It's January, which in the Bay Area (and all of California, for that matter) means it's citrus season. While much of the rest of the country is frozen over -- today in Boston the forecast was 34 degrees and snowing -- we're lucky enough to live someplace where winter means fresh oranges, limes, grapefruits and lemons. And queen among the local citrus trees -- at least in my book -- is the Meyer lemon.

Meyer lemons are an amazing fruit. Originally created in China as a lemon and mandarin orange hybrid, it has an appealing sweetness lacking in other lemons. And, with a fragrant and thin rind, barely any pith, and ample juice, it's really the ideal cooking lemon.

I planted my Meyer lemon tree around five years ago, and although it's given me a steady stream of fruit since we first set it into the ground outside our front porch, this is the first year that our tree was crowded with lemons. So what do you do with an overabundance of sweet and tart Meyers? In my case, I had great plans to make marmalade. I pondered how to make it, discussed recipes with neighbors, and deliberated over whether or not I should incorporate other citruses into the jam. But after a couple of weeks with sick kids and a sicker husband, plus a pile of work to wade through, those lemons still sat on the tree: bright yellow orbs taunting me each time I walked up my front stairs.

Thankfully I have talented friends with a can-do attitude (well, one friend in particular). When Kim and Keith Laidlaw came to my house last weekend, I mentioned my marmalade aspirations as we walked past the tree, hoping that one day soon I'd be able to make it. And then something miraculous happened. After walking the dogs in the rain a half hour later, I dried off their mud spattered fur and entered the kitchen to warm up with some hot tea. But instead of finding Kim and Keith relaxing in my family room, I was met instead with the glorious image of Kim sitting at my counter, patiently slicing lemons from the enormous pile she had picked while I was out. A true friend indeed.

After the lemons were all sliced, we set them in a pot and covered them with water to steep overnight. This allows some of the pectin in the pith beneath the rind to release into the water. It also makes the lemon slices more malleable. In the morning, we added some sugar along with a satchel of the lemon seeds, pith and lemon ends (which we had saved and tied in a cheesecloth) to the pot. After simmering for an hour, the mixture was ready to go. It was sweet and tart with a nice mild bitter marmalade edge. If you don't like any bitterness in your preserves, you can omit the seeds from the recipe, but you may end up with a runnier marmalade as the seeds add pectin.

Now normally I would can my jam, but the ennui that has enveloped me all January was still too strong, so Kim and I instead plopped some of the marmalade into washed jars to be used immediately and then I also froze some for later use. I hear that marmalade improves with age, so if you have the time and inclination, it's worth canning.

The next morning after the kids left for school, I sat and ate toast topped with Meyer lemon marmalade while contemplating how lucky I was to have such a lovely jam-making friend. It takes someone special to notice when your life gets in the way of your hopes, even if that hope is simply to make marmalade.

Homemade Meyer Lemon Marmalade

According to Kim, the key to great marmalade is slicing the lemons sliver thin. So be sure to use a sharp chef's knife. Here's what you do:

1. Wash the lemons and set in a bowl.

2. Cut the ends off the lemons and then slice in half length-wise.

3. Slice out the pith in the lemon's inner core and set into a bowl to keep for later use. You should also set the lemon ends in this bowl.

4. Remove the lemon's seeds and place into that bowl of pith and ends.

5. Cut lemons into paper thin slices.

6. Place lemon slices in a large pot, being sure to scrape the juice from the cutting board in as well so you retain the juices. Soak at least over night and up to two days.

Here's the recipe we used. The sugar amount is flexible and should be determined by how sweet you like your marmalade. Kim and I both like ours a bit tart, so we used the lesser amount. When your batch is complete, you can either can the jam in hot jars, freeze it in plastic bags or containers, or refrigerate and then eat within a week or two.

Ingredients
Makes: 6 small or 3 large jars of jam

5 cups thinly sliced lemons with the seeds, ends and inner pith removed and set aside
5 cups water
4-5 cups granulated sugar

Preparation:

1. Place lemon slices in a large pot and cover with water. Let steep overnight.
2. Once lemons have steeped, add the sugar to the pot and mix.
3. Place the seeds, pith and lemon ends in cheesecloth. Tie up and set into the mixture.
4. Bring the lemons to a boil and then reduce heat. Simmer for one hour.
5. Can or freeze.

Did you know that today is National Cheese Lover's Day? Isn't that lovely?

To commemorate this happy holiday, the Wisconsin Milk Marketing Board is launching a Macaroni & Cheese Blog which will feature a new macaroni & cheese recipe every day for thirty days. There goes that New Year's resolution (unless your resolution was to be happier in life).

I've always been partial to using gruyere and parmigiano for mac 'n' cheese, but the good people at Wisconsin Milk convinced me to give American a try. They sent me some aged Marieke Gouda and Stravecchio Parmesan from Sartori Reserve...and I was promptly inspired.

Without a question, the ultimate comfort food is macaroni and cheese. Gooey, cheesy, warm, and indulgent. The inspiration on this twist on the classic mac 'n' cheese comes from one of my favorite pasta dishes, Tortelli di Zucca (large ravioli-like pasta stuffed with a pumpkin filling).

I first sampled this taste of heaven during my year abroad living in Italy. On a visit to the charming Renaissance city of Mantova (Mantua), I was introduced to the town's signature dish of handmade ravioli stuffed with a velvety smooth puree of pumpkin, crushed almondy Amaretti cookies, and a hint of spices. The al dente pillows of precious filled pasta were bathed in a luxurious sauce of brown butter and a shower of parmigiano.

That meal has haunted me for 6 years.

And it has coaxed me into creating this Italian-American fusion of ultimate comfort, Butternut Squash Mac and Cheese with Sage and Gingersnap-Pecan Crust.

Butternut squash is one of my favorite ingredients to work with during the fall and winter because it just exudes a sweet, hearty, warmth. When it's roasted, all the sugars caramelize and the flavor of the squash is intensified.

Pair it with the other star ingredient in this dish, the aged Gouda, and we have ourselves a sweet-and-savory homerun!

The technique to making this dish is pretty standard as far as mac and cheese goes. After sautéing the onions and sage, a roux is made with flour, chicken stock, and milk.

Then the squash is added to the mix...

...and smashed in a bit to fully incorporate.

Once the sauce is made, it is added to the macaroni (since we can't all be as blessed as the Mantuans with their homemade pasta at a finger's snap).

