Happy Purim! Yes, today is the Jewish celebration of Purim, a happy little holiday where costumes and drunken revelry are mandated, and rolling from house to house bringing gifts of food and drink is exactly what you're supposed to do. The party is mostly a secular one, a celebration of the bravery and resourcefulness of Queen Esther, favorite of Persia's King Ahasuerus. When Haman, one of the king's advisors, plotted to rid the kingdom of Jews, Esther went to the king, revealed her previously hidden Jewish identity and pleaded for her people to be spared. As a result, Haman got it in the neck instead of the Jews, and persecution was set aside for another day.

So, a fine reason to celebrate. At the synagogue, the story is read from the Book of Esther, and every time Haman is mentioned, noisemakers are cranked to drown out his name. Sometimes the story is acted out, in a goofy pageant called the Purimspiel. Many synagogues or community centers hold a Purim Carnival for kids. Who could resist games like "Throw the Beanbag through Haman's Mouth"? Best of all, of course, are the hamantaschen, cookies made in the shape of Haman's (supposedly) three-cornered hat and filled with a thick, sweet paste of apricots, prunes, or poppy seeds.

Clearly, this is a cookie born in Central Europe, brought over by immigrants raised on the buttery cookies, the poppy seeds, honey, spices and dried fruits found in baking traditions from Vienna to Budapest. What sets hamantaschen apart from, say, thumbprint cookies are their fillings: dense and sticky, full flavored and rich. Called lekvar, these are pastes, not jams, made from dried fruits plumped in juice and water, flavored with citrus and spices. Where jam would boil and run, lekvar stays put.

It's not impossible to find hamantaschen at bakeries around the Bay Area, especially at this time of year. But they're never anywhere near as good as homemade. Too often, the dough is sugar-cookie bland, the filling a thin scrape of rubbery goo. What you want is a fat, buttery-lemony cookie folded around a plump spoonful of rich fruitiness, something almost more mince pie than mere cookie.

Now, it's easy to find canned lekvars in the kosher section of any supermarket. Like so many prepared foods, though, they're often filled with unnecessary junk: high-fructose corn syrup, weird preservatives. Happily, though, making your own is easy, and the taste is well worth the tiny bit of effort put in at the blender.

You will, however, need to make a special trip for the apricot paste. Any shop specializing in Middle Eastern groceries will carry this, essentially a flat brick of lightly sweetened fruit leather. I've only ever seen one brand, made in Syria and wrapped in golden cellophane, with a beautiful blue label painted with bright orange apricots.

While you're there, of course, you can browse for all kinds of other delicious things, like olives, thick yogurt, pink pickled turnips, mint tea, pomegranate molasses, rose-petal jam, baba ghanoush, chunks of halvah ribboned with chocolate, fresh pita bread, crunchy melon seeds, belly-dancing videos, copper pots for making Turkish coffee, sesame candy, and more. I found mine (and all of the above) at Samiramis Imports in the Mission.

Apricot paste in hand, you can divide up the process over a few hours. Make the cookie dough and stash it in the fridge. Make the fillings, apricot first so you can reuse the pot and the blender without needing to wash them, since the darkness of the prune will absorb any remaining apricot stickiness. Roll out the dough, cut the rounds, move them onto cookie sheets and let little hands plop on the filling and pinch the three-cornered triangles. Bake, make tea or pour milk, and celebrate. And then bring a plateful to your neighbors.

Hamantaschen
Both dough and fillings keep well in the refrigerator, so you can roll out and fill just a few cookies at a time. Then again, these are really delicious and fun to eat even for breakfast, since they're not overly rich or sweet. In my experience, even a whole batch doesn't last very long out of the oven.

Makes: about 20 cookies

Ingredients:
8 tbsp (1 stick, 4 oz) butter or margarine
1/2 cup + 2 tbsp sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
1 1/2 tbsp orange juice
1/2 tsp grated lemon rind
2 cups flour
1 1/4 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
Apricot and/or Prune Lekvar, recipe below

Preparation:
1. Cream butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in egg, orange juice, and vanilla. In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Stir flour into butter mixture, mixing gently until just combined. Add lemon zest and stir until dough is smooth.

2. Form into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap or pop into a resealable plastic bag.
Chill in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours or overnight. (Otherwise dough will be too sticky to roll out.) While dough is chilling, making filling(s).

3. Preheat oven to 375 F. Lightly flour a large wooden cutting board or countertop. Because this dough tends to be sticky, it's easiest to roll it out with a sheet of waxed paper between the dough and the rolling pin. This will prevent the dough from sticking and tearing as you roll.

4. Roll out dough into a broad round, as if you're making a thickish sheet of pie dough. It's better to have it on the thicker side, maybe a quarter-inch or so, as the cookies are nicer when they're a little puffy, and also will be easier to fill and pinch if they're not super-skinny.

5. Using a cookie cutter or a drinking glass, stamp out circles of dough. Move the circles onto a cookie sheet, leaving an inch or so between each one. It's important to fill the rounds on the cookie sheet (rather than on the counter top) as they are hard to move without tearing once they're filled. The size is up to you; I usually use a cutter that's about 4 inches across, making a round the size of a smallish hamburger patty.

6. Place a generous tablespoon of filling in the center of each round. Fold the top sides of the circle into the middle and pinch the top into a point. Fold the bottom half up to meet the folded-in sides. Pinch each side to seal, forming a triangle with a patch of filling peeking out from the middle.

7. Bake for 20 minutes or so, until cookies are pale golden brown around the edges. Let cool on a rack. Note that the filling will be super-bubbling hot right out of the oven, so try to give them at least a few minutes' cooling time before you bite into your first one.

Apricot Lekvar

Ingredients:
7 oz apricot paste
1/2 cup water
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp orange juice
1 tablespoon grated orange zest
1/2 cup golden raisins
2 tbsp sugar or honey, or to taste

Preparation:
Tear apricot paste into bite-sized pieces. Place in a small, heavy saucepan with the rest of the ingredients. Warm over low heat, stirring frequently, until paste is soft and melting and raisins have plumped up, about 10-12 minutes. Let cool for a few minutes, then transfer to a food processor or blender. Puree until smooth. Taste and add more sugar or orange juice, as needed. Store in the refrigerator until needed. (If you have extra, it keeps for a very long time and is excellent on toast.)

