The first thing that struck me about The Beekman 1802 Heirloom Cookbook, written by Brent Ridge and Josh Kilmer-Purcell with Sandy Gluck, is the very first page. There's a smartly designed book-plate that reads:

First Generation to Own This Book: ____________

I think the very first page of the book says a great deal about the mission and ethos behind the project, the recipes, and the vision. Brent and Josh have a 200-year old farm outside of tiny Sharon Springs, New York where they produce goat's milk soap, cheeses, and other artisanal products along with hosting dinners and events. After deciding they firmly believed in capturing the work that was happening on the farm, preserving the food traditions they were introducing, and celebrating the small community surrounding them, a cookbook seemed like the next logical step.

Now the Beekman boys will be the first to ask the question, "does the world really need another cookbook?" This fall, especially, seems to be a banner season for new releases including The Family Meal, Bi-Rite's Eat Good Food, Essential Pepin, Ruhlman's Twenty and The Food 52 Cookbook among many others. So what sets this one apart? Sure, it's organized by seasons and focuses on feel-good recipes with a sense of history. But a lot of cookbooks do this. I think the true thing that sets the Beekman Boys' book apart is the definitive aesthetic and design (highly visual, quirky, a little bit irreverent), the approachable and inspired recipes appropriate for novice and more experienced cooks alike, and their push for generational cooking. I like this last part a lot. It's why I'm really sold on this book.

The photography by Paulette Tavormina captures the almost-down-home nature of the recipes beautifully. Most dishes are basic comfort food with a twist, and the photos really convey a warm, lived-in quality that make you want to pull up a chair and settle right into an evening meal at the farm. As far as the recipes are concerned, there are some that stand out right away for me. I've bookmarked Pea Pod Risotto, Meatloaf Burgers, Buttery Peach Cake, and Rosemary Spiced Nuts. The recipes range from simple salads and soups to more substantial entrees, side dishes and desserts. In addition, they do profiles of ingredients (raspberries, green beans, onions) and little "how-to" (yogurt cheese) sections that make the reader feel even closer to farm life. The headnotes for each recipe are approachable and become quite formulaic: the Beekman boys spell out why they're drawn to the recipe and then give a tip on preparation or shopping. For example, with the Broccoli Cheddar Soup recipe, they discuss using the broccoli stalks and florets and why each is useful.

But we really can't discuss the recipes without exploring the question: what exactly is a "heritage recipe"? In their introduction, Brent and Josh note that "heirlooms [are] recipes that we will make every year, recipes that we pass along to friends and family on scraps of paper. They are now as much a part of the story and life of Beekman 1802 Farms as are the house, the barn and the land." Later they go on to note that "heirlooms" of any kind are often irreplaceable and are, therefore, cherished. So they seem to have a two-fold mission: first, to publish recipes that have become important to them in living and creating a meaningful life on the farm and second, to encourage others to make these recipes a part of their own family traditions. There is a little "Notes" box next to each recipe to encourage readers to jot down what they liked, didn't like, or would change. They also supply sturdy note cards to jot down adaptations you might make with a certain recipe. Then, after doing so, Brent and Josh encourage readers to go to Beekman1802 to chronicle the changes. This way, each recipe will grow, change, and live on. For generations? Who knows. Time will tell, I suppose.

Is the book romanticizing their "newly bucolic [country] lives?" Sure. Absolutely. Regardless, the emphasis on family and the importance of traditions is especially relevant this time of year, especially as we tip-toe into fall and start to peek towards Thanksgiving. And that is why I so wanted to try out their Sweet Potato Pie recipe that appears towards the back of the book.

The Beekman Boys have given Bay Area Bites permission to reprint the recipe and I can tell you that it's already been decided that Sweet Potato is taking down Pumpkin this Thanksgiving at our house. This recipe is special largely because of its simplicity, attention to detail (uses two distinct kinds of sweet potato) and the addition of brown butter at the end. It's, in all honesty, a pie I was talking about for a good three days afterwards. I think you will, too. While the recipe doesn't delineate the timing, I've done so here below. I've also split the paragraphs up into numbered steps. Last, when making your pie dough, if lard isn't your thing, Martha Stewart's pate brisee is a perfectly lovely and reliable pie dough so go that route instead.

Sweet Potato Pie
To get a sweet potato pie that isn't overly sweet, we use two kinds of sweet potatoes: Japanese sweet potatoes, which are a little drier in texture and mildly sweet, and deep-orange garnet potatoes, which are moist and quite sweet. If the pie develops a crack in the center as it cooks, which many do, simply top with sweetened whipped cream, sour cream, or yogurt.

Prep Time: 25 minutes (to make dough)
Cook Time: 1 hour
Total Time: 1 hour, 25 minutes

Ingredients:
Basic Pie Dough *
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, grated
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup sour cream
3 large eggs
1 large egg yolk
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 cups pureed cooked sweet potatoes (from about 1 1/2 pounds)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Instructions:
1. On a lightly floured work surface, roll out the dough to a 12-inch round. Roll the dough around the rolling pin, and then fit it into a 9-inch deep-dish plate without stretching it.
2. Press the dough into the bottom and sides of the pan. With a pair of scissors or a paring knife, trim the edges of the dough to form a 1-inch overhand. Fold the overhand over to form a high edge, and with your fingers, crimp the dough all around. Refrigerate.
3. Preheat the oven to 350 F.
4. In a large bowl, whisk together the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt until well combined. Whisk in the milk, sour cream, whole eggs, egg yolk, and vanilla. Whisk in the mashed sweet potatoes.
5. In a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Cook until the butter foams; them continue cooking until the foam subsides and the butter turns a rich brown.
6. Immediately pour the browned butter into the sweet potato mixture and whisk until incorporated.
7. Place the pie plate on a rimmed baking sheet and pour the mixture into it. Bake for 1 hour, or until the pie is set with a slightly wobbly center.
8. Cool on a rack. Serve chilled or at room temperature.

*Basic Pie Dough
Ingredients:
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into bits
4 tablespoons cold lard, cut into bits
3-4 tablespoons ice water

Instructions: (note that there are two methods described below)
1. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, and salt. With a pastry blender or two knives used scissors fashion, cut in the butter and the lard until pea-size lumps remain.
2. Gradually add the ice water until the dough begins to come together but doesn't clean the sides of the bowl. Add just enough of the ice water so the mixture holds together when pinched between two fingers.

1. Alternatively, in a food processor, pulse together the flour, sugar, and salt.
2. Add the butter and lard and pulse 10 times or until large pea-size lumps are formed. With the motor running, gradually add the ice water until the dough begins to come together but doesn't clean the sides of the bowl.
3. Add just enough of the ice water so the mixture holds together when pinched between two fingers.
4. Shape into a disk, wrap in wax paper and refrigerate for at least 1 hour and up to 2 days.

