Urban Home Blog

Cooking for One: Tuna Salad

2012-01-20T10:11:00.229-05:00

When John and I decided to try bicoastal living, one of the things that meant was spending some stretches of time apart. It’s not my favorite situation but I don’t allow myself to whine about it, not only because we chose it (and, if you believe in astrology, I am enough of a Capricorn that I cannot abide to whimper about anything that happened as the result of a choice), but because couples spend time apart all the time – often longer than we do, and often for reasons much more serious, from health to military service.

However, it has meant relearning an essential survival skill: feeding oneself. Cooking for two or a crowd, if not always simple (though not always complicated either), is rewarding, but how often cooking for one seems like a chore. Despite very good resources spanning legends from the Culinary Institute to Judith Jones, we often balk at cooking for ourselves. Thus, as committed to when I wrote about 2012 at its dawn, I am managing change and challenge as opportunities for growth and fulfillment, and inaugurating a new area of content at Urban Home Blog: Cooking for One.

It is appropriate that the first entry in Cooking for One is tuna salad, for that in turn was my first food column. I wrote about tuna salad eons ago for a now defunct food property as the first entry in a series of columns focusing on comfort food. I didn’t write that column from the point of view of cooking for one, I wrote it as a straightforward food column with a recipe. But in the years that have passed since I first published my original recipe for tuna salad, I have perfected it; and in the weeks that have passed since John and I have started splitting our time not just a continent but between ourselves, I have learned that making tuna salad is among a single cook’s (and eater’s) essential skills.

Not the least of reasons for this is that almost anywhere you turn, the tuna salad you find is awful. There are shelf versions of it that are laden with chemicals and redolent of their own packaging and there are deli counter versions of it that are prepared for bulk and with indifference. Yes, of course there are good versions as well, from your local lunch counter to your grandmother’s luncheon table, and bless you if you have access to any such. In New York, a local deli used to make a lovely version with cilantro and jalapenos before the property changed hands and fuggeddaboudit. I also love a Mediterranean tuna salad, but this is grandma’s classic mayo-based kind. Don’t worry, it isn’t gluey or gloppy or runny. It’s substantial, flavorful, and always ready to feed you. Once you master this recipe, your only remaining task will be to determine your preferred accommodations for it: a slab of wheat toast, two soft slices of white bread, traditional saltines, or adventurous whole grain crackers. In our urban homes, we like the last – that is, when we bother to restrain ourselves from eating tuna salad directly from the bowl we mixed it in.

In our urban home, we eat not just tuna salad but sushi and sashimi, so we believe we are obligated to educate ourselves about issues surrounding tuna for human food consumption. When buying tuna for food, it is important to only purchase that that has been humanely caught and processed. The primary issues with tuna both have to do with fishing practices; the related issue is mercury level. In the grocery store, most canned tuna (including that in the pouch) is albacore, which is abundant in the Pacific ocean and less abundant in other waters. Trolling and pole-and-line fishing result in a very low percentage of bycatch -- the terrible situation where species other than the one being sought are caught in the catch. Tuna fishing performed by long line evidences a high incidence of bycatch, often with such tragic results as unnecessary and non-food related fatalities among those other species, including sea turtles, dolphins and sharks. Regarding mercury level, that is at a relatively low level with troll- and pole- fishing and at a high level with longline fishing.

Unfortunately, labeling requirements don't do much to compel canneries to report on the catch location and fishing method of the contents. In the store, look for albacore labeled "canned white," hopefully indicating that it was troll- or pole-caught in the Pacific ocean. To learn more, visit the Monterey Aquarium's Seafood Watch site (a serious plus in the California column if ever there was one), and consider supporting this important work not just with your own behavior in the marketplace and in the kitchen but with your donations of effort, funds and, most importantly, commitment.

TUNA SALAD

Good whole grain crackers should be a staple in your urban pantry – we like Vinta. Do not skip the step of draining the tuna -- it is essential to avoiding watery tuna salad. Small mesh colandars and sieves are essential items for your urban kitchen -- they are widely available, and here is a good online source.

2 5-ounce cans of white albacore tuna packed in water

1 small white onion
1 lemon
1 dill pickle
Mayonnaise
1 teaspoon dried parsley
1 teaspoon celery seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground paprika
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Place a small mesh colander over a bowl. Open the cans and decant the tuna into the colandar. Use a small silicon spatula to get all of the tuna from the inside of the can. Use the spatula to stir the tuna in the colandar. Let the tuna drain while you prepare the other ingredients.
Peel the onion and remove the root and stem ends. Place the onion on a clean cutting board. Halve the onion from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into thin crescents. Cut across the crescents to form dice. Scrape the diced onion into a mixing bowl.
Run the lemon under your palm along the counter. Cut the lemon in half and use a lemon press to juice the lemon halves over the diced onion, working over a sieve to catch any pith or seeds.
Place the dill pickle on the cutting board. Halve the pickle from stem to blossom end. Cut each half into strips from stem to blossom end; you should be able to get 3 to 4 strips from each half.
For each half, stack the strips flat side down on the board. Cut along the stack from stem to blossom end to form thin stripes. Cut across the strips to form dice. Scrape the diced pickle into the bowl containing the lemon and onion.
Sprinkle the lemon-onion-pickle mixture with the parsley, celery seeds, paprika, a pinch of salt, and several grindings of fresh black pepper. Use the small spatula to combine all of the ingredients.
Gently jiggle the drained tuna to express all of the water from the tuna. Use the small spatula to move the tuna around in the strainer in order to express all of the water. Discard the drained packing water.
Transfer the drained tuna from the strainer to the bowl containing the seasoning mixture. Use the small spatula to mix the ingredients together, breaking up large chunks of tuna if any as you mix.
Add mayonnaise to the mixture 1 spoonful at a time until you achieve the consistency you like; typically between 2 and 4 tablespoons. Use the spatula to thoroughly mix the ingredients.
If not serving immediately, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to serve.