Prune Lekvar

Ingredients:
1/2 cup water or orange juice
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 cup pitted prunes
1/2 cup raisins
2 tbsp sugar or honey
1/8 tsp cinnamon

Preparation:
Mix all ingredients together. Put them into the same pot you used for the apricot filling (no need to wash it out), and warm over low heat until prunes and raisins are soft and mushy, about 8-10 minutes. Let cool slightly, then puree. Store in the fridge until needed. Like the apricot filling, it keeps a very long time and tastes divine.

Samiramis Imports, 2990 Mission St at 26th St., San Francisco. (415) 824-6556.

Bay Area Bites bloggers, Thy Tran and Stephanie Im join Leslie Sbrocco, host of Check, Please! Bay Area in a new local food and wine segment on This Week in Northern California. This week, the conversation is about celebrating the food and traditions of the Chinese New Year.

WATCH THE EPISODE:

Posts related to this segment:

• Chinese New Year Feast
• Lunar New Year Sweet Rice Dumplings
• Pork and Shrimp Dumplings (Jiao Zi)

Related Twitter feeds:

• Leslie Sbrocco
• Stephanie Im

The Lunar New Year, or Tet as my peeps call it, brings with it many favorite dishes. Fatty pork and sugar dominate the holiday table, harking back to a time when ingredients fat and sweet were much more difficult to obtain, precious to use, and delightfully rare to enjoy.

While I can now buy a 10-pound bag of sugar and an equal amount of meat for less money than a couple of movie tickets, the most traditional new year's dishes are still special for one resource that does remain valuable: time.

Soi Nuoc is one of those meditative, celebratory foods for me. It means, literally, Sticky Rice in Water. Unlike the Chinese, the Vietnamese can be rather literal and unromantic when naming their food. No matter. Who needs fancy language when you have in your hands a beautiful bowl with pale, round balls of chewiness floating in spicy-sweet ginger syrup? Inside hides a spoonful of rich filling: black sesame seeds or red bean paste or golden mung beans bound with lard. (These days, butter or oil makes a fine substitute for those of us watching our pork intake.)

Each perfect dumpling evokes purity and completeness. It celebrates the return of the festive, fertile full moon. It embodies the richness and sweetness of life. The sweet rice dumpling even inspire poets, such as the famed Ho Xuan Huong, an 18th-century Vietnamese woman famous for her intimate, elegant verses:

My body is white and my destiny round,
I float and sink, water and mountain.
Hard or soft, I depend on the skills of
the person who kneads me.
Despite everything, I always keep
a consistent heart.

In China, where they're known as yuan xiao or tang yuan, the dumplings are traditionally served during the Lantern Festival, which falls on the 15th day of the 1st lunar month. During an especially important season, the festival comes on the first full moon of the new year and marks the end of the new year festivities. Here in San Francisco, this is typically the time when the Chinese New Year parade winds its way up the streets of Chinatown. The dumplings are also enjoyed throughout the year at many dessert houses throughout the Bay Area. Look for them on menus at your favorite Chinese restaurant or boba tea house.

The recipe for soi nuoc is very simple. You can buy finely ground glutinous rice at nearly all Asian markets (look for California's own Blue Star Mochiko, produced by the Koda family in the San Joaquin Valley since the late 1940s). You'll need just a handful of other basic ingredients, a friend or two to help roll, several more to eat, and -- most importantly -- a break in your routine to enjoy the simple, sweet things in life.

GINGER SYRUP

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 cups boiling water
3 inches ginger root, peeled and crushed

In a small, heavy pot, melt the sugar over medium-high heat. Swirl for even melting, but do not stir to avoid crystallization. When the sugar is a dark amber, remove from heat and pour in the water -- take care, as it may splatter. Stir to melt the sugar completely. Add the ginger, return to low heat, and simmer for 10 minutes.

Alternatively, dissolve dark brown sugar in water and simmer with the ginger for 10 minutes. Don't tell your mom.

Remove the chunks of ginger and set the sauce aside.

SESAME FILLINGS

1/2 cup white sesame seeds
1/2 cup black sesame seeds
6 tablespoons lard or melted butter, divided
4 tablespoons sugar, divided
Salt

Toast the sesame seeds separately, taking care not to scorch them. In a mortar or pestle, blender or mini food processor, combine the white sesame seeds with 3 tablespoons butter, 2 tablespoons sugar and a pinch of salt. Puree to a thick, coarse paste. Transfer to a small bowl. Repeat with the black sesame seeds. Set both aside.

SWEET RICE DUMPLINGS

2 1/4 cups glutinous rice, plus more for kneading
1 cup very hot water

To make the dough: Place the rice in a large bowl and make dimples all over the surface with your fingers to encourage faster incorporation of the water. Pour the water evenly over the surface of the rice in a spiral, then immediately stir with a wooden spoon to mix into a shaggy dough. Transfer to a clean surface and knead for about 5 minutes to obtain a smooth, soft dough. Sprinkle lightly with additional rice flour, if needed, to prevent sticking to your hands or to the work surface. Roll the dough into a long log, cut into 24 pieces, and set aside, covered with a moist cloth.

To form the dumplings: Roll each piece of dough into a ball, flatten slightly, and then pinch up the outer edge to create a small bowl. Place about 1/2 teaspoon of sesame filling into the center, then gather up the side and pinch together to seal tightly. Roll again between your palms, pressing gently, to create a smooth ball. Continue with 18 of the pieces. Cut the remaining 6 pieces of dough into 4 smaller pieces, then roll each of those into a compact ball with no filling.

To cook the dumplings: Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the large, filled dumplings and boil for about 5 minutes. Add the small, unfilled dumplings and continue boiling for another 2 to 3 minutes. The dumplings will float to the surface of the water as they cook. Turn occasionally to keep them moist and evenly cooked.

Remove them from the water with a slotted spoon, place in a bowl of cold water to rinse away excess starch, and then transfer to the ginger syrup. Serve in individual bowls, mixing large dumplings with small ones and drizzling generously with the syrup.

Watch This Week in Northern California tonight, Friday February 26 at 8pm to see Leslie Sbrocco, host of Check, Please! Bay Area in a new segment on local food and wine trends. This week, a conversation about celebrating the food and traditions of the Chinese New Year with Bay Area Bites bloggers, Thy Tran and Stephanie Im.

The olive tree has provided food, shelter, light, and lubrication to half of my ancestors for the past few thousand years. Those swarthy Mediterraneans who kindly passed along their sun-loving, cancer-resistant genes spent generation upon generation cultivating the fruit of this tree. In fact, some of them so closely associated themselves with it that they began to be called Olivieri, or "the olive growers."

