A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to fill out a questionnaire about food and my relationship to it. What did I think about the latest food trends? Why is food important? Do I consider myself a "foodie"? (Answer: Eww, no.)

For the most part, the questions were easy for me to answer, save one:

"What is the best meal you've ever had (or made) and why?"

I had to walk away from the computer for a little while after I read that. The best meal ever? Ev-er? How the hell am I supposed to choose one meal out of the 43,000 or so meals I've eaten in my lifetime? There isn't one best meal. There are several.

I've already written about some of them: dining in a rain-soaked Paris with the most charming man on the planet; eating al fresco in a rose-scented garden with good friends; brunching and game-playing on a Sunday afternoon on the Isle of Alameda. Choosing a favorite among them would be like having to single out your favorite child. And there are so many others.

As I was struggling to single out one to discuss, I suddenly thought of one of the simplest meals I've ever eaten and one taken mostly in solitude-- a quesadilla that made me cry.

I had been out the night before with the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes upon and who, conveniently, doubled as my boyfriend. He was an actor who made his monthly rent by bartending at a swank restaurant by night and posing for greeting cards by day when he wasn't busy playing sailors with one line to speak on Murphy Brown and other, popular television shows of the day. He was old. Thirty. And charming. Very. What on earth he was doing with a twenty-two year-old with a flair for the dramatic was beyond me. Maybe it was an actor thing. Drama is as drama does.

Apparently, his being with me was rather beyond him as well, because that evening, after the depressing, excruciatingly unwatchable Derek Jarman film we'd just seen, he said the magic words that every love-struck person loves to hear:

"I'm sorry, but this just isn't really working for me. I think you're a nice guy and all..." And so on.

It was an early night.

I returned home to find my roommate Craig sitting on the couch in our living room, watching television. I withered into the cushion next to him. He didn't have to ask what was wrong, because he knew I was going to tell him everything. So he just poured me a drink and let me do it. I shall spare you the details.

The next morning, I awoke to a timid knock on my bedroom door. "Mike? You up?" Craig opened the door with his free hand. In the other was a tray. The guy had made me breakfast in bed. I sat up in my bed and took the tray from him. "I thought this might make you feel a bit better," he said.

No one had ever made me breakfast in bed.

On the tray were a cup of tea, a little glass of orange juice, and a quesadilla. A quesadilla for breakfast? Now that I think of it, that's a rather odd choice for breakfast, but the man's from San Diego, so there you have it. He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two and chatted with me, then suddenly sat up and told me that I should eat because my breakfast was getting cold. With that, he left the room.

I sat there staring into my quesadilla for a moment and thought how sweet it was of my best friend to make me breakfast like that. Why couldn't my boyfriend do things like that for me? And then, of course, I remembered that I no longer had a boyfriend. Depressed, I tucked into the quesadilla.

It was still warm and creamy on the tongue. He'd used the cambozola cheese we'd bought. We were coming out of our "brie-is-fancy" stage of cheese awareness and were now branching out into the bleu-veined ones.

But there was something else tucked into that crispy tortilla which made my tongue heated up. A lot. He threw in peppers. Scotch Bonnet peppers. Craig and his girlfriend Shannon had just started dating and were trying to out-macho each other on the Scoville scale. As an occasional participant in their bizarre, heat-related courtship ritual, I considered myself a wimp when it came to such things, but I continued to eat. My eyes burned, my nose began to run. After a couple of bites, I was in discomfort; after a couple more, I was in pain.

The gulping of hot tea did nothing to help. The swishing of orange juice around my gums only seemed to spread the heat everywhere. I had never eaten anything so hot in my life. It was horrible, yet oddly delicious. And then something unexpected happened.

I cried. I sat there in bed, balancing the tray of food on my knees and cried, which was something rather foreign and forbidden to young men. I hadn't allowed myself to do it in years. The heat from those damned peppers so filled my eyes with tears that there was nothing else I could do, so I just went with it.

I wept and sobbed and moaned as quietly as possible, but it went on and on. And on. Had I been standing, I would have lost my balance and fallen into a heap. It was uncontrollable. I felt inconsolable. All the disappointment and hurt I'd been storing inside me for years just poured out of me and onto my t-shirt and the breakfast tray. I can't remember how long I went on like that. I was grateful that Craig was thorough enough to provide a napkin.

"Well, that was weird," I thought. I was puffy and tear-stained and my tongue was still a but numb, but I felt incredibly, wonderfully light.