After that, comes the magic of toppings. I loved how the nutty spice of the Amaretti cookies played with the flavor of the pumpkin in the Tortelli di Zucca. In this mac and cheese, that sweet, unexpected crunch translates as gingersnaps. I also threw in a handful of chopped pecans too because I love how their faintly maple flavor goes with sweet potatoes, and I thought...butternut squash? Sweet potato? Pretty similar, no? (At the very least, both orange.)

I may not be able to jet-set to Italy whenever I get the craving for some tortelli lovin', but that doesn't mean I can't get my fix of pumpkin and spice and everything nice! Surprise your guests with this dish this winter. The presentation is beautiful and homey, and one bite will have them coming for more.

Butternut Squash Mac and Cheese with Sage and Gingersnap-Pecan Crust

Serves: 6-8

Ingredients:
1 small butternut squash (about 1 pound), peeled, seeded, and cut into 1-inch cubes (about 3 cups)
1 lb elbow macaroni
1 small onion, diced
1 cup chicken stock
1 ½ cups nonfat milk
3 tbsp butter
2 tbsp flour
1 tablespoon fresh sage, minced
2 cups grated aged Marieke Gouda cheese
1 cup grated Stravecchio Parmesan cheese (Sartori Reserve, 2 year aged)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
pinch of cayenne pepper
½ cup crumbled gingersnap cookies (about 8 cookies)
½ cup chopped pecans
1 tbsp olive oil
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper

Preparation:

1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Toss the squash with olive oil, salt and pepper to season. Roast on a foil-lined baking sheet for 20-25 minutes until lightly browned. Set aside and turn the oven down to 350 degrees.

2. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add macaroni and cook until al dente according to the package instructions, about 8 minutes.

3. While the pasta cooks, heat a large pan over medium heat. Add the butter, chopped onion, and sage. Saute about 4-5 minutes until onions are translucent. Add the flour and stir to combine. Let the mixture cook for 1-2 more minutes. Whisk in stock and milk, and let come to a boil to thicken up.

4. Next, add the cheeses, mustard, nutmeg, and cayenne. Stir to combine. Then, mix in the squash. Use a whisk to mash up the squash a little. I prefer to leave a few chunky pieces of the squash in the sauce. Add salt and pepper to taste.

5. Drain the cooked pasta and return it to the pot. Pour the sauce over the pasta and combine well. Pour the mac 'n' cheese into a buttered casserole dish. Sprinkle the gingersnap cookie crumble and pecans over the top and drizzle with a little olive oil.

6. Cover with foil and bake 20 minutes. Remove foil and continue baking until lightly browned on top, about 30 minutes more.

Someone must close down the bar, but I am through volunteering for the position. This is not to say bourbon has lost its bloom, or that work days do not begin with brief foamy fantasies about the first cold beers to be cracked eight hours later. I can say (with a straight face) that serious carousing is an occupation for swollen wallets and spare time, and claim that, as of late, I have neither. I can rationalize moderation because I wake up very early and tire before last call the following morning. I can insist that going out is harder than staying in, especially when it's raining and there's work to do and Netflix in the mailbox. I can affect a jaded outlook, yawning that the sport of drinking doesn't hold the appeal it had ten years ago. I can label it a secondary activity, something I associate with games to watch, gigs to play, food to eat, and good conversations with friends. Big nights happen, yes, but usually on accident, I can say -- candidly, with no regrets.

Those are all parts of the problem (if embracing moderation can ever be considered one) but the real reason, the one that really has me avoiding bars and heading home early when I can't, is that these days, when I drink too much, my hangovers hit like Mike Tyson circa 1986. After a few too many, I wake up stuffy, morose, disoriented, ugly, and sore. I don't ever get sick, but I forget details about where I went and who I saw. I don't have the energy to do the things that the day ahead demands, and my mood plummets correspondingly. When I was 20, I could shake off boozy sweats, dehydration, and body aches, and spring out of bed after five hours of sleep to bound around the house, read, study, and socialize -- all miraculously on an empty stomach. Now, on those increasingly infrequent occasions where I over-indulge, I am discovering that I desperately require food -- breakfast maybe, or at least a snack of heroic proportions -- to piece myself together again.

Restorative noshing is welcome immediately after the party, or hours later, upon waking. The fact that I've only really realized this in the latter half of my twenties probably says something about my learning curve in general. If hunger pangs strike on the way home from the bar, possibilities are limited. Most restaurants aren't open. Chorizo tacos from El Farolito and Taqueria Vallarta hit the spot. I haven't been, but Nombe, the new-ish izakaya on Mission St., has a late-night take-out window selling ramen to revelers staggering home. Sometimes, an attack on the refrigerator is the best and cheapest recourse. I went out on Saturday night and stayed out -- gasp -- until 1 a.m. When I came home I realized nearly everything in the house that I felt like eating was being saved for a dinner with my dad the following night -- sausage for pizza, bread for croutons, and olives. Instead, I microwaved some leftover white rice and added salt and a few squirts of srirachi sauce. Something with srirachi sauce usually does the trick. Lately, I've also been especially enjoying plain corn tortillas roasted on a cast-iron skillet and then topped with srirachi and a few creamy squiggles of Kewpie mayonnaise. I do two at a time, folded over like miniature fusion-y quesadillas, and eat them fast, usually burning my mouth in the process.

For those disinclined to wallow in gastronomic gutters, there is also, of course, street food -- bacon dogs, tamales, and the ever-growing assortment of heavily Twittered carts that tend to pop up on corners outside the doors of drinking establishments. As good as some of this stuff is (I'm thinking about you, gumbo guy), such trendy offerings come with long lines, and waiting fifteen minutes for a grilled flatbread behind a bunch of ravenous drunk people is rarely an attractive option when you're ravenous and drunk yourself. Fifteen minutes? I could be home by then, putting the final drizzle of srirachi on a corn tortilla, wearing the sweats, watching a little Larry David before passing out with a smile on my face.

Tortilla with srirachi and Kewpie mayonnaise. You won't see this in Saveur.

