Evvia -- sister to Kokkari in San Francisco -- is one of our favorite of the favorites down here. Evvia serves wonderfully classic Greek fare along with dishes they describe as "local interpretations of many traditional Hellenic favorites." Because of a minor kitchen fire, Evvia had to close for a few weeks this fall and my husband and I were clutching our stomachs in fear that they would never reopen. Lucky for us and for Palo Alto, they did.

For us, It's all about the octopus. I mean, I suppose you COULD order the succulent lamb chops, or the piping hot gigantes beans with herbed feta, or even the eggplant and artichoke saganaki with the huge drift of Greek yogurt that needs to be spread over everything I eat for the rest of my life. But really, Evvia is all about the octopus.

On the menu, it's listed as "Octapadaki tou Yiorgou" and described as "traditional grilled octopus with lemon, oregano, and olive oil." Like the best things in life, this dish is simple. No foam, no gelees, no essences of boiled-down essences. All it takes is four ingredients -- five, really, if you count the wood fire grill needed to edge the chopped cephalopod with charred, smoky goodness -- for that dish to wend its tentacled way into my hungry, waking moments.

Though normally quite generous with one another when it comes to food, my husband and I now have to put in a double order, because where Evvia's octopus is concerned, we're way too greedy to share a single.

Of course, as much as we'd like to, diner can not live on octopus alone, and we do have other standard favorites at Evvia. The gigantes beans are the legume equivalent of a hot bath. Simmered in a rich marinara sauce with molten feta and oregano oil, Evvia's beans keep me from missing my favorite wood-baked beans at Nopa. They're definitely a must-order for us. When tomatoes are in season the Horiatiki salad is another winner. Crisp and refreshing with shavings of sweet purple onion, dusky olives, cucumber chunks, and salty squares of feta, it's the best classic Greek salad I've ever had.

For me, eating Greek almost always means that the meal is incomplete without lamb of some sort. Evvia's simple lamb chops are perfectly cooked and served with a lemon half and crackly, roasted potatoes. They're lovely. I've also become very fond of the loukanika -- plump lengths of mesquite-grilled lamb sausage -- which beg to be dragged through their cucumber-yogurt side sauce.

In a way, it's unfortunate that we have such firm favorites, because while Evvia has so many other things I'd like to try, I'm not willing to sacrifice one of our usuals to do so. Maybe some day we'll have a large enough party that we'll have to order more food and then I'll finally get to try the moussaka with yogurt béchamel. Or the braised goat with tomatoes and orzo. Oooh, or the egg-lemon soup!

You now, it was really quite stupid of me to write this post on an empty stomach because I'm putting all my dinner plans back in the fridge, and we're getting Evvia in.

Evvia Estiatorio
420 Emerson Street (at Lytton)
Palo Alto, CA 94301
(650)326-0983

Hours
Monday-Thurday: 11:30am-2:00pm (lunch)
Monday-Thursday: 5:30pm-10:00pm (dinner)
Friday: 5:30pm-11:00pm (dinner)
Saturday: 5:00pm-11:00pm (dinner)
Sunday: 5:00pm-9:00pm (dinner)

What are you doing for New Year's Eve? As much as I'd like to be waltzing in silver lamé, this year I'll be taking a page from the late novelist and essayist Laurie Colwin, who wrote persuasively in More Home Cooking about the joys of opting out of the big razzle-dazzle. Instead, she brought the party home, making a tradition out of sharing champagne, salmon, and homemade biscuits with friends and family at home.

After all, who wants to scramble for reservations when so many restaurants will be flinging confetti on the tablecloths and pushing high-priced prix fixe menus and set seatings?

Instead, I'll be corralling a small group for dinner at six, starting with a champagne cocktail hour with crab salad in endive spears, followed by chestnut soup with warm popovers, slow-roasted artic char plastered with herbs, and for dessert, an adaptation of David Lebovitz's Champagne Citrus Gelée, from his excellent first cookbook, Room for Dessert.

Lebovitz, who used to be a pastry chef at Chez Panisse, took the ex-pat route over a decade ago and has since created an enviable life for himself in Paris, writing cookbooks and a very popular blog, teaching cooking workshops, and leading food/chocolate/pastry tours throughout France. In my experience, every recipe of his that I've made has been plate-cleaningly delicious, since he has not just skill and smarts but also a great palate and a willingness to test and test and test again.

This, however, is my own version of Lebovitz's recipe, tweaked and modified to reflect my personal taste. But I'm absolutely indebted to his book for the original concept, and for creating a dessert that's not only sparkly and festive but also perfectly seasonal for San Francisco in the wintertime, when the citrus and pomegranates come in.

It can also be eaten by almost everyone, no mean feat in the Bay Area. Wheat-, gluten-, dairy-, and fat-free, there's nothing here to wreak havoc on even the most stringent January 1st resolution. No, you couldn't serve it to vegans, but you could probably mess around and figure out how to replace the gelatin with agar-agar. Skipping the alcohol? Replace the champagne with a pleasant, not-too-sweet sparkling fruit juice. Strictly no-sugar? Serve the citrus compote plain. Even without the gelée, the colors look gorgeous enough to be worth a toast.