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"Would you like Bleu cheese, French, Russian, Ranch, oil and vinegar, or Thousand Island dressing?" It was a familiar chant I'd hear from waiters and waitresses in restaurants high and low-end-- wherever I'd go in the 1970's.

Some might lament this time in our history as a sort of Dark Age of salads-- iceberg lettuce, either crispy or wilted, anemic tomatoes, and a packet or two of saltines that never seemed to make it to their intended consumer fully intact-- the thin, clear packaging holding fast to either your fingers or the side of your soda glass thanks to static electricity.

Others might have viewed this time in our country's life as a sort of Golden Age for thick, creamy salad dressings-- some much needed zing and oomph to perk up (or completely drown) the most flaccid of leafy green offerings.

I was strictly an oil and vinegar fellow. I shied away from the heavy stuff because I thought it would make me phlegmy. The Blue cheese dressing my mother preferred made me gag, the French looked like an aged whore with a terrible dye job, and the Russian seemed positively treasonous back then. The Ranch dressing, however, was appealing since it made me think of cowboys in tight jeans who smoked and drank and slept together in bunk houses when they weren't busy soaping each other up in antique horse troughs. I approached that dressing carefully. I would order a little bit of it on the side. It was for my french fries in case anybody asked.

And what about Thousand Island dressing? It left me completely baffled. I tried to imagine palm trees and tropical fruit and people wearing very little in the way of clothing, but things just didn't seem right. The people were always naturally a few shades darker than myself, as if they'd been sunning themselves on some kind of never-ending summer vacation. They were happy and beautiful and exotic. But then they came up with this mayo-based, pickle-and- chili-sauce-infused dressing to represent themselves? It made no sense.

How on earth were you supposed pour Thousand Island dressing over a pineapple?

It just wasn't tropical in my book. I mean, where were these people from? Which "thousand islands"? Were they Indonesian? Filipino? Bahamian? The French and the Russians would agree with me that Thousand Island dressing was culturally confused. And, since they were so busy entertaining each other, the ranch hands wouldn't even give it the time of day.

And neither would I. I decided that Thousand Island dressing was just a bad marketing idea and dismissed it from my consciousness, never having gotten to the bottom of this Thousand Island mystery. To me, the Thousand Islanders were sort of like the lost civilization of Atlantis, only creamier.

Occasionally, the dressing would creep into my consciousness. I'd wonder what made the special sauce on my burger so special. A diner would use Thousand Island dressing to pinch hit for the Russian dressing in my Reuben, but it never ever made it onto my salad plate.

Until now, that is. I've given it another chance. My fear of phlegm has cleared up, if you will.

And it's also due to the fact that I now understand where Thousand Island dressing is coming from. There is nothing tropical about it. Its success can be traced to a thrifty 19th Century New York housewife, a famous stage actress accused of getting a little too hot and heavy with her co-star, and a hotel magnate whose most famous hotel gave its name to another salad.

Thousand Island Dressing

The thousand islands in question are those that exist in the middle of the St. Lawrence river between Ontario, Canada and Upstate New York. In the late 19th Century, these islands existed chiefly for the benefit of the leisured classes.

One family who made its living off of these monied folk was the family La Londe of Clayton, New York. George La Londe, Jr. was a local guide who would take people who could afford to take time of off work around the river, showing them the best places to fish for pike or black bass or build a mansion or a dock for their yacht. On mild evenings, he would treat them to "shore dinners" wherein he would serve his wife Sophia's special dressing.

At one such dinner, a New York stage actress named May Irwin was so impressed with the dressing that she requested the recipe. It was she who gave the name "Thousand Island" to the dressing. Around the same time, she gave what is believed to be the world's first on-screen kiss for Thomas Edison. Whether or not her breath smelled of Thousand Island dressing is unclear. Sadly her food journal (in the 19th century, food blogs were handwritten and not kept online or backed up with Time Machine or Back Blaze) was destroyed in a fire.

Not long after giving Miss Irwin the recipe, Mrs. La Londe gave it to a Mrs. Bertrand, who served the dressing at her hotel where it was tasted by one George Boldt, owner of a local island mansion and, more importantly, the Waldorf Astoria hotel, where he insisted this delightful salad dressing be served. Clearly, Mr. Boldt loved his mayonnaise-based salad dressings. Thousand Island dressing was a sensation.

Or, at least, it caught on. I'd prefer not to be accused of sensationalism.

Makes about three cups.

Ingredients:

1 1/4 cups mayonnaise

1/3 cup bottle chili sauce

1/4 cup chopped drained pimientos

1 large hard-boiled egg, chopped and sieved.

2 tablespoons Dijon mustard

3 tablespoons finely chopped cornichons or dill pickles

2 tablespoons capers, drained

Tabasco sauce to taste.

Preparation:

Combine everything but the Tabasco sauce in a medium sized bowl. Mix well. Add Tabasco to taste.

Will keep well refrigerated for several days.

Where I work, we serve rabbit. It's a delightful dish, but when I describe it to guests, very often I am greeted with head-shaking, gasps of alarm, or-- sometimes-- the empathetic bunny-twitching of noses.

"Oh no, no, no," I've heard more than once,"I could never eat rabbit. They're so... adorable!"

Some people just can't stomach the thought of eating "cute." Of course quite often, these are the same people who ask me to describe for a second time the lamb special.

So when did lambs stop being cute? When their heads are removed? When they are slowly roasted over an open fire? When they are served with potatoes?

Why this aversion to rabbit, I ask?

For those folks who have kept rabbits as pets, the aversion is understandable, though why anyone would want one in their home is beyond me. They serve no practical domestic purpose of which I am aware. They don't do tricks (I stand corrected here. Some of them do do tricks). They are more than often pests-- just look at what happened to Australia.

Lambs are cute, too, and provide wool for sweaters and socks but we don't seem to have much of a problem eating them. Rabbits are turned into coats that only hookers seem to wear, so why do some people cry when they see them offered on a restaurant menu but don't seem to bat an eye when they read the word "lamb"?

Why would anyone else (apart from vegetarians) be averse to eating rabbit moreso than other animal flesh? Did they suffer through enough rabbit stews during the Great Depression and World War rationing? Is the Easter Bunny and his promises of candy to blame? Have we been brainwashed or bribed with enough sugar into believing the consumption of rabbit flesh is a crime against nature, but that somehow eating other adorable-looking animals is perfectly acceptable?

