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.

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.

As I get older, I identify less and less with my adolescent self. In fact, not infrequently, I imagine going back in time and smacking myself on the head. I'm only in my very late twenties, but the period of my life has already become a vague unpleasant fog punctuated on rare occasion by vivid waves of memory. I suspect strongly that I was whiny, overly self-conscious, woefully insecure, and generally a twerp. I do clearly remember that, when I was in my mid-teens, I (like most teenagers) didn't get along particularly well with my parents. I also recall that my impatience with their habits and eccentricities tended to erupt at meal-times.

A classic scenario: I was 13, on my first trip to Europe with the family. We were at a good French place in the 14th Arrondissement. My mom ordered in English, but she spoke with what my brother and I felt was a contrived French accent -- rolling R's, stretching out E's, her voice rising up higher than usual at the ends of sentences. She might have been nervous. She might have been drunk. In any event, whatever it was she was doing was unintentional. At first, we giggled into our water glasses, amused. After it happened at every restaurant we visited, we were mortified, irritated and finally nasty -- all because she insisted again and again that she was speaking no differently than usual.

Family vacations were known for bad meals -- but usually only on the nights we'd arrive in a new city. At the mercy of indifferent hotel clerks, governed by hasty impulses spurred on by empty stomachs and jet-lag, we'd fall prey to half-cooked, insipid pizza in Rome, succumb to over-priced, grease-laden bistro fare in Paris, and settle for fusion-y Mission-style burrito wraps in San Francisco. It became a chronic thing, a syndrome that permeated all interactions. The bad food and exhaustion would inevitably lead to an argument, and we’d end up trying to put it all back together the next day.

These days, I don't feel like a teenager too often -- except maybe when I'm home for the holidays. Now, when my mom comes to San Francisco for a vacation, good feelings swell to the surface. Our meals together are the highlights of her visits and I try hard to make them meaningful and pleasant.

In 2003, less than a year after I moved to the Bay Area, my mom visited for the first time. On the evening of her arrival, we were wandering around downtown, looking at buildings. Even though I hadn't yet had one myself, I figured she'd like to eat a fish taco -- because I'd heard it was one of those important California food things. I just didn't know where to get one. Since we were in the area already, we moseyed into the now-defunct Chevy's at Embarcadero Two and supped on grilled fish tacos with pico de gallo, lettuce, and fresh cheese. If she found the meal revolting, she didn't let on.

Since then, I have found better places to take her, destinations informed by what I've read and experienced as a focused seeker of tasty things -- a portion of my identity I had not quite realized in 2003. My mom digs unusual food, but nothing too strange. She will eat fish sauce, but not fish heads. She likes a clean restaurant with a pleasant atmosphere, but she's also cost-conscious and unswayed by pretentious flourishes. She eats seafood, but eschews meat -- which eliminates Korean barbecue joints, pork-heavy Shanghai-style dumpling houses, and Incanto from contention. My mom prefers to eat reasonably healthy food. As a result, sushi, ceviche, or pizza with vegetables appeal more than battered fish, cream-laden sauces, or anything destined to be dabbed with aioli. When I'm picking out a restaurant, I filter these criteria through other sets of necessary circumstance. When she visits, she usually stays somewhere in the Union Square, so I like to take her somewhere within swift striking distance via BART or Muni. Being lazy, I usually stick to my neighborhood, the Mission District, where I've lived for the vast majority of my time in San Francisco. On a few occasions, I have lightly pushed the envelope. In 2004, we went to Utopia Cafe, a sneaky spot down an alley in Chinatown. I wouldn't call it a "dive" exactly. That word is over-used; it shouldn't apply to every restaurant disinterested in putting a premium on inedible trappings like decor and service. Fruit flies circled like helicopters over a battlefield as we attacked clay pot rice with shrimp, mustard green soup, and salt-and-pepper fried bean curd, but the food tasted fresh, and that eclipsed any sanitation concerns. A year or so later, we went to Minako, the organic mother-and-daughter-owned Japanese eatery. I thought she'd enjoy the food -- tataki, gobo kinpira, salmon misozuke -- but I also suspected the restaurant's cool quirks would appeal, that she'd get a kick out of the snappy, funny daughter and the odd location -- Mission Street, boasting a sign the size of a playing card you can't see unless, as I recall, you're approaching from a very specific angle along the sidewalk. Another time we visited Kiji, an ordinary but inoffensive sushi place on Guerrero just because it was conveniently close to a Valencia shoe store she'd been perusing.