I can only imagine the horror they might feel if they knew that all those centuries of close association with and loving care for olives came to a sad genetic end with three children whose only experience with the fruit was sticking tinny-tasting canned black Mission olives on their finger tips like bulbous Goth press-on nails and sucking them off one by one.

Fortunately, I now have the utmost respect for olives.

As my tastes matured and (hopefully) refined, I came to experiment with higher quality olives-- nothing canned was allowed. First came the Greeks, like Kalamatas, and beautiful green Amfissas, which seem to have ended up in my martinis. Then came the French types, like the Niçoise and picholine, which ended up in my tapenades.

Tapenade. I've been an enormous fan of it for years, since I discovered that it satisfies not only my near-constant hunger for salt, but allows me to honor my ancestors without having to try too hard. It's a flavorful homage with a sharp, French twist, which suits me just fine. It is earthy and basic. Any sort of tarting up should be avoided.

For example (there is always an example, you know), when I was young and foolish enough to attend culinary school, I found myself in a senior term garde manger class. For those of you who don't know, garde manger is the department of a kitchen responsible for creating salads, hors d'oeuvres, aspics, and charcuterie. In more elaborate set-ups, the garde manger also creates fabulous ice sculptures and salt dough fantasies. Think: cruise ship.

In our class, however, ice sculpting was out of the question, so we were invited/forced to create what are called "mirrors." Now for those of you unclear on the idea, "mirrors" are platters of cold food, like sliced aspics and terrines, that are arranged upon, unsurprisingly, mirrors. In cooking school, each morsel is handled about twenty-seven thousand times by students eager to get things "just right" and then offered up to unsuspecting diners at discount prices.

I had been in charge of creating one such mirror to be presented to the public at one of our Friday luncheon buffets, just like a real restaurants might have. Unlike real restaurants, however, we had an entire week to create a single platter of food. There were two other students under me in whom I had no confidence whatsoever.

I decided that the three of use were going to stay true to the spirit of garde manger, which was to create dishes using the leftovers of other departments. That was the way, after all, that restaurants increased their profit margins, wasn't it? All the other teams seemed to be ordering fresh, exotic ingredients: black truffles for a terrine (request denied), blue corn tortilla chips for an edible version of the Brazilian flag (approved). I was horribly smug. I was feeling superior.

And then, I was feeling sick. I was out of school for three days with the flu.

When I returned the day of the buffet, I discovered that I had been (understandably) replaced as mirror team leader. To my great joy, the woman in charge had taken the spirit of garde manger to heart as well and refused to purchase any new ingredients. "Maybe this won't be so bad, after all," I thought. I could offer advice here and there, but I could not insist upon anything. When I wandered over the the Brazilian team to compliment them on their design, but let them know as gently as possible that, though we may spell Brazil with a "z," the folks of that country spelled it with an "s" on their flag, I was met with an unprintable expletive. After that, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't say one more (expletive) word about anything for the rest of the day.

Which was a pity, since I returned to find my teammates placing precious little quenelles of tapenade upon little toasts that looked like the real thing, only shrunk to doll size. I had thought to caution them against quenelles, because quenelles of anything brownish in color are never a good idea because they would only remind people of what happens to their food after the important bits have been digested by the body.

Our mirror was going to look like a four-letter word beginning with "s." Literally.

"That tapenade needs some color, don't you think?" asked the new team leader.

"Well, what do you think? You're the boss." is all I said. I was tired, getting over the flu, and I no longer cared.

"I think it needs a garnish," she said.

She went off to the walk-in refrigerator to see what she could find. A few minutes later, she returned with a box of cherry tomatoes and some chives. With her sharp, 10" chef's knife, she quartered the tiny cherry tomatoes and placed one on top of each quenelle. As a final flourish, she added two sprigs of chive.

It was brilliant. Out of scraps and nothing, she had created what looked like a small army of ladybugs-- each freshly-landed on its own, private pile of dung-- floating on rafts of toast. And the best part of it all was that she hadn't the faintest idea what little bit of genius she had created.

I can no longer recall what else was on that mirror alongside those ladybugs. Nor can I remember the third person on our team or what kind of grade we got for that wonderfully awful presentation. I do, however, remember that none of the guests lunching with us ate anything off our display. They did, however, come back to look. And point.

I hope my ancestors aren't rolling in their crumbling sun-bleached graves and family vaults over this sort of blasphemy. After all, I had nothing to do with it except let it happen. I would never let decent olives be treated in such a way again. Except, of course, to photograph it and share with you, dear reader.

We Mediterraneans, we are generous souls.

Olive Tapenade

This mindlessly simply dish hails from Marseilles-- a seaport town famous for many things one might expect seaport towns to be famous for: seafood dishes, like bouillabaisse; sailors, like Popeye (on his mother's side); and, of course, women whose income is derived from sailors, like Mme. Popeye.

Serve tapenade with whatever you like. It's excellent on toasted bread, slathered on chicken before or after baking, or alongside roasted fish. It plays well with tomatoes, too-- I just ask you to please not serve them as seen above, unless you are deliberately trying to make an unpleasant statement of some kind.

Makes about 1 cup

Ingredients:

2 cups of pitted Kalamata olives (Use whatever olives suit your taste: Niçoise, Gaeta, Nyons, etc.)

2 tablespoons capers

3 to 4 anchovies (use less or omit if you are not into them as much as I am)

1 clove crushed garlic

1 to 2 tablespoons of fresh lemon juice (add according to taste, naturally)

About 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil.

Preparation:

Toss olives, capers, anchovies, and garlic into a food processor. Pulse until roughly chopped. With one hand on the "pulse" button, drizzle in olive oil with your other hand and pulse until desired texture results (It is at its most charmingly rustic when left chunk-style. The photo shows one that has been made to smooth for the purposes of story). Add lemon juice to taste. Serve.

I have a few extended family members who hate soup. For some reason, this really bugs me. As a lover of all chowders, consommés, gumbos and bisques, I take it almost as a personal affront that they have no interest in homemade chicken or mushroom soup, clam chowder, or minestrone (particularly when I make them). Thankfully, my husband and children share my passion for all things steamy, creamy and brothy.

Knowing this, it won't surprise you to hear that we eat a lot of soup at my house. My daughters are actually little soup fanatics. It is a cure-all for any ill. Have the sniffles? Ask mom to make homemade chicken soup. Your friend was mean to you at recess? Take comfort in a cup of miso soup. It's rainy and cold outside? Then obviously we need cream of tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Yes, from head colds to just an all-around bad day, soup makes their lives a little brighter.