Sourdough Bread

2012-01-15T22:00:00.003-05:00

Any New Yorker – nu, any East Coaster – will tell you that it’s a challenge to get a good bagel out west. Most of them will swear it’s the water. That’s not impossible because water is a crucial element in correct bageling. Bagels are made from a high-gluten wheat flour leavened by yeast and salt. Water is added to the dry ingredients to form a pliant, sticky dough, which is then shaped by hand into the distinctive “O” shape that has us lining up for a nosh. After rising but before baking, bagels are boiled, and that process creates the bagel’s signature dense but airy interior and shiny hide. The water used to make the dough and for the boil are, in fact, important contributors to a successful bagel, though perhaps not as much as having a fussy bubba or burly maven toast and schmear it for you.
A hydrologist could advise better than I can about the differences in water tables, but whether we blame the Pacific ocean or dismiss that idea as bupkes, it doesn’t matter, because west coast bagels are noticeably different from east coast bagels. But that also doesn’t matter, because even if to an easterner west coast bagels barely qualify for the name, the west coast has at least one baked good that is as endemic to the region as the bagel is to the east, and whose execution the opposing coast can just as surely not approach: sourdough bread. Sourdough is a simple white loaf with a noticeable tangy flavor and pliant texture.

The epicenter of sourdough culture, pun intended, is San Francisco, and as befits both that gateway city and the behavior of yeast itself, the culture proceeds from that spot in all directions. Though it traces its roots back to the very dawn of bread baking, sourdough became firmly entrenched in San Francisco at the time of the Gold Rush. It says a lot about California history that San Francisco was the most important city on the American west coast during the 1800s. Seattle was a gateway to the north and Los Angeles was still a mission settlement, but San Francisco was already a world class city. It was the point of entry to the North American continent from Asia and the coastal center for prospectors on their way from Nevada or to Alaska.

Among the more genteel epithets prospectors had for each other was “sourdoughs,” because a pouch of sourdough starter was common among the wares threatening to break the legs of a prospector’s mule. Sourdough starter is not harmed by such excesses of cold as the Klondike, so with a pouch of starter kept safe and some flour from a provisions stop, a sourdough could keep oneself fed with a warm loaf of sourdough. And so sourdough also refers to survival – again, not inappropriate as a reflection of the American west and the reason that any individual who weathered a Yukon Alaska winter and could still talk about it come spring earned the title (you guessed it) “sourdough.”

To understand sourdough bread you have only to taste it, but to understand baking it, you have to understand a bit about bread baking. There are two kinds of breads: "quick" breads, which are called that because they rise through the chemical reaction of a leavening agent such as baking powder and therefore don't require the rise- and rest-periods that yeasted breads do, and yeasted breads, which rise as yeasts introduced into the dough feed on it. As we learned last October, yeast is a fungus. In traditional sourdough, the starter -- typically flour, water, and milk -- is left exposed to attract yeasts that occur naturally in the air. Though starting sourdough in this way is one of the oldest and most pungent food preparation techniques, the process accounts for modern sourdough's association with San Francisco, for the airborne yeasts that are attracted to the starter are native to the Bay area. Yeasts can perpetuate indefinitely in the right conditions, and some San Francisco bakeries can trace the lineage of their sourdough starter back to the Gold Rush. You’ve heard of heirloom gardening –perhaps heirloom tomatoes, beans and grapes – but yes, there is also heirloom baking. If you haven’t already, please welcome into your baking oven the dominant strain of fungus in the yeast that makes sourdough: Lactobacillus sanfranciscensis.

If you don't live in the Bay area don't despair (if you must, do so for reasons other than the air quality), for it is not just possible but common to make an acceptable sourdough without access to L. sanfranciscensis. The common cheat is to build a starter from basic bread baking ingredients and then perpetuate that for future generations of loaves. That is the technique you will find in the recipe below.

Bread baking is not as intimidating as it may seem, but it does require time, and this is appropriate, for we are at the gateway to Imbolc. This holiday is the compliment to Lammas - when, among other things, we celebrate the wheat harvest - and just as Lammas marks the halfway point between summer and autumn, Imbolc marks the halfway point between winter and spring. Both holidays honor survival (all do, really), and that takes us back to those hearty prospectors. Start the starter at least a week before you plan to bake, and on baking day, plan to spend some time, though not necessarily all day, in the kitchen, connecting with the ancient art of bread baking. Thump the loaf for luck as it exits the oven. After the loaf and the baker rest, cut thin slices of the bread to toast and spread with butter or jam, or thicker slices to accommodate a layering of cold cuts or a heap of tuna salad. Nothing attracts congregants to the kitchen like the smell of baking bread, so perhaps you'll simply indulge in the nicest treat of all -- tearing a fresh loaf into chunks for everyone to share.

Sourdough Bread

Pay attention to the weather on bread baking day; such factors as humidity and air temperature will inform the process. The recipe below is written to account for that. When buying yeast, double-check the expiration date on the package and do not purchase any that is close to that date. A bread board is a large wooden board dedicated to bread baking; you can obtain a good one here.

For the starter
1 .25 ounce package active dry yeast
2 cups water
2 cups all purpose flour
1 tablespoon honey

For the bread
Sourdough starter
5 - 5-1/2 cups all purpose flour plus additional for flouring and kneading
1 .25 ounce package active dry yeast
3 tablespoons white sugar
2-1/2 teaspoons table salt
1 cup whole milk
3 tablespoons unsalted butter plus additional for the baking pan and the rising bowl

1 week before baking
1.     Affix a candy thermometer to a saucepan. Measure the water into the saucepan. Turn the burner to medium and heat the water until it reaches between 110 and 115 degrees. Once the water reaches that temperature spectrum, remove it from the heat.
2.    Open the yeast package and sprinkle the yeast across the bottom of a large glass or ceramic mixing bowl.
3.    Once the water reaches the correct temperature spectrum, measure 1/2 cup warm water into the bowl containing the yeast. Use a wooden spoon to incorporate the yeast into the water until the mixture is smooth.
4.    Drizzle the honey into the mixture. Use the spoon to incorporate the honey into the mixture. It is okay if the mixture begins to bubble.
5.    Add the flour and 1-1/2 cups warm water to the mixture. Use the spoon to incorporate the flour and water into the mixture. The mixture should start bubbling. If it doesn't, check the expiration date on the yeast packet. If the yeast has expired, discard this batch of starter and begin again with a different package of yeast.
6.    Cover the bowl loosely with cheesecloth or plastic wrap. Place the covered bowl in a warm, food safe area.
7.     Use the spoon to stir the starter twice a day for one week. The starter will continue to bubble and develop a strong odor; these mean that the starter is fermenting as it should.
8.    At the end of one week, refrigerate the covered, fermented starter.
9.    To feed the starter, introduce 1 tablespoon granulated sugar or honey into the starter every 10 days until or unless the supply of starter is depleted.

