Poggio: dining al fresco

The last rays of sun warmed my shoulders as I drank in the waterfront views, sailboats bobbing happily beneath a hillside of pretty pastel homes, and made my way to a charming trattoria spilling out onto the sidewalk. A leisurely seafood supper awaited me, complete with crisp white wine, homemade pasta, and hospitality as warm as the balmy breezes floating in from the wide-flung doors. Was I in Capri? Positano? Close. Sausalito.

Located below Sausalito's landmark Casa Madrona, Italian trattoria Poggio seems like the perfect place to milk the remnants of an Indian summer.

Marinated Monterey Sardines with soft cooked egg, pancetta and lovage (an herb with a flavor similar to celery)

I was invited to do just that at last week's Festa del Pesce, a celebration of local seafood during the last days of summer. On the menu was a selection of mostly local and sustainable fish served raw, cured, marinated, oak grilled, wood fire roasted and fried.

Fritto of local Surf Smelt with lemon aioli (aka "Fries with Eyes")

I appreciate the tip of the hat that Poggio gives to each season. For example, coming up in November (11/10-11/15) will be their annual Festa del Tartuffo, celebrating the white truffle harvest (yes, Chef Peter McNee travels to Italy to hunt for truffles himself; and yes, this is one party not to miss). The Bollito Misto Festa takes its turn in the early winter with an abundance of simmered meats and sauces served tableside. The Spiedo Misto della Pasqua celebrates the arrival of spring and highlights meats cooked on the spit. And then before you know it, it will be time for seafood and long summer nights again.

Speaking of which, the pesce at hand.

The evening's special menu consisted of five Crudo (raw/marinated/cured) and five Cotto (grilled/braised/fried) seafood antipasti, along with two whole-fish preparations -- oak grilled Branzino with cherry tomato confit and broccoli rabe; Snapper baked in sea salt, with lemon, arugula and young green beans -- and a Risotto ai Frutti di Mare with scallop, shrimp, mussels, clams, saffron and tomato.

Stuffed Monterey Calamari braised in its own ink with local butter beans

For me, the most special dish was the stuffed Monterey Calamari braised in its own ink. The flavor was so unique -- rich and earthy (in a sea-faring kind of way). There was something...visceral about eating this dish. But, don't disturb yourself by getting too psychoanalytic here. Just dig in and enjoy the utter deliciousness.

Also of note was the wood-grilled local Swordfish Spiedini (skewers) served over slightly charred, tender radicchio. The swordfish was screamingly fresh, tender, almost buttery, and the accompanying bagna cauda was perfectly garlicky and anchovy-y.

Cozze al cartoccio mussels cooked in paper with white wine, tomato and chili

The Mussels cooked in paper were like a magic trick, as the translucent package was cut open tableside. Inside, we were rewarded with succulent gem-like mussels, sweet as could be.

Bruschetta with pickled Monterey Anchovies, avocado and heirloom tomato gazpacho

On the crudo end, Chef Peter did a phenomenal job highlighting two very under-appreciated fish: sardines and anchovies. Our table decided the poor things just needed some good PR, because oooh they are tasty! Anyone have a new sexy name we can instate?

Spaghetti alla Carbonara, made with house-made guanciale, egg, pecorino romano, and pepper

We veered off our pescetarian diet to indulge in some of the prized house-made guanciale (cured pork cheeks). The perfect vehicle to highlight that deeply porcine flavor? Spaghetti alla Carbonara, naturally. Not for the faint of heart, this dish is a serious calorie bomb. It left a little too much lard flavor and mouthfeel for my taste, but I could appreciate the craftsmanship that went into making it. I was also pleasantly surprised by how much the aroma reminded me of Chinese lap cheung (cured sausage) when the dish was set in front of me.

Prosecco Moscato, Carpene Malvolti

Just the thing to refresh my taste buds before dessert, a sparkling glass of this delightful Prosecco Moscato from Carpene Malvolti. Our sommelier was jazzed about sharing this beauty, and at the first sip, I understood why. A perfect harmony is struck here between the light fruitiness of the Prosecco and the flowery notes of the Moscato. Flavors of apricot and orange blossom danced in my mouth as I savored each bubble.

Lemon Mousse topped with Meringues and Pistachios

You'd think we'd be stuffed to the brim after such a feast, but there is always room for dessert. This Lemon Mousse was just what I wanted after this big meal, with its citrus punch and light-as-air texture. And the homemade meringues and toasted pistachios on top were the perfect touch. I love the flavor combination of lemon and pistachios. It is pure Italian sunshine to me.

Lucky us, Chef Peter McNee was kind enough to share his recipe! Perfect for dinner parties too because you can make all the components ahead of time. Buon appetito!

Lemon Mousse with Meringues and Pistachios
Recipe courtesy of Peter McNee, Executive Chef of Poggio

Serves: 4

Lemon Curd
7 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
Zest of 1-2 lemons
3 oz. fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 oz. lime juice
3 eggs
2 egg yolks
5 tablespoons butter

Combine all the ingredients, except the butter, in a mixing bowl. Place over a pot of boiling water (making sure the bottom of the bowl doesn’t touch the water) and whisk until curd sets up thick. Whip constantly so that your eggs don't curdle. Remove from heat.

Add butter, continue mixing. Pass through a fine mesh strainer or sieve. Pour into a container, placing a sheet of plastic wrap over the curd to prevent a skin from forming. Chill overnight. The lemon curd will stay fresh refrigerated for up to 5 days.

Meringue
1/4 cup egg whites
1/4 cup granulated white sugar
1/4 cup powdered sugar
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar

Preheat oven to 100 degrees F. Whip egg whites with a mixer. Before soft peaks form, add the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to whip until stiff peaks form. Using a pastry bag, pipe the meringue into .5 inch diameter lines, onto a wax paper-lined cookie sheet. Bake the meringues for 3 hours, or until they are crispy and without any color.