Alcohol stirs the strangest cravings the morning after. Some people wake up and go for eggs, pancakes, waffles, sausage, and other conventional breakfast-y things. There is scientific logic to this. Eggs contain cysteine, a substance that breaks down the hangover-causing toxin acetaldehyde in the liver. Fruit juice actually hastens the rate at which a body gets ride of toxins like those generated by alcohol metabolism. Bananas, also common at breakfast, replace potassium lost to alcohol's diuretic tendencies. Fried or stupendously unhealthy foods appeal because sufferers suspect that grease will soothe their irritated stomach linings -- nevermind the fact that it's more likely to have the opposite effect. Psychology is powerful, however, especially the morning after losing brain cells, and I think that sometimes people condition themselves to crave the very things that will hurt them more. It's, in the long run, a fairly harmless sort of self-loathing -- sitting down to a plate of battered chicken, savoring the punishment disguised as a cure, letting your over-taxed body pay the tab your inconsiderate brain racked up. Some treat their morning afflictions like illness and self-medicate with more austere feasts -- steamed vegetables, spicy broths, and so on.

Every year, usually when New Year's Eve approaches, publications feel it necessary to run stories about hangovers and how to avoid them. Typically, these pieces involve interviews with bartenders, operating under the assumption that these callous dispensers of liquid poison know something about recovery too. On Christmas Eve, Grub Street consulted some mixologists on the subject, and the responses were fairly telegraphed, with most suggesting hair of the dog remedies. Likewise, a Dec. 31 Examiner article expanded the sample group and saw similar results, with respondents largely sticking to the guns articulated by their respective professions. The bartender recommended more booze. The personal trainer advocated drinking plenty of water and working out. The doctor condemned drinking too much in the first place. The acupuncturist suggested acupuncture. I'm not sure if I have a profession to stick to, but I have done both drinking and thinking in my day, and for that reason, I hesitate to press any so-called "cures" on others. Hangovers are, after all, very personal things. I will however share a few meals that I have managed to enjoy under the bleariest of circumstances:

Indian buffet. This goes back to a summer home from college. The morning after a long night, some friends and I went to an Indian restaurant attached to a worn motel. After three plates of chicken korma, saag paneer, and samosas, I felt well enough to spend the rest of the day at the zoo. I'm not sure if there's a San Francisco equivalent, but once I woke up in San Jose, went to New Indian Cuisine, and came away again convinced that naan is merely Advil slicked with ghee.

A breaded chicken torta with chipotles from La Torta Gorda. I'm always momentarily tempted to get a junior, but the full is the way to go. Go home, eat half, and put the remainder in the fridge. Get some covers and stretch out on the couch. Watch basketball or half a season of a television show you've already seen. Look up at the clock. It's nearly dinner-time. Good thing you have a brick-sized piece of torta to eat.

A pickle, dill.

Soup. I'm a soup person -- that could be a post in and of itself -- but it doesn't help my hangovers unless it's French onion from Ti Couz, with some seafood salad and maybe a mushroom crepe on the side.

Chicken fingers and waffle fries with ranch dressing from Phat Philly. This is actually my girlfriend's thing. She's yelling at me from the other room to include it.

John Campbell's Irish Bakery. Once, a few years ago, I was staying out at my dad's in the Richmond District -- dog-sitting, house sitting, and cable-watching -- and I woke up after a night out with a painkiller-resistant headache, a sour hollow stomach, and my dad's whippet dashing around the bed in frantic circles. I had hopped off the 38 at 1:30 a.m. and decided to grab one more at the Blarney Stone. Pulling on a coat, leashing the dog, and stepping out into the stabbing mist, I walked back to the scene of the crime and had a piece of pizza (it might have been called "focaccia") from John Campbell's, the fantastic bakery next door to the 'Stone. This was like nothing you'd see at A16, Flour + Water, or even Pizza Hut. There was turkey or ham in cubes, peppers and onions, maybe. A white sauce and cheese, I want to say. The dog was whimpering, begging for a taste. I can't recall the details, but the slice (a slab, really) was like a combination of stew and scone, or an upside-down pot pie even -- bread-y, bland, and bad, at least as far as pizza goes. Yet held to a different standard -- alcohol absorption -- it delivered -- nearly as well as a corn tortilla with hot sauce and mayo.

The Winter Fancy Food Show is here in San Francisco through Tuesday, sprawling through the windowless, blue-carpeted acres of the Moscone Center. It's huge, filling both the North and South Halls on either side of Howard Street, over 2000 vendors on display, all here to make deals, talk shop, taste, schmooze, scope out the competition, see which way the market is moving. It's the biggest food-product show in the country, attracting all levels of the industry from big distributors with furry-suited mascots to small cheesemakers. The sleek Italians are here, promoting the wines of Sardinia, just a few aisles away from the guys touting a line of wine-bottle carriers and gift bags.

So what's on display? Everything. It's both cheering and depressing at once. Everyone seems to have the utmost faith in their product, a shiny white-teeth optimism that of course America needs bacon-flavored microwave popcorn that's also vegetarian and kosher, or applesauce in astronaut-style squeeze bags. Would you like to try a glass of water shipped from Siberia? Wouldn't you like to fancy up your dessert presentations with chocolate-truffle foam, now in a handy squirt can? Goji berries are good for you, you know. Here, you can eat them in cookies.

Everyone has a gimmick. These truffles are vegan and aligned with Indian ayurvedic practice, stamped with what could be the logo of a yoga studio and filled with coconut ginger-lemongrass ganache. These crunchy little cheese straws are made by real buttery-accented Southern ladies handing them out as if at a United Daughters of the Confederacy tea.

Tabletop wedding fountains spout ginger-haberno barbecue glaze as an entire Hyatt's worth of men in dark blue suits crunch spreadsheet numbers behind brightly lit cheese displays. Pisco sours are being poured in the Peruvian aisle (a good thing), Lincolnshire elderflower soda in the British one. All the chocolate is decadent, all the cakes indulgent but guilt-free. And everyone is still smiling, smiling, under the fluorescent lights, snapping up samples and trading shop talk about warehouses and brokers, reps and prices. All the packaging is bright, brighter, brightest. Hand-sanitizing stations are set up at the end of every few aisles, even as it's impossible to estimate how many fingers have dug into the big bowls of loose nuts on display at this table, or scooped into that oozing wedge of Brie. One uses a toothpick, looks for untouched edges or single-serving cups, and hopes for the best.