On baking day
1.     Remove the starter from the refrigerator.
2.    Butter an 11 x 14 inch rimmed baking pan and a large mixing bowl. Place both near the work area.
3.    Place a large bread board on the work area. Sprinkle the bread board with flour.
4.    Affix a candy thermometer to a saucepan. Measure the milk into the saucepan. Turn the burner to medium and heat the milk until it reaches between 115 and 120 degrees. Once the milk reaches that temperature spectrum, remove it from the heat. Add the butter to the warm milk.
5.    Open the yeast package and sprinkle the yeast across the bottom of a large glass or ceramic mixing bowl. Add 1 cup flour, the sugar, and the salt to the bowl. Use a wooden spoon to combine the ingredients.
6.    Use one hand to stir the dry ingredients with the spoon while pouring the warm milk-butter mixture into the bowl in a thin stream. Use the spoon to thoroughly mix the ingredients together.
7.     Measure 1-1/2 cups starter into the mixture in the bowl. Use the spoon to thoroughly mix the ingredients together, switching to using your hands if the dough becomes unwieldy.
8.    Add up to 4-1/2 cups flour to the dough, one cup at a time, until a thick but manageable dough forms. As a rule, the warmer or more humid the climate, the more flour you will require. For most temperate climates, you will probably need about 3-1/2 cups more flour.
9.    Turn dough onto the floured board. Use a scraper or silicon spatula to get all of the dough from the side of the bowl.
10.   Sprinkle your hands with flour. Begin to work the dough by pressing against two sides and then pressing against the opposing two sides. As you work the dough, start bringing two sides up and into the center, switching sides so that you're always working with alternating edges of the dough. As you work, it will become evident how to knead the dough. Flour your hands when they start to stick to the dough.
11.   Stop kneading when the dough is smooth and elastic and demonstrates that it cannot receive any more flour, typically 8 - 10 minutes.
12.   Transfer the dough to the buttered bowl. Turn the dough once it is in the bowl to coat it with butter. Cover the bowl with a clean tea towel. Let the dough rest for 1 hour.
13.   After 1 hour check the dough; it should have doubled in volume. Flour your hands. Punch the top of the dough down into the center. The dough should compress but it should not deflate.
14.   Recover the bowl with the towel. Let the dough rest for 15 minutes.
15.   After 15 minutes, turn the dough back onto the board. Use a bread knife to separate the dough into two equal sized pieces. Lightly toss the pieces in the flour on the board. Transfer the pieces to the prepared baking sheet.
16.   Shape each piece into a ball. Cover the loaves with the towel and let rise 1 hour.
17.   1/2 hour into the rising time, preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
18.   After 1 hour, remove the towel from the loaves. They should have doubled in size. If their sides are touching on the baking sheet, gently scoot them apart.
19.   Sprinkle the loaves with flour. Place the baking tray in the oven.
20.   Bake the loaves for 30 minutes. After 30 minutes, carefully test a loaf by tapping its top -- the bread should sound hollow. If it doesn't or if you detect resistance in the dough, bake for another 5 minutes.
21.   After 30 - 35 minutes, carefully remove the baking tray from the oven. Transfer the loaves to a wire rack until they are cool enough to handle.

Apple Granola

2012-01-10T08:00:00.003-05:00

January is the month of resolutions, and in our urban homes, the realities of daily living on two sides of the continent mean that our resolutions revolve around discipline. As befits the Los Angeles body cult, John has vowed to avail himself of healthy California cooking, but we have both committed to get back to an exercise regimen. While I jog on mornings warm enough to through the chilly hillocks of Astoria Park, John will take his exercise on the sunnier slopes of Runyon Canyon, braving the appraising gaze of its regulars to do so. We both committed to starting the day with a good breakfast. This is a serious obligation for me, as I’m used to torpedoing directly from bed to shower while taking only the briefest stop to fill my coffee cup before heading out the door.

I have never been much of a breakfast person, but then anyone who knows me knows that I’m not much of a morning person. This is somewhat out of character for the product of Oklahoma farmsteaders. By the time I came along, my grandmother had long since left the farmstead for a home “in town,” but she never lost that homesteader’s discipline. To my grandmother, sleeping late meant six a.m., and was a character flaw. I’ve no idea what time she actually rose – I wouldn’t swear she even slept, though she must have – but her favorite time of day was the earliest morning hours. The only times I ever remember her being short tempered with me were in response to how slow I was of a morning. Having ascertained that I was susceptible to such stories, sometimes she told me of mornings on the farmstead with the intention, usually thwarted, of jump-starting my own battery.

I came away with an imagined sound collage that began with the blips of the cream Bakelite Philco breaking through dawn stillness as the tubes warmed up, scanning the airwaves for the right frequency. The feed and grain report began at 4 am, and along with the all-important weather forecast, the disc jockey (in those days, often known as an “announcer”) shared news great and small. People sometimes wonder – perhaps even worse, often don’t think about – how communities stayed connected in the days before personal communications, and this was one of the ways. Between community events from church to town square, important news from births to deaths, from local damage to damage avoided, from home town folk returning from travels or missing from war, was shared by the local disc jockey. During those broadcasts, every home was linked just as surely as we are today via these fundamental social networks.

Deejay patter led to every style of broadcast chatter from anchor person happy talk to blogs. The deejay’s role in the community was pivotal. Radio provided linkage across the distances of time and space. But entertainment itself was no small contribution. Whether your homestead was in town or at the edges of the county, hard work was serious, expected, and ongoing. How it must have brightened those kitchens and parlors to hear a spin of a favorite record. Everyone loved The Dustbowl Troubadour but in that time and place, family groups would travel from church to radio station to sing sacred music. If they were lucky, the broadcast would reach the ears of someone who could press a recording, and that begat its own series of journeys. In our homestead, I knew all was right in the world when I heard my grandmother in the early morning kitchen, singing along with her favorite hymns.

In that earlier time and place, men- and womenfolk were frequently warehoused separately. By the time the menfolk clomped in, having fed the morning’s ration of oats and hay to the livestock before having washed themselves to presentability, the womenfolk had long been to work over breakfast. The kitchen dispensed platters of crispy bacon or fragrant hand-cranked sausage from the smokehouse, stacks of wheatcakes barely kissed with rationed pats of butter, downy piles of scrambled eggs from the morning’s lay, skillet-crisp coins of potatoes fried in bacon fat, and biscuits, always biscuits, passed with jam from last summer’s canning.