Can be made a few days ahead of time, but must be wrapped airtight once cooled to prevent them from being soggy.

Lemon Mousse (assembly)
Chilled lemon curd
1 cup whipping cream
1/4 cup pistachios
4 serving glasses, approximately 6 oz each

Lightly toast and chop pistachios. Whip cream to stiff peaks. Combine the lemon curd and whipped cream, folding the two together until homogeneous. Place one half tablespoon of pistachios into each of the glasses. Using a star tipped pastry bag, pipe the lemon mousse into each of the glasses. At this point the mousse may be refrigerated up to 3 days once covered. Before serving, garnish each with the remaining pistachios and broken pieces of crispy meringue.

Poggio Trattoria
777 Bridgeway
Sausalito, CA 94965
Map
(415) 332-7771

Honestly, does anyone really like honeycake? I mean the old-fashioned kind, brown and frumpy, made with honey and coffee and served in damp slices after the roast chicken and brisket, or with tea and paper cups of Manischevitz after Rosh Hashanah services? It's traditional, sure. Honey is, after all, as important on the table for the Jewish new year as hoppin' john and greens are on New Year's Day down south, one promising sweetness, the other prosperity. Every newspaper food section trots out a recipe at this time of year, all promising moistness! nostalgia! as good as Bubbe's!

And yet I've never met anyone who really likes it. I love honey enough to have written a whole book about it, but even the recipe in my own book didn't thrill me. It wasn't until I started my own tradition of Rosh Hashanah dinners that I realized, with great liberation, that as an adult with her own kitchen I never had to serve, or eat, honey cake again. Instead, good honey would be enjoyed as a appetizer at my table, slathered on homemade challah or scooped up with slices of apple.

But still, it seemed necessary to end the meal with something sweet and spicy, with the festivity that only cake can provide. Not chocolate, not cheesecake (that's for Shavuot, when dairy foods are mandated). Something autumnal with apples would be nice, or pears, even poached quinces. For the cake itself, well, what could be better than gingerbread? Now that's something that everybody likes, and rarely gets anymore, muscled out of the homemade-dessert pantheon as it's been by the hegemony of brownies and oatmeal cookies. For a dark, strong gingerbread, use molasses; for a lighter one, use a full-flavored dark honey or cane or sorghum syrup.

The idea for turning the gingerbread upside-down over a caramelly topping of brown-sugared apples came from a wonderful cooking class up at The Apple Farm in Philo, halfway to Mendocino in the Anderson Valley. A nicer way to spend a weekend, especially in the fall when all their organic apples are ripe and ready for picking, I can't imagine, and I still use many of the recipes that Sally Schmidt taught us over those 3 days. I've tinkered with the original recipe since then, but the concept is hers, and I never make it without thinking of walking through the orchards or watching the ducks pick their splay-footed way through the herb garden. Sweet abundance, rich harvest: what better to invoke at the beginning of a new year? L'shanah Tovah!

(Better than Honeycake) Upside Down Apple Gingerbread

Using a one-two-three punch of ginger gives this cake complexity and depth. But it will still be delicious with just the powdered spices, as long as your spices are fresh and flavorful. If the same jars have been sitting over the stove since last Rosh Hashanah, chuck them. Or even better, empty the jars, wash them out, and refill them with bulk spices from Rainbow Grocery or Bombay Bazaar. Store them in a cool, dry, dark place, like a pantry or kitchen drawer.

Topping
2 tbsp butter
1/4 cup brown sugar, packed
2-3 apples or pears, peeled, cored, and sliced

Cake
1/2 cup boiling water
1 tsp. baking soda
1 1/4 cup flour
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp freshly ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking powder
4 tbsp butter
1/3 cup brown sugar, packed
1/3 cup molasses or dark, full-flavored honey, such as buckwheat
2 tsp grated fresh ginger (optional)
1 tbsp chopped candied ginger (optional)
1 egg, lightly beaten

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Grease a 9” cake pan or 8 x 8 baking dish. In a small saucepan over low heat, melt butter and brown sugar together, stirring until smooth and gooey. Pour into greased pan. Arrange apple slices in concentric rings over sugar mixture, squeezing them together closely since they will shrink during baking. Set aside.

2. In a small bowl, combine boiling water and baking soda; set aside. Sift or whisk together dry ingredients; set aside.

3. In a large bowl, cream butter until soft. Add brown sugar and beat until fluffy. Beat in molasses and fresh and candied ginger, if using. Beat in egg. Gently fold in flour mixture. Stir in baking soda and water.

4. Pour batter over apple slices in prepared pan. Bake 25-30 minutes, until toothpick inserted into center comes out clean.

5. Let cool on wire rack for 10-15 minutes, then run a knife along the sides to loosen. Invert on a large plate. (It’s a good idea to invert it while still warm, otherwise the caramel hardens and it can be hard to get out of the pan). Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

Sometimes, things have a way of just happening to you. When I woke up one morning several weeks ago, I found myself looking forward to a lazy Sunday afternoon, followed by an evening of cocktails, theater, and dinner with a few friends. If I had any plans apart from those, they were small ones-- like wandering down the street to get coffee or sending off a few emails. Not once did I think to myself, "I think I'll go get horse whipped by a severe-looking woman in a vinyl bustier and a Betty Page haircut."

But that is pretty much what happened. It's often fascinating where a quiet day can take you.

Slap Happy

After a glass of prosecco and a few snacks at Bar Bambino, my friends and I trundled off to Hypnodrome to see Pearls Over Shanghai-- the lurid, acid-trippy faux-operetta originally conceived by the drug-addled minds of The Cockettes in the early 1970's. I was prepared to be pleasantly horrified by bad acting, singing, and stage production. I was wrong on all counts. The show was hilarious.