What was so awful? So I got dumped. I was disappointed, but I had to admit that the fellow who did the dumping did so honestly and with concern. He was (and I am sure still is) a thoroughly decent fellow. Rather than concentrate on a man I didn't have anymore, I thought about one that I lived with, thanks to some quirk of fate and good timing, for the past four years and realized just how lucky I was. I got out of bed, wandered into the kitchen, and thanked him. I should have given him a big bear hug and told him that, despite the pain of that meal, I'd never felt better after eating anything in my life. I should have told him that I loved him, but I was twenty-two and felt weird about telling anyone I loved them.

Fortunately, a lot has changed since then. I can handle heat, I can cry unaided by painful food stuffs, I can tell the people who are important in my life that I love them.

And then there are some things that haven't changed. Craig's still there after twenty years. When I begin to mope and whine about all the things I don't have in my life, I check myself by thinking about all the great things I do. And Craig, his wife Shannon, and their wonderful/crazy children are always at the top of that list. So, since I'm here and all, I might as well say it.

Thanks for always being there, Craig. I love you, man.

Cambozola Quesadilla

Serves 1

Fortunately, I've grown to the point where I no longer need the help of chile peppers to make me cry. I can do that on my own, thank you very much. As a result, I am sparing with their use. If you still need such aid, I would suggest going overboard with them. It's your quesadilla, you can cry if you want to.

I've substituted habañero chiles for Scotch Bonnets in this recipe because they are easily available and hover in the same heat category (100,000 to 350,000) on the Scoville scale.

Quesadillas are incredibly versatile-- you can put just about anything in them, so long as the ingredients won't crack a tooth. I mean, Craig did. Add whatever you like.

Ingredients:

1 large flour tortilla

Cambozola cheese (rinds removed or not-- your choice), sliced into thin wedges.

Olive oil or butter for cooking

1 to 2 habañero chiles, finely chopped. Or Scotch Bonnets. Or, if you really need help, Law Enforcement Grade Pepper Spray (5,ooo,ooo+ Scoville rating). Or just skip making the quesadilla altogether and try intensive psychotherapy.

Preparation:

1. Heat a heavy-bottomed skillet, preferable cast iron (or, if you have one, a comal) with about a half-dollar-sized amount of butter or olive oil. Add tortilla and cook gently until little air pockets form.

2. Arrange cheese on one half of the tortilla. Sprinkle as much chopped chile as you dare, keeping the heat on low. Fold the empty side of the tortilla onto the one covered in cheese and chiles.

3. Wash hands thoroughly with soap and water. When living with Craig, I used a cutting board that had just been used to chop habañeros. Neither of us washed our hands, but merely rinsed them off quickly. I made the mistake of touching my eye. Craig made the greater mistake of going to the bathroom. We both retired to our respective bedrooms and writhed in pain in privacy.

4. Return to the quesadilla, increasing the heat slightly. Flip it every twenty seconds or so until both sides are browned and crisp and the insides melted.

5. Remove quesadilla from the skillet and cut into wedges. Serve with sour cream or Mexican crema, or whatever you like. Or just slide it onto a plate, crawl into bed, and prepare yourself for a good, long weep.

Happy Thanksgiving! This is my favorite holiday of the year (ok, I love Christmas too) because it's a time when I get together with my friends and prepare a delicious feast (always a good thing in my book), and look back over the past year and think about how lucky and grateful I am for everything I have in my life. So, without getting too mushy because I'm a big sap, I want to wish everyone out there a cozy, warm, and festive holiday.

If you're anything like me, you made way too much (or you are in the process of making way too much) for Thanksgiving. And in the days that follow, you will be looking for ways to not waste that delicious food you spent hours preparing.

When it comes to Thanksgiving leftovers, I'm always looking for something new and different. Something more than just reheating the turkey and stuffing and eating it again and again with cranberry sauce. I find that making it into a whole other dish, something that doesn't even resemble Thanksgiving, and adding spices that give it a new lease on life, gets me excited all over again.

Cheesy Turkey Quesadillas with Spinach and Mushrooms

Quesadillas are one of the yummiest ways, besides a frittata, to use up your leftovers. You can add all kinds of vegetables, like peppers, spinach, zucchini, or mushrooms and/or cooked meats like pork tenderloin, sliced steak, shredded chicken, or even bacon. Sandwiched together with gooey melted cheese, quesadillas are simple, quick, and deeeeeelicious. This recipe makes about 4 small quesadillas,