By the time I came along, those times and many of the people from them had passed into the same ethers as those phantom radio broadcasts. I suspect that my grandmother took it as a personal affront that she was never able to turn me into a morning person, but I responded to all of her other lessons, so I also know she forgave me. But that doesn’t mean she stopped trying. She repeatedly tried the time-honored tactic of reward, plying me with offers of pancakes or waffles or eggs and bacon before resorting to threats of oatmeal. But I wasn’t a morning person and I’m still not, and the only time I really like breakfast is for dinner.

But we both discovered that there was one thing I always found room for, even during the most ungodly mornings: a bowl of granola. I’m not sure how it happened that my grandmother knew how to make granola, but she did. I still remember it emerging from the oven in fragrant clumps on a baking sheet as shiny as a surgeon's tray from years of scrubbing after service. To this day I do not feel my pantry is adequately stocked without a large container of granola on the shelves. It surprises me how few people make granola, and at Urban Home Blog we mean to start the new year right by correcting that.

Yes, you can get good granola at the store. But farmers, who trace their history not just to those dawn kitchens of days past but the dawn of agriculture itself, are the reason we have cultivated cereal grains, and the cooks in those kitchens are the reason we eat cereal grains for breakfast. Those cooks were feeding workers who would benefit from the sustained energy of the slowly digested proteins that come from whole grains, and they were kind enough to find ways to make the cereal crunchy, sweet and fulfilling. Granola is about taking care of yourself from the inside out, so why not honor yourself and your morning with a bowlful you built yourself. Granola won’t make you a morning person if you’re not, but it has a long, honorable history of starting mornings aright.

APPLE GRANOLA

Rolled oats are those that are processed slightly longer than groats so that they are easier to eat. They are widely available in grocery stores; just be sure the canister is so labeled. Do not use instant or steel-cut oats for this recipe. Dried fruit is available in bulk in many grocery and health food stores; here is a good online source for the diced dried fruit called for in this recipe. If you do not have hazel- or walnut oil, use sunflower or vegetable oil.

3 cups rolled oats
1 cup slivered almonds
1 cup crushed walnuts
1 cup diced dried apple
½ cup diced dried pear
¼ cup husked sunflower seeds
¾ cup tightly packed light brown sugar
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground allspice
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon table salt
¼ cup hazelnut or walnut oil
Non-stick cooking spray

1. Preheat oven to 275 degrees F.

2. Line two 11 x 17 rimmed baking sheets with a layer of aluminum foil, shiny side up. Spray the foil with non-stick cooking spray.

3. Measure the brown sugar into a small bowl. Use a fork to break up the sugar. Add the cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg and salt to the sugar; use the fork to mix together.

4. Measure the oats, almonds, walnuts and sunflower seeds into a large mixing bowl. Use your hands to lightly mix them together.

5. Sprinkle the cereal mixture with the spiced sugar mixture. Use your hands to mix them together.

6. Use one hand to continue hand-mixing the cereal and the spiced sugar while using the other hand to drizzle the mixture with the oil. As you work, the mixture should start to form clumps.

7. Divide the mixture in an even layer between the two baking pans. Some liquid should remain in the bottom of the bowl; that is okay.

8. Transfer the two baking sheets to the oven. Bake 30 minutes.

9. While the granola is baking, add the dried apples and pears to the mixing bowl. Use a silicon spatula to lightly toss the dried fruit with the liquid left in the bottom of the bowl.

10. After the mixture has baked 30 minutes, remove the pans from the oven. Use a heatproof spatula to move the granola around on the pans.

11. Return the pans to the oven and bake an additional 30 minutes. The granola is done when it is fragrant and toasty.

12. Once the granola is done, remove the pans from the oven. Transfer the warm granola to the bowl containing the spiced dried fruit mixture.

13. Use the silicon spatula to mix the warm granola and the spiced dried fruit mixture together. Cover the bowl loosely with a clean tea towel and set aside to cool.

14. Once the granola is cooled, transfer it to an airtight container.

2011: A Helluva Year

2012-01-05T00:00:00.010-05:00

Perhaps it is because I’m a January baby, but as I wrote in 2010, along with Halloween, New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday. Everyone is determined to have fun on New Year’s Eve, and I love that commonality of spirit. New Year’s Eve is humanity’s common party, and what kind of lifestyle writer would I be if I didn’t love a party? New Year’s has it all: food and drink, noise, fun, and most importantly, camaraderie. We are bound and determined to be sentimental and silly on New Year’s Eve, and how dear the quality of the human spirit that brings us in concert to that agreement. New Year’s Eve is the night of indulgences from nightclub grandeur to homestead stillness, but whether you’re a reveler downing champagne or a hospital worker raising a much needed cup of coffee, the music that plays at the stroke of midnight is an affirmation, and a shared one at that. Another year has passed, and another year is starting. And that is the joy as well as the weight of January. January is the month of beginnings but it is also the month of review. Whatever year just passed, it was the setting for highs and lows. Whatever the experiences, each warrants appraisal for reasons that range from learning to appreciation to closure. Collectively, they add up to something. They were a year in your life and in the lives you touch and are touched by.

I’m just gonna say (well, write) it: in our urban home, 2011 was a helluva year. Within a couple of weeks, I will celebrate a birthday that, in turn, will place me within shouting distance of a milestone one. That does give one pause, but I have to say that, as 2011 replays in the film of my life, that it really does seem as if a year has passed.

In a year of milestones, the most important one for me was marking one year out from being diagnosed with and cured of cancer. As I wrote last summer, cancer slams us with the fact of our own mortality, a theme that is an appropriate setting for the month of birthday and new year. I didn’t share it at the time (though I suspect that those close to me perceived it), but attending this anniversary was a period of sadness that, while never serious enough to be dangerous, necessitated my reconnecting with the brotherhood of survivors of this cancer. I’m normally resistant to the platitude of the curse that is a blessing, but I do believe that sometimes we can manage misfortune so that its effects are minimized or even neutralized, and sometimes we can even transform those effects for the better. That is the lesson I learned from the cancer survivors community, and the gift I try to repay in my own acts of daily living. I volunteer funds and effort to surivivor’s communities – two I especially support are Livestrong and Balls to Cancer. I will carry this commitment into 2012, perhaps even to participating in a group run to mark two years out.