She really liked Delfina, but her reaction to the food nonetheless confirmed my suspicions that she would inevitably rather go out to eat what she doesn't cook at home, where pasta, pizza, and risotto frequently grace the dinner table. Even though Delfina is a better restaurant -- albeit a very different one -- she was truly blown away by Destino. We went there in 2006 or 2007 -- well after its heyday -- but she still talks about it -- because, at the time, it was so unusual to her.

She's coming to town for a few days later this week, and this time around, the first visit in nearly two years, I'm brimming with ideas. There's a Mayan restaurant in Louisville my mom adores. While it's not at all awful, it is something there that it would not be here, which is fine. After all, when it comes to barbecue and beef jerky, San Francisco could learn a few things too. Still, I'd like to take her to Poc Chuc -- even if platters of juicy, thin-sliced pork (the restaurant's namesake) don't jive with her diet. She'd be happy enough with feathery, toasty corn tortillas, a bowl of the smooth black beans, and a few bites of fish -- though I don't imagine she would dive into the head for the best pieces. I thought about Universal Cafe, but I think she'd prefer something less familiar. La Ciccia is another option, the current front-runner, I'm afraid. Sardinian flavors -- rich, heady fregula pasta with ricotta and cured tuna heart, smoky, spicy octopus stew -- diverge enough from the Italian fare she knows well. If I were really daring, we would go to Yellow Pa Taut on Bryant and 7th for the best Burmese in the city: Tea leaf salad, fried squash, and catfish noodle soup, perhaps -- all within spitting distance of the courthouse's grim facade.

I'm lucky to share life (and a kitchen) with my girlfriend, who has an equally serious relationship with food. Our weeks revolve around dinners together. When we eat somewhere particularly nice, whether an old stand-by or a newcomer, we often imagine how our parents would like it. Hers enjoy eating at least as much as mine, if not much more. That process is natural; it makes the meal better. I feel the same way about music. I have a few big stacks of vinyl, but I don't play records too often around the house. When friends are over, musician friends particularly, I'm galvanized into action. I slip on a record. I tell stories I know about the band. I react to what I'm hearing and the feelings I have about it in their presence, and their reactions combine with mine to enrich the experience. Food is not much different. A steak is better shared; so is Mavis Staples. The restaurants I pick for dinners with my mom have evolved along with me, but regardless of where we end up eating, every meal speaks to the power of shared experience. To adapt and respond to a well-travelled adage: If a meal falls on your table and there's no one there with whom to share it, its deliciousness cannot help but be diminished -- even if you write about it.

This week, there will be many boxes of chocolates given in the name of love; we'll also see a lot of stuffed teddy bears and bouquets of flowers. And although I would never turn any of these down (well, maybe the teddy bears, but definitely not the chocolates), when I want to tell my family I love them -- whether for Valentine's Day or any other time - I cook. And, at least as far as I'm concerned, nothing quite says I love you like a homemade pot pie. After all, this relative of the savory meat pasty contains the homiest comfort food ingredients: butter crust and gravy (oh yeah, and chicken too).

As I mentioned last week, making a pot pie is a great way to use leftovers from a roasted chicken. But you shouldn't only think of this dish as a method for getting rid of that dark or white meat no one wanted the night before. After all, pot pies -- with gravy bubbling out of the cracks of its buttery crust -- are so good that I often roast a chicken simply so we can have pot pies the next day. And, unlike other dishes, this meal tops the favorites list for both kids and adults alike, which means everyone is happy on chicken pot pie night.

There are various ways to make chicken pot pie, but I think the easiest (and tastiest) is to use leftover chicken with its drippings and a bit of fat. As my Italian Catholic mother would say, it's a sin to throw away those lovely pan juices after roasting a chicken. Those drippings contain a chicken essence that is impossible to replicate with butter and store bought chicken stock. No, the most richly-flavored gravies are always made with the source material.

