From Scratch

So late last night My Uncle Jeff, one of the many people in my life whom I hold responsible for my obsessive compulsive fixation with cooking and eating, sent along this article written by Michael Ruhlman:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-ruhlman/message-to-food-editors-w_b_555003.html

The basic jist of this being, that the food companies, and Rachel Ray, and Burger King are all telling us that we should commit less time to cooking, because it's hard and time consuming. Ruhlman's response, and I couldn't have said it better myself, is BULLSHIT.

for some reason I've got a major bee in my bonnet about this. Ruhlman gets into some things here that I think we all know are a major problem in this country--that the processed food companies, and the pervasiveness of their product, their packaging, and their message, has not only made it easier for us to avoid doing something for ourselves and our families as basic as cooking a meal, but they've hurt our health as well by peddling us crap and telling us it's "food." This is all true, and it's a really dangerous state of affairs. But there's another issue tied up in this one that speaks to me personally--I'm a home cook who learned early on that cooking and eating are inextricably tied up with relationships and family, and I'm deeply disturbed by the fact our country's "food culture" (BIG sarcasm quotes around that one) has actually managed to discourage many of us who might have otherwise been inclined to become active home cooks, by bombarding us with the message that cooking is somehow a major pain in the ass, (rather than a joy) and therefore not worth doing. I think this whole idea deprives us of a really basic form of social expression, one that has been with us since we were charring wooly mammoth on spits over an open fire and picking nits out of our neighbor's hair.

For those of you who are just joining the party, I'll just say up front that food and cooking has always been a huge part of my family life, and I learned from a very young age that adults cook. It's how we feed ourselves. It's how we feed our children. But it's also an incredibly longstanding, traditional way of solidifying relationships with friends, relatives and neighbors. What better way to say to someone "Hey, I like you," than to feed them? I just never thought of cooking as optional.

Apparently I'm in the minority here, because I'm shocked by how many adults my age or older just never learned how to cook. We're grown now, we're getting married and having babies and starting families, but we still don't know how to cook. And why would we? We can grab a Big Mac, we can pop something in the microwave, and if we're feeling really ambitious, we can put on some water to boil and make Mac 'n Cheese. And let me be really honest here for a second: I HAVE DONE ALL OF THESE THINGS. But when you have an entire generation that chooses these quickie "food products" to the exclusion of cooking real food at all, ever...well I worry about a couple of things. I worry about our health, for sure. And I worry about the health of our kids, the ones who are going to grow up on processed non-food because Kraft foods and Stouffers taught my generation that you don't have to know how your food (or your kids food) is made anymore, and you certainly don't have to make it yourself, you just have to buy it. But I also worry about the food culture of those kids. The ones who aren't going to be exposed to the subtle social and cultural benefits of sharing the act of cooking with those you care about.

Ever make cookies for a friend when you were too broke to buy them a birthday gift, only to find that they were more psyched about the fact that you went to the trouble to cook for them than they ever would have been about another blouse or a CD? Ever have someone cook you dinner one a second or third date, rather than just going to a movie? (And wasn't that person always just that much more likely to get lucky? Admit it.) Ever perch on a stool in your mom's kitchen while she fixed dinner and tell her all about your day while she nodded and stirred and listened? I did.

Cooking real food, from scratch, is time consuming. Sometimes it's even a pain in the ass. But regardless of what the food companies and the fast-food mega chains tell us, it's also fun, and sexy, and creative, and one of the surest, oldest, most visceral ways of reinforcing our relationships with one another. I'm fascinated by food not only because I'm a glutton, and like the way food tastes (and I do), but because for me, food is emotional. Cooking and eating with my family sets off all of the happy little buzzers in the most primitive parts of my brain that tell me that I am a part of a tribe, and that we will care for each other. And if that's not worth learning and passing along to your friends and your kids, then I don't know what is. Yes, it is a time consuming pain in the ass, but then, so are the people you love.

So.

What's for dinner tonight?

Seasoned to taste

Just about the exact time I turned 20, I decided that I was a grown up, and grown ups know how to cook. And one of the first dishes I learned to properly cook was a really classic spaghetti sauce. Spaghetti was pretty much my one favorite all time meal growing up, and it took me a while to perfect my own version of it. I think sauce is a great teaching tool for beginner cooks, because there are so many various ways to do it, and you can get away with a lot of things--but you can't get away without tasting it along the way. To learn how to cook is to learn how to taste, and spaghetti sauce is the perfect vehicle for learning that particular skill.