Another milestone was the New York State legislature legalizing same sex marriage. I can still remember the live broadcast of the vote on the Friday evening of Pride Weekend. There were moments so tense that we forgot to breathe. When the legislation passed, Greenwich Village erupted into an impromptu celebration as dense and inarguable as the riots that inaugurated Pride in 1969 (speaking of birthdays, John was born during the Stonewall riots). It made for a helluva Pride weekend. Drag queens in bridesmaid dresses got into street fights with drag queens in bridal gowns during the march, and not a seat was available at any bar or restaurant below 14th Street. It was especially poignant for John and me both because, after over twenty years together and counting, we were able to finally ask each other to get married and answer yes, and because my dearest friend from childhood was visiting for Pride Week. In 2012, we expect to have our ceremony and reception. It will also give me the chance to write about a topic that as a lifestyle writer I’ve stayed away from until it applied equally to me: weddings.

No matter where we live, when we’ve been there a while, every street, every corner, every cobblestone becomes dense with memory. Sometimes we forget to look at our own environment. When we’re entertaining visitors, we see our home town through their eyes, as if seeing it anew. We spent many golden afternoons during New York City Pride Week sightseeing. An afternoon begun among the carny clamor of Chinatown concluded among the architectural accomplishments of the High Line. Over tapas and wine at a Basque restaurant in the East Village, I pointed out the wall paintings I had helped make as part of a herd of art students whom the owners wisely hired to work for food and drink ages ago. The week’s activities and news merged into celebration as our family of friends gathered at our favorite New York City steakhouse to recognize John’s and my engagement.

In many ways, summer was the apex of activity in our urban home. John and I indulged in an unfortunately rare treat for us: a Broadway show. This revival of Larry Kramer’s landmark play The Normal Heart was one of the best theatrical events I’ve ever experienced, and was both timely and touching as we saw it so soon after our own good news. That month we also undertook a massive redecoration project in our urban home. It meant sleeping on the living room floor for a couple of weeks but that was a small price to pay for a project in which not one but two rooms turned out well. It also helped me as a designer, as live-tweeting the project led to an outside decorating project; and as a writer, as the project supplied me with material for one of Urban Home Blog’s most popular columns of the year.

Summer reached another landmark as family from all over the country traveled to Pennsylvania to surprise my brother for his milestone birthday. I have to admit that, as a rule, I don’t exactly trust surprise parties, but my sister in law, working alongside her accomplished mother, executed a perfect event. It was held on a soft Saturday evening in their gorgeous home in the Pennsylvania hills. Inquisitive neighbors from foxes to frogs surveyed the proceedings from a distance while fireflies investigated up close. The food was amazing – especially award-winning hot wings from the local watering hole and the region’s signature sausage and peppers in red sauce. Flawless execution led to relaxed togetherness and these made this party one that was, as they say in Dutch country, “fertha.” And that togetherness came full circle this winter as we were able to spend a special December day together, sharing some of the pleasures of a New York City Christmas.

That arrived after an autumn that was equally as busy as summer had been. October was a high point at Urban Home Blog as readership spiked. How grateful I am to all of Urban Home’s readers (Urban Homies?). As readers, you have let me know that it was a good year for content at Urban Home. I got a lot of positive feedback by email and through other social media. In case you’re interested, here is 2011 by the numbers. The most popular column by clicks were March’s recipe for Iceberg Lettuce Salad with Blue Cheese Dressing and November's column about greens;, by mentions it was May’s write-up of wines to serve with steak, and by forwards it was September’s decorating column on switching the bedroom and the home office. By feedback, it was last July’s column on cancer, which I am especially touched by. I thank each and every one of you for each and every read.

In October I published two of my favorite columns of the year: an Urban Bar column about the Corpse Reviver, and a homekeeping column about mold and mildew. I was proud of both my cleverness for placing those subjects during the month of death and decay, and, I’ll admit, proud of the writing itself. The mold and mildew column required significant research, and I don’t mind admitting that for the entire period I was working on that column, I imagined myself a mycologist – also appropriate to October, as that would be a helluva Halloween costume!

Autumn also heralded our usual Thanksgiving celebration, to which we welcomed new friends as well as established. It was a lovely day touched with the gentle sadness which is as much a part of autumn as the quietude of falling leaves, for in early November I gathered with friends and colleagues from grad school as we celebrated the passage of our mentor Dr. Nancy Foell Swortzell. Along with her other accomplishments, Nancy was known as a standout hostess. I always remember Nancy’s leadership in this area of living that is also an area of scholarship as I write Urban Home. Nancy’s memorial was lovely, respectful and bit ribald, three qualities which reflect the spirit of this remarkable lady and that comprised the kind of party that she would have approved of wholeheartedly and vocally. Remembering Nancy was the order of the morning, but reconnecting with those days and, most importantly, the people from them was the result. I am confident that Nancy would be as proud of that aspect of her considerable legacy as any of the more formal laurels she earned.

Nancy and her husband Lowell believed strongly in the importance of travel to a well-rounded life. Unfortunately, for the past twenty years as John and I have worked hard and sometimes struggled, it has followed that travel has been sacrificed. Readers will remember that in spring of 2010, we took our first vacation in (embarrassed whisper) over fifteen years. In 2011, we honored our commitment to ourselves and took a second trip -- back to Los Angeles! This time, we intended to see a deeper level of City of Angels than on our first trip. As training for the realities of the travels that we had promised ourselves, we made base camp at a hotel. I wrote and published two columns in that hotel, and from it, we deployed in widening arcs throughout la-la land.

We went to Santa Monica on a crystalline winter day when the wind rolling off of the mighty Pacific was as chill as any gust from a noreaster. We clutched paper containers of coffee and marveled at surfers to whom the waves were more enticing than the frost in the air was discouraging. In Hollywood, we howled over an AOR cover band playing a set of seventies treacle at a retro bar, and treated ourselves to an evening of tinseltown glamour for Valentine’s Day. On two separate occasions we sat next to tv actors at dinner, but connecting with old friends – themselves transplants from the east – was much nicer. We spent a sleepy midweek afternoon with a dear friend on the Sunset Strip. We got lost in the stacks at Book Soup before watching the afternoon sun dissolve over wine glasses at the Sunset Trocadero.

As the week progressed, it became evident that we were bonding with this unique, seductive city. Yes, I buried the lead: we have become bicoastal. As family, friends and followers have surmised, the biggest event of the year was the official decision to set up a second urban home in Los Angeles. In a couple of weeks, we will return to Los Angeles to do just that.

I am excited and fretful in equal measure by this decision. As someone to whom New York City is endemic as a person, a writer and a homekeeper, I confess I am eager to learn about a new kind of urbanity by living it. I never intended to be bicoastal, but people often maintain double or even multiple households, and New York/Los Angeles is a popular dual citizenship. Every plane ride affirms it: whether the trip is westbound or east-, at least half of the passengers are traveling from one home to another just as matter-of-factly as Los Angeles residents travel to homes in wine country or New York City residents travel to them in the Hamptons. Some of us just do it between the two cities.

