on a plate. Rabbits are cute but surely no cuter than fuzzy sheep, baby chickens, and pink piglets -- cuddly creatures we're generally more comfortable cooing over and then, respectfully, consuming. Rabbits are also pets, but even those of us who have never fed and groomed one feel as if we know them. From folklore-steeped tricksters Bugs and Bre'er, to Thumper, Alice's elusive White, and the whole floppy-eared cast of Watership Down, the rabbit has an enduring and frequently anthropomorphized presence in popular culture, one that surpasses those of other commonly eaten animals. In whatever form, such familiar images, voices, stories, and carried connotations grip folks, and that, more than a real rabbit's bobbing tail, vacuous little eye-specks, and pink twitching nose, contributes to the skittishness diners display when there's hare to be had.

In many cultures, rabbits are a symbol of fertility and rebirth. They're associated with the season Spring and, of course, Easter. In real-life, they're viewed as gentle, vegetarian, harmless, and, despite their breeding proclivities, somehow suggestive of innocence. However, to gardeners like my mother in Louisville, Kentucky, they are far from innocent or harmless; they are a nuisance, a virulent menace fond of hopping, rustling and sniffing, through the backyard shrubbery every April to terrorize lettuce, cucumbers, squash, beans, herbs, and flowers. My mom doesn't hunt or even eat meat, but I doubt she'd mind if Elmer Fudd and Yosemite Sam showed up one year, shotguns at the ready, to declare war on her tormentors, and keep the neighborhood bistro stocked with lapin all summer long.

Back in San Francisco, it was 6:30 p.m. My lady and I rolled into Schmidt's, ravenous. As I'd suspected, there was no fish on special. My lady wanted a sausage, which was fine by me. We had to find another entree. I knew exactly what that had to be but I had to bide my time. If she sensed my profound resolve, she did not let on.

"I just don't think I can do it," she said, her eyes peering out, just barely visible above the menu held in front of her face.
"Do what?" I asked, feigning cluelessness.
"The bunny," she said, sighing. "I'm sure it's amazing, but I don't want to eat it."
"It's cool," I answered, sort of shrugging lightly and waving my hands as if I didn't care. "No bunny, no problem. I'll get a sausage too, maybe the duck one."
"Two sausages? They don't make the sausages here. If you're writing about this, we should get something they make here too," she said, ignoring my allusion.
"Well, I don't want blood sausage or the veal," I countered, gesturing towards the listing for an egg-topped schnitzel festooned with white anchovies, capers, and cauliflower. It was time to play hardball, to throw down cards, and make a final, decisive play. "I'm getting the rabbit," I said, folding my menu and reaching for the beer list. "Will you eat it?" I didn't look up as I spoke, trying to appear focused on selecting an appropriate brew.
There was a pause. "Hell yes."

And so, maneuvering ceased; we were eating rabbit.

In the classic 1949 cartoon Bowery Bugs, Bugs Bunny, pacing in circles around his den, carrot in mid-gnaw, makes, in that distinctive, chattering, Flatbush bark, his case for survival to a downtrodden New York City bookie in search of a good luck charm. "These rabbit's feet never brought me any luck," Bugs points out, pleading. "Look at the lives rabbits lead: Dogs, hunters, and hasenpfeffer."

Hasenpfeffer, a red wine-soaked saddle and leg of rabbit with braised lingonberry-sweetened cabbage. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

Bugs could use some perspective. If the version at Schmidt's serves as any indication, hassenpfeffer is an unpretentious yet noble and exceedingly delicious way for a rabbit to end up. For a goofy, unintelligent, nervous wreck of a mammal, this beast sure tastes serious, deep, and soulful after a trip through chef Matt Shapiro's kitchen. Sweet shards of pale meat tumble off delicate bones rising up from a creamy, golden moat of rich sauce, a purple mountain of cabbage looming behind. The picture currently floating around the Internet (to be fair, in the company of a positive, well-crafted mention) unfortunately makes Shapiro's hassenpfeffer look like a symptom of an obscure, unsavory medical condition, or something from one of the Alien movies, a mound of extraterrestrial dung, perhaps. I sympathize. My first crack at pictures in the restaurant's dark dining room turned out so badly I had to outsource art to a real photographer.