We said as much at the intermission, when we stood about sipping white wine, astheater-goers do. It was then that one of the characters from the play stood center stage, slapped a riding crop against her thigh, and announced that she was looking for someone to whip. My friend Gary, who has never in his life suffered from an inability to make himself heard, pointed at me and told the dominatrix that it was my 40th birthday. People began to chant something-- I can no longer remember what-- and the next thing I knew, I was on stage, told to remove my wallet from my back pocket, and compelled to get down on all fours.

I had expected some tame, playful ass-slapping, since this was theater and theater is based on illusion. Or so I thought. I have since altered my theory about the dramatic arts. The woman whipped me hard, and then whipped me some more. When she stopped, I stood up-- sore and humiliated. "Get back down, mister, we're not done."

Back on my knees, the dominatrix asked the audience to count along with her to the number ten. She had previously given me thirty whacks. Since I was turning forty, she said she needed to give me ten more. As the count grew higher, so did the intensity of the whipping. There I was, on hands and knees and in a surprising amount of pain for the benefit of the audience. I have the feeling that the tune "Happy Birthday was sung to me, but I was too much in shock to remember. When I was released from my torture, the audience clapped loudly, videos and photos were uploaded onto Facebook and YouTube, and I smiled as my bottom throbbed. I spent the rest of the show shifting in my seat in fascinated discomfort.

It seems I will do anything for applause.

Cold Comfort

After a session of severe whipping by a dominatrix, only dinner at a severe, East German restaurant would do, so we wandered into Walzwerk without reservations. I secretly hoped we might be chastised or otherwise humiliated by the Walzwerk staff for our lack of forethought and organization, but nothing of the sort happened. We were, however, welcomed and treated very well. As we stuffed ourselves with beet soup and wursts and beer, I considered the creamed herring on the table and wondered if it would somehow make a cooler, more comforting salve for my particular physical complaint than the mustard that stood next to it. I decided not to experiment with either at the table.

After our plates were cleared, our server asked if there was room for a bit of dessert. As most of us groaned, one of our party did the simultaneous finger pointing while silently, but dramatically mouthing the words "It's his birthdaaaayyyyyy" that I see people do nearly every night in my particular line of work.

"Great!" our server said, "I'll send you out a little something."

That something was a slice of layer cake made of chocolate and butter cookies. "It's called Cold Dog", she said, "Kalter Hund." Where the name came from I don't know, but it was memorable. It was delicious, rich, and something I'd never before encountered, not unlike a riding crop (minus the rich and delicious). However, when "Happy Birthday" was sung to me for the second time that evening, I was filled with happiness instead of pain, and the cheeks that had turned red only a few hours before were finally upstaged by the redness of the other, more visible pair now flush with beer, and music, and the sweet afterglow of a birthday spent with old friends.

And, before you ask... No, I will not send you the YouTube link to the spanking video.

Kalter Hund mit Schlag

Makes one loaf.

This is a very simple dessert to prepare, and one that requires no baking, which makes it even better in my book.

If you're looking for the history of this dessert, I haven't the faintest idea as to its origin. I recommend asking a German.

The addition of whipped cream (or schlag, as the Germans would call it) is my own, though I somehow doubt I am the first to add it. It just makes sense, especially in my case. I look upon it as a sort of salve, given my experience. And it's a great way to use up the extra coconut cream, not to mention a wonderful way to conjure up a bit of violent imagery.

Ingredients:

1 cup bittersweet chocolate, chopped

2 cups milk chocolate, chopped

3/4 cup cream of coconut (Goya brand works extremely well), using as much of the coconut fat as possible.

1/2 cup heavy cream

A splash of rum or other chocolate-and-coconut-friendly liqueur.

Enough butter cookies/biscuits to line one's loaf pan. I used three packages of Walkers short bread, because it is my favorite*.

For the Schlag:

1/2 cup heavy cream

4 tablespoons cream of coconut, using the liquid portion only

sugar to taste (there is sugar in the coconut cream, so tread carefully)

Preparation:

1. Line a loaf pan with parchment paper (this is key to the dessert's removal later).

2. In a double boiler, add both chocolates and melt. Stir in coconut fat/cream and heavy cream. Whisk gently until well-blended. Add your splash of booze, if desired, and gently whisk again.

3. Spoon enough of the chocolate mixture into the bottom of the loaf pan. Gently lay the cookies in an even layer across the chocolate. Cover with chocolate, add another layer of cookies. Repeat the process until you have reached the near-top of the loaf pan. Fill in any gaps with the remaining chocolate.

4. Cover and set pan in refrigerator for at least six hours. Better if left overnight.

5. For the whipped cream, whip the cream until soft peaks form, then add coconut cream. Whip some more, since this will certainly thin out the soft peaks. Taste. Adjust the sugar level to your liking. I don't recommend a very sweet cream since the dessert is extremely so.

To serve, slice thin (you really won't need any more than a thin slice, I swear) pieces and dollop with cream. I like to eat mine while seated on one of those donut-shaped inflatable cushions, just to remind myself of my very special birthday evening.

*Walkers biscuits are much thicker than those traditionally used. Most Kalter Hund cakes have several layers of thin biscuits. Mine generated only three, but I am very comfortable with that number since I am not German.

Key Lime Coconut Cheesecake

I once created a dessert inspired by a body lotion I fell in love with one summer. It was a creamy Coconut Lime Verbena lotion, and as I slathered it over my body, with the seductively warm coconut scent mingling with the sweet floral citrus notes of the lime verbena, my mind wandered to dessert.

Surely, such a match made in heaven could come together in flavor as well as aroma.

And indeed it could...in what I call my Key Lime Coconut Cheesecake. This decadent treat is like the tropical love child of a refreshing, tart, key lime pie and a rich cheesecake…with a coconut cream pie floozie thrown into the mix.

