Introduction

My brother and I asked my mother to write up the recipes we grew up on.
These are the recipes she wrote.

Fifty two recipes.

These recipes span decades. I began cooking for myself my second year in college, going on to cook at least two meals a day for decades. Most of these recipes have endured through years of cooking for a family of several serious carnivores and one strict vegetarian and beyond.

I can barely remember those meals from childless days in Madison, Somerville, Massachusetts, Rochester, New York City, and Venice California, but stained cookbooks and piles of old newspaper clippings are compelling evidence.

Once there were kids, there was rarely a night—despite ballet and clarinet lessons and rehearsals, soccer and gymnastic practices, and endless other diversions that we didn’t eat a home-cooked meal together.

Now, after thousands of collective meals, I’m living alone, but can’t break the cooking habit.

My refrigerator is always too full of vegetables that need to be cooked before they age beyond salvage—and how many times a week can I eat lentil soup or roast chicken or whatever too large meal I’ve recently cooked?

I’d thought I’d welcome the break from cooking, but I now see it was as much pleasure as obligation.

In recent years, now that my grown children, Sarah and Sam cook for themselves and their friends, they call home regularly for cooking hints.

Given the accessibility of all recipes on the Internet to say nothing of Sarah’s extensive cookbook collection, I wouldn’t have thought my counsel was necessary, but it turns out that memory of childhood meals trumps perfection or sophistication.

We decided we could all use a compilation of some of our favorites, perhaps accompanied by the original documentation—be it a handwritten note from my mother, or a faded and stained clipping from the New York Times stuffed into my overflowing red and green loose leaf notebooks.

Sarah and Sam put in requests and I supplemented the list with my own decade spanning memories.

I have tried to group the recipes by category, so there is much chronological jiggering, but I’m hoping that won’t be a problem. Most are dishes I cooked regularly while Sarah and Sam were growing up, though several that originated in the pre-kid years may have ultimately fallen out of the rotation.

As is always the case, the categories are not hard and fast—vegetarian dishes appear in the pasta section (well, in every section except meats and poultry, I’d imagine), many vegetables and meats could be used as pasta sauces, and any meal can always be enjoyed for breakfast.

Although there are now fifty-two recipes—a number that evokes the rotation of the earth around the sun and implies some order in the universe as well as a guide for weekly meals-that is a mere numerical accident. I’m afraid I’ve also omitted certain old favorites and standards—which I’ll add if there’s a clamor from any quarter. I tried to make the recipes as comprehensible as possible—but I’m sure they could be much improved. I will of course amend and edit as necessary.
(for more recipes, in a much less organized format, I'm now (as of February 2012 begun posting my daily meals with bonus goofy pictures  here.)

1 - Onion and Zucchini Frittata


I've always been grateful to Marcella Hazan for helping me transcend my egg-cooking anxieties.

Years before,  I'd learned to toss a spring of parsley into a pan of sunny-side eggs,  providing a crisp and buttery green garnish,  but that never seemed quite enough.      I still worried about breaking the yolks when making fried eggs, overcooking scrambled eggs, wrecking omelets, under or over- cooking soft-boiled eggs—the list was endless.

The frittata recipes in Classic Italian Cookery, that first Marcella Hazan cookbook, solved all these problems by providing a peril-free egg dish.   Frittatas  involve no tricks or flippings, are forgiving about over and under cooking and  are often even more delicious at room temperature, assuaging all potential timing concerns.  They are easily  cooked in advance.

I make all kinds of frittatas--with onions, tomatoes, cheese, spaghetti--but this onion and zucchini version is my long-time favorite. You can alter the amount of ingredients, and the size of the frying pan (to vary the thickness). If I’m serving a crowd, I'll make two different kinds, but rarely omit this zucchini variation.

Cook one cup very thinly sliced yellow onions as long as you have time for in a covered pan.

When the onion is wilted, uncover and cook until it turns golden brown--this takes much longer than you might imagine, but you don't have to stir endlessly and can busy yourself with other breakfast chores.  And, of course,  you can get away with un-caramelized onions as well.

Add three medium zucchini, sliced in rounds with about 1/2 teaspoon salt. (You can remove the onions from the pan and let them drain while the zucchini is cooking--but this is certainly not necessary). I like the zucchini nicely browned on both sides. Drain the onion and zucchini to get rid of excess oil.

While the vegetables are draining, beat four eggs in a bowl. Add 2/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese to the eggs, and then with a slotted spoon add the zucchini and onions. When well mixed, add about six fresh basil leaves roughly chopped (if you don't have basil, you can use a tablespoon or two of freshly chopped parsley), salt and a few twists of pepper.

Melt three tablespoons butter in a 10-inch skillet. When the butter begins to foam, add the mixture to the skillet. Turn the heat as low as possible and cook for ten to fifteen minutes--keep checking to make sure the flame is not to high -when the bottom is very slightly browned--and it is almost all cooked except for the top which should be a bit runny--stick it under the broiler for about 20-40 seconds. Let cool at least ten minutes before eating. It’s delicious completely cooled—so can be made in advance.

2 - Huevos Rancheros


Like most people growing up in the northeast in the fifties and sixties, or even seventies, I never encountered Mexican food. I did always order chili con carne at the Walgreen's drugstore in the Port Authority before getting on the bus back to Jersey City, but I don’t think that counts.

Once we moved to Los Angeles it was a different story. My restaurant breakfast of choice soon became huevos rancheros. The eggs were usually lightly fried--sunny side up, served on top of two tortillas, topped with a bit of tomato sauce, and accompanied by beans and rice and some shredded lettuce.

I rarely made it at home, but I had, of course, clipped a recipe from the Los Angeles Times, which was the inspiration for an excellent breakfast for Sarah’s middle-school friend Hana, who dropped in one morning once they were all away in college.

Here it is—in its current form:

Sauté one finely chopped onion. When it is soft--add a couple of cloves chopped garlic. You can then add some sort of chopped peppers (I think I used two green chiles--mushy from a can--but you could also chop a bit of jalapeno, or one chipotle pepper--or just some chili powder--depending on how hot and/or smoky you want it). Add a cup or so of chopped tomatoes. Cook for a bit until it looks like a proper sauce.

When you’re almost ready to eat--break two eggs and gently slide them into the simmering sauce--spooning some sauce over the eggs as they cook. Serve on tortillas.

If you’re really on top of it, you can also have rice and beans. It would be singularly impressive if you had rice ready for breakfast—if you’re clever you might have some leftovers to fill the bill.

3 - Migas- Tortillas and Eggs

I first had migas at Jackie Pine's house on Aldie Street in Allston cooked by Gail Caldwell--recently arrived from Austin, Texas in 1978.
It was spring, but still felt like winter in Boston. Visiting from California, where we had moved a little over a year before, we were amazed to have already forgotten leafless trees and grim gray skies. During the many years we had lived in Somerville I’d never thought of it as an unattractive place. I’d known it wasn’t as charming and historic as Brattle Street and other posh Cambridge neighborhoods, but I thought it held its own, and barely registered those long winters. Now, arriving from the shores of the Pacific, I couldn't believe that people actually lived in these dreary climes.

This breakfast, imported from Texas, must have cheered us considerably. I’m still making it after thirty years.

Break eight eggs, beat slightly, add salt and pepper--set aside.

Cut eight corn tortillas--preferably stale--into more or less one inch pieces--you can cut them neatly with a knife, or tear them--no matter.

Chop two large or three small onions--sauté over low heat--once they start cooking--add the tortilla pieces. Stir a bit--everything should be slightly cooked.

Drain tortillas and onions and add to egg mixture.
Add chopped cilantro if you feel like it.

Melt two tablespoons (more or less) butter in pan--when it foams--add egg mixture--cook, stirring, until it reaches the egg-doneness that makes you happiest.

Serve with salsa. You can of course buy one of the ten million available varieties, or you could make your own--chopping tomatoes, onions, a bit of jalapeno pepper, cilantro, and garlic--and adding salt and pepper. Very easy and it seems to work whatever combo you use.

4 - Matzo Brei


I re-invent this dish every-time I make it. I use one piece of matzo per egg.

For four people:

Immerse eight pieces of matzo in water--or hold them under running water. When you crumble or tear them, you should have a pile of limp little crackers, not a mountain of mush.

Sauté one or two finely chopped onions in butter--then add the matzo pieces--stirring until they are lightly browned. While they are cooking--separate eight eggs (you don't have to do this--I often don't--but Laura and I both remember our mother doing it. It would certainly make for a lighter more exciting dish.) Beat the yolks until light and frothy. Add salt and pepper. Beat the whites until they are thick. They don't have to be stiff. Add the yolks gently to the whites. Mix them together while keeping as much bulk as possible. You can then either add the matzo and onion mixture to the eggs--stir together--and after adding more butter to the pan (if you think it's necessary)--gently return everything and cook, stirring as you would scrambled eggs, until eggs are done. Or you could just add the egg mixture to the matzo and onion in the pan, and take it from there.

