This post was supposed to end much differently. You see, we did something special at my house for Thanksgiving this year. I challenged my mom to a "Stuffing Smackdown." Now I'm one of those people that likes to do virtually everything homemade--and my mom does too, for the most part. But she likes bagged stuffing. In my unofficial stuffing research, I discovered that most people think adding their own combination of ingredients to Pepperidge Farm bags of stuffing counts as homemade. I don't. The challenge was on.

The sign on the front door greeting visitors

Now my good friend Creg raised a good point: "Didn't your homemade stuffing over the past few years really suck? If you're going to propose a throw-down, shouldn't it be something you're really good at?" Fair enough. Good point. My sister Zoe and I had tried two different recipes over the past few years and yes, they'd turned out pretty badly. One too soggy, one without much flavor. But this year was different. I decided to adapt this recipe, leaving out the cranberries, and adding a little more celery and sausage. How could cornbread sausage stuffing not win?

We set out, making our stuffing at separate times in the kitchen, asking family members for taste tests and hints about which way they were leaning. I considered bribes, but ultimately knew I didn't need any help. My stuffing would be the clear winner.

Mom and Megan with their final products

So folks arrived, Zoe made her famous holiday punch with ample vodka, Cointreau, and a bit of pomegranate juice. We caught up. We watched that really odd 80's dance party that they play on KOFY right around this time of the year. Then we set up the stuffing sampling area and called the troops in.

Stuffing signage and voting cards: ready and waiting

The rules were simple: you tried each stuffing. We didn't force any considerations on people (texture, flavor etc.)--we just wanted to know their gut reaction: which stuffing is the ultimate king? After voting, you were to fold up your ballot, put it in the top-secret glass, and my cousin Kelsey announced the winner at dinner.

Consulting each other on the best stuffing

Well, the fateful moment came. In the first line of this post, I might've given you a hint as to who won. I have to mention a quick caveat: I think having the stuffing in the bird is a huge advantage that we, somehow, need to take into account. My sister Rachael suggested someone (namely, her) needs to invent a stuffing separator for the bird so people have the opportunity to stuff it with two different recipes. Until she patents that, however, my mom's Pepperidge Farm stuffing was certainly more moist and flavorful although mine had more color, interesting textures, and the sausage was a bit hit. Sweet, sweet Kelsey decided we should mention the good things about the loser first--very diplomatic. She's had good teachers somewhere along the line. She spoke about how she found the sausage quite delicious. Then she went on to make the big announcement: It was 8-3, with Pepperidge Farm leading it this year. The "Traditional family-oriented really good stuffing" took down the "Rock me all night long stuffing."

It happens. My wheels are turning for what improvements can be made next year. And the cool thing: we've got other entrants lined up for the next go-around. My friend Creg mentioned he'll be entering, and my cousin Elliot is planning on bringing a recipe to enter into the mix. So while I think there were subtleties of my incredible stuffing that were lost on the under 12 crowd, who knew that we'd start a new family tradition?

For my mom's recipe, you need to simply consult the bag of Pepperidge Farm. A little broth, some onions and a little celery and call it a day. Now 8-3 is a pretty big loss. So why, you may ask, are you about to give me the recipe for that losing stuffing? While it's a fair and logical question, most everyone agreed that with a little more broth and a chance to sit in the bird's cavity, it would've been a close race. So this stuffing is quite tasty, I assure you. In fact, I just had some for breakfast. The cornbread is buttery and moist and the celery, leeks, and pecans add nice flavor and texture. And of course, who doesn't love sausage? So I encourage you to give this recipe a try next time your family decides to have a Stuffing Smackdown--or really any old time when you're looking for a hearty, fall side dish. I think you'll like it.

Rock Me All Night Long Cornbread Stuffing
Adapted from: Epicurious

For the recipe below, you make the loaves of cornbread first, dry them out in the oven, and then move on to the actual stuffing. Feel free to make the loaves one or even two days in advance as they can be as stale as can be for the stuffing.

Makes: 2 loaves

Ingredients (Cornbread Only)

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups yellow cornmeal
1/2 cup sugar
2 cups milk
2 large eggs
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened

Preparation (Cornbread Only)

1. Preheat oven to 400° F. and butter two 9-by-5-by-3 inch loaf pans.

2. Into a large bowl sift together flour, baking powder, and salt and whisk in cornmeal and sugar until combined well.

3. In a bowl whisk together milk and eggs until just combined. Add butter to flour mixture and with an electric mixer beat until mixture resembles coarse meal. Beat in egg mixture until just combined (batter will be thin).

4. Pour batter into pans and bake in middle of oven until golden and a tester comes out clean, about 50 minutes. Cool corn bread in pans on a rack 10 minutes and turn out onto rack to cool completely. Corn bread may be wrapped in plastic wrap and kept in a cool, dry place 2 days or frozen 2 weeks.

Ingredients (For Stuffing)

Makes: 12 cups

1 1/2 loaves corn bread
2 cups pecans
6 leeks (about 1 pound; white and pale green parts only)
4 celery ribs
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter
3/4 pound sweet Italian sausage (about 4 links)
1/2 cup packed fresh flat-leafed parsley leaves
2 cups chicken broth

Preparation (For Stuffing)

1. Preheat oven to 325° F. Cut corn bread into 1/2-inch cubes and in 2 large shallow baking pans bake in middle of oven until just dry, about 25 minutes. Transfer cubes from 1 pan to a large bowl and in pan toast pecans in oven until insides are golden, 10 to 15 minutes. While toasting, chop parsley.

2. Halve leeks lengthwise and then cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces. In a bowl of cold water wash leeks well and lift from water into a sieve to drain. Chop celery. In a 12-inch skillet cook leeks and celery in butter with salt and pepper to taste over moderately low heat, stirring, until leeks are tender, about 25 minutes.

3. Remove sausage from casings and break into pieces. Add sausage to leek mixture and cook over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, 5 minutes, or until sausage is cooked through.

4. To bowl of corn bread add pecans, sausage mixture, parsley, broth, and salt and pepper to taste and toss together. Cool stuffing completely. Stuffing may be made up to this point 1 day ahead and chilled, covered. Bring stuffing to room temperature before proceeding.

For cooking stuffing inside poultry:

Any frozen poultry destined for stuffing should be completely thawed, and the stuffing itself brought to room temperature before it's put into the turkey. Do not stuff your bird the night before you cook it; such a seeming time-saver can have dangerous results. Instead, it is best to loosely fill the bird's neck and body cavities immediately before roasting. And always use a meat or instant-read thermometer: The meat is done when the temperature of the thickest part of the thigh (be careful not to touch the bones) reaches 180°F.; the stuffing baked inside the bird is done at 160°-165°F. After roasting, let your stuffed poultry stand 15 to 20 minutes, a double assurance that the requisite temperatures for food safety have been reached.

For cooking all or part of stuffing outside poultry:

In a shallow baking dish bake stuffing in preheated 325° F. oven 1 hour (for moist stuffing, bake covered entire time; for less moist stuffing with a slightly crisp top, uncover halfway through baking time).

Had enough brown sugar and butter for a while? Perhaps as a reaction to the pervasive Pacific Northwest chill, my hosts this year up in Seattle got serious about their meats and starches. At the center of the menu was a 28-lb turkey, lacquered glossy brown through a simulated pit-cooking in the Weber grill, paired up with a huge, lavishly home-smoked ham glazed purple with marionberry jam and bourbon. Alongside were plain mashed potatoes, garlic mashed potatoes, and horseradish mashed potatoes; "more butter than yams" casserole of sweet potatoes whipped with nearly their weight in brown sugar and butter and topped with marshmallows; plus sage-and-chestnut stuffing, all of it awash in lakes of turkey and ham gravy.