The citrus cuts through the richness, giving this dessert a surprisingly light feel to it. The addition of sour cream also gives it a sense of airiness, unlike some other cheesecakes that end up feeling like a brick in your stomach. I love adding nuts to my dessert crusts whenever possible, and this is no exception. I chose cashews here for their subtle, buttery flavor. And then there is the crowning shower of toasted coconut flakes. The coconut brings out the nuttiness of the crust, and the extra texture adds interest.

It takes some forethought to make, since it's best served after chilling in the fridge overnight, but the wait is well worth it! Whip this up for your next BBQ or party and wait for the oohs and ahhs to rain down, you domestic goddess, you.

Key Lime Coconut Cheesecake

Makes: One (10 inch) cheesecake, serves 8-10

Ingredients:
Crust
1 package graham crackers (approx. 1 cup)
1 cup cashews
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest

Filling
1 (12 oz.) container sour cream
2 (8 oz.) packages cream cheese, at room temperature
1 ¼ cup sugar
2 tablespoons grated lime zest
½ cup lime juice (if you can’t find key limes, substitute with regular limes)
¼ cup Malibu (optional)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
4 large eggs, at room temperature

Topping
½ cup sweetened coconut flakes, toasted
Slices of lime for garnish

Preparation:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

2. Butter or spray the bottom of a 10 inch springform pan with nonstick cooking spray. Cover the outside of the pan in foil. Finely grind the graham crackers and cashews in a food processor. Add the melted butter and 1 tablespoon of lemon zest, and process until the crumbs are moistened. Press the crumb mixture over the bottom of the prepared pan. Bake until the crust is golden, about 15 minutes. Cool completely.

3. Mix together the sour cream, cream cheese, and sugar. Blend in the lime zest, lime juice, Malibu, and vanilla. Add eggs in one at a time.

4. Pour the cheese mixture over the crust in the pan. Place the pan in a large roasting pan. Create a hot water bath by pouring enough hot water into the roasting pan to come halfway up the sides of the baking pan. Bake until the cheesecake is golden and the center of the cake moves slightly when the pan is gently shaken, about 1 hour.

5. Sprinkle the toasted coconut on top. I just toast the coconut in a dry skillet over medium heat. Keep stirring it so it doesn't burn; it will toast up quickly. Garnish with lime slices.

6. Transfer the cake to a rack; cool 1 hour. Refrigerate until the cheesecake is cold and firm, at least 8 hours (best overnight).

Everyday cooking means taking lots of shortcuts. For the most flavor with the shortest amount of time in the kitchen, especially when you've splurged or gone out of your way to buy good ingredients, it's a delicate balance between paying attention to the details and just trying to get dinner on the table.

We've all done it -- cooked tomatoes with their peels and seeds, served pureed soup unstrained, fried the potatoes just once, not twice. It's healthier, right?

As a cook, I embrace shortcuts. But as a cooking teacher, I always try to explain to my classes why, over the centuries and millennia, certain techniques have developed. Sometimes it's cultural. Usually, though, there's a very real change in texture or flavor, nutrition or shelf-life.

Two simple techniques increasingly omitted from recipes now are salting eggplant and browning butter. Neither are absolutely necessary. Both, however, are worth doing every once in a while to remind yourself just what amazing flavors you can create in the kitchen.

BROWNED BUTTER

Simmering whole butter until all its water bubbles off and its protein solids separate accomplishes several key improvements. It allows the butter to sit at (tropical) room temperature much longer without turning rancid. It significantly increases the butter's smoke point to allow high-heat cooking. And it transforms the milks sweet flavor, adding deep, nutty, caramel tones. Indians call it ghee, while the French call it beurre noisette, or hazelnut butter for its rich color and flavor.

You need just five or ten minutes to make browned butter. Melt good-quality, unsalted butter in a small, heavy pan over medium heat. (A lighter colored pan will allow you to judge more easily the color of the butter as it cooks.) Continue cooking it through the foamy bubbling stage, while all the water evaporates off. Reduce the heat if you want to give yourself some extra buffer time, especially if this is your first time browning butter. As the bubbles subside, swirl the pan occasionally and keep an extra close eye on the butter. The protein solids will sink to the bottom. When they turn light brown, transfer the hot butter immediately to a heat-proof bowl. Be sure not to scorch the butter, as blackened protein will taste sharply acrid, not pleasantly nutty. It will darken a little more as it cools.

For frying or long storage, be sure to separate the milk solids: skim off any remaining foam and spoon or pour off the oil while still liquid, leaving behind the darkened protein at the bottom of the bowl.

Browned butter can be used while still melted to saute or to garnish. It's excellent for vegetables like asparagus, broccoli, and green beans. If you're trying to use less butter, deepening its flavor will accentuate the effect from smaller amounts. For a super simple yet elegant entree, sear chicken breast, pork chops, or fish fillets in browned butter and then serve with fresh lemon wedges.

Let browned butter solidify and substitute it in baked recipes for extra delicate cookies and cakes. (Remember that less water means less gluten development in flour, so be sure to allow for some trial and error as you figure out the fulcrum point between flavor and structure.) Use it in rice pilaf to serve with full-flavored stews and roasts. Or simply offer it at the table in your regular butter dish and spread it on crusty bread or flaky biscuits for a flavor epiphany.

SALTING EGGPLANT

With ever smaller, younger and fresher vegetables making their way to our markets in the past decades, old rules have lost much of their imperative. Peeling, trimming, salting -- these were techniques required when vegetables were allowed to mature completely on the plant, transported long distances without the benefit of refrigeration, and served within days not weeks of harvest. Tender carrots no longer require peeling. Young celery stalks can be cooked with leaves. And most eggplants now, especially the narrow Asian varieties, are fine going straight from the cutting board the pan.

Occasionally, though, salting eggplant is critical and will remind you just why this vegetable has been embraced in classic dishes around the world. It's a hassle, but the extra step draws out bitter juices in older vegetables, whether those missed in the back corner of your garden or forgotten in the bottom of your refrigerator. More importantly, salting alters the cell structure of the vegetable's flesh, creating that famous silken texture while preventing excess absorption of oil.