You can see it's much quicker if you don't separate the eggs--and you might actually prefer that straightforward variation. Or you could soak the matzo quickly in milk--then add to the eggs without cooking (in this variant--only the onions would be browned first).

5 - Corn Fritters


It’s possible that these corn fritters originated in a cooking class Sarah took in middle school.

Whatever the source, they were a real breakfast treat. I loved making them. To me, corn fritters were a purely literary food.

Like biscuits and honey or chicken and dumplings, they existed in some America--be it southern, or farm, or western or long ago, that I experienced only through books.

During my New Jersey childhood, sweet corn in summer was a major treat—but we only ate it fresh off the cob--never in its derivative forms--and I don't know if we ever deep-fried anything. Certainly not corn fritters.

Although I cooked at least one meal a day for many years, the only total failure I can recall is one batch of Sunday corn fritters. No roasts forgotten in the oven, no substituting salt for sugar, or curdled milk and eggs. Maybe I had a high tolerance for less than perfect dishes, or perhaps I was just lucky, or more likely, I may just have forgotten scores of traumatic failed meals.

But sneaking out of the repressed memory bank is a Sunday morning corn fritter disaster. I somehow added many too many spoonfuls of baking soda to my fritter batter. No explanation. No excuses. Hard to imagine what caused such a serious lack of focus. I’d surely avoided inevitable distraction ten thousand times before.

But—there they were: inedible corn fritters. I believe we tossed them and made another batch—but perhaps we just scrambled some eggs. So--read this carefully. Pay close attention and it should all work out:

Sift together: 2 cups flour (now that I think of it--you might want to substitute cornmeal for some of the flour--I think you can play around quite a bit with the proportions here--despite my previous admonition), 1 teaspoon salt, and 2 tablespoons baking powder.

Add 1 tablespoon corn oil, 1 1/2 teaspoon white vinegar, 1 cup milk, 3 egg yolks, and 1 cup corn (ideally fresh--scraped off the cob--but you can cheat on this—I usually used cans of kernels from Trader Joe’s--frying will conceal many imperfections)

Mix all of this well.

Beat those three egg whites until stiff and fold gently into corn mixture.

Preheat oven to 325

Now--comes the frying. Truth be told, I always chicken out when measuring out the oil (I use a mild vegetable oil, like canola) --and don't go for full immersion—an inch or so, seems enough. When the oil is hot, drop batter in by tablespoons--they should puff up instantly. Flip when the bottom is dark golden brown--flip (if you've put in plenty of oil--flipping won't be necessary.)

After two or three minutes, remove the golden brown fritters and put them in a muffin tin. One fritter per muffin holder.

Bake (or keep warm) in oven for about 10 minutes.

Sprinkle with confectioners sugar and serve with maple syrup.

Just like Little House on the Prairie, No?

6 - Black Bean Soup



This soup had its origins in a recipe for black beans and rice (Cristianos y Moros) that I clipped from the New York Times in the early 70’s.

It was one of the many classic rice and bean dishes we made in those long ago days of serious complimentary proteins. I cannot recall when or where it lost the rice. Needless to say, the soup can easily revert to its rice and bean origins.

Over the years, due to vegetarian Sam, I've cut out the ham--and although I’m always one to argue for the superiority of a little ham/bacon/smoky flavor, we have adapted very well to the vegetarian version.

Soak 1 pound of black beans over night or for an appropriate number of hours.

Cover the beans with water—more if you’re going for the soup variation--add an onion, some garlic, celery with leaves, carrots,--your basic soup vegetables--bring to a boil, then set to simmer.

While the beans are cooking, make a sofrito:
Finely chop two to three onions, five or six cloves garlic, two red or green peppers, and perhaps a chipotle pepper as well.
I often use a food process to chop the vegetables into something that's almost a puree. It then completely dissolves in the soup.

Heat oil in a heavy pot. Add the vegetable mixture as well as a bay leaf and a bit of thyme (I often forget the thyme--that's o.k. too). When the vegetables are good and soft--not browned---add a small can of tomato paste. The original recipe calls for two or three tablespoons, but I'm always tempted --mostly because I assume I’ll forget to use the remainder--to use the entire can.

By now the beans should be cooking nicely. Add the sofrito, and keep cooking until beans are tender.

Back in the day, before immersion blenders, I would blend some of the soup in the blender, but now I’d recommend a few spins with an immersion blender.

At the end, I used to add a little vinegar, and then serve with slices of lemon. This year, my sister passed on a moosewood version--with some oranges or orange juice--I believe this particular Moosewood soup is called Brazilian black bean soup.

Eventually, by whatever path you pursue, you should have a lovely mahogany hued soup. Serve with sour cream, chopped scallions, and chopped cilantro.

7 - Leek and Potato Soup


This is a Julia Child classic, which I made in Paris in 1969. My first Julia Child cookbook, an English edition that Carolyn had sent me, was my original guide.

That year, just after getting married, we rented a tiny apartment on Rue de la Collegiale, just around the corner from the Rue Mouffetard, a winding street, lined with shops and stalls filled with wondrous vegetables, meats, oysters, and much more. I don't think we had a refrigerator (if we did it was miniscule) so daily shopping was a must. I was working on becoming as French as I could--studying French, reading Proust, Victor Hugo, Roger Martin du Gard's Les Thibauts, lots of Simone de Beauvoir, so it goes without saying that I tried to cook and shop as much like a French person as possible.

This was probably my first encounter with leeks. It was surprisingly thrilling to always find dark earth embedded between the layers of those fleshy green stalks).

This recipe, unlike many others of that era, is almost embarrassing in its simplicity—no beans to soak, no vegetables to sauté-- just some peeling, and chopping and into the pot!

That summer, as we traveled through France, eating lunch in tiny village restaurants, the soup that was regularly served, was surely a variation on this basic dish. I made it for years. Why did I stop? Perhaps I always thought of it as a wintry soup, not suited for southern California. I never had much interest in the cold--vichyssoise variation. As you are both living in chillier zones, you should be eating it regularly.

Here's my variation on the basic recipe, but the possibilities are limitless:

Simmer 3-4 cups peeled, sliced or diced potatoes, 3 cups thinly sliced leeks and maybe ½ cup chopped carrots in two quarts of water with 1 tbsp. salt for forty to fifty minutes (you can also use good home-made vegetable broth or chicken broth if you have it). When vegetables are fully cooked mash with a fork, or put through food mill, or do a few whirls with an immersion blender. Add salt and pepper. Just before serving, stir in a few tablespoons softened butter and add a good sprinkling of parsley or chives.

8 - Lentil Soup

The other day, as part of a cleaning out the cupboards, I found a bag of lentils and was inspired to make this soup. I believe we all use to make this regularly when we first began cooking. It is quick, easy and cheap, but forgotten for many years in mild California winters.

The French lentils from Le Puy are reputed to hold onto unto their shape with more determination than their beige German brethren. I've only used the beige, which cook up into a delicious soup. For my next lentil adventure, perhaps I'll buy the deluxe lentils and see if my discerning palate will get the difference.

It’s possible these distinctions are more important for salads. For soup? I do not know.

But on the assumption that it might, I'll suggest using the most elegant lentils you can find, with the caveat that it is delicious even with the most mundane of legumes.

I always improvise, but my current favorite base is from Deborah Madison--Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone--though when possible, i.e. if I happen to have chicken stock available I'll use that instead of all, or part, of the water.

Heat two tablespoons olive oil in a heavy bottomed soup pot. Add 2 cups finely chopped onions and sauté over medium heat until just beginning to brown (maybe ten minutes). While the onion is cooking, finely chop or crush 3 to 5 large garlic cloves. When the onion is cooked, add 3 tablespoons tomato paste, 1/2 cup finely diced celery, and 1/2 cup finely diced carrot, 2 bay leaves, and 1/2 cup chopped parsley. Cook for a few minutes. Add 1 pound of lentils (2 cups), 2 quarts water, or vegetable or chicken broth and ½ teaspoon salt. Bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer partially covered until the lentils are tender and begin to disintegrate.

Add 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard, and 1 tablespoon sherry vinegar or red wine vinegar. Salt and pepper to taste. You can also serve it with slices of lemon or lime.

You can vary this with a final addition of spinach or sorrel. And, of course, you can use more or less of the other vegetables. If it's not tasty enough, be more enthusiastic with garlic, mustard or lemon. I used to add soy sauce--which you can play with as well.