Standing on my California rights, I insisted on adding the wonderful autumn salad found on the menu at Bay Wolf a decade ago, and on the table of wherever I've been having Thanksgiving ever since. A vivid toss of arugula, oak-leaf lettuce, sliced Fuyu persimmons, pomegranate seeds, crumbled chevre, and sweet-spicy pecans, it makes a lively antidote to all that beige stuff. (The exact recipe can be found in the excellent Bay Wolf Cookbook, a must-have for seasonally-minded Bay Area cooks.)

But after a few days of turkey sandwiches and the remains of the stuffing, what I was craving was greens: tough, raincoat-textured winter greens, steamed to tenderness and tossed with lemon and garlic and hot pepper flakes, bright with B vitamins and minerals with just an edge of bitterness.

Happily, this is their season. While you can grow all the brassica family year-round, they do best in the cool, moist weather of a Bay Area winter. In the brassica family (formerly known as the crucifers, for their cross-shaped stems) are all the cole crops: cabbage, cauliflower, kale, collard greens, mustard greens, broccoli rabe, lacinato (also known as cavelo nero, black, or dino) kale, Brussels sprouts, kohlrabi, and more. They are even better after a frost, when the plant produces a naturally sweet "antifreeze" to keep from the water inside its cells from freezing. Hot weather stresses the plants, and makes them more susceptible to disease and pest pressure. In cool, even cold weather, though, they thrive.

If you haven't grown brassicas before, the easiest ones to start with are the leafy greens, including broccoli rabe (rapini), collards, and kale. Plant them now, and you'll have fresh greens to pick through spring. The leafy greens will keep producing week after week; pick the large leaves off the outside of the plant to eat, leaving the tiny leaves at the center of the whorl. In a week or two, a whole new crop of large leaves will be ready to pick. Just snap off the bigger leaves and leave the tiny ones down at the center.

Since the days are shorter now, growing will be slower. Instead of seeds, it's probably better to start with already established plants. Look for them at well-stocked garden centers or farmers' markets. (Flowercraft on Bayshore, the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market, and the Marin Farmers' Market all have good arrays of edible green starts at this time of year.)

Being a highly nutritional subsistence food for cultures all around the globe, these sturdy greens are easy to grow and not particularly fussy. In fact, they're vigorous self-seeders and will colonize any neglected corner of your corner for years to come. Prepare the beds with some good compost and mulch around the plants to keep down weeds. Pick leaves as they mature, since the more the plant is picked the more leaves it will push out.

Right now, lacinato kale is my favorite go-to green. While farmers often disparage the cutesy moniker of "dino kale," the curled, bumpy, black-green leaves do resemble dinosaur skin, if dinosaurs were vegetables. They're less rubbery than common kale and collards, meaning they need only a light steaming, followed by a quick saute in olive oil with some minced garlic, lemon zest and juice, and a sprinkle of hot pepper flakes. Eat them straight out of the pan, if you're like me, or toss them with orecchiette and a handful of grated romano cheese. (Use a mix of broccoli rabe and lacinato kale for a particularly excellent version.) Shredded, they can be the backbone of Portuguese style caldo verde soup with linguisa and potatoes, or a warming Florentine ribollita, the bread-thickened minestrone of beans and vegetables. According to an article in Gravy, the newsletter of the Southern Foodways Alliance, Punjabi truck stops stay open around the clock in winter dishing up bowls of sarson ka saag, greens (especially pungently biting mustard greens) cooked slowly with onion, garlic, ginger, tomato, cumin, and coriander. Topped with butter, the flavorful puree is scooped up with makki ki roti, thin, tortilla-like corn cakes flavored with fenugreek and ajwan seeds.

The key? Get your greens fresh, unwilted and unyellowed. Remove any tough central ribs. For side dishes or pastas, steam in an inch or two of lightly salted water until just tender to the bite. Tough greens like collards and kale take longer; broccoli rabe, mustard greens, and lacinato kale will go faster. Drain well, let cool, and then chop or slice before sauteeing. For soups, remove the tough central rib, stack the leaves up and roll like a cigar. Slice thinly and add strips to liquid, simmering until tender.

People -- mostly those city folk types -- tend to think that living in the suburbs is dull, pedestrian, and conformist. My friend, the stuff I've already seen around this leafy neighborhood...well, it wouldn't exactly curl your hair, but it could raise some over-groomed eyebrows. Like, the morning I found a pair of red satin pajama bottoms draped over the perfectly trimmed Japanese box hedge. I spent an inordinate amount of time Rear Window-ing it, just waiting to catch someone in the act of retrieval. Sadly, I never did discover which of my neighbors lost their saucy britches, but I certainly look at them all in a brand new light.

Another belief about the suburbs I've been thrilled to disprove is that it's all bad food. It's true that after five years of living in a city so stuffed with fabulous food finds as San Francisco, moving to the suburbs might have seemed like committing gastronomic suicide. However, this was something I refused to accept. Of course, I might be doing a lot more cooking at home -- a sure money and waist saver -- but I was still committed to finding good eats in our new neighborhood.

So, over the next few weeks, I plan to bring you those findings, and let me assure you, they are delicious. Starting us off today, I wish you "pizza long life" and give you Howie's Artisan Pizza in Palo Alto's Town and Country Village. (Erm, any fellow Trekkies out there?)

For the past year, it has been my fondest desire to find pizza on the Peninsula that made up for the loss of my favorites in the city. Piccino, Pizzetta 211, and Pizzeria Delfina set the curve for me in terms of crust and inventive toppings, and it was going to be really hard to, uh, top them.

Even before we walked in to pick up what will be our first of many, many orders to come, I was pretty convinced the people at Howie's Artisan Pizza already knew me. Yeah, hi, I'm the annoying chick who's been bugging you FOR MONTHS about when you're opening? Yeah...sorry about that. Well, as of November 17th Howie's is finally open in Palo Alto's Town and Country Village!

Of course, nothing would do except to rush right out and get two sample pizzas -- fresh from the wood brick oven -- in oder to render snap judgements on this long-anticipated place. We tried the Wild Mushrooms pizza (sage, pecorino, mozzarella, and tomato) and the Pancetta and Egg pizza (house made pancetta, eggs, arugula, shaved parmesan, and olio santo). I was especially interested to try the pancetta and egg since one of my all-time favorites at Pizzetta 211 is the pizza that always, always has a Rosie's Farm egg cracked and baked right on top along with seasonal toppings.

Possibly due to the understandable confusion and chaos surrounding a grand opening, the egg pie wasn't as advertised on the website menu. No arugula in sight. Instead, we got a pie with cracked egg, caramelized onions, pancetta, some kind of cheese, and red pepper flakes. It was delicious. It's a bit rich to have often, but it was damn good. I would still like to see Howie's do an egg pie that lightens itself up a bit with the advertised arugula one of these days, but given the empty pizza box, I'm clearly not complaining.

As a consequence of adoring Piccino's stellar white funghi pizza, I was a bit leery of a mushroom pizza that had a red sauce base. Well, I love being proven wrong when it comes to food skepticism, because that pizza was nothing short of awesome. It wasn't too heavy with cheese, which is good because, as a topping, mushrooms can drag down all but the thickest crusts all on their own. The red sauce I was so skeptical of was that kind of red sauce that proves a pizza place is serious about their craft. A pizza place that doesn't understand the importance of a sublime red sauce is as pointless as one that doesn't understand the vital importance of a good crust.