My daughters' hands-down favorite is a tie between homemade chicken soup and miso soup from our local sushi spot. But boiling a chicken takes time and the Japanese restaurant is a hassle to walk or drive to on a busy night. So, because necessity is the mother of invention, I've created a few easy-to-prepare soups that can be made in less than ten minutes from foods most of us have on hand in our freezers and pantries. As any working mom can tell you, quick and easy is essential for a week-night dinner, and these recipes are both; yet I also love how these homey dishes are made almost entirely of vegetables, making them just as nutritious for my family as they are tasty.

Now, I realize some of you may scoff at the idea of using frozen vegetables or canned tomatoes, but when you're trying to cook seasonally, they're really your only option in the winter if you want to use something that isn't either a root vegetable or a leafy green. Plus many frozen vegetables are picked at the height of the season, so, if you don't overcook them, their natural summer sweetness really comes through.

After quickly sautéing the vegetables, you just add in some chicken or vegetable stock, milk with butter, and a few seasonings; ten minutes later, you will see that these hearty and warm dishes are worthy of your full attention.

If you have your own quick pantry or freezer soup recipe, I'd love to hear about it.

Homemade Cream of Tomato Soup

My husband's favorite childhood rainy-day lunch was Campbell's Tomato Soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Too bad the poor guy grew up to have a wife who sneers at canned soups and refuses to buy them. But after years of eating this quick pantry soup, he's never looked back. Just like their dad, our kids are now eating cream of tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches on rainy days, although theirs lacks corn syrup and preservatives.

Makes: 4-6 servings

Ingredients:

1 15 oz can of diced tomatoes, crushed tomatoes, or whole plum tomatoes that have been blended.
1/2 medium onion diced
1 medium carrot diced
1 cup béchamel sauce (double recipe below)
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp flour
1 cup chicken or vegetable broth
1 Tbsp dried dill, oregano or basil
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Heat oil in a medium-sized pot.
2. Add onions and carrots and cook for 3-5 minutes or until onions start to become translucent.
3. Stir in tomatoes and then add in the broth and simmer for 5 minutes.
4. In a separate pot, make the béchamel sauce.
5. If tomatoes are chunky, puree using either a hand or stand blender.
6. Whisk the béchamel into the tomato mixture then stir in the dried herbs (dill, basil or oregano) and simmer for about three minutes.
7. Add salt and pepper to taste. Top with a dollop of sour cream or crème fraiche for added creaminess and some fresh basil or dill to garnish. Serve with grilled cheese sandwiches.

Broken Freezer Frozen Pea Soup

This soup was invented after my freezer broke. While cleaning out the defrosting mess, I realized that I have a problem buying frozen peas. Now I am not being hyperbolic here. I had 7 bags of frozen peas in my freezer. Why did I have 7 bags of peas? I am asking myself that same question. In any case, this soup is fast, easy, and even uses leftover mashed potatoes or rice, if you have those on hand. If not, you can plop in some béchamel for substance and creaminess.
Makes: 4-6 servings

Ingredients:

1 bag frozen peas
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp butter
1/2 onion or 1/4 cup shallots finely chopped
2 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1/2 cup leftover mashed potatoes, the inside of a baked potato, or cooked rice. If you don’t have any of these around, just use 1/2 cup béchamel sauce (see recipe below).
1/4 cup milk
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Heat oil and butter in a medium-sized pot.
2. Add onions and cook until translucent.
3. Add peas and cook for a few minutes.
4. Add broth and simmer for five minutes.
5. Add potatoes, rice or béchamel sauce and then add the remaining milk. If using béchamel sauce, wait until step 6 sto see if the soup needs to be thinned a bit before adding the extra 1/4 cup milk. Mix thoroughly.
6. Puree ingredients thoroughly using either a hand or stand blender. If using béchamel sauce, add the remaining milk now only if soup needs to be thinned a bit.
7. Add salt and pepper to taste and serve with a splash of olive oil or a small dollop of crème fraiche. Serve with bread.

Creamy Corn Chowder with Pancetta and Peppers

I love the natural sweet flavor of corn in this easy-to-prepare soup. The pancetta adds a great salty flavor, but if you prefer to keep this dish vegetarian, just omit it. Bursting with flavor, this is the perfect soup for a weekend lunch or weeknight dinner. Serve with quesadillas or a big salad.

Makes: 4-6 servings

Ingredients:

1 16 oz bag frozen corn kernels
1/4 cup chopped peppers (pasilla are nice, but you can also use red, yellow or green bell peppers or even a can of chopped roasted peppers)
1/4 cup chopped pancetta or bacon (optional)
1/4 cup chopped shallots, onions, or green onions
2 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1 tsp olive oil
1 Tbsp butter
1/2 cup whole or low-fat milk

Preparation:

1. Heat oil in a medium-sized pot and sauté chopped pancetta on medium-high heat for 2 minutes.
2. Add onions and peppers and cook for 3-5 minutes or until vegetables soften
3. Add corn and cook on medium-high for a few minutes.
4. Add in broth and cook at a low boil for 3-5 minutes.
5. Puree using a hand or stand blender.
6. Add the milk and and simmer for a few minutes.
7. Salt and pepper to taste. If desired, top with a chopped cilantro or another herb to garnish.

Béchamel Sauce
Makes: 1/2 cup
1/2 cup whole or low-fat milk
2 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp flour
dash of salt, pepper and nutmeg

Preparation:
1. melt butter and then mix in the flour to create a roux.
2. Add in the milk and simmer until it thickens.
3. Season with salt, pepper and a dash of nutmeg to taste.

The 15 day celebration of Chinese New Year (or Lunar New Year, as many Asian cultures refer to it) comes to a close this weekend, and with it, so does my dumpling stash. Resembling little purses stuffed with riches, it is tradition to eat plenty of dumplings during this time because they symbolize prosperity. The more you eat, the more wealth and good fortune will come your way in the New Year. (Maybe I should save a batch to eat right before I do my taxes this year).

Dumplings are a bit of a time commitment to make, but if you can manage to enlist the help of a few friends, it'll go by in a flash, and you'll all be rewarded with more homemade dumplings than you can eat in one sitting.

My mom tells me that when she was young, she would stay up all night with her sisters, mom, and grandmother, sitting around the kitchen table making dumplings, preparing for the New Year's Eve feast. Instead of the savory jiao zi that are more common in Northern China, they would make sweet dumplings called jeen duy.