But it's not enough to make a great gravy; the key to a fantastic pot pie is making enough gravy to fill your dish. Your chicken and vegetables should be swimming in brown gravy goodness, because really, who wants to eat a dry pot pie. This is why saving all the ingredients from a roasted chicken is so important. In addition to the drippings, you should also save the carcass and wings, which you'll use to make a rich chicken stock that is essential for producing a hearty supply of gravy. I usually have some store-bought broth on hand, but trust me, use this only in case of emergency as your gravy will have more nuanced flavors and a fuller taste if you make your stock from scratch.

Now don't shake your head and mutter something about not having the time to make that stock, because – yes I know I say this all the time – it's easy and fast. Really. It is. You just add some water to the carcass along with a half onion and some celery, carrots, and a bay leaf and you're done. Truly. That's it. Plus you only need to cook it for around 20 minutes – okay so that's not super fast, but it's also not so time intensive that you can't do it. How often do you spend 20 minutes digging around your refrigerator and pantry trying to find something easy and fast to cook? By the time you've finished searching, your stock could be made.

As for the fillings, they are really up to you. In addition to your chicken, you can add anything you like. I personally like potatoes, mushrooms, peas and carrots in my pot pies (I'm a savory pie traditionalist, at heart), but my daughters hate the carrots, so I only add them to my own serving. If broccoli and zucchini sound appetizing, add them in. Hate mushrooms? Leave them out. Wondering what to do with those turnips you bought? Just use them instead of the potatoes. It's your pot pie, so make it the way you like it.

When it comes time to throw everything together, you can make one big casserole in a porcelain or glass dish, or, if you have individual casserole dishes (mine look like large ramekins), you can use those instead. If you are big on crust, feel free to line your casserole dish(es) with crust (and then prebake so it's not soggy) and then also top the pies with another layer; I, however, think one layer on top is usually sufficient (and less caloric – not that I'm counting calories after using chicken fat).

So this year, forget the flowers and express your love with a chicken pot pie.

Chicken Pot Pie

Makes: One large or four individual pot pies

Ingredients:

Leftovers from a roasted chicken (around 3 cups meat plus the carcass, wings, pan drippings and 1 Tbsp chicken fat)
5 cups water
½ large onion
3 carrots
1 stalk celery
1 bay leaf
1 Tbsp butter
1/4 cup flour
½ tsp dried thyme or 1 tsp fresh thyme
1 cup cubed potatoes or turnips
6 brown or white mushrooms sliced
¾ cup frozen peas
1 round of pie crust (recipe below) or puff pastry
Butter for greasing your casserole dishes

Preparation:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees

2. Set the chicken carcass (stripped of meat), wings, and neck in a large saucepan and cover with water. Include your pan drippings, which should have settled in the bottom of your container overnight. Leave out the fat for now. You may have to break up the carcass so it's fully submerged. Add in 2 chopped carrots, the chopped celery stalk, the half onion (also chopped) and the bay leaf. Simmer for 20 - 30 minutes or until you have a decent chicken stock.

3. While your stock is simmering, chop up 3 cups of chicken meat. You can use dark or white meat or a combination of the two (which I think tastes best). This is also a great time to peel and chop up your potatoes or turnips, slice your mushrooms, and chop that last carrot (or whatever vegetables you're using).

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4. Once the stock is ready, strain the liquid and set aside. You should have about five cups.

5. In a large pan, heat up 1 Tbsp chicken fat plus another Tbsp butter. When bubbly, add in the flour and thyme and then mix to create a roux. Whisk in 4 cups of your chicken stock slowly, stirring constantly to avoid lumps. Salt and pepper to taste.

6. Add in the potatoes or turnips along with the carrots and cover. Simmer for 7-10 minutes or until the vegetables are al dente.

7. Add in the chicken, mushrooms and peas. Mix in more stock if the gravy is too thick, or if it's too thin, create a slurry in a separate dish with a tablespoon of cornstarch and enough water to create a thin paste and then mix in as much as needed to thicken. Taste again to see if you need more salt, pepper or thyme.

8. Turn off heat, cover pan and let sit while you roll out your pie dough or puff pastry. If using small individual casserole dishes, cut the dough to fit each dish.

9. Butter the inside of each dish and then fill with your chicken and gravy mixture. Top each dish with your pie dough or puff pastry. Cut a hole or slit into each piece of dough so the casserole can breath in the oven.

10. Bake for 30 minutes. When crust is golden brown and gravy is bubbling out of the cracks, remove pot pies from oven. Let sit for five minutes and then serve with a big salad.