Or does it have something to do with Bugs Bunny? I've here people at my tables reference him (ad nauseum) and giggle after I mention our rabbit dish, but never do they mention Daffy Duck or Porky Pig or Foghorn Leghorn when they order their dishes of duck or pork or chicken, respectively.

Cute food, it seems, is wholly subjective.

The same people who profess horror at the thought of eating real rabbits do not seem to have a problem eating chocolate or marshmallow likenesses of them. Much thought is often given to which part of the delicacy should be eaten first-- the tail? the ears? It seems to me that it is one, short step from eating an effigy of something to eating the thing itself. (Okay, that's a bit of a stretch, but it's something else to think about. I mean, do vegetarians eat marshmallow peeps? It's just a question.)

I made that leap myself years ago. If you have no issues with consuming animal protein, I invite you now to join me in a little rabbit stew.

And while we're eating, perhaps you could next explain to me why it is that most people recoil in horror at the site of a rat minding its own business, yet squeal with delight whenever a squirrel rips a salted peanut out of their hand?

Oh, right. It's all about cute.

Hasenpfeffer with Bacon-Chive Spätzle

When researching Hasenpfeffer, I discovered that there seemed to be no two recipes that were alike. This doesn't surprise me given the fact that, for most of its history, Germany was little more than a patchwork of kingdoms, principalities, Margraves, and Palatinates. What on earth would lead me to think that Hanoverians, Prussians, Pomeranians, and Bavarians would ever unite over a rabbit dish?

Hasenpfeffer is a stew made from bits of rabbit or hare. Hasen is the German word for rabbit and, of course, explains why there is rabbit in the recipe. Pfeffer, which means "pepper" in the same language, refers to the little bits and pieces of rabbit which can be found in the stew and perhaps explains why there isn't a preponderance of actual pepper in the recipe. It's there alright, but not enough to merit a co-starring role.

I'll just chalk it up to my inability to grasp the nuances of the German language.

Serves 6 to 8 hungry people who are unafraid of eating cute creatures.

This is my own version-- a culling of others, with a few added touches of my own. I will never claim this recipe's authenticity as echt German but, being from Anaheim, which was (unsurprisingly) settled by Germans, I think it might be like some sort of birthright or something to lay claim to my own hasenpfeffer dish. It is a forgiving recipe, allowing for increases in amounts of the various ingredients, according to one's own tastes.

Ingredients:

Part One: The Marinade

2 rabbits (about 4 pounds), skinned and gutted and otherwise dressed.

1 1/4 cups dry red wine

3 cloves chopped garlic

about 1/2 cup shallots, thinly sliced

1 tablespoon dijon mustard

1 tablespoon kosher salt

Part Two: Stewing The Rabbit

1/3 cup all-purpose flour, for dusting the rabbit

1 to 1 1/4 cups water

1/2 pound bacon (I used Black Forest bacon because it just seemed to make sense.)

1 tablespoon red currant jelly

1/4 teaspoon dried rosemary, crushed

1/4 teaspoon dried thyme

1/4 teaspoon black peppercorns, crushed

1 bay leaf

A splash or two of apple cider vinegar to taste

Salt and more pepper to taste

A slurry of equal parts flour and water, in case the stew is not thick enough

Part Three: The Spätzle

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon ground pepper

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg (pre-ground works well, too, but not quite as well)

2 large eggs, preferably at room temperature

1/4 cup milk

As much fresh chive as you like, or 2-to-3 tablespoons, chopped

Preparation:

1. In a bowl large enough to accommodate all your rabbit meat, combine red wine, salt, shallots, garlic, and mustard. Whisk to combine well. Rinse rabbit meat. Separate the legs-- hind and fore-- from the rabbits' bodies, then divide the carcasses into three or four pieces. Add rabbit to the wine mixture, cover and refrigerate. This can sit in your ice box for up to three days. I recommend letting it sit at least over night.

2. When you are ready to make your hasenpfeffer, fry up your bacon on a medium-high heat until crisp in the largest frying pan, Dutch Oven, or otherwise heavy-bottomed skillet you've got. Patience in bacon-frying rewards you with more rendered fat, so go gently. When bacon is done, remove, drain on paper towels, and chop into bits. Leave the bacon fat in the pan.

3. In a large plate or wide, shallow bowl, put your flour. Remove rabbit pieces from marinade, pat dry, and dredge in flour, shaking off any excess. Working in two batches, brown the rabbit. If you don't have enough bacon fat to evenly coat the bottom of your pan, simply add enough olive oil to do so (I told you this was a forgiving recipe.). Strain the marinade, so that you might temporarily liberate the shallots.

4. When all the rabbit has been browned, remove to a plate then add the shallots to the pan. Sauté for three to four minutes to deepen their flavor (they will have virtually disintegrated by the time your stew is finished, so don't worry about their looks). Add your wine marinate and water to the pan and bring to a boil. Now add your thyme, rosemary, crushed black pepper, and red currant preserves.

5. Add your rabbit pieces to the pan and one half of the chopped bacon. Return to a boil and then back down to a simmer. Cover and let simmer for about 1 1/2 hours, or until the meat looks as if it might start falling of the bone, which is pretty much what you want to happen. If you have no proper lid for your largest pan, as I do not, cover well with aluminum foil, or aluminium foil, if you are preparing this dish in Canada.

6. Now here comes the exciting part-- the spätzle, which means "little sparrow" in Swabian, in case you didn't know. In a large bowl, combine flour, salt, nutmeg, and pepper. In a separate bowl whisk together the milk and eggs. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and gently pour in the egg-milk mixture. Draw in flour from the sides of the well and combine until the dough is smooth and think. Let rest for 10 to fifteen minutes.

7. Bring about 3 quarts of lightly salted water to a boil in a large, wide pot. Reduce to a simmer. To form the spätzle (or, if you prefer, spaetzle), hold either a spoon or colander with large holes over the simmering water (of course, if you had a spätzle press, you'd be using that) and push the dough through the holes with a spatula. Best to do this in 4 to 5 batches-- noodles do not take well to over-crowding. Cook each batch for 3 to 4 minutes, or until they float to the surface, as though they were, in fact, little sparrows that had been forcibly drowned and had finally given up on life. Remove the dead sparrows to a colander and let drain.

8. When the stew is ready, remove the rabbit pieces to a warm platter, placing said platter in a warm oven. If the remaining sauce is not as thick as you would like (read: gravy-like consistency) at a little flour/water slurry to firm things up, cooking long enough, of course, to properly cook the flour.

9. At this point, you could either strain the sauce through a sieve to have a smooth sauce, or leave it as is. I vote as is-- why get rid of all that bacon and lumpy goodness? It is entirely up to you.

