Every summer, I become mildly obsessed with frying chicken. I think of the beautiful childhood picnics I never went on. Laying out my hand-stitched quilt on a grassy patch of park free of dog feces, the well-timed automatic sprinklers offering me a refreshing spritz of mist at 15 minute intervals, drinking freshly squeezed lemonade and eating my Grammy's homemade fried chicken.

How I miss Anaheim.

If a summertime picnic was to be had, it was generally done in my backyard on an old, frayed electric blanket (not plugged in). Just myself and my dogs, Cindy and Penny, who were not, as one might think, named for Cindy Williams and Penny Marshall. The coincidence of my childhood with Laverne and Shirley is simply bad timing. No sunscreen. We didn't feel the need for such things in those days. All I needed for a (temporary) deep, golden tan was the mayonnaise dripping from my bologna sandwich. I know what you're thinking. Eew. Well, you're right. My neighbor Kim and I once slathered Best Foods all over our bodies and then baked ourselves in the sun. We thought nothing of it until we began to smell. That was about the time Kim's mother found us and screamed something about us being walking salmonella and wasting her good mayonnaise. She then sprayed me down with a hose and sent me home.

But I digress.

The point I am feebly trying to make is that we were not, by nature, fried chicken eaters. The occasional Shake n' Bake assisted fried chicken was ingested, but without relish. Or mayonnaise, for that matter.

I think, though, that I had always wanted to be a fried chicken eater. Perhaps it was the trappings that went with its eating-- red checkered picnic cloths, watermelon, big, happy families. Maybe even a sack race. That seemed like a great summertime sort of lifestyle.

My understanding of the dish didn't occur until well into adulthood. I had invited my cooking school partner Todd over for dinner one summer evening and thought fried chicken sounded like a good idea. As I took the chicken legs out of their plastic seal and began to place them directly into the flour mixture I'd made, Todd cocked is head like a confused dog and asked, "What are you doing? That's not how my Mama makes fried chicken and my Mama knows fried chicken." His voice had suddenly developed the long, rounded vowels and deep base of an imaginary Kentucky Colonel-- decidedly un-New Jersey-like, the state in which Todd learned to speak. He explained that his mother was from West Virginia. Oh. We went to the market to purchase what he needed to make proper fried chicken, then I stood back and watched him work. Since the chicken needed to soak overnight, I think we went out for burritos that night instead. He came back the next day to fry it all up. I was floored and humbled by the results.

Now I realize that everyone thinks they know what the perfect fried chicken should taste like. Well, you're wrong, plain and simple.

Thank you Todd, wherever you are. And thank you, Mama Webb, for showing me into the light.

Mrs. Webb's Fried Chicken

Ingredients:

12 pieces of chicken (I like thighs and drumsticks. Breasts just seem like a waste for frying)
1 quart of buttermilk (low fat will do just fine)
a generous amount of salt
1 onion, sliced into rings or Lyonnaise style, if you like-- you're the one eating them
3 cups of all purpose flour
1 to 2 tablespoons cracked black pepper
1 tablespoon cayenne pepper
1 1/2 quarts vegetable oil for frying (corn, safflower or whatever. Don't get fancy with the oil or people will laugh at you). Or, if you prefer, vegetable shortening.

Preparation:

1. In a large bowl, coat the chicken pieces liberally with salt. This not only salts the chicken, it draws out impurities, preventing unsightly blood spotting as you fry. Let the chicken sit in the salt for one hour.

2. Rinse the salt from the chicken. Rinse the bowl, too, for reuse.

3. Return chicken to the bowl and add the sliced onion. Toss together and cover with buttermilk. Cover and set in refrigerator overnight or for one full day.

4. In a skillet, pour one inch of oil and heat to 325 degrees. Try not to let the oil get hotter or the chicken will burn. I use a thermometer to gauge the temperature. I suggest you do, too, since the oil temperature drops significantly when the cold chicken is added.

5. In another large bowl, combine flour, 2 tablespoons each of salt and pepper and the cayenne (truth be told, I've never bothered to measure the amount of this I use. Just suit yourself).

6. Remove all the chicken from the buttermilk-tainted bowl. I don't care where you put it as long as you put it somewhere clean. Shake excess buttermilk from a piece of chicken and roll it in the flour mixure. Dip the chicken back into the buttermilk and once more into the flour. A double crust is, for me anyway, de rigueur. Add the chicken to your pan as you go, skin side down. I find that adding the chicken gradually to the pan helps to maintain a more constant oil temperature. Just make sure you have some sort of system for knowing which pieces have been in the longest. I work clockwise. You do what you want.

7. Fry the chicken until golden brown, about 10 to 12 minutes per side. Make sure you've got some music appropriate for frying playing. This is going to take a little while.

8. As each piece finishes frying, place on a rack to drain. Why waste paper towels?

9. Now you have these wonderful onions to fry up. Proceed as with the chicken, battering and double dipping. How nice to have a side dish built right into the recipe.

Serve hot or cold. Not the onion rings, of course. I like the chicken cold. For picnics, you know.

Serves 4 to 6 people.

Thank you, Catherine Tate.

Battered veg. With spicy jam. That works for me. I love anything fried.

Thai tempura, or Hoi Tot, is a style of deep fat frying similar to that of the Japanese but suited of course to the climate, palates and product availability of the Thai people. Food from Thailand.

The Japanese themselves learned to batter and fry food from Portuguese missionaries who arrived on the shores of Japan in the mid 16th century-- just enough time for the trend to take hold, via street vendors, before the country turned its back on the rest of the world for the next 250 years. Before the arrival of the Portuguese, the Japanese had apparently no knowledge of deep frying and only limited understanding of the frying process in general. But, as with so many other things, the Japanese turned an inherently foreign concept into something very much their own. Like the automobile, imperialism, or anything cute.

The word tempura is derived from the Portuguese tempero (seasoning). The character used for writing tempura is the same as is used for "heaven". On a brief side note, the Japanese word for thank you, arigato, is said to be derived from the Portuguese obrigado. Although this bit of etymology is fascinating, I find it difficult to believe that such a polite society didn't know how to say "thank you" until the Portuguese came along. I now also wonder if tempura and tempera -- the most popular type of paint from ancient Egyptian times until the 15th century when oil paints were developed-- stem from the same root, since they are both egg-based media. Of course, egg is now seldom used in the making of tempura batter and tempera paints are such a bitch to work with that painters tend to avoid them. Coincidence? I think not.

I had planned to make and photograph my own tempura, but that's a rather tricky feat taking action photos of oneself. Especially when hot oil is involved. Besides, I found someone better, or at least more experienced, but probably better, than myself. Say hello to Reiko at VideoJug.com. Hell, say hello to everyone at Videojug, though I'm not sure they can hear you.

Warning: There is no spicy jam in this video.

VideoJug: How To Make Vegetable Tempura

People have been ranting and raving ad nauseum about how great stone fruit season is shaping up this year, beginning with cherries. Far too many exclamation marks have been typed, causing an unfortunate cramp in the left hand in the most rabid of us, blogging their praises. I prefer to save my left hand for other, more important activities...

