bites out of life

the adventures of a food-obsessive in nyc

Mango Lassi

There’s something about a mango that’s just so quintessentially summer. They’re bright and juicy, with a slightly bite to their sweetness. They’re fabulous on their own, sliced into large wedges and eaten by hand, juices dripping stickily down your arm. Come June, my parents bring home mangos by the case full, stashing them in the downstairs fridge where we forget about them until a day before they spoil so that we’re forced to eat mango after mango until our stomachs hurt so that we can eat them at our leisure.

But mangoes also make for great chutneys, salsas, mousses and lassis, yogurt-based drinks that really should be the only way to end a spring or summer dinner. They are frothy and luscious, tart yet sweet, wholesome enough for breakfast but decadent enough for dessert.

Lassis originated in Punjab, in the northern region of India, and in their most traditional form, are a savory drink — yogurt thinned with a little water and seasoned with salt and other spices. But there are many sweet, fruit-based lassi flavorings, mango being the most common. Using thick yogurt, like Greek yogurt or the Indian-style Dahi, makes the mango lassi richer — if you’re using regular yogurt, try blending just the yogurt with the mango, and adding milk only if necessary to thin out the lassi.

Given that the whole thing takes about a minute to make, it’s kind of shocking that you haven’t made this mango lassi already. And sure, maybe it’s nothing more than a glorified smoothie, but when was that ever a bad thing? …

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Chicken and Cheese Jalapeño Poppers

I’m willing to bet that more than 75 percent of Americans have been on or considered going on a diet at some point in their lives. The weight loss industry makes billions each year, telling people that if you take this pill or buy that machine, you’ll lose 100 pounds in the time it takes you to do a load of laundry. Layers of fat will literally melt away to reveal a hidden six-pack, but only if you eschew white bread or red meat or blue cheese or  green vegetables or … you get the idea.

Though I’ve been on and off diets since age 6 (I ate a lot of cheese one summer and got a little chubby … we don’t talk about it.), I’ve never been much of a health nut. Until recently, I’d never really kept track of what I ate, choosing instead to eat whatever looked good. I don’t believe in depriving myself of anything, whether it be a manicure, the perfect sundress or a crisp pile of lightly salted french fries. One of my worst qualities is that I’m impulsive, and indulge cravings without thinking. Diets have never worked for me for this reason. If I want something, neither Jenny Craig nor Dr. Atkins can stop me.

But a few weeks ago, I decided to focus on healthy living. (Okay, maybe it was a New Year’s resolution that I’m two months late on, but we don’t need to delve into details.) I’ve given up coffee, started making healthy snacks, worked out on more than a “once every now and then” basis. While I’m never going to give up cupcakes or macarons or red wine, for that matter, I suppose it can’t hurt to try to get more fruits and vegetables in my life. And while most nights, I’m more than happy to have sauteed asparagus with brown rice, some days all I want is ice cream and cake for dinner. Or, as in the case last week I was tasked with dinner duties for my cousin and I, I wanted jalapeño poppers. And nothing else.

Thanks to Rocco DiSpirito, my craving wasn’t a total diet “healthy living”-buster. A mix of reduced-fat cream cheese, sour cream and cheddar coats rotisserie chicken breast meat, which is then stuffed in the hollowed out jalapeños, coated in whole wheat flour, then egg whites, then whole wheat panko and then baked. According to a tweet from DiSpirito on Wednesday, March 30 (let’s not talk about the lag time from cooking to posting), “As seen on @RachaelRayShow Chicken & Cheese Poppers at only 133 cals per serving! #NowEatThisDiet.” Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.

The poppers themselves were crispy and creamy and cheesy. I could have used a shot of hot sauce in the mix (as well as salt — I’m dumb and forgot to add that). But they’re perfect for watching the big game with friends and a cold beer. Or you know, watching Parks and Rec in your robe with a coffee mug of red wine. Not that I would ever do that. …

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Mussels for Belgian Restaurant Week

By now, even very casual readers of this blog know that I’m obsessed with Restaurant Week. The semi-annual event allows humble folk like myself to dine at some of New York City’s nicest restaurants with three-course prix fixe menus, $24.07 for lunch, $35 for dinner — good for the soul and for my wallet.

So when I heard that the last week of March would be Belgian Restaurant Week, I was already sold. No matter that it bore little resemblance to the structure of real Restaurant Week, as the Belgian version basically entailed a hodgepodge of deals at different Belgian restaurants in the city. There was a Tintin Trivia Night, which I’m ashamed to say I missed. There was a “find a diamond in your beer” night, free wafels from Wafels and Dinges and $20 mussel pots and beers at Markt, a nice restaurant a few blocks from my office. I’ll let you guess which one I picked.

Inspired by Sunny Anderson, Keith and I made mussels last summer for the first time. While I’m not a huge fan of creatures of the sea, I feel like that should change, so I like to try it from time to time. Mussels had me at hello, with their oh-so-alluring combination of butter, onions, garlic, white wine and parsley. And best of all, you’re supposed to eat them with a large pile of fries. And baguette. Could there be anything better?

At Markt, I ordered the mussels steamed in white wine, while Desi ordered the garlic and cream mussels. While anything steamed in wine can never be bad, I didn’t love all of the fennel in my mussels. (In addition to being seafood/fish-averse, I am also anti-fennel. And this is not something I’m working on.) But paired with a Hoegaarden and crisp fries, it was a nice, light dinner — perfect for the onset of spring.

The Glory of Edamame + Reflections

Today is the first day of April. A fourth of the year has already passed, so it seems like a good time to pause for a minute, take it easy and think back on the first quarter of 2011. My cousin asked me the other day, “are you happy?” It’s a hard question to answer, even though I suppose it should be so easy. But it led me to think about all of the great things that I have going on in my life and how grateful and lucky I should feel.*

I’m happy that I have my family and wonderful friends who make me laugh. A lot.