I made this one the other night when I was in particular need of some comfort food, and executing my favorite old standard recipe always turns out to be just as comforting as eating it. I've found that there's no real way for me to write down the recipe, so I'm just going to go through it as if you were keeping me company in the kitchen, which seems like more fun than a dry old recipe, and hopefully will be easy enough to follow:

First, I put on a large pot of water for the pasta, and I chop up the onions and garlic, (tearing and sniffing the whole way of course). I toss the onions into the dash of olive oil in the bottom of the sauce pan, waiting until the olive oil starts to shimmer from the heat, so when the onions hit the pan I get that nice satisfying hiss. (One of my favorite sounds of all time, bar none.) The garlic goes in a minute or two later so it doesn't burn, probably 5 or 6 cloves at least, and I sauté the whole thing until the onions go translucent. Canned, diced tomatoes go on top, thoroughly drained (who wants watery sauce?) And I let the whole mess stew for just a couple minutes so the tomatoes start to break down. That way you can use less of the unseasoned canned "sauce" to hold the whole thing together. I end up using a little less than half the can, and two of the small cans of tomato paste which make all the difference in keeping the consistency thick and bound together enough to stick to the spaghetti.

Toss in a bay leaf, just one (But do not eat.) And here comes the improvisational part: A handful of dried basil. Some thyme. Oregano (less is more, at least to start). Salt, of course, (and a pinch over the left shoulder) and cracked black pepper. And here's my secret weapon, the one that a lot of cooks leave out, and to the detriment of the whole meal as far as I'm concerned. A handful of sugar and more red wine than feels necessary or sane.

I let it go for a minute or two before I taste, to let all the flavors come together, and guess what? It sucks. But it's not enough to know it sucks, I've got to know why. I taste it again. It's bland, and I'm thinking it needs more basil. I add some more, and then thinking about it I go ahead and toss in more oregano and thyme as well. I always go a little bit at a time,because you can always add more later, but you can't get it back out. I taste it again. Does it need more salt? Probably, but I hold off because Mr. Gastro is cooking up Italian sausage on the next burner, and I'm going to be adding it to the sauce in just a moment, and that has plenty of salt all by itself. But I do go ahead and add more wine.

The sausage comes off the heat, and while Mr. Gastro is cutting the sausage into pieces before tossing them into the saucepan, I take the pan with all the the sausage renderings and the burnt bits and I put it back on the burner and turn the heat all the way up. I wait until it's just shy of burning, and then I pour in some red wine and deglaze the pan by scraping the bottom of the pan while the wine hisses and spits. I pour the whole thing, wine, fat and crispy burnt bits, into the sauce. Health food this is not, but it makes all the difference in the flavor. The sausage goes in too, and I'm thinking we're in the home stretch, so I drop the pasta in to boil. And taste again.

It turns out, the sauce does need just a tiny bit more salt, and a little more sugar too. At this point I've added seconds if not thirds of absolutely everything, but like I said, I'm going a little at a time, and the sauce is almost perfect now. It just needs one more thing. Am I crazy? Maybe, but here we go, yes... MORE WINE. Mr. Gastro notes at this point that I have included an entire glass of wine in the sauce, at least, but it's with this final addition that everything clicks into place, and the sauce, when you taste it, is perfect, exactly how it's supposed to taste, and lo and behold, the pasta is done, the bread is warm, and the table is set. It's like everything, the salt, the spaghetti, the wine, wine, and more wine, it was all waiting to come together until this very moment, when it was always going to come together. It's like you've been working backwards, this entire time, tasting and seasoning, just to end up here, with this perfectly seasoned sauce, a fork in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other.

Champagne, sushi, and guacamole

"Come over and we will talk about wedding flowers," Halani tells me. I am so happy to oblige, not only because I am a sucker for flowers, but because Halani is simply amazing company, and I don't see nearly enough of her. Then she says, "I have a bottle of champagne in my fridge, we should drink it!"

As if I had needed any convincing in the first place. I am so there.

So Halani and I spent last night having a little girl time in her beautifully appointed apartment, literally down the street from the flower shop where I used to work for her. The store is gone now, replaced by some boutique that sells dresses and overpriced handbags, and I believe the neighborhood is worse for it. But some things never change, and tonight, like all of those afternoons and evenings spent arranging flowers, drinking wine, and nibbling on whatever we happened to be in the mood for, we have created a truly lovely, if somewhat unorthodox spread.

