I have always had this thing for Southern people. I don't know exactly what it is about them, but I tend to collect them much in the same way I collect Canadians and Edward Gorey first editions. Maybe it was my obsession with Gone with The Wind at age nine, or maybe it was the fact that, at the age of five, I insisted I was a Southerner because I was from Southern California and could argue that Anaheim was at approximately the same latitude as Atlanta, Georgia.. There are lots of reasons, really, but none of them are really very important.

The lady-- and I do mean lady-- in the above photograph was very, very Southern. Her name was Elsieberry King. Elsieberry-- you just can't get more Southern than that. She was the best friend of my best friend's mother in Greensboro, North Carolina. In some circles, that makes us practically related. Sadly, I never got to meet her, but my friend mentions her from time to time and has nothing but fond memories of this woman and, because of him, I have them too, even though mine are entirely made up.

I know very little about her apart from her fondness for her "wickuh, silvuh, and pewtuh." And her penchant for making banana pudding. My friend Jay's family, the Floyds, and the Kings rented a beach house together every summer. And every summer, there would be an enormous batch of banana pudding, made by Mrs. King, sitting on the kitchen counter to greet Jay and his sisters. And that tradition never changed. In later years, no matter what troubles my friend was facing in his life, if he walked into that beach house and saw a big dish of banana pudding sitting on that counter, he somehow knew that everything was going to be just fine. Pudding has that sort of power, apparently.

Banana pudding is something relatively new to me-- a gaping hole in my Southern repertoire. I've mastered fried chicken, I make killer greens and lickuh, and getting better at biscuits every day. But I've never tackled banana pudding until recently, when Jay sent shot me an email that included Elsieberry's famous recipe, which her husband found stuck in an old book, passed it along to his daughter, who then sent it to Jay, who sent it to me, who was going to send it to you.

And then I read the recipe.

Though hand written, it is-- almost word for word-- the recipe from the back of a Nabisco Nilla Wafers box. I don't understand why I was expecting some else, like India ink on lilac-scented vellum, but I was.

It doesn't matter one bit that her "famous" banana pudding came from the back of a box-- somewhere along the way, she made it her own. To her family and friends, banana pudding might never be the same unless Elsieberry King made it.

Though Mrs. King is gone and I will never have the good fortune to meet her, she has inspired me to make my own banana pudding. It part me, it's part Elsieberry, and it's part back-of-the-box. I'm naming it after her, to give it a nice Southern touch. Though it's being made by a California boy who has only ventured south of the Mason-Dixon line twice in his life, it doesn't matter, damn it. I'm Southern enough when I want to be. Besides, I've learned a little something from my Southern friends, who have since left their homes:

Being Southern isn't necessarily about latitude-- it's about attitude.

So do yourself or your husband a fayvuh and make yourself a little Elsieberry Pudding this weekend.

Elsieberry Pudding

Serve Four to Six

There are essentially two kinds of banana puddings: those topped with meringue and baked, and those that are topped with whipped cream and refrigerated. The meringue version (which was Elsieberry's preference) is delicious, but it doesn't lend itself well to delightful, individual servings. I've gone the whipped cream, no-bake route, and with much success.

I have made two changes-- nothing earth-shattering, mind you-- to the traditional recipe: I decided to make a slightly butterscotchy custard, and I have added an extra bit of banana purée (mush, really) to the center to punch up the banana flavor. Give it a go, if you like.

This is a truly simple dessert to master. And one of the best things about it is that, the longer you let it set about and let the ingredients get downright neighborly, the better it gets. Banana pudding on Day One is delicious. Banana pudding on Day Two is fantastic. I've never had the patience to let it linger into Day Three, so I really couldn't tell you what it's like then.

Ingredients:

1/2 cup white sugar divided into two 1/4 cups

1/4 cup plus three tablespoons dark brown sugar

1/3 cup all-purpose flour

2 cups whole milk

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

3 egg yolks

A pinch of salt

6 medium-ripe yellow bananas sliced into 1/2 inch slices

2 tablespoons butter

One box of Nilla Wafers

1 cup heavy whipping cream

Preparation:

1. In a sauté pan, melt butter over medium heat. Add brown sugar and blend. When the mixture begins to bubble slightly, add three of your sliced bananas. Coat bananas in the butter and brown sugar and cook well-- until the bananas begin to fall apart. Transfer to bowl. Don't bother to purée, just mash them with a fork and set aside.

2. Combine egg yolks and milk in the top of a double boiler. Whisk until thoroughly blended. Add 1/4 cup of your white sugar, the flour, and a heavy pinch of salt. Whisk over medium heat (and water, naturally-- don't forget to put water in the bottom pan of your double boiler) until well mixed. Now, using a wooden spoon, stir the soon-to-be custard until it heats and becomes, well, custard-like. About 12 to 15 minutes. Remove the top pan (or bowl) and cool it's bottom in an ice bath. Set aside.

3. Layer the bottom (or bottoms, if you are serving in individual bowls) of your serving dish with wafers and create one ring of wafers facing the outside of your bowl to make the cookies look as though they are desperately trying to escape their fate of being suffocated by custard. Add a generous dollop (you're creating a layer that doesn't quite go all the way to the edge) of the mashed brown sugar banana. Cover with a layer of custard. Now roughly crumble enough wafers to create a crunchy layer, ringing the outside with slices of fresh banana to mimic the panic of their cookie brethren below. dot the top of the crushed wafers with more banana, then cover with custard. Repeat process until you have reached the top of your dish, but be certain to always finish with custard.

4. Refrigerate overnight, ideally.

5. When ready to serve, whip your cream (adding the second 1/4 cup of white sugar and maybe a dash of vanilla) until it keeps a soft peak, dollop a bit over each serving crumble a bit of wafer over the top(s) and add sliced fresh banana on top to warn of anyone unfortunate enough to suffer from banana allergies. One must think of such things, you know.

Well Happy Black Friday, everyone, if there is such a thing.

Typically, I love Fridays. To me, the day means the promise of free time, friends, and martinis in any given order.

Usually, I see Friday as the bright, shiny spot to my week. Black Friday, however, is a different story:

If you are one of the 12 people who hasn't heard this term used ad nausæum over the past few days, "Black Friday" refers to today, the day after Thanksgiving, which is, according to retailers, the official first day of the Holiday Shopping Season-- a day when millions of American-types have the day off and, presumably, enough money burning holes in their pockets to warrant getting up at 4 am to trample some poor Walmart worker to death in search of great bargains.

It just makes me cringe. I want nothing to do with either the day or any of its trimmings.