Bean Salad. Photo by Aimee Shapiro

The rabbit was the defining triumph but not so magnificent as to obscure the rest of the meal: an excellent Thuringer brat, snappy and juicy, best with a touch of an amazing sweet mustard (Schmidt's sells it, along with other German products such as mini-wieners, bottled, floating in water), a subtle, nutty, toothsome salad of green and waxed bean strips with hazelnuts, fried sage, and a citrus vinaigrette, and spaetzle, sans cheese, in fluffy, mild strands, like scrambled eggs colliding with a bowl of cereal -- in a good way. Far from the sort of heavily branded hot-spot designed to lure diners from around the city, Schmidt's is a new neighborhood gem the neighborhood can actually afford -- truly, simply, a very fine place to eat, much like Walzwerk, the owners' first restaurant, though more austere in appearance, with better food. We ordered some bread too, with the idea we'd use it to sop up every last bit of rabbit essence. This was unnecessary. The rabbit came with plenty of bread, the dense, heavy German sort. Unlike less refined purveyors of wurst, Schmidt's doesn't bludgeon you with excessive portions. Bread abuse in the line of duty -- respect for the rabbit's last luscious remnants -- caused me to walk at a 45 degree angle all the way home, stuffed, my body unable to conjure energy for any task beyond digestion. Yet even as I limped, 'kraut-addled, harebrained, breaded, and in need of a comfortable chair, part of me wanted to head back, to find a way to eat some more rabbit. To rock it, to roll it, slop it, and stroll it, once again -- at the hop.

Schmidt's
2400 Folsom St
(between 20th St & 21st St)
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 401-0200
*Cash only

It probably comes down to the eyeballs. Most people, if asked at a fish market counter why they're choosing salmon filets instead of a whole rockfish or sea bass, would recoil slightly and stutter out something about bones, all the while trying not to meet the accusing (if unseeing) stares pointed their way from the ice.

But once you make your peace with the face of Mr. Fishie, a whole fish is actually much more forgiving to the cook than a filet. Personally, I've had a few rough moments with filets, salmon especially. Getting it to stop being raw and jellylike (heaven to some, creepy to me) at the thick end without turning the other, thinner end into salmon jerky is still sometimes beyond me.

A whole fish, by contrast, does not require split-second or split-screen timing. You can leave it in the oven for a few extra minutes while you wrestle with the corkscrew or work out a knotty point of Hogswarts school policy with your seven-year-old and you won't end up with a main course that looks like a string of little shrunken heads, as you would if you were making, say, shrimp-pineapple-and-cherry-tomato kebabs—a lovely idea, generally, but just a wee bit demanding on the timing aspect.

There's also the grandeur of a whole fish, how it comes to the table looking lavish and extravagant, even if, pound for pound, it's actually much more economical to buy your beast whole. Get it gutted and scaled by your fishmonger, and there's little else you need to do.

It does help to have a good sharp knife around so you can make a few slashes on each side of the fish—three or four, depending on the size of the fish, down to the bone, so the fish will cook evenly without curling and the skin will crisp up. This also reveals the flesh so you can tell instantly if it's cooked all the way through, somewhere on the pearlescent side of just opaque, since it will continue cooking a little off the heat.

Whole Raw Fish - Photo by Scott Hawkins

Every sea kitten is happier—or at least tastier—for some very thin slices of lemon in the slits, along with a few sprigs of fresh herbs tarragon, summer savory, parsley, mint. Massage the whole fish with olive oil. Don't be stingy. This will make the skin much more delicious while also safeguarding the whole thing from drying out should you be distracted by the aforementioned cork-removal or Snape-and-Malfoy issues.