That is the essence of living that is the foundation of Urban Home Blog: the sacred details of daily living as those are experienced seasonally by locale. The same impulse that draws us indoors during the harsh beauty of a northeast winter sends us outside during a sunny southwestern one. How exciting to learn the new ways of a new place, from the realities of how driving alters the perceptions of someone who’s used to walking to the difference between a breakfast plate at a New England diner versus a L.A. coffee shop. I often state that if I write it, I live it. And in 2012, that is my new year’s resolution: to try this new way of urban living in our country’s two biggest metropolises, and to share those experiences as both practice and theory through the Urban Home Blog.

Christmas

2011-12-25T20:00:00.035-05:00

Earlier this month, I wrote about the transitional period of that first hollow weekend after Thanksgiving. Many of our neighbors have front porches and yards, and it seems they cannot wait to get out there to string lights and position plastic snowpeople. True to form, that very weekend as I walked to the business district, I saw plenty of husbands in undershirts wrestling with decorations as plenty of wives in housecoats directed the proceedings. Though it was unseasonably warm, by Sunday night Astoria had been turned into a winter wonderland.

Usually preceding this would have been an all but rabid run on the stores in that selfsame business district, as shoppers plunked down the first dollars from their Christmas clubs for new lights, fresh wreaths, collectible ornaments. Foot traffic in the stores did seem to be robust, but a friend who manages a store in the area confirmed something I thought I’d noticed but, frankly, didn’t dare to believe: shoppers were engaging the holiday season with less rush and less urgency. For his small business and in direct opposition to how the big box stores do it, he chose to delay setting out the holiday gifts and décor until Black Friday. In fact, he made a day of it, with plates of cookies for the taking and a kettle of hot cider for the pouring. It became a holiday open house, as the ringing of the shop bell counterpointed the lively buzz of neighborly chat and we were reminded, and talking about, that this was how Christmas used to be.

Christmas is a challenging holiday for lifestyle writers. On the one hand, it is a bonanza as readers access the sphere of information primed and ready to cook (especially baking), craft and decorate. On the other hand, it requires a deftness of execution, both because whatever content you’re writing, you have to be at the tree-top of your game for this holiday above all others, and because the very same readers who are primed and ready for holiday activity are frequently also overextended and anxious from so much of it. And that doesn’t even take into account the minefield of political correctness that the winter holidays represent, as we try to navigate the sensitivities around religious holidays versus secular versus none at all.

No matter what holidays we observe in our own lives, if, as lifestyle writers, we write from any viewpoint other than stopping to appreciate holidays as time made sacrosanct through observance, then I believe we are doing our readers a disservice. I don’t believe that we should be writing content that encourages a frenzy of activity over the simple, profound acts of slowing down, appreciation, and reverence.

I don’t know how truthfully I can state that I’ve learned this lesson, but I’ve learned some of it, and I learned that the hard way. A scan of the homekeeper’s library detects an entire shelf devoted to the oeuvre of the lifestyle press as it relates to the winter holidays. True, this is a professional library, but as someone who can’t stand to have anything around that isn’t pulling its weight, I make it a practice to only hang on to materials that I use. That means that every one of these books, magazines, pamphlets and printouts has to have at least one recipe, project, or other content that I have used or do use (intend to use doesn't qualify).

For twenty years and counting, I have been right there in the thick of it. I have done it all. I have nurtured a live tree from figuring out how to saw and prune it so that it will fit into the space to figuring out a punishing watering schedule that kept the poor thing from becoming an incinerant. I have made my own cards. I have stamped my own wrapping paper. I have invested time, funds and effort in a bow maker. I have made stollen and fruitcake and gingerbread and baklava and snow cream and countless trays of cookies, cookies, cookies. I have made ornaments from everything from cinnamon paste and pastry glitter to plastic lids and tinsel. I have undertaken marathon shopping expeditions that would have felled an ox, if oxen traipsed from one end of Manhattan island to the other in search of obscure videotapes and smoking jackets in demanding sizes. I put together a pretty good Christmas parcel if I do say so myself, filled with good coffee and homemade jam (see, I was thinking ahead last summer) and homemade cookies and maybe even a photograph of a special event, framed with a hand-cut matte.

I don’t mean to disparage any of these activities, and I certainly write this with the understanding that any and all of them have made or will make their way into my own content. Maybe it’s a result of significant life changes just passed or imminent – for all I know, it’s just about aging – but this year, we found ourselves taking a different approach to celebrating the holidays. We looked at them not as a to-do list but as a to-enjoy one.

We didn’t pick up the tree from the storage unit until the first weekend in December. And it didn’t get assembled until a week after that. Ornaments and other holiday decorations came out of their boxes at a leisurely rate during quiet evenings and long weekends. We cued up Christmas carols and hokey movies and ate our weight in sparkly garish Christmas cookies and you know what? As we took our time, all of those decorations for tree and household did what they were supposed to do. As each was unpacked, unwrapped and remembered, it evoked memories. By not zooming to get things done, we rediscovered what was supposed to be the point of what we were doing: celebrating another year together as we marked how many holiday seasons had led up to that one, and how many more we hope are left to come.

And you know what else? There was still time to fit everything in. I cannot think of one holiday tradition that we skipped or gave short shrift. We cooked and ate and drank and wrapped presents and unwrapped them and spent time with our families and sent cards and even had a date night where we shopped and ate at a favorite restaurant and savored the clear, still air of a winter city night. This is how it used to be. Before big retail declared the existence of “black Friday,” the holidays didn’t really begin until the week before Christmas. If you question, check out the old movies that are showing on a continuous loop right now. The holiday season seeped in gradually. They weren’t decorating the tree on the first free day after Thanksgiving, they did it on Christmas Eve.

In much earlier times, before we were getting getting ready for Christmas we were getting ready for winter. In fact, this is fundamental to how the two became intertwined. The ancient winter festivals of saturnalia and natalis solis invicti ("birth of the invincible sun") recognized as periods of rest and rebirth, as befit commemorations that were timed to the winter solstice. On the solstice, the planet is at it farthest apex during its journey around the sun, and so the hours of daylight are the fewest of the calendar year while the hours of darkness are at their strength. But the solstice is not just the shortest day and the darkest night of the year. As these, it is also the gateway to its own compliment: the summer solstice, which brings with it the light of endless summer. Each solstice is both the fullness of its own self and the landing that leads to the first steps in the journey to its own compliment. Winter's icy glare allows for crystal clarity of vision, summer's golden glow allows for fullness of realization. The journey is backwards, forwards, and now.