Small pat of butter
About 5 cremini mushrooms, sliced
Salt and freshly ground pepper
About 1/2 cup cooked chopped spinach, squeezed dry (I just dry saute fresh spinach in a pan)
Light olive oil or vegetable oil
8 small (about 4-5") corn tortillas
About 1 cup shredded Monterey Jack, pepper jack, cheddar or other mild cheese
About 1/2 cup shredded turkey
Guacamole, for serving
Salsa, for serving
Crema, sour cream, or yogurt, for serving

In a large frying pan, melt the butter, add the mushrooms, and season with salt and pepper. Saute until tender. Remove from the pan and add to the spinach; stir to combine. Lightly brush one side of 4 of the tortillas with oil and place oil-side-down into the frying pan (or use two pans if you can't comfortably fit all four tortillas in the pan without overlapping). Sprinkle the tortillas with half of the cheese, dividing it evenly between the four tortillas. Divide the spinach-mushroom mixture evenly between the tortillas, adding it in an even layer over the cheese. Divide the turkey evenly between the tortillas, adding it in an even layer over the spinach-mushroom mixture. Sprinkle the tortillas with the remaining half of the cheese, dividing it evenly between the four tortillas. Place the remaining four tortillas on top, and brush the tops lightly with oil.

Fry the tortillas over medium heat, turning once, until crisp and brown, and the cheese is melted. Serve, cut into quarters, with guacamole, salsa, and crema.

Turkey Pie

Who doesn't love a good pot pie? I mean, come on...have you ever had a homemade one? Well, maybe it's time. This is a really delicious way to use the rest of your turkey, or a roast chicken, or a bit of beef or lamb stew. Really, you could put any kind of stew in a pot pie, top it with pastry or biscuits or mashed potatoes and you'd be in heaven. Plus, this is the ultimate comfort food. This makes four or five individual pies.

4 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 small carrots, peeled and diced
1 medium leek, halved, cleaned, and thinly sliced
1 teaspoon fresh thyme, minced
1 cup shredded turkey
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
About 2 cups chicken stock
2/3 cup milk
1/4 cup dry white wine
1/3 cup frozen baby peas
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 cups mashed potatoes (good way to use up leftovers!)

Preheat the oven to 400F. In a deep saute pan, melt 1 tablespoon of the butter. Add the carrot, leek, and thyme and saute just until tender, about 4 minutes. Season with salt and pepper, and transfer to a bowl. Add the shredded turkey to the vegetables and set aside.

In the same pan, melt the remaining 3 Tablespoons butter. Add the flour and cook, stirring, until the mixture starts to brown. Slowly add the broth, whisking constantly, then the milk. Whisk until smooth and let simmer until the sauce thickens, about 2 minutes. Whisk in the wine, and season to taste with salt and pepper.

Pour the sauce into the bowl with the turkey and vegetables. Add the peas, and stir to combine. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Divide the mixture between four or five 1-cup ramekins. Top with dollops of mashed potatoes and bake until the potatoes are golden on top and mixture is bubbling, about 25 minutes.

Spicy Yammy Bacon Soup

The amount of soup you make will depend upon what you have leftover from your feast. You can use yams, sweet potatoes, butternut squash, pumpkin, or any other winter squash, assuming you have one of those traditional side dishes on your Thanksgiving table. Granted, each of these will impart a slightly different flavor to the finished soup, but that's part of the fun. A word to the wise, if you are going to use these in a soup, and sweet Aunt Bea brought her yam surprise to the potluck, be sure to scrape those melted marshmallows off the top. This soup works best with simple roasted or pureed yams or winter squash that haven't been doused with loads of sugar.

The recipe that follows is based on one from Nigel Slater, one of my favorite British food writers. It is good for maybe 4 people, so double, triple, or quadruple it depending upon how many yams you have leftover. My own personal soup philosophy is that you can never make enough soup because it freezes really well and then you have yummy warm homemade soup one cold, rainy night when you are too tired to move.

2 slices bacon, chopped into small pieces
1/2 small onion, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 to 1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
About 2 cups yam puree or other pureed winter squash (if it's not pureed, just stick it in your food processor and let 'er whirl)
About 2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1/4 cup whipping cream
Whipping cream, creme fraiche, or plain yogurt for drizzling
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

In a large saucepan, saute the bacon until crisp. Remove to a paper towel with a slotted spoon and discard all but 1 teaspoon of the fat. Add the onion and saute until translucent. Add the cumin, coriander, and red pepper flakes. Stir until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the yam puree, stock, and cream. Depending on how you prepared your yams to begin with, you might need more or less stock to thin the yams to soup consistency. Add the soup to a food processor or blender and puree until smooth. Pour back into the saucepan and heat gently over medium heat. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Serve in shallow bowls, drizzled with cream and sprinkled with bacon.