If you give a Gastro-Junkie a garden...

Then she's going to need some compost.

I've recently started a container garden on my patio. It's a clumsy thing, sloppy seedlings in broken rows, sprouting out of old fruit crates, black plastic buckets, mason jars, rubbermade containers. This is my first year gardening in earnest, and so I know I've already made mistakes. My tomatoes were planted hopelessly late in the season. I know I'm in trouble every time I see more skillfully grown seedlings for sale in the farmers market. They are monstrous, towering over my seedlings at home, making them look downright embryonic. My baby tomato plants will never bear fruit before frost, and yet I nurture them anyway. Mostly because I'm amazed I ever got them to germinate in the first place. Perhaps there is still hope for my summer squash.

Having this strange mixed up garden growing on my porch has done something unexpected for my cooking style of late, but not for the reason you'd think. Not because I've reaped any produce from my strange little vegetable patch. I will need at least another week or two before my lettuce and spinach will be ready for harvest, and who knows how long after that for the rest of it. But when I started my garden, I couldn't help but cringe inwardly every time I threw away a batch of coffee grounds or a broken eggshell. These things would end up in a landfill, I knew, when they could have just as easily been feeding my stunted tomatoes. So I did something I had been wanting to do for years, and started composting.

I want to state right now, for the record, that this could all go terribly wrong. I have what is essentially a rubbermade bin of food garbage and newspaper on my patio. I call it compost, and so I am, by association, a gardener, an environmentally conscious individual. But what if my compost doesn't...well...compost? What will I be then? A lady who saves her food garbage in a storage bin on her porch, stirring it, taking its inventory. Saving it for later. A crazy.

So obviously, it is extremely important that this little experiment yield something other than a plastic bin full of rotting food, and soon. I have found myself keeping track of what I have been tossing into my compost bin with a surprising level of intensity, and discovered that my contribution of leafy green vegetables paled in comparison to, well...coffee grounds. Conclusion? I consume a lot of coffee. And apparently, not nearly enough vegetables. I mean seriously, if my compost is undernourished, what does that say about my own diet? Nothing good.

It is a sad fact that my own nutritional well being, not to mention my love of cooking, is not enough to inspire me to eat more fruits and vegetables. Nope. in order to really do anything about my daily allowance of beta carotene, I've got to be saving my food scraps in a box on my porch. Sad but true. Since I noticed the sad lack of green in my compost bin, I have been concocting ways to produce as much vegetable garbage as possible with my dinner choices. Which, in turn, has lead me to craft much healthier dinners. Thinking the bin might be a little low on nitrogen? get some corn husks in there, tomato tops, basil stems, pepper ribs, jicama peels. Cream sauce? No thanks. I'd never be able to compost the leftovers.

I'm not proud. As a thinking adult, and as a food person, I should really be able to make responsible decisions about my green leafy vegetable to coffee ratio all by myself. But twenty six years of history and my own recent observations have proven otherwise, and so I will take a little inspiration where I can get it. And if a bin of rotting food garbage on my porch is what it takes to inspire me to cook healthy and eat more vegetables, well then so be it. So my advice for all of you self taught foodies who love to cook, but maybe don't love your veggies quite enough?

Start a garden.

Brainstorming Salad

I secretly love salad.

I do. It seems weird. I mean, what's the big deal? Lettuce, dressing, maybe a couple of cucumbers. That's a salad, right?

Well kind of. And no.

A truly great salad is a rare thing, a perfectly balanced combination of flavors, pulled together by just the right dressing, to make something satisfying, delicious, filling.

(Did she say filling?)

We've all had okay salads. Limp greens to accompany your pasta entree, with lame lite Italian dressing and a few sad strips of pink, flaccid tomato. Or iceberg lettuce drenched in bland white goop, masquerading as a Caesar salad. But at least once in our lives, each of us has also had a totally triumphant salad, something that made us want to mop up the leftover dressing with the dinner rolls. Made us want to sit back and undo the top button of our jeans when nobody was looking.

Still don't know what I'm talking about? Try this:

Imagine a pile of fresh, spicy mescalun greens, tossed with a sweet, tart balsamic vinaigrette. Now top it with crisp cubes of Fuji apple, chunky walnuts, red onion, pepper crusted steak tips cooked perfectly medium rare, and funky blue cheese crumbles. Maybe some ripe cherry tomatoes for good measure, why not? Go crazy.

Salivating yet? No? Try this one.

A latin style salad of fresh romaine lettuce with a garlicky cilantro lime dressing, (homemade of course). Marinate a few strips of chicken breast in the dressing, saving the rest for later. Now while the chicken is blackening on the grill, top the lettuce with fresh diced tomato, shredded cheddar cheese, a handful of black beans for some hearty, toothy texture, some fresh sliced jicama, and finish it off with some seasoned tortilla strips for a festive alternative to traditional croutons. Avocado in a salad like this one is never a bad thing either.