Sparkling Citrus Gelée
Look for the little orange-and-white boxes of Knox unflavored gelatin in the powdered dessert mix/Jell-O section of the baking aisle. Don't even think of using lemon Jell-O.

Serves 8

Ingredients:
3 pink grapefruits
2 navel oranges
2 blood oranges
1-2 tbsp good-quality orange liqueur, such as Grand Marnier (not the cheap stuff that tastes like baby aspirin)

2 envelopes powdered unflavored gelatin (such as Knox)
1/2 to 3/4 cup sugar, or to taste
1 bottle (750 ml) sparkling wine, Prosecco, or Champagne (not Cooks, but not Tattinger, either. Something Californian in the $10-$15 range should be just fine)
Juice of 1 lime or lemon (and use a real one, not a squirt from one of those nasty plastic jobs full of bitter battery acid)

12 kumquats, ends and seeds removed, sliced thinly
Seeds of 1 large pomegranate
Soft Candied Citrus Peel in syrup (see below)

Preparation:
1. First, prep your fruit: Cut off the top and bottom of the grapefruit so it sits flat, then slice off peel and white membrane from top to bottom in vertical strips, moving around the circumference. Trim off every speck of white pith. Really, get it off now. You'll thank me later.

2. Cupping the now-naked fruit with one hand, free the fruit segments from between the "fans" of tough membrane using a small sharp paring knife. Do this over a bowl so you can catch all the excess juice. Slice or wiggle the fruit out, so you get a glistening arc of membrane-free fruit. Drop fruit slices into the bowl.

3. Repeat with remaining grapefruits and oranges. Sprinkle with orange liqueur, if desired. Refrigerate, tightly covered, if not using right away.

4. When you're ready to make the gelée, drain juice from fruit segments and reserve; you should have at least 1 cup. Sprinkle gelatin over 1/2 cup reserved fruit juice and let soften for 5 minutes.

5. Heat additional 1/2 cup juice with sugar until sugar dissolves and mixture is hot. Pour sugar syrup over gelatin and stir until gelatin is thoroughly dissolved. Pour the gelatin mixture into a big bowl.

6. Pop the cork on your sparkling wine and pour in the whole bottle. Watch out for the froth! Add about half the lime or lemon juice, then taste and add more as needed. Cover and refrigerate until it begins to thicken and set.

7. Make the candied peel in syrup (recipe below), or take it out of the fridge if you made it earlier. Warm gently until syrup is liquid again. Stir in sliced kumquats. Take off heat and set aside.

8. Take out 8 stemmed parfait or wine glasses. Drain the kumquats/candied peel. (Save the orange syrup if you can think of something to do with it later). Get out the gelée, the pomegranate seeds, and the bowl of fruit slices.

9. To assemble, spoon some of the gelée into each glass. Add some pomegranate seeds, a few pieces of citrus, a few slices of kumquat, and a few strands of candied peel. Continue layering gelée, pomegranate seeds, citrus, kumquat, and candied peel until glass is full. Repeat with remaining glasses. Chill for several hours, until fully set.

Soft Candied Citrus Peel

Ingredients:
4 lemons or oranges, preferably organic, washed
1 1/2 cups water
3/4 cup sugar
1 tbsp corn syrup or honey

Preparation:
1. Remove zest (the colored part of the peel) with a vegetable peeler. Cut lengthwise into very narrow strips. Cover peel with water, bring to a boil, and cook until soft and translucent, about 5-6 minutes. Drain peel and discard water.

2. Bring 1 1/2 cups water, sugar, and syrup to a boil. Add peel, reduce heat, and simmer until peel is translucent and candied-looking, about 20 minutes. Cool in syrup and refrigerate.

Sparkling Citrus Gelée photo by Steve Duell

KQED Radio's Forum: The Decade in Food
In the past decade, the Bay Area's hippest food has changed from teetering geometric towers of raw tuna to a simple slab of pork with a side of potatoes. The dainty Apple-tini ordered in the early part of the decade has given way to the masculine Manhattan. Forum talks about the food and cocktail trends of the decade.

Host: Scott Shafer
Guest: Lessley Anderson, senior editor of Chow.com

If all the raindrops
Were lemondrops and gumdrops
Oh, what a rain that would be!
Standing outside, with my mouth open wide
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah
If all the raindrops
Were lemondrops and gumdrops
Oh, what a rain that would be!

If all the snowflakes
Were candy bars and milkshakes
Oh, what a snow that would be!
Standing outside, with my mouth open wide
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah
If all the snowflakes
Were candy bars and milkshakes
Oh, what a snow that would be!