You may have seen them out at dim sum. They're made with a chewy, glutinous rice flour dough, filled with a lotus seed or red bean paste, rolled in white sesame seeds, and fried to a golden crisp. The best are the ones that have a very light, thin layer of dough that gives way with an airy crunch when you bite into it, revealing a generous amount of sweet filling.

My mom and her sisters would create an assembly line, and together, they would make hundreds of perfectly round, little, jeen duy to carry them and every auntie, third cousin, and neighbor through the New Year celebrations with something sweet to nibble on.

Without any sisters or a recipe for fresh glutinous rice dough up my sleeve, I decided to take a few liberties with my family traditions and instead, opted to fill my own assembly line with hungry friends, some store-bought wonton wrappers, and a Hua family recipe for jiao zi filling.

Time flew by and before we knew it, our bellies were full of dumpling goodness, our year was looking auspicious, and the freezer was stocked with handmade dumplings, ready to boil for any given easy weeknight dinner.

Pork and Shrimp Dumplings (Jiao Zi)

Makes: approximately 80 dumplings

Ingredients:
1 pound ground pork
½ pound shrimp, peeled, cleaned, tails removed
8 dried Chinese mushrooms (1/2 cup after finely chopped)
1 onion (1/2 cup after diced and browned)
½ Napa cabbage (1 cup after finely shredded)
2 eggs
3 tablespoons mushroom-flavored soy sauce
2 tablespoons oyster sauce
1 ½ teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon salt
2 packages round wonton wrappers (1 pound each)

Preparation:
1. Soak the dried mushrooms in hot water for about 15 minutes until softened. Squeeze the excess water out, remove stems, and chop into a fine dice.
2. Dice the onion and brown in a frying pan.
3. Finely shred the cabbage until you have 1 cup.
4. Place the shrimp in a food processor and pulse until it is a chunky mixture. Be careful not to over-process, you don't want to create a paste.
5. Combine the pork, shrimp, mushrooms, onion, cabbage, 1 beaten egg (reserve the other one to make an egg wash), and all the remaining seasonings.
6. Knead the mixture with your hands until just combined. Cover and chill for 10 minutes.
7. While mixture chills, line a few large baking sheets with paper towels and dust lightly with flour.
8. Take one of the wonton wrappers and place a small mound of filling in the center (don't over-fill or it will be hard to seal). Dip a finger in the egg wash and dab a little on the bottom half of the wrapper. Fold the top edge over and press to seal, creating a half-moon shape.
Note: If you're short on time or patience, you can cook up the dumplings at this point and have perfectly respectable and delicious jiao zi on your plate. But, if you are ambitious and want to try your hand at fancier looking jiao zi, go on to the next step to pleat your edge.
9. Moisten the curved edge again, and using the thumb and forefinger of one hand, form pleats. Place the dumplings on the lined baking sheets as you complete them, arranging them in 1 layer so they don’t stick to one another.
10. Cook the dumplings in a pot of boiling water (they're done when they float), or in a hot pan. If pan-searing, heat vegetable oil in a skillet until hot, but not smoking. Fry the dumplings until the bottoms are lightly golden, about 2-3 minutes, then add ½ cup water, cover with a lid, and cook until the liquid is evaporated and the bottoms of the dumplings are crisp, 8-10 minutes.
11. Serve dumplings immediately with dipping sauce.

Dipping Sauce
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 tablespoon minced ginger
2 tablespoons minced green onion
4 tablespoons sweet soy sauce
1 teaspoon sesame oil
½ teaspoon spice vinegar
½ teaspoon sugar

Watch Food and Wine This Week to see Leslie Sbrocco, host of Check, Please! Bay Area in a new segment on local food and wine trends. This week, a conversation about celebrating the food and traditions of the Chinese New Year with Bay Area Bites bloggers, Thy Tran and Stephanie Im.

Last week, Bay Area Bites blogger Stephanie Im called attention to Secret San Francisco's popular Facebook presence. A few days before Im's post appeared, I myself joined the group with a few lazy clicks, galvanized into action by the droves of friends doing the same. At least, with its relentless updates regarding their statuses, Facebook made me feel like I was part of a movement. "Is it because we all love a juicy secret? Is it because we're bored?" wondered Im in her piece. "Perhaps we gravitate to these projects because they exude a sense of authenticity, of being 'in the know,' and part of something special and communal," she continued. "Or, it could simply be...some things are just too good to keep to ourselves."

Im listed the Iso Rabins-curated Underground Farmers Markets, Mission Street Food's feasts at Lung Shan, and all manner of street carts as the sorts of secrets worth shouting around, but those examples might as well be echos -- almost old news to studious, Internet-savvy members of the eats-frenzied populous. At this point, despite their youth and D.I.Y. ethos, they are institutions, pillars of the city's mainstream, well-documented food culture. Still, regardless of your personal familiarity with Im's suggestions, Secret San Francisco makes its mission clear enough: "Share San Francisco's secrets! Post any lesser known great places to see in San Francisco. Please give details of how we can locate it and what makes it a hidden gem."

A certain variety of hard-charging food sleuth elitist loves dropping a rarified knowledge of the city's unheralded offerings. Another group of elitists takes no less pleasure in heaping abuse on the first for drawing attention to the sneaky little places they covet for themselves. Occasionally, they invade Secret San Francisco's Facebook page. The best naysayers employ deadpan sarcasm. One suggests Burger King for a great hamburger; another celebrates a little grocery store called Safeway. Some however directly criticize eager posters for sharing too much, operating under the not unreasonable logic that widespread publicity on behalf of something unknown tends to make that thing known pretty well very quickly. What if your favorite bowl of pho suddenly became half the city's favorite too? Would it suddenly start tasting a little bland and watery? Would you tell yourself that the cook was slipping? Would you maybe start believing that he'd gotten so drunk on the fame Facebook had brought his pho, that he'd -- with pungent irony -- neglected to keep preparing it with quality in mind? Or would you still love that pho but merely hate the swiftly forming crowds -- lines of pho-fanatics at the door, arriving earlier and earlier each morning, leaning against the cafe's glass windows, poking away at iPhones, waiting for the sign to flip. With their incessant chatter and their rows of white order tickets fluttering in the kitchen window, the people on the sidewalk swarming in -- presumably without jobs to attend, errands to run, or any otherwise consuming pursuits -- would scuttle your plans for timely lunch-break repasts. You'd stop going altogether. The cafe would start selling its pho at a stand outside the Ferry Building on Saturday mornings. The price would double. Amanda Gold would write about it. You'd find another favorite pho spot, which might or might not be an attention-seeking copy of the one you started out loving in the first place.