The key to a truly mind blowing salad is to think about your salad the way you would think about any other dish. Balancing the flavors and textures and combining them just so is crucial. Sure, you could drop some tomato and cucumber on there and call it a day, but what if you keep the cucumber and drop the tomato? Replace it with say...mandarin oranges? And a handful of water chestnuts. And forget about that bottled Italian dressing you were reaching for a minute ago. What could you do with a couple tablespoons of oil, lime juice, some rice wine vinegar, and a dash or three of soy sauce? Think some peanuts would be good on that too? Of course you do.

No oranges? No water chestnuts? That's okay. Start with the mescalun again, or maybe even some baby spinach, and top it with fresh chopped apples. Have a little cold chicken or turkey left over from last night? What about some creamy brie cheese? Drop them both on there, and if you have some of those craisins hanging out in your cupboard, toss some of those in too. Have any sprouts? Have any celery? Either of those would work great here, along with a dressing you can make from the Dijon mustard sitting on the door of your fridge.

Ooh! Got some strawberries? Good! Slice those up and drop them on a bed of baby arugula. You can fix up a quick vinaigrette with some olive oil, a little balsamic, maybe some fresh squeezed orange juice for a little sweetness. In fact, almost any juice would work for this one, so play all you want. Or honey. You can never go wrong with honey in a salad dressing. Top your salad with slivered almonds, cucumbers and fresh, creamy goat cheese. Now take that lovely little bowl of heaven out to the front porch with a chunk of crusty bread and a glass of sangria, prop your bare tootsies someplace where they can feel the breeze, and enjoy the sunshine.

Rainy Day Treat

I've never been that big a fan of hot chocolate.

The stuff in the packets never did much for me, bringing nothing but sweet, cloying, one note flavor that barely warrants having the word chocolate placed in the same sentence, let alone emblazoned across the packaging. Homemade hot chocolate was always better, but even with the hot chocolate my Mom would make on a snowy day, the appeal always had more to do with nostalgia than flavor.

Then food buddy John turned me on to Mexican hot chocolate over the Winter and changed my whole perception of what hot chocolate could be. Rich, sweet, sure, but also spicy and complicated, this was everything I had ever wanted in a cup of cocoa but had never found. The secret it turns out is in the heat. A pinch of chili powder or cayenne gives this sweet treat a little burn, and wakes up your taste buds just in time to appreciate all that rich, decadent cocoa.

I know Spring has officially sprung, but even the springtime can bring with it its own special brand of wet, clammy cold. What could be better then, than a nice rich cup of hot chocolate, and a little spice to turn on that internal furnace? My recipe makes just the right amount for a single serving, since this is one I like to indulge in while I curl up alone with a book and a blanket, but it can be multiplied depending on the crowd.

Hot Chocolate

1 1/2 cups milk

1 heaping tablespoon cocoa

1 tablespoon sugar

1/8 teaspoon cayenne

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Pinch of salt

Pinch of cinnamon

Place the milk in a small saucepan over medium heat. Sift the cocoa into the milk through a mesh strainer to remove lumps, and whisk in thoroughly. Add sugar, vanilla, and seasonings, and stir constantly until warm. Enjoy with thick fuzzy socks and a good book.

All things in moderation (including moderation)

Sorry for the lag in posting, fellow Gastro-Junkies. I would love to say that my negligence is due to some totally rockin' job opportunity, but....well no. It's a desert out there. C'est la vie.

BUT! That means I get to spend more time with friends, more time cooking, and (from this moment on) more time writing.

Anyhoo, you might find in the next several weeks that I am beginning to lean a little more toward the healthy end of the food spectrum. Shocking I know. This is for a couple of reasons: 1) Spring is here! Like for real! And with it, a whole slew of fun new produce to play with! Huzzah! And, 2) Try as I might, I cannot continue my recent butter infused cooking style and maintain my jeans size. Something's got to give, and I'm determined that it shall not be my belt.

There is a plan tonight to adapt Julia Child's A-MAZING poached sole recipe into a more Mediterranean style dish--replacing butter with olive oil, and topping the fish with a sort of garlicky tomato bruschetta mixture in lieu of the beurre blanc I used the last time I made this dish. (However, for all you folks who don't need/don't care to behave when it comes to the butter, try beurre blanc. On fish, on anything. Just try it. Thank me later.) I will be sure to report back how my re-imagined fish turns out in a later post.

Never fear, Gastro-Junkies. This will never be a health food blog. In fact, I have imminent plans to institute a system of exchange with my crafty friend Masha--my breads and various assorted baked goods in exchange for her adorable hand-crafted decorative items. This should keep me busy baking breads and pies, and fueling more decadent, butter-laden blogs to come. (Not to mention filling my apartment with hip hand made art). But hopefully you will be seeing more crunchy green stuff appearing on the blog as well. Hopefully. We will see.