Flaky Pie or Tart Dough
Adapted from a recipe by Kim Laidlaw

Makes: Enough for one 10-inch tart

Ingredients:

1 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon kosher or sea salt
6 tablespoons very cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
1/4 cup ice water + 1 tablespoon

Preparation:

1. To make the crust, in the bowl of a food processor, stir together the flour, and salt. Sprinkle the butter over the top and process for a few seconds, or just until the butter is slightly broken up into the flour but still in visible pieces. Sprinkle the water over the flour mixture evenly, then process until the mixture just starts to come together.

2. Dump the mixture out of the bowl onto 2 large sheets of plastic wrap. Press the dough together into a mound and then wrap with plastic and press into a flat disk. Refrigerate the dough until chilled, about 30 minutes or up to 1 day, or freeze for up to 1 month.

Stirring the massive pot

2 pounds of bacon, 4 pounds of sausage, 6 pounds of ground beef...and that's only the beginning.

This recipe may seem excessive, but by the time this massive pot of chili is done cooking, and certainly by the time you've gone through the last of it, you always want just a little bit more.

It really is that good. It's not like some chili which sits in your stomach like a ton of bricks. It's not too beany, or too spicy, or too smoky. It's complex, with a sweet savory tang, and layers of meaty flavor throughout. For me, it's the sweetness that makes this chili special. A multi-dimensional sweetness derived from a number of ingredients: carrots (grated so that they melt into the sauce), ketchup, barbecue sauce, sugar, and baker's chocolate.

That's Secret #1.

Secret #2 is adding a parmesan rind to the pot. This is an old Italian trick I learned for creating rich soups, stocks, tomato sauce, or...chili! Remember it next time you finish off an expensive wedge of parmigiano. After you're done digging away at all the edible parts, pop the rind in a freezer bag and save it for a rainy (or shall I say chili, ha ha ha) day.

Secret #3: let it simmer for a long long time. This is one of those dishes that tastes better the next day, or the day after that. I kid you not, I let this simmer for 6 hours or more. I will usually make it late afternoon on a weekend, let it cook all evening, and then turn off the flame and cover it right before going to bed. The next day, the flavors will have melded together into something amazing.

There may be a few lingering doubts in your mind about why not to make this recipe. One being the long list of ingredients, to which I say, okay, there are a lot of ingredients, and yes, you will need to make a Costco run, but after that it's really easy. You basically just add everything to a big pot and leave it alone. Fool proof. And worth it.

The other question may concern the alarming quantity this recipe makes. Feeds 20+. Yes, it does! But really, you'll be surprised at how quickly this goes, and I mean, if you're going to make all that effort in getting the ingredients, you might as well go the whole nine yards. If you're still on the fence, consider these scenarios where a massive pot of chili makes perfect sense:

• Game Day with lots of men to feed. Isn't the Super Bowl coming up or something?
• Ski weekend. This is the perfect make-ahead meal. All you have to do is heat it up on the stove, which is the maximum effort I usually have in me after a day on the slopes, when my quads have turned to lead.
• Any weekend. Especially when it is relentlessly rainy and cold outside. (You may know what I mean). Extra bonus, this recipe freezes really well. Store away single/double servings of this and have a warm, satisfying, homemade meal ready in minutes any time.

Now that you're ready for chili, the next challenge is to find a pot that is sufficiently massive. You're on your own for that one. Alright, I'll give you a hint: I scored mine off of Craigslist from a restaurant going out of business. For something this size, go commercial.

Chili with Cheese Quesadillas

Massive Pot of Chili

Serves: 20+

Adapted from Steve Conn and Colerain Firefighters Local 3915's "Major Cojone's Chili." I guess it makes sense that the original recipe would come from a fire house :) I doubled the Major's recipe, made some tweaks to the heat source, and added some sweet secret ingredients.

Ingredients:
2 pounds applewood-smoked bacon, diced into 1 inch squares
4 pounds spicy Italian pork sausage, removed from casings
6 pounds ground beef
1 jalapeno pepper, finely chopped
3 red bell peppers, chopped
4 large onions, finely chopped
3 carrots, grated
8 cloves garlic, finely chopped
4 cans (28 oz) chili beans
6 lb 10 oz Costco-sized can crushed tomatoes
6 lb 10 oz Costco-sized can tomato sauce
2 cups ketchup
2 cups sugar
2 cups water
½ cup BBQ sauce
¼ cup Worcestershire sauce
4 tablespoons red chili powder
2 tablespoons Sriracha chili sauce
2 ounces baker's chocolate
1 parmesan rind

Preparation:
1. In a large pan, cook bacon until crispy; drain and add to a 3-gallon pot.