To shuffle in a music world hypothetical: If guttural blips, synthetic gurgles, and ambient drones suddenly enjoyed broad popularity, and noise bands displaced Jay-Z, The Killers, and Coldplay at the top of the charts, would the bands' old fans -- Aquarius Records employees, mostly -- take solace in the Black Eyed Peas, by now a fringe retro-pop act struggling to pack Bottom of the Hill on forays through the Bay Area? Probably not, but people stressing out over the decreased edginess of what they consume -- whether it be music or a bowl of pho -- tend to be overly concerned with how their consumption patterns reflect upon them as people -- at least, no less concerned than those who fire up the laptop every time they trip over a good sandwich.

In a comment to Im's post, Haggie (one name, like Madonna) accused Secret San Francisco of catering to "lazy suburb dweller[s]" trolling websites for cool food scenes to muck up. While it's pretty far-fetched to claim that "anyone...[living] in San Francisco knows about the secret spots" already, Haggie does have a point, albeit one couched in excessively feisty lingo. Since witnessing a half-block line curling along the pavement outside of Lung Shan on a Thursday evening at 5:35 p.m. nearly eight months ago, I have not even tried to go to Mission Street Food -- not because I think popularity has dulled the value or coolness of the operation's goals in the slightest, but because I don't like to wait. Waiting might not be a problem anymore. And I could always make a reservation, I guess, but just remembering the line makes me think of crowds, which I don't like -- and suddenly the idea of going starts feeling like an ordeal to weather.

One problem with Secret San Francisco's Facebook page is the fact that restaurant owners post on it about events happening at their own establishments. That is sort of lame, just on principle. I won't mention any of the names I recognized, but I have seen a few things written by a few people probably largely interested in generating business for themselves, not spreading the wealth of shared experience. Likewise, incidentally, some of the exuberant laudatory posts regarding bands I have never ever heard of come off as plants by members, friends of members, or girlfriends or boyfriends of members. The thing has been around for a few weeks and it's already nearly as tainted as Yelp, that dinosaur of a site plagued by posters grubbing for freebies by way of harsh critiques -- many of which seem far-fetched. On Yelp, after all, a reviewer might give a pupusa place two stars and claim a general deep-seated aversion to pupusas as sole cause for the expressed discontent.

The Internet insists on constantly providing us with new ways of searching out, organizing, and assessing the stuff we like to do in the city. Restaurants, bars, grocery stores, and street carts enjoy an absurd amount of attention on Twitter, Chowhound message-boards, assorted iPhone apps, Tablehopper (along with less ubiquitous electronic bulletins), and of course, now Secret San Francisco. The subjects are not necessarily new, but the channels of communication are configured differently with each innovation and trend. I don't want to blame them for all of the potential problems associated with the rampant sharing of the city's secrets. The real problem is that people have too much time on their hands, and they're choosing to spend it online, telling everyone they can about what they like and do not like. In addition to actually working at work, getting exercise, and playing with their kids, people should walk around and physically see the city for something other than a flickering stew of html, updates, messages, and links.

As a writer who masquerades as a blogger, I frequently fall prey to the tendency. On a daily basis, I must look for fresh topics to cover, and sometimes that leads me to rely too much on the Internet's ever-changing spectrum of social networking possibilities for inspiration. Someone reports something -- a secret, maybe -- and it ricochets off of other websites. It's linked, and re-linked, Tweeted, and re-Tweeted, posted, and re-posted. Writers here and there lackadaisically re-write the news as fresh content for a site, and the process starts again and again with slightly different slants each time. Within 24 hours, the secret is out like a light, nearly all bases are covered, and the story is as dead as a slab of fish on ice -- all thanks to the publicity pinball machine.

At times, I wonder how my very minor contributions to the maelstrom affect restaurants and businesses. I'll walk past a restaurant and think: Wow, I'm here, for the first time; I wrote about their egg salad special last week -- I wonder if they're selling more egg salad now. I'd just as soon turn off the computer and poke around the city and write about what I uncover. When content is required to circulate so rapidly, that vein of information-gathering is inefficient. Though I do my best, I wouldn't have time to do laundry if I relied upon it solely. At the same time, it's much more satisfying that way. When I moved here in 2002, San Francisco was a different city. That wasn't long ago, but the way I learned the city then -- specifically food to seek out -- was through people I met at parties, book club, work, and pick-up basketball games. I read the newspaper food sections and hit up Yelp from time to time, but I also just talked to people and visited the restaurants they recommended -- places like El Zocolo and the now-defunct Lorca. Doing so made me a more social person. It made me attack the city so as to eat what I heard was worth eating. The secrets I've amassed that way have stuck with me the longest, probably because I have faces, stories, and voices to go with them. They are ones I share with others -- in conversation, whenever possible.

The Waffle Mania Truck

I'll admit it. I rarely drive downtown. Now I'm probably going to sound about twice my age when I tell you why, but I'm OK with that. I like to stick to the neighborhoods in San Francisco where friends live, where you can occasionally find parking, where your quarter gets you more than five minutes in the meter. In the short time that I've lived in the city, I've quickly discovered the frustrations of MUNI and have concluded that, apparently, after crossing Market Street I lose all sense of direction I may have once had.

That being said, I wanted to check out Waffle Mania this week, and I'd heard that the truck was spending more time in the city on a little side street in SOMA. I knew what this meant. That's right, folks: I was going downtown. And I'm here to report that I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Tehama Street in SOMA: where you can find hot waffles on Tuesday and Friday mornings.

So what's the draw? For me, waffles are the ultimate comfort food. While some people would vote for macaroni and cheese or chicken potpie, waffles are it for me. They're warm and fluffy and a little bit sweet-- great with coffee and a good excuse to eat a little whipped cream in the morning. What more do you need?

The classic powdered sugar waffle at Waffle Mania

The "waffle man" that many people seek out is, more often than not, Alain Dupont (while there are a few other business partners, Dupont is frequently working the waffle irons). While he's a familiar face at many of the local markets, the Tehama Street routine is new. I asked Dupont why he decided to spend more time in San Francisco and how he chose the quiet, unassuming street. After doing a very successful catering event in mid-November at BarrelHouse (@barrelhousesf), friend and marketing guru Marcus Colombano encouraged Alain to come down to BarrelHouse on a more permanent basis, and the CBS folks across the street have welcomed him with open arms. The rest seems to be history.

If I had the clout the CBS employees do, I'd request something similar in my neighborhood. The waffles are pretty remarkable. They're different than the light, airy Belgian waffles I've had in the past. As I was watching Dupont make them inside the truck, I noticed the dough's actually a sturdy little ball rather than the batter that most of us are used to making at home.