It is six pm on Christmas day as I write this. John is settled into his earphones with one of the CD’s Santa brought him (The Magnetic Fields, if you’re wondering). The ham is on the slicing board and the biscuits are in the oven. The tree twinkles with lights in clear and gold, and candlelight fills our urban home with its soft, romantic glow. In our newly redone home office, the windows on the famous row of haunted houses are lit within, as vintage mercury glass ornaments in tones of gold, honey and copper fill bowls of amber art glass. There is beauty. There is quietude. There is gratitude. There is peace. And in those, there is Christmas.

Fruitcake Biscotti

2011-12-20T12:00:00.007-05:00

photo: Eric Diesel

I wasn't quite prepared for the response I got from readers to my reference in the previous column to fruitcake bars. As we all have, I've heard so much snide commentary about fruitcake that I assume that virtually no one besides me likes it. I'm used to it; I'm frequently the only person in the room who likes truly old-fashioned treats -- mincemeat and divinity are another two such. So when I wrote that I was planning to make fruitcake bars as part of my holiday baking, I expected most of whatever response there was to come down on that part of the continuum that goes from the politely bewildered ("Whatever for?") to the outright confrontational ("Whatsamatta you? You crazy?").
What I didn't expect was the level of interest that surfaced from readers. One won me over by sharing the memory of his grandmother's fruitcake bars, the thought of which as a child he concentrated on during the interminable car trip across Michigan. Whatever the memories -- which I am always so honored to have shared with me -- they all told the same basic truths: people associate the winter holidays with baking and with specific treats issued during childhood; and no matter how controversial it is as a cake, turn fruitcake into a cookie and people will want to eat it. Which, arguably, tells an even greater truth -- one that, frankly, many of us in the food and lifestyle biz have either long suspected or figured out -- from chai tea to breakfast cereal to marshmallows, turn anything into a cookie and people will want to eat it.

I can't publish the recipe for fruitcake bars because it's proprietary. But I remembered that long ago, I used to make another fruitcake cookie during the holidays: fruitcake biscotti. I don't remember how I fell out of the habit, but I excavated the recipe and gave it a try during the holiday baking weekend that just passed. The results were as good as I remember, so I decided to print my original recipe for fruitcake biscotti below.

It is not inappropriate to bake biscotti a) at all or b) during the winter holidays. We think of biscotti as either what we buy in the plastic package at the grocery store, located next to the shrink-wrapped pfeffernusse, or as what inhabits the jars marching along the top of the glass case at the coffee house. Thain't a thing wrong with either of those, but biscotti are a worthwhile skill for the home baker to add to their repertoire. These Italian cookies are named for the process of baking twice: once for the initial dough from which the slices are cut, and a second time for the slices themselves. It is this technique that results in the texture, airy but substantial at once, that is the signature of good biscotti and the reason you have the cashier snag you a couple while the barista is pulling your espresso.

Almonds, hazelnuts, chocolate or poppy seeds are the traditional flavors for biscotti, but the candied fruit and peel that inhabit the dense flesh of fruitcake find a lovely footing in the lighter substance of biscotti. The colorful flecks of glacé are offset by crunchy walnuts and a dip of brandied icing that all reference the deep, signature flavors of fruitcake. Bring these biscotti to the cookie exchange or office party or set them out as you trim the tree. They harmonize with everything from party punch to egg nog to, of course, hot coffee. And if they convince you to try a bite of the actual fruitcake that I guarantee you is lurking, unappreciated, somewhere in your holiday home, then my work here is done.

FRUITCAKE BISCOTTI

As they are rich, these cookies are formed more daintily than biscotti typically are. Most grocery stores stock glacé during holiday baking season; look for it either in the baking aisle or with the canned and dried fruit. If you don’t have a rimmed baking sheet or serrated knife, here is a good source for them.

For the biscotti
1 stick unsalted butter
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
2-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon table salt
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
2/3 cup chopped walnuts
1-1/4 cup glacé
1 teaspoon almond extract
1 teaspoon brandy
Butter for the baking sheet

For the icing
1 cup confectioner's sugar
1 - 2 teaspoons brandy

1. Heat the oven to 350 degrees F.
2. Place the butter into a large mixing bowl. Lightly cover the butter with a piece of parchment paper. Set aside to soften.
3. Measure the glacé into a colander. Sprinkle the glacé with 1 teaspoon brandy; shake to coat. Place the colander in the sink to drain while you make the dough.
4. Cut a length of parchment paper to fit inside a rimmed 9 x 13 baking sheet. Place the parchment paper onto the baking sheet. Butter the paper.
5. Measure the flour, baking powder, salt and nutmeg into a bowl. Stir the dry ingredients together.
6. Once the butter is soft enough to be workable, measure the sugar into the bowl containing the butter. Use an electric mixer to incorporate the butter and sugar until the mixture is thick and pale, approximately 2 minutes.
7. Add the eggs and the almond extract to the butter-sugar mixture. Use the mixer to incorporate all of the ingredients until the mixture is thick and pale, approximately 2 minutes.
8. Hold the bowl containing the dry ingredients over the bowl containing the butter-sugar-egg mixture. Use one hand to hold the mixer and the other hand to shake the flour into the butter-sugar-egg mixture, incorporating the flour into the dough just until the dough holds together and you have used all of the flour.
9. Shake the glacé over the sink to rid it of collected liquid if any. Add the glacé and the walnuts to the bowl containing the dough.
10. Use a silicon spatula or your hands to incorporate the nuts and glacé into the dough.
11. Use your hands to divide the dough in half. Transfer one half of the dough to the prepared baking sheet. Form the dough into a rectangle approximately 1 inch high by 1-1/2 inches wide down one long side of the baking sheet. Repeat with the remaining half of the dough on the other side of the baking sheet. Leave a space of 1 inch on all sides of each log of dough.
12. Place the pan into the oven and bake the dough until it is light brown and slightly cracked along the tops, approximately 30 minutes.
13. While the dough is baking, measure the confectioner's sugar into a bowl. Drizzle the brandy into the sugar, using a wire whip to incorporate the ingredients together until it forms a thick, fragrant icing. Set the icing aside while the dough bakes.
14. Once the biscotti rectangles are light brown and slightly cracked along the tops, remove the pan from the oven. Allow the biscotti rectangles to cool for 5 minutes, then carefully transfer each rectangle to the cutting board. Allow the biscotti to cool for 5 more minutes on the cutting board.
15. Once the biscotti rectangles have cooled, use a serrated knife to carefully cut across the biscotti logs to form slices 1/4 - 1/2 inch thick. Carefully transfer the cut biscotti back to the prepared baking sheet, arranging them upright in rows. It is okay if the sides or tops of the cut biscotti touch as long as there is some room for air to circulate.
16. Return the pan to the oven and heat the biscotti for 5 more minutes.
17. Remove the pan from the oven and allow the biscotti to cool for 10 minutes.
18. Once the biscotti have cooled, dip the top of each biscotti in the icing.
19. Carefully place iced biscotti into an airtight container, laying biscotti on their sides separated by pieces of parchment. Biscotti will keep for up to 4 days.