2. Drain off the bacon grease. Brown the sausage in the same pan; drain and add to the pot.

3. Drain off the fat from the pan again. Brown the ground beef; drain and add to the pot with the other meats.

4. Add all of the remaining ingredients and bring to a bubble, stirring periodically. Then, lower heat and simmer on low for at least 6 hours.

5. Serve with chili toppings of you'd like (shredded cheese, sour cream, green onion or chives), Frito scoops, quesadillas, or bread bowl.

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

The sign on the front door greeting visitors

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

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

Mom and Megan with their final products

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

Stuffing signage and voting cards: ready and waiting

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

Consulting each other on the best stuffing

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

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

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

Rock Me All Night Long Cornbread Stuffing
Adapted from: Epicurious

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

Makes: 2 loaves

Ingredients (Cornbread Only)

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

Preparation (Cornbread Only)

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

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

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

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

Ingredients (For Stuffing)

Makes: 12 cups

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

Preparation (For Stuffing)

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

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

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

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

For cooking stuffing inside poultry:

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

For cooking all or part of stuffing outside poultry:

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

With Halloween around the corner, it’s time to talk about something that really gives kids the creeps. Forget about vampires (those hunky blood suckers) or zombies (they have feelings too). What terrifies many children are cruciferous vegetables. Even the name sounds scary -- sort of like crucify or crucio (for all you Harry Potter fans).

Cruciferous vegetables, also known as brassicaceae, are the ones that hit the market in fall, just in time for Halloween. Cabbage, kale, broccoli, cauliflower, and Brussels sprouts are just a few of the commonly unloved veggies that make up this plant variety. Yet although the cruciferae are often sneered at, and even loathed by some, they are hardly villains. Dubbed super vegetables, they are full of antioxidants and vitamins, are thought to have cancer-preventing and fighting agents, and also protect against cardiovascular disease. So, contrary to popular belief, these under appreciated vegetables are actually the heroes of the food world.

Yet as much as I put myself in the role of PR rep for these amazing plants, multitudes of kids (and even some adults) meet a plateful of cauliflower, kale or Brussels sprouts with scrunched up faces and pursed lips. Of course there are many people (adults and children alike) who love all things cruciferous, but I don't think it's farfetched to say these vegetables have a bad rap.

But don't lose heart. If your child has decided she hates all things cruciferous, you can trick her into getting excited about eating them. Don't worry. I'm not suggesting you hide the vegetables (as I am strongly against deceiving kids about food -- Santa Claus, however, is a different matter). Rather, I support getting your children interested in eating these amazing vegetables with their eyes wide open, and some of the little darlings will even come to love them. The younger your kids are, the easier your job. So if your kids are a little older, your task will be more difficult, but with a little effort -- along with a fair amount of Parmesan cheese and bacon -- it's possible to convince your kids that cruciferous vegetables are not only edible, but quite tasty.

Here are a few ways to get your kids to eat all things cruciferous. A few of the items on this list repeat some tips I provided last year, but as they really do work, it's worth mentioning them here again.

• Try roasting your vegetables instead of steaming or boiling them. Roasting allows the natural sugars in the vegetables to caramelize, which makes them more flavorful. It is also a great way to make sure the veggies turn out al dente instead of mushy. And, if you need another incentive, boiling and steaming emit the vegetables natural gassy odors while roasting helps contain the smells.

• Try fun colored vegetables. Right now you can find purple or yellow cauliflower, or those lovely Tuscan ones with spiky cones all over them. Even the most cauliflower-hating kid will be interested in nibbling something purple.

• Buy an entire stalk of Brussels sprouts. It's fun to take the sprouts off the stalk, and you are then left with a long green baton your kids can play with.

• Don't overcook your cruciferous veggies as they are high in gas and cooking them for too long makes them stinky. See if you can get your kids to eat the broccoli or cauliflower raw (with salad dressing or melted cheese if necessary) and then cook the rest al dente.