Howie's understands both these points.

As soon as I saw the browned and bubbled up crust, I was instantly reminded of Kim's Apizza Scholls photos. Judging only with my eyes, I knew this was going to be a good crust. Unless we're talking about Chicago-style deep-dish, which I almost never do since I'm not a big fan of the thick and heavy, pizza crusts should be a silent partner in the pizza making. It should be thin, yet able to stand up to the toppings. Chewy, yet not bready or overly filling. Crispy, but not shard-hard. It's a tall order.

Since we weren't eating in, we did what we always do with take-out pizza: slide pieces on our pizza stone in a preheated 500° oven for 1-2 minutes to undo what potential sog set in during the drive home. Perfection. This crust met and exceeded all my expectations and while I hope Howie's get more inventive with seasonal toppings, I can state that we've finally found our local pizza joint on the Peninsula.

UPDATE: Before this went to press, we couldn't resist trying two more pizzas. We sampled the Hobbs' pepperoni pizza and added black olives to it. The pepperoni was delicious, but I wish they didn't use canned olives. Their tinny, over-brined flavor tends to overpower everything. We also tried the sausage pizza with broccoli rabe (pictured above). This was stellar. The house made fennel sausage is from Berkshire pork and was incredible. We're definitely getting that one again.

Howie's Artisan Pizza
Town and Country Village
855 El Camino Real
Palo Alto, CA 94301-2326
650.32.PIZZA (650.327.4992)

Hours
Sunday-Saturday: 11:30am-9:30pm

Well Happy Black Friday, everyone, if there is such a thing.

Typically, I love Fridays. To me, the day means the promise of free time, friends, and martinis in any given order.

Usually, I see Friday as the bright, shiny spot to my week. Black Friday, however, is a different story:

If you are one of the 12 people who hasn't heard this term used ad nausæum over the past few days, "Black Friday" refers to today, the day after Thanksgiving, which is, according to retailers, the official first day of the Holiday Shopping Season-- a day when millions of American-types have the day off and, presumably, enough money burning holes in their pockets to warrant getting up at 4 am to trample some poor Walmart worker to death in search of great bargains.

It just makes me cringe. I want nothing to do with either the day or any of its trimmings.

To someone like me, who may have the bad fortune of having holes in his pockets, but the good fortune of having nothing burning anywhere near them, it makes sense to spend the Friday after Thanksgiving holed up in order to recover from the orgy of food, wine, friends, and family.

I don't want to leave the house. I want to curl up on a couch and watch movies, or sleep off the thousands of calories I consumed the day before. I don't want to go to Union Square to see how pretty the lights are on the giant Christmas tree, I don't want to think about Holiday cards, and I definitely don't want to go shopping-- not even for food. I will wait out the crazy in the comfort of my own home and wait for next week, when I can start humming one of my favorite tunes with conviction:

Until then, here's a recipe that might help you avoid the madness, too...

Turkey Hash with Sweet Potatoes

Serves 4 to 6

...or anything else you have that's left over from Thanksgiving dinner. All the ingredients should be on hand (which is precisely the point). Turkey, sweet potatoes, russets, onions-- you know you've got them. You've been on a role with the heavy food intake, so why not carry it over to breakfast? Oh, hell, you know you're going to carry it over until the New Year. I don't know who you think you're fooling if you say otherwise.

Turkey, on it's own, is boring (and potentially dry)-- it needs help. Sweet potatoes turn mushy and, naturally, sweet, so they need some assistance from their firmer, starchier friend, the Russet. All of them need salt to help them along, and salt needs them, otherwise, no one would us it and then where would it be? This is a beautifully co-dependent start to the day-after.

Ingredients:

2 cups diced turkey meat, white or dark

1 cup medium-diced onion

1/2 cup diced red bell pepper

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 cup diced sweet potato, baked for 30 to 40 minutes in the oven. Or just pick off the marshmallows from the dish you had last night-- no one will notice, since the sweet potatoes will more than likely disintegrate during cooking.

2 cups baked, diced Russet potato

1 small jalapeño pepper, diced on the small side.

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons butter

1/2 cup turkey stock, if you still have some on hand. Chicken stock will do nicely, too. This dish needs a little moisture before browning to give the turkey a chance. For extra decadence, substitute 1/4 of heavy cream for the stock. Seriously.

About 2 teaspoons of salt-- more depending on taste. I like more.

A generous amount of freshly ground black pepper-- at least a teaspoon

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper.

Parsley for garnish. Or chives. Or whatever. I'm just into parsley these days.

Preparation:

1. In a large cast iron skillet, heat oil and butter over medium-high heat. Pre-heat your broiler to hi. Add onion and bell pepper and cooking, stirring all the while, until they begin to brown (3 to 5 minutes). Add garlic and jalapeño and cook for one minute more.

2. Add sweet potato, Russett potato, salt, and turkey at this point. Stir occasionally until the potatoes begin to brown (8 to 10 minutes). Add broth (and cream, if you are using) and cook down for another 3 or 4 minutes, shaking and scraping the pan from time to time. Taste to adjust salt levels, if you must.

3. To finish the browning by getting a nice crust on top, I like to stick my hash under the broiler for a couple of minutes-- obsessively checking it-- until such a state has been achieved. This is more than likely cheating in the minds of all good line cooks across this land of ours, but my skills are limited and I do whatever I must to attain my goals.

4. Sprinkle with the cayenne, grind over the pepper and add a little fresh green with a handful of parsley meted out over the top. Serve hot with poached eggs, or whatever else you've got left over from Thanksgiving that you think might work well with hash. Do not, however, serve with egg nog. To eat, curl up on couch, wrap yourself up in your favorite blanket or pashmina, pop in any vintage movie starring an adorable, precocious child like Margaret O'Brien, Natalie Wood, or Peggy Ann Garner, and go to town. Or, rather, don't, because that's where all the crazy people will be.

It's hard to think about hunger on Thanksgiving. Today most of us will be inundated with turkey, potatoes, and pie. The idea of an empty belly seems incongruous to the day itself. But for many families, it's a sober reality. In San Francisco alone, over 150,000 people lack the resources to feed themselves and their families. And as this horrible recession we're living through slogs on, more and more people -- many of whom lived middle class existences not too long ago -- are thankful today not only for their families, but for the food banks whose tireless employees and volunteers helped provide today's feast.

According to Lisa Mizokami, the Volunteer Services Manager at the San Francisco Food Bank,

"requests for food are up 20% this year over last -- and the numbers have kept climbing as we approach the holidays. Just this past Saturday, one of our community partners was overwhelmed by the turnout for holiday food. They normally serve around 400 families each week and had requested enough food for 700 for this last weekend before Thanksgiving. When 1,000 people turned up, they had to scramble to make sure as many people as possible received something. But 50 people still left empty-handed."

And Brian Higgins, the Communications Manager of the Alameda County Community Food Bank says his organization has

"referred more emergency (same-day) food in 2009 than [they] did in 2006 & 2007 combined."

The great news is that the number of people volunteering at food banks has also increased. People like you have donated time and money to allow various local food banks to meet increased demand. Yet more help is needed.