If your mind has made its way back from the gutter now, that's wonderful. Thanks, but I was referring to activities like practicing good penmanship and chopping down cherry trees.

I'm afraid I was not among those singing gospel-strength love songs to the cherry this season. In fact, I think I've actually shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes with an "Oh really?" dropping from my lips in response to their purported greatness. It's not because I'm a cherry hater. Quite the contrary.

I am merely a jealous lover. If everyone gorged themselves on cherries this season, would there be enough left over for me? An act of self preservation, plain and simple.

How fascinating that I should mention preservation and simple in the same sentence, since they are the essence of my post today.

In May and June, if one looked in my refrigerator, one would find among the cheeses, mustard, beer and long-forgotten yogurts, a bag of cherries. Sometimes two because I'd forget that I had purchased a bagful the previous day.

The cherries are for eating out of hand, mostly. If I'm feeling ambitious, I'll pit and stew some with sugar, water and a little vanilla extract for pouring over my ice cream. Or make clafoutis, a dish my friend Karen refers to as a "no-brainer." Indeed it is and, therefore, the perfect dessert for me.

By the end of June, I am sick of cherries. Or sick from them. I am, by then, ready for some summer loving. My attention wanders. A bit of peach fuzz catches my eye and my taste for cherries sours.

Until next year when the fever hits me again, sometime around April.

This year, I celebrated Easter with some old friends from cooking school. Doralice, our organizer and chiefest food pimp, brought with her a jar of her vodka cherries. I thought to myself, "That's just about the smartest thing I've ever heard of: fruit and alcohol." I made a mental note to do the same this year. I'm glad I didn't forget.

If you are anything like me and have no patience whatsoever for jam-making, preserving fruit in alcohol is just the ticket-- or tonic. I may be tired of them now, but come winter, I'll be glad I have them to remind me of warmer days. In fact, they will inspire much warmer nights since I will use them to garnish Manhattans, my cold weather cocktail of choice.

Here's the recipe. I hope it doesn't prove too difficult.

Brandied Cherries:

Two important things you will need for this recipe:

1. a 4 quart glass or ceramic container
2. a lot of patience

Ingredients:

1 cup simple syrup
6 cups dark sweet fresh cherries (most would suggest pitting, I disagree for aesthetic reasons)
2 cups vodka
2 cups brandy

Preparation:

Place cherries, simple syrup, brandy and vodka in container. Cap tightly or cover snugly with plastic wrap. Store in a cool dark place for three weeks. If you tell me there is no such place in your home you are kidding no one but yourself. Swirl the mixture around in the container every three days.

After three weeks, I imagine (I say imagine since I've never done this before) I will taste the liquid (my container comes with a very convenient spigot at the bottom) and adjust the sweetness should I choose to do so with more simple syrup, or maybe add a vanilla bean or some whole allspice or whatever strikes me as a good idea at the time.

Then I'll let them sit some more. That is, until it turns cold and I start craving a Manhattan.

The first time I heard about biodynamic wine, it sounded, to me, like some odd French marketing gimmick. Not an unreasonable thought, considering the fact the bottle of wine being discussed was from Chateauneuf-du-Pape, a place known for prohibiting flying saucers or, as the French call them les cigares volantes from landing in their vineyards. I find it reassuring to me to see the French senses humor and creativity so alive and well. Of course, such laws also illustrate an equally French no non-sense approach to what fuels these qualities-- wine.

All we knew at the time was that biodynamic winemaking had something to do with the full moon. We all had a good laugh. My boss kept asking if various items around the restaurant -- it could have been a chair or a dog for all he cared-- were biodynamique. He just liked to say it. In French.

Biodynamism was, we thought, similar to organic winemaking, only more hippie-like.

I feel so ashamed of myself, I could just spit. It might be hippie-like, but it is definitely worth taking seriously.

So what exactly is biodynamic winemaking?

It is a category of biodynamic agriculture, which is essentially an organic farming system based primarily upon eight lectures on anthroposophy given by Rudolph Steiner in Germany in 1924.

Even in 1924, when man's faith in better living through chemistry was picking up speed, Steiner was convinced that the quality of food was being degraded by the use of artificial fertilizers and pesticides. Sounds very much like our modern, and fortunately blossoming, organic agricultural movement. What set Steiner and his biodynamism apart from the organic philosophy was more than his belief in the spiritual shortcomings of a chemical approach to farming. Steiner considered the world and everything in it as simultaneously spiritual and material in nature, that living matter was different from dead matter. He also believed in the influence of planetary events on agricultural crops. Ah, there's that moon reference.

Biodynamism is, more or less, a very holistic approach to organic farming.

You are, at this point, either yawning or scratching your head. If the former is the case, go get yourself a coffee and come back when your caffeine has kicked in. If the latter is true, read on and follow these links pertaining to biodynamic agriculture, vitalism and Demeter International and then get back to me. I'm happy to wait. It's a rather complex topic. One, with a slight bow to irony, not easily digested.

Two days ago, my fellow co-workers and I were fortunate enough to have someone explain it all-- or, at least his application of biodynamism-- to us.

Fresh from his stint as cover model for next week's Wine Spectator, Mike Benziger took some time out to both explain his biodynamic approach to winemaking and to let us taste the results-- his 2004 vintage Tribute.

He began his talk by asking us about various alcoholic beverages. What does beer do to you? He mentioned that it made one tired and gassy. Tequila? I muttered something about how it renders one stupid and causes one to sleep with people one might otherwise regret sleeping with sober. And wine?

"Wine is a high energy substance, it changes the spirit of the room as soon as the bottle is opened. Wine connects us to the sun, to the earth and to each other."

In two sentences, Benziger encapsulated what I belive to be essence of biodynamic winemaking, in as much as I can gather. Wine just might be the poster child for this approach to agriculture-- a mingling of living and dead matter that, if you will forgive me for saying, creates its own life force, therby enhancing our own. Unless, I thought, one drinks excessive amounts of it and dies of alcohol poisoning, I reminded myself that biodynamism is about cosmic balance and the thought passed.

To Benziger, biodynamism is about a personal connection to the land. And he is certainly connected to his. He's been working his 85 acres for the past twenty-five years. Only forty of which are planted with vines. The rest, in the closed farming tradition of biodynamism, are occupied by such things as stables, insectaries and pasture.

Biodynamism considers the environment more important than the plant, the whole trumping any of its parts. In Benziger's vineyard, one might be overwhelmed by environment, or at least cataloging it. His vines are planted in a circle created naturally by volcanic crater. Over the years, Benziger has recognized thirty-one distinct microclimates within that circle-- each contributing it's own particular qualities to the final blend of his wine.

Biodynamism dictates that man work within nature's boundaries rather than bend it to his own will. This, of course, is a dictum impossible to follow since agriculture is essentially a system created by man to exploit and propagate that nature which serves him best and eliminate--or at least exclude-- that which does not. Those rabid enough to adhere to such a strict construction would be reduced, in my opinion, to hunting and gathering. Fortunately, Benziger and, I'm sure, most other biodynamic farmers approach this idea with a more practical spirit.

