It's Oscar time again, in case you hadn't noticed.

Which is pretty much what I wound up doing this year. Not noticing, I mean. I somehow managed to see only one Oscar-nominated movie over the past twelve months and I am not about to make a heaping pile of grits to celebrate it, no matter how much I enjoyed the film.

So instead of discussing the current cast of award hopefuls, I thought I might celebrate those marvelous singers of Academy Award-winning singers of yesteryear.

I mean, why not?

As I ran down the list of songs, I realized that there were a handful of artists who introduced not one, but two Oscar-winning tunes to the world: Bob Hope, Judy Garland, Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, disaster film songstress Maureen McGovern, Barbra Streisand, Bing Crosby (who sang a record four), Fred Astaire (if you count his whistling to The Continental), and...

Irene Cara. Remember her name?

I thought long and hard about which singer to single out and pay tribute to. Judy Garland? Too obvious. And the only thing I could think of doing for her was making a meal comprised entirely of pills, which is beyond my scope as a home cook. Bing Crosby? I suppose I could have taken some young, tender chicken, beaten it mercilessly, and marinated it in Minute Maid® orange juice, but I didn't have the stomach for it. Barbara Streisand? I worried that whatever I chose to make would spring to life from the counter top and try to wrest from me total creative control.

I almost gave up.

Then I remembered the Cara Cara orange and how every time my chef would utter its name, I would say quietly insert two "Irenes" into his sentence, as in "I'd like to have the Irene Irene Cara Cara orange salad, please." My chef seems to love this fruit so much, he says things like, "It's so nice, they named it twice."

Twice.

And, since Miss Cara sang an Oscar-winning song not once but twice, I just had to go with it.

When I realized that she was one of the original cast members of the best children's show of my generation, The Electric Company*, there was nothing else I could do but pay this woman tribute.

So I set about to make an Irene Irene Cara Cara sorbet.

Referencing a recipe for blood orange sorbet by the rather solid David Lebovitz (Solid as in his recipes. I have never once asked him to flex for me.), I did everything with precision. I measured my juice in milliliters and weighed my sugar in grams, I made a perfect little syrup, I added just the right hint of alcohol to make it scoopable.

I did everything right except allow my ancient ice cream maker's freezing element to get cold enough. When I set my sorbet to churn, it went round and round but, instead of firming up into a silky sorbet, all it managed to do was make itself dizzy. I would have thought three days in a cranked up freezer would have done the trick, but I think it decided do kill itself after bearing witness to my last ice cream experiment, which will more than likely never see the light of day on these pages. I was filled with the same emotion that was conveniently printed on label of the Campari whose content I had so tenderly splashed into my sorbet base:

What a feeling. I was also undeniably frustrated but, search as I might, that word was nowhere to be found on any of my ingredient packaging.

I had half a mind to just throw everything away and pour myself a drink, but I thought better of it. There was to be no drinking in my immediate future because my creditors depend upon my showing up to work sober.

And I couldn't let Miss Cara down. Her comeback is entirely dependent upon the success of this dessert.

So I placed my motion sick sorbet base into my refrigerator, and returned to it in the morning. I have to admit that I was rather pleased by the outcome.

Irene Irene Cara Cara Orange Granita

I don't care how much you groan at the name because it's a dessert as refreshing as Miss Cara's voice and as perky as those breasts of hers she so reluctantly showed to that guy with the video camera in the movie Fame.

As I have said before, this recipe is based upon the blood orange sorbet recipe of David Lebovitz, who has a much better ice cream maker than I do, but is nowhere near as perky as Miss Cara's Cara Caras.

Serves 4

Ingredients

• 2 cups (500 ml) freshly squeezed Cara Cara orange juice
• 1/4 cup (100 grams) granulated sugar
• 3 tablespoons, plus 3 tablespoons (for soaking citrus segments) of Campari
• About 1/2 cup of Cara Cara orange flesh, hacked into little pieces

Preparation:

1. Put your sugar into a small, non-reactive saucepan. When one says "non-reactive" when referring to sauce pans, one means a pan that is made of a material that does not react adversely to acid, such as stainless steel, glass, or ceramics. If you think your saucepan is non-reactive simply because it shows no emotion when you fill it with ingredients and put it over high heat, you are either hopeless in the kitchen or you are an entirely fascinating, innocent creature and I would like to get to know you better.