I’m happy that I have a great job, with people who are friendly and patient, even if I distract them 20 times a day with thoughts of food and shopping.

I’m happy that I have my health, and I realized that I should do whatever I can to keep it. Thankfully, this hummus is a great place to start. As is edamame, that glorious snack that I’ve always had a not-s0-secret love for.

Edamame are soy beans, which for all intents and purposes, should make me say ick. I mean, I hate tofu and soy milk and soy burgers and soy everything. (I even dislike soy sauce, but that mostly has to do with a favorite white sweater and my own carelessness.)

But edamame pods, boiled and sprinkled with sea salt, are a snack I could eat all night long. I literally did, by the glass bowlful, at a bar near NYU, the perfect post-class “brain food” to gear me up for a night of um, studying. But I kind of forgot about them after my college days, leaving them solidly behind with finals, dorm rooms and mandatory reading. …

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Fiery Hummus with Crushed Red Pepper

You could probably fill a few bathtubs with amount of hummus I’ve eaten in my lifetime. Carrots, celery, crackers, bell pepper strips, tortilla chips if I’m in a bind — they all take routine dives in the hummus pool. There’s no better snack after school or after work, and I’ve contemplated stashing some in the fridge at work so I can savor the creamy chickpea goodness at my desk.

So it’s extremely pathetic that it took me so long to make my own.

Especially after I discovered that it takes about 0.2 seconds to make.

And costs close to nothing.

And is Fat. Free. (That applause you hear is coming from my bathing suit, which is hoping that it won’t have to strain, yet again, to fit me this year.)

Best of all, it tastes absolutely amazing.

And can be manipulated a thousand different ways, so that you can make your own perfect hummus.

Me, I’m sticking with this. It’s spicy and lemony and bright and garlicky and, while not as creamy as regular hummus (due to the lack of olive oil or tahini, the sesame seed paste that is traditionally a part of hummus), it’s perfect for dipping and scooping and spooning straight into your mouth. …

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Turkey Meatballs with Chunky Arrabbiata Sauce

Spring plays cruel tricks on us, my friends. After one Friday of utter bliss, there followed a weekend that has looked brighter and warmer and sunnier as the passing days grow colder and snowier and grayer. Meanwhile, recipes touting spring’s bounty taunt me with their use of verdant asparagus, sweet, smooth, marble-like peas, teasingly bitter baby artichokes and the year’s first strawberries, so small that they’re perfect for popping straight into mouths.

Can it be that this delicate produce has withstood the hail(!) of the past week? I haven’t yet been to the farmer’s market to check it out (lunch trip, maybe?) but I remain skeptical.

So instead, we had stick-to-your-bones-warm-up-your-soul dinners this week. My cousin wanted meatballs, I said turkey, he said no baking — per the advice of Bobby Flay from a recent “Throwdown,” of course — and I said okay. In a moment of sheer daring, too hungry to Google a recipe, I said let’s wing it and come up with our own recipe. After a previous attempt to forego a recipe yielded … interesting results, I was determined to come up with a recipe of my own that actually worked. With Keith’s baked meatballs recipe as a guide, plus the unwavering enthusiasm of my cousin, I forged ahead, adding a little bit of this and a little bit of that and using my inexperienced eye, I created a masterpiece.

Okay, maybe this dinner was no Mona Lisa. But it was the perfect way to combat the chills of a late winter night. The turkey meatballs were lush and light, and the sauce had a fiery kick that played nicely with the sweetness from the tomato chunks. Served on a bed of spinach fettuccine and topped with a heaping pile of Pecorino, they provided almost as much comfort and warmth as a soft fleece blanket.

But while I eat like it’s still winter, I dream only of spring. Peas, one day soon I will toss you with mint, whole wheat penne and Parmesan shavings for a light lunch. Asparagus, you, prosciutto, polenta and goat cheese will come together for dinner one day. You strawberries better watch your backs too — I haven’t decided what your fate will be just yet, but rest assured, it will be delicious. …

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A Dispatch From Macaron Day

As if I needed another reason to proclaim New York City the Best Place To Live Ever, on Sunday various macaron shops throughout the city banded together for Macaron Day, handing out free macarons. (This is also known as The Best Day Ever.) I’d already been on a macaron tasting spree earlier this year, but the chance to do so without having to shell out $3 or so for every cookie was very exciting.

After the total fail that was my own attempt at macarons, I decided I needed to experience the best in order to regroup. So Desi and I met up in the afternoon, armed with a map full of places to go to. But of course, just when its time came to shine, the Maps feature on my phone wouldn’t work. So we went to Macaron Cafe, hoping that once we got there, they would be able to direct us to the next point on our scavenger hunt. We got there just in time to nab the last free macaron, which was apricot-flavored, and ended up buying a gorgeous, gold-embossed dark chocolate one also.

A very nice person, who was in line right behind us and therefore got no free macaron, told us that the Francois Payard in the Plaza Hotel was giving away macarons as well, so we headed there next. (If I had missed out on a free macaron and the people in front of me, who had taken the last one, asked me where to go after, I probably would have punched them. And then taken the macaron. Just sayin’) The woman was handing out perfectly domed vanilla macs, and I seethed openly with envy. …

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Irish Oatmeal Brown Bread

Part of my French countryside dream involves waking up on Sunday mornings, donning an apron (if you’re in the “gifting your favorite blogger” mood, I’d like this one in blue, thanks), baking a fresh baguette or boule, slathering on freshly churned butter and homemade berry jam, and sipping a large mug of cafe au lait tea while I read my digital subscription to the Times.

Thus far, the biggest barrier to this dream: yeast grosses me out. Even though it’s an integral part of my some of my favorite things (namely, beer and bread), the idea of growing a fungus in my kitchen makes me shudder. When people ask me if I’ve made bread before, I give them the standard “oh you know, the kneading and the rises and I don’t have a bread thermometer and so I’ve never gotten around to it.” But let’s not lie – the only thing holding me back is my fear of yeast.