These are lyrics from a horrible song by Barney, the big purple dinosaur. The fact that I know it means I've spent too much time working with small children. As you can sense here, the tune unfolds as a series of meditations on a central theme. The first section poses a question and offers up a winsome, catchy answer; the second breathlessly imagines an equally scrumptious scenario, and resolves in the same fashion. Each verse ends with a fantasy plucked straight out of some powdered sugar-smeared four-year old's optimistic re-write of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. What's (sort of) fun about the song though -- at least for four-year olds -- is that the verses lend themselves to inspired free association. If all the night fog were 'nilla fudge and eggnog, for example. The possibilities are limitless so long as you adhere to the childish conceit.

Unless all the sunbeams happened to be kosher salt and sea bream, the world described in this tune would be a wretched place for me to inhabit. Even if widespread stickiness and insect onslaughts didn't pose insurmountable sanitation problems, I would be submerged in gastronomic hell, soaked in a deluge of food I didn't like and everyone else -- joyous screaming little ones skating on lakes of jelly, old ladies slipping on hard candy cobblestones, climbers chewing their way to the tops of cookie mountains -- seemed to love.

Sweets can pretty much shove it. That's the short story, I suppose, but in truth, it's a complicated issue of taste. You see, I like most pies, especially plum, chocolate in croissants and puddings, lemon bars, caramel ice cream, malts, and jelly beans. I respect carrot cake, mostly for its steadfast association with cream cheese frosting. I will rarely refuse a sandwich cookie when it's offered. I am open to enlightenment courtesy of thrilling and creative restaurant desserts of all sorts. Yet I never crave sweet things or go out of my way to consume them. I'm convinced the very bland affection I do muster is a product of 29 years spent immersed in a culture obsessed with them. Desserts are not central to my eating routines, or even peripheral. If they disappeared, I would shed no corn syrupy tears. In the end, I eat them if they are around because, simply put, I will eat nearly anything. Unfortunately, they are often around -- one-dimensional and over-bearing, yet brutally effective at providing the jolts of fat and sugar we're conditioned to desire. Two weeks ago, I was substituting for a flu-ridden history teacher at Lowell High. A kid suggested I let the class leave five minutes early, and I said no. He then asked if I'd accept a chocolate bribe. Having left my meager lunch of leftovers at home, I wondered out loud if he might be able to find me fried chicken instead. Give me the choice between savory and sweet and I'll always lean towards the former.

This frosting-heavy time of year, sweet reigns supreme. In the days leading up to Christmas, office kitchens look like Candyland blooming with cheap chocolate truffles, tins of shortbread, fruitcake, and panettone from Walgreens. Red-and-white canes and Hershey's kisses bulge in stockings. Avid bakers exchange trays of garish cookies iced green, red, and snowy white. Holiday celebrations can be as much about sugar as booze -- particularly work parties, oddly enough. Four years ago, I wore a crisp shirt in the basement of a Financial District hotel and sipped whiskey, glumly watching pastries and puddings vanish from platters as the big boss -- white-maned, stooped, a long arm wrapped around his beaming wife -- grimly intoned that it had been a good year. Hooray, everyone had shouted, thinking of their bonuses, toasting, lowering slices of a towering cake onto plates. The sight of so much confection made me feel sicker than did all the Jack Daniel's I was drinking. I'm prejudiced against sweets. Individuals are reasonably fine, but as a whole population, they rub me the wrong way. So I give out homemade hot sauce and artisanal salame as holiday gifts, and refrain from ordering dessert in restaurants unless I'm with someone's mom or dining in a professional capacity. Part of the problem is the infantile glee sweets elicit in people -- even though they're often described in silly quasi-adult terms -- sinful, indulgent, naughty, and lusty -- and framed as transgressions for which to (eventually) feel guilt. It puts me off. Every late December, cubicle jockeys scuttle down hallways, scarfing whatever delights happen to be circulating around their offices. At the same time, they vocally fret over how their excesses will impact their health and appearance. Inevitably, they resolve to do penance the following week, once the season is over. "I shouldn't be doing this," I once heard a co-worker sigh blandly, her hands digging determinedly into a box for the last lumpy cupcake, "but I'm doing it." Weirdly enough, I first heard those words muttered by the slimy male lead of a classic 1980s adult film. He was committing adultery with the help of two video store clerks, and surfing past a fleeting twinge of contrition.

The love/hate relationships people carry on with sweets may come from culture, but we're actually biologically wired to want them in the first place. Last year, some scientists figured out that our brains can sense the calories in food independent of what we're tasting by presenting "sweet-blind" mice with water samples laced with sucralose and real sugar. The mice preferred the samples with calories. As it turned out, the mousy reward system is galvanized into action by caloric intake, as levels of the brain chemical dopamine, known to be central to sparking that system's circuitry, spike with each sip. My chemicals too may sizzle in the presence of a Twix bar, but my reward system clearly responds more feebly than most -- because I never feel rewarded after an encounter. I'm not alone in my attitude. I know people with heartier aversions. A friend from college won't even drink orange juice. Another friend's dad candidly once told me he didn't like sweets because he drank too much, and something about the combination didn't jive with his system.