• Make a creamy soup. When blended with milk or cream and butter, vegetables become much more manageable for kids who reject foods out of hand because of weird textures. So if your child thinks Brussels sprout leaves are slimy, puree them.

• Add bacon and cheese (if you eat these things). Let's face it, everything really does taste better with bacon and cheese. Kale sautéed with bacon or pancetta is truly amazing. And cauliflower baked au gratin with cheese and butter is beyond decadent. Toss in your children's favorite pasta to make the dish even more appealing.

• Take your kids to a garden or farm at picking time. Picking vegetables is fun and kids are far more likely to eat something they got to commune with in the garden. Many local farms have family days where you and your brood can pick to your hearts' content.

• Let your kids pick out your weekly vegetables in the market. Go to a farmer's market if you can as they offer inviting opportunities for your little ones to touch, smell, and even talk with a farmer.

And now for that irresistible purple soup.

Roasted Purple Cauliflower Soup

Serves: 4 people

Ingredients:
1 medium head of purple cauliflower chopped into small florets
1 medium potato chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
1 small onion chopped
3 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1 cup milk (preferably whole milk)
4 Tbsp butter
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Preparation:
1. Lay the cut up cauliflower and potato in a pan. Drizzle on some olive oil, black pepper, and salt (kosher or sea salt preferably). Roast in a 400 degree oven for 20 minutes or until you can easily pierce the cauliflower and potato pieces with a fork.
2. In a medium pot, sauté the onion in 2 Tbsp butter until soft. Add in the roasted cauliflower and potato along with the chicken or vegetable stock. Cook until the broth is heated through.
3. Using a hand or stand blender, blend the cauliflower mixture until all chunks are gone and the soup is smooth.
4. Add the mixture back to the pot and mix in the milk. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Bring the soup to a low simmer.
5. Mix in the Parmesan cheese and the remaining 2 Tbsp butter. Serve.

Two Halloweens ago, I bashed baby costumes, and heaped quite specific vitriol on the infamous Martha Stewart lobster baby costume.

Little did I know that a year later, I'd be knocked up (the planned kind of knocked up), and that two years later (meaning now), I'd lie awake at night lactating and plotting my baby's first truly public embarrassment: his 2009 Halloween costume.

I've actually hated Halloween for years -- to me, it's no more than excuse for otherwise pleasant adults to turn into masked assholes. The few times in the past 20 years that I've deigned to go out in costume on Halloween, I've resorted to my cactus get-up, which consists of green clothes + clothespins. The cactus get-up is perfect for those, like me, who are: 1) lazy, 2) cheap, and 3) open to the possibility of foreplay à la clothespin.

With the arrival of Henry, the erotic possibilities of clothespins have dramatically receded, and even I'm not mean enough to dress my child up as a cactus (imagine the "Oh, he's a prick!" jokes). I am, however, still lazy and cheap. And I love to kill two birds with one stone.

So, here was the suite of conditions for Henry's costume since he's more fun to dress up than I am:

1) Food-related so it could be BAB'd

2) Super easy because I'm exhausted

3) Cheap because we're in a recession

4) Handmade because I'm a snob

5) Green because it's his color and my color, and because these days you just can't go wrong with green

6) Wearable as a winter-layer long after Oct. 31 because I can't find a winter jacket for a 12-month-old that I don't think is horrid, and I’m sure as hell not going to sew TWO different things this fall when I could just sew ONE.

So, taking all of those factors into account, the only real solution was a poncho that could be interpreted as a costume. A fleece poncho. A green fleece poncho.

With this vague green fuzzy vision, Henry and I headed off to Stonemountain and Daughter Fabrics to cruise. And little by little, notion by notion, we assembled the materials that would prevent the erroneous perception of Henry as a Bolivian Kermit or a marijuana leaf fit for the Jolly Green Giant.

Photo and Photoshop by Wendy Goodfriend

Presto: A salad costume! Throw him around and he's a tossed salad. If he's tired, he's a wilted salad. Put him on a horse and he's a Cobb salad. Not only will this costume get a kid through the cold months, but it can also double as a Christmas tree blanket.

Ingredients: Fleece, buttons, rickrack, thread, brazen enthusiasm for humiliating your child.

Note: Don't read this if you work for CPS or find my other posts disgusting or offensive. Move along now. I mean it.