9 - Cold Tomato Soup


An early favorite. A regular during the Somerville years, until I learned the wonders of gazpacho.

Way before either of these joined the repertory, Campbell's Tomato Soup was an enduring staple from my childhood. As kids, we must have eaten it several days a week for lunch--accompanied by peanut butter and jelly or baloney sandwiches on Wonder Bread.

My father, who never stepped into the kitchen, told a story, perhaps apocryphal, from the early years of their marriage that revolved around his discovery that my mother did not make this very soup from scratch.

Those many years of pleasure from canned soup perhaps made it inevitable that I would unquestionably welcome canned tomato juice as an ingredient in anything. The New York Times cookbook, my first cooking bible, had two recipes for cold tomato soup. According to Craig Claiborne, "There are thousands of versions of cold tomato soup. Few of them are more delicious than the two which follow.” I went straight for Cold Tomato Soup II, as Cold Tomato Soup I contained tapioca, which just seemed too weird.

That Cold Tomato Soup II was an instant hit on those terribly hot, humid summer days when cooking was impossible. I followed the instructions religiously—though I suspect I used an entire large can of tomato juice--rather than the 3 cups in the recipe, and a whole can of tomato paste as well.

Here it is:

Mix 3 cups tomato juice, with 2 tablespoons tomato paste, 4 minced scallions, salt to taste, a pinch of powdered thyme, 1/2 teaspoon curry powder, freshly ground black pepper, grated rind of 1/2 lemon, two tablespoons lemon juice, and sugar to taste. Chill for a few hours.

Before serving blend in 1 cup sour cream and sprinkle each bowl with chopped parsley.

10 - Cold Cucumber Soup



Those muggy Boston summers inspired many cold soups with numbers. Another favorite was Cold Cucumber Soup III from The New York Times Natural Foods Cookbook, published originally in 1971. My paperback copy, the ninth printing, was probably purchased two or three years later.

There's not much evidence of strenuous use (scarcely stained--binding intact). I think I tried a number of recipes, in pursuit of wholesome, healthy eating (oh how ahead of the times we young lefty hippies were), but the only one that I repeated regularly was this cucumber soup. The recipe calls for chicken broth, and I always used homemade soup, but if I made it today, with the likely prospect of vegetarians in the house, I’d use a good vegetable broth.

Heat two tablespoons butter in a heavy skillet and add 1 onion, finely chopped 1 clove garlic, finely chopped, and 3 large cucumbers, peeled, halved lengthwise, seeded and chopped (I remember thinking it quite extraordinary to be cooking cucumbers for a cold soup--but as I say, this dish did win my heart). Cook about ten minutes.

Sprinkle with 3 tablespoons flour. When flour is cooked a bit, gradually stir in 4-6 cups good vegetable (or chicken)  stock. You can play around with these amounts, depending on how big the cucumbers, how thick you want the soup, etc.  Add 1 teaspoon salt and bring to a boil. Turn heat down, cover and simmer until cucumber is tender. You can then puree it with an immersion blender. (If using a regular blender, cool before blending in batches) Stir in 3/4 cup sour cream or yogurt, a few tablespoons fresh dill, and 1 teaspoon grated lemon rind. Chill.

Endless variations are possible. In the summer of 2011, when I once again find myself on the humid east coast, I remembered this soup. Sam is no longer a vegetarian so I could go with chicken broth--which is, I think, richer and more satisfying--or maybe just more familiar. The quantities of liquid in the original recipe seemed very meager--so I kept adding more--as now recommended above). In a complete abandonment of past procedure, I left out the sour cream, and served a bowl on the side to be added at will. The soup was rich and delicious enough without the added cream, though there were those who happily stirred in as much sour cream as they desired.

11 - Chicken Soup


I've been cooking lots of chicken soup these days. I wrote up this recipe when I was directing a squad of soup makers for the sholem seder—-soup for 300!! Now I tend to make it as medicine—for myself when I think I might be edging towards a cold, and more recently for a friend who is undergoing chemotherapy and other onerous medical procedures.

Although I can't swear to its exact origins here is the recipe I invariably use:

Use a three or four pound chicken, with some extra necks, bones and giblets (not livers!!) if you happen to have them. (Most especially recommended are chicken feet, which you can get at the big Asian or Mexican supermarkets—and also, at Whole Foods, which oddly enough doesn’t usually have giblets!)
In the days when I bought and butchered whole chickens, I always had a collection of bones and bits in the freezer, I used them, but nowadays I have to buy all extra parts.

Cover whatever chicken you’re using with water,   add the vegetables and bring to a boil.  When it reaches a full boil, it is likely that an ugly scum will rise to the top of the pot.  Just scoop it up and toss it, then partially cover and lower to gentle simmer. After a relatively short time, I take out the chicken (not the feet or the gizzards)--the meat should be cooked through--I cut it off the bones, return the bones to the pot and save the chicken --maybe serving some with the soup--or making chicken salad another day....fter about an hour add:

1 large onion
1 parsnip peeled
3-4 carrots peeled
A good handful of parsley
Another handful of fresh dill.
Salt and pepper to taste

Continue to simmer for another two (or as many hours as you wish) , partially covered.  Cool, then strain. 
When cool, refrigerate. The fat will congeal on the top. Remove it.  Reheat the soup to serve, adding a couple more carrots, sliced into rounds.

And—an alert for the slightly squeamish types who might have decided that it was o.k. to cook and eat chickens that spent their short lives running more or less free and happy--you might get a pang or two at the sight of those chicken feet bobbing about in your broth--five toes, each with a nail of sorts--might be too much of a reminder of the ancestry we share with our avian friends. Luckily there's next to no meat on those feet, so you can just about toss them with your eyes closed. Good luck.

And, if you're making this for Passover, here's my recipe for matzoh balls.

12 - Turkey Soup


I’ve been making this since my earliest turkey roasting days. The recipe appeared in the New York Times in 1973 in John Hess’s column, but the recipe is written by his wife Karen.

I’ve always thought this the most brilliant, economical and delicious of soups. The first task is to save every bit of the carcass—this means that after the first carving—you put any bones you put the bulk of the carcass in the freezer—and as you work your way through the turkey, you remember to rinse and then add all leftover bones, bits of skin, etc.

In a few days, if not sooner, you will be ready to make your soup. Break the carcass into pot-sized pieces—add all the bones, any scraps, any leftover gravy (there rarely is any)—cover with cold water and gradually bring to a boil.

Turn down to a gentle simmer an add one or two teaspoons salt, three or four carrots, two onions, some celery, especially the leafy tops, a little thyme, a bay leaf, a fistful of parsley, peppercorns, whatever.

Simmer with the lid slightly askew for two or three hours. Strain—tossing all vegetables and bones. Set aside to refrigerate—don’t cover broth until it’s cold because due to various chemical mysteries, this will cause it to sour. Refrigerate. When it’s well chilled, the fat will congeal and can be removed before proceeding.

The above is prelude. The creation of the basic broth. We are now ready to make the soup and the fabulous accompanying butter dumplings.

Thinly slice a couple of onions, three or four carrots, and two or three sticks of celery, with leaves. You can of course use leeks, or scallions. Sauté in butter until they are soft. Add to the broth, adding a good handful of finely chopped parsley and salt and pepper if necessary.

While the soup quietly sits, you will make the dumplings. Set on another big pot of water to boil.

In a small heavy pan bring to a boil one cup of water—with one teaspoon salt. Melt ½ cup butter in the water.

Off the heat, add 1 cup sifted flour and a few scrapings of nutmeg, stirring vigorously with a wooden spoon. Put back on stove and stir until it’s well mixed and pulls away from the sides—this is usually very fast. While continuing beating add three eggs, one at a time, beating vigorously after each egg.

By now the pot of water should be boiling merrily, turn it down so it is just simmering.

Take two teaspoons, one each hand, dip them into a small bowl of cold water and with one, scoop up a spoonful of dough. With the other spoon, round it smoothly, shift it back and forth until you have a smooth oval. Slip that into the simmering water, and keep repeating till you’ve used all dough.
If the water boils, there are dire warnings about disintegrating dumplings. In two or three minutes the dumplings should rise to the surface and can be moved into the hot soup, served and eaten.

13 - Thai Beef Salad


I prepared this years ago as part of an elegant spread for a book party we gave for Russell at a Perry Anderson’s rented house high in the hills of Bel Aire.

Decades later, I just made a variation for Angela’s baby shower substituting ponzu sauce for Thai fish sauce.
O.k.—here’s the recipe complete with variations and vegetarian options.

Marinate 1 ½ cup diced cucumbers with 1 ½ cup diced tomatoes, and ¼ cup chopped mint in ¾ cup lime juice mixed with ¼ cup Ponzu sauce.