But then I found this bread. It uses whole wheat flour and ground oatmeal (though I missed this directive and instead used whole rolled oats) and soured milk and baking powder and baking soda and NO YEAST to create a shaggy loaf with a crisp crust and a soft interior. While the amount of salt in the recipe is a touch excessive, with a thick pat of sweet creamy butter, this bread is perfect.

Maybe this bread is a cop-out. I didn’t actually get over my fear of yeast. I didn’t grow a fungus, didn’t have to touch it or knead it or anything. I know if I want to live out my French countryside dream properly (after all, they don’t eat Irish bread in Brittany or Normandy), I’ll have to get over my fear of yeast very soon. I think I’ll start with the famed no-knead bread from Jim Lahey before moving on to the slightly more complicated baguette.

In the meantime, I’ll indulge my bread-baking fantasies with this delicious oatmeal brown bread. …

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The Highline + Un Catastrophe Total

Spring finally peeked around the corner last weekend. The temperatures flirted with 60, the sun dazzled and I broke out my light jacket for the first time this year. After getting a pretty pink manicure (to welcome the new season naturally), I headed to the Highline, camera in hand.

I remember hearing about the Highline when it opened, an old raised subway track that had been repurposed into a walkway overlooking the Hudson. I read about art installations and benches and beautiful views, but upon hearing that it was way over on 10th Avenue, my interest in going waned.

Then I began working at The Daily Beast, and routinely trudged over to 11th Avenue, passing underneath the Highline every time. Then Keith worked on an assignment about the Highline and introduced me to the art along the walkway. Then it became warm enough to spend more than two seconds outside. Then the sun finally peaked out from behind those rainy, dreary gray clouds.

Then, finally, I made my way to the Highline.

It felt like the air was clearer up there, the sky a little brighter. Though it was very crowded, I felt like I could be in my own little world. It’s rare in New York City to find a place that’s quiet enough to think. While Riverside Park is my go-to, the Highline is a close second. And since it’s a short walk from my new office, I think I’ll be spending a lot more time among the clouds this summer.

Unfortunately, this weekend I crash-landed back to Earth. After dreaming of making my own macarons for months and finally settling on a coffee-chocolate combo (have to get my coffee fix somehow … ), I attempted them on Sunday. I knew going into it that the recipe would be tricky, as it took even the great David Lebovitz seven tries to perfect. I warned myself to keep expectations low — there was no way I was going to get perfectly domed macarons with little feet on my first go-round.

I read for weeks on the technique: grinding the almond flour with the powdered sugar to create a fine mix, whipping the egg whites to a super stiff meringue, folding the wet and dry ingredients exactly the right amount, drying the macarons out after piping, leaving the oven door open while baking. I knew it all. And I still managed to produce un catastrophe total.

…

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I Am No Longer a Coffee Drinker.

Anyone who knows me knows that coffee is my thing. I’m rarely seen without it, and the spills on my coats, bags, clothes and scarves can attest to that. So how did I get to this point?

My history with coffee is very straightforward. I drank lots of it. Every day. The relationship grew so out of control that I had to quit, cold turkey, in order to gain my life back.

My love affair started out innocently enough. In high school I couldn’t even drink the real stuff, preferring milk-laden lattes and cappuccinos to a cup of brew. My friends and I would pack into the nearby Starbucks on our breaks from exams, sitting and sipping and studying. But somewhere in college, my infatuation became a full-on passion.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t think to go to class without a cup in hand. Forget lattes or milk, I was now drinking the stuff black. After realizing that I was spending hundreds of dollars a month at Starbucks, I bought a coffee maker for my apartment. Then I began drinking coffee at all hours of the night, making pot after pot while working late. While writing my thesis, I would write a page, drink a cup. Write another page, another cup. I went through a 10-ounce can of grounds every few days. The day I turned in my thesis, I had already had four cups by 10 a.m. I. Was. Wired.

Meanwhile, my body was quickly adapting to my rapid coffee consumption. If I didn’t get get my morning fix, I’d feel like I was in a total fog. My brain wouldn’t work, I ached all over, I was a grouch. It was a little scary how quickly those symptoms would disappear when I finally had my coffee. First my mom told me I was out of control. Then my doctor warned me that that much caffeine at a young age could really mess a system up. But I was busy! Graduating! Interning! Going to grad school! Health be damned, I needed my coffee to function. Coffee was no longer a casual acquaintance — it had become necessary for my survival, the unhealthiest of relationships.

Perhaps my low point with coffee was during my most recent trip to India, in December 2010. By this point I was hooked and there was no turning back, even in a country famed for its Darjeeling tea (pictured above). While I had plenty of that, I found myself far too often buying coffee, knowing that all I would receive was a cup of Nescafe Instant with a good helping of thick milk and a staggering amount of sugar. This was no inky black coffee I was having, it was a caramel-colored syrupy dessert. Frustrated, I dragged my parents to the busiest part of Kolkata and demanded they buy me a real coffee, from a small Lavazza shop, which cost about 10 times what the regular cups cost. I needed help. Fast. …

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Gambas al Ajillo (Garlic Shrimp)

I first visited Spain in 2002, on a 10-day spring break trip with members of my eighth grade class. The trip was a whirlwind: we watched flamenco in Andalucía, celebrated Easter and watched the Semana Santa procession in Sevilla, spent an afternoon on a cruise of the Guadalquivir River outside of Córdoba and spent enough time touring the Alhambra in Granada for me to take 3 film rolls’ (!) worth of pictures.*

On our last night of the trip, my teachers arranged for a visit to a traditional tapas bar in Madrid. We tried all the classics: tortilla de patatas of course, patatas bravas with their spicy salsa brava and aioli, fat fried rings of calamares, paper thin slices of jamón Serrano and Manchego cheese. The last dish came in a clay bowl, small pink shrimp sizzling in a hot, garlicky, spicy oil that just begged to be mopped up by thick slices of crusty bread.