Anyway, just to put your cheese-loving hearts at rest, below, please find my very loose instructions for pasta carbonara. I made this one this past weekend during a very last minute dinner party. It was one of those parties where the friends mix it up just right, and the next thing you know it's 1am, you've had god only knows how many cocktails, and you're pants are feeling a little tight. Yeah. You know what I mean.

Pasta Carbonara

Generously salt the water and set it on the back burner to boil. Chop about half a pound of bacon, and about ten minutes before the guests start arriving, start browning it in the pan with a little olive oil. The smell hits your friends before they're even in the door, and they just know. BACON. Cook until brown and then add white wine to the pan, about a half a cup. Simmer about ten minutes, then set aside. Drink more wine.

Drop the spaghetti into the boiling water, and while it cooks, place three large eggs, garlic (about 3 cloves, more if you're...well, me.) and cheese in a bowl and mix. The cheese is a mix: 3/4 c. Parmesan, 1/4 c. Pecorino Romano. Mix well. As soon as the spaghetti is al dente, drain, return to the warm pot and pour the egg and cheese mixture over the pasta. NEVER FEAR: The heat from the spaghetti will actually cook the egg as you're tossing it with the pasta, creating a creamy texture you'd never think possible without actual cream. Pour the bacon and wine mixture over the spaghetti and mix thoroughly. Top with a generous amount of fresh cracked black pepper and serve immediately.

I would warn you that you can't keep the leftovers (the sauce congeals once it cools, and it won't ever be the same the next day,) but then again, if you've got leftovers, you're doing it wrong.

One last thing, apropos of nothing: If you like to laugh, you should check out this blog.

http://rebeccaloeser.tumblr.com/

We may or may not be related, but the fact remains, every time I read a new post I end up laughing uncontrollably. (Not for reading on the bus, unless you like your fellow passengers to think you're a little wacky). This most recent post also happens to be about lentils, so there's also a food connection. Plus, she's much better about updating regularly than I am. Just read her.

The VIP Treatment

Sometimes you want to write a review. You want to be cold, judicious. You want to be honest, and perhaps even brutal if it’s called for—a hard task if you’re someone who loves food and loves to eat. What could be more fun than writing about all the things that are wonderful about a meal? But in a review you’ve got to be cold, and so you try. (Brutality is admittedly, not my strong suit. I maintain that it is because I have so much more fun writing about the good restaurants.)

Sometimes though, you just want to have fun. And if you’re a food lover with a friend, or a friend of a friend in the kitchen, you can have a really unforgettable meal where the table is right, the food is perfect, and the service is above reproach. Are these experiences fodder for review? Can we be unbiased when we know that we are getting the VIP treatment? Of course not. But as a lover of food, and an individual who does not always warrant such treatment with my no-big-deal bank card and my paparazzi-free ride in via public transportation, is it fun to share these experiences with other food lovers?

You bet.

Sel de La Terre

"You are friends of the chef?"

This, our waiter at Sel De La Terre asks us after setting down the complimentary tasting plate that has been sent out to us from the kitchen. This is late Summer, and we did not order this beautiful tray of creamy luscious goat cheese, French olives, garlic confit and a shallot roasted black in balsamic vinegar. We didn’t order it, but we smile shyly and look at Masha, who stammers, “I…uh…I get him his vegetables!”

This needs a little context. Masha has gotten us a reservation at this very nice French restaurant through her work, distributing produce to nearly every restaurant and grocer in the greater Boston area. We go, gleeful about our night of eating above our station, knowing that the reservation was in fact made in Masha’s boss’s last name, and we suspect that people might assume that she is his daughter. We do not correct them.

After our surprise starter we receive our first course. I have gotten the scallops, which are HUGE, and perfectly cooked, a feat I have not yet mastered at home and am therefore extremely appreciative of. They are served alongside luscious bone marrow that melts in your mouth, sweet pearl onions and funky, earthy maitake mushrooms that taste like dirt in the best way possible. Maybe you just have to try it. We are in heaven, having received our good table and our complimentary goodies, and feeling like we have gotten our VIP treatment for the evening.

And then the chef comes out of the kitchen.

“Masha, is he coming over here? Masha. HE’S COMING OVER HERE. MASHA.”

The chef is young and sweet, barely older than us, I imagine, and I cannot help but notice that he has a fleet of waiters behind him. He introduces himself, and we fall all over ourselves complimenting his creations, because they are brilliant. He insists that it is only due to the extraordinary produce he receives from Masha’s company (“Oh Go on…”) and then the servers proceed to dance around out table, presenting us with yet another unordered goodie. This, the chef explains, is the monkfish entrée brought down in size for our enjoyment. They leave us to partake, while we desperately hold in the desire to squeal like children. The presentation is beautiful. The monkfish has gotten dressed up as a littleneck clam, nestled inside a shell in this stylish little tilted bowl. Underneath, blackened kale and chorizo sausage rub elbows in this savory broth, and it is all we can do to keep from licking the bowl. We abstain.