Sweets are even harder to take after the holidays, once they're stale. Mass-produced candies may outlive us all, but those old abandoned cookies, their iced tops hardened and cracked, the fossilized fruitcakes -- a few days after Christmas, they start looking like ruins, diminutive Grey Gardens, once decadent, now downtrodden, in shambles. There's something very lonely about them -- especially when its clear time and care went into their preparation -- and they're hard to throw away -- even if you didn't really want them in the first place.

The Pancake Breakfast Cupcake at Cups and Cakes Bakery

If your family is anything like mine, Christmas brings about time spent together, slightly annoying and repetitive Christmas music, cookie baking, festive cocktails, and lots of treats. There are meals out, and time to meet up with old friends and extended family. And of course: the fudge and requisite boxes of See's Candy. So on the Monday following Christmas weekend, the last thing you may want to read about is a post highlighting more sweets and treats. But I couldn't resist. I discovered something that warmed my sugar-loving heart last week and I'm dying to share it with you. Here, my friends, is a really good, somewhat socially acceptable excuse to eat cupcakes for breakfast.

Now, San Francisco has its fair share of cupcake spots and most folks have already established their favorites. Whether it’s Kara's, That Takes the Cake, or the minis over at DeLessio Market and Bakery, a variety of shapes and flavors abound. However, Jennifer Emerson’s new SOMA cupcake shop, Cups and Cakes, is shaking things up a bit.

The charming and hard-to-miss pink exterior

With innovative flavors like the Art House (a ginger-beet cake with ginger cream cheese frosting and candied ginger) or the Pucker-up Pink Lemonade (tart pink lemonade cake with pink lemonade butter cream and rainbow sprinkles), there's something to inspire even the most staunch cupcake skeptic. Now often when people try and get creative with an already-good thing, the product isn't always successful. Not so with Cups and Cakes. The cupcakes are uber-moist, the cream cheese frosting is perfectly creamy and slightly tart, and the shop is cute as a button. The pink exterior lights up the rather industrial stretch of SOMA's 9th St., and inside you'll step into a bustling, pastel workshop.

Inside the open-kitchen at Cups and Cakes

But the reason I made the trip was for the Pancake Breakfast Cupcake I'd been hearing so much about. First things first: the cupcake has bacon baked right into it. That's right: you heard me correctly. I'm not talking about a mere topper; there are strips of perfectly cooked bacon throughout the actual cupcake.

Check out the small strips of bacon throughout the cupcake itself!

Technically, it's made of a maple bacon cake with a maple butter cream and topped with bits of crisp bacon. Now while I'm not so certain Jennifer designed it to actually be eaten for breakfast, I say go at it. We all have a few days yet until New Year's resolutions start and people begin flocking back to the gym and dusting off their bikes.

If you're not down with bacon in your cupcake, Jennifer stocks vanilla, chocolate and red velvet each day along with at least three additional flavors and a vegan and gluten free choice. She also uses local and organic eggs, butter, sugar, flour, and produce. Check out her menu of flavor offerings and specialty choices. And if you don't love any of the choices online (and I challenge you to not find something that strikes your fancy), Jennifer is happy to customize something to fit your personal tastes).

Cups and Cakes Bakery
451 9th Street
San Francisco, CA 94103
(415) 437-CUPS (2877)
Hours: Mon., Wed.-Fri. 10am-6:30pm; closed Tuesday; Sat.-Sun: 12 pm-5pm
Twitter: @CupsCakesBakery

Note: Check website for special holiday and New Years hours.

Fig chutney with cheese, crackers, and cashews.

Did you like your presents? Although I was hoping for cashmere socks, the funniest, etsy-est thing I got this year was a little poster from my sister, printed in block type, that read, "Today I will be happier than a bird with a French fry." Words to live by, my friends!

And what else do you have, in the holiday aftermath? The days after Christmas are often the best part, when the stress-inducing members of the family have gone up to the Wharf or down to Disneyland, and you're left with the fun sibs, the leftover booze, and a fridge full of leftover cold turkey and ham.

What's better than a stiff drink and a ham-and-turkey sandwich with people you never have to impress? I'll tell you: a ham-and-turkey sandwich dolloped with chutney, that's what. And not just any common-or-garden chutney, no sirree Bob, but McQuade's Celtic Chutney, made by red-headed Scotswoman Alison McQuade in small, aromatic batches, just like you would at home, if you were lucky enough to come from chutney-making people.

Hailing from Glasgow, McQuade comes by the Celtic appellation honestly, but her chutneys have a distinct California twist, thanks to the spark of heat and spice that zaps each one. Habanero and apple, fig and ginger (made with dried figs), and spiced apple are her mainstays, with other varieties rotated in depending on what's in season.

Walking through the darkened downtown San Francisco restaurant where McQuade rents kitchen space in the off hours, I could smell the sharp, sweet zip of spice and vinegar the moment I stepped in from the street. Back in the small, fluorescent-lit kitchen, McQuade and an assistant are stirring two pots on the stove, each half-full chopped figs, cider vinegar, brown sugar, raisins, apples, lemon zest and a plum pudding's worth of spices—nutmeg, ginger, allspice, cloves, cinnamon—all cooking down to a rich and fragrant gloss.

