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.

I started working with preschoolers a few years ago, not long after I quit my office job. These days, I help out in a pre-k classroom at a school downtown, close to Rincon Center. The boys are obsessed with Star Wars, even the original movies, and the girls sport headbands like Lynda Carter-era Wonder Women. Some of their families call San Francisco home; many live in Marin, south of San Francisco, or in the suburbs of Oakland. A lot of them eat catered school lunches; others lug boxes and bags inevitably embellished with culturally significant images -- Yoda, Tinkerbell, Dora -- and stocked with kid-friendly things: string cheese sticks, raisins, fruit, lunch meat, hummus, and miniature yogurt cups and juice boxes from Trader Joe's and Costco.

Our relationships with food begin when we're very young. We're shaped by what our parents give us. We like what we learn to like. Foods in fun packages -- like pigs-in-a-blanket and eggs-in-a-basket -- are universally appealing. Foods we associate with good times -- like Popsicles -- are as well. Childhood memories are powerful things, our therapists tell us. Chefs know this too. That's why Grant Achatz of the esteemed Alinea in Chicago served, on his restaurant's opening night, a whimsical riff on an American lunch-box staple: one peeled grape, warmed, still on its stem, dipped in a peanut puree and wrapped in brioche -- the mad scientist's peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.

Every Tuesday morning, the class visits the Ferry Building. We teachers gently prod our shifty little charges into the loose winding semblance of a line and lead them, meandering along the sidewalks, dashing through crosswalks. "Smells gross," a boy once sniffed as we passed Yank Sing, the damp, slightly acrid scent of vapor hissing from steamers inside. "That's only the best dim sum in San Francisco," I almost blurted out incredulously. I remembered, of course, that I was walking with under-sized humans who still cried for their mommies and wet their pants on occasion. They'd never pecked a tiny hole in the soft translucent skin of a perfect Shanghai dumpling and slurped -- with greedy, Dracula-like precision -- the sweet, concentrated broth within. Divorced from that experience, the smell was, in fact, a little icky. An iron grate covers a patch of pavement directly outside of Boulevard, on the Mission St. side. The kids like to jump on it as they pass because it clangs noisily. A waiter inside polishing glasses -- readying for the lunch hour rush -- inevitably chuckles. Their small heads bob just barely into view with every leap.

I wonder if marching into the Ferry Building farmer's market flanked by a posse of adorable 4-year-olds isn't a bit like rolling into a club with a bunch of professional basketball players. You receive a lot of attention but it's all purely by association. Beaming retirees and fanny-pack-toting tourists -- this scene's coterie of doting fans and relentless paparazzi -- hover, stare, cluck, and coo. When cameras come out, teachers act swiftly, more like security personnel than hangers-on. "No photos, please," we say firmly. "They're minors." Once, a very old woman wheeling her husband -- a man in much less robust health -- sidled up to me winking, her face as round, wrinkled, and fuzzy as an over-ripe apricot: "Do any of them need a Jewish grandma?" she practically pleaded. "Yes," I responded. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Potato," by Reese, age 4. She drew a potato and started to scrawl the word, but decided to write "green bean" instead.

For the kids, a Tuesday trip to the Ferry Building is an overwhelming assault of sensory delights. They grab at anything within reach. They swivel their heads as they walk, twirling constantly to see what's happening behind them, mindful that they're always missing something. Things fall apart; the line cannot hold. The other day, we were leaving the farmer's market, heading for the lobster tanks inside, when a girl prone to dawdling dawdled. I asked her to catch up. She stared up at me and offered a retort for which I had no rote teacher-ly rejoinder "I'm just looking at the world." At that moment, Incanto chef, Boccalone owner, and Food Network presence Chris Cosentino glided by, pushing a produce-stacked cart. A small blond boy sat on top of the cart, giggling. "Weeeee," said the kid. I thought of Old Mcdonald's Farm -- the mooing cows, quacking ducks, and oinking pigs, and what Chris Cosentino would do with them if he had the chance.