The risotto comes, perfectly cooked and topped with arugula and heirloom tomatoes to fill me with that happy end of summer feel. I try my first foi gras—the texture is gorgeous, and the chef has added a touch of cinnamon in an absolute show of brilliance. Masha’s duck medallions are perfectly tender, and remarkably, not too fatty, although they pack a punch of flavor that can’t be argued with.

Would we like to see the dessert menu? We all groan. Of course we would, but consulting one another, we all find that we couldn’t eat another bite, and so reluctantly we allow good sense to win out, and trip happily into the night, feeling very full, and just a little famous.

Lumiere

It is March, and Masha, Tia and I are sitting in the waiting area of Lumiere in Newton, sipping the champagne that has been sent for us from Chef Andrew while we wait for our table to be ready. This time the chef de cuisine has made the reservation on our behalf, and we are feeling more confident in this nice restaurant.

The three of us are adventurous eaters, and so we agree without much commotion to part ways whenever possible, each of us trying every single dish that comes to our table. I order the duck ragout, which has a distinctly Asian flare lent to it by the sesame and ginger flavors that accompany it. Tia’s trout salad is extremely yummy, But round 1 went to Masha, hands down, who ordered the halibut tartare topped with creamy avocado and seasoned with sesame. It melts in your mouth, and I have to keep myself from stealing more bites from her plate.

Round two I receive the hake, a local New England fish I have never tried, which I think I prefer over Tia’s pork shoulder, but I am distracted, because here comes Chef Andrew. He stands attentively at our table for several minutes, chatting with us and with Masha (who he knows through her work) as we once again shower him with praise (this is a mutually beneficial relationship we have formed—he sends us champagne and delicious food, we tell him he is wonderful and good and we want to have his babies. You know. Like that).

The biggest surprise came at dessert, where Masha and Tia ordered the apple tart and we all discovered that sour cream sorbet is ridiculously lovely, and I learned that a cake made from semolina and olive oil and topped with honey and Greek yogurt is a most unusual, but also most wholesome and satisfying dessert. Who knew? And oh yes, as if there were any doubt, here, along with our desserts, is something a little extra, a rich, decadent chocolate and peanut butter parfait, demanding extra long spoons, and perhaps some elastic waisted pants for later in the evening. Chef Andrew has returned from the kitchen to sit at our booth and discuss the goings on in the kitchen and the dining room, and we realize that we are among the last tables left in the restaurant. The staff are probably shifting their weight anxiously in the back, ready to go home, and so we thank our host profusely, disengage ourselves reluctantly from our happy little corner of the restaurant, and say goodnight.

Two Dozen Things I Love About Cooking.

1) The sound of onions hitting a hot pan.

2) The smell of onions hitting a hot pan.

3) Cocktails with lavender in them.

4) Blue cheese with honey. Try it.

5) Goat’s milk brie.

6) Drinking the same wine you are pouring indiscriminately into the spaghetti sauce.

7) When i get the doneness of a steak exactly medium rare without having to cut into it to check.

8) Raw oysters.

9) Raw beef in any form: thin sliced Carpaccio or soft savory tartare, if there is raw beef on a menu I will always order it, and I will always be glad.

10) Eating on the porch in the Summer time.

11) Thanksgiving. The ultimate, cluster-fuck beauty of too many family members in too little house, drinking wine at 11:30am, singing Alice’s restaurant off-key at noon, chopping vegetables, chopping herbs, eating dad’s guacamole, challenging dad to a Guac-off, knowing that dad will never accept said challenge, and therefore I can never surpass him as the guacamole champion, drinking home brewed beer, trying out Uncle Jeff’s new kitchen gadgets, getting the history and unique pedigree of the obscure hand-ground spices cousin Danny has acquired, or finding out what makes that particular bottle of spirits special, seeing my sister, seeing my parents, exchanging conspiratorial glances and mean-spirited inside jokes with cousin Rebecca, not having to choose between pumpkin pie or apple pie, Aunt Pam’s turkey, which will always, always be perfect.

12) Coming back to your bread dough and finding that it has risen perfectly.

13) Getting pancake breakfast almost completely ready by the time Mr. Gastro gets out of bed.

14) Coffee on the couch with the windows wide open on a beautiful day.

15) My mortar and pestle, which weighs more than a bowling ball and makes me feel old fashioned, and slightly witchy.

16) Farmers market tomatoes.

17) Rows of mason jars full of rice, nuts, grains, and seeds.

18) My fridge when it is freshly packed full of fresh vegetables, meat wrapped in paper, pretty little brown eggs, four types of cheese, jars of olives, bouquets of herbs, pints of cream and bowls of fruit. Oh the possibilities.

19) My Kitchen Aid Mixer, which will outlive any car I will ever own, and probably get more use.

20) Hand-me-down cookbooks. With stains.

21) Three egg omelets with butter and nothing else.

22) Champagne with strawberries.