Now that we're having a little sunshine again, you might be feeling summery enough to fire up the grill. Grilling, especially a good, high-heat charcoal grill, gives a succulent, smoky, beach-in-Spain savor to oilier fish like mackerel and fresh sardines. Salmon, too, is lovely and dramatic on the grill. But you can fake it very well with a hot pan and a broiler, too, especially if you're cooking small, one-to-two person sized fish like branzino, tai snapper, or striped bass.

The lovely, lively Big Sur Bakery Cookbook offers a good trick for such faux-grilling, one that I used myself to great success this weekend. Do the aforementioned lemon-herb-olive oil anointing. Preheat the broiler. While it's heating, splash a little puddle of olive oil into a saute pan big enough to fit your fish. When the oil is good and hot, lay down your fish (watch out for splatters), reduce heat to medium-high and let it get good and browned on the bottom side, about 2 to 3 minutes. Turn off the heat and lift your fish, browned side down, onto the broiler pan. Broil about 8 to 10 inches from the heat for about 8 to 10 minutes, until just cooked through. That initial searing gets the bottom side cooked, without having to wrestle the fish mid-broil.

Present with a flourish, on a platter generous enough to make navigating the skeleton easy. Make sure you have a second plate handy, for depositing the head, tail, and assorted bones. Unless your friends are very familiar with the whole-fish concept, they probably would prefer not to be stared at reproachfully by the head of their dinner during the meal.

Whole Cooked Fish - Photo by Scott Hawkins

Truly fresh fish, simply cooked, is a wonderful thing, and plenty of people just back from a week in Greece will rhapsodize about the beachside fish served so simply, just grilled, with a little olive oil and lemon and it didn't need anything else. But remember—they were on vacation. They were in Greece. They were sitting outside after several days of island hopping and/or hotel sex behind them. When you're staycationing, fish needs a sauce.

Anything herby and tangy is perfect for giving your fish a little bounce. Salsa goes wonderfully with fish, either a lovely, unexpected white-peach salsa, spiked with cilantro, minced red onion, and lime juice, or a juicy tomato salad jazzed up with fantastic heirloom tomatoes in all colors, a handful of corn kernels, loads of basil, chopped scallions and the most fragrant, olive-y olive oil you have.

Italian salsa verde is also a good match. Make a thick slurry of finely chopped herbs—parsley, watercress, plus some combination of mint, basil and/or dill, with just a smidge of tarragon—with a clove of finely chopped garlic, some chopped capers, a couple of anchovies or a bit of anchovy paste, and olive oil. Some hard-boiled egg and a few chopped cornichons will turn it into something like a French sauce gribiche. A little lemon juice and grated lemon peel will perk up the green color and balance the salt from the capers and anchovies. Or you can just uncork that bottle of wine, cut up a lemon, and bask in a few fog-free hours of the city's Mediterranean light.

Some things stay with you forever, no matter how hard you might try to forget them. Sights, sounds, smells, words. You name it. You might not think about them on a daily basis, but they are filed away, ready to jump you at the strangest of times. Things like the scent of glue sticks or the melody of some Bangles song playing in the background the night your first boyfriend broke up with you. You think you've buried them, but they keep rising up and biting you on the ass like directionally-impaired zombies who hunger for your brain.

My personal undead companion of the summer has been a small chunk of lines from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." which I learned in high school and, evidently, never quite unlearned. I think of them every time I encounter a peach, which is often, given the season:

I grow old... I grow old...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

When I first heard the poem as read to me by a wonderfully hammy, Scottish-brogued English instructor, I didn't take away any sense of Prufrock's failure, isolation, or tortured psyche. No, all I took away at the time was:

What's with the peach? Why can't an old guy eat a damned peach? It's a soft fruit for God's sake. He could probably gum the thing to death.

And then I went back to reading Sylvia Plath because I was so sensitive.