This week, we checked out the mushroom mini-farms at Far West Fungi. "Eeek, blech," said a girl, scrunching her eyes and nose, tilting her head to properly appraise the craggy shitake caps poking out from what looked like a wizened loaf of pumpernickel. "You don't like mushrooms?" I asked. "I like mushrooms, but not ones with yucky shells," she explained, cackling, waving her hands at me as if I were a dunce and she was making perfect sense. She noticed a poster of wild mushrooms hanging outside the store. "I like this one," she said, pointing to a particular 'shroom. "That is a shitake," I said. "It's just like the ones on the log you said were yucky." Three hours later, she woke up from a nap and grabbed my leg as I walked past her mat. "Actually, I only like two kinds of mushrooms," she said, as if to clear up a misunderstanding. "I like the big ones and the little round ones." "Okay," I responded. 'The rest are yucky," she added, sighing conclusively as she rolled over to fall back asleep.

As part of the weekly ritual, we pick out vegetables and fruits for the kids to enjoy for a pre-playground snack after nap. The kids make choices, which is good for them to do. We try to present attractive options: produce to provoke curiosity and wonder -- like lemon cucumbers, sweet gnarled bell peppers sporting psychedelic hues, little damson plums, and baby carrots in leafy bunches etc. At snack-time, they're excited but picky -- especially when it comes to vegetables which, unlike most fruits, aren't usually sweet and, on some level, candy-like.

"Green Bean," by Stella, age 4. She drew a green bean and then turned it into an airplane.

I am reminded of a story my mother once told me. She had a nasty 3rd grade teacher with a favorite adage -- "you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink" -- and she took pleasure in invoking it whenever students dozed, doodled, or clowned through her class. The saying has drifted through my mind at snack-time, though in this case, it expresses patience, not exasperation. To rope in another livestock platitude, the vegetables kids adamantly refuse -- no matter how sustainable, delicious, and healthy they may be -- are not pearls cast before proverbial swine. You can't force much with kids and food. You can lead them to water, and while you can't make them drink, you can drink yourself, in front of them, and tell them how good it is. If you're funny and sincere enough, sooner or later, they'll get thirsty. Breathlessly extolling their virtues between bites, I practically wore out my molars chomping purple peppers before a boy took pity on me, kind of shaking his head as he reached out a small pudgy paw for his own sliver.

4-year-olds don't know that much yet. They also have a pretty limited vocabulary. Yet they're -- like George -- endlessly curious, and constantly -- unlike George -- growing and honing new tools for comprehension and conversation. As a result, they're very good at asking obvious, simple questions that actually require difficult, complex answers. On Tuesday, halfway through the afternoon, two children, a boy and a girl, argued. The boy yelped imperiously, "Did you know that if dinosaurs were alive now, they would eat us?" The girl guffawed in disbelief. "Eat us?" she snorted, probably, for once, not on purpose. "No way! Why would they eat us? We're not food." The boy nodded solemnly, closing his eyes as his head swung up and down. "They would. Do you know why? Because we have meat in our bodies." The girl started to say something, then paused, her eyes wandering down to the arms hanging at her sides. She lifted her left arm with her right hand and let it flop down, limp. She picked it up again and squeezed it slowly and deliberately, feeling bone and muscle, her fingers crawling all the way up to her tiny shoulder. You could tell her brain was working hard. She was thinking about meat -- what she knew of it, where she thought it came from, what it looked like, what it tasted like. Grilled chicken. Pepperoni on pizza. Ham sandwiches. Shrimp. She yelled at me from halfway across the room: "Do we have meat in our bodies for real?"

I tried to pretend I hadn't heard. She yelled again. I took a deep breath. I walked over and knelt down on the carpet. I didn't mind talking about it; I just wasn't sure where to begin.

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs -- a movie based on the children's book of the same name by Judi and Ron Barrett -- might very well be the next Ratatouille for mini foodies and their parents.

I don't think they'll be calling in Thomas Keller for a culinary consult, but I do know that Cloudy... is one of my husband's favorite childhood books, and I think a movie treatment is genius. I was initially a little nervous to hear the movie wasn't coming from Pixar. However, after watching the Sony trailer, my nerves are totally dispelled, and I can't wait to see it.

Clearly, it won't be exactly like the book. In fact, it appears the writers used the book more as a jumping off point rather than copying it verbatim, which makes sense because the book is really just a grandfather regaling his grandchildren with stories about a town that would easily beat out San Francisco and New York for best eating.