23) The fact that sometimes a bowl of fruit can be prettier than a vase of flowers.

24) The sound my knife makes hitting the wooden cutting board.

Rise to the Occassion

I baked two loaves of bread this week. A golden brown Italian loaf with a snowy white interior, and a gorgeously-hideous loaf of rustic European bread that uses three types of flour, sports a black crust that gives away no hint of the toothy, flavorful goodness inside, and a big, no-nonsense X slashed across the top, just like bakers have been doing for centuries. Then I created an old fashioned apple tart--the kind that gets all folded up, free of the confines of a pan or casserole, to look like a little purse that bursts open at the center and reveals the mounds of sweet apples inside. That same day I whipped up a batch of buttery cinnamon scones for breakfast, and whimpered on the inside as they sat cooling on the counter, murmuring to me, "Who needs to wait for tomorrow's breakfast? Eat us noooooowwwwww......"

And I have been restraining myself. I would have baked a loaf of bread every day this week if I could have conceived of anywhere to put them. If you made a request right now, I'm sure I could have a loaf of whatever you'd like waiting for you to pick it up tomorrow afternoon. I'd be happy to do it. On the train the other day I found myself thinking, "Apple butter. Why don't I whip up a batch of apple butter?" I've never even eaten apple butter, but somehow the urge to fill my cabinets with jars of apple preserves is unshakable. Yesterday I was seriously considering getting a gallon of organic milk and making my own butter. Next week I will track down some goats milk and make cheese using the kit Mr. Gastro gave me so long ago.

What is it about crisis that makes me get all "Little House on the Prairie?" Is it the primal comfort of stockpiling food, something that humans have been doing in uncertain times for millenia? Maybe it's the time involved. Between kneading and rising and resting, baking bread can take up just as much time as a full time job, filling me in the end with a sense of accomplishment, a day spent doing something other than trolling youtube, and sustenance for myself and Mr. Gastro.

Whatever the reason, when i haven't been looking for jobs, baking and cooking in the old school style seems to be keeping my restlessness and my sense of impending doom at bay. I may not have a steady paycheck, but when I turn over that basket and remove the linen from the perfectly round mound of dough sitting on my lightly floured counter, I have accomplished something. I may not be a millionaire, baby, but I can make a mean batch of scones, and feel pretty darn good. There's just one thing about all this food fun I am going to have to deal with. If I want my spiffy job interview dud to continue to fit me, eventually...

I'm going to have to switch to salads.

Simple Sorbet

With an apple tart, a batch of scones, and fillet of sole with beurre blanc on my to-do list today, rest assured, dear Gastro-Junkies that you will have a fresh new entry (or three) in the very near future. That being said, I couldn't resist posting this mid-week mini-entry to share this criminally simple recipe.

I tried my hand at sorbet this week, a surprisingly tricky business without an ice cream maker. I went for a trio of flavors to be served together: Strawberry rhubarb, meyer lemon and basil, and my favorite, Bosc pear with amaretto. The strawberry and lemon were both great flavor-wise, and with the use of the proper equipment I'm sure would have come out silky and smooth, but as it was the ice crystals in these two batches were too big for my liking. The pear and amaretto, on the other hand was the hands-down winner flavor wise, with a great big mouthful of soft, round flavors, and the nicest texture of the three. It was also the easiest to make, requiring no straining at all. I am making a note to add an ice cream maker to my kitchen arsenal to give this a satiny finishing touch, but in all honesty, this particular recipe is perfectly fine without it.

Bosc Pear &Amaretto Sorbet

5 ripe Bosc pears

3 oz. simple syrup

3 oz. Amaretto liqueur

Pinch of salt

Wash and peel the pears, and split them down the middle, removing the seeds with a spoon. Cut them into large chunks and place in a food processor with Amaretto, simple syrup and salt. Blend on high speed until the pear is very smooth. Check for flavor, remembering that it is more difficult to distinguish flavors in frozen desserts, so in this case more might actually be more. (Also, my homemade simple syrup is the extra-rich variety, meaning that your sorbet might need an extra kick of sweetness. Start with the recomended 3 oz., and work up from there. You can always put more in, but you can't ever get it back out...) Freeze overnight in a tupperware container. Chill bowls before serving and enjoy.

Living On a Prayer

"Three tablespoons? How can there only be three tablespoons of flour in this whole recipe?" I demand.

"I dunno. I mean, isn't souffle supposed to be difficult to pull off?" Mr Gastro asks, "Isn't that the whole deal with souffle?"

"Difficult, sure, but nobody told me it would require the use of witchcraft. How is that even possible?"

It's true, the recipe for vanilla souffle in Mastering the Art of French Cooking features shockingly little actual solid matter to hold together all that liquid. Four egg yolks, five whites (beaten until they beg for mercy), butter, milk, vanilla extract, a little sugar, sure...and THREE TABLESPOONS OF FLOUR. I couldn't help but picture each individual speck of flour, magically suspended midair on a fluffy white cloud of egg white and desperate prayer, making no contact whatsoever with his fellow flour molecules. In fact even now, after this little experiment is over, that's still kinda how I think it works.