Self-basting Henry preps for grilling

Tough times call for tough decisions. The California unemployment rate now stands at over 12 percent, and I've been underemployed since April. My cup of beans and rice runneth under, so I'm taking a cue from all those folks who have told me Henry is so cute they could just eat him. In short, I have a modest proposal.

Among carnivores and vegetarians alike, the mere sight of juicy baby leg -- peeking out from the gap between the hem of Gymboree overalls and the top of the Robeez soft sole -- is enough to trigger salivation of Pavlovian proportions. Breastfed Henry weighs about 23 pounds now, and I figure that whether stewed, roasted, baked or even boiled, in a fricassee or a ragout, he'd make a most delicious and nourishing wholesome food. In fact, I'm fairly certain I could get several meals out of him, not counting soup stock.

Babies are high in fat and must therefore be quite tasty. Think about it: the ratio of fat to muscle in babies, especially before they start walking, likely exceeds that of ducks, and we all know ducks are scrumptious. Ergo, babies must be even more scrumptious.

There's also the convenience factor: babies make great, quick and easy weeknight suppers. Though this recipe suggests roasting, I'm a crock pot fan myself. Throw the baby in the crock pot in the morning with some carrots, celery, bay leaf, and water, and presto, by the time you get home from work, dinner's ready.

But let's put aside advantages of taste and convenience for a moment and focus on the most important thing: the planet. Eating my baby is the only environmentally responsible way in which I can address my pantry problem. If you too are a mom, a foodie, and a tree hugger, you can't afford NOT to eat your baby.

First of all, when it comes to eating local, you can't get much more local than your child's nursery (or, for those of you without children, the family-based child care center around the corner). I can feel good knowing that a meal I prepare from my baby has virtually no carbon footprint: I have hauled him myself with a Baby Bjorn for nearly 11 months now, so the only energy expended has been courtesy of my own caloric intake.

Secondly, babies are free-range and cage-free (especially babies that co-sleep). I don't have to worry that my meal never saw the light of day or felt green grass under its feet. I've taken my baby to the park at least three times a week since he was born. One could also argue that he's grass fed, as he just ate grass while crawling toward the swings in Willard Park on Sunday. When you eat your own baby, you can rest assured knowing exactly what he ate and when, down to his last spoonful of organic squash from the farmer's market that you steamed and pureed yourself. If you're really careful about your baby's diet, you can even rest assured that he, and therefore you, isn't tainted by that heinous hydra of the industrial food complex: corn.

Babies are also available all year round, so say bye bye to what I call "out-of-season guilt," the kind that garnishes lamb in November and tomatoes in January.

It's actually hard to imagine a more sustainable food than baby, particularly breast-fed baby. If you eat only organic, local food, and your baby eats only breast milk and organic, local food, wears organic clothes (Think of it! No plastic grocery bags!) and G-diapers, as soon as you've thrown that kid in the crockpot, you've become a model sustainable eater. What other food can you create with your own body and feed with your own body? In food terms, it's a perfect circle.

Save the planet: eat your baby.

End this barbecue season with a bang.

** Disclaimer: No babies were actually barbecued during the photoshoot for this post thanks to an Eye Candy Photoshop filter. Don't try this at home...or anywhere else.

Photos and Photoshop by Wendy Goodfriend

Last weekend's fat harvest moon flipped a switch, and all of a sudden, it's fall. Tomatoes still shine in the garden, but now's the time to gorge on (or can) what's ripe, and accept that what's green now will still be green at Thanksgiving. At the farmers' market, grapes, figs, pomegranates, and winter squash are muscling out the last peaches and melons of the season.

If you're a Northeast transplant like me, you can't cross off the first week in October without craving the first bite of a snappy fresh apple, all crunch and tang. And any apple is better when you've picked it yourself right off the tree, blue sky painted between the branches and the promise of hot cider and fresh cider doughnuts to come.

As a kid, every autumn held a sunny October weekend where my mom would toss my sisters and I into the back of the Volvo (ah, the jouncing-around, sister-jabbing joys of the pre-carseat era!) and head out to the country to go apple picking. This was the Garden State in the 70s, and there was still a lot of working farmland around. Even my hometown, an otherwise drab suburb whose last exciting moment happened in 1780, had a small farm smack in the middle of it, right across the street from my elementary school.