To someone like me, who may have the bad fortune of having holes in his pockets, but the good fortune of having nothing burning anywhere near them, it makes sense to spend the Friday after Thanksgiving holed up in order to recover from the orgy of food, wine, friends, and family.

I don't want to leave the house. I want to curl up on a couch and watch movies, or sleep off the thousands of calories I consumed the day before. I don't want to go to Union Square to see how pretty the lights are on the giant Christmas tree, I don't want to think about Holiday cards, and I definitely don't want to go shopping-- not even for food. I will wait out the crazy in the comfort of my own home and wait for next week, when I can start humming one of my favorite tunes with conviction:

Until then, here's a recipe that might help you avoid the madness, too...

Turkey Hash with Sweet Potatoes

Serves 4 to 6

...or anything else you have that's left over from Thanksgiving dinner. All the ingredients should be on hand (which is precisely the point). Turkey, sweet potatoes, russets, onions-- you know you've got them. You've been on a role with the heavy food intake, so why not carry it over to breakfast? Oh, hell, you know you're going to carry it over until the New Year. I don't know who you think you're fooling if you say otherwise.

Turkey, on it's own, is boring (and potentially dry)-- it needs help. Sweet potatoes turn mushy and, naturally, sweet, so they need some assistance from their firmer, starchier friend, the Russet. All of them need salt to help them along, and salt needs them, otherwise, no one would us it and then where would it be? This is a beautifully co-dependent start to the day-after.

Ingredients:

2 cups diced turkey meat, white or dark

1 cup medium-diced onion

1/2 cup diced red bell pepper

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 cup diced sweet potato, baked for 30 to 40 minutes in the oven. Or just pick off the marshmallows from the dish you had last night-- no one will notice, since the sweet potatoes will more than likely disintegrate during cooking.

2 cups baked, diced Russet potato

1 small jalapeño pepper, diced on the small side.

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons butter

1/2 cup turkey stock, if you still have some on hand. Chicken stock will do nicely, too. This dish needs a little moisture before browning to give the turkey a chance. For extra decadence, substitute 1/4 of heavy cream for the stock. Seriously.

About 2 teaspoons of salt-- more depending on taste. I like more.

A generous amount of freshly ground black pepper-- at least a teaspoon

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper.

Parsley for garnish. Or chives. Or whatever. I'm just into parsley these days.

Preparation:

1. In a large cast iron skillet, heat oil and butter over medium-high heat. Pre-heat your broiler to hi. Add onion and bell pepper and cooking, stirring all the while, until they begin to brown (3 to 5 minutes). Add garlic and jalapeño and cook for one minute more.

2. Add sweet potato, Russett potato, salt, and turkey at this point. Stir occasionally until the potatoes begin to brown (8 to 10 minutes). Add broth (and cream, if you are using) and cook down for another 3 or 4 minutes, shaking and scraping the pan from time to time. Taste to adjust salt levels, if you must.

3. To finish the browning by getting a nice crust on top, I like to stick my hash under the broiler for a couple of minutes-- obsessively checking it-- until such a state has been achieved. This is more than likely cheating in the minds of all good line cooks across this land of ours, but my skills are limited and I do whatever I must to attain my goals.

4. Sprinkle with the cayenne, grind over the pepper and add a little fresh green with a handful of parsley meted out over the top. Serve hot with poached eggs, or whatever else you've got left over from Thanksgiving that you think might work well with hash. Do not, however, serve with egg nog. To eat, curl up on couch, wrap yourself up in your favorite blanket or pashmina, pop in any vintage movie starring an adorable, precocious child like Margaret O'Brien, Natalie Wood, or Peggy Ann Garner, and go to town. Or, rather, don't, because that's where all the crazy people will be.

I'm a sucker for a great Caesar salad. Call me old school, but there are few things that can beat it in my book. Garlicky, lemony, cheesy, and anchovy-y, if there is such a word. If there isn't, there should be.

Sadly, a great restaurant Caesar salad has eluded me in San Francisco.

With the possible exceptions of Zuni Café and Tadich Grill (both old school and old guard), I have been bitterly disappointed every time I order a Caesar salad in a restaurant. And the above venues merely create good salads, not, in my opinion, great ones. Yet I keep on ordering them everywhere I go. It's like forgetting the pain of childbirth or the tragedy of falling in love with a crazy sadist-- I fall blindly and hopefully back into bed with the salad section of the menu and think, "This time, it's going to be good. This time I am going to find the one I've been waiting for all my life." Invariably, I am served a Romaine salad with either a flaccid, mayonnaise-like dressing, or an underdressed, uninspired one with croutons like ship biscuits that leaves me asking my server for a little extra lemon and another napkin with which I might dry my tears.

Perhaps I just live to be disappointed.

And then, when discussing the demise of this salad with a friend over a lunch that included a particularly sorry looking one, I understood what all of these salads were missing, good and bad:

Drama.

The Caesar salad is a dish that cries out for table-side service. It is, in my opinion if not in fact, the ham actor of the salad world-- a fact none too surprising when one considers that it was first created in a pique of impromptu by Cesare Cardini, an Italian man living in the once-glamorous town Tijuana, Mexico. Fortunately for us, Cardini had the good sense (or delicious folly, depending on your point of view) to seek out his fame and fortune in Hollywood, dressing recipe in hand, where the salad soon became a favorite among the local movie stars and luncheon élite. Cesare's salad soon evolved into Caesar's salad and, somewhere along the way, the apostrophe "s" was lost, and Caesar salads were being dramatically created in front of and for delighted diners in leather banquetted dining rooms and Danish Modern living rooms across the country.

Sadly, Cesare's salad is going the way of Banana's Foster, Cherries Jubilee, and the dodo, thanks to the demise of table side service. There is little room in most restaurants today to manoeuver the necessary salad carts, and diners (with the possible exception of brief fads like the Benihana's craze of the 70's, and eating at chef's tables in the 90's) seem less interested in having a server who entertains. Lastly, and perhaps most sadly of all, those venues who do still provide table side cooking are often so old-fashioned and unchanging that they have become a sort of dwindling, petrified forest. And those diners who habituate them are either equally as fossilized or, at best, there solely for kitsch.

So what can one do?

I, for one, have started making my own damned Caesar salads. Or Cesare salads, as I prefer now to call them. I can make them as obscenely garlicky as I like and can toss them as high and dramatically as my ceiling and physical abilities allow. I'm a professional waiter, after all, and one with a strong dramatic bent. Just ask anyone. Just don't ask me to make one for you at my restaurant-- there is no way in hell I could ever get that rolling cart past the drunken cougars hovering at the bar.