Anyway, the seemingly impossible nature of this recipe made it that much more necessary for me to try it, so tonight I recruited Mr. Gastro to photograph the proceedings for posterity.

Julia is pretty specific here that you should measure out your ingredients ahead of time. This is one of those things I am not always on top of, but in this instance I am putting my faith in J.C (so to speak)and doing as I am told. And boy am i glad I did. I'm not saying that everything would have fallen apart had I not measured out my vanilla and granulated sugar ahead of time. I'm just saying that throughout the process, I was glad I didn't have to worry about it. It's one of those recipes.

"It's only dessert,"I tell myself as I am whisking egg yolks into the cooked flour and milk bouillie on the stove. "What's the big deal? Follow the recipe, and everything will turn out fine."

Now anyone who has ever made a souffle, eaten a souffle, heard of souffle, or inadvertently blurted out "souffle!"as they sneezed can tell you that the key to a successful souffle is in the egg whites. Fail to beat them within an inch of their lives and that souffle isn't rising, period. Sure, it might get a little puffy, but in order to achieve what Julia Child refers to as "magnificence," they have to be thick, smooth, and hold their peaks. So

my confidence waned a bit as my trusty KitchenAid mixer got to work on the egg whites, but not to worry; within moments my egg whites were transformed from runny, slimy goo into snowy white peaks you could ski down. Oh, and a note for the over-ambitious: Many recipes refer to whipping up the egg whites by hand in order to create this magical effect, but that is because many of these recipes pre-date the ubiquitousness of the at-home stand mixer. You definitely don't need a fancy KitchenAid mixer to get the required consistency; a hand-held mixer will do just fine. But I can't see how any mere mortal could produce these silky stiff egg whites using only a wire whip and some elbow grease. Don't be a hero. Use the mixer.

The egg whites are folded into the bouillie (gently, gently, oh so gently...), and the bouillie into

the porcelain ramekins, and I am once again full of confidence seeing my pretty little ramekins full and ready to go into the oven. "THIS IS GONNA BE GREAT!"I insist, and Mr. Gastro smiles at me indulgently and says "gooooood..." before returning to his book. He is retreating into the pages of his vintage cocktail manual because he knows me, and he knows what is coming next. I put the ramekins into the oven...

And I pray.

I'm not kidding. I am praying over my souffle. Why? Because everything is now out of my hands. What happens in that oven has to do not with me and my efforts, but with chemistry, and I never had much of a grasp of chemistry.

"This isn't going to work," I say, peering into the oven.

"It will be fine," Mr. Gastro says.

"Okay. okay. It will be okay. Hey, I know, if my souffle falls and this is a horrible failure I can title the blog 'Deflated.' That will be cute, right?"

Mr. Gastro just shakes his head.

And then like magic, they start to rise. One minute I am discussing my comedic blogging options in the face of certain catastrophe, and the next I am putting my face as close to the oven door as I dare, whispering "THEY'RE RIIIIIIISING!!!" Everything from here on out happens in a whisper. I am standing two inches away from my oven, whispering like I have a colicky baby in there that I am afraid will wake up and start to scream. I literally tip-toe through my kitchen for the duration of this process. Why? I don't know. I guess i saw it on TV one time. And I am certain that my souffle would not have fallen had I spoken in a normal tone of voice, but I also guarantee that when it is your turn...you will whisper too.

About halfway through the process I am instructed to remove my souffle and dust it with powdered sugar. "Are they INSANE?" I demand in a croak. I do manage to pull them out, Mr. Gastro behind me to open and close the oven door with smooth, friction free movements. Just then, as if god is reinforcing to me that no, this cannot actually be this easy, I accidentally tap one of the five, just slightly, with my oven mitt, and watch as it slowly, incrementally falls.

"It's okay,"Mr. Gastro whispers, like I'm a small child who just received a baseball to the head, and this is that terrible half second of silence before the wailing begins. I keep it together. We slip the surviving souffles into the oven, along with their sad, flat sister, and we wait. And pray some more. And then...then...

SUCCESS.

Sweet, sweet success. They are oh so pretty, and perch several inches over the tops of their containers. We place our souffles on two little plates decorated with the powdered sugar ghost of a spoon, and dig in. It seems almost a shame to deflate and eat something that you've just spent so much time and effort creating, but then I remind myself that food is for eating, and so I do.

I realize now that this is the first time I have even eaten souffle, let alone made it, and so I am surprised by the lightness in the mouth, the simplicity of the flavor, the slightly crisp crack of sugar on the crust. It's lovely, but then I've never had another souffle, so I don't know if this is the correct brand of lovely.

"Is it okay?" I ask.

"Mm hmm!" Mr. Gastro replies.