So what was worth trying? The new whole-milk ricotta at West Marin's Bellwether Farms, creamily rich and lusciously smooth, the product of months of experimentation by artisanal-dairy matriarch Cindy Callahan and her son Liam. Unlike their Jersey and sheep's-milk ricottas, made the traditional way from the leftover whey pressed out of their other cheeses, this ricotta starts with full-fat milk that's cultured, like yogurt, then left to coagulate and ripen.

The company's sheep herd is expanding, with lambing happening year-round now. This means more milk, which means the rest of the country will finally get the chance to breakfast on Bellwether's excellent sheep's-milk yogurt, as the company finally begins distribution beyond California. Callahan is upbeat; 2009 was a very good year for her sheep's-milk products. Down the road, she hopes, might be a Bellweather blue.

Representing the green hills of Vermont, the Grafton Village Cheese Company is looking back to the roots of its popular Cheddar. Tasty, wax-sealed blocks of easy-to-love New England cheddar made be Grafton's stock in trade, but right now they're most excited about their old English-style wheels of bandage-wrapped cheddar.

Raw milk from their two best farms goes straight from the milking parlors into the cheese-making rooms. Once the cheeses are formed and cloth-wrapped, they're sent over the Cellars at Jasper Hill, a custom aging facility built by the small-batch cheesemakers of Jasper Hill. The cloth wrapping lets the cheese breathe as it ages, collecting more flavor-inducing bacteria and developing an alluring bovine funk over 16 months in the caves. It's not quite up to the grand complexity of a great English cheddars like Montgomery, but it's closer than most. So far, the company is selling it by the wheel to a small number of cheese stores and high-end supermarkets.

Sauerkraut hasn't hit the scene yet, although it feels like a safe bet that it will by next year. Instead, there's the palate-cleansing, corpse-reviving blast of Mother-in-Law's Kimchi neatly balanced between crunch and bite, heat and ferment.

Putting her mother and aunt to work serving up samples is company founder Lauryn Chun, who got the idea after hauling jars of her mother's homemade kimchi home to New York City following every visit home. Friends devoured the spicy condiment and begged for more. Now, she sells her Mason jars of fermented cabbage in fancy New York gourmet shops like Dean & Deluca as well at Bay Area-based online retailer Foodzie. While Chun organizes kimchi-and-wine pairings in Manhattan, her mother stands by a more traditional approach. "Koreans eat it three times a day," she tells curious customers at her daughter's stand. "If we don't have kimchi, we can't eat."

Something to drink? There's lemon-ginger and berry-hibiscus kombucha, ready to retail at $3.50 a pop over at the Honest Tea booth. It tastes like kombucha does, like diluted cider vinegar with a hint of fruit. It will be rolling out nationally in March, and already the spokespeople at the booth can hear the happy hippie ka-ching at the registers of Whole Foods and elsewhere.

More alluring are the Edwardian English-summer drinks from Belvoir: a lightly herbal elderflower pressé the color of pale champagne, a vigorous, not-too-sweet ginger beer. Lovely on their own, they'd also make wonderful bases for summer cocktails, if San Francisco's bartenders ever look up from their current hot-and-heavy with absinthe and bitters. What could be more ladylike than a double-elderflower whammy with the ubiquitous St. Germain elderflower liqueur?

And then, of course, comes chocolate. Chocolate is everywhere. It's still decadent, still indulgent, saving the world through fair-trade sourcing, scouring out those annoying free radicals, filled with everything from red wine to lemongrass. The cream of the crop, though, is elegant Valrhona, still clad in French Vogue-editor matte black. But the doors to the chateau have been eased open slowly, as the company launches an expanded line of baking chocolates geared towards the serious home cook, along with more single-origin bars and bonbon assortments. A box of 52 squares, each a single bite, is divvied up between 4 levels of cocoa percentage (from a 33% milk to a 70% dark) and 4 places of origin. It's the size of a small jewelry box, and much more of a sure thing, especially for the ladies on your list.

Ginger continues its ascendancy, in both sweet and savory alike. But never better than in the teeth-sticking chewies of the Ginger People, who clearly know just what this sample-weary audience needs.

On one of the morning talk shows last week, a woman was discussing a New Years resolution to streamline her online life. She lamented how it’d taken over her "real life," and had calculated how many hours she wastes on twitter and facebook alone. I'm sure we've all felt similarly at one time or another, although maybe you're still guilty of whiling away an hour online on the office clock and spending more time catching up with your Google Reader than your significant other. So this week I thought I'd put together a post for you highlighting a few food MVP's--online sites (many of which are local) where each moment you spend drooling, ogling, and researching will be time well spent. I promise.

Eat

Food by mail. Certainly something people are warming up to, but there's still some hesitation. With thoughts of honey-baked ham and bad coffeecakes, not everyone's jumping on the wagon. But there are some great sites out there, hand-selecting unique, small-batch products that you can't find at your corner grocery store. From small sites stocking heirloom beans (love them), to big-box stores with overnight shipping--you can get pretty much whatever your recipe calls for online these days. But local rock-star site, Foodzie and innovative Marx stand out for their diverse products and way in which they foster community by supporting small artisan vendors, blogging about their experiences, and hosting contests and giveaways.

I can't say enough about Foodzie. First, they're based right here in San Francisco, they're supporting small businesses from all over the country, and every time I sign on I find something cool I'd never heard about. If you're not familiar with the concept, essentially they're an online space, allowing small-time (or bigger-time) vendors to set up a shop. Then buyers purchase directly from these passionate food producers and growers. I've found a few favorite new products like handmade peanut butter cups from the small baking company, a little bit of sweet, and Sunchowder's Emporia unique hand-crafted jams (wrapped in beautiful papers). Their blog has dining recommendations, interviews and recipes, and there's a great "Discover" map that highlights artisan foods made in and around the Bay Area.

Twitter: @foodzie

Before 2007, only high-end restaurateurs knew about Marx Foods as they were essentially a supplier of wholesale, boutique, high-end products. Today, their product line has expanded and is now available to home chefs who can search by categories or ingredients, season, organic/free range etc. Their mission is to find the finest and freshest products, stay on top of food trends, and connect the customer to the food source (by taking out the warehouse/middleman element). Their "Foodie FAQ" delves into such topics as the spiciness of ghost peppers and freezing live mussels. And they also have a blog where they feature contests and post relevant pieces like "How to Store Fresh Truffles" or great recipes (like this one for chile-coconut crusted shrimp).