On the counter are boxes of fresh Fuyu persimmons, a backyard gift from the owners of the Hidden Vine wine bar nearby, a favorite hangout of McQuade's. They'll go into a new winter favorite, persimmon-habanero chutney. At the cozy Farm:Table cafe just a few blocks away (where McQuade often starts her day), jars of ruby cranberry-mandarin Christmas chutney are stacked up by the cash register. For McQuade, the chutney business is as much about building relationships and forging community as it is about filling jars.

Much of McQuade's ingredients are sourced locally, from farms like Torey's Farms, which she loves for their top-quality stone fruit and citrus. Cooking in small quantities (each batch usually fills about 30 7-oz jars) allows for a lot of flexibility. If something good turns up—fresh spring rhubarb, those backyard persimmons, a great deal on bananas or pineapple—she can adjust (or invent) a recipe on the spot, tossing the new variety into her ever-evolving product line.

Like many small-scale food artisans, McQuade had a long professional career first, working for the British Consulate and at law firms in both New York and Los Angeles. Missing the chutneys her grandmother had made while she was growing up in Scotland, she set to making a few jars for family and friends, bringing them to parties and giving it as gifts. Her hairdresser happened to try some, and a few days later called her from the salon. Get down here now with your chutney, she demanded. There's someone here who needs to try it. McQuade, mystified but intrigued, grabbed a few jars and headed over. The woman in question took a taste and asked for 60 cases on the spot.

She turned out to be Peggy Smith, one of the founders of Cowgirl Creamery, whose cheese shops have remained one of McQuade's best customers. That was 5 years ago, and now McQuade's chutneys are available in shops throughout the Bay Area, including Bi-Rite, Falletti's, Tomales Bay Foods, Whole Foods, Cheese Plus, and more. Restaurant and bars like Range, Hidden Vine, and the St. Francis Hotel's Clock Bar have found uses for her sweet-spicy-tangy spreads, adding it to cheese plates, even putting it into cocktails themselves.

Lately, she's been exploring more savory ways of using her chutneys, like shrimp stir-fry made with habanero chutney, or pork roast glazed with fig. Scrambled eggs, cheddar cheese, blue cheese, just about any kind of cold meat or sandwich: they're all the better for a smear of chutney to keep out the cold. Even peanut butter's better for a chutney hookup: the late (and much-loved) novelist and food writer Laurie Colwin often waxed rhapsodic about chutney, fondly recalling a tiny, perfect peanut butter-and-chutney sandwich she'd been served once at a cocktail party.

For next year, McQuade is working on a line of savory shortbreads flavored with fresh herbs like thyme and rosemary. Will they go with chutney? Did you even have to ask?

As it turns out, Mele Kalikimaka really is the thing to say on a bright Hawai'ian Christmas Day. So, in honor of all my friends from The Islands Big and not-so-Big, I am saying "Merry Christmas" with a big bowl of poke. Of course, since this is a Holiday piece, I felt it necessary to make this raw tuna dish look as Christmas-y as possible, under the circumstances.

And why not?

I have been terrified intrigued by the idea of an Hawai'ian Christmas ever since I was forced to participate in my elementary school's "Salute to Hawai'i" Christmas pageant as a shy, bespectacled, backwards-shirted (you should see my class photo) second grader. I was impressed that anyone could pull together an hour's Holiday entertainment singing nothing but Polynesian Christmas songs. Perhaps entertainment is too strong a word. Of course, I was also convinced that our musical director was binge-drinking.

Whatever the case, I thought I had successfully eradicated the horror of having to stand up and sing on stage wearing a hula shirt and grass apron in front of an audience of parents in cowl necked sweaters and three-piece corduroy suits forever.

Apparently not.

When helping my friend Craig carry in his family's Christmas tree last week, he started to good-naturedly threaten his daughters with the idea of creating a Polynesian-themed tree. "We'll give it a grass skirt and top it with a big Pele," he said. I chimed in by promising to decorate the tree with snowmen made of poi. The girls were unimpressed. I had thought referencing of the Fire Goddess Pele was a nice touch but, after lugging a ten foot Douglas fir into his house, I was privately casting my vote for Ulaulekeahi, God of Distillers.

And then I thought about how I on earth I was going to pull off poi-based snowmen.

As I was imagining rolling these poi-men in shredded coconut, the memories of that awful pageant came flooding back. Well, not flooding. Perhaps tricking back is a better term. But it was enough to make me shudder when I remembered our big show-stopper-- "The Hawai'ian Twelve Days of Christmas." Fortunately, I could only remember the first day (One myna bird in one papaya tree). If you really can't live with yourself until you know what "tutu" gave to us on the other eleven days, you can read the lyrics here. I just thank the tiki gods that we didn't attempt to sing this song in Pidgin English.