It was love at first bite. The shrimp were tender, full of roasted garlickly flavor with a sharp punch from the crushed red pepper. And that oil! I swore I’d never dip bread in anything but that oil ever again. (True story: In high school, I hated bread and so for years, I actually didn’t eat or dip bread. How’s that for following through?)

On my second trip to Spain, when I was there for a semester, I became reacquainted with gambas al ajillo, or garlic shrimp, through my Spanish roommate.** After hearing how much I had enjoyed it the first time, she was appalled that I had never tried to make it myself. And after seeing how easy the recipe was, I was a little shocked too. Her secret to mopping up the oil was to toss the shrimp with pasta to create a round meal rather than a tapas dish.

I made it a few times in Spain and then a few times when I came home. And then, I just kind of stopped. I have a terrible tendency to eat something repeatedly for weeks on end before abandoning it completely, and these gambas were a victim of that. But when my mom offered me a pound of shrimp and the chance to make lunch, I jumped at the opportunity to bring back an old favorite. Thankfully, it was exactly as good as I remember.

*Our trip also included a stop in Toledo, which is known for its metal work, especially with swords. Many of us ended up buying souvenir 2-foot-long swords to carry home with us. To Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C. Six months after 9/11. We spent hours in customs trying to get our swords home, only to, in my case at least, have it collect dust at the back of my closet for nine years.

**She was actually Bulgarian, but had lived and worked in Spain for a number of years. She also, after I excitedly purchased a bottle of wine in the supermarket for less than one Euro and drank it with my friends that night, kindly pointed out that we were drinking cooking wine, one of many embarrassing faux pas I committed in Spain. …

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Oreo Cheesecake

I’ve already admitted that I’m not a huge pizza fan. It’s a little bit blasphemous in a city known for its slices that are as thin and wide as a page from the New York Times. In fact, a frequently told NYC joke is that you can tell the tourists from the cityslickers by watching how they eat pizza: New Yorkers always know to fold and bite.

Well to add to the blasphemy, let me add today that I am not a cheesecake person either. Not good news in a city with its own take on the dessert, one that is skyscraper tall and thick as a brick. The oddly gelatinous fruit toppings do little to cut the denseness of the cake, which just scream “cream cheese, cream cheese, cream cheese” and little else. Of course there are other versions of cheesecake, including the Godiva chocolate cheesecake from Cheesecake Factory that I love so much. But that at least has mousse and chocolate to cut the cheesecakey-ness.

This version has Oreos. In the crust and in the cheesecake itself. While I may not have been a cheesecake person growing up, I most definitely was an Oreo person and was the best Oreo twister in the world – I always got the cream-filled half. When we went to our Bengali community events, there were always a package or two of Oreos next to the tea, and when someone would ask, “what happened to all the cookies?” I often had to scramble to brush the telltale chocolate crumbs away from the side of my mouth. I don’t keep them around because, well when faced with a package of Oreos in my vicinity, things get ugly.

Last weekend, my aunt hosted a semi-casual dinner party for her nephew and his family. The tasks of dessert and appetizers were delegated to my cousin and I, so we naturally chose high-class fare: spicy Sriracha wings, nachos and Oreo cheesecake. My cousin made the suggestion, and I jumped at the chance to eat an Oreo after so many years.

The hallmark of a good homemade cheesecake is a smooth top with no cracks. I failed spectacularly on that front, with a large, ominous scar right in the middle of my dessert. The recipe didn’t call for a water bath, and since I was a first-time cheesecake-baker making something for a dinner party, I didn’t deviate. I don’t know enough about cheesecakes to diagnose what the issue was here, but perhaps a more even heating distribution (like the one found in a water bath) would have done the trick. Sour cream made a big difference in lightening up the cream cheese here, so that the end result was less brick-like and more airy, if the air included little pieces of Oreos. …

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Cajun Jambalaya

I watch an absurd amount of television. There’s a long list of shows I consider “must-see,” most of which are guilty pleasures (see: Outsourced, Jersey Shore, Real Housewives of everywhere and Nick at Nite reruns of The Nanny) and others slightly less embarrassing to admit (30 Rock, Parks and Rec, Community, Modern Family, Parenthood, etc. [yes, there’s a lot more]).

My Wednesdays follow a strict schedule: The Middle at 8, a half-hour break for cleaning up after dinner, Modern Family at 9 and now Mr. Sunshine at 9:30 (though I was equally into Cougar Town — Wednesday nights have been good to former Friends).  Then, perhaps most important, Top Chef All-Stars.

I’ve been a loyal Top Chef fan since Season 1, watching religiously and visiting Harold Dieterle’s Perilla in the West Village and Spike Mendelsohn’s D.C. burger joint (Bryan Voltaggio’s VOLT in Frederick, Md. is next). Top Chef All-Stars brought back most of my favorites — Carla Hall, Richard Blais and Fabio Viviani — so I’ve been glued to the screen, even getting my cousin hooked.

A few weeks ago, while the chefs lived yet another one of my dreams (all you can shop! At Target!), Tiffany Derry made jambalaya using a packaged seasoning blend. Tom Colicchio was offended by such a thing and as my love for Tom knows no bounds, when my cousin suggested we make jambalaya for dinner last week, I resolved to make it with my own spices.

Given that I have absolutely no experience with Louisiana cooking, I turned to the master of the bayou: Emeril Lagasse.  He offered a Creole “Bayou Blast” seasoning at the end of his Cajun jambalaya recipe* that I planned to appropriate, which included paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, cayenne, oregano and thyme. Then I went to the grocery store, promptly forgot that the Bayou Blast seasoning was a separate recipe from the jambalaya recipe, and ended up accidently buying Cajun seasoning in a green tin that looks suspiciously like what Tiffany used.

Alas, my jambalaya will never be considered up to par in the eyes of my beloved Tom.