The movie takes this concept a step further by inventing individual characters, like Flint Lockwood -- the inventor who is responsible for turning his town into a culinary mecca with all sorts of foodstuffs falling from the sky -- and other townspeople, who get caught up in the euphoria and insanity of experiencing manna in a non-biblical sense.

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs is due out September 18th, but in the meantime, all this talk of meatballs has gotten me hungry, so here's a roundup of my five favorite meatballs in the Bay Area. You might want to think about dining at one or all before seeing the movie to combat any meatball envy you're sure to experience during the movie. Better yet, see if you can sneak some meatball action into the theatre with you.

A16
Meatballs available only on Mondays.

2355 Chestnut Street
San Francisco, CA

Mayfield Cafe and Bakery
Wood-oven baked meatballs available from the lunch menu.

Town & Country Village
855 El Camino Real
Palo Alto, CA

Pizzeria Delfina
Neapoletan meatballs in sugo only at their California Street location.

2406 California Street
San Francisco, CA

Beretta
Meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce available from their antipasti menu.

1199 Valencia Street
San Francisco, CA

Saigon Sandwich
The vietnamese meatball sandwich -- bánh mì -- is a perfect storm of flavors.

560 Larkin St
San Francisco, CA

If you want to make your own meatballs, I've found that the recipe Simply Recipes adapted from A16's original to be quite wonderful.

Finally, no piece about meatballs could go by without this little delight:

I love buying fruits and vegetables that look a little different than the norm. Face it, purple cauliflower, baby bananas, and red carrots are just fun. Same goes for the different squash and eggplant varieties you can find in abundance during the summer months. I adore those striped zucchinis, flat and yellow squashes, and long thin eggplants. Better yet, my kids think they're cool. And when kids think vegetables are cool, they're far more likely to eat them.

My daughters love to go to the farmers' market with me to pick out the vegetables that look the most appealing to them that week (although this is not as much fun as the bounce house they have there). During our visit last week, my kids were intrigued by the small globe squash and eggplant available at one of my favorite stands. They thought they looked like little vegetable planets and started deciding which one was Venus and which was Jupiter. If there's anything better than "cool" vegetables, it's vegetables that make my kids think, so obviously I bought two bags. As I handed over my money, I realized that in addition to the minor science lesson, this was the perfect opportunity to make one of my favorite summer dishes: stuffed squash and eggplant.

Stuffed squash and eggplant really make a great mid-week meal as the shape of the veggies are ideal for stuffing with leftovers. Sure you could cook up some fresh items for the stuffing, but this is really the perfect opportunity to use the rest of the chicken or beef you made on Monday, or the rice leftover from Chinese takeout the day before.

I start off by scooping the inner meat from the vegetables (this is easily accomplished with a grapefruit spoon if you have one) and then making a type of quick ratatouille out of it with some tomatoes, garlic and onion. I then mix in whatever grain I have in the fridge (although you could of course make some if you don't have any handy) and then toss in some chopped meat. When I made the dish this week I used some leftover beef brisket from the 4th of July. By the time I made this dish my husband and I were a little tired of the BBQ flavor of the brisket, but stuffed inside the vegetables with the ratatouille, rice and some cheeses, its flavors added a depth to the dish that really wowed us. Chicken, pork, or marinated tofu would also work well, as would lentils or chick peas.

Usually I bake my stuffed squash and eggplant in the oven, but this week I wanted to try grilling them. The result was really quite good. The intense heat from the grill brought out a sweetness in the squash and eggplant that baking hadn't in the past. The dish also cooked in about half the time it takes in the oven. The only problem was keeping everything upright on the grill so the stuffing didn’t spill out; this was easily remedied, however, by a muffin pan.

As we sat down to dinner, my kids saw a fun-shaped vegetable they were excited to eat, while I was marveling at how that leftover brisket and rice looked so mouthwatering inside the fresh squash and eggplant. The frugal side of me was quite pleased not to waste those perfectly good leftovers. Everyone was happy.