"No, I mean, sure, it's okay, but like, is it okay enough that you would want me to make it again?"

"Well lets see," Mr. Gastro says, "If you're not sure it's perfect, you could..." he takes another bite, "always practice some more..." another bite, "or do it with chocolate..." he finishes his souffle. "I mean... I guess I wouldn't mind if you wanted to keep practicing."

Ten Tables

Ten Tables

Valentines Day came late to the Gastro household this year, as it tends to do. When Mr. Gastro and I first started dating we were both working on the same theatrical production, and tech week was the week of Valentines Day, meaning neither one of us was going to be spending much time anywhere but at the theater. This was the story every Valentines Day until we graduated from college, at which point I found myself working in the floral industry for several years--a very romantic place to spend Valentines Day, you might say. And if you believe that, then you have obviously never spent Valentines Day wading in foliage and rose thorns up to mid-calf, running on nothing but pizza, coffee and nicotine and about 3 hours of sleep, listening to strangers scream at you on your busiest day of the year about how their roses are the wrong shade of pink. (Yes, this has actually happened.)

This year it was a simple quirk of Mr. Gastro's work schedule that kept us from celebrating Valentines Day out on the town like two newlyweds ought, and so we had a quiet evening at home with a pair of bone-in pork chops, a peanut butter pie, and a box of chocolate dipped strawberries from Godiva. (Who needs flowers when your hubby brings you chocolate dipped strawberries?) We were determined, however, to have a lovely restaurant dinner to celebrate our first married Valentines Day in style, even if we had to do it a little late, and so tonight Mr. Gastro brought me to Ten Tables in Cambridge.

With a website that boasts of locally sourced ingredients and thoughtfully crafted dishes, I was looking forward to a smart, fresh, New American menu, and I was not disappointed. We left ourselves at the mercy of the kitchen and agreed without hesitating on the four course chef's tasting menu (a complete steal at $42 per person) and were rewarded for the first course with a sweet and mild bacon wrapped pork pâté. The pâté was served alongside a coarse brown mustard, sweet and tangy caramelized onions, and the tiniest, most delicate slices of pickle you've ever seen. The whole was deceptively elegant in spite of all its seemingly humble parts , and combined sweet, tart, and spicy elements to perfection in one amazingly savory starter.

Next came Mr. Gastro's personal favorite, a tender white slab of swordfish, topped with a Meyer lemon and Picholine olive salsa that absolutely made the entire dish. The zip of Meyer lemon meets you first head on, and then the olive and complicated bouquet of tarragon, chive and chervil grounds the bright citrus flavor, giving it roots. The fish came on a nutty bed of tender barley, beets and red pepper. The barley and beets were the perfect accompaniment, but I couldn't help but feel like the red pepper faded in comparison to the soprano song of the salsa and the barley's earthy alto, and probably could have been left out altogether.

Tri-tip steak came next, and the gorgeously arranged slices of bright pink meat filled me with hope, but sadly this round was a little off. The steak brought flavor to the table you just couldn't argue with, but Mr. Gastro and I both agreed it was tough. The steak was saved, however, with the brilliant addition of a grape compote that was an absolute inspiration--everyone knows that red wine and red meat are natural partners, so how is it that we never thought of the grapes themselves? I vowed to attempt a reproduction of this brilliant pairing at home, and for the sake of the compote, decided to forgive the steak for being a little chewy. By the time we'd received out Meyer lemon sorbet, I was over it.

Finally for dessert, Mr. Gastro and I parted ways, at least on our plates. Mr. Gastro claims that his Meyer lemon cheesecake with berry compote was the victor of the dessert round, and I must confess it was very good, but I just couldn't get enough of my chocolate terrine with sea salt and Thai basil ice cream. The basil sliced right through the overwhelming richness of the chocolate ("But I LIKE rich chocolate!" argues Mr. Gastro), and the sea salt jumps out from underneath the ice cream for just a split second and dances under your teeth before fading away. The dessert, like almost every other aspect of this meal was smart, complex, creative and unexpected, and Mr. Gastro and i left feeling very much in the Valentines Day spirit, even if we were, once again, a little late.

Hand-Me-Downs

My Mom has a habit of sending me books. Novels, biographies, memoirs. We are both passionate bibliophiles, so whenever she finds that her book collection has begun to encroach on her living space (about every six months by my calculations), she will pack many of them up, most of the time in several huge boxes, and ship them off to Boston, where I spend the next several months devouring them indiscriminately. Mr. Gastro gives me this weary, slightly amused look every time we get one of these shipments. Where exactly do I think I am going to put all of these books? Somehow I always seem to find room, but I suspect Mr. G. thinks I am becoming a bit of a hoarder.

This past shipment was over 100 pounds, and came in three boxes that were literally buckling under the strain by the time they made it to my doorstep. There were several dozen novels, but most of the books in this shipment were cookbooks, and as soon as I saw them, I began tearing through the box, stacking willy-nilly in teetering piles until I found what I was looking for at the very bottom of the very last box I opened. Volumes 1 & 2 of Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child.