Lyle's Muy Fuerte Cesare's Salad:

Serves 2 to 4

At my birthday party last summer, I had decided that my own contribution to the buffet would be my favorite old-school salad, since I was now, officially (according to some people) old. It was then that I realized that I had never actually made one before. The one's I had known and loved were always made for me by people who understand gusto like my friend Shan or my ex-boyfriend Paul, who was about as theatrically dramatic as they come.

When I confessed this salad-tossing inexperience to my friend Lyle, he told me he would walk me through the entire process. Being my birthday, I let him take over, while I poured myself another glass of wine and watched him do all the work.

This is a recipe muy fuerte-- extra garlic, extra anchovy, extra everything. Brash and unsubtle. In other words, just the way I like it.

I would suggest preparing this dish with at least one other person in the room when you first try it. Talk the entire time you are mashing, whisking, and tossing. Remember: you are the entertainment. If you don't have anyone on hand to chat with, I suggest, chatting up your pet. If you have no pet, bring a houseplant into your kitchen and talk to that. If you are lacking a house plant, you are more than likely not the type of person who would ever make a Caesar salad and are therefore not reading this.

Ingredients:

Two heads of Romaine lettuce, well washed, outer leaves removed, and torn into bite-sized pieces.

About 1/3 cup Parmesan cheese. Please use the good stuff. Nothing that comes out of a shaker will do no matter how good a deal you got with that double coupon.

Whole anchovies for garnish are entirely optional.

For the Dressing:

1 coddled egg. Yolk only.

3 anchovy filets (spanish, preferably)

2 cloves garlic, crushed

A pinch of coarse salt (kosher is excellent)

The juice of one half lemon

4 to 5 drops Worcestershire sauce

4 to 5 drops Tabasco sauce

1/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard

6 tablespoons (approximate) of extra virgin olive oil

Coarsely ground black pepper to taste.

For Croutons:

For two cups of croutons (it is always a good idea to make extra):

2 cups of day-old bread (french, sour, white-- take your pick), dried out a touch and cut into 3/4" cubes.

2 tablespoons butter, melted

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

a heavy pinch of salt

Preparation:

To Coddle an Egg:

Coddling the egg yolk lends a richer texture to the dressing by thickening it slightly, in case you were wondering. If you want a better scientific understanding of this process, ask a scientist. I prefer to live in ignorance and call it a miracle.

1. Bring your egg (which should be very fresh) to room temperature by placing it in a heat-proof glass of warm water for a few minutes. When this temperature has been achieved, drain water and cover egg with boiling water. Let stand for exactly one minute. Drain. Run cold water over egg. Egg has now been thoroughly traumatized and is now ready for use in your dressing.

Making the Croutons:

1. Preheat oven to 375F. Drizzle butter/oil mixture over bread cubes while tossing cubes with your free hand (if you have no extra hand available, use someone else's.) Coat evenly but do try to avoid an absolute drenching.

Place a single layer of bread cubes on a baking sheet and pop into the oven on the upper rack. Peek into oven at around 7 to 8 minutes into the process, shake and turn cubes. Remove from oven when cubes have become golden brown and therefore have officially attained crouton status*.

*To my mind, croutons should be very much like Lou Grant from The Mary Tyler Moore Show-- hard, crusty exterior, but soft and warm on the inside. They should, however, not smell strongly of bourbon in the middle of the afternoon.

To Make the Dressing:

1. Place kosher salt, anchovy, and garlic in the bottom of a wooden bowl. Mash these ingredients together with the aid of two forks until a rough paste is formed.

2. Next, add mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, and lemon juice. Trade in the two forks for a wire whisk. Whisk until well-blended.

3. Add coddled egg yolk to the mix and whisk with gusto for about one minute to allow the citric acid from the lemon to "cook" the yolk a little.

4. Slowly drizzle in olive oil from as great a height as you dare, for theatrical purposes. Pause occasionally to taste with a clean finger. Make dramatic noises as you do so.

5. Let the lettuce leaves rain down into your dressing-drenched wooden bowl. Do not add any sound effects at this point. With the two forks you had earlier cast aside or with larger, more festive, salad utensils, begin to toss the salad. Sprinkle in a little cheese here, a little there. Hum as you sprinkle. Something lilting and hopeful.

6. Add your croutons, tossing and humming all the more.

7. Now add cracked black pepper to finish both the tossing of your salad and the incessant humming.

8. If serving directly from the salad bowl, sprinkle with a bit more cheese to garnish, if serving individually, divide equally among chilled plates, then add more cheese. Whatever you do, serve and eat immediately.

Enjoy.

If you think these fuyu persimmons seem to be looking wide-eyed off into space, you're wrong. They're looking into the future-- namely, theirs.

Shortly after this photo was taken, they were mercilessly vivisected and consumed by me, the author of this post.

I shall be doing the same to their brethren soon on that greatest of all American days of sharing and feasting-- Thanksgiving. I like to think of this as a small step in personal growth. For me, not for the persimmons.

I have historically shied away from persimmons, since my first experience with one wasn't the least bit pleasant on several accounts.

Fresh from college graduation in Southern California, I realized I still had what I referred to as unresolved "living-in-Berkeley issues." So I packed up my Volvo and headed north to live in a large Victorian house with one of my best friends from school, his sister, and four Berkeley graduate students.

It was pretty much a total disaster. None of my roommates were especially welcoming, which may or may not have been due to the fact that my friend's girlfriend, who was not particularly attractive to begin with, was extremely insecure about her hold on him. This may or may not have been due to the fact that he was a former theater major whom she asked out as he was on his way to the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco.

And when I say "not particularly welcoming," I mean cold, passive-aggressive, and downright rude.

One of the small consolations of living with next-to-no-money in a household filled with people who did not like me was the fact that this house was situated two blocks from the old Berkeley Bowl-- a place where one could choose from a mind-boggling selection of produce and come home with a bag full of beautiful fruits and vegetables for, well, next-to-no-money. As a result, there was always a big bowl full of fruit residing on the kitchen table in our happy little home.

One morning, as I was sitting at that table, nursing my coffee and poring over the newspaper, two of my housemates wandered into the kitchen, poured their own coffee, and sat down with me. They gave me a perfunctory "Good morning," and continued the string of conversation that they had been carrying on for days.

"What colour was yours this morning?" asked Helen, the nearsighted English girl.

"Black. Really, really black," replied Marci, who always had a bit of a pinched look on her face and was from nowhere especially interesting.