Add just enough juice to saturate you sugar, then heat--stirring frequently-- until the sugar is completely dissolved and you have a lovely little syrup.

2. Stir this syrup into your Cara Cara orange juice. Add three tablespoons of Campari and stir well. Pour the mixture into a shallow dish and set in your freezer or the freezer of a good friend or neighbor who will allow you frequent access to his or her kitchen. Let stand in said freezer for about 45 minutes.

Toss your chunks of orange with the remaining Campari and place in your refrigerator to chill and marinate, covered.

3. When the juice mixture begins to form ice crystals, break them up with a fork, then leave it be for another 20 minutes. Fork the juice again. Repeat until all the juice is frozen. The texture should be grain, which is why the Italians call it granita.This should take roughly 2.5 to 3 hours, depending upon your freezer.

If you are lazy, you can simply freeze the juice into one, solid block and shave it up, but then it wouldn't be granita, it would be a sno-cone.

And everyone would know how lazy you were.

Or, if you're really, really lazy, don't bother to freeze anything at all, but simply pour the mixture over ice (which someone would have to have pre-frozen), but then it would be called a cocktail.

4. When you feel your granita is ready for its big night, stir in the Campari-soaked orange pieces, spoon into chilled glasses, and serve immediately.

And, as you and your guests are eating it and you are receiving their accolades, do your best to come up with ideas for a Maureen McGovern-inspired dessert. Clue: it should be served either flaming or upside down.

Do get back to me. And soon.

*That Electric Company was some sort of genius Oscar-winner mill. Rita Moreno, Morgan Freeman, Irene Cara. There is something to be said for groovy literacy programming.

I have this thing that I do.

Some people find it annoying; others, fascinating.

People tell me when they were born, I tell them who won Oscars that year.

It's one of my little quirks. And a rather lame party trick, if you ask me.

When I tell someone he's A Man For All Seasons, I mean that he was born in 1966. And then that same person will look at me and ask, "Why the hell do you even know that?"

I just do.

When I was 11 years old, I came down with a very nasty strep infection, which is not typically good subject matter for a food blog, but stay with me here. My tonsils were so swollen that, at one point, I could feel them touch each other at the back of my throat. I couldn't eat or drink without discomfort, nor could I sleep because, every time I swallowed heavily, I would wake up in pain.

Those were good times. No cable television, no computer games to distract me, no talking, no singing of show tunes. Whatever was a pre-Information Age boy to do?

Fortunately, my father came to the rescue. He stopped by the house to see how I was doing and gave me the book that was to set me on a remarkable path of trivia absorption from which I have never strayed: 50 Years of the Oscar: The Official History of the Academy Awards by Robert Osborne.

To both entertain myself and to keep my mind off the pain, I decided to play a little memory game. I wound up memorizing every Best Picture, Actor, Actress, Supporting Actor, Supporting Actress, Director, and Song listed in that damned book. Surprisingly, most of that information has never left this little head of mine.

And so... at some point I just started telling people who won Oscars the year they were born. I think you get the (best) picture. It's sort of like my own version of the zodiac. I'm a 1969 baby, so I see myself as a Midnight Cowboy with Maggie Smith rising. A little bit Goldie Hawn, a little bit Gig Young, but not a trace of John Wayne in me.

Of course, it got a bit boring being stuck with the same film year in, year out, so I started to look at my life in terms of films that won the Oscar for the year that correlated to my age. For example, I deemed my 39th year on this planet as my Gone With The Wind (1939) year because it was so full of melodrama and seemed to go on forever.

As for 40, though I could not afford the upkeep of a deranged housekeeper, I felt as if much of the year, in a sense, was spent coming into my own and out from under shadows of others, not unlike Rebecca's (1940) unnamed heroine.

On Wednesday, I turned 41 and, if I am to continue living my life according to Oscar, I must look to the film How Green Was My Valley to know just what this year will bring. I'm not certain what that's supposed to mean, but I fully expect to get very nostalgic and, perhaps, date a Welshman. I hope it doesn't mean I'm going to have an affair with a minister. Or die in a coal mine.