Twitter: @marxfoods and check out their flickr stream

Read

I won't even touch on blogs or online food communities because we all have our favorites and really, that'd be an entirely different post. If you want to know what blogs I read and admire, here's my current link list. Moving away from blogs, there are a few sites that stand out in my mind for fresh local content and literary voice.

Life is good for Marcia Gagliardi these days. She's currently hitting up the food scene in India and has a book coming out this spring. While I rarely give out my email and subscribe to newsletters and the like, I look forward to every Tuesday afternoon when the "hopper" arrives in my in-box (online version available on her website). Marcia's voice is light-hearted and humorous. She's sometimes self-deprecating and never takes food too, too seriously. But she's definitely got the inside scoop on the San Francisco dining scene: restaurant closures, changes in ownership, great reviews, and upcoming events. Her rotating "Ten Places to Eat at Now" list contains a few of my very favorite spots, and she provides a great free service called "tip please" that allows you to enter a bit of information and receive a personalized restaurant recommendation (service temporarily on hold while Marcia travels). She's not paid by restaurants to write a review, she doesn't accept ads, and she doesn't believe in writing negative reviews. She's a genuine voice coming out of the San Francisco food scene.

Twitter: @tablehopper

With a tagline like: Read. Chew. Discuss, eGullet has got to be good. There are a few parts to the website. First, they have a popular forum, where folks post questions in topics ranging from the best canned tomato soups to where to get dinner in Morristown, New Jersey. But the reason I come to egullet is for The Daily Gullet, the literary journal of the eGullet Society. Here, food writers and editors post longer, more literary pieces such as "Why Jews Like Chinese Food" and "The Frying of Latke 49." They're not always recipe-driven like many food blog entries tend to be these days, and are always smartly written. In the online world of short snippets and photos, sometimes it's nice to curl up with the laptop and read an actual essay on food. You get that here.

Look

If you’re a food blogger or a fan of "food porn," you already know Tastespotting and Food Gawker well. If these sites are new to you, the idea is simple: anyone can submit a photo and, if you meet the fairly rigid criteria (focus, composition, exposure and lighting), your picture could be chosen and posted for all to see. For bloggers, it's a great way to drive site traffic because viewers can click on your photo and be routed over to your blog or website for the recipe. For everyone, it’s a fun way to spend a few minutes, seeing what people are cooking and posting, and getting visual inspiration for future forays into the kitchen. If you're looking for a particular recipe or dish, you can search by category, popularity, and date to weed through the tempting photos and find what you're after.

Twitter: @tastespotting, @foodgawker

I

I'll admit it. Some of the food blogs I admire and read the most are ones with exceptional photos--sure, people like to read about food, but people really like to look at food. And that, my friends, is where the genius of Foodspotting enters. Instead of reading restaurant reviews to determine where to find a spicy mole or an authentic macaron, you check out the pictures on your own and judge for yourself.

Foodspotting is a new site that's been getting quite a bit of buzz lately for it's relatively genius concept, user-generated content, and clean and use-to-use interface. It's a self-proclaimed "foodie-powered field guide." Essentially, the idea is that when it comes down to it, you don't always care what Michael Bauer said about your favorite restaurant and researching new spots can make eating a bit more scholarly than it needs to be. So not only do users post photos of their favorite dishes, but Foodspotting has built in an important social element to keep the site fresh, interesting--and even competitive. Here's the nitty gritty (in brief) on how it works. Check out their site if you'd like more detailed information.

• You see a picture and like it, you "Want" it. "Wants" are sightings you'd like to try.
• "Noms" are for foods you've tried and loved the best.
• Champions: people who have spotted food at more places than anyone else.
• Follow: a little like twitter, you can opt to follow places, dishes, and other Foodspotters you trust to stay in the know on the latest sightings.

I'm particularly excited about this site. It's social functionality makes sense--it's all geared towards helping you find dishes you want to try from all over, getting to know your local scene better, network with others who have similar food interests, and perhaps freshen up those camera skills. In terms of travel and restaurant recommendations, it's a new and entirely visual way to check out a city you're traveling to and discover what looks good there.

Twitter: @foodspotting

This past Friday, January 15th at 8 p.m., 7 x 7 magazine hosted what they're calling the Friday Flash Mob. They encouraged diners, chefs, wait staff, or anyone involved in a restaurant that evening to take a shot of what was going on. From the guys manning the line at Tacoliscious to Chris Cosentino enjoying a quiet moment, it's a look at the kitchens, chefs, and dishes that were happening at the same moment all over the city. I'm a sucker for this stuff. While it's obviously too late to submit a photo (unless you have one from Friday at 8 p.m.), the Flickr photo stream will be used to help build the magazine's popular February food issue.

KQED is seeking guests for Season 5 of Check, Please! Bay Area. Potential reviewers who would like to tell the Bay Area about their favorite local eatery--anything from a four-star destination to your local café or street food from a traveling truck--are encouraged to complete the online application. Applications must be received by Thursday, January 21, 2010.

Please note that in order to appear on the show, guests must be at least 21 years old, and be willing to travel to and participate in a taping at KQED studios in San Francisco. The taping will take place on a weekday in late February and last a few hours. Those chosen to be a guest on Check, Please! Bay Area must also be able to get to the KQED studio at their own expense, and to travel to any restaurant location within a 50-mile radius of San Francisco. The shows will air on KQED 9HD as part of the fifth season of Check, Please! Bay Area, beginning in May 2010.

I don't much feel like being clever today. My thoughts are 3,286 miles away in Port-au-Prince-- a city I have yet to visit.

Perhaps it is the fact that I live in a city that has been devastated by earthquakes in the past and will be, undoubtably, devastated again that the one in Haiti has taken up so much of my attention. The thought of those people I love most in the world killed, or trapped alive by fallen concrete and steel is something I wonder if I would have the strength to bear.

Fortunately for us, we have strict earthquake-driven building codes. We have support and money and infrastructure-- what little of that the people of Port-au-Prince had is destroyed or severely crippled.

Haitians need food, they need shelter, they need clothes, and they need medicine.

And, no matter what Mr. Limbaugh says, they need our sympathy and our money.

If you are interested in donating money to the cause of helping the victims of the Port-au-Prince earthquake I would recommend a quick visit to Charity Navigator. It can answer any questions/concerns you might have about text-driven donations, and assist in your decision as to which charity you might give.