Well, I have chucked the idea of making poi-men this year because, well, poi happens to be one of the few foodstuffs I actually loathe. Why make Christmas more unpleasant than it already is? So, instead, I am making poke, which happens to be one of my favorite foodstuffs and, most conveniently, Hawai'ian.

Mele Kalikimaka, makamakas.

Poke

Serves 4 to 6

By the way, the word is pronounced poh-keh, or poh-kay, if you prefer. In Hawai'ian, poke means, roughly, "small piece" and, just as the name would imply, it is a dish of fish cut into small pieces, tossed with on-hand ingredients, and served up as a side dish-- a sort of fish salad. You don't find it on many restaurant menus (or didn't-- hopefully that is changing), but you can find it in most homes and even at Hawai'ian supermarkets in the deli section. It's unassuming, fresh (it had better be-- you're dealing with raw fish here), and utterly delicious.

Some folks like their poke with rice, some like it lightly seared, and some, it's true, like it hot. Personally, I like it raw and served with chips made of fried wonton wrappers. To me, it is a sort of Polynesian/Pan-Asian (just look at the ingredients) chips-and-salsa.

Give it a go, if you like. Just please make certain that you get the freshest possible tuna. Bargain hunting may be a practical skill when it come to buying a couch or a Persian rug, but you will not necessarily be well-served by it when purchasing fresh seafood. And, no, canned tuna will not do.

Lastly, there is no single "proper" recipe, so add whatever you like. Common ingredients include: tomato, green onions, Maui onion, macadamia nuts--whatever is in the house that might work logically with tuna. Go for it. My favored recipe is simple and straight-forward, just like me.

Ingredients:

1 pound fresh tuna, (ahi, yellowfin-- something you might use when making sushi)

1/2 cup chopped, fresh seaweed

1 medium-sized shallot, chopped fine

1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1 teaspoon sesame oil

2 tablespoons shoyu (Japanese soy sauce)

A handful of black sesame seeds for garnish (which I forgot to add in the above photo. I wound up eating most of it standing over the sink before I even remembered about them).

Preparation:

Cut the tuna into 1/2" cubes. Place in a large bowl and toss with seaweed, pepper flakes, shallot, shoyu, and sesame oil. Serve immediately or wait an hour or so to let the flavors blend.

Serve with fried wonton chips or sticky rice. Whatever you serve it with, just make sure you serve it on the same day it was prepared. This is, after all, raw fish we're talking about.

"A merry Christmas, Bob! Said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken…I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob!..."

Like a lot of Christmas revelers out there, I count A Christmas Carol as my favorite holiday story. Yet my reason for loving this Dickens tale is probably a little different than you might expect. Although I find Scrooge's metamorphoses from Bah-humbug kill joy to jolly benefactor heartwarming, I adore his transition from gruel eater to Smoking Bishop drinker even more. In one day, old Ebenezer goes from eating only to survive -- I mean, come on, gruel for dinner on Christmas Eve? -- to purchasing the largest and best Christmas turkey in London.  His change is so dramatic that he actually suggests imbibing a bowl of Smoking Bishop early in the day with the much abused Bob Cratchit. I find this act even more profound than when he raises Bob's salary a moment earlier. It's Ebenezer Scrooge's wish to indulge in a holiday cocktail that seems the greatest evidence he has found his yuletide soul. Ah... good old converted Scrooge and his new-found love of the drink.

But what is Smoking Bishop and how did it get such an entertaining name?  I did a little research and found a great clip from a Morning Edition episode in 2002 on NPR. In the piece, Neda Ulaby interviews Cedrick Dickens, Charles Dickens great-grandson, who explains that "people back in the 1800s enjoyed a whole range of 'clerical drinks,' and Smoking Bishop was one of these. "Pope is burgundy, Cardinal is champagne or rye, Archbishop is claret, Bishop is port, and so on," Dickens goes on to say. I just love the English and their naming conventions.

Smoking Bishop is basically a type of warmed sangria made with port. From what I can tell, it's a traditional Christmas drink, but I'm not sure if this happened because of the reference in A Christmas Carol, or if it was already a holiday beverage before that. Whatever the case, as a lover of sangria and A Christmas Carol, I think I'll need to give it a try this holiday season.

The 1999 version of A Christmas Carol with Patrick Stewart is the only film version I know of where Scrooge actually calls the drink Smoking Bishop (which is how Dickens himself referred to it in the story), although as my family only watches this version (which is my daughters' favorite) and the Alastair Sim's Scrooge (which is my favorite -- too bad he scares my kids), I'm sure there are others I'm not aware of.

In the all-time classic Alastair Sim's version -- who, as far as I'm concerned, plays the greatest Scrooge of all time -- they have changed the line so Scrooge now says "a bowl of hot punch." I wonder if they changed the line because they didn't think anyone would know what Smoking Bishop was; whatever the case, I'll forgive them as it's a near perfect Christmas film otherwise.