Stuffed Globe Squash and Eggplant

Makes: Enough for 4 - 6 people

Ingredients:

6 baby globe squash (also known as summer squash) -- around 2 inches in diameter
6 baby globe eggplants -- around 2 inches in diameter
1/4 cup olive oil
1 cup cooked grains (such as rice, barley, couscous, or small pasta)
1 cup chopped tomatoes or drained canned tomatoes
1 medium or 2 small onions
2 cloves garlic
1 cup cooked meat (beef, chicken, or pork diced) or cooked beans such as lentils
2 Tbsp chopped fresh Italian parsley
2 Tbsp chopped fresh oregano
1/2 cup cheese (mozzarella, jack, or anything you like that melts smoothly) chopped into small cubes
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Wash squash and eggplant and then slice off the top stem-side.

2. Scoop out the interior flesh of the vegetables, being sure to leave at least a 1/4-inch intact so the outer skin can hold the filling.

3. Chop all the vegetables (the onions, garlic and tomatoes, along with the squash and eggplant meat) into small pieces.

4. Heat about 2 Tbsp olive oil in a large non-reactive pan to medium heat. Add in the onions and garlic and cook for 1 - 2 minutes or until soft. Add in the squash and eggplant pieces and cook for another couple of minutes. Add more olive oil as needed at this point as the eggplant really soaks it up. Add in the tomatoes and cook until everything is soft. Season to taste.

5. Line squash and eggplant shells on a baking pan and sprinkle with olive oil and salt.

6. Add parsley and oregano to the mixed vegetables and then start scooping it into each squash and eggplant skin until half-way filled.

7. Add a cube or two of cheese to each vegetable and then continue stuffing until each vegetable is full. Top with the remainder of the cheese.

8. Heat your grill to medium high and then set each stuffed squash and eggplant onto direct heat (being careful to stand them up straight so the filling doesn’t fall out). Cook for around two minutes with the cover down.

9. With tongs, transfer the eggplant and squash to a muffin pan (you can pair up some of the smaller vegetables) and set the pan inside the grill with the cover down.

Note: Use an old muffin pan you no longer care much about or, if you have a nice one, cover each receptacle with aluminum foil.

10. Grill for another 5 minutes or until everything looks nicely cooked.

11. Repeat until all vegetables are cooked.

12. Serve with a salad or bread.

Thank god for crappy hospital food.

Seriously, as much as I respect and liked my caretakers at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital at Stanford, their food was not all they advertised.

Big surprise, right? Thankfully, my husband was ready and willing to bring back food from any place I wanted. He even would have driven up to San Francisco to bring me Piccino or Nopalito. Lucky for us and for our future stomachs that he didn't have to go nearly so far.

Just down the street from the hospital is Tootsie's. Tucked in the historic Stanford Barn, which served as the Stanford winery until 1893, Tootsie's is a little Italian jewel of an eatery that offers high-end coffees and espresso, sandwiches, fresh salads, and breakfasts. Jen Maiser alerted me to Tootsie's existence soon after we moved down here, and we'd been intending to go ever since.

In a bow to the location's history, Shannon and Rocco Scordella named their place for university namesake Leland Stanford Junior's dog (did you follow that?) and opened the red bricked restaurant six months ago. Both Scordellas have worked in fine dining in New York, and Chef Rocco, who originally hails from Puglia and Bologna, Italy, was brought to New York by Mario Batali to work at Del Posto.

Unfortunately, we kept wanting to go for dinner, which they don't serve -- though Shannon did tell us on a recent visit that they might move to small plates and an enoteca-type setting -- so most of our half-hearted efforts were thwarted until I was in the hospital with a days-old baby. Mathra called me from Tootsie's to read off their menu -- I had my laptop in the hospital (of course!) but their website doesn't seem to be operational -- and he didn't get past, "fried chicken sandwich."

Man. That sandwich. That SANDWICH! That sandwich isn't just a sandwich. It's a crispy-succulent soul reviver, topped with endive-caper slaw and snugged between two halves of a crusty bun. After getting only two hours of sleep in the 48 hours that followed Henry's birth, that sandwich saved my sanity and kept me from going all Yellow Wallpaper in the maternity ward.