10. Now-- and finally-- in a separate pan, add your spätzle, and remaining bacon, along with about a half cup (or more to taste) of your rabbit sauce. Toss gently and heat through. Remove the spätzle to the center of a large serving platter and garnish liberally with chopped chives. Arrange the rabbit pieces around the spätzle, pour over as much of the sauce as you like and some more chives, should you find the need for more color.

Proudly serve your guests this platter of dead bunnies and little sparrows with a side of steamed, whole baby carrots. To young children. While they are watching Warner Bros. cartoons. One mights as well make as grand a statement as one can.

***And for those of you curious enough about the lead photo, it is the work of one Nicky Dunbar of Canada. He has spent the past several weeks photographing and otherwise giving life to a gold-wrapped chocolate bunny. It's a thing he does. I hope he gets around to eating it soon.

I never thought I had an issue with cauliflower. In fact, I've always enjoyed it, whether puréed into a soup, roasted to a nutty brown, or dragged through a bit of ranch dressing that always seems to accompany store-bought party crudité platters. Any time it is put in front of me, there is a good chance I'll eat it.

And yet I've never in my life cooked it. At least, not that I can remember.

I'd see it in the market, buy a head of the stuff and bring it home where it would just rot in my refrigerator, not so much forgotten as avoided.

I've gotten as far as placing one on my cutting board, but when I took out my 10" chef's knife, I paused, changed my mind at the last moment, and put the thing back into cold storage. For some reason, I just didn't want to cut up a head of cauliflower. I never gave it much thought until a few months ago.

When I remembered Ben.

On the very last day of elementary school, my friend Shannon and I began our final walk home with a boy named Benjamin Brenneman in tow. I can no longer remember what we all talked about or how the conversation turned ugly. All I can remember is the smell of the cut, dried grass and clover and wanting Benjamin to just go away.

Shannon and I, who were no strangers to teasing and bullying, found a release for our own frustrations upon this poor little blond boy with big eyes and the misfortune of having ears that stuck out. Whether he provoked our anger or not, I can't remember, but one thing seems clear to us-- or at least to me-- he was someone I could pick on, much in the way that other boys had always picked on me.

He was easy prey.

"You have cauliflower ears," I said. I'd heard the term somewhere, though I had no idea what it actually meant. I'd only meant to insult him. When he protested that he did not, in fact, have cauliflower ears, I persisted.

"Cauliflower ears!" Shannon joined in. It seemed all we could do was scream those words at him as if that sort of crazed chant would somehow make it true.

"Caulifower ears! Cauliflower ears! Cauliflower ears!" Shannon and I had whipped ourselves into a frenzy, and Ben, finally, ran away in tears.

I wasn't pleased with myself. I don't even know what I was thinking. Perhaps it was the illogical thought that, if I could give out the sort of abuse I was so used to getting, I'd feel better. But, of course, I only felt worse. I don't think I had ever made another boy cry before on purpose except in self-defense. I knew that I owed him an apology. My hope was that, since we were about to enter the more grown-up world of middle school, we'd all be given a free pass, a clean slate to start out fresh. I'd make it up to Ben when we started the seventh grade.

But I never got the chance.

Over the summer, on August 25th, 1981, to be exact, Ben was making his rounds as a paperboy, collecting subscription money on his route when he entered the apartment of a man named Robert Jackson Thompson by whom he was hogtied, sodomized, and strangled. Thompson, it was later learned, had been paroled from prison four months earlier where he had been serving time for molesting a 14 year-old boy at knifepoint.

Ben's murder was all anyone could talk about for the first couple of days at middle school. Nearly every conversation began with, "Did you hear about Ben?" The stories of his murder became distorted and even more horrifying. After two days, the rumor spread that he had been dismembered; that parts of his body were found all over the county and that police were racing about trying to find them as though Ben was the sole source some sort of macabre treasure hunt.

And then, suddenly, everyone stopped talking about him. By end of the week, it seemed as if Benjamin Brenneman had never existed at all. I did my best to forget him, too. With adolescent logic, I had blamed myself for contributing in some way to his death in much the same way that a child of divorced parents might blame himself for their separation. I couldn't bear the fact that I had caused him pain, that I had so easily victimized him. I imagined him trapped inside Thompson's apartment looking at his murderer with the same big eyes that I had so recently made cry.

It was too much to bear. I stuffed it away somewhere and did my best to forget all about it, just like everybody else.

Survival skills are fascinating things. To think that something as traumatic as a child murder could be ever be forgotten. More interesting to me is that I was only reminded of it whenever I tried to take a knife to a simple head of cauliflower. Even then, the feeling was only a vague sort of dread. No vivid memory of Benjamin, just an avoidance. I never cried or felt any sort of terror.

When I finally made the connection, I was stunned. I hadn't thought about that poor boy in decades. And when I did, I felt ashamed that the only memories I now retain of him are of the last day I saw him. I can't remember playing with him at recess, the telling of jokes, or anything good-- it was all there, I just can't remember any of it.

I recently asked Shannon if she remembered that last day of school. She had only a hazy recollection and recalled nothing about the name we called him. That is, until a few minutes later, when things started to come back to her, albeit vaguely. I wanted to talk more about it with her, but we were distracted by her children. I took a look at her eldest child-- my 11 year-old goddaughter-- sitting there drawing Manga characters, wondering aloud when we were going to (finally) watch Funny Girl together, and complaining that her little sister was bothering her.

I couldn't help but think that she was the same age Ben was the last time I saw him. I didn't share my thoughts with her mother. I decided to just let the whole thing go.

Cauliflower with Orecchiette

When I told my friend Karen my plans of writing this essay about Ben, she took a sip of the Negroni I'd made her, relaxed her face a little, and said, "You know what you need to make, don't you?" It was obvious to her, but not to me-- Orecchiette with cauliflower. Cauliflower and little ears.

It isn't meant so much as a pun as it is a kind of memento mori-- a dish that I will add to my repertoire so that I might think of Ben from time to time, to remind myself just how short our stay in this world can be, and to make the most of what time I'm lucky enough to have left.

The following is a (very) freely adapted version of Donna Scala's (Bistro Don Giovanni in Napa, California). I've added breadcrumbs, changed the cheese and too many other things to accurately call it hers, but it is from her recipe that I have based mine.

Serves 4 to 6

Ingredients

1 head of cauliflower, broken into florets

1 pound orecchiette pasta

4 to 5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

4 cloves of garlic, minced

1/2 teaspoon crushed red chili flakes

1/4 cup toasted bread crumbs

A generous handful of arugula

3/4 cups Pecorino Romano cheese

Water and salt for boiling pasta and steaming cauliflower

1/4 cup of pasta water, reserved

Preparation:

1. Steam cauliflower florets over boiling, salted water until they are tender-- easily pierced with a fork (about 8 to 9 minutes). Set aside.