"You're lucky. I haven't even gotten to black yet," said Helen, who sounded more than a little envious of Marci's fecal matter.

The two girls were on a cleansing diet. All they seemed able to talk about was their bowel movements. I asked if they wouldn't mind changing the topic, since I was just about to make breakfast. Marci shot me a look.

"Those persimmons look beautiful," she said looking at the fruit bowl. "Are they from The Bowl or from the neighbor's tree? Have you tried one yet?"

I told her I wasn't sure where they were from. Surprised and encouraged by the fact that she was even talking to me, I went as far as telling her that I had never, in fact, seen a persimmon before moving to Berkeley, let alone tried one.

"Oh, you have got to try one. Here, take this one. They're amazing. You can eat it just like an apple."

So I took an enormous bite. Having no prior persimmon knowledge, I did not understand the difference between the fuyu persimmon, which may be eaten "just like an apple" and the hachiya, which must first be ripened to near mush before being consumed otherwise, their extremely high tannin levels will suck all the moisture from one's mouth, making for great discomfort and/or great pleasure from those looking on. Three guesses as to which kind were in that bowl.

As I ran to the kitchen sink to spit out the persimmon and found that no amount of water seemed to replace the lost moisture in my mouth, Marci and Helen howled.

"Oh my god, he fell for it. I can't believe he's that stupid!" is what came out of Marci's still moistened, but thin lips.

Had I known anything about persimmons, this scene could have been easily avoided, of course. Had I understood their medicinal properties, I could have actually participated in their cleansing conversations, sharing with them the knowledge that, in traditional Chinese medicine, for example, raw persimmons are used to treat constipation and hemorrhoids and that, however contradictory it may sound, the cooked fruit is helpful in the treatment of diarrhea. Perhaps, if I had known and shared this informations with them, we might have been great friends and they would have felt comfortable enough to invite me to cleanse with them.

Of course, that did not happen. After a rather dramatic episode in which the girls suddenly became mortally offended by the Mammy-motif heirloom cookie jar I kept on the kitchen counter, I was asked to leave the house. And leave I did. Gladly. My "living-in-Berkeley issues" had finally been resolved.

For years, I had always associated persimmons with the unpleasant chill of my Berkeley housemates. I have since gotten over that. More or less. Today, I prefer to associate them with the much more pleasant chill of Autumn. I still don't have a lot of experience with fully ripened Hachiya persimmons, but I really love the other kind, the ones you really can eat like an apple.

And with that, I would like to end with a little, thankful message to Marci, wherever she is:

Fu yu.

Persimmon Salad with Honey-Orange Vinaigrette

Serves 4

Where I work, we do a fresh fuyu persimmon salad and give it the Greek name Lotosalata, which is unsurprising, since we tend to give everything a Greek name with the possible exception of the Ladies' room. The term lotos is a possible reference to the Lotophagi, or Lotus Eaters, found in Book Nine of the Odyssey, who tempted members of Odysseus' crew with food that causes those to eat it to forget where they have been and where they are going.

I cannot promise that my version of lotosalata will make anyone forget anything. But it's damned good. I can, however, promise you it will be the least fattening thing on your Thanksgiving table, with the possible exception of the napkins and flatware.

Do give it a go.

Ingredients:

2 fuyu persimmons, sliced about 1/8" think lengthwise. Don't bother to peel.

1 medium-sized fennel bulb, well-cleaned and thinly sliced (or shaved) lengthwise

1/2 half shallot, treated exactly like the fennel (minus washing)

The juice of one orange

1 teaspoon of zest from that same orange (Please zest prior to juicing, thank you).

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (This is not a classic oil-to-acid ratio of a vinaigrette. Less oil works better for this particular salad.)

3 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons champagne vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

Pomegranate seeds for garnish

Preparation:

1. Whisk together orange juice, 2 tablespoons of the honey, and a pinch of salt. Place persimmon slices in a wide, shallow dish and toss with orange-honey mixture. Let persimmons marinate for at least 15 minutes. Toss them occasionally.

2. To make the vinaigrette, I typically use a small mason jar, since the days of my brother showing me how the souls of the dead are sorted out in the afterlife with the aid of a free-with-purchase Good Seasons cruet are long behind me. Place zest, olive oil, vinegar, and salt (add black pepper, if you wish) into jar, close lid tightly, and shake vigorously, which is always somehow extremely satisfying. Shake again as needed, whether it is for your benefit or that of the vinaigrette.

3. In a mixing bowl, place fennel and shallot. Pour over vinaigrette, toss, and let sit for at least 15 minutes. Think "slaw" and you might get a clearer picture of where I am going with this salad.

4. When you are ready to serve the salad, pour off and reserve the excess vinaigrette from the fennel and shallots. Place them on the serving dish of your choice as a sort of bed for the awaiting persimmons. Remove persimmons from the orange juice and honey, shaking off any excess moisture as you go, and arrange them atop the fennel/shallots. Drizzle persimmons with some of the reserved vinaigrette and sprinkle with pomegranate seeds.

5. Serve.

6. Refrain from talking about anything fecal while at the dinner table.

7. Enjoy.

The other day, I received an email from my friend Ron, who had recently returned from a long weekend in Paris, which is something people who live in New York can do without killing themselves, time-wise:

"I had such a good time in Paris, and am so inspired to cook! I was thinking about you when I was there, and I almost bought a tarte tatin pan, but they were so expensive, and I realized I probably didn't need to get it there.

So, I thought i'd ask for your opinion on a good pan. Do you have a recommendation? I'd also LOVE to get your recipe as well. You were always going to teach me how to make one and we never got around to it. So, perhaps, i could at least get your recipe."

I thought for a moment. There he was in Paris, inspired to cook, looking at expensive tarte Tatin pans. He must have been to E. Dehillerin's-- a mind-blowing, intoxicating cookware store that only those with a severe allergy to copper or eating could leave without the purchase of something shiny or, at the very least, without inspiration.

I am delighted and somehow unsurprised that Ron managed to leave the store without the pan. Delighted because I would be jealous of any friend outside of easy borrowing distance who owned one, unsurprised because he's one of the best bargain hunters ever. He also has one of the tiniest apartments in the universe, which I think has been officially documented. He would hang that document on his wall, but he would most likely think it would take up too much wall space.

It is precisely due to this lack of space that I would suggest to Ron that he not invest in a one-use pan. Some folks swear by non-stick sauté pans, others by cast iron skillets for making this upside down apple tart. I happen to lean towards cast iron, because I'm just plain folksy. Either will do, so take your pick.