Well, like Mr. Prufrock, I grow old, though I doubt very much that I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled, since I can usually be found in shorts. I am, however, much older than I ever thought I would be. And I happen to like that just fine. It's just that half of the men on my mother's side of the family never made it past their 30's. In a few days, barring accidents, I will have reached 40-- mid-life or, if put into seasonal terms, Midsummer. Not old, but, as I see it, just about right. To borrow from another literary source, I may be, like Miss Jean Brodie minus her attraction to Fascism, in my prime.

I think it more than just coincidence then that Midsummer is when peaches are in their prime. Fully ripened, barely hanging onto the tree, easily bruised, and fuzz to be found in nearly every nook and cranny. God, I'm like a peach in more ways than I had previously imagined. No wonder that bits of a monologue-style poem I learned about an older guy briefly wondering about fruit has come to back haunt me.

And so I leave you with a simple recipe that will help keep me and my fellow peaches in good, supple form for just a little longer than the typical season allows.

Oh, and Mr. Prufrock? Go ahead, eat me. You know you want to.

Brandied Peaches (adapted from the Linton Hopkins recipe at Food & Wine)

What better way to preserve the beauty of a just-ripe peach than with the help of a little alcohol? It's like fruit botox, but vegan.

Serves: 6 to 12

Ingredients:

6 small to medium-sized peaches. Free stones. Really, cling stones are a real pain in the ass.

1 ½ cups water
2 cups sugar
2 cups brandy
1 cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon of cardamom

Preparation:

1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil, then reduce to simmering. Cut a small "x" on the bottom of peaches with a sharp knife and gently lower them into the water. Leave the peaches in the water until their skins loosen and their screaming stops. Remove with a slotted spoon and let cool.

2. In a large saucepan, combine sugar, water, cinnamon, and cardamom over high heat, stirring occasionally to ensure that the sugar is dissolved. Simmer for about five minutes, until a lovely syrup is formed. And I do mean lovely.

3. Excorticate peaches when they are cool enough to handle. Cut in half, remove pits (or stones, if you are English or Canadian), then transfer them to a hot, 2-quart canning jar or 2 1-quart canning jars, equally hot.

4. Add brandy to the syrup and bring to a boil. Ladle the hot syrup over the peaches and close the jar(s) tightly. Let cool to room temperature, then refrigerate for at least one week before serving. The pickled peaches can be stored in your refrigerator for up to three months. As if they would really last that long.

I love to entertain, but hosting a dinner for 8-10 people can get pretty expensive. Between the main course, side dishes, and dessert, the grocery bill can easily run over $100 (and that's a modest calculation when shopping for organic and sustainable food in the Bay Area). But what if you could impress your guests without breaking the bank? Would you believe me if I told you I made a dinner for 9 people that cost under $30?

I didn't plan to spend so little on this dinner party. When I went to the farmers' market and then the butcher I was shopping only to purchase the groceries I needed to make chile verde, a corn and pasilla pepper salad and Mexican rice. I was in the mood for chile verde, a Mexican pork stew made with tomatillos, which is one of my favorite South-of-the-Border dishes. I thought it would be fun to sit in the backyard with friends while eating Mexican food and drinking cerveza. The fact that I spent so little on the meal was a bonus that I'll try to replicate in the future.

If you've never tried chile verde, you are in for a treat when you finally taste it. Chile verde is one of those magical stews that melds together the distinct flavors of a regional area into a unique whole. The tomatillos, onions, and hot peppers roast slowly with the pork, creating a rich and slightly spicy gravy that clings to the succulent and falling apart meat. Served with warm corn tortillas, it's about as good as a stew can get, and inexpensive to boot.

Chile Verde is made using either pork shoulder or butt, which just happens to be one of the cheapest cuts of meat you can purchase. Because it’s a bit fatty and tough, it's a terrible choice for grilling or cooking quickly, but stew it for hours and you have one of the most luscious type of meat available.