And for your own holiday entertainment, watch the full version of Seymour Hicks in Scrooge from 1935.

To make your own bowl of smoking bishop, here's the recipe from Ms. Ulaby's interview

Smoking Bishop

• Take six Seville oranges and bake them in a moderate oven until pale brown. If you cannot procure any bitter Seville oranges, use four regular oranges and one large grapefruit.

• Prick each of the oranges with five whole cloves, put them into a warmed ceramic or glass vessel with one-quarter pound of sugar and a bottle of red wine, cover the vessel, and leave it in a warm place for 24 hours.

• Take the oranges out of the mixture, cut in half and squeeze the juice, then pour the juice back into the wine.

• Pour the mixture into a saucepan through a sieve, add a bottle of port, heat (without boiling), and serve in warmed glasses.

• Drink the mixture, and keep Christmas well!

Did you know Brussels sprouts grew on long stalks?

I'm a late bloomer when it comes to Brussels sprouts love. It's not that I hated the stuff (as I was always told I should), I just never had it before. Then I moved to SF two years ago and with the coming of my first Thanksgiving here, was flooded with recipes by adoring fooderati who worshipped the sprout with the bad rap.

I don't really get why Brussels sprouts got such a reputation to begin with. They seem harmless enough. Cute in fact. And if you happen to see them on the stalk still, those bright green clusters are downright gorgeous. Looks aside, they are tasty!

My intro to Brussels sprouts adoration started off nice and easy, with generous bits of bacon or pancetta added to grease the wheel. More recently however, I have witnessed two distinctive preparations of this fascinatingly polarizing vegetable.

Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Ponzu Fried Garlic, Guanciale, and Bonito Flakes

The first was a dish that Chef Dennis Lee of Namu made at the Foodbuzz Blogger Festival community dinner in early November.

His Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Ponzu Fried Garlic, Guanciale, and Bonito Flakes were a work of art. Creative, complex, and soul-satisfying, in classic Namu-form. The Brussels sprouts were roasted to golden sweetness, the guanciale was appropriately full of crispy, fatty, pork goodness, and the bonito flakes added an element of surprise. The savory, smoky fish flavor blended well with the other ingredients at work, and the sight of them undulating like a creepy science project was just awesome.

Brussels Sprouts with Red Onions in a Mustard Vinaigrette

The second take on Brussels sprouts that solidified my allegiance to the fan camp was one of the dishes that made my Thanksgiving potluck table this year: Brussels Sprouts with Red Onions in a Mustard Vinaigrette. Potlucks can be a hit or miss, depending on the participants. We lucked out this year, as our hostess' roommate turned out to be a chef at E&O Trading Co in Larkspur.

Rene unveils the Thanksgiving bird

To Chef Rene Caceres we owe not only one of the most succulent turkeys I've ever tasted (3 days of brining will do that), but a phenomenal Brussels sprouts recipe that doesn't even lean on a bacon crutch!

The freshness of the sprouts shines in this dish. And the balance of the caramelized sweet onion and acidity of the mustard vinaigrette are the perfect complement.

Naysayers, this may be your turning point. Just give it a try, and let me know if you don't find yourself popping these into your mouth like truffles.

Brussels Sprouts with Red Onions in a Mustard Vinaigrette
Recipe adapted from Rene Caceres

Serves: 6-8

Ingredients:
1 lb. Brussels sprouts
1 small red onion
2 oz. whole grain mustard vinaigrette
½ oz. olive oil

For the vinaigrette:
1 cup whole grain mustard
½ cup white balsamic vinegar
1 cup vegetable oil
2 teaspoons sugar
1 teaspoon salt

Preparation:
1. Cook the Brussels sprouts in boiling water for about 15 to 20 minutes. Let them cool and cut them in half.
2. Thinly slice the red onion and reserve.
3. Make the vinaigrette by combining the mustard with the vinegar. Whisk the oil slowly into the mixture and add the salt and sugar.
4. Sauté the red onion first for about one minute. Then add the Brussels sprouts face down. Cook until they get nice and caramelized. Turn them and add the vinaigrette. Toss them together and let them cook for about 1 minute.

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Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Ponzu Fried Garlic, Guanciale, and Bonito Flakes
Recipe adapted from Dennis Lee, Namu

Serves: 6-8

Ingredients:
1 lb. Brussels sprouts
¼ lb. guanciale
1 tablespoon fried garlic
Note: You can mince and fry this yourself on the stove in a pan with enough oil (neutral oil, i.e. rice, canola, grapeseed) to coat the garlic. Fry over low heat until the garlic starts to brown, remove with metal screen strainer (it will continue to brown) and place on paper towel and spread to cool with a spoon or chopsticks. Otherwise they sell wonderful fried garlic in Asian markets in a jar.
4 oz. ponzu
Note: This can also be bought in an Asian grocer. If you want to make your own, its 2 parts dashi stock, 1 part soy, 1 part rice vinegar and citrus juice to taste (Meyer Lemon juice or Yuzu juice works great).
4 oz. soy dashi
Note: Comprised of bonito, konbu, and soy water; or instant dashi or tsuyu (liquid dashi concentrate) are sold in Asian grocers.
1 tablespoon butter
Extra virgin olive oil
Shichimi or Togarashi spice
Bonito flakes