Grill a good chunk of steak—rib eye, New York, whatever, rare to medium rare. Cut into thin slices.

Arrange a layer of lettuce on serving platter. Top with a layer of mint leaves cut in chiffonade (that would be strips).
Layer the marinated cucumbers and tomatoes on top.

Arrange bean sprouts on one side of platter, slices of meat on the other. Top with chopped mint and sprinkle more marinade over all.

Vegetarians can substitute the marinated or caramelized golden tofu (recipe #17 or #25 for the beef). Everyone might consider substituting green beans for bean sprouts. The bean sprouts look good, but I’ve noticed most people don’t like to eat them all that much, while, of course, in a buffet of salads, that grilled beef gets gobbled up instantly.
Again—feel free to play with colors and textures.

14 - Salad Nicoise


This basic salad Nicoise is not vegetarian. Nowadays people make it with all sorts of seared and yummy tuna--but for years we were happy as can be with this variation (again from that original Julia Child) using tuna in a can (not the tuna in olive oil that we now buy easily).

Forty years ago, when we were in Nice, the very Nice from which Nicoise hails, we ate endless variations on the theme--olives, anchovies, tomatoes, and eggs.
All sources of wonder.

In my first iterations of this, I would buy all my vegetables at the market and arrange everything in neat rows and circles. In later years, I served the salad deconstructed—was it constructed? I mean tossed in a salad bowl. Now, I think I’d revert to the original—salade compose—artfully composed on a platter.

It's obviously best when you get excellent tomatoes and string beans--but you can vary the ingredients and enjoy it in some form (especially in California) throughout the year.

And--of course--the vegetarian option is sitting right in front of you. It’s not difficult to imagine without the tuna. Large white beans might be especially good with lots of chopped parsley and basil.

Begin with a French potato salad:

Boil 4-5 medium size potatoes--Yukon gold, or other boiling potatoes until just tender. Test with a small sharp knife--should be able to pierce, but not feel mushy. If you're nervous--take one out and check out a slice. (You'll soon figure it out. If they're undercooked, they'll be hard and not quite edible--if they're over-cooked, they'll be mushy--won't hold their shape--but still edible.) Drain. As soon as you can handle them, peel and cut into ½ inch slices.

Pour 4 Tbsp. dry white wine or 2 tbsp dry white vermouth on the warm potato slices in a mixing bowl (you can replace some of the wine, with a bit of broth-but I usually don't), toss gently and let sit for a while --allowing the potatoes to absorb the liquid.

Beat 2 tbsp wine vinegar, 1 tsp. mustard, and 1/4 tsp. salt in a small bowl with a wire whisk. Slowly add 6 tbsp. olive oil, pepper and if you'd like minced garlic or shallots. Add 2-3 tbsps. chopped mixed green herbs or parsley. (Or make a variation of your favorite vinaigrette)
Toss a fair amount of lettuce (about the equivalent of one head of soft-leaf lettuce like Boston or green-leaf) with 1/4 cup of vinaigrette in a salad bowl. Scoop the potatoes atop the lettuce.

Add 3 cups cold green beans.
The question of how long the beans should be cooked is always an issue. Grandpa Dan Jacoby, noted shrimp-eating vegetarian and self-proclaimed expert on all things vegetable, grew his own string beans, cooked them until they were wan, limp shadows of their natural selves, and proclaimed them heavenly. Though I may mock his preference, I admit that I can be a partisan of certain mushy vegetables myself--most specifically those little drab olive green canned peas--also pale shadows of a fresh green pea--but perhaps because of the sugar that must have been added to the brew--I always found them scrumptious. In any case, when I started paying attention to such matters, I discovered that a quickly cooked bean cooked was far superior. For years I followed these instruction by Julia Child:

First—trim the string beans by snapping off both ends--if the beans are older and bigger--there might be a string down the middle which will pull off like a zipper when you snap off that longer tip--though it seems nowadays most beans sold are younger and zippier. In any case--once you have your beans prepared--this is what Ms. Child instructs. She is quite emphatic on the subject--and I quote:

"Whatever recipe you choose for your beans, always give them a preliminary blanching in a very large kettle of rapidly boiling salted water. Depending on what you plan to do to them later, boil them either until tender or almost tender, and drain immediately. This essential step in the French art of bean cookery always produces a fine, fresh, green bean of perfect texture and flavor.

A handful at a time, drop the beans into the rapidly boiling salted water. Bring the water back to the boil as quickly as possible and boil the beans slowly, uncovered, for 10 to 15 minutes; test the beans frequently after 8 minutes by eating one. A well cooked bean should be tender, but still retain the slightest suggestion of crunchiness Drain the beans as soon as they are done."

O.k. that is Julia Child, studied by your mother in 1969. I used this method for several years. Then, in 1973, the book, Tassajara Cooking by Ed Brown appeared. He takes a different tack (closer to my own slowly evolving Zennish cooking method). He tried to be as non-directive as possible, but this is what he says:

This way [boiling] takes care of the tougher green beans. Get them out soon enough and they'll still be bright green. Prepare the green beans. Put them in the boiling water and cook for six to eight minutes. Look sharp, unless you prefer your beans dull and mushy. Have a sample bite and take the beans off when they're still slightly chewy"

Given that most beans are smaller now--I say --toss them into boiling water--and start checking after two minutes. Experiment! Just before serving mix with some vinaigrette.

Oh--this could go on forever. My wandering eye fell on this admonition in the preface to the Julia Child green bean recipe. Be Alert!!

“The cooking itself is easy; however, beans demand attention if they are to be fresh-tasting, full of flavor, and green. Although their preliminary blanching may be taken care of hours in advance, the final touches should be done only at the last minute. It is fatal to their color, texture, and taste if they are overcooked, or if they are allowed to sit around over heat for more than a few minutes after they are ready to be eaten. [Emphasis mine]

You are forewarned.

Once you’ve figured out the bean cooking, arrange them atop the lettuce along with 3-5 quartered tomatoes, 2 or 3 quartered hard boiled eggs, 1 cup chunks of canned tuna, drained, (now I’d use that tuna in olive oil) 1/2 cup pitted good black olives, 6-12 anchovy fillets. Top it all with more vinaigrette and another smattering of minced parsley.

15 - Vaguely Chinese String Bean Salad


Isn’t there a game where you take one word from the last answer and move forward? I seem to be doing it with ingredients—taking the string beans from the Salade Nicoise—I’m sliding into this string bean salad.
This dish was a standard for parties as well as for Sunday brunches and potlucks. The original was from Greene on Greens, a vegetable cookbook so full of butters and cheeses, it could be the perfect transitional object for meat eaters as they move to healthier, lighter vegetarian fare.

For this recipe, like for the Salade Nicoise, blanch one pound of washed and trimmed string beans. Greene, and Donald Sacks from whom he got this recipe, are both insistent that the beans cook for no longer than two minutes. I have tried my best to abide by this. The beans after their quick boil in well-salted water are chilled in the refrigerator for at least an hour.

While they are chilling, squeeze the juice from a one and half inch piece of ginger root which you have peeled and minced (I've used a garlic press for this).

To the ginger juice, add 1/4 cup olive oil, 1 1/2 Tbs. sherry vinegar, 1/4 tsp. sesame oil 1/4 tsp. coarse salt, a pinch of sugar and 1/8 tsp. white pepper. Whisk together. Toss over the beans, coating well. Refrigerate for four hours--trying to remember to give it a toss every hour or so. Before serving toast two tablespoons sesame seeds in a heavy frying pan, and sprinkle atop.

16- Blood Orange and Avocado Salad

This salad scarcely needs a recipe. A title should suffice, but here it is:

This is something I didn't make when you were kids, but I've been making it now for years. It’s extremely easy, quick and delicious.

Blood oranges started appearing at the farmer's markets many years ago--but I probably thought they were too expensive. In later years, as finances decreased, I started buying more delicious and exotic items (go figure). Blood oranges were on that list. Avocados too, I’d guess.

Additions are of course possible, but it works just fine in its most simple form—quantities to be determined and adjusted for circumstances.

Start with a mix of lettuces--baby lettuces, arugula, whatever. I prefer blood oranges--for the drama and the taste--but you can of course use other oranges, or even grapefruit, I suppose.
I peel the oranges, slice them, and break into sections. If they are really reddish, they look a bit like tomatoes, and can be a splendid surprise.
Slice and cut avocadoes. I sometimes add red onions, sliced very thinly. Squeeze lime or lemon juice on the avocado. Add your standard vinaigrette—I’m always happiest adding a dash of soy sauce, rice vinegar and sesame oil as well (or instead of). Toss--and there you are.