It didn't take long to shake loose from the strip malls and find a place where we could run through the trees, getting stung by yellowjackets drunk on fermenting fallen fruit and hauling back bags bulging with Winesaps and Macouns. Always next to the dusty parking lot was a little farm market selling cloudy, fresh-pressed apple cider, boxed apple pies and cider doughnuts, popped fresh from a greasy, batter-spattered contraption that moved rings of batter along a conveyor belt of bubbling oil, flipping, frying, and finally spitting them down a chute to be sugared and sold.

What's a cider doughnut, you ask? Oh, you poor deprived child, you. Yes, here in California you had sunshine and skateboarding, while we had slush and mittens, but the doughnuts, and the snow days, were worth it. Cider doughnuts are nothing more than cake doughnuts made with apple cider in the dough, usually rolled in cinnamon sugar and best served minutes from the fryer, but they have a mythical connection to autumn, part of deep blue skies and the crunch of leaves underfoot, geese flying in V's overhead and the first smell of woodsmoke after dinner.

Recreating this experience on the West Coast can take a little doing. For the full sticky-fingered, apple-and-doughnut experience, you need to hit the road and head up to the gold country northeast of Sacramento, near Placerville. To Apple Hill, to be exact, where the foothills of the Sierras offer the warm days, chilly nights, and colder winters that apples like. Apple fritters, hayrides, cider and u-picks abound, although the varieties of apples lean more towards Galas and Fujis-- sweeter, milder apples that don't need as many below-freezing winter chill hours as their hardier East Coast cousins. Most likely to scratch that East-Coast itch is the charming Rainbow Orchards, in Camino, which offers excellent fresh-pressed cider and hot cider doughnuts in their barn, along with sprawling acres of apple trees, live bluegrass music, and lots of room for picnicking.

Closer to home, you can take a meandering drive on the back roads west of Petaluma to the Chileno Valley Ranch. Here, between folded hills still lion-colored from summer's long dry days, are sprig-headed quail skittering across the road while hawks ride the rising air currents overhead. Herds of black Holsteins and buff Jerseys drowse beneath the oak trees.

You can see the small organic orchard as you drive up, planted on a gentle slope running down to the barn. Nearby are chicken coops, some vigorously baah-ing goats and sheep, and a lavish flower garden brimming with roses. Sally Gale, who owns the ranch with her husband Mike (the ranch property has been in her family since 1856), is usually on hand to walk pickers through the trees, pointing out green, grapefruit-sized Mutsus (great for baking) and dainty lunchbox-sized Pink Ladies and Pinovas, along with Molly's Delicious and fat, late-ripening Arkansas Black Twigs. In the barn, where you go to pay for your haul ($2/lb) is a small table with some of the ranch's other products, which might include eggs, tomatoes, red pears, dried beans, and the ranch's own grass-fed local beef.

If the scene at Chileno Valley is a little low-key for your taste, then don't miss the signs for the Peter Pumpkin Patch on your way back. Follow the (naturally) pumpkin-shaped signs to Spring Hill Road, where the otherwise cow-centric Spring Hill Cheese Company dairy is decked out in full haybale-and-pumpkin drag through the end of October. There is an acres-wide field dotted with fat orange jack-o-lanterns on the vine, each more carve-worthy than the last, stacks of edible winter squash in all sizes and shapes (carnival, acorn, rouge vif d'etampes, munchkin, banana, and more), pyramids of hay to climb and jump from, a tractor-pulled wagon, even a very patient cow to milk. The air, it's true, is tangy with the smell of cow pat (a scent that always made a rancher pal of mine breathe deep, exhaling with satisfaction, "Ah, the smell of money!"), but there are plenty of picnic tables nonetheless.

What's actually the most fun, though, is the dig-your-own-potato patch. The appeal isn't immediately apparent--walk across the road from the pumpkins, and you'll find yourself in a field of scrubby weeds. Pick up one of the long gardening forks provided, however, and look for a dried-out stalk, remnants of what was once a green and growing potato plant. Jab the fork in about 8 inches from the stalk, dig, wiggle, and lift, and voila! Buried treasure, in the shape of silky-skinned Yukon Golds. It is oddly satisfying and hard to stop, not quite this kind of gold, but a lot easier to find, and only $1/lb.