Two different types of sushi, picked up most likely from the same place we used to get sushi when the shop was still open. And GIANT fresh spring rolls with spicy dipping sauce, which were tasty, but so big that it took us forever to get up the nerve to even attempt to eat them, and then when we did they fell apart and spread lettuce and shrimp and spicy saucy goodness everywhere. Then, because we can't stick with a theme (and really, who wants to choose?) a spread of goat cheeses on baguette. I particularly like The black pepper goat cheese--just enough spice to cut all that creamy softness. There was a big bowl of fresh strawberries (Heaven! And on a gorgeous spring evening! Perfect.) And Halani and I both had champagne with strawberries in the glass. And if there is anything more decadent in the world than champagne with strawberries, I probably shouldn't know about it, or I might die from sheer excess of fabulousness.

Last but not least, at Halani's request, I brought along the homemade guacamole that became a bit of a store favorite while we were still working together. The key is picking avocados at the absolute right moment, and that can't be done unless you get really hands on with them in the store. Look for the darkest skins, and don't even bother with the bright green avocados. They will only disappoint you. Pick only the ones that give just a little bit in your hand, like butter at room temperature, and when you mash the avocados, make sure not to macerate them to a slimy, gooey mess. Leave the whole thing just a little chunky, and nobody will ever tell you they don't eat guacamole, "because it's a texture thing."

Guacamole:

3 perfectly ripe avocados

1/2 yellow onion

1-2 small plum tomatoes

a dollop of sour cream or mayonnaise

a pinch or two of cilantro (optional)

Juice of 1 lime

Salt

Fresh black pepper

Cumin

Tobasco

Dice the avocados and place in a bowl. Add lime juice, salt, pepper, tobasco and spices, and just a tiny bit of sour cream of mayonnaise. Use a fork to mash the avocados and spices until the liquid is evenly distributed and the avocado is just a little chunky. Coarsely chop the onion and tomato and fold them into the avocado mix. Adding the onion and tomato after you've mashed the avocado helps to keep the tomato chunky rather than mushy, and makes all the difference to the texture. Add finely chopped cilantro if desired. Taste, and taste again to check the spiciness and make any adjustments as needed.

Mussel Power

Here's the story of my Mom and Suze... I am going to mess this story up, because it is not mine, but I like it, so here it is:

Once upon a time in the 70's, two twenty-something women struck up a conversation while heading home from paralegal training on a hot sweltering day in the middle of summer. The two of them like each other right off the bat, and they hit it off so well that eventually one of them says to the other, "You should come upstairs to my place and have a cold glass of iced tea." This sounds like a fine idea to the other, now very thirsty twenty-something paralegal (who may or may not be my mother, I can never remember who invited whom in this story). But only when the two of them get upstairs and the impromptu iced tea host produces a pitcher of real, fresh, sun brewed iced tea, and the invitee (Who again, may or may not be my mother) practically moans, "Ohhh...you have real iced tea. Oh. My. God," do they realize that they are going to become very good friends indeed.

This, on the surface, is a dumb story with no point, about two young women with unusually strict standards in what constitutes real iced tea. (Um, hello, real iced tea never came from a powder. Thanks.) Except it is an awesome story, because it is a story about how my Mom met Suze, and how along with my Mom's clone Pam, the three of them funneled their respective obsessions with good food, good company, and real iced tea, goddammit, into the infamous dinner club of the 1980s, and eventually, into the centerpiece of every family holiday and vacation, the Kitchen Sluts Anonymous.

Suze was always the big star of the dinner club from what I've heard. Her sauces--over the top. Her desserts--legendary. Even before I really cared at all about cooking, I was hearing about Suze's contributions to dinner club, and how she would dare to make complicated, crazy elaborate dishes, for fun. (Something I know nothing about, har har.)And I can testify firsthand that the KSA would not be the KSA without Suze's ridiculously over the top apple pie, and her penchant for any cocktail containing really great bourbon.

Today, Suze is every bit as much my friend as she is my Mother's, and tonight, she came over to my place for our semi-regular dinner and wine date. Suze is one of the rarest types of friends, the ones who pre-date even your own self, making them, in some respects, your oldest friend by default. Like good China, or a well loved cookbook, Suze got handed down to me (although my Mom still has a timeshare on her as well, make no mistake) and just like china or that cookbook, somehow the fact that she was my Mother's before she was mine makes her somehow that much more valuable. There is a part of me that entirely expects that in 30 years I will have an offspring living in a too-small city apartment, and on any given night, I will be able to find Suze shooting the breeze there with a bottle of wine, and a dish she brought from home. I like the idea of it. I really hope I'm right.