2. Bring a large pot of salted water (the water should taste briny, as Ms. Scala says) to a rolling boil. Cook until al dente (8 to 10 minutes). Reserve about 1/4 cup of the water, drain, and keep warm.

3. Heat olive oil in a large skillet. Add garlic and stir until lightly cooked. Add cauliflower and a pinch or two of salt. With the back of a heavy spoon or whatever cooking utensil you are using, lightly mash the florets.

4. Pour the reserved pasta water into skillet and stir in. Add chili flakes and pasta to the pan. Add in arugula and a small fistful of cheese. Toss some more.

5. Transfer to a serving bowl, sprinkle with bread crumbs and the rest of the grated cheese. Serve immediately.

A little while back, my friend Deborah asked me if I would be interested in learning how tofu was made.

I couldn't think of any good reason not to be interested, so I said, "Yes," and met up with her and a few other nice people at the Hodo Soy Beanery in Oakland.

I enjoyed the tour, alright. In fact, it got me thinking (for once) about soy.

The thought of soy beans has never taken up much space in my head, nor have I given much in the way of thinking about soy products save for three, sketchy opinions:

1. Soy milk is a a godsend to the multitudes of breakfast cereal-loving, lactose-intolerant people in the world.

2. Tofu is a much relied upon meat substitute for vegetarians and the poor of Eastern Asia.

3. Thanks to plant estrogens (phytoestrogens) found naturally in soy beans, if I suddenly took to eating nothing but soy products, I might grow female breasts.

Number three, by the way, is totally false, so far as I can tell. Consumption of plant estrogens have no effect upon testosterone levels in males, which makes me wonder if a high intake of fenugreek (which contains phytotestosterone) would actually make me bigger, hairier, and stronger.

And, though numbers one and two are essentially correct, I found that my opinions of soy were based solely upon the notion that it merely existed as a substitute for other things-- things that other people might neither be able to digest nor afford. I had never considered soy products like tofu as foods that deserved to stand on their own merits.

That is, until I met yuba.

For those of you unfamiliar with the stuff, yuba is the Japanese word for "skin", which is precisely what it is-- the skin that forms atop heated soy milk, much the way a skin forms atop heated cow's milk or even chocolate pudding (which is giving me ideas).

Yuba-making is one of those (blessedly) rare food stuffs that cannot be produced by machine without sacrificing the texture and quality that makes it attractive in the first place. It must be plucked by hand from a heated basin of soy milk, folded, left to hang and drip dry, and then folded again. The result is silky and a little creamy, with the texture of that thin layer of scrambled egg that might coat the bottom of a non-stick pan.

It is my new food crush. Yuba can be pressed into blocks, cut into noodles, fried, eaten like sashimi, and God knows what else. Loving the texture as much as I do, I was even tempted to paper my kitchen walls with it, which would have been lovely for about a day, until it started to decompose. I look forward to playing with it some more, perhaps even making my own.

And, of course, now I'm wondering if a chocolate pudding yuba would actually work.

Does the Yuba City Chamber of Commerce know about this stuff? I think they might be missing a wonderful marketing opportunity.

Fresh Yuba Salad

In the mean time, I'll just let the yuba tell me what it needs. Today, it told me it felt like being a salad, so I just cut it into noodle-like strips, threw in a couple of playmates, and tossed them all in a simple dressing.

And it's really, really good, too.

Serves 2.

Ingredients

2 sheets of fresh yuba

1/3 English cucumber, unpeeled and julienned

2 scallions, thinly sliced up to and including as much of the dark green part as you dare

2 tablespoons sesame oil

1 teaspoon fish sauce

1 teaspoon rice wine vinegar

1 teaspoon tamari or other Japanese soy sauce (soy, meet soy)

Black sesame seeds for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a small bowl, combine sesame oil, fish sauce, rice wine vinegar, and tamari. Set aside.

2. Unfold your sheets of yuba and slice into noodles-- the wideness of which is entirely up to you. In Italian-speak, mine are slightly wider than tagliatelle. Add julienned cucumbers and sliced scallion.

3. Whisk dressing and drizzle over yuba. Toss with hands (clean, please) and taste. Adjust seasonings, if desired. Transfer into serving dish, garnish with black sesame seeds, and consume-- fresh.

4. Repeat as often as necessary until you get over your newly-found yuba fetish.

The Lunar New Year, or Tet as my peeps call it, brings with it many favorite dishes. Fatty pork and sugar dominate the holiday table, harking back to a time when ingredients fat and sweet were much more difficult to obtain, precious to use, and delightfully rare to enjoy.

While I can now buy a 10-pound bag of sugar and an equal amount of meat for less money than a couple of movie tickets, the most traditional new year's dishes are still special for one resource that does remain valuable: time.

Soi Nuoc is one of those meditative, celebratory foods for me. It means, literally, Sticky Rice in Water. Unlike the Chinese, the Vietnamese can be rather literal and unromantic when naming their food. No matter. Who needs fancy language when you have in your hands a beautiful bowl with pale, round balls of chewiness floating in spicy-sweet ginger syrup? Inside hides a spoonful of rich filling: black sesame seeds or red bean paste or golden mung beans bound with lard. (These days, butter or oil makes a fine substitute for those of us watching our pork intake.)

Each perfect dumpling evokes purity and completeness. It celebrates the return of the festive, fertile full moon. It embodies the richness and sweetness of life. The sweet rice dumpling even inspire poets, such as the famed Ho Xuan Huong, an 18th-century Vietnamese woman famous for her intimate, elegant verses:

My body is white and my destiny round,
I float and sink, water and mountain.
Hard or soft, I depend on the skills of
the person who kneads me.
Despite everything, I always keep
a consistent heart.

In China, where they're known as yuan xiao or tang yuan, the dumplings are traditionally served during the Lantern Festival, which falls on the 15th day of the 1st lunar month. During an especially important season, the festival comes on the first full moon of the new year and marks the end of the new year festivities. Here in San Francisco, this is typically the time when the Chinese New Year parade winds its way up the streets of Chinatown. The dumplings are also enjoyed throughout the year at many dessert houses throughout the Bay Area. Look for them on menus at your favorite Chinese restaurant or boba tea house.

The recipe for soi nuoc is very simple. You can buy finely ground glutinous rice at nearly all Asian markets (look for California's own Blue Star Mochiko, produced by the Koda family in the San Joaquin Valley since the late 1940s). You'll need just a handful of other basic ingredients, a friend or two to help roll, several more to eat, and -- most importantly -- a break in your routine to enjoy the simple, sweet things in life.