A Promise is a Promise

I had forgotten my promise of teaching him how to make Tarte Tatin, since it was about two lifetimes ago. I do, however, like to think of myself as a man of my word. So, Ron, though it's about six or seven years after the fact, and you now live on the other side of the continent, I will do my best to answer your questions. By opening this up from a simple email into a blog post, I encourage others with more Tarte Tatin expertise to weigh in, if you like.

I initially hesitated when offering up my recipe, because I thought it produced inconsistent results. It seemed a bit odd that something static-- printed and frozen on glossy paper-- could be inconsistent. It was I who was inconsistent. And the ingredients. Would I be vigilant and make a perfect caramel, with apples well-cooked and brown, but holding together? That is sometimes me. Or would I wind up with what my goddaughter Zelly referred to as "apple mush tart" when I decided to make one for her while trying to keep her 4 year-old little sister away from the knives and hot caramel? That is, unfortunately me, too. I'm glad it was the tart that wound up overcooked and not the child.

And what about the ingredients? I've made this dish at least two dozen times during my adulthood, but never with any sort of regularity. Somewhere along the way, I got it into my head that Granny Smith apples were the best, owing to their tartness and name-sharing with Dame Maggie. I had forgotten the better results I'd had with Golden Delicious and jumped back to the Smiths, which also happens to be the name of one of my favorite bands from my high school days. Unfortunately, while yielding great flavor, the Smiths yield an attractive-but-depressing mush, not unlike the music of the aforementioned band. I vote Jonagold which has inherited the firm flesh of its Golden Delicious mother, but taken on a little of it's father's (Jonathan) tartness.

I hope Ron has fun experimenting with this dessert. Especially in New York where the Autumn apples are better than anywhere I've had.

If he messes one up, it will still more than likely taste good, because how badly can you screw up apples, butter, and sugar? Well, I might suggest he watch Julia Child making one of the biggest goofs of her television career.

Suddenly, mine doesn't look so bad.

Tarte Tatin
Serves 8 to 10, depending on how you slice it.

When I first had this dessert presented to me, I can't remember where I was. Was it at some high school French Club get together? A special occasion restaurant venture with my family? The quaint little Loire Valley farm house where I learned a lot of dirty words from the sons of the proprietress who were trying to describe what they wanted to do with one of my female friends? I don't remember, since I've had it in all of those situations. I just remember the shock I felt at my love for the dish, since I had always been indifferent to apple pie. And I remembered the name thanks to the way I remember most everything-- through word association. "A good Tarte Tatin," I thought, "should be tart and tan."

The back story on this dessert is nearly as quaint as the tart itself. If it is to be believed, in 1888, Mlle. Stéphanie Tatin, owner of L'Hôtel Tatin in Lamotte-Beuvron with her sister either a) was not a very bright woman and accidentally baked her famous apple tart upside down in one of her frequent moments of confusion; b) became distracted during the making of said tart, let the cooking go a little too far, but managed to save the day by throwing a crust over the apples and baking them upside down; or c) was threatened with a smoldering cigarette to the face by a jealous Brett Somers, who suspected the Mlle. Tatin of having an unsavory dalliance with her then-husband, Jack Klugman, and therefore unable to reach the caramelizing apples in time to make a proper, right side up tart until La Somers was finished with her smoke.

I prefer to believe version "c", because it is the most exciting story.

Ingredients:

For the pastry:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon sugar

A pinch of salt

1/2 cup chilled, unsalted butter, cut into pieces

1/4 cup ice water

For the filling:

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

3/4 cup sugar

6 apples, peeled, quartered, and cored. Jonagolds will do nicely. So will Golden Delicious. Go ahead and experiment with different varieties.

A pinch of salt

A dash of vanilla extract

Preparation:

1. To make the pastry, combine flour, sugar, and salt into the bowl of a food processor. Pulse briefly to mix. Add the chopped, chilled butter to the flour mixture and pulse until the the butter has been coated and broken into a million, pea-sized pellets. Sprinkle dough with enough cold water to make the dough barely come together. Turn the dough out onto a lightly-floured work surface and roll out into an 11" round about 1/4 of an inch thick. Transfer dough to a baking sheet, cover with wax paper or plastic wrap and refrigerate.

2. Preheat your oven to 400 F. In an 10" cast iron skillet or non-stick frying pan, melt butter over medium heat. Stir in sugar and pinch of salt until nearly dissolved (about 2 minutes or so). If it's lumpy, don't worry. Add the apple quarters, rounded side down into the bubbling proto-caramel using enough apples to fit snuggly. Reduce the heat to low and cook until the caramel is dark brown and the apples are just tender (about 15 minutes).

3. Place pan in the oven to cook the apples a bit more (5 minutes). Remove pan from oven and raise the heat to 450 F. Perfume apples with a bit of vanilla extract, then gently place the pastry circle over the top of the apples, tucking the excess pastry inside the rim of the pan. Return pan to the oven and bake until the pastry is all brown and flaky-like (about 20 minutes).

4. Remove from the oven. Run a knife around the inside edge of the pan, invert a serving plate over the pan and then flip over and pray that the tarte unmolds easily. Lift off the pan. And please, Ron, do wear oven mitts and sensible shoes. I'd hate to hear that someone spent the evening in a Manhattan emergency room being treated for caramel burns.

5. Serve warm with sweetened whipped cream or with vanilla ice cream.

When I was twelve, my father took me to see a little film called Evil Under the Sun-- the last in a trio of tony Agatha Christie whodunit films that somewhat shaped the person I am today. The first, Murder on the Orient Express, cemented my passion for train travel and smart suits; the second, Death on the Nile, ignited a fondness for women in floppy sun hats and beautiful, wee handguns. It was Evil Under the Sun, however, that really stayed with me. Some would understandably think the reason was Diana Rigg having a field day being a classic, haughty, soon-to-be-murdered bitch, or getting to see Roddy McDowall in a never-ending series of sailor suits, but they would be wrong. Not too far off, but wrong, all the same.

It was Maggie Smith. Maggie Smith and her cocktail parties. I don't think my father had any idea what he was getting me into when he took me to see that picture.

It was a simple scene, really-- almost a throw-away, apart from firming up the tension between Diana Rigg's Arlena Marshall and just about everyone else residing at an exclusive, Mediterranean island resort. While passing around a tray of hors d'oeuvres to her guests, Smith asks the world-famous detective Hercule Poirot (Peter Ustinov) if he would care for a cocktail. "Care for a cocktail, Monsieur Poirot? A White Lady, Sidecar, Mainbrace, or Between the Sheets?" Poirot rejects them all and asks instead for either crème de cassis or sirop de banane. With a bit of a sigh, she acquiesces, only to move on to offering Diana Rigg a sausage-- the one thing of which one would think she had had enough, given her proclivities.