Anyway, tonight Suze was mine, and tonight we made mussels. Being a mussel novice I stuck to the recipe from my trusty Best Recipe Cookbook. I also learned that I stress too much about the life and death of the little buggers. For all of you first time mussel cooks--if they pop open on you in the fridge and you're worried they might be dead, run them under cold tap water and give them a little rap with your fingernail or rub them with between your hands. If they're alive they'll get pissed off and close right up. Have no fear. Steam them and eat them. The mussels were great (Although next time I'm going to reverse the proportions of shallots and garlic...more garlic, less shallot.) And I also need to adjust my equipment. The recipe calls that the mussels be removed from the pot, but the broth be left in the bottom to be mixed with butter and turned into a briney, winey, buttery sauce. That's all well and good, but this would have gone a lot quicker if I had a metal colander that fits into my stock pot so that I could remove all the mussels in one quick motion, rather than spooning out handfuls of mussels with a giant serving spoon, thereby losing quite a bit of heat in the process. Anyway, the mussels were fun to make and perfectly cooked, (6 minutes exactly seemed to do the trick) and oh so pretty in the bowl. And if my only reservation was that they were lukewarm rather than piping hot, then I think I did alright. Suze brought salad (with a homemade dressing whipped up from misfit condiments found in my fridge, because Suze is awesome,) plus a couple pints of fancy ice cream from a local place, and of course, wine.

Dinner was great, conversation, funny, free-flowing, and delightful as always, and hey...even cleanup was a relative breeze. No small feat with the two of us maniac cooks in the kitchen.

Comfort Food

Things are getting a little crazy for my Mom.

This past week my Mother went down to Long Island, where my Grandma Susie, our beloved eccentric matriarch with her house full of knick-knacks and the hard Texan drawl is preparing to move into her new Condo. Susie is absolutely tickled pink by the whole move, simply can't wait, and there is a part of me that wants to get her alone and let her know that if she wanted to buy a swank one story condo, there were easier ways to get it done than to break her hip trekking up her uneven old stairs. (Or rather, coming back down.) But Susie is on the mend, and perkier than ever now that she's trading in the cluttered grandma digs for a sleek new pad. Susie, it seems, is somewhat of a Bionic woman, and only needs the occasional replacement part to make her better, stronger, faster, not to mention somehow funnier, brassier, and yes, younger. My Mom, on the other hand, is a little tense, and I'm guessing the rest of the family is right there with her.

"I just...I can't...I CAN'T TALK NOW. BYE." This is what I've been hearing the past week or so as she's been joining my Long Island family in the quest to get Susie into her new place. And I get it, I do. The closing on the condo, the endless stream of stuff to get packed and moved, 40 plus years of Grandma stuff that's been collecting in the old house. And then there are the doctor's appointments, and the movers, and the furniture, and my grandmother's little dog, who barks so long, and so hysterically whenever ANYONE enters the house, stranger or not, that her cries become something closer to one long, sustained whistling cry, interrupted only by Susie's addition of, "Cookie! Cookie! Be quiet!" (She never will.) So Mom has been, yes, a little tense.

That is until my Dad came down to join her. Now granted, my parents are those rare types in this day and age who make each other better just by being in the same room with one another, a novelty in this new era where so many unions seem to have expiration dates stamped right there on the marriage license. My parents genuinely love each other, in a gross, constantly voiced way that mortified me as a kid, and then caused me to have absolutely no tolerance for anything less out of my own relationships as an adult. (Thanks, guys.) But that doesn't mean that my Dad carries around my Mom's OFF switch wherever he goes. Far from it. He sometimes knows exactly how to find her buttons, the bad ones, and then hit them all at once like a kid in an elevator. It happens. Yet somehow the other day after my Dad arrived on the scene, my conversations with my mother changed.

"Your father's making lasagna tonight!" She was absolutely gleeful about it. "And last night, he made dinner for everybody! He roasted a chicken, a whole chicken, with mashed potatoes and carrots with dill and beer! Your father is wonderful!"