GINGER SYRUP

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 cups boiling water
3 inches ginger root, peeled and crushed

In a small, heavy pot, melt the sugar over medium-high heat. Swirl for even melting, but do not stir to avoid crystallization. When the sugar is a dark amber, remove from heat and pour in the water -- take care, as it may splatter. Stir to melt the sugar completely. Add the ginger, return to low heat, and simmer for 10 minutes.

Alternatively, dissolve dark brown sugar in water and simmer with the ginger for 10 minutes. Don't tell your mom.

Remove the chunks of ginger and set the sauce aside.

SESAME FILLINGS

1/2 cup white sesame seeds
1/2 cup black sesame seeds
6 tablespoons lard or melted butter, divided
4 tablespoons sugar, divided
Salt

Toast the sesame seeds separately, taking care not to scorch them. In a mortar or pestle, blender or mini food processor, combine the white sesame seeds with 3 tablespoons butter, 2 tablespoons sugar and a pinch of salt. Puree to a thick, coarse paste. Transfer to a small bowl. Repeat with the black sesame seeds. Set both aside.

SWEET RICE DUMPLINGS

2 1/4 cups glutinous rice, plus more for kneading
1 cup very hot water

To make the dough: Place the rice in a large bowl and make dimples all over the surface with your fingers to encourage faster incorporation of the water. Pour the water evenly over the surface of the rice in a spiral, then immediately stir with a wooden spoon to mix into a shaggy dough. Transfer to a clean surface and knead for about 5 minutes to obtain a smooth, soft dough. Sprinkle lightly with additional rice flour, if needed, to prevent sticking to your hands or to the work surface. Roll the dough into a long log, cut into 24 pieces, and set aside, covered with a moist cloth.

To form the dumplings: Roll each piece of dough into a ball, flatten slightly, and then pinch up the outer edge to create a small bowl. Place about 1/2 teaspoon of sesame filling into the center, then gather up the side and pinch together to seal tightly. Roll again between your palms, pressing gently, to create a smooth ball. Continue with 18 of the pieces. Cut the remaining 6 pieces of dough into 4 smaller pieces, then roll each of those into a compact ball with no filling.

To cook the dumplings: Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the large, filled dumplings and boil for about 5 minutes. Add the small, unfilled dumplings and continue boiling for another 2 to 3 minutes. The dumplings will float to the surface of the water as they cook. Turn occasionally to keep them moist and evenly cooked.

Remove them from the water with a slotted spoon, place in a bowl of cold water to rinse away excess starch, and then transfer to the ginger syrup. Serve in individual bowls, mixing large dumplings with small ones and drizzling generously with the syrup.

Watch This Week in Northern California tonight, Friday February 26 at 8pm to see Leslie Sbrocco, host of Check, Please! Bay Area in a new segment on local food and wine trends. This week, a conversation about celebrating the food and traditions of the Chinese New Year with Bay Area Bites bloggers, Thy Tran and Stephanie Im.

The olive tree has provided food, shelter, light, and lubrication to half of my ancestors for the past few thousand years. Those swarthy Mediterraneans who kindly passed along their sun-loving, cancer-resistant genes spent generation upon generation cultivating the fruit of this tree. In fact, some of them so closely associated themselves with it that they began to be called Olivieri, or "the olive growers."

I can only imagine the horror they might feel if they knew that all those centuries of close association with and loving care for olives came to a sad genetic end with three children whose only experience with the fruit was sticking tinny-tasting canned black Mission olives on their finger tips like bulbous Goth press-on nails and sucking them off one by one.

Fortunately, I now have the utmost respect for olives.

As my tastes matured and (hopefully) refined, I came to experiment with higher quality olives-- nothing canned was allowed. First came the Greeks, like Kalamatas, and beautiful green Amfissas, which seem to have ended up in my martinis. Then came the French types, like the Niçoise and picholine, which ended up in my tapenades.

Tapenade. I've been an enormous fan of it for years, since I discovered that it satisfies not only my near-constant hunger for salt, but allows me to honor my ancestors without having to try too hard. It's a flavorful homage with a sharp, French twist, which suits me just fine. It is earthy and basic. Any sort of tarting up should be avoided.

For example (there is always an example, you know), when I was young and foolish enough to attend culinary school, I found myself in a senior term garde manger class. For those of you who don't know, garde manger is the department of a kitchen responsible for creating salads, hors d'oeuvres, aspics, and charcuterie. In more elaborate set-ups, the garde manger also creates fabulous ice sculptures and salt dough fantasies. Think: cruise ship.

In our class, however, ice sculpting was out of the question, so we were invited/forced to create what are called "mirrors." Now for those of you unclear on the idea, "mirrors" are platters of cold food, like sliced aspics and terrines, that are arranged upon, unsurprisingly, mirrors. In cooking school, each morsel is handled about twenty-seven thousand times by students eager to get things "just right" and then offered up to unsuspecting diners at discount prices.

I had been in charge of creating one such mirror to be presented to the public at one of our Friday luncheon buffets, just like a real restaurants might have. Unlike real restaurants, however, we had an entire week to create a single platter of food. There were two other students under me in whom I had no confidence whatsoever.

I decided that the three of use were going to stay true to the spirit of garde manger, which was to create dishes using the leftovers of other departments. That was the way, after all, that restaurants increased their profit margins, wasn't it? All the other teams seemed to be ordering fresh, exotic ingredients: black truffles for a terrine (request denied), blue corn tortilla chips for an edible version of the Brazilian flag (approved). I was horribly smug. I was feeling superior.

And then, I was feeling sick. I was out of school for three days with the flu.

When I returned the day of the buffet, I discovered that I had been (understandably) replaced as mirror team leader. To my great joy, the woman in charge had taken the spirit of garde manger to heart as well and refused to purchase any new ingredients. "Maybe this won't be so bad, after all," I thought. I could offer advice here and there, but I could not insist upon anything. When I wandered over the the Brazilian team to compliment them on their design, but let them know as gently as possible that, though we may spell Brazil with a "z," the folks of that country spelled it with an "s" on their flag, I was met with an unprintable expletive. After that, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't say one more (expletive) word about anything for the rest of the day.

Which was a pity, since I returned to find my teammates placing precious little quenelles of tapenade upon little toasts that looked like the real thing, only shrunk to doll size. I had thought to caution them against quenelles, because quenelles of anything brownish in color are never a good idea because they would only remind people of what happens to their food after the important bits have been digested by the body.

Our mirror was going to look like a four-letter word beginning with "s." Literally.