And that was it. I followed the murder well enough, and the inevitable, intricate unveiling of who-done-what. But I kept thinking about those cocktails. As I sat in that theater, I decided that I was going to be the sort of chap who drank Sidecars and Between the Sheets while Cole Porter tunes were played somewhere out of sight on a piano. I filed their names away in my memory and bided my time.

When the appropriately legal time finally came nine years later, I unleashed my inner Maggie Smith, marched into a very (to me) upper, upper lounge in Los Angeles, and ordered a Between the Sheets from the bartender.

"I'm sorry," he said, "You're going to have to tell me what's in it." When I recovered sufficiently from the shock, I next asked for a Sidecar. "Can you tell me what's in a Sidecar? Maybe if you knew what you were asking for, I could help you." Devastated, I settled for a martini to drown my nine years-worth of disappointment. How on earth could a bartender at the Atlas Bar & Grille-- a place decorated in the luxe fashion of a 1930's Supper Club, a venue that showed old films from that era on a giant screen, no less-- not know how to make a Between the Sheets? Given its Hollywood location, I should have realized that everything, maybe even my beloved fantasy cocktail, was an illusion.

Perhaps he was right-- I should have done a little research. I bought a book of classic cocktail recipes, just to make sure the screenwriters hadn't made up the names.

They did not.

Very much relieved and filled with renewed hope, I made my way back to the bar the following week-- this time armed with the recipe. I called out the ingredients in a voice that was only vaguely Smith-like, and finally got what I'd been waiting for. I got my Between the Sheets.

Between the Sheets

Like most cocktails, the origin of the Between the Sheets is murky. Some people believe it was created at Harry's New York Bar in Paris (the place, incidentally, where George Gershwin partly composed An American in Paris) in the 1930's. Others hold fast to the notion that it was the brainchild of a bartender at the Berkeley Hotel in London in 1921. It doesn't matter much to me. I'm just grateful that someone created it.

The Between the Sheets is a very close cousin to the Sidecar-- a drink most bartenders now know, thanks to the surge of interest in classic cocktails. Made of white rum, brandy, and Cointreau, it even comes with a sugared rim. It is a tart, refreshing member of the sour family of alcoholic beverages.

The following recipe is not the classic one. While white rum is well and good in its place, I think it has a bit of trouble competing with the brandy and other flavorings. I have substituted my favorite dark rum instead, which makes its own, indelible impression without overpowering the other players.

Not unlike Dame Maggie Smith herself, if you ask me. I know you didn't ask me, but if you did, that is what I would tell you.

Ingredients

1 ounce dark rum. My personal preference is Zaya (thank you, Shannon).

1 ounce brandy

1/2 ounce Cointreau

1/2 ounce lemon juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup

Ice

A twist of lemon or orange peel for garnish, which is purely optional. Or sausage, if you are feeling saucy enough and think you can pull it off.

Preparation:

In a cocktail shaker, insert ice. Pour all liquid ingredient over ice. Close lid of shaker. Shake vigorously and pour into an awaiting martini glass. Garnish, if that pleases you.

What do you do when your oldest friend in the world hits a milestone birthday? For that matter, what do you do when anyone you really care about has a birthday?

You bake them a cake, that's what.

Presents are wonderful, of course: diamonds, ponies, Eastern European babies, and whatnot. Whatever your choice, the recipient of these gifts will be pleased that you took the time out of your busy schedule to honor them.

But a cake? I think cakes are much, much nicer, thank you. Not a store-bought cake, though they can be very good, but one you make yourself. Baking a cake requires planning, it requires effort, it requires the surrender of personal time and energy. And, best of all, it demands focus-- at least, it does for me. You just can't multitask when there's a cake in the oven depending on you. Of course, I'm sitting here at my desk writing about making birthday cakes while the cake is baking away, but I've got my timer on. Since I'm doing nothing but think about this cake as I type, I think it is entirely allowable.

When Squid's husband told me he was having a small get together for her birthday, my first thought was about the cake. "Do you already have something in mind for the cake?" I asked. When he said no, not yet, I asked if I could make it. So here I am, fretting away about a bunch of flour, sugar, and butter.

I had such grand plans for the thing. Two tiers, 35 years of inside jokes together manifested in marzipan, butterscotch, and chocolate. I had everything planned to the last detail. Or so I thought.

Things don't always go as planned when a person like me, who isn't in the practice of baking giant cakes, decides to do so on a whim. When there is math involved, my ideas tend to take a major hit or two. Butterscotch frosting? Oh, just double the given recipe. That should be enough. And it was, except for the fact that I needed about a half cup more powdered sugar than I had on hand. Ransacking one's pantry while the stand mixer is whirring away is not always the best idea. Fortunately, there was vanilla protein powder on hand, so the frosting is now enriched with iron, phosphorous, and good old fashioned soy protein to support the bone and cardiovascular health of those who will ingest it. God bless the ability to improvise.

Baking a big cake? Super, but I can now tell you that merely doubling the recipe for 9" round layer cake doesn't cut it for a 14" square one. Unless you just want one, perfect little layer, without filling. So I will run back to the store early tomorrow morning for more flour, butter, eggs, and vanilla. It serves me right.

But I don't mind one bit. I happen to enjoy making mistakes. Especially tasty ones. So what if I have to bake another layer for the cake tomorrow? There is much to be said for the satisfaction I feel when a tender, vanilla-perfumed cake is first pulled from the oven. When cooling on its baking rack, I see it as a yellowish canvas-- not quite blank, but mildly blistered and neutral, upon which I can go to town, as it were, in terms of creativity.

Protein-infused Butterscotch frosting studded with bits of brutalized toffee slathered in the middle of two layers of cake baked a day apart. I wonder if anyone will know which layer is newer? Hopefully, everyone will be too drunk on beer and sidecars to notice. A thin layer of the icing outside covered in a perfectly smooth coating of chocolate. At least I hope it will be perfectly smooth. Do wish me luck.

The decoration of the thing will be the trickiest part of all. My piping skills aren't what they used to be. My plan was to have a giant squid looking as if it were startled into squirting out the Birthday message in its ink. Trickier than I imagined, believe me.

Instead, I ended up with a squid that looks only mildly bothered. Perhaps I shall have more luck with the starfish.