What was so special here? My Dad's always been known to cook. This is no great surprise. And yet somehow I just knew that throughout this entire ordeal, there had been a lot of pizza. Perhaps some bagels too, or some takeout falafel. But there had definitely been a lot of pizza and a lot of soda. Because real meals are always the first thing to go when things get a little crazy. My Dad is a problem solver, the guy who, when you vent to him about a problem with no solution, often comes back with, "Yes, but what do you want me to do about it?" A furious answer of, "NOTHING, GAWD!" (Often from a very angry, very adolescent me) only ever seemed to befuddle him.

The beauty of food is that it is so often the answer to the problem, even when the problem has absolutely nothing to do with food. Not enough sleep, not enough time, not enough money? Brownies. Depression, unemployment, grief? Casserole. My Dad is a smart, wonderful man who has only ever wanted to make the three wacky women in his family happy, even when we provide very few answers on how exactly to do that. So my Dad's answer to a financial pain in the ass, a house full of boxes, an eccentric old lady and her yippy little dog? A roast chicken. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna.

Food, lovingly cooked and applied with care can be the response to so many issues that often we take it for granted. But for my Dad, a man so often struggling with his high strung girls and the question of, "How can I fix it?" the response was simple. Make meals. Restore balance...with meat and starch. And the response from my mother was, at least in that one moment of normalcy, a great big sigh of relief.

Pho, Pho real

"Pho?" Mr. Gastro groans... "I don't really like Pho. pho doesn't feel like a meal."

To which I can only reply, who are you, and how are you my Mr. Gastro?

Let me be fair. Mr. Gastro is in almost every way, a completely love dining partner. Not as adventurous as myself, but lets all be fair here-- I will try just about anything once, so long as it is drenched in chiles, cilantro, and lime. But he is in every respect a truly lovely dining partner, willing to eat unfamiliar food, and then discuss it ad nauseum until our jaws are tired from chewing and talking. But Pho, for some reason, falls short for him, which only confuses me, beacuse, really, what's not to like? It's noodles, it's spice, it's meat. And filling? You bet. But Mr. Gastro is, on this one very rare occasion, not game for my culinary whims, and so I grab Masha, a fellow food nerd, and book it to Pho Lemongrass in Brookline.

We are feeling particularly playful today, and so we order the quail as an appetizer, a first for both of us. It's lovely, crispy in all the right ways, with about as much real meat to it as you would expect from a bird that could fit into the palm of your hand. But it's savory and spicy in every way that I love, and reminds me, god help me, a little bit of a Vietnamese BBQ chicken wing. Except bonier. Yes. But very satisfying, and fun to eat.

And then Pho, wonderful Pho. Masha, a Pho virgin, orders hers with chicken, while I opt for mine with rare steak, tendon, brisket, and tripe. We both bury our bowls in basil, lime, bean sprouts, plum sauce, and hot chile paste, and dig in. Tripe, for me is a great discovery. Chewy, like I'd expected, and ridiculously good, and I find myself searching my bowl for more hiding under the noodles. I could go for my steak a little more on the rare side than they serve it here, but I suspect that has more to do with food safety regulations than the whims of the chef. (Can't we just be allowed to sign a waiver, and then take our chances on truly rare meat? Aren't we all adults here?) All in all, it is a really lovely way to spend an afternoon, and let me clarify...it does really take the whole afternoon. Pho is one of those dishes that surprises you. It's like a culinary excavation; You think you've found all of the wonderful, savory goodies hiding under the broth, but no, there's more. There is, it seems, always more, and so you while away an entire afternoon, slurping, sipping, chewing, uncovering, and talking, talking about family, about friends, about culture, and about food, food, food.

Bruschetta

And while we're on the subject:

Here's my personal recipe for perfect Bruschetta. I don't use cheese, because I generally go for a light, fresh, veggie-tastic version, but you can imagine that this would be true food porn with a little mozzarella or some shaved parmesan. I should also note here that I don't tend to use a lot of really specific measurements in my recipes, because, hey, I can't do all the work for you...

1 Baguette

2 fresh tomatoes (I prefer brandywine for just about everything, but you can use whatever's ripe and tasty)

1/2 a small red onion

5 cloves garlic

1 bunch fresh basil

Olive oil

Balsamic vinegar

Salt

Black Pepper

Preheat the oven to 450.

Cut the Baguette on a diagonal into 1/2- 1" thick slices, and place on a cookie sheet. Place the sliced baguette in the oven for approximately 7 minutes, or until the edges start to turn golden brown. Remove the toasted baguette and brush on both sides with olive oil. Cut one garlic clove in half and rub lightly on each piece to flavor. Set Aside.