To eliminate a dependence upon chemical pesticides, plants are planted to attract beneficial insects to the vineyards. Insects are neither purchased nor physically transported, but rather invited onto the property by means of what Benziger refers to as "bug highways"-- swaths of specific plants that lure the insects directly into the vineyard.

In addition to insects and creative planting, various animals are utilized to keep down the number of pests-- chickens and owls, for example. Grazers, such as Scottish Highland cattle and sheep keep weeds in check and remove any need for chemical fertilizers. "Sheep are a great viticultural tool." quipped Benziger, "They do three things for us: they eat, shit and turn the soil with their hooves." Who needs a tractor?

With the removal of chemical pesticides and fertilizer comes the eventual return of native yeasts, which are, he believes, essential to the character of his wine.

The goal with biodynamic farming is a closed environmental system. The borders between natural and farmed areas eventually merge and begin to speak, as Benziger says, "the language of terroir." Which, of course, is also essential to the character of his wine.

And how does biodynamism apply to the process of winemaking?

Here's where the moon comes in. Don't cringe. It makes perfect sense. Wine is racked only under a new moon. Why? sendiment is at its most compact at this time. The tidal pull of a full moon causes it to puff up.

Biodynamic regulations, as laid down by Demeter International, also dictate that no yeast or malolactic bacteria may be added to the wine though sulpher dioxide is allowed. Apologies, I forgot to ask why this was so., I was busy drawing the Demeter logo in my notebook, since the logo on Benziger's bottle did not photograph well:

The logo sums it up, I'd say. From the top left and working clockwise around the four quadrants are: fire, air, earth (which I drew somewhat inaccurately) and water. Everything in the universe, according to the Ancients, was comprised of some combination of these elements. What the logo does not show, however is a fifth element; one created when the four other elements get together-- spirit. It does sport a rather intriguing symbol directly under the name Demeter. Being the strong fertility goddess she was to the Greeks, I am not certain if the symbol represents some sort of budding plantlife or not. I prefer to see it as a highly stylized hermaphrodite. One with enormous breasts and a penis dangling between its legs. How much more fertile can one get than that?

Okay. We've heard about how the vines were tended and how the grapes were vinified. But what about the taste? Benziger poured.

It was good. It was more than good, truthfully. Everyone in the room agreed. I must add here that I am talking about a room full of people who have, at one time, more or less rejected California Cabernet Sauvignons and blends thereof as showy and often juvenile-- an embarrassment to be around. Not that they all are, but more in the spirit of rejecting one's parents as an embarrassment in one's teenage years.

Benziger's 2004 Tribute is a well balanced wine, with soft-but-present tannin, hints of cedar, black cherry and, not surprisingly given todays topic of biodynamism, a certain earthiness. The finish lingered. It doesn't try to out-macho its neighbors with an over-powering amout of oak. Silver Oak is a man who wears too much Brut and tells time by his gaudy Rolex. Tribute stands by its own, natural masculine scent and tells time by the position of the sun in the sky. Orthe moon, depending upon the time of day.

More importantly, I imagined I could taste everything that went into making the wine-- the volcanic crater, the bees, even the Scottish Highland cows. Not literally, mind you but, knowing the effort and, well, the love that went into making this wine made the experience of drinking it even more pleasurable.

After the Benziger's talk, my wine director was excited. "You're going to see a lot more of these wines coming along." I'm glad. It's the wave of the future that many winemakers are considering riding. Wave of the future. Odd how a technique older than Charlemagne can be considered futuristic. Winemaking has now made a full circle-- or is it full cycle?-- like the moon that rules over the biodynamic process. It's about time.

I'll stop giggling now. I promise.

*Note. The pyramid diagram is borrowed from the Benziger website.

There are some things in this world best left to the imagination; people, places or events so idealized they could never live up to the expectations built up around them -- your wedding day or a menage a trois with a pair of identical twins or, in this case, dinner at what has been referred to as the best restaurant in the world-- The French Laundry.

Ten years ago, a friend organized a chauffeur-driven pilgrimage to the French Laundry. Being fresh out of culinary school, I could scarcely afford the dinner, so I politely declined the invitation. Besides, I had been taught that limousines were for funerals and diplomats, so riding in one was out of the question. I was anything but diplomatic in those days and, had I chosen to spend what little money I had from my $8.50 an hour kitchen job, the only funeral I would have been attending would have been my own after my parents decided to kill me.

I'd regretted not going ever since. I've since wondered what it would be like to dine there. When my friend Lyle invited me to join him in place of his mostly vegetarian and largely non-drinking girlfriend, I said yes. Two days later, I went to see Thomas Keller interviewed along with Dorothy Cann Hamilton at the Commonwealth Club. I enjoyed hearing him discuss his philosophies regarding life, food and a life in food. I was excited that I would soon be sitting in his dining room eating what he had to offer.

I don't think anyone living beneath a certain sky-high tax bracket can go to The French Laundry without making it into some sort of event. It is not, by it's own design, a place one goes to grab something to eat. When we visit, we pack our emotional baggage full of inflated expectations and drag it behind us through the little garden and into the front door. It is the one thing the hostess who greets you is unable to check.

My fellow diners and I arrived on time for our 6:30 reservation and were whisked into a little side room, dimly lit and cool like a cave with walls of river rock, where our table awaited us. A little window cut into the rock showed off the wine room. If this was, as I had sensed, a place of worship, we were seated in its chapel.

Two couples shared our space. One pair dined with such grim seriousness that I thought one of them-- or their relationship-- might have only days to live. The other couple, from Houston as I gathered from their limited conversation, looked a little bewildered and on their best behaviour. I leaned into the center of our table and whispered to my dinner companions, "Why is everyone so quiet? No one seems to be having a good time!"

It was true. Except for us, of course.

Our waiter soon introduced himself, explaining and expanding upon the nine course menu. He was aware of the two bottles of Burgundy we had brought with us and suggested that we might start with a bottle of champagne, since it went so well with the first four courses. Lyle was presented with a wine list and we were given a moment to look it over. Lyle passed the list over to me and I browsed. We had agreed amongst ourselves that we weren't interested in champagne, but some sort of white wine was definitely in order. I saw a short list of Austrian wines that interested me. When the waiter returned, asking which champagne we might prefer, I told him we were interested in drinking a still white wine instead. Feeling rather dense, I said as much and handed the list back over to Lyle. Our waiter once again suggested champagne. We once again declined.

Enter the sommelier. We assumed he was the sommelier, since he was very knowledgable about wine, but he did not introduce himself as such. I explained that I was looking at Austian wines. Lyle mentioned his preference for crisp minerality, for something interesting at around $60. The gentleman returned almost instantly with precisely what we were looking for-- and Austrian Riesling. We were very delighted with his selection.

The food began its slow, steady dance to our table. And I do mean dance. Movements are choreographed. Servers perform what is known as ballet service-- dishes are served in synchronized sweeps by, in our case, two people. Plates from the left hands glide down in front of diners one and three followed by plates from the right, supplying diners two and four. It is all seemless, perfect. A simple, well flavored gougère here, a doll-sized black sesame tuille cone filled with Scottish salmon served there. Both charming. The two amuses seemed to carry with them bold-faced bullet points in what I imagine to be Thomas Keller's mission statement: the former promised a mastery of understatement, while the latter promised the evening of theater that lay ahead of us. Conflicting messages certainly, but not incompatible.