17 - Baked Marinated Teriyaki Tofu

This is not a recipe from the past. It’s a recent discovery. I found it on the Internet—searching for a recipe to replicate the quite expensive little chunks of teriyaki tofu sold at Trader Joe’s. Now that Sam eats tofu—and we’re all eating less meat—this is a pretty yummy meat substitute—and very easy to prepare.
I’ve made this many ways—often leaving out most of the ingredients—and it’s always delicious—so don’t worry if you don’t have everything on hand. If you don’t have time to marinate, that seems ok too.


Ingredients
1 (16 ounce) package firm tofu or extra firm tofu, in water
3-4 tablespoons soy sauce
1-2 minced garlic clove, to taste
1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger, to taste
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
1-2 teaspoon honey or sugar
1 tablespoon olive oil

Preparation:

Drain tofu and cut into 1" cubes or ¼ inch slices.
Mix all other ingredients together except olive oil.
Pour marinade over tofu and cover. Refrigerate overnight or longer.
Lightly grease baking pan or sheet with olive oil.
Arrange tofu in single layer on sheet, making sure not to forget the garlic and ginger from the marinade dish.
Bake at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes, flipping tofu at least once during the process, until brown and slightly crispy.

You can then use it in salads, or stir fries, or just gobble up plain.

18 - Ratatouille





















Way before any children, vegetarian or carnivore, I was cooking some splendid vegetarian dishes. One of the first--or at least one of the most ambitious was ratatouille. For years, I closely followed the instructions of Julia Child. She, who could often be so casual, admonished (at least in my memory) that the dish was improved immeasurably by preparing each ingredient separately.  During the year we lived in Paris, around the corner from the splendid market on the Rue Mouffetard, I felt compelled to follow her every instruction.

Although I eventually slacked off, I have such excellent memories of those Parisian dishes, this is only u a slight variation on that first inspiration.
If you have the time and inclination you should give it a try:

Peel one eggplant (or two smaller ones--you want a pound--figure it out while shopping--and remember it as long as you can). Cut into long slices (not rounds) about 3 inches long, 1 inch wide, and 3/8 inch thick. Cut one pound of zucchini into pieces more or less the same size. Put the vegetables in a colander, toss with a teaspoon of salt. Drain for about half an hour.

Heat about four tablespoons of olive oil in a large heavy skillet. Dry the eggplant and zucchini and without crowding (you'll probably have to do several batches) sauté about a minute on each side until lightly browned. Remove to another dish.

In the same pan, add more oil of necessary, and cook about 1 1/2 cups of thinly sliced yellow onions (about 1/2 pound), 2 thinly sliced green peppers for about ten minutes. Add two to four cloves mashed garlic and salt and pepper.

Peel, seed and juice one pound firm, ripe, red tomatoes as follows:

Drop tomatoes one or two at a time in boiling water to cover, and boil for EXACTLY 10 seconds. Remove. Cut out the stem. Peel off the skin starting from the stem hole.
Cut tomatoes in half crosswise--not through the stem. Squeeze each half gently to extract the seeds and juices. Then slice into 3/8 inch strips.

Lay the strips over the onion and pepper mixture. Season with salt and pepper, cover the skillet and cook over low heat for about five minutes.

Place a third of this tomato mixture in the bottom of a 2 1/2 quart casserole. Sprinkle one tablespoon of parsley over it. Arrange half of the eggplant and zucchini on top, then half the remaining tomatoes, another tablespoon of parsley. Put in the rest of the eggplant and zucchini and the last of the tomatoes and parsley.

Cover the casserole and simmer over low heat for about ten minutes. Uncover, tip and baste with the rendered juices. Raise heat slightly and cook uncovered for about 15 minutes more--continuing to baste, making sure it's not too hot--and not scorching on the bottom.

Set aside. Reheat slowly to serve or eat cold.

19 - Roasted Cauliflower and/or Broccoli

Because the flavors are so concentrated, roast vegetables always suggest massive effort. In fact, they are incredibly simple to prepare. Cauliflower is particularly spectacular.

Pre-heat the oven to 400 degrees. Use one or two cauliflowers (one is scarcely enough for two or even three people). Get rid of the big center stalk (though I’m sure that would be fine too--so I will say--reserve for another use--though I suspect you--like me--will--unless the economy gets even worse--- most likely put it in the compost, or garbage, or wherever vegetable scraps go in your kitchen these days). Break off the florets--and slice them into relatively thin pieces--perhaps between 1/8 and 1/4 inch thick. Spread the pieces--in a single layer--on a cookie sheet--or jelly roll pan (that's slightly bigger than a cookie sheet with edges--but the point is--you need a big flat surface)--which you've covered with a thin layer of olive oil—if you want sprinkle more olive oil on top—though very little is really needed. Spread it out nicely in a single layer. Place in pre-heated oven--after about ten minutes--stir it around. Cook until most of the pieces have brown and crispy edges. Remove from oven and salt. I originally made this as part of a pasta sauce, started making this to make with pasta--but it almost inevitably gets eaten as soon as it’s removed from the oven. As a bonus, if you make enough to have plenty left over after your picking—you can whip up some pasta. Sauté a few crushed garlic cloves with some pepper flakes, throw in the cauliflower, some capers, parsley, wine or water—and turn it into a pasta sauce. You get the idea.

You can prepare broccoli the same way—even easier to cut—-if not quite as thrilling. We like it very crispy with lemon.

20 - Roasted Peppers

I used to roast peppers over the burner. Now I just put them in the broiler (I don't even add oil), and try to remember to turn them so they just get a thin layer of crisp black burnt skin on the outside--and don't turn into horrible charred lumps. I should say that all these roasted vegetables--at least in this olive oiled oven iteration are relatively recent--since I've been living alone--and I think I started making them because they were so very quick and easy. They’re also a perfect solution for saving any vegetable that might be getting a bit too old in the fridge One of the main woes of many of us who live alone, especially if we once cooked for multitudes, is we really don't know how to shop for one person. Given the enticements of farmers' markets, it is very hard not to overbuy.
So--my solution--ROAST ROAST ROAST. Olive oil and salt. The salt can come later--and then--depending on season and desires you can add lemon juice.
But that is digression—back to the peppers—pop them into a plastic bag to let them steam—so the skin comes off even more easily—you can also hold under running water to peel—sometimes it’s easier, sometimes harder. Cut the peeled peppers into strips, add a few cloves thinly sliced garlic and dress with a bit of white vinegar. Excellent in salads, with cheese, whatever.

21 - Roasted Tomatoes


For years now, I have been regularly roasting little tomatoes.
This year--when I had some big old tasteless winter tomatoes around--I chopped and roasted them--equally delicious.


Small or large they can be prepared as follows:
Coat the bottom of baking pan with olive oil. Add tomatoes.

Toast a tablespoon or so of cumin or coriander seeds or both-- not very long--until you can smell them. Crush seeds with a few cloves of garlic, and perhaps some crushed chili peppers. Many possible variations. Dribble a little olive oil over the whole thing and cook in preheated 350 oven for about two hours, basting with the rapidly accumulating juices on bottom a few times during baking. Small tomatoes should be close to falling apart, larger ones will make a sort of confit. Can be served hot, or room temperature. Also good added to soups, sauces, etc. Excellent item to have in the fridge.

22- Roasted Carrots

For years I’ve been devoted to candied carrots—carrots cooked with butter and brown sugar and perhaps a dash of orange or lemon juice. Lately, I’ve been reducing the amount of butter and sugar. This year, I abandoned all previous procedures and roasted the carrots with great success.
.
Peel carrots and cut in whatever shape you favor. I favor an interpretation of an instruction that I learned decades ago in the Tassajara cookbook--called a Chinese rolling cut. This involved cutting chunks about one and a half inch long on the diagonal--rolling the carrot about a quarter turn and cutting again--so each shape is some sort of oval parallelogram--I'd cut thicker pieces in half--uniformity was not my primary consideration.

For two pounds of carrots: Mix about one quarter cup of lime juice with two tablespoons of olive oil, two tablespoons of maple syrup and salt and pepper--and toss the carrots to coat.

Spread the carrots in a single layer on lightly oiled jellyroll pans. Place in pre-heated 400 degree oven and cook for about twenty-five minutes--check after ten minutes--turn carrots over--they should be caramelized around the edges.

I sometimes, due to old habits, can’t resist tossing the well-roasted carrots into a heavy sauce pan where I’ve melted a tablespoon of butter with a bit of brown sugar. Not necessary, but delicious.

Orange juice or lemon juice would be a fine substitute for the limes--and cumin would work well here too.

23 - Eggplant Caponata


I have been making Eggplant Caponata for decades.