But thankfully, it was considered pretty awesome by my family. Proof that the adage “too many cooks spoil the broth” may be a wee bit outdated, halfway through the cooking process my cousin, aunt and I began dumping spices and hot sauces into the jambalaya with reckless abandon, creating a knock-your-socks-off end result that was smoky, tangy, spicy and HOT. I bet Emeril at least would approve.

*Emeril used a Creole seasoning to make a Cajun jambalaya, which to me, sounds like the two words are interchangeable. But based on my research, they aren’t, and refer to two different subcultures within Louisiana. Creole people were descendants of the French and Spanish colonizers of the Louisiana region, while the Cajuns were descendants of Acadians, members of a French colony founded in what is now Canada in the 1630s. After the British ousted the Acadians in 1755, they migrated and resettled in the Louisiana region.

Creole and Cajun cuisine differs slightly: according to About.com (where I get all my info these days), Cajun cuisine is big on hearty seafood stews, like jambalaya and etouffee, while Creole cuisine relies more on rich sauces, like in shrimp creole or grillades and grits. Like I said, I’ve never been to the area, so I have no idea how much stock people put in this distinction nowadays. Hmmm…research trip anyone?

Also, this recipe comes just in time for Mardi Gras on Tuesday, March 8. Laissez les bons temps rouler!…

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Kheer with Orzo (Indian ‘Rice’ Pudding)

One of my personal goals when I started this blog was to learn how to cook the food I grew up with, the dishes that I ask my mom to make time and again. I started with Masoor dal, then chicken curry and then … well, the train stopped there. It’s not that I didn’t go home, or that I didn’t cook when I went home, but somehow I just never cooked Indian food. (My mom and dad do plenty of that, hence why my clothes are just a wee bit tighter every time I take the bus back to the city.)

But I had been craving rice pudding something fierce recently. Or when I say rice pudding, I really mean kheer* with orzo, a very non-traditional Indian form of rice pudding, which I’m pretty sure my mom just made up. She swaps toasted orzo pasta for rice, and to further remove it from its old-school roots, my mom makes it almost entirely in the microwave.

Kheer is a sweet eaten across India, though its specifics vary from region to region. It is usually made with rice, semolina or vermicelli, and then flavored with either cardamom, saffron, pistachios, raisins, almonds, cashews or any combination of the sort. My mom makes a few different versions, but orzo kheer is definitely my favorite and I have very specific requirements for it: there must be a ton of orzo, the pasta must be toasted until it’s a caramel brown and the milk must reduce enough to form a very thick pudding. It’s creamy, slightly sweet and nutty from the browned butter. The orzo adds a nice texture — it’s a little bit chewy, but still soft enough to eat if you were, you know, recovering from wisdom teeth surgery (not that I forced my mom to make this when I got my wisdom teeth pulled. I would never do that).

The microwave technique for making kheer is used by both my mom and my aunt, though not anyone else I know. Traditionally, kheer (like many rice puddings) is made on the stove, and one must stir, stir, stir for the hour or so that it takes to make, to ensure that the rice and milk don’t burn. The microwave allows for gradual heating without having to stand at the stove, and while my grandmother considers it blasphemous, it’s the only way my mom had made kheer for as long as I can remember.

The end result came out pretty perfect — almost exactly like how my mom makes it. Best of all, it got her stamp of approval!

*Kheer is the Hindi word, in Bengali it’s payesh. It is an important part of many Hindu religious ceremonies, and apparently originated over 2,000 years ago at the famous Jagganath Temple in Puri, India (thank you Wikipedia). I visited that temple during my most recent trip to India, but sadly, no one told me to try the kheer. …

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Chocolate-Toffee Cracker Crunch

I have a long list of recipes to make, with separate documents on my computer, in my email and on my phone. The master list is a Google doc that features a host of items, many of which have spent untold lengths of time on the list just withering away. Some seem too complicated, some are not seasonal, some are for special occasions and some … well, I’m working. And soooo tired. (And yes, I’d like some cheese with that whine.)

This is not one of those recipes. I came across these chocolate-toffee saltines while perusing my new site, About.com, and decided I had to make them. Immediately. Salty crackers topped with caramelized brown sugar toffee and then a slick of bitter chocolate with crunch on top? Cooked in 20 minutes with items that are usually in my pantry? Heaven, is that you?

Of course in my world immediately means that weekend because, well, I’m working and see above. But every night, I went to bed dreaming of chocolaty, sugary, salty goodness and every morning I woke up thinking, “today’s the day I finally make those suckers.” Sunday morning I decided that the only way to make waking up at 7:30 a.m. for no reason acceptable was to make chocolate-toffee cracker crunch. Oh man, was I right.

While these were in the oven, I did a little Googling and realized that these crackers have been on the food blog radar for a while. (I am nothing if not always annoyingly fashionably late.) Most people opted for matzoh instead of saltines and went a little heavy on the salt in the toffee. My mom bought reduced-salt saltines — to which I say, what’s the point?* — so I added a little extra salt in the toffee and tossed some salt on the chocolate with the crushed saltines.

The other benefit of matzoh? Easy spreading. My saltines didn’t fit exactly into the baking pan and moved around a lot, making it impossible to spread the toffee without shifting a few. Since matzoh is bigger and flatter, you’ll likely have a much easier time with that than with saltines.

Final note (oh just start the recipe already!): this stuff is dangerous. You won’t be able to stop eating it. You will suffer serious remorse when you run out. You will dream about it night and day until you have more. Just sayin’

*I debated internally about this: can a saltine with no salt still be called a saltine? Or is it just a tine? I mean, there’s no salt. Am I just wasting my time on inanities when I should be working my way through my “to make” list? …

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Cacio e Pepe

Cacio e pepe, or spaghetti with black pepper and cheese, is one of those things that is so easy, it’s laughable. Four ingredients, two of which are salt and pepper, plus pasta water and voila, lunch is finished in 10 minutes. My cousin, who shared this easy weekend meal with me, was embarrassed that I planned to post in on this here blog. “You didn’t even add anything special,” I believe were his exact words.