Preparation:

For the Brussels Sprouts:
1. Quarter the heads or globes so the roots stay intact, keeping the leaves together.
2. Blanch the Brussels sprouts. Always blanch in a large pot (large enough that it won't stop boiling when you drop the sprouts into it) of water with a healthy dose of salt (2-3 tablespoons). While waiting for the water to boil, prepare an ice bath. Boil the sprouts until they turn bright green, then immediately shock them in the ice bath. This can be done up to a day in advance and the sprouts can be stored, in the refrigerator covered.

For the Guanciale:
1. Cut the guanciale into about ½ inch cubes (remember it will slightly shrink when it cooks).
2. Boil the guanciale in a pot with the water at about 1 ½ inches above the meat. Bring it to a boil and simmer until soft. Much of the fat will render, but the flavor will remain rich. Drain and discard the liquid. This can also be done in advance and stored in a refrigerator.

The Brussels sprouts can either be roasted or pan fried.

Method 1: Roasting
Roast the sprouts and guanciale in the oven at 375 degrees F until golden brown with enough olive oil to coat, making sure to stir it every 5 minutes or so to get an even color.

Method 2: Pan Frying (Recommended)
1. Put 1 tablespoon of butter in a pan coated with extra virgin olive oil. When the butter melts, add the guanciale and Brussels sprouts. Put the pan on high and stir fry the ingredients. You want to get a nice brown color on the leaves of the sprouts, with some crispiness. The guanciale will also crisp up a little on the surface like bacon.
2. Once everything is nicely browned, add ponzu and soy dashi. Be careful as the pan will be very hot and will sizzle when you add the wet ingredients.
3. Let this reduce to the desired flavor, making sure to regularly toss the sprouts.
4. Top with shichimi, fried garlic and bonito flakes. The flakes will dance with joy.

Opening of Golden Orb Piroshki Shop

I first stumbled across Golden Orb as I was routinely stalking Arizmendi Bakery, trying to figure out when their San Rafael location is finally going to open. Ah yes, disappointed yet again (it's been so long). But yesterday morning, my disappointment waned when I discovered a new red and gold sign had popped up further down the street. I parked, did some exploring, and found the smiling faces of managers and adept piroshki purveyors, Ashley De Rutte and her fiancé Breeze Kinsey bustling about the Golden Orb. Ashley's father, David Daunell, is the owner--you may remember his name from Moosetta's up in Sonoma, the popular piroshki shop that his mother Caroline ran with her husband, Chef Marvin Joyce until the late 1990s.

Shop Managers Breeze Kinsey and Ashley de Rutte

Now if you're new to piroshki, they're not a light food. However, they're perfect for this time of year when the rains and gray winter days are looming. Their origin is actually difficult to trace, with Poles, Russians, Latvians, and Czechs all claiming them as their own. Regardless, the piroshki's you'll try at Golden Orb are a traditional Russian hand pie stuffed with a variety of savory fillings. While the beef or the cabbage vermicelli are certainly the most traditional, they've added more contemporary flavors such as chicken potpie and spinach parmesan--all for less than the price of a grande latte. Ashley and Breeze also offer a few salads and a small but lovely selection of baked goods, fair trade coffee beverages, and teas.

Menu Offerings at Golden Orb

I tried the two biggest sellers, according to Breeze: the beef, onion, and dill along with the cabbage, vermicelli, carrot and caraway seed. They were each placed in little bags, warm, and perfectly golden on top. The dough was much chewier than I'd expected and much less greasy. After everything I'd heard about piroshki, I was expecting a major gut bomb. And don't get me wrong: they're certainly filling, but not in a 'I need a nap' sort of way, but more in a 'wow, I just had a satisfying meal all contained in a little bread pocket' kind of way. The filling-to-dough ratio was perfect, and I obviously couldn't finish both in one setting so I reheated half of the beef piroshki later in the day and it was just as good the second time around.

Piroshki breakfast...and lunch

I wasn't planning on writing about piroshki for this week's post. But after eating at Golden Orb and talking to Breeze and Ashley, I couldn't stop thinking about the quaint and inviting space or those warm savory pies. And I'm not sure that's because they were so delicious (although they were) or because they were a new-to-me food. Even if piroshki aren't part of your cultural tradition, there's something about them that feels familiar--something you can't quite stop thinking about. At Golden Orb, Caroline's granddaughter is keeping the family legacy alive in a small but tangible way, something we should all celebrate in this season of mass consumption and big box stores.

I've vowed not to step into a mall for any of my holiday shopping this year (so far, so good), and over the past few days I've made another vow: more piroshki. Many more piroshki.

Golden Orb
811 4th Street
San Rafael, CA 94901
(415) 454-8692
Hours: 8am–6pm