So if you're looking for a way to give back to your community this holiday season, or all year, here are some local volunteer opportunities at organizations offering food to those in need. If you know of a great program not listed here, please include it in the comments section.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Bay Area Hunger

This is a great place to get started if you're interested in volunteering at a food bank. Bay Area Hunger is a resource organization that provides information on the the many food banks in the greater Bay Area so you can easily find one close to where you live or work. They even have a map detailing where each food bank is located. Their site also provides information on donating and upcoming benefits.

San Francisco Food Bank
Twitter: @SFFoodBank

The San Francisco Food Bank is the critical link between food and people. They provide food to over 22,000 households each week through 400+ non-profit partners and will distribute 36.5 million pounds of food this year to meet an ever-growing need in our community.

How to Volunteer
Weekend food sorting shifts are full through the new year, so they are now trying to schedule remaining weekday projects through December. Evening and weekend projects are being scheduled for 2010 for those who would like to start their new year off by helping their community.

How to Donate Food
There are over 50 locations throughout San Francisco where people can drop off food.

Alameda County Community Food Bank
Twitter: @accfb

Demand at the Alameda County Community Food Bank is at an all-time high in its 24-year history. In October, their Emergency Food Helpline set an all-time record for food referrals (3,235) households for the fourth consecutive month. The ACCFB relies on donations and volunteers keep their program going, which includes distributing 8 million pounds of fresh produce this to year, nearly half of all the food that we distribute.

How to Volunteer

• Food Sorting -- Because this is a very popular time of year to volunteer, the Alameda County Community Food Bank started a program to facilitate volunteers to directly serve their 275 member agencies. Email volunteer@accfb.org for more information.
• Be an operator on the Emergency Food Helpline -- Operators refer food to more than 3,000 households every month. Bilingual reps are extremely in demand. There’s a six-month minimum volunteer requirement – one three-hour shift per week – and there’s 4-6 weeks of training involved. Email volunteer@accfb.org and write HELPLINE in the subject line for more information.
• Join their advocacy group -- Become a member of Community Advocates Against Hunger (CAAH), which meets monthly and addresses anti-hunger legislation (like improved access to food stamps). Write advocate@accfb.org.

How to Donate Food

• There are food drop-off bins set up throughout Alameda County. Many of these are at schools, churches, and grocery stores.
• You can also take part in the ACCFB's Virtual Food Drive where every $1 donated purchases $7 in food.
• Consider organizing your own Food Drive at your work, school, church or with your community group. They will supply everything you’ll need. Just call 510-635-3663, ext. 318

Glide Memorial Church
Twitter: @glidesf

Glide's mission is to create a radically inclusive, just and loving community mobilized to alleviate suffering and break the cycles of poverty and marginalization. They provide 850,000 meals a year, making Glide one of the largest free meal providers in San Francisco. Glide is also the only program in town that provides three nutritious meals to the city’s poor, homeless and hungry 364 days of the year.

How to Volunteer

• Food volunteer opportunities include serving food, toy sorting, and sorting and stacking food for Glide's Grocery Bag Give Away.
• Glide is also looking for people to participate in their professional volunteer program, including doctors and other health care providers and employment professionals.

Project Open Hand
Blog: Project Open Hand

Project Open Hand provides meals to seniors and people living with serious illnesses in San Francisco.

How to Volunteer
Prepare meals on site, sort and fill grocery bag orders, deliver food, and serve meals for seniors at their senior lunch sites.

St. Anthony Foundation
Twitter: @stanthonysf

St. Anthony Foundation has responded to the needs of poor and low-income San Franciscans for the past six decades. They serve daily meals and provide shelter and clothes to those in need.

How to Volunteer
Volunteer projects range from serving trays in the Dining Room and sorting clothes for guests to skills-based services in the Tenderloin Tech Lab, Clinic, and Social Work Center. They offer both regular shifts and special group projects designed for large or small teams

Meals On Wheels of San Francisco

Meals On Wheels of San Francisco exists to alleviate the food insecurity and loneliness experienced by seniors who want to stay in their own home but cannot shop or prepare meals for themselves.

How to Volunteer
Various volunteer opportunities are available, including being an at-home visitor for seniors who spend much of their days alone, shopping for seniors, helping with small in-home repairs, and delivering food.

Second Harvest Food Bank
Twitter: @2ndharvest

Second Harvest Food Bank of Santa Clara and San Mateo Counties has been providing services to the community for 35 years. They are the single largest nonprofit provider of food to low-income households in Santa Clara and San Mateo Counties and are the seventh largest food bank in the country, providing food to an average of 207,000 individuals each month. Of those they serve, 67% are families with children and 12% are senior citizens.

How to Volunteer
Volunteer opportunities include food sorting, education and outreach, food distribution, and office services.

Marin Food Bank

The Marin Food Banks provides food throughout the community, including emergency food orders for families experiencing both short term and long-term crises, bags of food for low-income seniors, and holiday food boxes for needy families during Easter, Thanksgiving, Chanukah and Christmas.

How to Volunteer
The Marin Food Bank offers various volunteer opportunities, which are listed in their web site.

Butternut Squash

When I lived in Bologna, my Italian roommate Mariangela would make this heavenly Butternut Squash Risotto on special occasions. She would stand there by the stove, stirring away with her ancient looking wooden spoon (she claimed it imparted extra flavor) until a magical transformation took place and plain rice became creamy risotto. She would then finish it off with a generous drizzle of the liquid gold her mother would ship to her from their olive grove in Calabria.

This dish holds a special place in my heart because it reminds me of long, hearty meals around a dining room table that gets cozier as the night progresses and louder as the wine flows. Which, come to think of it, is maybe why I think it's the perfect Thanksgiving dish as well.

Risotto: premature stages

Risotto: fully bloomed

Mariangela taught me a few tricks of the trade to making her risotto:
1) Don't forget to shred a carrot into the mix. Since carrot is a natural sweetener, it will bring out the sweetness of the butternut squash.
2) Don't forget to toast the rice a bit before you start adding liquid. It brings out the flavor of the rice and also helps in getting that nice, slightly al dente chew at the end.
3) Don't forget to bring the broth to a simmer before adding it to the rice.
4) Don't forget to add the broth one ladle at a time, waiting until it is absorbed by the rice until more is added.
5) Don't forget to pour yourself a nice glass of wine while you stir.

Risotto takes time and TLC, but it's well worth it. For Thanksgiving, roast off the squash ahead of time and keep it ready for use in an airtight container. You can even make the entire dish ahead of time and keep it in a large casserole dish ready to reheat in the oven before serving.

Butternut Squash Risotto

This Butternut Squash Risotto is meant to be shared and enjoyed with those near and dear to you. It is warm and comforting, creamy and rich, and taste like home.

Butternut Squash Risotto

Serves: 10-12

Ingredients:
1 small butternut squash (about 1 1/2 pounds), or 1 package pre-cut
32 oz chicken broth (2 boxes)
1 small onion, diced (about 1/2 cup)
1 carrot, peeled and shredded
2 large garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon grated ginger
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cups Arborio rice
1/4 cup dry white wine
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cinnamon
Pinch of nutmeg
½ cup Parmigiano Reggiano, freshly grated
Olive oil for roasting and finishing

Preparation:

Roast the Butternut Squash
1. Preheat oven to 450°F with the rack in the middle.
2. If using pre-cut squash, drizzle with about a tablespoon of olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and roast on a foil-lined baking sheet for 20-25 minutes until lightly browned. (Skip to step 5).
3. If using a whole squash, microwave the entire squash for 3-4 minutes so that it's easier to cut through. Halve squash lengthwise and discard seeds.
4. Peel one half and cut into 1-inch dice. Put remaining half, cut side down, in an oiled foil-lined baking pan with diced squash and season with salt and pepper. Bake the squash, stirring the diced pieces occasionally, until tender and browned lightly, 20-25 minutes. Holding halved squash in a kitchen towel, scoop out flesh and coarsely chop.
5. Set aside. (Roasting can be done 1-2 days ahead of time and kept in an airtight container in the fridge.)