Or check out KQED's own Haiti Aid Resource Guide while you're here.

If you want to donate money specifically toward food aid in Haiti The Atlantic has an article linking to food aid resources.

There is a growing number of local restaurants, musicians, book publishers, and whatnots joining the Haiti donating various percentages of their proceeds (in some cases 100%) to Haitian Relief. If you can stomach the exaggerated, offensive photo borrowed from The New York Post, you might actually find some good activities in which to engage over at Eater SF.

Labouyi Bannann

As I was baking off the bit of fun I had originally planned to share today, everything just felt wrong. As I stood in my kitchen, I realized that I had never given much thought to Haiti. Period. I knew nothing of their music, or culture, or food. All that had ever come to mind prior to yesterday were thoughts of slavery, revolution, poverty, and natural disaster. Never in my life had I had a single, happy thought about the place.

I wondered what the people of Haiti ate? There are few better ways of getting the feel of an unfamiliar place or culture than to eat their food. If I were Haitian, I'd want something nourishing and, above all, comforting.

And that's where Labouyi Banann comes in.

It's porridge, essentially-- one made from ripe banana and unripe plantain. There are myriad ways to spell it, but only one way to eat it-- with a spoon. Make that two ways to eat it-- hot or cold. Either way, it's a good way to start the day. Or end it, for that matter. The following recipe makes six to eight servings, so I will be breakfasting on it every morning and, while I do, I will be reading and watching and praying for things to get better (can these people please get a break once in a while?) in Haiti.

Ingredients

1 unripe (green) plantain

1 large or two small, ripe yellow bananas

2 cups water

1 can (12 oz.) of evaporated milk

1 can (12 oz.) of coconut milk (or 1 cup whole milk)

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

3 cinnamon sticks

2 whole star anise

A pinch of grated nutmeg

A heavy pinch of salt

½ light or dark brown sugar (white sugar will work, too)

½ teaspoon grated lime zest

More dark brown sugar and lime zest for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a blender, purée plantain, banana, and water until smooth.

2. Place purée into a medium sized, heavy-bottomed pot. Bring to a boil over low to medium heat.

3. Add evaporated and coconut milks, lime zest, sugar, star anise, nutmeg, salt, and cinnamon sticks. Bring again to a boil and reduce to a simmer for 15 to 20 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent any burning. The texture should less like oatmeal and more like Cream of Wheat. Turn off heat and stir in vanilla.

4. This can be eaten hot or cold. Garnish with a sprinkle of dark brown sugar and lime zest.

Normally I spend my winter holiday season with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. Homemade gingerbread and sugar cookies sit on a counter already crowded with pumpkin bread and struffola; my mom and I debate the merits of popovers versus Yorkshire pudding; and a medley of Christmas movies -- from White Christmas to Elf -- play in the background. But this year, the week of Christmas was a little different as my family and I spent our time with nary a Christmas cookie in sight. Instead, we lounged on the Princess Sapphire.

Now we are not, by any stretch of the imagination, cruisers. As I mentioned in last week's post on Marisma Fish Tacos, my Christmas holiday vacation was a family obligation. I realize there are people out there who will think I'm an ungrateful whiner. That during a time when an icy winter cold front barrels across the country, and people everywhere are fantasizing about Mexico, I do nothing but carp about my time aboard a luxury liner sailing toward that destination. My response to those people is simply to say -- different strokes for different folks. Cruising is not my stroke. For one thing, I was a bit seasick the first few days. I was also appalled by the number of Glenn Beck books I saw people reading. That, plus the bombardment of Mariah Carey and her brethren from speakers discreetly placed throughout the ship almost did me in. Yet I could have handled the many small annoyances if I hadn't been so overwhelmed by the onslaught of underwhelming food.

Food on a cruise ship comes in many different shapes and forms and from a variety of locations. For the most part, the food is free (well, it's included in your passage price), and other than soda and alcohol, plus a couple of restaurants that charge a moderate fee for a finer dining experience, you can graze to your heart's content (or detriment) at no additional cost. There are large buffet areas with everything from tri tip and beef pot pies to Indian curries and salad bars. Near the pool on the Lido deck sits a pizza and hamburger counter, an ice cream and smoothie stand, and a regular mixed drink bar. There are then numerous other bars set throughout the ship, plus six or seven sit-down restaurants. You can even have food delivered to your room. Basically, it's impossible to starve on a cruise ship.

If you go on a cruise, however, you must relinquish any expectations to eat local, organic or sustainably-produced food. These simply do not exist in the cruising world. All the meat is corn-fed, endangered fish is bandied about like it was 1950, and spring vegetables sit in all their glory on your December plate. So forgo any high-minded expectations.

What you will find instead are masses of edibles laid out in every corner of your floating world. I have never seen such an abundance of food. Daily I was encountered with enormous buffets filled with steak, breaded shrimp, cheeses, breads, puddings, and cakes of all kinds. As I walked through this menagerie of high cholesterol, a parade of humanity -- from the very young to the almost ancient -- jostled past in their individual quests to fill their plates. Grown men in their 50s piled so much shrimp cocktail on 9 x 13" plates that they overflowed. Small children skipped the fruit section entirely, and often the actual entrées, instead loading their platters with cakes and cookies. And chubby people everywhere stood in line at the prime rib counter, asking for extra helpings of gravy.

I was in no way immune. After choosing six shrimp one afternoon, I looked around, saw the heaping helpings all around me, and then added a few more shrimp to my plate. "Why not?" I thought, even though I would have never taken that many at home. At breakfast, I decided to get a sunny-side-up egg PLUS a bagel with salmon and cream cheese PLUS sausage PLUS a yogurt. How could I resist? There was nothing else to do. I started to wonder if the clever folks at Pixar modeled the Axiom in WALL-E on a cruise ship. The similarities are uncanny: large people lounging in chairs all day, unremittingly consuming from dawn to bedtime while staff sweep and serve around them. Red is the new blue! Shrimp cocktail for everyone!