Our food selections were noted and our deciphering of lampshades applauded by our waiter.

Wash. Do not use bleach. Iron. I wondered how many of the other diners in the restaurant had an intimate knowledge of laundering. We turned our attention briefly to the linen. Not a crease or stain to be found. I noticed that my napkin was the size of an adult diaper and was, in fact, folded as such over my lap. I quietly tucked the edges around my hips and under my crotch and hoped no one noticed as I looked down to admire my handiwork.

With the meal under way, our conversation turned to food, as it invariably does with foodies. "There's a slight bitterness to the foie gras. What is that?" ."Lyle? Okay. Did that little Tokyo turnip just explode in your mouth like it did in mine?" "Did he say Jurassic Period salt?"

And such like.

I am pleased to tell you-- pleased to tell myself, at any rate-- that I was too busy enjoying the company of my dining companions and the food before us to be snapping many photos of the food. I did manage one or two, like the one of the Line-Caught Atlantic Halibut shown below:

I made an attempt to capture the pretzel rolls-- Lyle's favorite thing-- on film, but it looked rather unappealing in the photograph. "Did you try a pretzel roll yet? God! It tastes just like a pretzel!" We then explained to him that it was, in fact, a soft pretzel which merely lacked a knot.

As we finished off the bottle of Austrian Riesling and tucked into a beautiful Volnay given to Lyle as a birthday present, our conversation became more animated. So, too, did the main dining room. I actually heard laughter from some place other than our table. I turned around to see a room full of 55 to 65 year-olds dining and chatting. Over my right shoulder, a table of European businessmen with deep voices and, surprisingly bright-colored socks. I wondered what they were talking about and where they would go after dinner. I made no plans to join them.

Back at our table, the conversation turned to Evelyn Waugh-- Brideshead Revisited and my favorite character, A-A-Antoine. He had a stutter. Lyle's friend Jack and I offered our impersonations. I asked if he had ever seen or read The Loved One. He offered a detailed rendition Liberace's brilliant upselling of funeral services at Whispering Glades. I was impressed. Later in the meal, I learned why Jack took such an interest in that scene-- he's a funeral director.

At this point I went up the narrow staircase-- a staff member nearly hurling himself over the bannister to make way for me-- to wash my hands for the second time and, for the second time, found the single occupancy room empty and spotless. It seemed as if it were merely for show-- toilet tissue wrapped in silk ribbon, unused. Cute, but I wondered if people in polite society ever rid themselves of unneccesary body weight, or if they had people to do that for them. I returned to our table to find my diaper folded neatly on the table. We finished our sixth course -- a Snake River Farm "Calotte de Boeuf Grillée"-- with not too much comment. It was excellent. Techinically perfect. Of course it was.

Yet something was not quite right. At least to me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The food was uniformly beautiful, flavorful and perfectly executed to the detection of both my eyes and palate. The dishware and silver were often conversation pieces. The rooms were lovely-- well-appointed and understated as though to counterbalance the fact that this building once housed a brothel.

And the staff? A sudden chill came over me. Or was that the Glacé de Fruits Exotiques set before me after the cheese course?

There was, below the smooth, perfect surfaces of the French Laundry, a subtle uneasiness; a tautness under its skin, like that of a woman fresh from a facelift-- eager to please her wealthy lover and unable to relax her facial muscles.

I scanned the members of the staff. Everyone was clean, very attractive and well tailored. They all smiled, but not too widely, as though no one should have a better time than the guests. Eye contact was always just narrowly avoided. Or did I imagine that? If our waiter would attempt levity, he would say, "I am only joking" before any of us had even the time to react. The fear of offense was fascinating. There was a Stepford-like quality to the members of the front-of-house staff that I found troublesome.

When he spoke at the Commonwealth Club, Thomas Keller stated that "Cooking is about repetition-- the perfection of the task at hand." I would agree with him there. Mr. Keller has perfected his cooking through strict repetition. But that repetition seems to makes its way into the dining room as well, which is unfortunate. When our food was brought to the table, it was described in marvelous detail, but it the delivery of information gave the impression of having been memorized, scripted and completely uniform. No color. Words like gougère and gratinée were mispronounced.

When our bill was presented, we were disappointed but not terribly offended that we had been charged $50 for uncorking the bottle we'd brought and had opened for us. In my experience as a waiter, if a guest brings a bottle of wine yet purchases a bottle from a restaurant's wine list, the corkage fee is waived. But I do not make policy and we were already of the mind to pay it before we even sat down, but it struck a slightly sour note at the end of our evening.

As we looked over our bill, Jack made a generous offer-- that he would pay for the food if the rest of us took care of the rest. Then the waiter, who happened to be standing between Lyle and Jack, offered that he would be happy to split the check four ways, if we liked. Jack replied that that woulnd't be necessary and that we just needed a minute to figure out the bill. Instead of leaving us alone with our bill, our waiter picked it up from the table. I cannot remember why, but I'm sure there was a logical reason for it. Lyle asked what the total was and, in what I hope was an attempt to be helpful, our waiter then read our bill-- which was, I'm sure quite conservative by French Laundry standards-- out loud.

"Food: $1,020... Wine: $166..."

We were pleased to know that everyone in the room knew how much we spent. Perhaps our waiter thought that a guest at one of the other tables might avail us of his or her superior math skills. We were, all of us, quietly horrified.

The check was paid. Shortbread cookies and copies of the night's menu were distributed, two round coasters with the restaurant's name on them that reminded me of dress shields were pocketed and we left.

On the drive home, we talked about our experience. We all enjoyed it very much. The food was wonderful, but only the little Tokyo turnips and chocolate-covered macadamia nuts were hailed as "amazing." We were well-sated bodily. Just enough food, just enough wine. But none of us saw it as truly fantastic. Not the best meal ever.

And that is our own damned fault. Or mine, at least. There must be such tremendous pressure to operating a restaurant like The French Laundry. It's an institution. It's a shrine to which so many come expecting the greatest meal of their lives. With food prices of $240 ($270 if one opts for foie gras), one almost demands it. How can one restaurant satisfy all the unspoken expectations of, well, everyone who has ever dined there, or ever will? It can't.

Perhaps Mr. Keller is correct in his approach of uniformity and repitition. It seems to be working for him and, I'm sure, the majority of diners there. It is his consistency that has kept his machinery well-oiled and running more or less smoothly since 1994. I just don't think it's for me. Which I can accept as either my own virtue or my own flaw. Whatever the case, it is my own.

I am, however, extremely glad I had the opportunity to dine there. I applaude Keller's food, his technique and his sense of fun-- at least on the plate. Now if he could just get his waitstaff to loosen up...

There is very little that needs to be said about Posh Nosh. It speaks for itself.

Earlier this week, I was dining with friends at the most expensive restaurant in the universe when the topic of Posh Nosh came up. I had to fess up to my ignorance regarding the show, but I was intrigued.

Twelve or so courses of food and a one-hour-and-twenty-minute car ride later, I made my way back to my much loved computer and searched YouTube for anything I could find on the programme.