Making the Risotto
6. In a saucepan bring broth to a simmer and keep at a bare simmer.
7. In a large pot melt the butter and add onion, carrot, garlic, and ginger. Cook over moderate heat, stirring, until softened.
8. Stir in rice and let it toast a bit, stirring constantly, about 1 minute.
9. Add wine and cook, stirring, until absorbed.
10. Then stir in the broth ¼ cup at a time, stirring constantly, until absorbed. Keep the risotto at a simmer throughout. Continue simmering, stirring, and adding broth, letting each addition be absorbed before adding next, until about half of broth has been added.
11. Stir in diced and chopped squash, honey, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and continue simmering and adding broth in same manner until rice is tender and creamy-looking but still slightly al dente, about 20-25 minutes.
12. Stir in the grated Parmigiano and combine.
13. Spoon risotto into serving bowls and garnish with a drizzle of olive oil and a few curls of Parmigiano using a vegetable peeler.

Many Americans are what All The Rain Promises And More author David Arora calls fungophobic. I started this thin volume on a red-eye flight from San Francisco to New York City several years ago. I'd intended to become an overnight edible mushroom expert. Unfortunately, pills and $6 Heinekens clouded my concentration around the time I thumbed past the introduction, and I soon folded up the book and bopped off into a restless, heaving slumber. As a result, I know little about mushrooms -- their identification and classification. The introduction, however, I do remember, particularly a section in which Arora briefly outlines fungophobia. Now, every fall, when wild mushroom season booms, associations resurface. I think about what mushrooms represent -- to me, a life-long seeker of tasty edible fungi, as well how they've been conceived by others over time.

Arora claims our fungophobia came -- like bowl cuts and breakfast links -- from the British, who believed mushrooms were nutritionally worthless and perhaps hostile by design.

The Roman Stoic Seneca may have rather poetically dubbed them a "voluptuous poison," but for thousands of years, in less fearful cultures, mushrooms have been used in the crafting of folk medicines. Lest that fact be relegated to the territory of bubbling cauldrons, pockmarked witches, and spooky incantations, more recent research has linked some of the same mushrooms with cancer-fighting properties, anti-pathogenic activity, and immune system enhancement. Penicillin, along with many other famous pharmaceuticals, comes from the fungi kingdom. Nutritionally, mushrooms are no sweet potatoes, yet many are still high in fiber and provide vitamins like thiamine, riboflavin, niacin, and ascorbic acid -- as well as minerals such as potassium and phosphorus. Exempting those that kill you or make you crazy for six hours, wild mushrooms can, as most readers are very aware, be extremely delicious. Chanterelles are buttery and subtle; fresh porcini are robust and nutty, excellent roasted, or in salads with Parmigiano-Reggiano shavings and pine nuts; lion's mane mushrooms are furry and high-strung, delicate, with a mild, almost seafood-like taste -- especially nice folded into an omelette. The possibilities are nearly limitless, and most dedicated eaters and chefs prize their special qualities and bountiful culinary applications.

But lore is stacked against mushrooms -- and not just because a few of them are quite dangerous. Historically, mystery and sheer perceived strangeness have had as much to do with the stigmas surrounding their consumption as the bloating, vomiting, and painful death certain varieties tend to cause. In medieval Ireland, people thought leprechauns used them as umbrellas. The ancient Egyptians believed mushrooms were the sons of gods, zapped to earth on tremendous bolts of lightning. The English imagined they had to be gathered under a full moon in order to be eaten safely. Mushrooms are weird: fragile, oddly luminous products of darkness and moisture that spring up unannounced -- like magic -- in woodsy crevices. That may have been why people were once so alarmed by them. They don't grow like wild and cultivated plants. Centuries ago, in Western Europe, mushrooms were sketchy pagan symbols, ominous harbingers of supernatural forces -- particularly when they were discovered suddenly sprouting in circular "fairy ring" colonies. Today, from Victorian paintings and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland to Fantasia and the distinctive cap-and-stem-like cloud that forms in the wake of a massive explosion, mushrooms are iconic, but not a food with universal appeal.

Last week, when my pre-kindergarten class was making its weekly foray through the Ferry Building, we stopped at the Far West Fungi store. We'd been there on other occasions, to scope the spore logs and posters, but I was freshly inspired. I'd made very good use of the season's offerings the night before -- skillet-browned porcini, king trumpet, chanterelle, and oyster mushrooms on a crispy pizza with thyme and Bellwether Farms Crescenza -- and was wondering how their bizarre shapes, fetching names, and earthy flavors would go over with the kids. I arranged a few raw ones on the art table for them to draw -- lion's mane, chanterelle, trumpet, and oyster -- and sliced and sauteed the rest in butter with a pinch of salt while the children napped. An hour later, for snack, in addition to cheese and crackers, I passed a plate with four glistening beige-and-brown mounds for them to sample.

Of fifteen children, only a third dared to taste. My expectations had been modest following another teacher's mortifying zucchini muffin fiasco, so I was not saddened, but pleased, almost amazed that those five, in the end, managed to vaporize most of what I set before them. "I like the black one and the yellow one," said one boy, gesturing loosely at the trumpets and chanterelles. "I'm going to tell my mom I like them." "They're pretty and taste good," a girl cooed. The other three fared very well, with a slight edge going to the oyster, but no one cared much for the lion's mane mushroom. It didn't hold up, disintegrating into soft, unappetizing strands -- the fault of a chef in a hurry flailing around a crummy electric stove with cheap cookware. On the art table, however, all were popular. One girl thought the chanterelle looked like a flower, and soon they were all calling it the "flower one," most likely because "chanterelle" was hard for them to say. The lion's mane, a 'shroom non grata at snack, was a big hit here -- especially once the kids learned its name. They kept petting it.

As part of this little tutorial, I did mention that some mushrooms are dangerous, that only ones from reputable suppliers should be eaten, and that sometimes yucky mushrooms can look like yummy ones. Here and there, a chorus of shrill "eeewwwwwws" erupted, but largely, the children were not grossed out, merely fascinated. They explored the mushrooms, passing them back and forth, pulling off the caps, examining the gills, trying to figure them out in that serious contemplative way four-year olds have.

If only the exploratory nibble of a truffle in some French field pre-civilization had initially sparked our ongoing cultural fascination, not the photogenic fly agaric toadstool with its deep-red cap and white spots. Perhaps then aversions would be less common. Thanks to Nintendo, of course, even this wicked-looking specimen has shed some of its evil. In the famous Super Mario Brothers video game, Mario, an Italian-American plumber, winds his way through various worlds within the Mushroom Kingdom. Predictably, when he hops on mushrooms, he either gets bigger and powers up, or rarely but not infrequently, gets zapped with a debilitating dose of poison. Mushrooms giveth and mushrooms taketh away. One of Mario's sidekicks in later additions to the franchise is a grinning little fly agaric named Toad. A kid who used to be in my current class was obsessed with mushrooms because his older sister played a Mario game at home. He would make mushrooms out of Legos and have them hop around, squeaking, growing bigger (as he added more Legos) and then smaller again (as he removed Legos). Once, I built him a mushroom-shaped Lego house big enough for a whole family of Lego mushrooms, and he was ecstatic.