Alain Dupont lining up a fresh round of waffles

According to the So Good website where Dupont orders the imported Belgian dough, these are Liege waffles with 300 years of culinary tradition behind them. I did a little research and the liege waffle is a type of Belgian waffle that's made with a dense dough and is baked with little bits of sugar inside which, when cooked, give the waffles an almost caramelized, buttery, slightly crispy top.

Keeping it simple: the menu choices at Waffle Mania

While I was tempted by the Nutella Waffle, I ultimately wanted to taste the real, unadulterated waffle I'd been hearing so much about. The meter was ticking. My quarters were about to run out. I had powdered sugar all over my camera bag and, sure enough, I got lost trying to get back to my 'hood. But it was all worth it in the end. In fact, you may find me right back there on Tuesday.

GET SOME!
Tues. and Fri.: Tehama St., between First and Second St, San Francisco. 8am-12pm (or until they run out which often happens around 10:30).

Wed. Civic Center Farmers Market: 1182 Market St. between Eighth and Grove St., San Francisco. 8am-12pm.

Thurs. and Sun. Marin Farmer's Market: 76 San Pablo Ave., San Rafael. 8am-1pm

Sat. Grand Lake Farmer's Market: Intersection of Grand Lake and Park Ave., Oakland. 9am-2 pm

Follow on Twitter: @wafflemaniaSF

Who guards the culinary heritage of a culture? Where does authenticity reside, and who decides what it is? Can traditional foods change with the times, and if they do, are they still traditional? Can handmade salami made from grass-fed beef still call up memories of Grandma's Saturday-morning scrambled eggs and salami? In this age of massive multinational conglomerates, does brand loyalty mean anything anymore?

What's better-- the Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray tonic in the bottle you remember Grandpa drinking, now with high-fructose corn syrup included, or homemade celery soda infused with real celery seed, with less sugar and no packaging? How much do we pay-- in food miles, in feedlots, in calories-- for nostalgia?

All these questions, and more, were in the air at the Jewish Community Center of the East Bay in early February, as an overflow crowd squeezed into the main auditorium for a panel discussion on "Referendum on The Deli Menu" (Can the Jewish Deli be sustainable?) sponsored by Saul's. Saul's, for those of you born without cravings for matzoh ball soup, is Berkeley's big, busy, much-loved Jewish deli. But ever since Karen Adelman and her husband Peter Levitt bought the deli in 1995, they've had what they call "a stealthy, secret mission" operating alongside their dedication to borscht and blintzes, corned beef and chicken in a pot. Their secret? A desire to pull the deli in line with contemporary attitudes about food and consumption, rather than letting it ossify like gefilte fish left too long in the fridge.

To this end, towering sandwiches were slimmed down, no longer stacked with jaw-defying stacks of meat. Meats became sustainably ranched, grass-fed when possible. Vegetables started to come from local farms. Corn-syruped drinks were out; housemade sodas were in. Most recently, salami was dropped from the menu; Hebrew National, the only widely available brand of all-beef salami, is now owned by giant Con Agra.

This being Berkeley, you'd think pasture-raised chicken soup would earn nothing but mazel tovs. But not everyone, it seemed, wanted consciousness-raising alongside their blintzes and brisket. There was pushback from some customers, and an overall question: How much could a deli change and still be a deli?

Hence the referendum, featuring Karen and Paul in conversation with Saul's regular and local superstar Michael Pollan; green-business maven Gil Friend, City Slickers Farms founder (and self-described "pastrami addict" Willow Rosenthal, the whole moderated by Evan Kleinman, host of KRCW's Good Food.

Having heard the phrase "2 Jews, 3 opinions" tossed around by my opinionated, argue-for-the-sake-of-it relatives all my life, I was ready for some Talmudic-level conflict, some heated words exchanged in the interest of radical change vs. How Bubbe Did It.

Alas, though, everyone on the panel agreed on nearly everything. Nostalgia is no excuse for a lack of conscience; if you care about eating locally, organically, sustainably and/or humanely at home, why should a Jewish deli give you a free pass to wallow in feedlot beef or syrupy soda?

Said Peter, "We started with not wanting to sell meat we wouldn't eat. We want to drag the deli out of the museum, let it breathe with the seasons for a change." Right now, his challenge is corned beef: the grass-fed beef from local Marin Sun Farms, delicious as it is, isn't holding up to the 2- to 3-week brining process. It's been coming out dry and crumbly, probably due to being more muscled and less fatty that typical feedlot beef.

And then there's the menu problem: Saul's, like most delis, has a huge menu. There's the everyday menu, an equally long, but more international, seasonally-inspired specials menu, and then the "secret" menu of the more hard-core, Old World items--flanken, kishkes, things made with schmaltz and braised in gravy. Peter would like to see the menu shortened and made more manageable (and cost-effective); if that means no cold beet borscht in winter, so be it.

Says Karen, "I think we should be leading, not just reacting. We're hungry for meaning and community, along with comfort food. We need to connect with our future as well as our past. I promise, no one will leave hungry!"

Of course, even in Berkeley, there's room to toe more than one party line. If this were New York City, or Los Angeles, where deli culture, while battered, is still alive, one deli's decision to nix the salami would hardly generate SRO crowds at the 92nd St Y. But delis are few in the Bay Area, and so Saul's clientele takes any changes personally . But if there are Hebrew National fans and lox diehards out there, they're keeping quiet; the crowd claps and nods along with just about everything Pollan, Rosenthal, and Friend present, even recoiling a little in genteel horror at brightly colored slides of jaw-defying pastrami sandwiches teetering higher than Lady Gaga's heels. Those massive sandwiches, long the symbol of post-war abundance, a meaty slap in the face to immigrant privation, are no longer sustainable; as Peter points out, there's no way to provide that much meat, particularly if it's good, humanely raised meat, at a price regular customers can bear. "Those huge sandwiches are killing the deli. You can't make money selling 12 oz of meat for $10 or $15. At a steakhouse, you'd pay $30 or $40 for that much meat, and you'd buy a bottle of wine." Instead, Karen and Peter want to offer their customers alternatives that taste good, with a little patient explanation to help it along. Already, the menu emphasizes smoked trout (farmed) over overfished salmon, and more and more Mediterranean inspired salads and vegetable dishes to go along with the potato pancakes and cheesecake.

Pollan, for one, sees the democratization of the food movement as a very good thing. "Getting sustainable food into delis, taquerias, cheaper places, that's great because it makes it more accessible to everyone." Agrees Friend, "We vote with our dollars every day."