But. it. is. so. good. Simple and delicious? Sounds like exactly the kind of recipe I want on a lazy Saturday and exactly the kind of recipe I’d like to share with you.

The dish comes from the Romans and first appeared on my radar last summer, when Anthony Bourdain did a No Reservations episode in Rome (in black and white! so amazing). There are a hundred ways to dress it up: Saveur includes a pepper-infused oil, Bon Appetit involves arugula and penne and Mario Batali adds both butter and oil. I eschewed all of that and relied on my knowledge of traditional Roman cuisine (ha.) to create my own, extra-easy version. It is, of course, slightly heavy on the cheese. …

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Easy Pear Refrigerator Jam

There are only two cities in the world that can rival my obsession with Madrid: New York (naturally) and Paris. Last fall’s visit already feels like a lifetime ago and I’m ready to go back. Like tomorrow. Sadly, my vacation days don’t kick in for months and the parental units have finally cut my purse strings, so it may be a long long time before I get to live la vie tres jolie again. At least in Europe.

To compensate, I’ve thrown myself full force into a French countryside fantasy. I’ve got my sister building me French country furniture (payback for the birthday cake I baked her), a full set of dishes and linens picked out for the apartment I don’t have yet, and most importantly, I’ve entered the world of jam-making for the first time.

Jam is one of those things that I always forget about. I’m not a big toast eater — or a breakfast eater, if we’re being honest — and I prefer my occasional slice of bread with peanut butter or Nutella. Or both. But when I do have it, usually slathered on top a thick swipe of sweet creamy butter, I always think that there could never be a better breakfast than this. But making jam at home scared me because I was terrified of killing people with my improper canning techniques. Then I discovered refrigerator jam. You don’t have to follow canning techniques because you keep it in the fridge, and while it has a much shorter shelf life than canned jam, if it’s good enough it probably won’t last that long anyway.

My first encounter with homemade jam was in Paris with Madame Nicolas, Keith’s homestay mom whom we were staying with for the week. She very generously gave us two jars of her homemade jam to take back with us, which were cruelly taken by security at the airport. The “make your own jam” bug niggled into my brain and wouldn’t leave, so I finally succumbed last week. We had some pears that were on their last legs, so I took it as my cue to turn them into something better.

I turned to Clotilde at Chocolate & Zucchini and David Lebovitz for help, though of course I made some changes. After reading around that pears are naturally very low in pectin, the gelling agent that helps jam set, I decided to add lemon zest in addition to lemon juice (lemons have lots of pectin). I probably could have cut the pears much smaller and/or cooked them longer, since they’re still very shapely, but the sugar was starting to reduce quickly so I pulled them off the heat. The end result was probably more like a compote than a jam per se, but it tastes delicious — very floral, which made me think of the French countryside even more. …

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Cappuccino Chocolate Layer Cake

If there is anything that can top the fabulousness of peanut butter and chocolate, it is coffee and chocolate. And while they are delicious in shortbread cookies, they take on a whole new level of awesome when combined in cake form, especially layer cake form.

My sister turned 21 last month. Of course she was due a birthday cake, but since she goes to school in a town I affectionately call The Pitts, we didn’t see her until last weekend. While scanning for recipes, the words Cappuccino Chocolate jumped out at me, burrowed into my brain until I absolutely could not look at another recipe, had to make this one right now.

But of course, I made a few changes (I mean, I am a layer cake expert). I immediately tossed fudge frosting out the window, opting instead for a buttercream, subtly flavored with a touch of coffee. I originally wanted a whipped cream frosting, but the thought of it melting on our four-hour drive to Pittsburgh scared me off. I had visions of a cake so tall that it would blow the lid off our tiny car and force my dad to pull out the big wheels. (Also, I didn’t want to spend four hours stuck in the back of a coupe.)

Alas, it was not meant to be. For reasons I’m not entirely sure of, the recipe as stated below makes for one very flat two-layer cake. Sadly, like in the world of basketball, height really matters in layer cake land, and here I was, a paltry Muggsy Bogues instead of a towering Dikembe Mutombo. (Since the Super Bowl is over, I’ve switched to basketball and apparently have been playing way too much NBA Live 1997). Double this recipe for three nicely sized 9-inch layers. This recipe as written would probably work very well for my 6-inch pans, but unfortunately they were in New York.

Despite all that (and its horribly … uh, homemade appearance), this cake was pretty darn good. While I thought the coffee flavor was too subtle, my parents disagreed heartily — or at least I think that’s what they said as they shoveled spoonfuls into their mouths while driving. …

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Tortilla de Patatas (Spanish Omelette)

For six glorious months during the spring of 2008, I lived in Madrid. The experience was a feast for the mind, the soul and the body, as I ate and drank with reckless abandon modesty befitting the lady that I am.

It was a whirlwhind. Every day presented something new, whether it was the discovery of delicious Manchego cheese readily available everywhere, creamy cafe con leche at every street corner, tapas I can only dream of recreating now and wine for less than 1 Euro at the supermarket. For the first time I was without a mom or a meal plan to provide my daily meals, so I had to learn how to make dinner: chicken with Dijon-white wine sauce, gambas al ajillo (don’t let me get away with not sharing that recipe — it’s so easy and so good), freshly-pressed chorizo sandwiches when we got tired of the stove. On top of all that, I had the good fortune of being with my closest friends while I was abroad, which made everything all the more fun.

I’ve been feeling very nostalgic about that time, now that I’m about to embark on my next great adventure.* Before I left for my semester abroad, I was excited, nervous: ready to experience and discover new things, but also a little scared of what I might find. I feel all of those things now, so in hopes of having this new endeavour turn out to be a rousing success like Madrid was, I decided to turn back the clock. Tortilla de patatas was a staple in my daily life as a madrileño, something I grabbed along with my “to-go” coffee (a filmsy plastic cup filled to the brim with hot coffee and wrapped in tin foil — the Spanish have no concept of eating on the run. Only after begging the ladies who ran the little restaurant next to my apartment every morning for “un cafe para llevar” did they finally offer up this less-than-ideal solution). The Spanish eat it at all times of the day, with everything.