My favorite bar in the world epitomizes the slightly uncomfortable degree of cuteness Nintendo has bestowed upon the toadstool. It's called Pretty Space & Bar Mushroom, and it occupies a minuscule suite in a nondescript office building on a busy bar-lined street in downtown Kyoto, Japan. The Phone Booth -- and maybe an actual phone booth -- feels roomy by comparison. There's a mushroom on the door, and when you open it, a bizarre little world appears -- not unlike one of the treasure-filled huts in Super Mario Brothers -- which at three in the morning, can be simultaneously exciting and disconcerting. Glitchy video game music sputters on the stereo. A red glow saturates all you see. There are mushrooms everywhere. Even the jolly bartender's hair is carved in the shape of a cap.

Back in San Francisco, watching the kids crowd around the mushrooms, I remembered something I once read -- perhaps in Arora's book -- about morels. Never successfully cultivated commercially, wild morels are especially abundant in areas ravaged by forest fires, their spores somehow spurred into action by the destruction. After flames, and then ash, and then rains, they emerge, phoenix-like, a delicious sign of life ready to be plucked and savored. It's an image I like to keep in mind -- even when mushrooms aren't for dinner.

Zazu and Bovolo chef, John Stewart, displays his butchering diagram tattoo

The July issue of Food and Wine garnered more than usual attention and press. On it, the "Best New Chefs" of 2009 were photographed in all their glory--and with all their tattoos. In the "Letters to the Editor" for the October issue of the magazine, a reader objected, noting, "I don't recall subscribing to Sailor's Monthly." Moving on from print, as anyone who tunes in to Top Chef can tell you, tattoos are a vibrant presence in each episode. In fact, Bravo has even put together a slideshow displaying current contestant's ink. From small flowers to intricate sleeves, the aspiring Top Chefs show it all off.

Locally, the Bay Area could host a similar show. A great many chefs have tattoos, and interestingly (although not surprisingly)--many are food related. I set out to take a closer look and found that, while tattoos in general are often thought of as the ultimate form of self-expression, the following food personalities are proving that their alimentary tats are more than that. Part immortalizing a favorite dish, part business inspiration and contract, part celebrating personal success--they all prove that they're in it for the long run.

A Business Contract--With Yourself
Jake Godby, owner of Humphry Slocombe ice cream, isn't technically a chef--although he was a prominent pastry chef before deciding to open his innovative scoop shop. The inspiration behind the 31 flavors tattoo gracing his forearm was completely business related. Jake was having difficulties with PG&E as he worked to open the shop on Harrison St. Things were going slower than he would've liked and he was becoming more and more frustrated with each passing day. He knew that if he did something permanent, if he got a tattoo, it was a contract with himself that he'd stick with it: "There's no turning back now."

Jake Godby, owner of Humphry Slocombe, shows off his ice cream cone tattoos

Self-Identification and Expression
Jake's ice cream tattoo isn't his only food-related ink. He also has a Campbell's soup can, the Pillsbury doughboy, and Elsie the cow. Jake was a double major in art and art history, so the Campbell's soup can is a melding of his interest in both. And the Pillsbury doughboy? Jake laughs, "I'm a baker. It just fit." As for Elsie: he just liked her. For Jake, it was about identifying with an image that was important to him, and that spoke to how he saw himself.

Jake shows off the lesser-known tats

The necessity to express oneself in the kitchen is particularly strong for chefs. "It's a nice way for people who spend an absurd amount of time in the back of a kitchen to express themselves. It's one way to really be yourself in the kitchen without annoying anyone," Richie Nakano, sous chef at NOPA, explains. He goes on, saying "The thing about cooking is it's an industry where you can wear your hair however you want, get tattoos...cooking's about the craft, not about your appearance." So while there is obviously a creative outlet with the food preparation and presentation, most chefs are stuck in a sweaty room for 12 hours a day with the same few folks. Tattoos are a way to stand out, make a statement, and express oneself in a profession where those things are reserved for the product rather than the individual.

Richie spoke a bit about his newest tattoo, a sleeve of the four seasons. He had fall and winter done about a month ago, spring's to come, and he just had the figs (Summer) outlined a few weeks ago. Part self-expression, part celebrating the vibrance of the seasons here in California, and a team effort with his beloved local tattoo artist whom he’s put a lot of trust in conceiving of it.

Richie Nakano, sous chef at NOPA, and his Four Seasons Sleeve

Celebrating Forward Movement in the Kitchen
Chad LewisNewton of Fish and Farm got his first food tattoo to celebrate his moving up in the culinary world. Of it, he says "I got the Oui Chef! / Non Chef! tat after I got my first Executive Chef job. I planned it years earlier when I was a young cook/sous chef. The inspiration was about my progression as a cook in this industry. When you are a young cook, with great respect and gusto you would always answer your superior Chefs with a thundering YES CHEF!!! Now, the cooks answer me with that exclamation."

When I asked him what others may have expected him to get, he said: "A picture of tongs! I do not use tongs in the kitchen as part of my French trained background. At one point I wanted to get a picture of tongs with a red line through it, saying in script below, Frenchie Poo." In talking to each chef, I learned quickly that tongs often signify a newbie cook (whereas more seasoned chefs can use more delicate, less clumsy instruments to handle their food). Chad's comment certainly illustrates how, for some cooks, their tattoo is almost like a trophy, a sign that they've made it and are celebrating in the best, most permanent way.

Richie Nakano has a similar story, and interestingly enough, he mentions tongs as well. Regarding the spoon tattoo on his forearm, he says "It's an Oneida baguette spoon...they're everywhere, kind of your generic spoon. It was perfect for me because I was at the point in my career where my technique had developed and I was happy with it. I wasn't relying on tongs or other clumsy tools anymore." The spoon signified more skill, more finesse, a real coming into his own in the kitchen.

Richie Nakano, sous chef at NOPA, displaying his Oneida spoon tattoo

When I asked John Stewart of Zazu and Bovolo to tell me about his butcher's diagram tattoo, he said that he'd worked with Mario Batali in New York and was living in Seattle at the time. Mario's dad had a place in Seattle called Salumi (and it's still there, currently run by Mario's sister Gina). At the time, John was learning the craft and art of curing meats and began to build confidence and a skill set. "The magic part of it went away and I started doing whole cuts--prosciutto, copas--and demonstrating more of a skill level and curing consistency...at that point, I became a fanatic." It certainly didn't happen overnight. In talking to John, I learned that curing something like prosciutto can take anywhere from 14-20 months, so there was a lot of patience and persistence involved. John had the business card from Salumi laying around and thought, "I should get this on my arm!"

Making a Statement: Why I Do What I Do
As for Chad Newton's other food tattoo, a pig and octopus with the words Break Bread and Le Repretoire, he says: "Break bread is not a religious term--it's about sharing a meal with loved ones. That's why I cook: to feed people in settings where families and friends can all share time together, share food together, eat family style, share stories, catch up on their events, just break bread... As for Le Repertoire, that means a person's set of skills. For example, I am proud that I can butcher efficiently, make traditional pasta, and cook great tasting Vietnamese street food."

Chad Newton shows off his two food-related tattoos

John Stewart echoes this sentiment, appreciating the fact that he has an image that represents a timeless kind of thing: curing meats, something he truly believes in. "It's a very traditional product. There's a shifting focus from mass-produced products back towards things actually produced by people."