I remember being amazed when my mother served this quite exotic dish when I returned home for vacation early in my college career (this would have been 1964 or 1965—years when cooks were becoming more adventurous). It was not something we grew up eating. I must have asked for the recipe, because I now have it, the only recipe I have written in her hand, on lined yellow paper.

It soon became a staple.
It’s hard to mention Eggplant Caponata without thinking of Sam's clarinet recitals. After the 30 or so young clarinetists played their pieces, the young musicians descended on a relatively elaborate set that the parents had set up.

There were always sweets and savories—lots of store-bought cookies, some home-made brownies and sometimes tiny meatballs or chicken wings. Once Cosco arrived--big platters of shrimps and wraps and fruit and vegetable platters appeared as well.

While not the most popular with the young musicians, my mother's Eggplant Caponata was a consistent hit with the parents.

Here it is:

Peel and chop one large eggplant into one-inch pieces, salt and set in a colander for about a half hour.
While the eggplant is sweating, heat two tablespoons of olive oil in pan and sauté two cups chopped onions, and one cup chopped celery. When these are melted (softened) rinse the eggplant, squeezing the pieces in paper towels to remove excess moisture and add it, with several cloves of crushed garlic to the vegetable mixture.

When the eggplant is lightly browned and moving towards tender, add 1 can chopped Italian tomatoes with their juice, a few grindings of black pepper and perhaps some salt (you might want to wait on the salt until the end--as the amount of salt in other ingredients might be enough).

Cook another ten minutes or so--then add 1/4 cup stuffed olives, 1/4 cup capers, 1 Tbsp. wine vinegar, 2 Tbsps. sugar, 1/2 cup lightly toasted pine nuts, and about 1/4 cup chopped parsley. Stir well. Remove from heat.

Serve chilled or at room temperature with crackers or bread.

24 - Mashed Potato Pie

Sam stopped eating most meat when he was about three. From the time he was seven or eight, he ate no meat, fish, or chicken. For many years, he also eschewed most vegetables. This meant that he ate massive amounts of bread, cheese, pasta and potatoes in many formats--pizzas, enchiladas, quesadillas, etc.

One of his favorites, an accompaniment to many family meals (I rarely made whole vegetarian dinners—just added another dish that he would eat), was this mashed potato pie:

Wash four large Russet or Idaho potatoes. Perforate them a few times with a fork or sharp small knife. Rub with olive oil and bake for about an hour at 350 degrees (depending on size).

When they are suitably soft--scoop out the innards--mash them with warm milk, butter, salt and pepper-- (quantities very flexible here--you can also add cheese--parmesan, cheddar, etc.).

Line a ten inch pie pan with the skins. It can all be pretty ragged--you're just serving it out of this dish--so you don't need a perfect "crust." Cover the skins with the newly mashed potatoes--sprinkle more cheese on top--and pop back into the oven. If you've moved quickly--everything should be pretty warm and not need much heating. Before serving slip under the broiler--to get those little swirls of potato and cheese nicely browned.

This, of course, isn't much different from a standard "twice-baked potato," but it is easier to make for a crowd. In any case--endless variations in both shape and addition of all sorts of ingredients-- are obviously possible.

25 - Caramelized Tofu


Although I knew all the “right” things to do to ensure that vegetarian Sam would get enough protein, it was not easy to influence his food preferences. He avoided most proteins, complimentary or otherwise, and I soon gave up efforts to lure him onto more nutritional paths.

I easily broke through all barriers with caramelized golden tofu.

This is an elaboration of a recipe from Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone:

Slice one pound Chinese firm tofu into ¾ inch slices then cut each slice in half. Drain in a colander for about half an hour. Blot dry with paper towels.

Heat about two tablespoons peanut or canola oil in a heavy medium size skillet over fairly high heat. Add the tofu and fry until golden. It should take several minutes per side. You want it slightly crispy--so don’t rush. Let it get a nice crust before turning it over.

While you're ever so patiently waiting for the tofu to brown, mix two tablespoons soy sauce and 3 1/2 tablespoons light brown sugar in a small bowl, and slice one cup of broccoli (I like spears with florets about an inch and a half long-- and one cup of carrots basically the same size as your broccoli pieces. Scoop a spoonful of oil out of the tofu frying pan--and swirl it around in another heavy skillet or a wok. When the oil is hot, add the soy mixture--and then, lowering the heat, add the browned tofu. Mix well and simmer for two minutes. Add 3 tablespoons water and cook until the sauce becomes syrupy and coats the tofu. Turn off the heat and let sit for ten minutes. While the tofu is stewing in its syrup, toss the broccoli and carrots with a few more tablespoons of water into the pan where the tofu was cooking. Cover and cook a few minutes--should be both slightly crisp and tender. (You can of course also use other vegetables)
Combine vegetables with tofu and serve--rice is more traditional--but you can also go the noodle route.

26 - Noodles with Peanut Sauce

I had first listed this as golden tofu with peanut sauce, but realized that the basic recipe we made was just noodles with a Chinese style sauce. Here it is:

Boil water for pasta.  This recipe is probably enough for about one half pound--you'll need more sauce for more pasta.    While it’s cooking combine 3 tablespoons peanut butter, 2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar, 1 tablespoon chopped cilantro, 2 cloves crushed garlic, three teaspoons soy sauce, 1 teaspoon sesame oil and 1 teaspoon brown sugar--with 2-4 tablespoons warm water. Add 1/4 teaspoon salt--taste and adjust accordingly.

Cook pasta. Drain. Mix with sauce, and top with 1/2 chopped scallions and more cilantro

You could also toss in cubes of caramelized tofu.

Mix and match any of the above as you see fit.

27 - Southern Style Greens

I began cooking this as part of a traditional New Year’s good luck meal. Eaten with black-eyed peas and rice--it's meant to ensure ample wealth and prosperity in the coming year. In times of economic distress, they should probably be eaten monthly, if not weekly.

Sauté one or two chopped onions in olive oil (if you choose the meat option- chop a few slices of bacon and cook with the onions--not letting them get crispy). Throw in a couple of smashed garlic cloves (that would be peeled cloves of garlic crushed with the broad side of a knife)--and to provide a bit of vegetable smokiness--a chopped chipotle pepper (good substitute for the bacon).

Cook a couple of minutes--until onions are soft. Add thoroughly washed chopped greens--any mixture you want--collards, kale, mustard, turnips, beet greens. They'll all work--either alone or separately. Cook for about an hour. If your greens are young and tender, it might be much quicker. Add salt and pepper. Serve.

28 - Sweet Tomato Chutney


I triple or quadruple this recipe before packing it into 8-ounce jars, which I give for Christmas presents every year. I have to make a huge amount because everyone exchanges gifts at Katya’s Christmas dinners. These little glowing jars of red chutney are my regular contribution.

Canning is not strictly necessary. If I were just making it for myself I would just stick to the recipe as I write it here, and put the big jar in the refrigerator. I do the canning, in part so people won’t have to think twice about the refrigerator, but I also enjoy the rigmarole of buying jars, boiling them, figuring out the complicated procedure, etc. Again, it feels like a journey to a past that I never knew.

The recipe comes from Madhur Jaffrey’s An Invitation to Indian Cooking. I used it non-stop when we lived in Montreal. The nights were long and dark. Sam was tiny, but quite happy sitting in his little baby seat on the kitchen counter while I prepared massive Indian feasts. This recipe is the only one that has endured over the decades:

Put the cloves from an entire head of garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped into a blender along with a peeled and coarsely chopped piece of fresh ginger, about 2 inches long and 1 inch thick and ½ cup of red wine vinegar. Blend at high speed until smooth.

In a four-quart heavy bottomed pan, put 1 pound 12 ounce can whole tomatoes with juice, 1 cup of wine vinegar, 1 ½ cups of granulated sugar, 1 ½ tsps. salt and a pinch or two of cayenne pepper. Bring to a boil. Once boiling, add the puree from the blender and lower the heat, simmering gently, uncovered, for about two hours (when I make larger batches, it often takes longer—in part, I think, because there is so much liquid in the cans of tomato). In any case, the chutney should begin to thicken and the tomatoes should be fairly well broken up. I always find it hard to decide it’s done—and probably cook it longer than necessary—a film should coat a spoon dipped into it, but I’m never sure about that—in any case—I always cook it long enough. When it’s more or less done add two tablespoons golden raisins and two tablespoons blanched slivered almonds. Simmer, stirring, another five minutes. Turn heat off, cool, and then put in bottles (this amount you will surely devour—so no reason to work at preserving)

29 - Hoppin' John - Black-Eyed Peas and Rice


Another annual tradition. I make this for good luck on New Years Day.