"That tapenade needs some color, don't you think?" asked the new team leader.

"Well, what do you think? You're the boss." is all I said. I was tired, getting over the flu, and I no longer cared.

"I think it needs a garnish," she said.

She went off to the walk-in refrigerator to see what she could find. A few minutes later, she returned with a box of cherry tomatoes and some chives. With her sharp, 10" chef's knife, she quartered the tiny cherry tomatoes and placed one on top of each quenelle. As a final flourish, she added two sprigs of chive.

It was brilliant. Out of scraps and nothing, she had created what looked like a small army of ladybugs-- each freshly-landed on its own, private pile of dung-- floating on rafts of toast. And the best part of it all was that she hadn't the faintest idea what little bit of genius she had created.

I can no longer recall what else was on that mirror alongside those ladybugs. Nor can I remember the third person on our team or what kind of grade we got for that wonderfully awful presentation. I do, however, remember that none of the guests lunching with us ate anything off our display. They did, however, come back to look. And point.

I hope my ancestors aren't rolling in their crumbling sun-bleached graves and family vaults over this sort of blasphemy. After all, I had nothing to do with it except let it happen. I would never let decent olives be treated in such a way again. Except, of course, to photograph it and share with you, dear reader.

We Mediterraneans, we are generous souls.

Olive Tapenade

This mindlessly simply dish hails from Marseilles-- a seaport town famous for many things one might expect seaport towns to be famous for: seafood dishes, like bouillabaisse; sailors, like Popeye (on his mother's side); and, of course, women whose income is derived from sailors, like Mme. Popeye.

Serve tapenade with whatever you like. It's excellent on toasted bread, slathered on chicken before or after baking, or alongside roasted fish. It plays well with tomatoes, too-- I just ask you to please not serve them as seen above, unless you are deliberately trying to make an unpleasant statement of some kind.

Makes about 1 cup

Ingredients:

2 cups of pitted Kalamata olives (Use whatever olives suit your taste: Niçoise, Gaeta, Nyons, etc.)

2 tablespoons capers

3 to 4 anchovies (use less or omit if you are not into them as much as I am)

1 clove crushed garlic

1 to 2 tablespoons of fresh lemon juice (add according to taste, naturally)

About 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil.

Preparation:

Toss olives, capers, anchovies, and garlic into a food processor. Pulse until roughly chopped. With one hand on the "pulse" button, drizzle in olive oil with your other hand and pulse until desired texture results (It is at its most charmingly rustic when left chunk-style. The photo shows one that has been made to smooth for the purposes of story). Add lemon juice to taste. Serve.

I don't much feel like being clever today. My thoughts are 3,286 miles away in Port-au-Prince-- a city I have yet to visit.

Perhaps it is the fact that I live in a city that has been devastated by earthquakes in the past and will be, undoubtably, devastated again that the one in Haiti has taken up so much of my attention. The thought of those people I love most in the world killed, or trapped alive by fallen concrete and steel is something I wonder if I would have the strength to bear.

Fortunately for us, we have strict earthquake-driven building codes. We have support and money and infrastructure-- what little of that the people of Port-au-Prince had is destroyed or severely crippled.

Haitians need food, they need shelter, they need clothes, and they need medicine.

And, no matter what Mr. Limbaugh says, they need our sympathy and our money.

If you are interested in donating money to the cause of helping the victims of the Port-au-Prince earthquake I would recommend a quick visit to Charity Navigator. It can answer any questions/concerns you might have about text-driven donations, and assist in your decision as to which charity you might give.

Or check out KQED's own Haiti Aid Resource Guide while you're here.

If you want to donate money specifically toward food aid in Haiti The Atlantic has an article linking to food aid resources.

There is a growing number of local restaurants, musicians, book publishers, and whatnots joining the Haiti donating various percentages of their proceeds (in some cases 100%) to Haitian Relief. If you can stomach the exaggerated, offensive photo borrowed from The New York Post, you might actually find some good activities in which to engage over at Eater SF.

Labouyi Bannann

As I was baking off the bit of fun I had originally planned to share today, everything just felt wrong. As I stood in my kitchen, I realized that I had never given much thought to Haiti. Period. I knew nothing of their music, or culture, or food. All that had ever come to mind prior to yesterday were thoughts of slavery, revolution, poverty, and natural disaster. Never in my life had I had a single, happy thought about the place.

I wondered what the people of Haiti ate? There are few better ways of getting the feel of an unfamiliar place or culture than to eat their food. If I were Haitian, I'd want something nourishing and, above all, comforting.

And that's where Labouyi Banann comes in.

It's porridge, essentially-- one made from ripe banana and unripe plantain. There are myriad ways to spell it, but only one way to eat it-- with a spoon. Make that two ways to eat it-- hot or cold. Either way, it's a good way to start the day. Or end it, for that matter. The following recipe makes six to eight servings, so I will be breakfasting on it every morning and, while I do, I will be reading and watching and praying for things to get better (can these people please get a break once in a while?) in Haiti.

Ingredients

1 unripe (green) plantain

1 large or two small, ripe yellow bananas

2 cups water

1 can (12 oz.) of evaporated milk

1 can (12 oz.) of coconut milk (or 1 cup whole milk)

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

3 cinnamon sticks

2 whole star anise

A pinch of grated nutmeg

A heavy pinch of salt

½ light or dark brown sugar (white sugar will work, too)

½ teaspoon grated lime zest

More dark brown sugar and lime zest for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a blender, purée plantain, banana, and water until smooth.

2. Place purée into a medium sized, heavy-bottomed pot. Bring to a boil over low to medium heat.

3. Add evaporated and coconut milks, lime zest, sugar, star anise, nutmeg, salt, and cinnamon sticks. Bring again to a boil and reduce to a simmer for 15 to 20 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent any burning. The texture should less like oatmeal and more like Cream of Wheat. Turn off heat and stir in vanilla.

4. This can be eaten hot or cold. Garnish with a sprinkle of dark brown sugar and lime zest.

About a week ago, I had some friends over for snacks and mulled cider before heading off for an evening of strange aural excitement.

As we were all gathered around the coffee table chatting, I asked my friend Rebecca what she had been up to.

She told us she had recently worked some swank party for 500 or so guests that had employed some 80 chefs, Rebecca being one of them. Apparently, it was so swank that she was not allowed to specify names or locations. What she did mention, however, was that she was in charge of making fritto misto for all 500 guests. In other words, fried seafood platters for the entire population of Dow City, Iowa.

"Wow. five hundred?" I asked, "How many bags of Fritos did you go through?"