Pork shoulder is about $2.99 a pound and you only need 4 lbs for this recipe so your meat tab should be about $12. Add in the tortillas (less than $2 a pack), some rice (also less than $2 for 10 people), corn chips and fresh tomatoes to make homemade salsa (about $5), 2 cans of black beans as a side dish (about $2) and all the veggies needed for the chile verde plus a corn and pepper salad, and you've spent less than $30 for the meal. Obviously the prices of the fruits and vegetables will vary, but because it's summer, most are fairly inexpensive (for instance, I saw five ears of corn for a dollar at the farmers' market the other day).

A delicious yet inexpensive meal with friends: in this economy, that’s a combo I can appreciate.

Chile Verde

Makes: Enough for 9 - 10 people

Ingredients:

4 lbs pork shoulder cut into 1-inch cubes
1 1/2 pounds tomatillos
2 large white or yellow onions
2 Serrano or Jalapeno peppers (depending on how spicy you want the dish. Serranos are hotter.)
1 cup chicken stock or water
2 Tbsp vegetable oil plus more for broiling vegetables
3 tsp cumin powder (or more if you'd like)
2 Tbsp dried oregano (or more if you'd like)
2 Tbsp flour
1/4 cup finely chopped cilantro
Kosher or sea salt and black pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Cut pork into 1-inch cubes. Sprinkle 1 1/2 tsp cumin, 1 Tbsp oregano, and 1 tsp salt onto the cubed meat and set aside.

2. Sprinkle the flour over the meat and mix everything together so the flour and spices cling to the meat chunks. Set meat in the refrigerator until ready to use.

3. Place your oven on its broiler setting. While oven is heating, peal your onions and slice into 1/4-inch pieces. Dehusk your tomatillos and wash them thoroughly as well. Slice them into 1/4-inch slices as well. You can just slice the smaller tomatillos in half. Slice your Serrano or Jalapeno peppers in half. If you want to reduce some of the heat in the dish, take out the seeds and the inner whitish flesh as these are the real hot parts of the pepper.

4. Drizzle some oil onto a baking sheet and set the onions on top. Flip the onions over so each side has a light coating of oil. Sprinkle with kosher or sea salt. Place pan under the broiler and cook until onions are browned. Be careful not to burn them.

5. Remove the onions from the pan and place them into a bowl. Drizzle a bit more oil onto the pan and lay the tomatillo and pepper slices on top. Season them with some salt and set under the broiler. Cook until they are soft and browned.

6. Place the cooked onions, tomatillos and peppers into a food processor and pulse until the mixture is blended thoroughly but still a bit chunky.

7. Heat 1 Tbsp oil in a large Dutch oven (I prefer one made out of cast iron as it distributes the heat evenly, but this is not necessary). When the oil is hot, evenly distribute a portion of your pork pieces into the pot. Be sure not to add them all at once, or even to crowd the pan, as overcrowding will make the meat steam and we want the pork to sear.

9. Sear the pork pieces on each side until they are slightly crispy and then remove them from the pan. Continue browning in batches until all the pork is seared, adding oil as needed. Note that you are not trying to cook the meat through at this point and that you actually want the inner portion of each cube should to remain uncooked. You are simply searing.

10. Once all the meat is browned, add your chicken stock or water to the pot and then scrape the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon or spatula to release the delicious caramelized bits. This will really help to flavor your sauce. Add in the meat and tomatillo mixture along with the rest of your cumin and oregano. I like to crush the dried oregano in my palm before adding it, which helps release its flavors. Add some salt and pepper to taste and stir.

11. At this point you can either set the covered pot in the oven for two hours at 350 degrees (but be sure you use an oven-proof pot and cover), or you can simmer the stew on the stove for 2 hours. Either way, the stew needs to now simmer covered.

12. After about 45 minutes of simmering, stir your stew and add more cumin, oregano, salt and pepper to taste. Recover the pot and place back in the oven or simmer further on the stove for at least another hour and 15 minutes.