What started out as an exercise in what I hoped to be flawless, quirky perfection has turned into an exercise in pinpointing my own, personal foibles and fortes (read: therapy). I had hoped to execute something beyond my own particular baking and sculpting abilities and have, so far, not done a terribly bad job at it, though it won't be the image of the perfect (for Squid) birthday cake I had in mind.

And I think that's just fine. In fact, I think she'll think that's just fine, too. Who turns down birthday cake? A birthday cake isn't always about perfection. Like I said earlier, it's about time and the offering of mental space and physical effort. And it's about love, if you hadn't gathered that already.

As I stood over the stand mixer, kicking myself for having to resort to adding protein powder in order to save the frosting, I had a Like Water for Chocolate moment. Was I about to add my own frustration into that frosting? Were my fellow party-goers going to take on my angst as well as a boost of muscle-building protein? I stepped back and thought about what I wanted that cake to say to Squid besides "Happy Birthday."

I took a moment to re-arrange my thoughts and then started speaking into the bowl of the stand mixer, saying things like:

Thank you for being my friend for thirty-five years. I'm glad you had good enough sense to marry my college roommate. Thanks for the wonderful, surprising godchildren. Thank you for correcting me when I call things "retarded" by telling me how "gay" that sounds. I'm sorry I punched you in the face in the 5th grade. Thank you for out-reading, out-writing, and out-drawing me. Thank you for letting me be a part of your family.

Just, well, thanks.

And I hope you love the cake, however it turns out.

Butterscotch Protein Frosting:

Frosts on 9" x 9" round layer cake. Double the amount for a 14" square cake. You do the math, since I can't.

Ingredients:

1 cup unsalted butter

2 cups light brown sugar

8 tablespoons whole milk

3 1/2 cups powdered sugar

1/2 cup soy protein powder

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

a heavy pinch of salt

Preparation:

1. In a heavy-bottomed, medium-sized pan, melt the butter over low heat. Add brown sugar to the butter and bring to a bubbling boil, stirring constantly. Add milk and return to a boil, all the while stirring. About 2 to 3 minutes, or until the sugar has melted and the consistency is smooth.

2. Remove from heat and pour molten mixture into the bowl of a stand mixer with whisk attachment. Add vanilla and let cool to luke warm.

3. On the lowest speed, gradually add powdered sugar until all of your stash has been exhausted.

4. Panic.

5. Rifle through pantry. Locate protein powder.

6. Hastily measure out powder and add to frosting.

7. Taste.

8. Smirk.

9. Frost.

While chatting with a friend the other day over lunch, the conversation turned to travel-- where we've been, where we'd like to go, etc.

"Have you ever been abroad?" I asked my friend in a tone not unlike a half-soused society matron at a garden party. He nodded. I was expecting him to mention one of the usual places one goes to expand one's global horizons, like France, or Italy, or Japan.

"Well, I lived in Luxembourg for three years."

This wasn't the answer I had expected, which both threw me and delighted me at the same time.

"Luxembourg? Seriously?" I had to admit that, over the past forty years, I had never given that country the time of day, except perhaps in thinking that it's name gave the Benelux countries a decidedly luxurious ring.

And all of a sudden, I needed to know more about the last remaining Grand Duchy in existence. "Do they have their own language or do they speak French or German? Are they called Luxembourgeois? Do they look like regular Europeans with ten fingers and ten toes and whatnot?" And, lastly, since this was lunch and I was very hungry, "What do people in Luxembourg eat?

My questions were patiently answered. They do speak French and German, but they have their own, distinct language-- Luxembourgish. By the sound of things, however, the Luxembourgeoisie weren't above borrowing the occasional cup of nouns from their neighbors.

The people, who look rather normal by European standards so I am told, are called Luxembourgers, and they eat very well, thank you very much.

"Is there a national dish?" I asked, which is a foolish question, given the fact that even the French or the Greeks or the Japanese would have trouble coming up with their own.

"Well, there's Bounen," he said. The sound that came out of his mouth was neither "boon-in" nor "bone-in", but somewhere in between. "Basically, it's beans and ham." When I asked him how to spell it, he told me he was uncertain, since no Luxembourger he knew could spell it either.

And so, there we were, waiting at the bar for a table on a busy Saturday afternoon, talking about Luxembourg. A glass of wine at my elbow, and interesting fellow to talk to, and a Cole Porter tune running through my head.

"Well, I guess I know what I'm writing about this week," I said.

So here I am, writing about Bounen.

The dish itself is not called Bounen, but Bouneschlupp-- Bounen is simply the Luxembourgish (Luxembourgers, please correct me if I am wrong on this and I will gladly update) word for beans. In this case, green beans. Bouneschlupp-- green bean soup. With potatoes, bacon, and onions. To put it into terms that I could easily understand, from a cooking standpoint, at least, it's a chowder-- green bean chowder.

It might not be as elegant or interesting as other Luxembourger fare like Quetscheflued (plum tart) or Haam am Hée (Ham in hay-- I really wanted to try this one, but hay is hard to come by on short notice). It's hearty and, in the wrong hands, downright homely, but it is immensely satisfying.

To mangle that Cole Porter tune that was invading my head over lunch, it's delightful, it's delicious, and it's, well, de-Luxembourg.

Bouneshlupp

Serves 4 to 6 Luxembourgers

There does not seem to be one go-to recipe for this chowdery soup, which isn't surprising, given the fact that there isn't one go-to spelling for the dish itself. Does one spell it Bouneschlupp, or Bou'neschlupp? It doesn't matter too much, given the fact that there are two generations of Luxembourgers who can't manage to spell their own language, thanks to a government decision to teach only German and French in school and leave the native language for home use. Thanks to a healthy increase in good sense and national pride, that seems to have changed.

This is essentially a culling of various recipes. Some looked very bland-- calling for little more than the beans, bacon, potatoes, and water; others entirely too complicated, with far too many ingredients for a soup as simple and humble as this is and, as far as I can tell, should be. Some folks thicken theirs with flour, some with fresh cream, others with sour cream.

After making the Bouneschlupp, I offered to drop some off to my friend who lead me to the discovery of Luxembourger cuisine in the first place. He reminded me that he has never actually tasted it. I must have missed that part. So there went my expert Bouneschlupp opinion.

It doesn't matter, really. Make up your own Bouneschlupp. Given the fact that there are fewer Luxembourgers than there are San Franciscans and nearly 6.8 billion people in the world, you've got a .0073% chance of knowing someone who is going to tell you you've made it wrong.