Jackpot.

I may be the last person on earth to have heard of Posh Nosh but, if I am able to bring this laser-sharp beacon of light into anyone's awareness, mine will have been a life worth living.

Do yourself a favor. Take the time to watch this episode.

I've been feeling a bit nostalgic lately, which isn't terribly surprising considering the fact that I am usually found in a state of past-reflection. That's not to say that I can't focus on the present as well as others. I can, especially since paying close attention to the here-and-now comes in handy when, well, the here-and-now eventually becomes the there-and-then.

A short while ago, I made a comment to friends that my mother didn't really cook. What I meant was that, unlike the fantasy version of my mother I wish I had had (culinarily-speaking), my real-life mom was never seen floating about the kitchen baking pies or putting up strawberry preserves from fruit picked ripe from our garden. We did, in fact, have strawberries growing in our back yard but, in the heat of summer, it was generally a race to see who could get to them first-- us or the garden snails. Besides, one was never certain if one of the dogs hadn't peed on them.

The truth is that my mother did cook. And she did it rather well, I think. It sounds noble of me, I know, but I have forgiven her lack of enthusiasm for daily meal preparation. The fact that she, as a single mother, managed to feed two sullen teenagers and a hyperactive pre-adolescent without relying heavily on fast food take-out while working 40 hours a week now strikes me as utterly amazing.

Often, she was time efficient-- making large batches of food stuffs that froze well. She'd make a gallon of pasta sauce and meatballs and freeze them in empty plastic containers that once housed whipped topping or Country Crock margarine. Though the former contents may not have been especially noteworthy, her red sauce and meatballs were as good as my Sicilian paternal grandmothers-- apparently, learning to make them was a pre-condition to marrying my father. Not bad for a white girl.

The traumatizing effects of stew night aside (I would sometimes cry when I saw it simmering on the stove top, spend dinner time loading mouthfuls of it into my heavily-napkined lap and request to make repeated trips to the garbage can), dinners were generally tasty affairs. One of my favorite non-special occasion meals she'd prepare was stuffed bell peppers.

It struck me as odd that I would remember this dish as one of my favorites, considering the fact that the peppers in question were invariably green as they pretty much all were thirty-odd years ago. I still don't much care for them. What I loved about them was the fact that the pepper (which I ignored) was simply a bit of negative space waiting to be filled by what was basically my mother's meatballs, but with a little rice mixed in to make it stuffed-peppery.

I'd never made stuffed peppers before, but I decided to give it a go this week. What I find appealing about stuffed peppers is that, basically, one can stuff them with whatever you want. As long as it's edible, I mean. I take that back. Stuff them with whatever the hell you feel like stuffing them with. I would hate to be accused of stifling anyone's creativity.

Mexicans have probably been stuffing peppers ever since they began cultivating them some 6,000 years ago. When they were brought to Europe from the New World, the Italians, Greeks, Hungarians and Spanish took a liking to them. When they made their way back to the Americas (yes, they were here the whole time, I know), Southerners took to stuffing them, too. Meat, rice, bulgar wheat, cheese-- you name it-- has made it's way into the sweet pepper with more or less successful results.

I chose a somewhat Greek approach to stuffing a pepper. Perhaps stating that I used typically Greek ingredients, for the most part, might avoid unnecessary giggling. I just thought my particular attack was tasty. Remember, there is no right and there is no wrong. At least, not that I am willing to get into this morning.

Stuffed Peppers

Ingredients

4 red bell peppers (or whatever color most pleases you and your budget)
1 pound ground lamb
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 zucchini, diced fairly small
3 tablespoons of olive oil
1/2 cup cooked white rice, cooled
1 teaspoon salt
a rather large amount of black pepper
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon gound allspice
1 large egg
1/4 cup feta or goat cheese

Preparation:

1. Pre-heat oven to 375 F.
2. Saute (or sweat, in this case) onion and garlic in one tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat until translucent. Set aside. Turn up the heat and add the second tablespoon of oil and then the ground lamb. Brown, please. Add third tablespoon of oil and then zucchini. Cook until just slightly softened and a tad brighter in color. Toss the onion mixture, lamb and zucchini together.
3. I suppose before you've taken on steps one and two you could have washed and sliced the tops of the peppers and, if they aren't behaving as they should and sitting up straight, you might cut their bottoms and forcibly make them do so. Free them of their seeds and ribbing. I choose to blanch the peppers as well, which cuts down on oven time.
4. Add salt, pepper, allspice, nutmeg, egg, cheese and rice to the stuffing mixture, combining well.
5. Fill the empty inner spaces of the peppers with the stuffing and place in a casserole or dutch oven-- something not too shallow. Peppers are fairly social creatures, so keep them close together, but do allow them some space-- they need to feel the hot oven air circulate around them. Oh, and add some water or stock to the bottom of the dish to prevent the peppers from burning. At this point, I rub the tops of the peppers with olive oil and salt and place them in a pan to roast along side the peppers themselves. Not necessary, but I don't see why not.
6. When the peppers are sufficiently roasted (like, in about 30 minutes), dot the top of the stuffed peppers with more cheese and place under the broiler to brown.
7. Serve hot.

My mother, and lots of other people besides her, serve peppers with some sort of tomato sauce. I decided to accompany mine with something a little lighter and sharper. It's almost completely mindless...

Garlic and Mint Yogurt Sauce:

Ingredients:

1 cup plain yogurt (Greek is good, but I think too thick for this. Save it for eating with honey)
4 cloves garlic, minced
several leaves of mint, chiffonaded
a pinch pr two of salt

Preparation:

Mix all the above ingredients in a bowl and whisk together. Serve. Or, better to let this sit in the fridge overnight so the flavors can get to know each other better. I hope you took notes on that one.

I did not grow up in what could be even remotely considered an outdoorsy household. Yes, of course we went outdoors, but generally only to get ourselves to some other indoor venue.

Sure, we'd go to the mountains, but we'd stay inside our cabin, unless we needed to go and get more jiffy pop or Sarah Lee Butter Streusel Cake. Our cabin, Molar Manor (go ahead and make fun of the name, we all do) was very near some great skiing, but none of us skied. My father once signed me up for lessons, but when it was learned that my cousin Celeste injured herself at the sport, my lessons were traded in for a bowling ball. At least it was monogrammed.

We'd spend summer weekends at Catalina, but generally under a canopy, complete with folding table and chairs, so my father and his friends could play bridge or pinochle or whatever it was he played with the other adults on the beach at Avalon while they drank beer or gin and tonics. Or whatever it was he drank with the other adults. I was too busy protecting myself from the sharks in the water and the sand creatures lurking underneath my beach towel to notice.

We'd go to the desert, but I was pretty much relegated to the air-conditioned comfort of my aunt's too, too white-and-blue home in Palm Springs while the adults played golf and my brother and sister refused to go outside in the baking heat to supervise my diving for Fischer-Price people in the pool. Wherever we went, there was always a television to distract us from nature and a hair dryer to combat the effects of outdoor mussing and damage. We really were not a fussy family by general standards. We just didn't care to endure what others might rightly call "roughing it."