13. When stew is thoroughly cooked, with the meat literally falling apart when you touch it and the gravy clinging onto the meat, check your seasoning (adding more salt or pepper if needed; the cumin and oregano should be fine at this point) and serve with warm corn tortillas.

Photo Credit: Ali LaRaia, A Date With Flavor

About 50 miles north of SF, nestled away in Marshall, CA, is a treasure trove full of riches from the sea. "X" marks the spot at the Hog Island Oyster Farm. The jewels you'll find are the sweetest, most succulent oysters harvested from the pristine waters of Tomales Bay.

Hog Island Oyster Co., X-Small Sweetwaters

There is nothing like feasting on fresh, raw oysters. The satisfaction of prying them open. The sensuous delight of slurping the plump morsel straight off the shell, salty juices running down your arms. And that smooth, rich, burst of ocean that floods your mouth.

Hog Island Oyster Co. picnic view, Marshall, CA

The Goods at the Hog Shack

The best part of indulging in all of this at the farm? Other than getting them straight from the source, and enjoying the picturesque bay views, with prices ranging from $32-$52 for 50 oysters, you can truly indulge. Seriously, go nuts. Shuck and slurp to your heart's content.

Hog Island Farm Picnic

This trip up Route 1 has quickly topped my list of favorite day trips in the Bay Area. Tip for the motion-sick prone, bring your Dramamine -- this topsy turvy highway can be a doozy. But it is all worth it.

Tomales Bay Foods, Pt. Reyes Station

If you're driving up from SF, be sure to stop by the quaint town of Point Reyes Station. Stop for a cup of coffee, a stroll through town, and pick up the makings of a perfect picnic at Tomales Bay Foods, an old restored barn housing the original Cowgirl Creamery.

Cowgirls

Today we are making amazingness

We picked up some of Cowgirl's famous Red Hawk (a triple-cream cow's milk cheese, aged six weeks and washed with a brine solution that creates its signature sunset red-orange tinted rind), a big loaf of olive bread from Brickmaiden Breads, and a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc to round out our stash of cherries, peaches, and spiced pecans in tow.

And then it was back on the oyster trail.

There are two Hog Island Oyster Co. picnic spots along Route 1 where you can shuck your own oysters, and either enjoy them in their naked gloriousness or grill them on one of the barbeques they have on site. The one further south is a bit larger and has more seating area, but had a fewer selection of oysters available. We drove on about another 5 minutes to the next location.

The Hog Shack

Shucking gloves on the line

As soon as we entered the premises we were hit with the intoxicating scent of salty sea air. Turned the corner and lo and behold, bushels and bushels of Kumas, Atlantics, Sweetwaters … good God, I was in heaven.

Fifty Atlantic Oysters

We learned from our shuck master the difference in flavor of each variety. The Kumamoto oysters, originally from the Kumamoto area of Kyushu, Japan, are the sweetest of the three varieties available. They have a mild, almost fruity flavor. The Atlantic oysters are a native East Coast species called the Blue Point oyster. They are the saltiest of the bunch and have a slightly more mineral taste. And then there are my personal favorite, the popular Sweetwater oysters, a native West Coast oyster whose flavor falls somewhere in between the Kuma and the Atlantic. They are slightly salty, with a rich smoky-sweet flavor.

Oyster orgy time

Shucking the oysters can be tricky at first. A shucking knife is long and pointed (like an envelope opener) with a dulled edge on both sides. The key to a successful shuck is in first getting the knife lodged into the point of the oyster where the two halves of the shell hinge, the apex if you will. As a beginner, I found it helpful to have a dish towel (remember to bring your own) under the oyster and my left hand (safely ensconced in a protective glove) holding it steady. With my right (dominant) hand, I went at the sweet spot at a slightly downward angle to get it in. You'll feel a give in pressure. Once it's in, rock your knife back and forth, making a motion with your wrist like you’re jiggling a doorknob. The shell should pop loose, allowing you to slide your knife around the edges to complete the process.