I could have bought my own copy a dozen times over during the time that I have been waiting for this one book. But I didn't want a new copy. I wanted my mom's copy. Yesterday I decided to devote my entire day to cooking, and found that the recipe I was looking for, Boeuf Bourguignon, had already been dog-eared by my mother. Flip to the next down-turned corner and you'll find the recipe for brown braised onions that are to be strewn over the stewed beef before serving, and after that the butter sauteed mushrooms. It's like I have an invisible helper in the kitchen, guiding my fingers just a little more deftly to the next step. Each page is smeared and stained with olive oil, butter, and any number of other traces of meals gone by. It's like a spell book that's held on to the candle wax drippings and incense ash of the previous user, and therefore some of the magic as well.

I could go on and on about my morning spent serenely hand-drying and browning beef, just a few pieces at a time, or my afternoon rolling tiny onions in a pan of hot butter, and sitting back while they simmered in beef stock. I could wax nostalgic line after line about the nutty aroma that filled my kitchen while I diligently shook my skillet full of beautiful little brown mushrooms, or about the wonderful time Mr. Gastro and I had with food buddy John, drinking wine and cocktails and devouring plates of fall-apart-when-you-look-at-it beef. Instead I will control myself, and simply say that yesterday I spent the entire day cooking with my mom, and I had a wonderful time.

The Foul Weather Blogger

Dear fellow Gastro Junkies,

Last week I made a beautiful aioli from scratch the old fashioned way with a mortar and pestle. On Monday you would have found me slaving over a pot of beef stew, well past the hour of the night when normal people would have turned in their aprons for the evening. Last night I fixed up a stir fry with noodles that I had made from scratch and cut by hand. (Mr. gastro came home from work to discover me covered in flour, shoo-ing the cat away from the table where my beloved lo-mein were drying.) And tonight I am making Julia Child's Beuf Bourguignon with Pommes Dauphinoise. Later this week I have plans to tackle Ratatouille.

And this seriously isn't even the half of it. Pork chops with rosemary and mustard, my dad's linguini with clams, pan seared salmon steaks, peanut butter pie on Valentines day...I could go on. I sincerely wish, Oh Gastro-readers, that I could say I am able to tackle all these involved multi-course meals in my free time around work, but I would be a liar. Confession time. I was laid off from my job last Monday, the job that I only just recently landed at the dream company where I was happy, entertained, and financially stable for a whole month and a half before being downsized. (I was certainly not the only one. 35 of my new friends went along with me, many with years and years put into this company. My heart goes out to each and every one of them.) But here's the thing folks. This is not my first time being laid off. This isn't even the first time in the past 365 days. The first time I was laid off was last April, when my team was cut from the Theater we had been fundraising for. Which also happened to be right before I began this blog.

Oh yeah. I probably could have mentioned back in April time that all this free time I had to blog and cook was really due to my lack of employment, and looking back, I do make a handful of references to my job search, or vague, unnamed financial troubles. Still. I never really came right out and said, "I am doing this thing because I have to, because if I don't do something I am going to slip into a deep depression and die from a fatal overdose of hot dogs and macaroni and cheese." But now I'm back, in nearly the exact same position I was in back in April, so I'm saying it now. I need to cook, and I need to write, because I need to do something.

Does this make me a foul weather blogger? Certainly. I was definitely absent enough when I was planning my wedding, working for a video game company, enjoying my newlywed status. Fair. I can own that. But does it mean that I don't love cooking, or writing, or writing about cooking? Of course not. It's just that now I don't just love it--I need it too.

A little reprieve from my being a total bummer: I'm having a blast. There is a very real part of me that couldn't be happier than when I am dancing around my kitchen, listening to Nina Simone records and rolling out dough, browning beef, whipping cream. I'm in absolute heaven. The feminist side of my brain will sometimes look at me in this state, and sneer, "You look like you wish you had been born in the forties so you could be a housewife and do this all the time!" And when faced with this commentary I can only respond, "Maybe I do."

So I am at times a crap feminist. Guilty. And I also understand that I cannot be without a job, not do I really want to be. I want to find success and satisfaction in my career. But the fact of the matter is that right now, I just don't have a career. Not yet. So I seek success in the kitchen instead. Because it's fun, and I could use a little fun right now, and some comfort, and some activity.

So I hope all of you loyal Gastro-readers will forgive my on again, off again blogging, and perhaps even give me a pass now that I've given you the real scoop on the genesis of the Gastro-Junkie--this thing is all about passion, yes, but it is also about therapy--a fact I guess I forgot to mention before. You will almost certainly be seeing a lot more of me over the coming weeks, a fact that has its up side and its down, but please believe, dear readers, that having the space and the time to be a full time cook and writer, at least for a little while, is a big, huge silver lining. Much love,

Morgan