I am cautiously optimistic. And, for some reason, it has inspired me to bake something:

A Donald Crisp. No, really, it did.

And why a Donald Crisp. Why not bake a Donald Crisp? He won the award for Best Supporting Actor in 1941 as a stern-but-loving father (always Oscar fodder, if you ask me) in, conveniently enough, How Green Was My Valley. The decision to bake him into a dessert follows my own, particular path of logic. I could not have made anything else under the circumstances.

I considered other Oscar winners for that year, but they just didn't inspire cooking. Yes, I could have made a Sergeant Yorkshire pudding, but that seemed ridiculous. And under no circumstances was I about to make anything with the name Suspicion in it. In terms of baking, I firmly believe that anything Joan Fontaine-inspired is to be avoided, since the result will either be weepy or worse, too bitter to eat.

Truth be told, I'm a little disappointed that Barbara Stanwyck didn't win for Balls of Fire. I could have made something really, really interesting.

All this thought about how I am living my live according to the Oscars has really gotten me thinking about my future. For example, I can't wait until I turn 42 so that I might start suffering nobly like Mrs. Miniver. Of course, she had to deal with severe wartime rationing, so I'd better start saving my flour and eggs for next year's birthday recipe.

Until then...

Nectarine Donald Crisp

There is absolutely nothing about this crisp that screams the name Donald. Nor is there anything particularly Welsh about it either, but I wasn't about to put leeks into my dessert. It is what it is, which is good. And easy. Worthy of an Oscar, in my book. Or, at least a nomination.

You decide. Please submit your votes to Price, Waterhouse & Coopers. Thank you.

Serves 4

Ingredients:

For the fruit:

4 firm (but not rock hard) nectarines, pitted and sliced

1 tablespoon of sugar (taste the fruit, if it is sweet, add less. If not sweet enough, add more, got it? Good)

1 teaspoon of grated orange zest

1 tablespoon of Maraschino liqueur or kirschwasser.

For the frangipane:

3 ounces almond paste

3 tablespoons butter, at room temperature

1 1/2 teaspoons sugar

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 egg

For the topping:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup light brown sugar

1/2 white sugar

1 cup slivered almonds

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

8 tablespoons of butter, melted

Preparation:

1. Preheat your oven to 350ºF.

2. Melt butter for the topping and let cool. Add all other topping ingredients and combine well. Place topping in the freezer as you prepare the rest of the ingredients, which will make it nice and clumpy, which is to be desired.

3. To make the frangipane, combine all ingredients until smooth. Set aside.

4. Slice your nectarines and toss in a bowl with sugar, orange zest, and maraschino liqueur. Look at bottle of liqueur. Notice that it roughly the same size as an Oscar. Clutch it to your bosom and practice your acceptance speech when no one is looking.

5. Arrange fruit in a shallow layer along the bottom of a small, oven-proof baking dish. Dot the fruit with spoonsful of frangipane, then top the whole thing with crisp topping, which you have sensibly removed from the freezer. There will be much left over topping, which you will want to have on hand when people command you to make more of this recipe.

6. Place your crisp-filled baking dish on a foil-lined baking sheet because the juices from the fruit will bubble and spill over the edges of your dish. If they don't then you don't have a proper crisp in my book. Bake for about 25 minutes, or until fruit is a-bubble and the topping is browned.

7. Serve warm on its own or with vanilla ice cream. Or eat it cold from the refrigerator for breakfast. It's even better-tasting the next day, though the topping will more than likely not be crisp, which might cause one distress, given the fact that the dish is called a "crisp." Feel free to rename it something else if this is a major concern.

8. Accept applause, but please keep your speech to less than one minute, otherwise the orchestra will try to drown you out and the teenage daughter of a celebrity will walk into your kitchen in a rented evening gown and usher you offstage.

Okay, I'll admit it: I watch the Academy Awards for the outfits. And for the possibility of crazy behavior on the podium, as the sudden release of mind-bending pressure makes these over-coddled thoroughbreds behave like the hundred pounds of crazy they really are. But really, will anything this year top Bjork's swan? Or the pre-MILF Angelina Jolie smooching her brother?