To salt eggplant, halve, dice or slice it as needed. Sprinkle generous with kosher salt and set aside in a bowl or colander. To encourage the purging of juices, weight the eggplant. (The most effective way is to fill a zip bag with water and plop it on top of the pieces. The age-old method is a flat plate topped with a rock.) Leave the eggplant for 30 to 60 minutes. When you return and peek into the bowl, you'll see a surprising amount of dark brown liquid at the bottom. Rinse the eggplant quickly in cool water, drain well and then dry it by wringing in a clean cloth or patting with paper towels.

Salting eggplant will noticeably improve recipes that call for stuffing eggplant halves or rolling thin slices around a filling. It's also a good technique for dishes where keeping its shape is important, such as stews, curries, ratatouille, or parmigiana. If you're deep-frying eggplant, salting is essential for preventing greasiness.

And what if you're making baba ganoush or using tiny, little adolescent eggplants? Nope, no one will care or notice if you skip the salting.

Cooking is an investment of time and money, energy and love. Like all decisions, judging the costs requires knowing the benefits. And then choosing wisely.

Are you as tired of hearing about the End-of-Times as I am? If one is to believe all the hullabaloo, we humans have slightly more than 3 years to live until catastrophe strikes.

The ancient Egyptians predicted a great disaster would come in the year 2012, crazy present-day Belgians, Canadians, and Americans are forming survival groups to prepare for total global meltdown in the same year. Even the folks at N.A.S.A. are all predicting a sharp increase in the number of sun flares and sunspots in 2012. Nostradamus, unsurprisingly, got in on the act, too. Of course, if one writes several hundred vague quatrains promising future doom and gloom, some of them are bound to hit on something gruesome.

Perhaps the biggest fuss of all is being made by the Chicken Littles (or Chickens Little, if Little is a family name) who point to the ancient Mayan calendar and claim that the sky is falling. Alarmists of several nations are pointing to the fact that the Mayan long count cycle will come to it's 5,125-year end on or about the 21st of December, 2012.

I am no expert on the Mayan calendar but, having studied their art and pulled out most of my hair spending several months trying to remember Mayan names and the meaning of lord-knows-how-many Mayan glyphs in college, I came to learn that there was no culture more dean-on in their observation of the stars and the passage of time. Their calendar was long the most accurate that anyone had devised, pre-dating our Gregorian calendar by several centuries. It's even believed they came up with the concept of the zero about 400 years before the mathematicians of India (though one must give the Sumerians their due for coming up with the zero first and blame others for promptly losing that knowledge.). In short, apart from the occasional thorn-spiked rope-through-the-tongue bloodletting business, the Mayans knew what the hell they were doing.

It's just that they never said the end of this 5,125-ish-year cycle meant the end of the world. I think they just meant it will be the end of a cycle and the beginning of the next. That's it. One would think desperate Republicans would be latching on to this as they start gearing up for the 2012 presidential race. It wouldn't be any more crazy then what the Doomsday survivalists are doing.

Where am I headed with this, you might ask? Well, all this End-of-Times crazy is driving me to drink, not that I need to be driven far. If I decide to buy into the brewing hysteria, I am liable to drown my sorrows in appropriately-themed Mexican cocktails.

If these kooks are correct and the end of the world is, in fact, nigh, I say drink up. Why worry about liver damage if the world is coming to an end? If they are wrong and the end isn't so nigh and I wake up to a clear sky and the sweet warbling of Franklin Street traffic on the 22nd of December, 2012, I am going to have one hell of a bad hangover. I'm going to need something to soak up three years-worth of margaritas.

I'm going to need chilaquiles-- the sure-fire, Mexican breakfast of hung-over champions. And I'm going to need a lot of it. I will be prepared. I will stock up like the survivalists on corn tortillas and red chili sauce. I will hoard cojita cheese.

If, for some reason, the Mayans were off by a day and the 22nd of December winds up being even more of a hell-on-earth than the Holiday season has already made that particular time of year, as long as I've had a heaping plate of chilaquiles, some fried eggs, and a few bites of beans, I'll feel fine. Really, I will.

And then, if my pen has not yet vaporized or been covered in volcanic ash, I will write a rather contrite letter of apology to those not-so-crazy Doomsdayers.

Chilaquiles

According to Chow.com, the word "chilaquiles" refers to a "broken-up old sombrero." This is, in my opinion, a direct and charming way of telling the reader that this dish is--though quite delicious in a functional, comforting sort of way-- not going to be very pretty. According to Urban Dictionary, "chilaquile" can be used as a substitute for nearly any noun, verb, or adjective. An extreme example of usage would be "Those chilaquiles were so chilaquilin' good that I nearly chilaquiled myself right there in the chilequile-ing restaurant." In other words, a less direct and even less charming way of telling the reader that something is-- though quite delicious in a functional, comforting sort of way-- not going to be very pretty.

This dish is very easy to make and very difficult to screw up. In other words, it's the perfect thing to make when one is hung over. Combined with eggs (scramble or, better yet, fried), and a dollop of Mexican crema, this dish will soothe and soak up anything the past 5,125 years or so has thrown at you.

Serves 2 to 4, depending upon the size of the hangover.

Ingredients:

For the Chilaquiles:

12 corn tortillas. Stale ones are ideal, but if there is no such thing as a stale corn tortilla in your household or you would never admit to it, buy some fresh and leave them to sit out overnight.

Vegetable oil (preferably corn oil, which you can call maize oil, if that helps you in any way)

About 2 cups of some sort of Mexican cuisine-derived sauce. Elise Bauer over at Simply Recipes offers an excellent and, of course, simple salsa verde recipe for this particular dish; The Food Network, if you are into them at all, can provide you with a great red chili sauce. There is no one, correct sauce to use here. Experiment to find your favorite version*.