I’d always considered it a Southern tradition—and indeed it is, but last year, Sarah, in the midst of intrepid Internet research found some evidence that it was brought to the Southern United States by Sephardic Jews who arrived in Georgia in the 1730’s. I know you can’t believe everything you find on the Internet, but that tale does have a certain surprising charm.


Here’s the recipe for vegetarian black-eyed peas (for a meat variant—there are always those ham hocks):

Soak two cups of black-eyed peas over night.

Sauté in olive oil 1 cup chopped onions, ½ cup chopped green pepper, ½ cup celery, several cloves of garlic, and one chopped chipotle pepper (this to provide smokiness in vegetarian version) in a heavy bottomed pan. Add the soaked beans, a quart of vegetable stock (or water—not as good, but…will be o.k.), one or two bay leaves, and a bit of thyme. Bring to a boil and continue cooking for about an hour. Serve over rice, with the greens and corn bread and you’ll have a splendid year.

30 - Cheese Enchiladas

Soon after we arrivied in California, our neighbor Anna Lee, who was from Texas, led me on my first foray into Mexican cooking, teaching me to make enchiladas. I thought this recipe was incredibly authentic because although the sauce was red, it didn't contain tomatoes.

Chop two onions into medium dice (maybe that's 1/4 inch squares) Sauté the onion in olive oil--then add chili powder--let's say pasilla chili--dark colored not very hot--since this was for the children--maybe one teaspoon--stir onions with the pepper then add a cup or so of water to make a sauce. Spread some of the sauce in the bottom of a 13”by 9” baking pan.

Prepare 12 tortillas. Sauté each one quickly in hot oil, then dip in sauce. Place tortillas in pan. Put a spoonful of grated cheese (cheddar, jack, whatever) on the tortilla--add a sprinkling of fresh cilantro, and roll into enchilada. When enchiladas are neatly lined up, cover with remainder of sauce--grate some cheese--and bake in oven until cheese is bubbly.

I used this recipe for years, but eventually it was supplanted by one from Diana Kennedy’s The Cuisines of Mexico which came out in a revised paperback edition in 1989. That recipe involved a more elaborate sauce with roasted tomatoes, garlic and peppers, easily added to the chili-onion mixture.

31 - Chile Rellenos


I've always loved chile rellenos. Is it true that combination #7 in almost all Mexican restaurants is one chili relleno and one enchilada? In any case I suspect I have eaten more than my share of numero sietes. I know. I know. The chile rellenos in restaurants--like the Indian food served in cheap places on 6th street in the East Village in the 60's or chop suey served in Chinese restaurants everywhere in the world--are not worthy representatives of their national cuisine. But all these foods are analogous to gateway drugs. They whet our appetites and might lead to all sorts of surprising culinary adventures.

In recent years I have been following a very simple recipe for my own quite authentic rellenos. At some point, I forgot the source and tried to re-capture it. Had I made it up? An internet search led me to the website for the People's Guide to Mexico--and the one recipe there (at least the only one I saw) is in fact for a dish very similar to the recipe I used.

The People's Guide to Mexico was our bible when we traveled to Mexico from Somerville, in the summer of 1974. Published in 1972, it was a guide for people traveling by car or van, camping, doing their own cooking, etc. Although we traveled primarily by bus--the book captured our spirit--and for whatever reasons--we found it indispensable.

Visiting my sister, we used a recipe from Vegetarian Gourmet Cookery by Alan Hooker, though I knew I’d never seen that before. Eventually, after months of thumbing through cookbooks, I discovered the well-stained chile relleno recipe in my copy of Diana Kennedy’s The Cuisines of Mexico—from which I’d originally learned (and then forgotten) how to stuff and batter the chiles. So with a nod and thanks to all of the above---here's the amalgamated recipe:
First--make a tomato sauce:

Sauté in olive oil two finely chopped onions. When they are soft, add finely chopped garlic. After a few more seconds—you don’t want the garlic to brown, add a couple of cups of mashed canned tomatoes (or roasted tomatoes, or cooked fresh tomatoes--whatever you might have). If available I'd also add some cumin, maybe a stick of cinnamon and a few cloves.
While the sauce is cooking, or earlier if you've remembered--put your poblano chiles in the broiler--turning them until the skin is blistery and black. When done--pop them in a plastic bag and let them steam for a while--until the outer burnt skin easily peels off. Remove the seeds--slit the peppers (try not to tear them too much--but the truth is--once you put them in your excellent batter all injuries will be healed--so don't be nervous). Put a piece of cheese, pepper jack, cheddar, whatever. All kinds of meat and vegetable stuffings are possible--but this is a recipe for cheese-stuffed chili rellenos. Once peppers are properly stuffed, roll them in flour.

Separate eggs---one egg for each one or two peppers---depends on how much batter you want. I like lots of fluffy batter, which looks quite gorgeous--so I’d go for more eggs--but you'll figure it out. Beat egg whites until thick--not quite stiff, with a few pinches of salt. Carefully stir in lightly beaten yolks. Gently fold one Tbsp sifted flour per egg into the mixture, keeping eggs as stiff as possible.

Heat canola oil in heavy duty pan. Using a spoon, and perhaps a spatula as well, dip each chile into the batter, and coat it completely. Slip chiles into the hot oil. It should be like a small miracle--the batter completely encasing what might be a straggly chile with cheese trying to escape. When golden brown on one side, turn over. As peppers finish browning carefully put them into the tomato sauce--which is cooking at a very low simmer. When all peppers are in sauce, cook a bit longer; making sure cheese is fully melted. Serve.

32 - Spaghetti with Clam Sauce


One dish I haven’t cooked for years is spaghetti with clam sauce. I’d assumed the recipe had been retired before children, but Sarah remembers it as a staple of her childhood.

Its first version is recorded in a little brown notebook of recipes that I compiled in 1967. Russell was heading off to graduate school and to ward off potential starvation, I filled the pages of a tiny four inch spiral notebook with a mix of recipes and reminders of foods he might prepare for himself. Complete with a table of contents.

I have always described this notebook with the University of Rochester insignia as something I’d made for your father, but I suspect that when I enrolled in graduate school the following year, I re-claimed the book and made it mine, filling it with rarely made recipes copied from the New York Times.

The spaghetti with clam sauce recipe was written while I was still in Madison, evidence that I began making it while I was still in college, though I remember it most clearly from the Somerville years.

Leafing through the spineless (literally) New York Times cookbook--which was my primary recipe source for many years—I discovered that the recipe for White clam sauce was a particularly stain splattered page. This is my chief evidence that this was the source for the clam sauce recipe that I usually used.
White Clam Sauce (New York Times Cookbook, 1961, p.343)

1/4-cup butter
1 large clove garlic, finely chopped
2 tablespoons flour
2 cups clam juice, fresh or canned
1/4 cup chopped parsley
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
1 1/2 teaspoons dried thyme leaves
2 cups minced clams, fresh or canned

1. In a saucepan heat the butter, add the garlic and cook one minute over moderate heat. With a wire whisk stir in the flour. Add the clam juice, while stirring.
2? Add the parsley, salt, pepper and thyme and simmer gently ten minutes. Add the minced clams and heat through. Serve over linguine or spaghetti.

Striking here is the complete lack of opinion or editorializing--no difference discerned between fresh and canned clams.

At a certain point, I knew that a proper spaghetti with clam sauce should involve tiny fresh clams and little shells pushed t the side of plates--but what can I say? I never took that more authentic and delicious path. In fact, once I learned the error of my ways, I suspect I stopped making all variation whatsoever.

33 - Spaghetti with Olive Oil, Parsley, and Garlic

Maybe I stopped making spaghetti with clam sauce because I felt my version was not authentic, but more likely it was because of Sam. Eight years younger than Sarah, he was a vegetarian from a very early age with a special aversion to all seafood (I always attributed this to the influence of The Little Mermaid—he was four and very affected by that calypso singing cleaver wielding chef under the sea.)

The clam recipe--canned in reality, fresh in ideal form, was replaced with an even more classic spaghetti with garlic and parsley.
I learned this from a young gay man, the roommate of a friend in Cambridge. He whipped it up one afternoon in 1971 as we listened to Carole King’s Tapestry, which had just been released. It was simple and delicious, an eye-opening meal.

Here’s the recipe:

Put up water to boil for one pound spaghetti.

Heat 5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil in a heavy pan with eight to ten cloves of peeled garlic (I prefer to leave them whole and cook them until they’re soft, but not brown—but many variations are possible). If you want it a bit spicier (I usually do)—add a pinch of crushed red pepper flakes.

While this is cooking, add one pound of spaghetti to the boiling salted water. Just before spaghetti is done, put a ladleful of the starchy water into the pan with garlic.