The tyranny of tastefulness, in both dress and behavior, has taken much of the fun out of these silly shows (along with the huge, indigestible blocks of commercials crammed in every six minutes). Still, though, here in the Bay Area we love our Oscar parties, and if you're going to fill the couch in front of the big screen, you've got to provide the munchies to match.

There are many amusing options at #oscarmenu, from District 9 Prawn Kebabs to Avatunatartare, with a side of pink candy cigarettes to puff like Julianne Moore in A Single Man. And don't forget The Blind Side Salad, washed down with a glass of The Hurt Lager, followed (for you art-house fans) with The Peaches of Agnes.

2010 Oscar Nominee/Food Mashups by David Gartner

As Karen Wilson points out in Bon Appetit, there's a lot of cute (fake) food in Fantastic Mr. Fox. Roald Dahl was a man with a keen palate, as his essay on the Dutch Arnhemse Meisjes (which he called, quite simply, the best biscuits in the world) would prove. Director Anderson makes the edibles in his film come brightly and sweetly to life, from the vividly lit grocery-store shelves to the lavishly set table of the animals' dinner party. And then, of course, are the equally alluring (and equally fake) baguettes and buns rising through the roof in the latest Wallace and Gromit animated short, A Matter of Loaf and Death.

However charming they may look on-screen, though, dinky loaves and pies made from Play-Do and paper-mache don't do much to whet the appetite. For that, I suppose, most people will be turning to Julie & Julia, with its walls of gleaming copper pots and its smear-your-face French chocolate cake. You can't go wrong serving La Reine de Saba, Julia Child's unbeatable chocolate-almond cake, although I'd advise your guests against tearing it with their hands like crazed wildebeests. Chocolate cake on the chin: always a little disgusting, even for a professional cutie like Chris Messina.

Down in Los Angeles at the Governor's Ball, our Governator will be supping (budget issues be damned) on mini kobe beef burgers, lobster tempura, crab cakes with mango, black truffle and ricotta pizza, smoked salmon and potato galettes with butler-passed warm brioche, and baked alaska with espresso ice cream and chocolate sorbet, all whipped up by Mr. Kooky Pizza himself, Wolfgang Puck.

Burgers, pizza and ice cream! Clearly, our governor's celebrity chef is in sympathy with the working man struggling to get by on dollar meals, just like the families at the drive-through in Food, Inc. Wouldn't Michael Pollan be proud.

Oscar night is coming. Are you ready? I'm not. In fact, I almost totally forgot about them this year-- and that's saying something, considering the fact that, as a ten year-old, I decided to memorize every Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actor (all four categories) for the first fifty years that Academy Awards were being handed out.*

Granted, this is a food blog, but don't worry, I'm not going to start talking about Julie & Julia. While I am thrilled for Miss Streep's much deserved 27,000th nomination for her performance as Mrs. Child, I think they should have renamed the film Julia Child & That Unpleasant Woman Who Is Mean to Her Husband (It's a good thing I'm not in marketing).

So, instead of discussing the already discussed-to-death aforementioned film which, in my opinion, is only half a great film, I'm bringing you two wholly great ones: Babette's Feast (Babette's Gæstebud, 1987) and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie, 1972). Both films (conveniently enough for today's topic) won Oscars for Best Foreign Language film. Even more happy-making, they both star one, particular actress-- Stephane Audran.

There are few food cinema enthusiasts who have not seen Babette's Feast-- gorgeous with it's stark Jutland scenery and quiet story of two pious sisters who take in a (unbeknownst to them) world famous, war-fleeing chef. It is story of food and the balancing of souls. For Babette, her desire is to prepare a special meal to show her love for the two sisters is one that comes from the depths of hers. The sisters, however, fear that to partake in such a meal would imperil theirs.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie makes for a strange companion piece to Babette's Feast. Where as Babette's Feast is absurdly beautiful, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is beautifully absurd. There is virtually no plot and the principle characters are essentially unlikeable, yet we are compelled to follow them as they weave in and out of dreams and dreams-within-dreams and try, without success, to eat-- anything. Coincidentally, Audran's Alice Senechal is the hostess of a some increasingly elaborate diner parties in which these characters fail to consume a single bite of food until the end of the film.