Toppings:

Popular toppings include:

Cojita cheese, or queso fresco

Crema Mexicana, or crème fraîche, if you want to re-visit the short-lived, ill-fated, French-backed Mexican Empire.

Finely diced red onion

A squeeze of lime

torn up bits of roasted chicken

Avocado

Cilantro

Tiny Mexican flags

Unpopular toppings include:

Spanish, Austrian, French, or U.S. flags of any size

Preparation:

1. Cover the bottom a good-sized (read: large, preferably cast iron) skillet with about 1/8 inch of oil. When the oil is hot and a test piece of tortilla sizzles, add its brother and sister pieces to the pan-- making sure to coat all of them-- and fry until golden brown. Remove tortillas from the pan and drain on paper towels. Salt them generously. Wipe pan to remove any stray, brown pieces of tortilla.

2. Add about 2 tablespoons of oil to the same pan and heat through. Pour in salsa and cook for a few minutes to thicken slightly, then add tortilla pieces. Make certain all the pieces are well-coated by turning them gently in the sauce. If you break a few, I dare say it shouldn't matter much, given the dish's likening to a broken-up old sombrero. Let the mixture cook until most of the sauce has been absorbed, which is not more than five minutes, but not less than two. Remove from heat.

4. Heap the now-ready chilaquiles onto a platter and garnish with any of the above garnishes you wish. Serve warm.

*In the true spirit of hangover food, I think it's perfectly acceptable to purchase pre-made sauce. There are several good, reputable brands. Seriously. Call me Sandra Lee if you want to, but unless you are the type (A) kind of personality who plans ahead for his/her hangovers, the fewer steps to breakfast, the better.

I just chanced upon a great snack that can also serve as hors d'oeuvres, is super healthy for you, and costs less than 2 bucks. But you have to act quickly because the main ingredient will only be with us for another couple of months.

What I'm talking about here are cranberry beans. Those speckled magenta and white pods with beans that look like colorful pebbles you might find in a river. Cranberry beans have a wonderful creamy flavor that some liken to a chestnut. Often referred to as barlotti beans, they are a part of every Italian grandmother's fall repertoire of cooking. My own grandmother loved to toss them into salads or serve with pasta. I, however, have stumbled upon something a little different to do with them.

I recently bought a big bag of cranberry beans, thinking I would cook them up as part of a week-day meal. But after a hectic week, followed by an even crazier weekend, I found those beans still sitting in their bag in my refrigerator on Monday afternoon (Labor Day). With friends arriving in a half hour, I realized I had completely forgotten to buy anything to serve as a snack while my fellow Sicilian friend Christina and I cooked together. And so I started shucking.

Now shucking (or shelling) cranberry beans is not difficult work, but it does take about five minutes. Usually my kids are only too happy to pry open the pods and pop out the beans for me, as it’s sort of fun if you’re a kid and avoiding homework. But with their friends about to arrive for our Labor Day dinner, they were too excited to sit and toil over a bag of beans and so the task fell to me. Sitting at my kitchen counter, I twisted the pods and extracted the beans while listening to Louis Prima sing Angelina -- "Oh Mama… Zooma zooma baccala..!" in the background; it was the most peaceful part of my day.

Still without a plan for my bowl of white and magenta barlottis, I decided to simmer them in salted water until al dente, after which they sat in a colander, forgotten on the counter for about a half hour. Once I rediscovered them, they were mostly dried. I decided the quickest and most hassle-free way to deal with them would be to toss them into a pan of hot olive oil and then sprinkle with sea salt. I had been lucky enough to snack on something similar years ago in a little Italian restaurant and was inspired to try to mimic the recipe. After crisping up the outer skins, I generously seasoned and they were good to go. Salty with a mild crunch on the outside and a buttery texture within, they were perfect for munching with our Pimms cups.

I love a good snack, especially if it's easy to make, nutritious and inexpensive. Pass the barlotti.

Fried Cranberry Beans

Makes: 2 cups

Ingredients:
2 cups shelled beans
2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Kosher or sea salt to taste

Preparation:
1. Simmer shelled beans in hot salted water for about 10 minutes or until al dente.
2. Let beans drain in a colander and then pat them dry so they are no longer moist. This is an important step as damp beans won't crisp up in the oil.
3. Heat a large pan (not nonstick) until it's nice and hot.
4. Drizzle in the olive oil so you coat the pan's bottom and then toss in the beans.
5. Stir until the beans are crispy with a crackled exterior.
6. Season with salt to taste and serve.

Tips for shelling beans:
There are a few different ways to shell beans. I like to twist the pod so the middle pops open. You can then just separate the folds of the pod and remove the beans.

Note: Check out a similar recipe posted by Cucina Testa Rossa in 2005 on Bay Area Bites. Her cooking technique and execution are a little different, but cranberry beans are so delicious it's worth trying both recipes. Manga!

Roasted Beet Salad with Lavender-Scented Fried Summer Squash, Chevre, Figs, Cucumber Relish and a Balsamic Reduction

I finally jumped on the CSA wagon and I must admit, it was kind of like Christmas when my first box arrived, full of the lingering summer's bounty.

Fresh lavender perfumed the air as I unpacked each item with glee: heirloom tomatoes, okra, honeydew, beets, figs, flying saucer squash, and lemon cucumbers, among other loot.

Specimen A: Lemon Cucumber

Side note: this was the first time I encountered lemon cucumbers. They are pale yellow, the size of a small lemon, and quite adorable. They're sweet, and delicate-flavored, and don't have as many seeds as your average green cucumbers.

I rinsed off and bit into a plump, ripe, fig as the culinary inspiration started working its way through my thoughts. I was stoked to see a handful of the flying saucer squash that I have been admiring at the farmer's market the past few weeks. And, the beets called out to me. I love roasted beets with their crimson bleed and mellow, sweet flavor. But, I've never actually prepared them myself before.