I had always wanted to try my hand at it, given that it seems like it should be easy. What is it, if not a potato and onion omelette? Well, most recipes call for a lot of oil, a mandolin, a cast-iron skillet, at least a few minutes of oven time and a lot more patience than I possess. But after making a frittata on the stove, I thought that technique would work quite nicely for the tortilla.

It did. And with each bite, I remembered what it was like to be in Madrid eating a pincho with a thick slice of baguette and a dollop of ketchup (very traditional, I know), laughing with friends, savoring the moment. Exactly what I needed as I contemplate my next move.

*Tomorrow, I start my new job with About.com! It’s everything I’ve been looking for and I’m so excited (and slightly nervous and apprehensive) to start!

…

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Peanutella (Chocolate-Peanut Butter Spread)

Because I’ve failed you so miserably with service journalism in the past, I’m going to give you the meaning of love today, a full five days before the most commercialized romantic day of the year.

True love occurs only when two wonderful things intertwine to make something one hundred times better. True love is the embrace of chocolate and peanut butter, a union that produces, in a word, bliss. (In another word, euphoria. In a third and fourth word[s], heart failure).

At some point in my 22 years, I discovered the magic that is a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich. A thick swipe of chocolaty-hazelnut spread on one slice of whole-grain bread (to make it healthy, naturally), another swipe of extra-chunky peanut butter on another slice, smashed together to form the best breakfast/lunch/dessert/snack one has ever imagined, improved only by the addition of banana slices in the middle.*

This spread takes the best parts of that sandwich, minus those icky preservatives that keep Nutella good for years. The recipe comes from (surprise) Smitten Kitchen, whose blog I read far more often than is probably normal. While her version came out silky smooth, mine was still pretty gritty — perfect for someone like me who loves chunky peanut butter, but perhaps not if you’re the creamy sort. I’m not sure what I did wrong, other than perhaps a) using an old food processor or b) getting impatient and stopping the processing part too early. I also ran out of powdered sugar and therefore altered the ratio of sugar to cocoa, but I liked the less-sweet version — it feels like a “grown-up” version of Nutella.

It also goes without saying that I spooned this over bananas for dessert last night and then again for breakfast this morning. Whether you’re celebrating Valentine’s Day with a sweetie or not, make sure you celebrate it with peanutella. Nothing can fill your heart more than chocolate and peanut butter.

*While I was in Madrid, Milan would pack me peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches to take to class with me in the mornings, leaving little notes in the sandwiches to remind me to have a good day. Yet another reason to love this combo so much … …

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Oven-Baked Spicy Sriracha Wings

I have once again failed you as a food blogger. This recipe should have come last week, before, oh you know, the biggest football game of the year, during a weekend in which America collectively eats one billion(!) chicken wings. But unfortunately, I didn’t make these until Sunday, for my Super Bowl “party” of three with my mom and dad. And what regret I felt, biting into each juicy, spicy, tangy, crisp wing, knowing that I could have shared them with you all and didn’t.

My bad. But in the near future, there are the Grammys, the Oscars, the Final Four, the start of baseball season — all parties to be had, and all parties that should feature these wings. Because they’re that good.

While I love wings, I am extremely picky. I don’t like to eat with my hands (I have a neurosis about getting my hands dirty, and wash them at least 15 times a day) so I always eat wings with a fork and knife. Bones are extremely hard to cut around, so I only eat boneless. Yes, I should probably seek medical help.

Because I am so picky about them and my parents generally avoid all chicken that involves skin, we aren’t really wings people in the Singh household. So my mom was extremely skeptical when I decided I had to make them, which only made me more determined to have them be the best thing ever. My family does love Sriracha, the Thai hot sauce made with chili peppers, vinegar, garlic, sugar and salt. The red bottle with the green cap is easily found at my local grocery store, but this recipe looks like a close approximation. The sauce is slightly tangy, very spicy but also a little bit sweet.

Michael Symon’s recipe has gotten rave reviews, so I decided to try it. I marinated the wings Saturday morning, giving them a good long marinade time. I also altered his marinade significantly, since I happen to live in a home that doesn’t have ground cinnamon. (Say what?) I didn’t want to deep-fry the wings, so I had planned on using Symon’s alternate instructions, to bake the wings for 1-1/2 hours at 375°F. But when I came back to the wings on Sunday afternoon, I decided that baking them continually at one temperature wouldn’t make for crisp wings. So I decided to “wing it.” (Ha. I slay me.)

The below recipe produces the most fabulously wonderful wings that I’ve ever eaten, and truth be told, they’re not that bad for you. By placing the wings on a wire rack and roasting them, you allow much of their fat to escape without adding any additional fat. I also decreased the amount of butter in the sauce because I like mine to be a little thick. They were so good, I forgot all about my hang ups with bone-in chicken, though I did eat them with a fork. Some things are just non-negotiable. …

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A Restaurant Week Roundup

Caught up in the excitement of snow and Sunday night dinners and salted chocolate, I forgot to mention one eensy thing: It’s Restaurant Week in New York City! Restaurant Week, if you’re new here, is when a number of notable restaurants offer three-course prix fixe menus for two weeks, $24.07 for lunch and $35 for dinner. While by no means cheap, it’s a fabulous way to check out some of the nicest places in town.

Though I missed it on the blog, I certainly did not miss out in real life, enjoying dinner at Maze by Gordon Ramsey and Colicchio and Sons, and lunch at Maialino. All three were pretty great — it may have been my best Restaurant Week yet!