Imagine my surprise when, at the tender age of thirty-four, I discovered I liked camping. In a tent. On the hard ground.

I have fallen into a group of fellows who, for better or for worse, love to go camping. And now, so do I.

I find a certain pleasure in curling up in my own sleeping bag; in being lulled to sleep by the sound of the surf, or night birds, or even the sound of my snoring fellow campers. I rather like smelling like cold-smoked salmon from huddling around a campfire for three days. And, lacking mirrors, I am comforted by the fact that I can see myself solely through the eyes of my companions. Even when one of them has to tell me I have somethng unpleasant dangling from the end of my nose. I find I can endure many hardships while camping that might surprise my family members. But there is one thing I cannot bear, even in the wilderness...

Bad camping food.

Though admittedly the biggest food geek in our camping set, I am relieve to report that no one among my camping set would ever subject his fellow survivors to stale buns or canned meats. For this, I am truly grateful.

Gary, the most organized human I've ever met, typically breaks down our days away into meals-- which ones we shall eat together and who will prepare them. We divide the work as evenly as we can. Last weekend, I got to make Saturday dinner.

The bar was set high the previous evening with a marvelously successful turkey chili with lime, scallions and baked-that-morning corn bread to crumble on top made by our resident New Mexican, Bill. And my friend Dan fortified us properly for our dead marine life hike on Manresa Beach with piles of hot challah french toast with fresh berries and syrup Saturday morning.

The pressure, felt by no one but myself, was on.

I've been known to blow my food budget on camp dinners before. I was determined to provide something great with a minimum amout of effort and cost. When I say minimum amount, I am speaking in purely relative terms. To myself, I mean.

I decided to prepare fish, in the spirit of my friend Adam's "[I'm]Keeping with chicken and fish these days" memo. I saw some beautiful wild salmon at my local Whole Foods, but balked at the $90.00 it would cost to the feed six of us. I managed to spy some butterflied trout while still reeling from the salmon sticker shock and opted for that instead.

The trout would be easy enough to prepare. I knew I'd have to keep it nice and cold, since I was purchasing fish on Thursday to prepare some 54-odd hours later. That wouldn't be much of a problem-- I'd just store them flat on a bag of ice in my cooler. But what if the fish wound up smelling, um, fishy? I took the fish home, washed them well and kept them soaking in buttermilk, which prevented that problem while giving the trout's flavor some subtle, yet flattering backlighting. Now what to stuff them with?

I didn't want to make this too complicated. Trying too hard is embarrassing and makes one the subject of (internal) ridicule. I decided to caramelize onions with a little olive oil and finish them of with a splash of apple cider vinegar and be done with it. Apart from giving a bit of sweetness to the dish, the somewhat slimy characteristic of the onions, I thought, would add a wonderfully morbid touch to the dish, being somewhat reminiscent of the trout's now-discarded viscera. A little salt and pepper and some well-soaked skewers to keep the fish together and prevent the mock entrails from seeping and they were all ready for grilling.

Except for one, minor thing. The grate over the campfire was small, deformed by what I imagined to be years of abuse and rather disgusting. I shudder to think what sort of cheap food stuffs has carbonized over that metal. We drove to (it's cheating, I know) a KOA camp store (Before you ask, we were not staying there. Remind me to tell you about my one and only stay at a KOA campground some other time which involved a rather amusing lesbian stripper.) where we purchase a grilling grate, throat lozenges, aluminum foil and facial tissue, not all of which were used in the preparation of dinner. Problem solved.

To accompany my fresh water friends, I cut some smallish organic red potatoes in half, coated them in olive oil, salt and pepper and wrapped them very well in aluminum foil. I then buried the potatoes in the ash of the campfire and pretended as though I knew how to make campfire potatoes. While I waited for the fire to do its share of the work, I broke open the three liter box of Jean-Marc Brocard Bourgogne Blanc I brought along for the dinner, sat back on a folding camp chair and tried to look relaxed.

When I randomly pulled the potatoes from the fire to find them thoroughly cooked and crispy around the edges, I tossed them with some peppery watercress, olive oil and lemon dressing, buttermilk bleu cheese and crumbled bacon while the fish grilled very quickly over the newly purchased grate. I prayed that the fish were uncontaminated and that my friend Gary, who was ill, would not be made sicker by a bad trout. I was grateful that this campsite had flush toilets close by, just in case.

The dinner, I am happy to say, was a success. At least, no one sniggered or became violently ill. I am sorry to report that I did not have the presence of mind to photograph a well-plated and uneaten version of my camp supper. It was only after we had finished and my friend Bill began piling up the fish heads on my plate that I felt I had something photo-worthy.

For dessert, my plan was a simple one. Fresh, chilled organic Bing cherries (everyone, it seems, decided to bring cherries. We had approximately one pound of the fruit per person), chocolate truffles and candied, toasted walnuts to nibble on while playing a rousing game or two of Uno. Only we didn't play Uno. We had a rather lengthy discussion about the female reproductive system as we sat around the campfire instead. We might as well have been talking about aliens.

I had purchase a rather fascinating (to me) loaf of chocolate cherry bread to consume with dessert but, upon returning from cataloging the decaying wildlife on the beach earlier in the day, returned to discover that I had not stored it safely away. I found its bag on the ground near my tent, but the bread itself was gone. Taken by either a racoon, a bear or, more likely, the brazen little girl from the campsite next to ours who decided to use our water spigot as her personal bidet. In front of us. In broad daylight.

I very much look forward to the next time I head off into the Great Outdoors with my friends. If anyone has a line on where to find collapsible camping martini glasses, drop me a line. Please.

Dorothy Cann Hamilton, host of the PBS hit series Chef's Story, was kind enough to pay KQED a visit prior to her appearance with Thomas Keller at the Commonwealth Club last week.

When I was approached to interview her, I immediately said, "Of course I'd do it." When I hung up the phone, I realized that I had absolutely no idea who she was. I don't have telvision reception. Excluding internet access, one might think I lived in a technology-deficient cave.

I also remembered that I had never interviewed anyone before.

Not knowing anything about someone you are about to interview might be considered a handicap to some. Probably to many. Mercifully, I was given sufficient time for research.

As I Googled and studied, I wondered how, as a self-proclaimed member of the food world (though, admittedly, marginally so), could I have not been aware of this woman? Listing but three of her many credentials is enough to make anyone with professed food-worldliness who remains unaware of her existence lie through their teeth and say "Of course, I know all about her.":

1. She is the founder and CEO of the French Culinary Institute.
2. She is the Chairman of the James Beard Foundation.
3. She hosts "Chef's Story" on PBS.

When my father called last week, I mentioned the interview. "That's not the ice skater, is it?" he asked, only half seriously. I cringe to think how often Dorothy Hamilton endures that question. My father wasn't the only one who made that crack. I was a bit embarrassed that I had never thought of it myself.

As I sat in a KQED conference room waiting for Hamilton to arrive, I thought to myself, "How bright is this for me, who has never interviewed anyone in his life, to be interviewing a woman who interviews famous people on national television?"

It may not have been bright of me, but it was fun. Dorothy Hamilton is not just a doer, but a talker-- and an entertaining one at that.