Thankfully some sanity with proportions was found in the sit-down restaurants, which is where we dined most evenings. The helpings there were more moderate. The restaurants on the ship all serve the same daily menus, with each dining location adding its own specialty dish. Standard dinner fare included mignonettes --- the wait staff told us these were like little filet mignons although I'm pretty sure they weren't cut from the tenderloin -- with potatoes; fish in various types of cream sauces; pork chops with baked apples and sweet potatoes; and usually something more exotic like duck à l'orange. On New Year's Eve, everyone--and I mean everyone--had lobster. The quality of the food was equivalent to what you'd find at a mid-level hotel: under-seasoned, a bit dry, and trying too hard. Not horrible, but also nothing memorable. The most disappointing course was the dessert. The best cakes were simply okay, while others verged on spit-into-a-napkin horrible. We learned to stick with the ice cream sundaes.

I think what amazed me most was the communal sense of gratuitous gluttony for food I found barely edible. Sure, there was a ton to eat, but nothing was singular. The presence of quantity seemed to make everyone lose sight of the absence of quality. But in a country where Olive Gardens and Red Lobsters -- known for their all you can eat bread sticks and shrimp -- are putting small restaurants out of business, should I really be surprised? A testament to how depressing this all was is the fact that I did not take any pictures of the food other than the fish tacos at Marisma. I am normally pretty obsessive about photographing my meals, yet during an entire week on the Princess Sapphire, I couldn't muster up the energy to take one picture.

White Cut Chicken (bok cheet gai) with Ginger-Scallion Oil, Cantonese comfort food

One of my favorite things about Chinese home cooking is that it is often incredibly simplistic. Just a few ingredients, clean, vibrant flavors, and no fussiness.

This recipe for poached chicken with ginger-scallion oil is one of my staple dishes when I feel the need to recharge. Served over a bowl of steaming jasmine rice, it is pure comfort and nourishment.

You see this dish at a lot of Chinese wedding banquets or New Year celebrations. As is customary for many Chinese foods, there is a special symbolism to this dish. The white chicken symbolizes happiness and purity, and if it is served whole, it symbolizes family as well.

I am always surprised at how flavorful this chicken is, considering all you're doing is boiling it. However, the combination of the salt rub and the salted water infused with ginger and garlic must make one phenomenal Jacuzzi bath, because something wonderful happens to that chicken. The meat becomes tender and juicy, and the sesame oil massage adds a warm, nutty fragrance to the skin.

The dipping sauce of minced scallion, minced and grated ginger, salt, and vegetable oil is the finishing touch. The secret to this sauce is heating the oil so that the ginger and scallion bloom with aromatic bliss. Spoon this all over some fluffy white rice, now it's your turn to reach bliss.

Added Bonus: Save the poaching liquid (removing any scum off the surface) and the chicken carcass to make a fantastic chicken stock.

Chinese White Cut Chicken (Bok Cheet Gai) with Ginger-Scallion Oil

Serves: 4-6

Ingredients:
1 whole chicken, 4-5 pounds
3-4 big chunks of ginger (1-inch thick), peeled and smashed
6 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
2 tablespoons Kosher salt, plus more to season the chicken
1 tablespoon sesame oil

Dipping Sauce:
4 tablespoons scallion, minced
1 tablespoon ginger, minced
1 tablespoon ginger, grated (a Microplane is perfect for this)
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup vegetable oil

Preparation:
1. Clean the chicken inside and out, removing any innards, and pat it dry. Rub salt liberally inside and out. Allow it to sit for 1 hour.
2. Fill a large pot with water full enough to cover at least ¾ of the chicken. Bring the water to a boil with the smashed ginger, garlic, and 2 tablespoons of salt. Place the chicken in breast side up, cover, and bring to a boil. Switch it to low heat and let cook for 45 minutes.
3. Flip the chicken, cover it and cook on low heat for another 45 minutes.
4. To test if the chicken is done, insert a chopstick near the thigh. If it goes in and there is no pinkness, it’s done. To lift the bird out of the pot, slip 2 chopsticks beneath the wings and lift up.
5. Pat the bird dry and rub with the sesame oil. Allow it to cool for 30 minutes before cutting. Serve with dipping sauce.
6. Prepare the dipping sauce by heating the vegetable oil just until it starts to smoke. Pour it over the scallion, ginger, and salt, and mix together. Serve with the chicken immediately.

When you move to the Mission District from somewhere far away, you learn about taquerias and what they offer. You realize that tacos are special snacks, plebian tapas, almost, and a topic worthy of a conversation all their own. Platters of grilled meat with fluffy rice, puddles of beans, negligible watery salads, and stacks of tortillas are for dads and adolescent boys. Quesadillas are tempting because their fully suiza'd incarnations incorporate a burrito's most appealing elements -- the meats, the flag-hued trifecta of guacamole, salsa, and sour cream, and so on -- but every time you try to down one, you sweat cheese and suffer cramps. Nachos are a little silly, masochistic, a nutritional mockery; they belong in sports bars, where they should never be ordered. Portable, tasty, and immensely filling, burritos are your thing. Ohio had burritos too. So did Kentucky. But, until California-style wraps invaded the fast food lexicon, those were vile orange cheddar-and-ground beef roll-ups populating the refrigerated cases of gas stations and college dining hall steam tables. You never ate them before, but now, having thrown down new roots in America's burrito basket you try many variations on this startling new discovery, too many, in fact, your stomach wearily tells you again and again, as you retire to bed at least two or three nights a week with a baby-sized slug of meat, beans, rice, and tortilla burrowed into your gut. After a few months of playing the field, following recommendations and wandering blindly into the taquerias with the catchiest names, you home in on the burritos you like best. For a time, with each salsa-flecked triumph, you have a new favorite destination. With like-minded connoisseurs, you debate the merits of various establishments' interpretations of the form. Out-of-town visitors always want to know where to find a good burrito. By the time they get around to asking you, you're wiser, over the course of weeks and months, a true aficionado. You come to understand that, while there are many very good burritos in your neighborhood, seeking out the perfect specimen is a impossible undertaking.