Coarsely chop the tomatoes and place in a large mixing bowl. Mince the garlic and red onion, and combine with the tomatoes, along with the fresh basil, finely chopped. Add salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle with olive oil, and a small amount of balsamic vinegar. Mix well.

The Bruschetta flavor tends to get better after standing a few hours in the fridge, but is best enjoyed at room temp, so take it out about a half hour to an hour before serving. Scoop onto the crostini and enjoy.

To everything (turn, turn, turn) there is a season...

Something about the sudden appearance if warm weather makes me want the impossible out of my food. There's certainly a ton of lovely, seasonal foods available to me that scream early spring, but somehow on those first couple days where the mercury jumps up above 60, something in me wants nothing but unseasonably summery food. Maybe it's just impatience, but this past week I made a lovely batch of homemade basil pesto with whole grain penne, a dish that has always made me think of eating on the porch as a kid in mid July, with my Mom's herb garden (and yes, the remainder of the home-grown basil we used in the dish) literally within smelling distance. I tend to dress up the recipe my dad passed down to me by tossing my pasta with some sun-dried tomatoes for good measure, and it makes the recipe all mine.

I thought maybe I had gotten my Summer food fixation out of my system with last week's pesto, at least until Summer really hits in earnest, but then last night I had a sudden urge for homemade bruschetta, and I was off to the store again. I know I ought to wait until the ingredients come into season, like a good little gastro-junkie, but lucky for me my local organic-produce-mega-chain had just a handful of ripe gorgeous heirloom tomatoes tucked in with all of their terrifyingly red, scary- uniform "tomato" cousins, so I scooped them up and made the most gorgeous batch of bruschetta on toasted crostini for dinner. Where did these out of season oddities come from? I'm not sure, and to be perfectly honest, I don't necessarily think I want to know. Seasonal? Definitely not. Natural? Not likely. But I'm a gastro-junkie, not the food police, and sometimes, a girl's just got to have what a girl's got to have. And last night, this girl had to have some delicious, unseasonably summery food.

Traditions.

Somewhere around the time I went off to college, my mom and my aunts started calling themselves the Kitchen Sluts. Nothing like my friends' conservative, well behaved aunts and mothers, my mom and my aunts Suze and Pam would strap on their KSA (read: Kitchen Sluts Anonymous) aprons, and expound with a martini in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other about why cooking is sexy. (Fire, knives, texture and flavor, the age old relationship between food and sex…) They were the centerpiece of every family celebration, and you couldn’t help but want to be near them while they discussed their favorite kitchen gadgets, with the sound of onions hitting hot oil sizzling in the background. They were loud, funny, irreverent, and cooked over the top, elaborate meals…you know, for fun. They didn’t do low fat. They didn't cook with boxed wine. They were a huge force of personality. The party was in the kitchen, and the only way into the kitchen was to earn it. The summer after my sophomore year of college I decided I had to learn to cook, so while all of my friends were off at the Star Market looking for frozen pizza and mountain dew, I was at the farmers market looking for shallots and heirloom tomatoes. (Not to mention finding friends old enough to buy me cooking wine.) I had to prove myself to earn a place in the kitchen. I returned to the family Thanksgiving celebration (aka the “Turkey Orgy”) ready to show the women in my family what I could do, and when I premiered my homemade marinara the day after Turkey day, I was met with approving shrieks of, “My God! She’s one of us! She’s a KITCHEN SLUT!” I’ve since renewed my membership with new and increasingly decadent contributions to the annual family feast—my heart attack mashed potatoes (or as my aunt Pam calls then, “infarction spuds”) are now considered a family tradition, and this year I introduced sushi to the family Thanksgiving spread with my guaca-maki rolls, to roaring acclaim. Keeping up one's end of the Kitchen Sluts mantle is a constant game of self imposed one-upsmanship,but the payoff is a coveted spot at the heart of the party, in the kitchen,where the music is louder, the jokes are bawdier, and the wine is constantly flowing. Now when I’m entertaining my twenty-something crowd of friends, I bring that Kitchen Slut philosophy with me. Relax. Screw the recipe, if it doesn't work, just order a pizza and pour everybody some more wine. It’s a foreign idea for a lot of my friends, who still can’t work their way around a kitchen, but I’m teaching them, slowly but surely, and gaining a reputation for my dinner parties in the process. But one thing’s for sure. I would never have learned to cook if the outrageous women in my family hadn’t made it look like such a party, and taught me everything I know about food, wine, and entertaining.