Ingredients:

4 cups fresh green beans, cut into bite-sized pieces, with the ends trimmed (about a pound)

2 cups waxy potatoes, cleaned and medium diced (about two, medium-sized ones)

4 pieces of thickly sliced bacon, diced

6 cups of cold water

1 medium-sized carrot, finely diced

1 large shallot, finely diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

Salt and pepper

2 to 3 tablespoons sour cream

Chives, minced

Sausage (optional). Non-spicy, humble, German-style sausage.

Preparation:

1. In a heavy-bottomed Dutch or Luxembourgish oven, cook bacon bits over medium heat until browned and crispy. If using sausage, throw that in, too, and brown. Drain meat, reserving the fat. Set bacon and sausage aside.

2. Return meat fat to the pot, add carrots and shallot (which, incidentally, I just learned is correctly pronounced sha-LOT, and not the other way around [thank you Renée]), and cook gently until translucent-- about 3 minutes. You're not looking to give them color, you're just mellowing them. Add garlic at the end, stir a moment or two, then add beans.

3. Cover vegetables with cold water. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer, covered with a snug lid. Many recipes will call for heavily salted water at this point. I prefer doing my serious seasoning at the end. The meat fat will be salty, remember. Add about half the bacon now, for flavoring purposes, reserving the other half for future, crunchy garnishing purposes. Cook for about 30 minutes.

4. Add potatoes to the pot and stir them in. Simmer for another 40 minutes, covered, or until potatoes are very tender. Salt and pepper to your heart's desire.

5. Turn off heat. If using sausage, bury it within the Bouneschlupp, to warm. Before serving add sour cream, stirring it in gently in order to not totally destroy the now-delicate potatoes. Though some people prefer to thicken their soup with flour, I find that the starch from the potatoes, plus a little help from sour cream, gives the soup all the body it needs.

6. Remove sausage from pot and slice. Ladle soup into bowls, top with sliced sausage, and sprinkle with chives. Serve with crusty bread and presto! You'll feel like you're back in Luxembourg City with the old gang, talking of the good old days of Grand Duchess Charlotte and not caring that there isn't a single university in the land wherein one might earn a degree in Luxembourgish linguistics.

Gudden appetit! Or however one chooses to spell it.

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

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

Slap Happy

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

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

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

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

It seems I will do anything for applause.

Cold Comfort

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

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

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

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

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

Kalter Hund mit Schlag

Makes one loaf.

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

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

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

Ingredients:

1 cup bittersweet chocolate, chopped

2 cups milk chocolate, chopped

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

1/2 cup heavy cream

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

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

For the Schlag:

1/2 cup heavy cream

4 tablespoons cream of coconut, using the liquid portion only

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

Preparation:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A terrible song has been going through my head for the past few days. I have absolutely no idea how it got there. I have some theories, but nothing concrete. I've been humming it at work and singing it in the shower, but it won't go away.

So I thought the best way to get rid of it would be to share it with everyone I know.

It's called "The Tapioca," from the 1967 film Thoroughly Modern Millie, starring Julie Andrews, Mary Tyler Moore, and Carol Channing.

Andrews plays a simple country girl from Montana, who seeks to live a thoroughly modern, Jazz Age life in the Big City and ultimately marry her boss. If you can swallow Miss Andrews as a Montana girl, you can swallow just about anything. Except possibly Carol Channing, who was unjustly beaten out of a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her portrayal of Muzzy, the trombone playing, xylophone-dancing Jazz Baby Southampton matron, by Estelle Parsons who had a bit part in some little film called Bonnie and Clyde.

Robbed, I say. Just robbed.

When Millie first meets Jimmy, the fresh-as-paint (spoiler alert) man she will eventually marry, even though he is not her boss, he decides to liven things up at the "Friendship Dance" he has just crashed by creating a new dance step. For inspiration, he asks Millie what she has most recently consumed for dinner. Franks? Sauerkraut? No, and no. When she utters the distinctly American phrase, "I had tapioca for pudding," he knows he has a hit on his hands.

Just watch and learn:

So now you know. Just thank your lucky stars I have spared you any of Miss Channing's numbers.

I will however, leave you with this, simply because it will help to explain why this film seems to upset so many of my friends:

I haven't decided if making tapioca has helped to relieve my psyche of these scenes or permanently scarred it. I do, however, know that it is, as Miss Andrew's says, "Dee-lish."

And it is infinitely easier to swallow than anything in this film. Except, perhaps, Beatrice Lillie. She adds just the right dash of soy sauce to make it just-about-palatable. Watch the movie, if you dare, and you will understand.

Enjoy.

Tapioca Pudding

Raspberries are entirely optional.

Serves 4 to 6. In my household, however, this only served one. In two sittings, mind you.

This is not my recipe. It is Heidi Swanson's, from 101 Cookbooks. I've made a lot of recipes from her website-- every one a winner. They are simple-but-interesting, well-documented, and better photographed that most. And they have a certain earnestness about them I like, which this tapioca recipe exemplifies.

I had the idea of cooking all of her recipes within the span of one year and blogging about it, but that just seemed silly. Who would be stupid enough to do something like that?

Ingredients:

3 cups organic milk, divided

1/3 cup small pearl tapioca

2 extra-large egg yolks, lightly beaten

1/4 teaspoon fine-grain sea salt

1/3 cup sugar

1 vanilla bean, split along the length (or 1 teaspoon vanilla extract)

Preparation:

1. Pour 3/4 cup of the milk into a medium-sized, thick-bottomed pot, like a dutch oven, or what have you. Add tapioca and soak for 60 minutes or up to over night.

2. Whisk in the egg yolks, salt, sugar, and the remaining milk. Scrape the vanilla bean along its length with a knife and add that bean "paste" along with the bean itself to the pot (if using vanilla extract instead, stir it in at the very end, when the pudding is completely cooked). I like to pin the bean to the bottom of a wooden spoon as I am stirring to extract as much of the flavor as possible.

3. Slowly bring the mixture just barely to a boil, stirring all along-- this should take about 15 minutes. Reduce the heat and let the mixture fall to a simmer-- you keep it here until the tapioca is fully cooked, another 20 minutes or so. At this point, however, it might be wise to heed Jimmy's advice to not let the temperature drop too many degrees, or you'll wind up with what is called the Frozen Tapioca Freeze. Doubtful, it's true, but anything is possible when we suspend our disbelief long enough to believe anything that happens in a movie musical.

4. When the pudding is ready, the tapioca beads will swell up and become translucent and custard will thicken dramatically. Taste to adjust flavoring, adding salt or a little (more, if using) vanilla extract, if desired.

Best when served fresh and still-warm, but you won't find me complaining as I wander to the fridge at 1 am to load a cold spoonful or two into my mouth.