OK, this is why I signed up for this, right? To try new things? To push my comfort zone? To eat good, healthy, veggies? Turns out, roasting beets is not difficult at all. And as for inspiration, before I knew it, sauce pans were out, kitchen cabinets hung ajar, and a CSA salad was born.

Roasted Beet Salad with Lavender-Scented Fried Summer Squash, Chevre, Figs, Cucumber Relish and a Balsamic Reduction

Serves: 4-6

Ingredients:
2 beets
3 flying saucer squash
4 figs, halved
1 lemon cucumber
1 cup panko bread crumbs
1 egg, beaten
Chevre, or cheese of your choice
2 teaspoons rice wine vinegar
¼ cup balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons sugar
½ teaspoon lavender
Olive oil for frying
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:
Roasted Beets
1. Preheat oven to 450 F.
2. Rinse beets, remove leaves, and wrap in foil. Place on a baking sheet and roast for an hour until the beets are tender through.
3. Let cool until you can handle them. Tip: wear gloves or place a plastic baggie over your hand to protect your fingers from getting stained. Using a paring knife, peel the skin off the beets. It should come off easily.
4. Slice into ¼ inch rounds. Set aside.

Figs & Balsamic Reduction
1. Heat a small saucepan to medium-high heat.
2. Sear the fig halves, flat side down for a few minutes, just until the surface caramelizes a bit. Remove and set aside.
3. In the same pan, lower the heat and add the balsamic vinegar and sugar. Let simmer until the sauce becomes thick and syrupy. Set aside.

Cucumber Relish
1. Cut the cucumber into a fine dice. You can leave the skin on if you're using lemon cucumbers since their skin is softer than regular green cucumbers.
2. Mix with rice vinegar, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and set aside.

Fried Summer Squash
1. In a deep frying pan, heat 2 inches of oil to right below smoking point. I like the taste of olive oil (don't use the expensive stuff), but you can use vegetable oil if you prefer.
2. Prepare your assembly line: squash sliced into ¼ inch rounds, egg wash, dish filled with bread crumbs seasoned with lavender and a pinch of salt and pepper. I prefer panko because of its extra crunch, but you can use regular dried breadcrumbs as well.
3. Dip each slice of squash into egg wash, then coat with breadcrumbs.
4. To test the oil, drop a little piece of eggy breadcrumb into the pan. If it just sinks, the oil is not hot enough. If it burns quickly, the oil is too hot. If it starts to bubble right away and floats, it is just the right temperature and you're now ready to start frying up your squash.
5. Let the fried squash drain on a plate lined with paper towels. Sprinkle with a little salt while they're still hot. Set aside.

Cheese
You can use any cheese you'd like, however, fresh goat cheese and beets are a traditional pairing. If you're like me though, and have an aversion to goat cheese (I know, one of my great downfalls as a foodie, I disappoint myself in this respect time after time), try a gooey burrata, or Cowgirl Creamery's buttery Mt. Tam, or a ricotta salata for something sharper and firmer.

Now you're ready to assemble and plate. Layer beets, cheese, squash, repeat, and top with the cucumber relish. Garnish with the figs and balsamic reduction.

Enjoy!

Figs photo by James Ormsby

Figs are sexy. Why? Is it their smooth, barely downy skin, so much like a soft cheek? Is it their plump, curvy shape, swerving out and in like a hip or breast you can surreptitiously palm right there in the produce aisle? Is it the drop of nectar that drips from the flower end at the moment of perfect readiness? Unlike the other fruit of our late summer, the plums and peaches, the raspberries and early apples, figs are all seedy lushness. There is no sweet-tangy snap, no whiplash between sugar and acid. Instead, figs are fleshy, breaking apart easily against the tongue, an odalisque who needs no convincing to roll back and give in.

Which makes gilding the lily, or the fig, even more alluring. A naked fig is nice, but a fig burnished with pomegranate syrup, rolled in prosciutto, and stuffed with a pinkie's worth of goat or blue cheese, is divine.

Tracing the genesis of a recipe that you think is original is always an entertaining exercise in the anxiety of influence.

I'd cede the original concept to a fabulous salad of grilled fig, arugula, and pancetta dressed with a port and fig-vinegar vinaigrette that I had at The Girl & the Fig restaurant, back in Glen Ellen sometime in the late 90s.

Then there was the cold plate of figs and proscuitto shared with a date at an Italian restaurant in New York City on a balmy summer night some ten years later. Good, we agreed, but it could be better. A month or so later, my old pal Bucky and I ended up at the posh Brandy Library bar in Tribeca, sipping Ukiah's Germain-Robin XO brandy and nibbling what the kitchen there had dubbed Figs & Pigs, in which heat had definitely been applied to said proscuitto and figs, to fine effect.

Hitching a ride along the way was my fondness, nay, obsession with pomegranate molasses, the perfect way to add a fruity zing to earthy vegetables, like beets, which are all sweetness with no snap.

Finally, it all came together in my Brooklyn living room, late summer 2005. I invited the Italian-restaurant date home for my own version of Figs & Pigs. September figs, maybe Black Missions or Kadotas, were cut crosswise halfway through and plumped with a nubbin of cheese, soft goat for me, blue for her. Then the figs were tightly swaddled with a strip of proscuitto and perched on a lightly oiled baking sheet. Meanwhile, a half-and-half mixture of balsamic vinegar and pomegranate molassses was simmering on the stove over medium heat, bubbling down to a runny syrup. When it was just slightly thickened, it was drizzled lightly over the figs, the whole tray then popped into a hot oven, about 400 degrees. A few minutes, 5 at the most, and the fig were oozing and yielding, the cheese slightly melted and the syrup just sticky.