I've been home from the hospital for two weeks, and I've had that sandwich -- along with the accompanying homemade oregano potato chips -- five times. If that sandwich was the only thing they served, I still would think Tootsie's was worth it. However, good thing for everyone else (who have enough sense to take me at my word and run, don't walk, to Tootsie's), they also have a brilliant agrumi salad with butter lettuce, radish, celery, grapefruit segments, and shaved fennel; and a white bean, fennel, and flaked tuna salad with the springiest, most pristine arugula outside of Chez Panisse's crisper.

A very recent trip had us trying a brand new menu item: octopus and farro salad with celery and carrots, a divine dish that Rocco told us was his mother's recipe from Puglia. On the same trip, we sampled an Italian sausage and roasted pepper sandwich on a thick bun that was slabbed over with broccoli pesto and light touches of mustard; both were delicious dishes I hope I see often on the menu.

For breakfast, I will clog my arteries as frequently as I can with their poached egg on thick toast. Sound prosaic? What if I tell you that the poached egg is topped with celery, olives, and a drizzle of olive oil?

Some day I plan to try their crêpe-esque ricotta pancakes with strawberries, but I'm having a hard time tearing myself away from that poached egg. I also had a bite of their veal-pork burger with olives and oregano ground right into the meat and slathered with caramelized onions and mozzarella cheese. I wonder if anyone will believe me when I say that the shoestring potatoes Tootsie's serves with that burger are better than those found at Zuni Cafe?

Tootsie's at the Stanford Barn
700 Quarry Road
Palo Alto, CA 94304
(650) 566-8445

Awesome smoked-salmon sandwiches from Cap't Mikes at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market

Buying a Father's Day card is not that much different from buying pajamas for a 3-year-old boy: your thematic choices are pretty much limited to baseball, cars, trucks, and fishing. Want to get Pops a cookbook to go along with the card? He better like to set stuff on fire. Panna cotta? Green papaya salad? Nope: according to every bookstore display this time of year, it's grilling or nothing for manly Dad.

Now, my dad hit the ol' Weber a few times every summer at our house in New Jersey. We had some good steaks and burgers, sure. But he was much more likely to be inside sifting through piles of restaurant reviews instead, wondering if that new Indian place in Kenilworth would have lamb rogan josh worth trying, or driving over to the Lower East Side to round up a Jewish brunch spread of smoked sable, kippered salmon, bagels and bialys, some pickled green tomatoes and scallion cream cheese, maybe a few rugalach, and kibbitzing with the guys from Russ & Daughters and Gus's Pickles all along the way.

It's too bad that my dad, now 82, doesn't use computers, if only because Chowhound was made for him. He would be in his element, an instant message-board pro, the first to crow over an unlikely strip-mall find, warning when a favorite biryani lost its oomph or a chef went back to Fujian, waxing rhapsodic about long-gone dishes like the nut cake at the Hungarian Bake Shop, Uncle Tai's Hunan lamb with scallions or the cinnamon babkas at Gertel's.

My dad loves to tell stories, and he loves to talk about food before, during and after eating. He would be an ace Chowhounder, I know it, smart, helpful, opinionated, a little cranky maybe, not one to suffer fools or blandness easily.

People often ask how I came to be a restaurant reviewer, a position I was lucky enough to hold in both San Francisco and New York City for some dozen years. I wasn't a chef, nor had I gone to cooking school, which made a lot of people wonder about my qualifications. But what I did have was an appreciation for the theater of restaurants, a little thrill of anticipation that comes straight from my father, who loved going to the theater, the opera, and the ballet but probably loved going out to dinner best of all.

More importantly, I had, oddly but usefully, as it turned out, grown up reading piles of smart, funny, and thoughtful restaurant reviews, all the time. Back in the 1970s, my dad subscribed to The Restaurant Reporter, a monthly newsletter, and kept back issues in binders. My sisters and I read these for fun, because the reviewer, Seymour Britchky, didn't just write rants or raves about food. Instead, he had a keen ear and eye for the absurdity of New York City social life, writing like Tom Wolfe with an razor-sharp palate, and his reviews happily skewered any pretense that arrived with the vichyssoise.

Weekly reviews in the New York Times and New York magazine got discussed, and, if sufficiently intriguing, torn out and put aside as aide-memoires for future visits. Bad reviews, of course, were the most entertaining. I can still remember my father's glee in one of the Times' rare "poor" rated reviews, a scorched-earth masterpiece about a place called Dish of Salt.