And with very interesting results indeed.

I saw the two of these films together-- one right after the other-- with a friend of mine while we were both orphaned and nursing hangovers on Christmas Day. I hadn't decided to have a mini Stephane Audran film festival, I simply let my friend Edward choose the films to watch among my collection. I was struck by how differently these to films approach eating and yet both essentially arrive at the same conclusion-- that the sharing of food is communion; a way of restoring both body and soul. In Babette's Feast, old wrongs are forgotten, old loves remembered, and souls are nourished. In The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, the characters cannot manage to feed their souls because they are essentially soulless. And, best of all, they both star one of my favorite actresses.

So go ahead and watch your little Oscar show. Go to your Oscar party. When the stardust has cleared and the losers have finished pretending to be happy for the winners, take an evening out of your busy schedule and watch these two Oscar winners back-to-back. The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie first, then Babette's Feast and you can find out for yourself what I'm talking about. It's a little cinematic food for the soul.

Unless, of course, you don't have one.

* It was for too long my party trick until I started to know people who were born after 1977.

I've been spending entirely too much time watching episodes of The French Chef with Julia Child that my friend Craig gave me.

I find Mrs. Child oddly hypnotic. There is something about her uniquely-accented voice and the not-entirely graceful movement of her formerly 6' 2" body that compels me to watch her.

And watch her I do. Over and over again.

This week, I've been enjoying an early, black and white episode wherein she gives a champagne and coffee party in honor of:

"...the Queen of Sheba, which turns out to be this dark beauty, made of chocolate, and almonds, and rum, and butter!"

She then invites us into her kitchen where she promises we'll make:

"the best chocolate cake you ever put in your mouth."

That's one heavy promise, but I love her enthusiasm.

I decided to put my money where Mrs. Child's mouth is and examine this cake and the woman behind it, however superficially.

And one or two other things, of course.

First, there is the name:
The Queen of Sheba

The legend of the Queen of Sheba can be found in both the Old Testament and the Qur'an. As a polytheist monarch of tremendous wealth and wisdom, she was intrigued by King Solomon of Israel, who was famous for his own wealth and wisdom, plus the odd little fact that he and his people worshipped only one god (1 Kings 10:1-13). She set off to visit him, laden with spices, gold, jewels, and a series of riddles to test his alleged wisdom. She was more or less awed by him, and he rather impressed with her. She returned to her southern Kingdom with "all that her heart desired", including a new, solitary god.

Despite what the vampy costume of Betty Blythe might suggest in her 1921 epic The Queen of Sheba, most accounts suggest that the relationship between Solomon and herself were of a respectful, intellectual nature.

Most.

Unless you choose to believe the Ethiopians. They claim her as their own. In fact, the legitimacy of their nearly 3,000-year, dynasty was founded on the belief that Solomon gave her slightly more than gold and jewelry as a parting gift.

Whatever you choose to believe, it is clear why the "best chocolate cake you ever put in your mouth" was named after her-- she was dark, rich, and sophisticated. A queen fit for the queen of cakes.

Of course, I couldn't end it there. Not with Oscar season around the corner. Nor an obvious tangent staring me in the face.

Come Back, Little Sheba

One of the few vintage, Oscar-winning performances I have yet to see is that of Miss Shirley Booth's turn as Lola Delaney in Comeback, Little Sheba from 1952. The dowdy, shuffling, and unambitious Lola and her husband "Doc" (played by Burt Lancaster) are 20 years into a loveless, shotgun marriage. The baby was lost and both find comfort in their own particular ways; he with alcohol, she with a little dog named "Sheba" on whom she lavishes all of her attention until it runs away from her, most likely from fear of emotional smothering.

And that's before the film even begins. I won't give the rest of the plot away, most likely since I have no idea what happens next. I'm hoping it's some kind of sex comedy, but my hopes aren't aimed too high, since films about deep regret and personal failings aren't generally funny. Or sexy.

In stretching the limits of credibility, I have begun to think of this cake as somewhat appropriately linked to this film. Both are reportedly richly-layered, slightly crestfallen, alcoholic, and a bit nutty.

Almonds, you know.