I have a habit of asking incredibly stupid questions with a serious look on my face which sometimes throws people. Rebecca, fortunately, is not among them. She just arched an eyebrow and smiled. And then we wondered aloud if a fritto misto made with actual Fritos might work.

Of course it can. And why the hell not?

Fritto misto, after all, is a dish left open to wide interpretation, even in Italy. The most famous version, fritto misto di mare, hails from Venice, Italy and consists primarily of seafood, which isn't exactly shocking news when one thinks about it. A little further south and west, the folks in Modena prefer calves' brains, livers, and sweetbreads. Others like a purely vegetarian mix. It has even been tried, with varying degrees of success, with fruit. Hmmm. So if you object to my using a bag of chips in my recipe, that's your own issue. I happen to think it's rather charming.

And I am totally unashamed in my love of Fritos ® corn chips. And fried seafood. So I kind of married them a little. And before you ask, the Fritos people aren't paying me to say I like them. I just do.

Fritos corn chips, if you didn't know, were the brain child of two Texas brothers, Earl and Elmer Doolin, and their mother, Daisy. So it seems only fitting that this particular version of fritto misto should have a sufficiently Texas feel to it.

While developing this recipe, I ran into all sorts of problems. Batter-dipped or simply dredged? I thought a beer batter would be great-- especially with a Texas beer like Shiner Bock-- but it was too heavy for my liking. Should I simply coat everything in crushed Fritos and fry away? Definitely not. The Fritos crumbs just turned black and sank to the bottom of the frying pan. Whatever method I tried, the Fritos just burned. And then I realized something:

Fritos are already fried. It's says so in plain Spanish right there in the name. Since I was not going for a re-fritto misto, I decided that, since the chips were already fried, I would have to come up with something else. So I did.

And here you are:

Fritos Misto
Serves 4

This is essentially fritto misto with a little extra help at the end. There are two tricks involved: not over-frying your seafood, and dumping your hot, fried things (after a good shake or two to remove excess oil) directly into and awaiting bowl of ground Fritos for a good tossing. And, if you want it more corn chippier, just sprinkle the finished platter with an extra handful.

Ingredients:

2 quarts vegetable oil. The Italians use olive oil, but this isn't Italy and my wallet won't allow for such luxuries.

1 pound fresh shrimp, peeled and deveined, preferably 21/25 count.

1/2 pound fresh calamari (not exactly Texan, I know, but I like it and it is, essentially, fritto misto).

1 cup of green beans, cut into 2" pieces

1 jalapeño pepper, sliced crosswise into 1/4" pieces

Fresh cilantro

2 cups milk (whole, non-fat, whatever)

1 cup of all-purpose flour

Salt, black pepper, and Cayenne pepper to taste

2 cups ground Fritos corn chips.

Lemon or lime wedges for garnish and eventual squeezing.

Preparation:

1. Fill a wide, deep pan with frying oil about halfway full. Heat oil to about 375° F.

2. In a food processor or, if you are living somewhere that lacks electricity or simply feeling old-fashioned, mortar and pestle, grind corn chips into a fine consistency. Set aside.

2. Combine flour, salt, black pepper, and Cayenne pepper in a wide, shallow bowl or dish. Set aside.

3. Soak the to-be-fried items (in this case: shrimp, calamari, green beans, and jalapeño pepper) in milk for a minute or two.Working in two batches (or as many as you need, really, but I should add here that it is best to work as quickly as possible), take one half of your fry fodder, shake off excess milk, dredge in flour mixture, shake off excess flour, then fry for about one minute. You aren't looking for golden brown here. In fact, if you achieve golden brown, you've more than likely overcooked the seafood.

4. Remove fried items from fryer, shake to remove excess oil (this recipe, it seems, is all about shaking and avoidance of excesses), and toss into awaiting corn chip crumbs.

5. Repeat with second half of fry fodder.

6. Place your Fritos misto on a warm platter and garnish with citrus wedges and cilantro leaves which may or may mot also have been fried. Drink with a cold, Texas beer and wonder what other near-literal interpretation of a classic dish you can think up next.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Every %@*&-ing where I go. The store windows, the hideous wreaths on the bumpers of SUVs, the Holiday sweaters, the music (please, God, make it stop). I'm already up to my turtleneck in Holiday Crazy and we're two weeks away from the big day.

It's a tough, depressing time of year for a lot of people. The days are short, the nights are cold, and the pressure of putting forth good cheer is enough to drive anyone slightly mad. Alright, it's enough to drive me mad. I promise not to speak for anyone else.

I should just count my blessings and remember all of those things I said a was grateful for over the last holiday.

One of the things for which I am currently grateful is the fact that I do not live in Sweden. It's a gorgeous country alright, with gorgeous people and whatnots, but really. If it's cold here, it's colder there. And the nights? Long. Really, depressingly long. I sometimes wonder how they get through the winter in one piece.

Apart from the medicinal use of sunlamps, one major way the Swedes cope with the winter blues is alcohol. And lots of it. Of course, this is how a lot of people cope with the Holiday season. It's a double-edged sword, really, (do I need to mention that alcohol is a depressant?) so you may want to proceed with caution. May.

This winter, one of my several drinks of choice is a nod of solidarity with my half-frozen Swedish brothers and sisters-- glögg. It's festive without trying too hard, it's simple to make in large batches, it's warm, it's delicious, and, with the help of a little brandy, it really helps take the edge off the Holidays. And, of course, it's just plain fun to say. If you're not quite certain how to pronounce it, just sidle up to a Swede-- they're a friendly lot.

Glögg

Makes about 6 servings

One of my favorite things about glögg (apart from its remarkable warming powers) is the fact that the Swedes have included bar snacks right there in the drink. By adding almonds and raisins that (usually) sink to the bottom of the glass, you've got one more reason to say "bottoms up" or, if you really want to carry the Swedish thing a bit farther, "skål."

Ingredients:

1 bottle (750 ml) dry red wine. Don't be foolish enough to use one of your best bottles. One that is merely drinkable will do.

1 cup brandy

12 while cloves

6 to 8 cardamom pods, lightly crushed

2 cinnamon sticks (you may break them into pieces, if you like)

1/2 cup sugar

4 to 6 strips of orange zest (which may be used later as garnish)

raisins and blanched almonds for garnish

Preparation:

1. Combine wine, brandy, cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon in a saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium head for about 15 minutes. Do not boil and do not over-simmer or else you will cause too much of the precious, medicinal alcohol to evaporate. Stir in sugar and orange zest.

2. Sprinkle raisins and almonds into the bottoms of however many glasses you're using.

3. Strain glögg through a sieve, saving the orange zest for garnish, if using, pour into awaiting glasses, and serve hot.