Out of the oven, onto a plate, they were drizzled with more syrup and served one by one from my hand to her lips while reclining on the couch.

And if there's another appetizer that can more emphatically assure that you'll never get to the main course, I haven't met it.

I don't care what you say, this is not hummus. It is called favosalata. If you insist on calling it hummus, I will persist in telling you that you are wrong, however politely.

Where I work, we are very good at pretending the customer is always right, even when he isn't. I hear our guests make ordering blunders on a nightly basis, which isn't surprising, considering the fact that our dinner menu is in Anglicized Greek. It's downright confusing to the uninitiated. And, of course, un-Greek.

As a server, I am more than happy to offer my descriptive and pronunciation skills to daunted diners. Sometimes, people simply ask me to say the word "kolokithokefthedes" because they find it fascinating that anyone could pronounce it at all, other times they might giggle over the "soutzoukakia." And then there are those guests who are left speechless when I tell them the right way to say "fakes" which, if interpreted as English, sounds more like an emphatic affirmation with an unprintable expletive than any other food I've encountered.

But I draw the line with people who order hummus. We don't serve it. We never have served it. Yet people insist that we do. In fact, some people positively rave about our hummus.

On Yelp and on personal food blogs, I have found people talking about our incredible hummus platter. On more than one occasion, I have read people blogging the praises of our favosalata, but mistakenly refer to it as a feta dip. That would be tirosalata. It's the green one, the one with the cheese in it.

Some of the time, I just let it slide. If you want to call our eggplant dip by its Arabic name "baba ganoush," that's fine. We might be speaking different languages, but we're still talking about essentially the same thing. And I see no need to unnecessarily show up a guest with my (necessarily) superior knowledge of ingredients. But when I see one person at a table point to the pink spread and tell another, vegetarian person, "Oh, that's the hummus, it's my favorite dip!," I have no choice but to step in and sort things out because that pink "hummus" is made with cod roe. And it's called taramasalata.

So many salatas to choose from: tirosalata, melitzanosalata, taramasalata, favosalata, and the ever-present tag-along, tzatziki. No wonder we are required to give a little tour of the dip platters whenever we deliver them to our guests. Sometimes, I have to describe them three times to the same two people. I don't mind really, it's simply a part of what I do. And please notice that nowhere in this paragraph (except here) have I mentioned our delectable hummus. Why? BECAUSE WE DO NOT SERVE HUMMUS, that's why.

I can understand the confusion. Both favosalata and hummus are made from legumes cooked with water and garlic. Both have olive oil and lemon juice. They are near neighbors on the yellowish end of the color spectrum. They do not, however, taste anything alike. Really. And, though hummus can be found in many a Greek restaurant, we choose not to serve it. I sometimes like to tell non-Greek people that hummus is a politically sensitive dish; that it makes some Greek people feel oppressed, since it is a recipe that has Ottoman Empire written all over it. Then again, the Greeks love their baklava and coffee, which were also introduced by the Turks, so there you have it.

Favosalata is itself confusing. The name of the dish would rightly lead one to think that this is a dish made from fresh or dried fava beans. In some cases, a favosalata can be exactly that-- a beautiful, vibrant green purée of fresh favas, with olive oil, a hint of feta, and fresh mint. This particular dish, however, is made from yellow split peas. Ideally, yellow split peas from the island of Thira (aka Santorini), where it is somewhat of a specialty.

I cannot be absolutely sure, but I am fairly certain that there are different recipes using different beans for this dish, and that someone out there in the blogoshpere, more than likely Greek, is going to tell me that this isn't the way they learned to make this dish. Well, gia sou, baby, bring it on. I'd love to hear about it. Seriously.

In the mean time, this is the hummus favosalata recipe I'm sticking to. Enjoy.

Favosalata

I sometimes call this my Friday-with-a-martini dip. Served slightly warm and liberally sprinkled with caper, onion, fresh lemon, and olive oil, it plays nicely with cold, cold gin. Scoop it up with pita, crackers, crusty bread, a spoon, your fingers, whatever.

Like a lot of things in cooking, this is a pretty elastic recipe. The measurement of ingredients is merely suggestive, not final. Want a your dip tangier? Add more lemon and vinegar. Saltier? Go for it. The key is the consistency of the peas. If you undercook them, the result will be unpleasant, if you overcook them, you've got mush. If forced to choose between the two, I would err towards the mush-end of the spectrum.

Makes about 4 cups, which serves about one in my house.

Ingredients:

1 pound yellow split peas (about three cups)

6 cloves of garlic, peeled and left whole

6 cups cold water

1 cup white wine (Optional. If using, subtract one cup of water.)

The juice of three lemons

2 tablespoons of white wine vinegar

2 tablespoons finely grated red onion

About 3/4 cup of extra virgin olive oil,

A liberal amount of salt, kosher or sea salt

Thinly sliced red onion, for garnish

Capers, also for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a medium-sized sauce pan or dutch oven (my preference), add split peas, water (and wine, if using), and a good dose of salt. Bring to a boil, then immediately reduce to a simmer until the peas are tender. I repeat: undercooking them will lead to an unappetizing texture; overcooking them will take you all the way to split pea soup, which certainly does not spell the end of the world, simply the end of this recipe. Cooking time: about 35 to 40 minutes.

2. When peas are done, remove from heat and strain into a cheesecloth-lined colander and gently strain, removing as much of the liquid as possible. Place the peas (along with the garlic they were cooked with) into a food processor or blender while still warm. Add the grated onion, lemon juice, and vinegar. Blend while drizzling in the olive oil. Note: you are not emulsifying the oil with anything, it is merely adding texture and flavor. Stop when the desired texture is reached, which is somewhere in the vicinity of smooth mashed potatoes.

3. Place desired serving amount in desired serving vessel, sprinkle with capers and sliced red onion, drizzle with olive oil and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, and serve warm to those whom you desire to serve.