If the deli is our secular synagogue, as Pollan muses, clearly this one is reform, maybe even reconstructionist. So fizz up an egg cream or raise a glass of borscht, and toast the new deli.

VIDEO CLIP OF EVENT:

Photos provided by Saul's

Related Posts:
Saul's got SOLE: The Jewish deli in Berkeley evolves
by Marc R. aka Mental Masala at The Ethicurean

Referendum on the Deli Menu at Saul's Restaurant and Delicatessen: What is Tradition?
by Vanessa Barrington at Civil Eats

This is Chipper-- a happy little Meyer's Parrot who loves all the usual parroty things like seeds, grapes, playful biting, and his roommates. He squawks and bobs and has the characteristic tuft of yellow feathers on the top of his head that reminds me of Rip Taylor every time I see him. There's only one problem-- Chipper isn't a "he" at all.

A little while back, I received a phone call from my friend Lyle:

"Hey, uhhhh... Mike? So... Cybele and I just got back from Mexico and saw that Chipper just laid and egg. Cybele was wondering if you wanted to come over and eat it."

I was a little stunned. Not so much because of the odd invitation. I was delighted, in fact. It was more at the thought of my refusal to believe that Chipper was not, in fact, male. He's She's laid eggs before-- four or five over the course of her twenty-one years. I realized that I was clearly struggling with the bird's gender assignment and was frustrated that, since she is not as verbal as other breeds of parrot, I wouldn't be able to ask her how she felt about being a male trapped in a female body. Of course, it's more than likely that Chipper is completely happy in her female state. Thanks to years of therapy, I quickly understood that this was clearly my problem and not hers, so I moved on.

"Sure," I replied, "Why not?" The egg was collected and refrigerated. Arrangements were made.

When I arrived at Lyle and Cybele's home, I found still-warm-from-the-oven cornbread on the kitchen counter, along with freshly-made guacamole and salsa, some tortilla chips, and a pot of chili simmering on the stove. Chili. Oh, yes. I had forgotten it was Super Bowl Sunday. While millions of football fans across the country were preparing to eat their own chilis and nachos and what-have-yous, I had the feeling that we were possibly the only people in the country who would be eating parrot's egg.

"Do you want to see it?" asked Cybele. She placed a small blue ceramic bowl in my hand in which the egg had made its home for the past several days. It was tiny. I'm not sure what else I was expecting to come out of an eight inch tall bird. I wondered what the hell I was going to do with one egg that was smaller than a watch face.

I didn't have to think long. All the ingredients were right there on the countertop: the guacamole, the tortillas, the salsa. What else could I make but huevos rancheros? Correction: what else could I make but one, little huevito ranchero?

The trick, of course, was not to screw it up. Dropping it or breaking the yolk were out of the question-- this egg was too rare a thing to scramble. We discussed the best way to go about cooking the thing, which was to liberally coat one depression of a miniature muffin tin with olive oil spray, place the tin in a shallow amount of water, and heat gently-- very gently. I became nervous cracking the egg. It wasn't so much that Chipper had been let out of her cage to watch the action, but because, if I messed up, I would have to wait patiently for another two years before I'd get another chance to gourmandize the fruit of Chipper's womb. I gave the the shell a couple of swift taps with the dull end of a small knife. The shell was much softer and less calcified than a chicken's egg. I carefully peeled away the cracked bits that adhered to the thick inner membrane, making a window large and smooth enough to safely release the yolk and albumen, then let it gently slide into the warm, waiting mini muffin tin.

"Is it done yet?" asked Lyle as he peered over my shoulder. "It doesn't look done, but it has to be-- something that small shouldn't take so long. Is the heat on?" The heat was on and it didn't look done at all-- the white of the egg was still opaque. I was treating it like a chicken egg. Since I nor anyone in my acquaintance had any prior parrot egg-frying experience, the white of the egg seemed like a sensible gauge.

I touched the thing with the tip of my index finger. It felt done, so I pulled the tin from the heat and let it rest briefly as I prepared the egg's accessories. We were all pleased. I was surprised by how cute an egg dish could be.

It was, of course, on the small side. I could have fit the whole thing into my mouth at one go. Fortunately, I remembered that I was eating something very special and that the producer of this little pre-chili amuse bouche was perched directly behind me, making a mess of the bit of corn bread Cybele had just given her. I turned around and showed Chipper the plate. She cocked her head a little and then lunged at it. Would it be okay if she ended up eating some of her own egg? I quietly decided to myself that this was one moral question I did not care to find out-- I was too hungry and hung over from the night before to deal with such things. I merely thanked Chipper for the food I was about to receive. I felt as though I were saying some sort of Grace before supper, except, this time, I was saying it to an actual, living creature that I could reach out and physically touch, not an invisible deity. I turned my back again, uncertain of what Chipper's feelings might actually be regarding the matter, and tucked in and thought to myself, "Is this rude? Do farmers ever eat eggs in front of their own chickens? What's the etiquette here?"

I cut off a small amount of egg white and placed it on my tongue. It tasted oddly citrusy and I said as much. I asked Cybele what Chipper like to eat. "Oh, lots of seeds and grains. Oh, and grapes. Chipper loves grapes," she replied. The list went, but nowhere was anything in the citrus family mentioned. So the top note was this little birds own, special addition. Lyle and Cybele then each took a little taste. That's pretty much all one could do with the thing-- it was gone after that. One perfect little parrot's egg gone after three tiny, thoughtful bites. I sat there thinking to myself, "Is that... all there is?" I tried to remain as dead pan as Peggy Lee herself. I didn't want to offend Chipper.

Overall, I'm glad I got to try the egg. None of the pets I've cared for in my lifetime have ever given me anything as useful as something to eat. Sure, the cat had left several snack offerings, but sunbaked lizards and half-chewed finches are too much trouble to cook. And, before anyone utters a "How could you?", it's not as if Chipper was going to make use of the thing-- it was unfertilized. Perhaps we just spared her effort summoning any sort of maternal instinct the embarrassment of going through the motions of caring for something that would never become anything else if left to its own devices. Maybe it was better that we did let that egg become something else, like food.

Whatever the case may be, thanks Chipper, you've given new meaning to the term "pet food." I do hope we did your little egg justice. Maybe the next time around, we'll do something even more fun with it, like make a tiny soufflé studded with seeds and grapes in your honor or simply soft-boil it and serve it on miniature toast. We've got another two years to come up with a menu plan.