Mili and I went to Maze last Wednesday to celebrate some good news. The restaurant is in the London hotel in midtown and the bar was clearly a post-work watering hole for midtown suit-types. I ordered the Hubbard squash soup with braised duck ragout to start, roasted Amish chicken breast with braised red cabbage and bacon as my main course (clearly I’m such a braised cabbage aficionado now) and the chocolate fondant with cardamom caramel sea salt and almond ice cream. I loved the soup and the cabbage, thought the chicken was very good and the dessert over-the-top but delicious. Mili had the butter lettuce salad with mustard vinaigrette and pickled red onions, risotto of sunchokes, mushrooms and mascarpone and vanilla custard with citrus and oatmeal streusel for dessert. Her risotto was divine and I’m already thinking of how I can approximate it at home.

After going back and forth on places for dinner Friday night (our options were Butter, L’Ecole, the restaurant at the French Culinary Institute which I am now dying to check out, and Colicchio and Sons), Keith and I finally chose Colicchio and were able to sneak in with a rezzo at 10:30(!). I got there a little early and hung out at the bar for a bit, which was really nice. The bartenders are friendly, the drinks are good, the room is entertaining — I highly recommend it if you should ever find yourself on the westernmost outskirts of the Meatpacking District.

Foodwise, I ordered the roasted bone marrow(!) with truffle vinaigrette and “drunk” onions, then the “surf and turf,” scallops and pork belly with citrus and a bacon mayo, and a vanilla ice cream parfait with red velvet cake and an Oreo cookie crunch. I wasn’t sold on dessert, and truth be told, my pork belly was overdone. But the scallops were perfect, and the bone marrow was certainly the most interesting thing I’ve ever eaten. Anthony Bourdain, in one of his No Reservations episodes in New York, has bone marrow at Prune (loved this place) and declares it the most luxurious thing he’s ever tasted (I paraphrase). He’s not kidding — the marrow was extremely rich, but I couldn’t decide if it was off-putting or just amazing. The onions were perfect though, winey and briny to cut the fat of the marrow, but caramelized enough so that they were sweet and almost jammy. I could eat those onions all day, every day. …

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Salted Cocoa Brownies

Confession time: even though I know that certain things are bad for me, that they will only cause me pain, that I will cry and cry when I feel their consequence, I still want them.

This is a story about the failed romance between these salted cocoa brownies and my rapidly growing derriere, as the French say.

After a difficult weekend, I decided I needed to have brownies on Sunday night.* Too busy with pernil to trifle with baked goods at that moment, I dreamed about them all of Monday before finally succumbing to temptation Monday night. I mean, I had all of the ingredients. I was feeling blah. It was Monday. (Do I even need to go on here?) I had my eyes set on the famed cocoa brownies from Alice Medrich’s book Bittersweet. She eschews real chocolate and opts for cocoa on purpose.

Medrich says, “cocoa brownies have the softest center and chewiest candylike top ‘crust’ of all because all of the fat in the recipe (except for a small amount of cocoa butter in the cocoa) is butter, and all of the sugar is granulated sugar rather than the finely milled sugar used in chocolate.” Not having to buy real chocolate saves me a trip to the grocery store, and well, that’s good enough for me.

Of course, I had to make some tweaks. I decided I wasn’t craving regular brownies, I wanted salted cocoa brownies. Perhaps this was my obsession with salt in desserts gone too far. But once I got the idea in my head, I couldn’t shake it. Salt brings out something special in desserts, you see. It takes something very sweet and adds a bite to it, a little complexity. Because I used fleur de sel, there was even a little crunch, a welcome textural addition to what is an extremely fudgy (the only kind, in my opinion) brownie. While this amount of salt might be a little much for some, I encourage you to try it out. Maybe start with a little less on this batch — I promise you there will many more to come.

Because oh, in case I forgot to mention, these are gooooood. Overcome a bad case of the Mondays good. Have them for dinner on Tuesday and again today good. Turn your frown upside down good. Worst of all, forget about bathing suit season is omg, only a few months away good. Faced with a summer of bad cover-ups, or worse, old gym shorts, even my bottom has had to let go. …

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Pernil (Roasted Pork Shoulder) with Black Beans and Rice

Sundays were made for big dinners. As the weekend winds down, there’s nothing better than to recharge with a nice meal and look forward to the week ahead. And in winter, a long braise that fills the apartment with warmth and inviting aromas is nothing short of heavenly.

This pernil is of that ilk. While not technically a braise (since it is not cooked in a covered pot), it is roasted in the oven for hours, wafting scents of cumin, cocoa and citrus that are so lovely they create an impossible situation for those of us in the apartment with hungry bellies. The recipe is for people like me, who allow others to do all the work (in this case, the oven) and then sit back and bask in credit.

Based on my inexpert research, pernil is a classic Puerto Rican roasted pork shoulder made with a wet spice rub. From the host of recipes I saw online, it is almost always seasoned with garlic, oregano, salt, pepper and something acidic, whether it be vinegar or citrus juice. I have yet to ask my resident Puerto Rican friend what the “most classic” version is, but given that I added cinnamon, nutmeg, cumin, cocoa powder, paprika and onions, I’ll venture to say that this isn’t it.

This is, however, jaw-droppingly delicious, enough to momentarily allow you to forget about your troubles and enjoy really well-flavored meat. I used a combination of a Mark Bittman recipe, one from Tyler Florence and one from Michael Chiarello (none of whom is Puerto Rican … hmmm).

After marinating with Florence’s wet spice rub overnight, I patted the pork shoulder with an adapted version of Chiarello’s cocoa dry rub and then cooked according to Bittman’s instructions. The only thing I might do differently next time is allow the meat to cook for a little while longer, as it wasn’t quite at the falling-off-the-bone stage at 3 hours and 30 minutes. But it was past 7:30, we had been smelling the stuff since 4 and it seemed cruel to deny us any longer.

I served the pork with a very non-traditional black beans and brown rice, which were so delicious that they will be my lunch and dinner for the next few days. We had a much-needed culinary trip to the islands, a reminder that a good meal can transport you to another place, if only for a moment. …

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