My dad shared a lot of his favorite things with me and my sisters growing up, but it's his lifelong love of food, his curiosity, his refusal to be intimidated by unfamiliar flavors or snooty maitre d's, that I've made my own. At 3, I'm told, I loved to sit on my dad's lap, sharing a plate of raw cherrystone clams and trying to sip at his beer. And in that, close to 30 years later, I'm still my father's daughter.

I am so tired of hearing people say they hate eggplant. Children, particularly, seem hard pressed to even try it. Maybe it's the name. I don't think the inclusion of "egg" does it any favors, especially where kids are concerned. I think many cooks are also intimidated by the spongy texture of this vegetable when uncooked; after all, once you peel it, an uncooked eggplant sort of looks like a big white loafy mass. It can also turn into a soggy mess if it's not cooked correctly. So when people say they don't like the taste, I figure they've just had a bad experience with it.

Even so, when my nieces were visiting recently and they said they didn't like eggplant, I was surprised. I thought that my mother, who is the queen of eggplant, would have made them converts to its flavors by now. But after a little questioning, I found out that what they really didn't like was the texture of unbreaded eggplant. Although my mother is famous for her Eggplant Parmesan, her method of cooking this dish is to fry the eggplant in olive oil without breading, so the texture is smooth and the flavor a bit acidic. But hating a vegetable because you don’t like one dish seemed silly to me, so I set out to defend the honor of this beloved vegetable by finding a recipe they would love.

Luckily my mother was also visiting so I had two brains working on this problem instead of just one. When one of my nieces saw my zucchini post on BAB, she said the fried flowers looked good. My mother then remembered that her dad (my grandfather) had loved eggplant dipped in only seasoned flower and egg and then lightly fried in olive oil. I figured this was a great way to make this vegetable more palatable to kids: the simple batter recipe would keep the spices to a minimum while frying would give the slices a nice crunch to negate any potential texture issues.

To make the process more fun, we got the kids involved in the cooking process. They loved blotting the eggplant, cracking eggs, and dipping vegetable pieces into the batter. The adults fried the eggplant, but the kids did almost everything else. Once the eggplant slices were ready to eat, they were quite proud of themselves and excited to try their handiwork.

Both my nieces and daughters loved this dish. We actually had to slice up a second eggplant to make more for the demanding fans. Best of all, everyone also had a great time. The TV was off, the stereo was on, and everyone was actively cooking and eating together. So if your little ones insist they hate eggplant (or if you have an adult in the same boat), I highly recommend getting them involved in the cooking process to try this simple recipe. It's fun to make and a surefire way to create eggplant lovers in your house.

Simply Breaded and Fried Eggplant

Makes: 4 servings

Ingredients:

1 medium-large eggplant
1/2 cup olive oil
1 cup flour
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp kosher or sea salt plus more for sprinkling on the raw eggplant slices when prepping

Preparation:

1. Peel eggplant and then cut it into 1/4-inch thick slices.
2. Lay sheets of paper towel onto a cookie sheet or large colander (I prefer the latter) and lay enough eggplant slices down to cover the surface. Generously sprinkle salt onto the eggplant and then cover with another layer of paper towels. Repeat until you're out of eggplant
3. Let eggplant slices sit for 30-40 minutes.
4. Heat a frying pan (I like to use a large cast-iron pan, but anything that is not non-stick will work) on medium high. Add enough olive oil to cover the bottom with a 1/4-inch of oil.
5. Beat eggs with milk in a large flatish bowl and add 1/2 tsp salt to season it. Then mix the oregano and the other 1/2 tsp salt into the flour on a separate plate.
6. When oil is heated, press paper towels into the eggplant to soak up any extra liquid and then start dipping the eggplant slices into the flour mixture. Shake off an excess oil and then dip into the egg mixture to coat thoroughly.
7. Lay battered eggplant into the pan in batches, being sure not to crowd the pan.
8. Fry each side until golden brown. If the pan starts to get too hot, just lower the heat.
9. Repeat until all eggplant is cooked, adding more olive oil as needed.
10. Serve immediately.