For a great visual demo from a pro, check out this video from SF Gate.

62 oysters later: happy and sated

We didn't have time this trip, but next time I'll take my oysters to go and picnic on the beach at the Point Reyes National Seashore, about 20 minutes south on Route 1.

If you can't make it out to Point Reyes anytime soon, take heart, you can still oyster orgy on the cheap in the city. Here is a list worth holding on to: SF Weekly's running list of $1 Oyster spots.

Happy oyster hunting!

Hog Island Oyster Company (farm)
20215, Highway 1
Marshall, CA 94940
(415) 663-9218, ext.255
Open 7 days a week, rain or shine! 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM
Tip: Picnic reservations tend to fill up on the weekends so call in advance ($8/person with reservation on weekend, or $10/person walk-in; $5 on weekdays). Fee includes picnic table, shucking tools, access to bbq, and fresh lemons.

Cowgirl Creamery
80 4th Street (at Tomales Bay Foods)
Point Reyes Station, California 94956
(415) 663-9335
Open Wednesday thru Sunday
Tip: Every Friday at 11:30 a.m. there is a tour consisting of a 25-minute presentation and tasting of Cowgirl Creamery cheeses ($5)

The fizzy, refreshing band Lemonade, used to live in the Bay Area but these days, they call Brooklyn home. Last week, for "Tune in an Afternoon," a reoccurring series conceived by the folks at XLR8R TV, the sample-happy trio, self-described fans of popular television eats-seekers like Anthony "This Aging Rocker's Physique and These Expensive Boots Do Not Hide The Fact I am a Huge Unrepentant Dork" Bourdain and Andrew "I'm Not As Funny As Tony and It's Actually A Little Disturbing When I Force Myself To Eat Weird Stuff" Zimmern, crafted a track appropriate to their quaffable namesake in a matter of hours. With a skimpy budget of 40 bucks in hand, the band went shopping for edible inspiration at Deluxe Food Market on Elizabeth St. in New York City's Chinatown, intending, with the typical enterprising thrift of savvy musician dudes, to fashion both music and mid-day sustenance from their purchases.

Food and music are not strangers. Famously, during an interlude of "Clara," the 12-minute center-piece of Scott Walker's The Drift (2006), a pulsing, jarring horror show of a record, a percussionist is captured vigorously and somewhat rhythmically punching away at a side of beef. The result: dull, wince-worthy thuds, fleshy and full yet weak, an icky almost carnal sound infinitely more gruesome than anything on A Chance to Cut Is A Chance To Cure, Matmos' 2001 album of accessible electronica derived entirely from the recorded saws and squishes of various plastic surgery procedures.

While music made from sounds associated with food, or at least those emanating, with human interference, from things that, properly prepared, could become food (30th Century Man doesn't tell us if Walker or any of his studio minions elected to barbecue the pummeled hunk of cow once it had been thoroughly tenderized) may not be untravelled terrain (I am not knowledgeable enough about electronic music to even bother pretending that there is or is not a chronicled history of such efforts), Lemonade's off-the-cuff July 14 experiment gave me some fresh perspective on the ways we process, enjoy, and dissect food and music.

When we cook a meal, we transform the properties of once-living flesh or vegetable matter to ready them for consumption, rendering them palatable to our tastes and (hopefully) acceptable to our digestive systems. When it hits the table, food is for the most part appraised and enjoyed via four of the five senses: taste (naturally), smell (not far removed), sight, and touch. We may, at times, like hearing the food we're eating -- a bowl of Rice Krispies, shards of papadum, meat sputtering on the grill, even the crackling overture of a super burrito shedding its silver foil skin -- but that sense is, at least for me, not necessarily crucial to pleasurable, or at least engaged eating, the sort of experience capable of triggering memories and emotions. Does food that tastes good often sound good as well? Carpaccio hacked up through mounds of compression and some slithery echo might not sound as lovely as it will taste. Then again, drop a few hushpuppies in a vat of bubbling oil, hold your nose, close your eyes (don't do this before you get within spitting distance of the pot), and tell me that doesn't sound as if it won't deliciously call forth a crashing wave of delirious nostalgia for river-side catfish feeds of days long past and so on.