Here are some excerpts from the interview:

MP: You're the CEO and Founder of the French Culinary Institute, you're the president--

DH: Chairman.

MP: So no time to play petanque? When you do get a day off, what do you do?

MP: Well, there's a definite art to puttering... I've been doing a lot of reading about you in the past week or so-- I don't mean it to sound like stalking or anything like that-- but I'm just curious how a girl from Brooklyn ends up founding--

DH: -- a French school.

MP: Yeah.

DH: And I'm not even French!

MP: Well, not just a French school, but a French culinary school with one of the best reputations in the world.

DH: Well, there's a lot of great people who have come from Brooklyn-- a lot of creative people.

MP: Oh, I'm not knocking Brooklyn...

DH: It is odd because everybody thinks I'm French and I'm not. How it started was my father ran a trade school in New York. I came from the type of family where my grandparents came from Europe, so I'd heard a lot about it, but I had never been there. And so, in high school, I used to just dream about getting on a plane and going to Europe and the only way I could get my parents to pay for it was if I figured out a way to go to college there. So I got myself into a British University, I got myself a student loan and went over to England.

I was very happy to be in England except for two things-- the weather and the food. They were both terrible. It was during the Vietnam War, so everybody hated Amricans-- a bit like today--... and so I actually befriended the French girls, because they hated the French, too. (Laughs)... they taught me how to make a Dijon vinaigrette and they got me to eat cheese that wasn't American cheese. They introduced me to yogurts. When we'd get really fed up with [England], we'd all go to France. It was beautiful. The weather was so much better and the food was light years better than the English food, so that's really where I got turned onto French food. I kind of lived in France during vacations, because I didn't have enough money to come home. Particularly in Burgundy. I had one friend whose parents were professors of English, so that made it very easy for me because they were showing me the culture. And her sister was a famous movie star, Claude Jade... I met people like Jacques Brel. It was quite fun.

I then went in the Peace Corps (in Thailand) because I didn't want to come back to the States-- the whole war thing was going on-- and I still had my wanderlust.

When I eventually came back-- it was about eight years later-- I had a Liberal Arts degree in English, a former Peace Corps volunteer, it was 1974 and we were in a recession in New York City and nobody would give me a job, so my father had this trade school and I went to work as a receptionist. I worked my way up through the administration and eventually got to be an expert in student financial aid. I sat on the National Association of Student Financial Aid Administrators and I also sat on the board of directors for our accrediting agency for all the trade schools in the United States, and because of that, I was invited to see the top trade schools in Europe and, in France. They showed us the top professional cooking school, run by the French government.

See? There was a method for all this madness walking you through this.

So... I convinced my father that we should open a cooking school and use the French school-- not only as a model--but we actually paid the French government for the curriculum, they brought over the teachers and they maintained the quality control. The French chefs in New York went crazy because it was the same training they had. They just couldn't believe it was going to be made available in America... The very first class, I had Bobby Flay in.

MP: I heard he was trouble.

DH: He was voted the least likely to succeed. He has since made a scholorship at the school for kids who hate high school, because he hated high school. When we did this-- we did the scholarship with the City of New York, with the Board of Education-- and he sat down with all these superintendants and high school principals who were so excited to meet him, he just sat there shivering and said, "Any other time I've been with a principal was not for a good thing."

MP: I hear you like to entertain. What are some Dorothy Cann Hamilton signature dishes?

DH: I have a house on a lake... up in Connecticut...

MP: Is this connected with the Inn?

DH: Well, the Inn only existed for a year.

MP: Awww...

DH: Yes, we said it was like a fire hose with dollar bills coming out of it. It's a seasonal
business and you really have to be an owner/operator to make that thing work and we had day jobs, thank-you-very-much, so we realized we'd better cut our losses. It was great while it was there. People still talk about it...

MP: I didn't know it only lasted a year. I had this image of you and your husband running around like Bob Newhart and Mary Frann except, you know, in better sweaters.

DH: We did run around. And not necessarily in better sweaters...

But anyway, one of the things I loved to do... I'm afraid to swim across the lake...I love to swim, but there are so many boats. I'm just afraid I'm going to get hit by a boat, because you can't really see people swimming. So I came up with this thing called The Ladies' Swim Across the Lake. There's about twenty of us who stay over on a Monday. We get the men in rowboats... and what-have-you on either side-- sort of like an honor guard-- and we can swim the whole lake. They all swim across and back and -- I like to swim, but not that much-- so I swim across and say, "I have to go cook." and I jump in a speed boat and come back before everybody and get all cleaned up and I make paella. I have one of those outdoor stands.--and I don't make the seafood one, I make the chicken one because everyone can eat chicken-- and it's absolutely delicious and now everybody looks forward to that in the summer.

MP: Any Dorothy Cann Hamilton signature disasters?

DH: Oooh.... you know, I burn things every now and then. You know, what I burn all the time are pinenuts... Fifty percent of the time, I forget they're in the oven. I'm not a toaster pinenut person. I like putting something somewhere and coming back and it's done. Like a chicken.

MP: You talked about living in England. That was in Newcastle, right?

DH: Right. The coldest place in the world!

MP: Practically Scotland and, therefore, possibly worse food. Do you think their cooking has changed at all? Do you still feel the same way?

DH: You know, I'm going to offend a lot of English people--

MP: Oh, go ahead...

DH: They go on today about how good the food is in London. And I know Marco Pierre White is going to be here next week and he has done a lot for English food... however, the general cooking in England I still find to be...really quite disturbing. The old, traditional food I thought was fantastic. Potted shrimps, the beautiful cheeses, you'd go into a pub and get a Ploughman's Lunch. A really good roast beef... If you look at the products in England, they're so fantastic. I go to London and there are better restaurants, but they're not at the level of, say San Francisco or New York...

MP: What are some of your favorite restaurants in San Francisco?

DH: Well, I went to A16 last night-- I really loved that. And I'm and old time Judy Rogers freak. I love going to Zuni. And I think Gary Danko is a really inspired chef.

MP: Is there anything you won't eat?

DH: Oh yeah. I hate liver. Not only will I not eat it, I won't sit at a table with someone else eating it. I think it stinks. It smells.

MP: Even in pate form?

DH: No. I love foie gras. Now that, to me, is one of the world's mysteries... Of course today, we have this issue in the United States with foie gras.

First of all, there's the history of how foie gras came about is a bird fell out of the sky-- do you know this story?

MP: No, I don't.

DH: Well, this is how they discovered foie gras. The Egyptians discovered it. The geese used to migrate and, occasionally, one of the geese died-- had a heart attack? I don't know-- and would fall out of the sky and they would eat the goose. When they opened the goose up, they'd see this enlarged liver because what [the geese] would do before they'd migrate is force a lot of food into themselves. The French people, when I was learning abou this would say (in a French accent), "Hey, you know, they just eat a lot." They don't have a gagging mechanism.

The thing that surprised me is that geese get attached to only one person. Only one person can feed them and when this woman-- I was on a goose farm [in France]-- came out, these geese came running to her. You know, they couldn't wait to be fed because it wasn't painful, they were just getting fed more than they should to enlarge their livers. I didn't see any cruelty on the farms in France.