Reactions
Moms never like tattoos much. Chad and Richie can attest to that: "It's always Mom. I have had tattoos since I was 17, but she still cries after every single one and tells me that it is bad for my career," Chad says. Richie says his mom's never fond of his tattoos, but tends to get over them pretty quickly. The other day though, she did warn him "Just don't go tattooing your face!" John’s mother asked to see the tattoo, but wasn't shocked. "We do live in California, after all," he jokes. And Jake's family and friends seem universally accepting of the ice cream: "Even my grandparents like it," he says.

The Big, Bold, Inked Future
As for future tattoos, Richie doesn't have anything planned right away. But in talking to his tattoo artist recently while getting the figs done, the wheels started turning. And although Jake wasn't sure what his next inked move would be, there were long moments of thought and hesitation. I got the sense that there would be another addition at some point. Chad plans to get a large tasting menu down his whole back. It would look like a large hand written menu, encompassing some of his favorite things to eat and cook--in proper tasting menu order. He'd also like to get a symmetrical half sleeve of the pig/octopus, but with different game birds and some more script. And John's looking to get a rooster in a similar 50's style inspired by his trip to Kauai and the plethora of roosters there. After researching this, John discovered that sailors often had tattoos of pigs and roosters because the animals were kept in boxes, so they floated during shipwrecks--a symbol of tenacity and survival. And in these changing and uncertain times, what more could a chef--and we, their faithful diners--ask for?

Run through your Thanksgiving menu in your head, right now. Something in there is making you nervous. Very nervous. What it is? You can admit it. It's not a phobia, more like an...inadequacy, a fear of never being as good as grandma, a lingering humiliation from that one year you tried and the knife wouldn't even cut through the bottom crust, so rock-like it was. Or when the dough glued itself to the counter in a rebellious mound, refusing to roll and instead sticking to every surface save the pie pan. But yes, it's real. We call it Fear of Pie-ing. And that's why I'm here, your Pie Therapist on call.

Let's get it straight: no one really worries about the filling. They might wonder if the apples should be cut thick or thin, whether to thicken with cornstarch or flour. But inevitably, it's the crust that strikes fear in the heart of grown men and women, even those who can whip out an osso bucco or tom kai gai with aplomb. They hit up the bakery, they settle for those nasty frozen pre-made crusts, they make crisp and cobbler instead. I'm here to tell you: there is NO magic about making pie crust. It takes four ingredients, about 20 minutes or less of hands-on time, and the results are so flaky, so buttery, so sublime, you will amaze your loved ones (and yourself) for life.

Oh, easy for you to say, I hear you muttering. You grew up making pie with Mom, pushing a crumbly handful of dough into a little Pyrex dish so you could dig into your very own pie for dessert. Fair enough. The challenge was this: could two urbanites, one a non-cook, the other a non-baker, turn into confident pie-bakers after a single session with the Pie Therapist?

The first patient was Kevin, a psychotherapist, who lives in the Castro. Although he has a longtime partner, he has what I think of as the bachelor fridge: limes and condiments. When I arrive with my bag of equipment, he tells me that he had to wake up his sick upstairs neighbor to borrow a pie pan. I realize quickly never to assume what someone will have in his kitchen. In this case, what's missing is anything like a mixing bowl. We make do with a small saucepan and a couple of pasta bowls.

First, of course, a little therapeutic assessment. His mom was a busy single working woman with no time for baking. Grandma, on the other hand, was a fantastic cook and a great baker, whose pies were memorable. Unfortunately, her recipes passed on with her, and no one in the family has been able to come close. Kevin's sole kitchen skill? Making a mean margarita, and happily, he demonstrates. We put on the Loretta Lynn and get busy.

First up, the dry ingredients. Flour, a little salt, a little sugar, stirred together in the pot. A glass of ice water, set aside. He's bought fancy butter, a good thing, in this case the high-butterfat, European-style butter from Straus Creamery, Marin's organic dairy. I tell him I've met the Straus family and their happy grass-roaming cows, and we rub up a little locavore glow, helped along by the tequila. Then the butter is cubed and tossed into the flour so that each cube is coated.

"Now, hold your hands out in front of you, palms up, like a statue of Jesus," I tell him, and we scoop our fingers, palms up, down and up through the butter-chunked flour. "Now, pick up a butter cube between your thumb and fingertips. Flatten it out to a little butter nickel, and drop it back into the bowl."

Keep scooping, aerating the flour as you go, and flattening out your butter nickels. The trick is to keep everything light and airy--no squeezing, no mashing. You don't want paste, you want a crumbly mixture of flour layered with shards of cold fat. As long as you keep your palms facing up and only your thumb and fingertips working the dough, all is well. Stop when it looks somewhere between peas and rolled oatmeal, chunkier than you might imagine, and definitely before it gets to to the dry-cornmeal stage most cookbooks recommend.

So far, so good. Now, the water to make the dough: four or five tablespoons, mixed in lightly with a fork. Then sprinkled in, a tablespoon at a time, maybe 8 to 10 tablespoons in all. Pick up a handful of dough, and squeeze gently. It should come together in a ball that holds together but isn't wet or gluey. Err on the side of slight crumbliness, if you must.

Once the dough holds together, it goes into the pie-baker's friend, the gallon-size resealable bag. Dough firmly pushed down into a round, air pressed out from the bag and sealed, then into the freezer for 20 minutes, or the fridge for an hour (or overnight). While not absolutely necessary, it relaxes the dough and firms up the butter, increasingly flakiness and making it less likely to stick while rolling or shrink during baking.

The dough comes out and is divided in half, with the second half going back in the fridge. Onto a lightly floured board, we press our dough-lump into a roughly round patty. "A rolling pin makes life easier," I tell Kevin as I pick up my wooden pin. "But then again, I've also rolled out a lot of pie crusts with a wine bottle."

I hand him the pin and tell him to think of the dough as a sun, with rays radiating out from the center. "Don't roll back and forth like you're paving a highway. Roll from the center to the edge, around and around so you make an even circle. And after every few rolls, loosen the dough with a spatula, so it doesn't get in the habit of sticking."

He rolls and rolls, and soon we've got a circle a couple of inches bigger than our pan. We loosen the dough, fold in half and in half again, and transfer it into the pan, since it's much easier to move a thick folded triangle of dough than a thin floppy circle. Unfold, press lightly, put in the fridge and repeat with the other half of the dough. The filling goes in--in this case, blueberries, mixed with sugar and a little cornstarch--the top is draped on and crimped, and it goes into the oven. An hour later, his partner is home, and they are two men with a hot pie.

Kevin is happy and amazed that it could be so easy. Scones, he wants to make next, and I tell him it's the same technique: mix the dry ingredients, cut in the butter, add liquid, then roll out and cut.

The next patient is Leslie, a great cook and a longtime cookbook editor and author. What could I possibly teach her? But baking, it turns out, is where she feels out of control. "Bread, cake, pie," is how she describes her hierarchy of baking fears. We decide to start at the bottom, with pie. In this case, she has bowls galore, but no pie pan, since she never makes pies. "I'm a crisp person," she admits. We go through the same steps, and I show her the fluff-it-up, palms-up technique. "Bring it up to God!" she laughs, and we agree. Surely there is pie in heaven, good pie.