The best taquerias are frequently inconsistent. Even at the top of the heap, most earn their stripes for doing a specific few things really well -- a sublime meat or two, expertly seasoned and stewed or grilled, a special salsa, perhaps, or a unique portioning and folding method permitting an ideal and harmonious mix of wet, dry, spicy, rich, and acidic substances within. You never find a burrito that synthesizes all the traits you hold dear, but you do learn, for example, that El Metate's burritos are smaller than most you see in the Mission, a dependable, yet mildly sporty sedan navigating streets dominated by cumbersome trucks. Devotees tear up like Paula Abdul over the taqueria's sensational pork in chile verde. El Metate's burrito-crafters refrain from toasting the outsides of burritos prior to wrapping them in foil, but their innards more than compensate. If you ask at the right time, you might get your mitts on a bag of confetti-colored flour tortilla chips and a cup of extra-spicy salsa. A late-night hotspot for hungry drunks, El Farolito toasts admirably. Its strongest filling is boiled chicken, sublime moist shreds that could have been birthed in a cauldron of noodle soup. The salsa bar at Farolito is puny, but the green, as it's invariably called, puts it on par with the grand spreads you see at frillier taquerias – a creamy, avocado-slicked puree you want to slip into an i.v. after dipping a chip or two. El Castillito really toasts, more thoroughly than Farolito, until the shell of a burrito is flaky and singed, almost like a shawarma. Re-fried beans, often eschewed, excel here; they act as edible glue, fusing with melted cheese to unite the more flavorful components. Papalote has a rust-colored salsa so smooth and unctuous you can easily convince yourself it contains cream and butter. Irrigate the interior of your fresh shrimp burrito, and take home a few jars to eat ice cream.

Don't get me wrong though. I'm not telling you where to go for a burrito. Anyone you meet out here can tell you where to find one -- if you don't already know by now. As local media has noted over the last few years, there are numerous websites dedicated to the enjoyment and evaluation of burritos around town. I'm thinking primarily of the diligent and judicious Burrito Eater. Similar operations drop knowledge in other California cities. For instance, my friend Crawford runs Dr. Burrito in San Diego, and regularly schools ignorant folks on his terrain's regional particulars. These are experts. Lay-people obsessed with finding the perfect burrito -- again, a preposterous endeavor -- usually possess too much free time, and probably log an unhealthy amount of time crafting witty Yelp reviews. The taquerias I patronize most are the ones closest to my house or the bar. The idea of going out of your way for a six-dollar meal you'll eat in ten minutes contradicts the essence of a burrito. Nonetheless, if you engage the debate, you come to the conclusion that most taquerias you end up liking a lot are better at something than most others. When you go out for a burrito, you head to a destination with areas of strength that suit your predisposition at that moment. In this sense, you're re-visiting an experience, like putting on a beloved record or watching re-runs. I would like to listen to the White Album again. I would like to see Season Three of The Wire once more. I would like a fish burrito with no sour cream from El Metate. Dialing in a go-to combination from a reliable purveyor is the only recourse a dedicated burrito-hound has, though daydreams about the impossible persist -- the fantasy of a mutant hybrid burrito boasting the best traits of a dozen of the neighborhood's best. A garrulous housemate once eloquently outlined the concept:

"In a perfect world I would buzz around the Mission with a rocket pack on my back, collecting my favorite meats from each taqueria. And I would fold all the juicy delights into a giant burrito, probably the size of a heavy bag for boxing. I would eat some of the burrito, and then sit it up on the couch next to me, like a friend."

What if you could take El Metate's chile verde pork, squeeze it into an El Farolito-sized shell, take it to Castelito for toasting, and then crown it with dollops of Papalote's salsa? Shortly after the exchange, I visited Taqueria San Francisco on 24th St., near York –- incidentally a Burrito Eater favorite -- and couldn't, for the life of me, decide between ordering mine with chile relleno or chicken. In a moment of loopy clarity, I ordered them both in one burrito. The guy at the counter kind of smiled faintly. Ten minutes later, I was back at the house, hauling something silver and as heavy as a brick out of a thin plastic bag. It proved to be one of the most exciting burritos I have ever attacked. The doughy batter surrounding the hacked-up pepper had melted into the foundation of beans and rice. The juicy stewed chicken found a ready foil in the acidic salsa and the pepper's mild heat. Chunks of buttery avocado studded the interior. I had skipped the sour cream, but not the cheese, so this burrito was queso-heavy, a twisted, solid mass from the chile relleno running down the middle like a spine, and another layer melted against the inside of the tortilla.

I have not revisited this particular adventure, though other mildly outside-the-box burrito variations followed suit. Two years ago, upon recovering from a two-day bout with a stomach virus, slogging through a final cautionary day of bread and jam, and, on the fourth day, enjoying 2.5 hours of taxing pick-up basketball, I limped into El Farolito and ordered a super chicken burrito with extra meat, rationalizing that the extra calories would do me good. When I sliced the massive cylinder down the middle and turned the halves to expose the cross-section, it looked as if a turducken had exploded inside the glittering foil sheath. I ate 2/3 of it, and immediately collapsed for an hour, with the lights dimmed in my room, listening to Sibylle Baier and cursing myself. Incidentally, a frugal friend with a serious appetite has a good technique for extending the sustaining power of a burrito. He pulls off the foil, cuts a surgically precise slit lengthwise across the side without folds, and scoops out the "guts" with chips. Then he fills the hollowed middle with pico de gallo, packs the tortilla back together into a semblance of its original shape, and sucks it down.

Taqueria Guadalajara's steak and shrimp burrito, regular

Just last week, I was standing, cold and somewhat frazzled in the dining room of Taqueria Guadalajara, another 24th Street establishment. I hadn't had a burrito in a month, and was trying to decide what to order. I thought about the relleno-chicken mash-up I'd downed three years earlier, how it had awakened burrito 'buds I never knew existed. I knew most taquerias didn't mind letting patrons double up on fillings, but Guadalajara actually has a "mixto" option clearly listed on the bright, broad menu positioned above the counter. I ordered a burrito with steak and grilled shrimp. The result –- salty and chewy with a hint of the shellfish's brine peeking through the mix –- was good but not as balanced and magical as the relleno-chicken combination. I wondered if two flavors over-crowded in most arrangements, if a burrito was best served by a subtle backing section supporting a dominant soloist –- say, soothing boiled chicken, or bold, zesty carnitas -- not a duet. Still, I wondered which combinations would work best. Tripe and carnitas? Steak and chicken?

As I dived again and again into my selection, I wondered: What might up the ante, and take the burrito further out into the void while remaining respectful? Stupid wrap franchises have ruined fusion burritos with their jasmine rice-and-curry concoctions to be sure, but what if fried chicken replaced boiled chicken in an otherwise straightforward preparation? Or if thin-shaved lamb from Old Jerusalem's shawarma spits cozied up to green salsa and re-fried beans? A shrimp rolled out of the burrito and onto my lap. I ate it. The possibilities were as endless as the half-eaten tube before me.