Whether or not the by-product of Lemonade's music-making was particularly yummy, it's exciting and new to hear food, and only hear it, though the video does obviously visually link the band's process to their final product, a song. Using a cheap microphone and proletariate software, the band documents the pressing of garlic, the popping of a cava bottle, eggs boiling, olive oil sprayed from a can, and, goofily, the open-palmed slapping of a fish, harnessing typical supper-time noises and manipulating them (along with samples from a steel drum platter and some pre-prepared synths) in an improvised recipe for an organic musical composition: "Fish Clap," an uptempo, dish-rattling instrumental ditty, cartoonish, effervescent swirls of kitchen activity in 4/4 with a whiff of the kind of mixer-chewing mayhem Black Dice usually employs to more unsettling ends.

In case the descriptives peppering this tract haven't made it quite clear, the sorts of words critics frequently abuse in reviewing music often work with regard to food and drink too. A mad dash through a few recent Pitchfork reviews reveals that beats, melodies, riffs, tones, and vibes can be construed as fat, rubbery, foamy, gritty, and fluid, just like eats. In the end, writers trying to make sense of whatever creations they've elected to reflect upon have the same tools at their disposal, and there are naturally huge overlaps in the applications of their meanings. That doesn't explain why so many restaurant reviews come off as just a touch less antiseptic than sanitation score reports written by a low-wattage Hemingway sitting down to his Royal portable typewriter after a trip to The Vapor Room.

Amid billowing black stove-staining clouds of digression, I suppose what I'm really coming to, here at the end of this roundabout stew-stirring, is another question, one stretching a bit beyond the scope of the original subject: if food, in the right hands, with the right software, can become music, can music, in a listener's right frame of mind, feel, not literally, of course, but metaphorically, like food?

Certain sounds even evoke specific tastes for me. For example, the vibrato-drenched electric guitar commonly used in old-school surf music lends a silvery, watery quality to whatever it graces; hearing the effect makes me thirsty and apt to think about Coca-Cola in little glass bottles, frozen technicolor drinks churning away in glass-and-metal machines in gas stations, and Gatorade -- sweet refreshments for slaking thirst and cooling down -- as well as deuce coupes and suntan lotion. If sounds packed into songs have flavors, the end results can be dishes, some nourishing, some junky, some deceptively simple, and others triumphs of high art and affectation. To conclude, trying to avoid tunes with explicitly food-oriented lyrics (Sadly, no Dead Prez), because that's really a whole other topic, I've selected, in Rob Gordon-esque fashion, my Top 5 Most Delicious-Sounding Tracks of All Time If They Were Actually Dishes, In A Meal:

1. "Can't Come In" by The Congos off Heart of the Congos -- A very small bowl of intense, almost overwhelming, practically hallucinogenic elixir broth made from about a thousand different tiny spiny slippery sea creature things deftly simmered, frantically stirred, and infused with a literal ton of Scotch bonnets.
2. "Small Hours" by John Martyn off One World -- A cool little lemon-laced salad of sliced English cucumber and some sort of pickled fish, maybe herring.
3. "The Weight" by The Band off Music From Big Pink -- An Arkansas-style poutine, with barbecue sauce substituted for brown gravy.
4. "Tangerine" by Led Zeppelin off Led Zeppelin III -- A luscious royal layer-cake, decadent, towering, frosted with ambrosia (for the gods, of course) and topped with icing in arena light hues.
5. "Turiya and Ramakrishna" by Alice Coltrane off Ptah The El Daoud -- An endless cup of perfect espresso, covered in celestial mounds of spiced cream.