It's apple this time, and we slice and mound the apples high while the crust chills. This crust is a little crumbly, and wants to crack and stick as we roll. I grab the baker's friend, plastic wrap (waxed paper works well too), and we slap a sheet of plastic between the rolling pin and the dough. Suddenly, everything's easy: the dough stops sticking and the cracks seal up. We fold and drape and crimp, and the pie goes into the oven. Leslie is ecstatic: she has conquered pie! An hour later, her family sits down to steaming slices. Her nieces battle forks for the last piece of crust on the plate. And the Pie Therapist packs up her rolling pin and slips out into the night, another job done.

All Butter Pie Crust
Yes, shortening is easier to work with. But honestly, it's not that hard to use butter, and the taste is so wonderful, there's no reason to bother with anything else. Anyway, if you're going to eat fat, eat honest tasty fat that tastes good.

As for baking times, it depends on the type of filling. Most double-crusted fruit pies can be baked at 375F for about 45 to 55 minutes, until crust in golden brown and filling is just bubbling up. For a single-crust pie, like pumpkin or pecan, bake at 350F for 30-40 minutes, until filling is just set but still a slightly jiggly, since filling will continue to set as it cools.

Equipment:
a large bowl
measuring cups and spoons
a large spoon for mixing
a pie pan (metal, glass, or ceramic)
a rolling pin
resealable plastic bag or plastic wrap

Ingredients:

Makes: Enough for a 9-inch 2-crust pie

2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
2 sticks (8 oz, 1 cup) butter, chilled
8 to 10 tablespoons ice water
extra flour for dusting

Preparation:

1. In a large bowl, sift or whisk together flour, salt, and sugar.

2. Cut butter into 1/2-inch cubes. Toss butter cubes into flour mixture. Rub butter cubes between your thumb and fingertips, palms up, until butter flattens into little flour-covered nickels. Keep scooping up flour and butter cubes and flattening into nickels until all butter is flattened into shards.

3. Lightly stir in half the water. Add the rest in drizzles, stirring and scooping dough until it just holds together; you may not use all the water. Squeeze a handful of dough together; it should hold together without crumbling.

4. Scoop dough into a gallon-size resealable bag. Flatten dough into a thick patty, press air from bag and seal. Chill for at least an hour in the refrigerator, or 20 minutes in the freezer. You can make your dough up to 2 days in advance, keeping it in the refrigerator, or store for up to a month in the freezer.

5. To roll out dough, sprinkle a wide work surface with flour. Divide dough in half and shape into a round. Rub rolling pin with flour and roll out into a thin, even circle, loosening dough frequently with a spatula. If dough is hard to roll or cracks, it may be too cold. Let it warm up for a couple of minutes, then try again. Put a sheet of waxed paper or plastic wrap between your rolling pin and the dough if dough is very sticky.

6. Loosen dough with a spatula. Fold in half, and then in half again. Transfer to pie pan and press lightly into the pan. Trim so dough is nearly flush with edges of pan. Put in the fridge and roll out second half of dough.

7. Put filling into pie pan, top with top crust, and seal edges together, crimping in whatever decorative fashion you like.

Note: For a single crust, use 1 1/4 cups flour, 1/4 tsp salt, 1 tbsp sugar, 8 tbsp butter (4 oz/ 1/2 cup), 3-4 tbsp ice water

So, I'm reading Nora Ephron's 1983 novel Heartburn -- I think I'm the last person in America to realize that Ephron was a foodie long before Julie & Julia -- and the book is filled with love and longing and heartbreak and food. Lots of food.

The main character, Rachel, is a cookbook writer who is dealing with the discovery that her husband has been having an affair with a mutual friend. Oh, and Rachel and her husband have a baby together and are expecting another one when the affair comes to light. Oh, and this book is a thinly-veiled portrayal of what happened between Ephron and her ex-husband Carl Bernstein (yes, THAT Bernstein), right down to Ephron being 7 months pregnant when she learned of Bernstein's affair and later going into premature labor.

Anyway, all that horribleness aside, Ephron's funny-sad novel is seeded with a bunch of quick recipes, all of which weave naturally in and out of the plot. Among others, there's Lillian Hellman's pot roast, Rachel's closely guarded vinaigrette recipe, and the Key lime pie Rachel ends up throwing at her husband's cheating face during a dinner party. However, the one I zeroed in on was her mashed potato recipe. It wasn't so much the recipe that resonated with me as it was Ephron's explanation of why mashed potatoes are so necessary to life:

Nothing like mashed potatoes when you're feeling blue. Nothing like getting into bed with a bowl of hot mashed potatoes already loaded with butter, and methodically adding a thin cold slice of butter to every forkful. The problem with mashed potatoes, though, is that they require almost as much hard work as crisp potatoes, and when you're feeling blue the last thing you feel like is hard work. Of course, you can always get someone to make the mashed potatoes for you, but let's face it: the reason you're blue is that there isn't anyone to make them for you. As a result, most people do not have nearly enough mashed potatoes in their lives, and when they do, it's almost always at the wrong time.

That whole bit reminded me of the mashed potato recipe in my Friends cookbook. (Yes, I have the Friends cookbook -- you wanna make something of it?) In that cookbook, the recipe is called "Mashed Potatoes for the Broken Hearted" and carries the note, "These fluffy, smooth potatoes (with plenty of sour cream and butter) have been known to mend even the most fractured heart."

What is it about mashed potatoes and comfort and soothing? Is it that their bland simplicity makes them non-threatening, and therefore calming, to the palate? That they are merely a vehicle for butter, salt, and/or sour cream and we crave fattening foods when at our lowest points? That they remind us of home and childhood when life was easier? I don't think I can answer these questions, but I do know that a big pile of mashed potatoes on my plate never fails to raise my spirits and warm my cockles. And on chilly grey days and dark sharp nights, mashed potatoes are one of those foods that I want to crawl into and pull up around my shoulders.

With mashed potatoes, the prep is so minor and the payoff is so huge that I've never understood why anyone would make mashed potatoes from a box. In fact, since my own mother didn't do that, I never knew they existed until I had them at a friend's house and was totally and horribly scarred by the experience. (That same mother made a kick-ass lemon chicken, so I was able to forgive her. In time.)

My own mashed potatoes are fine. They're basic, easy -- they get the job done. No garlic, no blue cheese, no bacon. I'm perfectly happy with them. However, in my lifetime I've encountered two particular mashed potato presentations so wonderfully rich and heavenly that there are times I consider rethinking my comparatively spartan recipe.

First, there's Fatemeh's "Party Potatoes" that come from her husband's "Irish-ish" grandmother and are known to contain butter, sour cream, AND cream cheese. And then there are the mashed potatoes Kim's husband Keith made for last year's Burns Night. It was my first Burns Night, my first haggis, and my first taste of Keith's potatoes.

Both of those sets of mashed potatoes? Yeah, I've decided that they're God's shaving cream.

After finishing Heartburn well after midnight last night, I went to bed feeling quite melancholy for Rachel. I didn't cheer up until the next morning when I found out that Ephron's been happily married to screenwriter Nick Pileggi for twenty years. I hope he makes her lots of mashed potatoes.

Heartburn Mashed Potatoes

For mashed potatoes: Put 1 large (or 2 small) potatoes in a large pot of salted water and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for at least 20 minutes, until tender. Drain and place the potatoes back in the pot and shake over low heat to eliminate excess moisture. Peel. Put through a potato ricer and immediately add 1 tablespoon heavy cream and as much melted butter and salt and pepper as you feel like. Eat immediately. Serves one.