Which leads to a warning to keep one's logical stream-of-consciousness in check. Miss Booth may have won the Academy Award for her performance in Come Back, Little Sheba, but her biggest success came later as the star of the popular 1960's situation comedy Hazel, in which she played the title role of a dictatorial-yet-endearing live-in housemaid.

Though critics have complained that the show was contrived and only "mildly amusing," Hazel does have her die-hard fans, who are referred to as "hazelnuts." Irritating, certainly.

The evident danger here is heaping too much honor upon Miss Booth by substituting the above-mentioned nuts for the traditional almonds, but that would be another cake entirely.

Little Shebas

I still intend to honor Miss Booth. Or at least the dog who had sense enough to run away from her emotionally-starved owner by making this major player in the classic repretoire of chocolate desserts into a minor figure size-wise, while still keeping the integrity of the classic recipe.

I have omitted the chocolate glaze used by many recipes, including Julia Child's. I simply think it's gilding an already-perfect lily. Oh, and I'm lazy. It is a rich cake, with a slightly gooey, warm center. More chocolate only makes it heavier. Still, I think it is a cake that would make its ancient namesake proud.

I doubt very much that Lola Delaney would have either the emotional wherewith all or even the equipment to make one herself, but Hazel would certainly find it easy to whip up for Mr. B when she wasn't busy whipping the rest of his family into shape. And , chocolate glaze or no, I think Mrs. Child would still enjoy putting one in her mouth.

Sadly, this is not as popular a cake as it used to be. Chocolate trends of the past several years have lead to denser, darker, more chocolaty, chocolate cakes. The virtue of this cake is it's balance of chocolate and nuttiness, with just a hint of rum underneath. As befitting a queen, it demands respect by virtue of its subtle complexity rather than by beating the palate with her sceptre. And that's all too bad because I think this little Sheba is definitely ready for a comeback.

The following will make one large Reine de Saba in an 8-inch cake pan, or make six petite versions in a large (3 1/2-inch diameter) muffin tin. Comme tu veux.

Ingredients:

4 oz semi-sweet chocolate (bittersweet may be used, but I'm going the Child route here)
2 tablespoons rum or coffee
1/4 lb butter at room temperature
2/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3 egg, separated
2/3 cup finely ground almonds
1/4 tsp cream of tartar
1/4 tsp almond extract
1/2 cup cake flour, measured then sifted
one good pinch of salt

Preparation:

Pre-heat oven to 350F and place rack in the middle.

1. Melt the chocolate and rum or coffee (choose your poison) in a pot set over simmering (not boiling, please) water, stirring to combine. Cover, turn off heat, and leave alone. You'll come back to it later and it isn't going anywhere. Cream the butter and 2/3 cup sugar together until pale yellow and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks until paler and even fluffier than before. Add almond extract.

2. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites on low-to-medium until foamy, then increase speed as you like, adding 1 tablespoon of sugar and 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar until soft peaks form.

3. Return to your melted chocolate and give her a little stir. The consistency should be somewhat satiny and fluid. Beat in a bit of butter/yolk mixture at a time, stirring constantly so the yolks do not curdle. Repeat until all is one.

4. Combine almond meal, flour, and salt. Now add this dry mixture to your chocolate goo, incorporating bits at a time. When this has been accomplished, gently fold in egg whites, starting with about 1/2 a cup and working the rest in ever so skillfully.

5. Immediately set to placing about 1/2 cup of your batter into each of the six muffin tins. Give her a good, hard bang or two on your kitchen counter to level and remove any bubbles in the batter. Bake for 12 minutes, then begin to peek into your oven obsessively until finished. A pale, chocolatey crust should form, but the cakes shold jiggle a wee bit, too. Ideally, a toothpick inserted about an inch from the edges should come out dry, but one poked into the center should not. When this has been acheived, remove from oven and let cool for, oh, I don't know, let's say an hour, because you've got other things to do. When ready to remove from pan, run a sharp knife around the edges of the cakes, invert onto a tray, and you're done.

Not exactly. At this point, you may either top them with a chocolate glaze or simply dust them with powdered sugar.

Serve them to friends at your upcoming Oscar party, or just feed them to your pets and watch their little hearts explode from the chocolate.