Now, the way chickens are raised, and the way beef is being produced in this country, I totally agree. I think there are issues there and we have to get very activist to make sure the food supply is properly taken care of, properly treated and properly slaughtered. But I think to have a blanket notion that foie gras is painful and inhumane... I know otherwise, if it's done on a farm level. I can't really speak for the mass production level.

MP: You mentioned being Burgundy, which is a place I've always wanted to eat and drink my way through. Is there some place in the world that you haven't been to that you'd love to eat your way through?

DH: I was thinking about that the other day-- in one of my puttering moments-- and I would love to go to Germany for the white asparagus festival... they don't have a green flavor, they have a nutty flavor and then that asparagus flavor, but it's much more subdued... it's very subtle.

MP: I suppose we should talk about the show.

DH: Oh, the show! Yeah, that's why I'm here, and this is KQED, isn't it? (Laughs)

MP: So... twenty-seven guest on twenty-six show. Anyone you missed?

DH: Oh, lots! But it wasn't so much that we missed them. I think it was a couple of things. We did all twenty-six shows in three weeks. This is public television and you do not have have a huge budget and you have to make hay while the sun shines, and we did. Some of these people had conflicts and they just couldn't get there. So, bye bye Mario Batali, bye bye Emeril Lagasse, many of them had conflicts. And then there was the other group of people, the "Dorothy who? You're doing what? I don't think so." It wasn't so much in a snotty way, and it wasn't them per se... but it's their handlers. Nowadays, they have agents and this is a brand new show...so a couple of people decided not to go out of the box on this one. But that being said, one of the first people who signed on was Thomas Keller so, once the others heard Thomas was going to be on, they wanted to be there, too.

MP: And you're speaking with him tonight.

DH: Yes, I am! He's an incredibly generous man.

Last week, my friend Thrasso told me it was Coffee Cake Month. When I asked how he came by that nugget of information, he told me that it was, at least, Coffee Cake Month in his world. It is quite simply a ruse to get people to give him cake.

It isn't as though he only shared that information with me, he shared it wherever we went during his visit here; to bartenders, shopgirls, friends. He pretty much told everyone it was Coffee Cake Month. I think the woman behind the counter at Tartine nodded and gave him a wan "I knew that" sort of reply and bagged our non-coffee cake purchases. I wonder how many people took his announcement to heart?

I did, for one. God protects those too easily open to suggestion.

I Googled "Coffee Cake Month" and came up with little more than monthly cake offers. I did, however, manage to find Coffee Cake Day at Rumela.com. The site is vaguely creepy with side bars and ads daring me to click on things like "The Fart Button. Press it. You know you want to." and "Mate 1 Intimate Dating." How these things are related to coffee cake, I am uncertain. Here is what I was told about Coffee Cake Day. The grammar is theirs, not mine.

Every year we celebrate Coffee Cake Day on 7^th April, it is an important event to all people because cake is a fantastic food to us at any time we love to eat it, not only a testy food it's have a good food value. However indulge and pamper yourself with loads n loads of yummy and delicious treats, and share the taste of fun with all your friends, family and sweetheart also make the day more attractive with some beautiful coffee cake.

So that's what fun tastes like. How edifying.

I wonder if this is how holdays get started. Some random person comes up with an object to celebrate and tells two friends, then they tell two friends, and so on, like some Faberge Organic Shampoo commercial. Or, in Thrasso's case, this coffee cake business might be a Canadian thing, though I tend to think of them as eating daintier cakes with the tea they drink after stirring a bit of milk into their china cups with their 1981 Royal Wedding commemerative spoons. No angry comments from my Canadian readership, please. I know all of you have one of those spoons. All 33,098,932 of you.

Since my Canadian ami's birthday falls exactly one month after the "offical" Coffee Cake Day (perhaps that is why he wants a full month of celebration?), I have baked a coffee cake.

Since there are literally thousands of coffee cake recipes out there of varying types, I feel I can only assign the one a number. It's too early in its developmental stage to be given anything but. As you can see in the photo, the crumb is good, but it is not swirly enough. Mine is too subtle, and coffee cake should not, in my opinion, be too subtle. I think I'll make it a bit more crumbly next time. Please humor me. No recipe. It's not worth repeating. Yet.

Now, a little back story on the coffee cake, so one might better understand its need for a holiday. Or not.

Coffee cake can be traced back to the 17th Century in Europe, since that is when coffee was introduced there. In fact, it was made fashionable in Paris at Le Procope, a favorite haunt of my family when in town, for reasons I am certain you will understand. Sadly, we do not get a family discount, those bastards. And I do not believe they serve coffee cake, either.

Coffee cake can be traced to Northern Europe where, as foodtimeline.org (I love this website) writes:

Coffee cake (aslo sometimes known as Kuchen or Gugelhopf) was not invented. It evolved...from ancient honey cakes to simple French galettes to medieval fruitcakes to sweet yeast rolls to Danish, cakes made with coffee to mass-produced pre-packaged treats.

Food historians generally agree the concept of coffee cake [eating sweet cakes with coffee] most likely originated in Northern/Central Europe sometime in the 17th century. Why this place and time? These countries were already known for their traditional for sweet yeast breads. When coffee was introduced to Europe (see notes below) these cakes were a natural accompaniment. German, Dutch, and Scandinavian immigrants brought their coffee cake recipes with them to America.
The first coffee cake-type foods were more like bread than cake. They were simple concoctions of yeast, flour, eggs, sugar, nuts, dried fruit and sweet spices. Over time, coffee cake recipes changed. Sugared fruit, cheese, yogurt and other creamy fillings are often used in today's American coffee cake recipes.

"Much of the American appetite for sweet rolls and cakes comes from these specific Germans as well as from the Holland settlements that had so much influence on early New York, New Jersey, and Delaware. All of those colonial cooks made fruity, buttery breakfast or coffee cakes from recipes that vary only slightly from methods used in the twentieth century. They also share some of the responsibility for the national zest for doughnuts..."
---American Food: The Gastronomic Story, Evan Jones, 2nd edition [Vintage Books:New York] 1981 (p. 91)

"...Scandinavians were perhaps more responsible than anyone else for making Ameirca as coffee-break-conscious as it is, and for perfecting the kind of food that goes well with coffee. German women had already brough the Kaffeeklatcsh to their frontier communities, but it was in the kitchens where there was always a pot brewing on the back of the stove that Scandinavian hospitality and coffee became synonymous...The term coffee klatch became part of the language, and its original meaning--a moment that combined gossip with coffee drinking--was changed to define the American version of England's tea, a midmorning or midafternoon gathering at which to imbibe and ingest....Like the cooks from Central Europe, most Scandinavian cooks have prided themselves on simple forms of pastry making that include so called coffee breads, coffee cakes, coffee rings, sweet rolls, and buns..."
---ibid (p. 163)

Try making your own sometime. They are fairly simple to make and, like I said, literally thousands of recipes of varying degrees of palatability. Go on. Do it. And please join me at next year's Coffee Cake Film Festival which I will be hosting as soon as I can find enough films in which this underappreciated cake is featured.

And tell two friends.