Drain spaghetti. Add ½ cup parsley to the sauce, and salt and pepper to taste. Mix with spaghetti. Add Parmesan or pecorino or Romano cheese. And that’s it. You can also toss in roast cauliflower or sautéed artichoke hearts—whatever.

34 - Shells with Bacon, Peas, and Ricotta






















Anita Hoffman gave me the first Marcella Hazan cookbook in the early eighties, and this was an early favorite. I used the book so frequently and vigorously it just about fell apart.

Growing up, we didn't eat many varieties of pasta, but my mother did make a lunch meal of a dish she called pasta fazoul.
The ingredients were simple: dried pasta shells (pretty exotic in those days--at least to us), a can of Heinz vegetarian baked beans, and perhaps a can of tomato sauce. The beans would nestle in the shells--and make us very happy. I don’t think I ever made this myself, but I do know I loved it.


Perhaps the initial appeal of this recipe was the re-appearance of shells (and also peas--another childhood staple—though certainly not with pasta.) Ricotta cheese, of course, was not something we ate in Jersey City. And, speaking of not eating--although we did not keep kosher--and made all sort of dietary transgressions--we never cooked bacon or any pork dish in the house. This recipe might evoke some memories of those baked beans and shells, but indeed the two dishes are light years apart.

Still, the more recent iteration is also quick and easy:

Conchiglie con Bacon, Piselli, e Ricotta--Shells with bacon, peas, and ricotta

Cut 1/4 pound bacon into narrow strips. Cook over medium heat in a small sauté pan until it's very lightly browned--don't let it become crisp. Pour most of the fat out (keeping maybe two tablespoons.) A vegetarian option (if any vegetarians have read this far) would be to sauté onion, garlic, and mushrooms in olive oil or a mixture of olive oil and butter.

Add about 1/2 package of thawed frozen peas (between 5 and 8 ounces--more is probably better) to the pan and cook until warmed through or a pound of fresh peas (that would be a pound before shelling--which you'd cook before adding them to the pan.) Turn off the heat.

Bring 4-5 quarts water to a boil; add salt and a pound of pasta shells.

Put 1/4 pound ricotta into the serving bowl--and stir in 1 tablespoon of softened butter. When pasta is tender, but still firm, drain and add to the ricotta--stir it around 'til well coated.

Quickly heat up the bacon and peas (or mushrooms and peas) and pour the mixture over the pasta. Toss thoroughly. Add 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese--a few grindings of pepper--toss again, and serve.

35 - Persimmon Bread


I don't think I'd ever heard of persimmons before moving to California. And although once here, I’d see them glowing bright orange at farmer’s markets, I’d never been bold enough to buy one. I'd seen them at farmer's markets for years bright orange--in two varieties-- I don't believe I ever bought them.

This all changed in 1991 when we became shareholders in the Moore Ranch Community Supported Agriculture farm. Now CSA’s are ubiquitous, but they were relatively obscure then.

Each week we’d receive a box of freshly picked produce. I had to learn how to prepare all sorts of new vegetables from kohlrabi to persimmons.

Steve Moore, the farmer, wrote a newsletter full of facts and recipes each week. I learned there were two varieties --Fuyu--rounder--sold crisp and eatable--and Hachiya--more triangular. He grew Fuyus, which were delicious uncooked, but we got so many we couldn’t keep up and I soon was regularly baking persimmon bread.

During those persimmons years, I combined Steve's recipe with two clipped from the papers and one from James Beard. Sweet and dark, the bread was delicious with cream cheese, reminding of the date nut bread and cream cheese sandwiches I used to eat with my mother at Schrafft's in my long ago and largely fictive New York city childhood (easily conflated with my actual Jersey City childhood).

For two loaves:

Grease two standard loaf pans.

Preheat oven to 350. Beat two eggs until light and foamy. Add 1 cup (2 sticks) melted butter, 2 cups sugar, 2 cups pulp of fuyu persimmons (those would be the round ones), and 1 tsp. lemon juice. Stir in 1 cup coarsely chopped walnuts or pecans and 1 cup raisins.

Mix together dry ingredients: 3 cups sifted flour, 2 tsp. baking soda, 1 tsp. salt, 1 tsp. ground nutmeg, 1/2 tsp. ground cloves, 1/2 tsp. cinnamon. Add to persimmon mixture--and stir until just blended.

Pour into loaf pans and bake for one hour--until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.

Cool on wire racks.

36 - Banana Bread



Banana bread is something I made for years and years and years. Sweet and rich, bursting with butter and sugar, with a dark healthy look (thanks to those very ripe bananas), is seemed like a perfect food. It was also incredibly economical. You turn bananas that look ready for the compost heap into a relatively healthy breakfast/snack food.

In the days of a full house, I bought lots of bananas. Sometimes they'd get eaten--sometimes they wouldn’t-- but no matter. There was always banana bread (and even simpler, smoothies with frozen bananas).

This is eminently easy. As a quick yeastless bread, it demands no kneading or rising.

The recipe I use comes from an autographed copy of James Beard’s 1973 classic, Beard on Bread. Pearl Bresev, the wife of my mother’s doctor in Jersey City had some connection with the book, and perhaps my mother went to a signing to get a copy inscribed with a most flamboyant flourish -Good Loaves for Naomie (sic)--James Beard

The publication date was 1973, so I imagine my mother must have gone to some sort of signing with Pearl Bresev, the good doctor's wife, who is one of eight people thanked in an acknowledgment. I remember my mother telling me about this connection--but have no idea of how she actually got the signed book.

Pages 170 and 171 are magnificently yellowed and speckled with mementos of many loaves.

Sift 2 Cups flour, with 1 teaspoon baking soda, and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Cream 1/2 cup butter and gradually add 1 cup granulated sugar. Mix well. Add 2 eggs and 1 cup mashed, very ripe bananas (two or three). Combine 1/3 cup milk with 1 teaspoon lemon juice or vinegar--this will curdle the milk. Slowly and alternately fold in the flour mixture and milk mixture into the eggs and bananas, beginning and ending with the dry ingredients. Blend well after each addition. Stir in 1/2 cup chopped walnuts and pour into a lavishly buttered 9x5x3 inch pan (classic loaf pan) and bake in a preheated 350 oven for 1 hour until the bread springs back when lightly touched in the center.

37 - Parker House Rolls


These rolls--from the Greene on Greens cookbook (one reason why we love Mr. Greene- are made with mashed potatoes--so surely they should be included in a vegetable cookbook, no?)

I've been making them for years beginning with long ago Thanksgivings but also for Katya's Christmas dinners. They are always a grand thing to contribute to a meal--hot and buttery--and a vegetable to boot!

The rolls might have special importance in our family meals. If there is an ample supply for Sam, they bring him such joy, we don't have to worry if there are not quite enough non-meat dishes on the menu.

Last Thanksgiving, Sam, in charge of making the rolls, called for recipe specifics. I gave him the instructions over the phone. He typed them on his computer and promptly e-mailed it back to me. Here it is in a quite proper recipe format:

1 c. milk
1/2 c. sugar
2 tsp salt
1 pkg. dry yeast
Two large eggs (lightly beaten)
1 c. mashed potatoes (make these before you begin--two or three small potatoes will be more than enough--mash with milk-- you don't have to make proper buttery, salt and peppered mashed potatoes--though you could)
5 1/2 c. all-purpose flour (approx)
8 tbsp unsalted butter, melted
3 tbsp butter for inside of rolls.
2 tbsp butter (melted) to brush outside


(1) Scald milk. (Very hot, not boiling). Let cool in large bowl to luke warm.
(2) Add sugar, salt to milk, stir well.
(3) Stir in yeast, let stand two minutes
(4) Beat in eggs, mashed potatoes, and 1 1/2 c. flour. Do not over beat. Some lumps will remain.
(5) Let stand till bubbly, 5 min.
(6) Add 8 tbsps melted butter. Stir in remaining flour, one cup at a time, until smooth and not sticky. Keep adding flour if it’s too wet.
(7) Transfer to floured board, knead two min., adding more flour if necessary. You should have a ball of soft, smooth dough.
(8) Place dough in well-buttered large bowl. Turn dough, coat w/ butter.
(9) Let stand until tripled in size (warm place). This could take several hours--especially if you live in a cold house.

Pull off pieces of dough slightly larger than a ping-pong ball. Flatten w/ hands. Using floured knife, make creased down each. Lightly butter one half, fold it over, seal together. Place roll seam-side up on buttered sheet, brush with 3 tbsp melted butter. Cover loosely and let rise 40 minutes.


Pre-heat oven to 400. Bake rolls till lightly browned, 15-18 minutes.

That’s more or less it--makes plenty of rolls--and they're great as leftovers, for breakfast with jam, etc....