Toffee Bars

2011-12-15T12:00:00.041-05:00

It's time for the annual baking of the cookies. Whether our winter holiday is Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, a birthday, an anniversary or simply a succession of parties from tree trimmings with friends to office to-dos, diets have a way of falling by the wayside for the next couple of weeks. At work, not a day goes by without boxes of candy from holiday gift baskets being set out for everyone to swear off of followed by sneaking back for a sample. Bake sales enliven vestibules everywhere from the high school to the public library, each featuring a dozen local specialties that no one, least of all the sales staff, can resist. Even the local coffeehouse gets in on the act by pumping up the action in the glass case, knowing full well that when we stop in for a caffeine shot we will give ourselves permission to indulge in a sugar booster as well.

Something about this time of year inspires -- maybe a better word is impels -- even those with a non-domestic orientation to spend some time in the kitchen with the mixing bowls and cookie sheets. House specialties are delivered from ovens: drop cookies snappy with ginger or melty with chocolate chips, rolled cookies springy with egg white or sticky with jam, layered cookies hefty with coconut custard or just plain tipsy with Amaretto. This year, I am planning to bake lemon wafers, atingle with candied lemon peel and dusted with citron-tinted sanding sugar; fruitcake bars that allow lovers of old fashioned treats like myself a controversial bite without having to manage the substantial puck that is the butt of so many unfair jokes this time of year; even a couple of batches of Urban Home's blue ribbon peanut butter cookies.

No cookie is friendlier to the holiday baker than the bar cookie. Bar cookies allow for efficient baking, which can be a godsend during times as busy as the holidays get. I write a lot about bar cookies. Back in my Slashfood days, I shared my recipe for white chocolate brownies. For Urban Home's master recipe for bar cookies, click on the recipe for apricot bars. If you wish, substitute the apricot filling for the fruit filling of your choice: orange, cranberry and mincemeat are all appropriate for this time of year. May I also suggest chewy toffee bars? The recipe is below for these bar cookies, in which a decadent four-way of chocolate, toffee, butterscotch and nuts comingles atop a shortbread mattress. Not only are these cookies delicious, they are easy and economical to make from simple supermarket ingredients.

Whatever the house favorite, pull out all the stops. Make as many batches and varieties as you have time and inclination for. There really is no better companion for busy December days than a plate of homemade cookies. They will accompany the hot coffee and the chatter as you wrap presents, address cards or trim the tree with family, friends and neighbors. They will make you the most popular person of the day at work. They will sit with you as you bask in the black and white orbit of Edmund Gwenn or the wassailing quaver of Bing Crosby. And calories be damned -- we all know we're going to go on diets in January anyway.

TOFFEE BARS

A bar cookie pan is a good investment for your urban kitchen, even if you only use it a couple of times a year. Haeger has a good one; it is easy to care for and inexpensive enough that you could get two, so that the second batch is in process while the first is in the oven.

For the cookie
2 sticks unsalted butter
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon table salt
Non-stick cooking spray

For the topping
3/4 cup milk chocolate chips
1/2 cup toffee chips
1/2 cup butterscotch chips
3/4 cup chopped hazelnuts, almonds or pistachios

1. Place the butter in a large mixing bowl to soften. Measure the sugars, cinnamon and salt into the bowl containing the butter.
2. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
3. Line a bar cookie pan or 13-inch rimmed baking sheet with aluminum foil, shiny side up. Spray the foil with non-stick cooking spray.
4. Once the butter is soft enough to be workable, use a handheld mixer on medium high to thoroughly incorporate the butter and dry ingredients together.
5. Hold an egg separator over a cup and break the egg over the separator, catching the yolk in the separator and letting the white fall into the cup. Cover the white and refrigerate for another use.
6. Add the egg yolk to the butter-sugar mixture in the bowl. Measure the vanilla into the bowl.
7. Use the mixer to incorporate all of the cookie ingredients just until a stiff, almost dry dough forms.
8. Use a silicon scraper to transfer the cookie dough to the prepared baking pan. Moisten your hands and pat the dough in an even layer across the baking pan.
9. Transfer the baking pan to the oven. Bake just until set and light golden brown, approximately 10 minutes.
10. While the cookie is baking, measure the chocolate, toffee and butterscotch chips into a bowl. Measure the nuts into the bowl. Mix the topping ingredients together.
11. After 10 minutes, remove the cookie from the oven and place it on the stovetop.
12. Gently distribute the topping mixture across the top of the cookie. It is okay if some of the chips start melting as you work.
13. Once you have distributed the topping across the top of the cookie, place the pan back in the oven.
14. Bake bars until topping just until topping is melted, approximately 10 minutes.
15. Remove the bar cookie from the oven and place on a wire rack or double layer of kitchen towels to cool, approximately 20 minutes.
16. Once cooled, use a sharp knife to cut the cookie into squares. Cut in a straight line down the center of the long side of the cookie, then cut each long half in half in a straight line. Cut across the quarters on the short side to form one- or two-inch squares.
17. Transfer the toffee squares to a plate and serve. If tightly wrapped, toffee bars will keep up to a week, but they won't last that long.

Homekeeper's Library: Gift Books for Homekeepers

2011-12-10T10:00:00.005-05:00

photo: Eric Diesel

The holiday lanes are open in the business district. Tree vendors are camped on street corners and tinselly block-wide decorations hang over the boulevards. Despite the relentless insistence of large retailers that we behave otherwise, we stave off holiday shopping until December. This holiday weekend finds us in our shopping district in Astoria. Like all downtowns, this is an excellent area for patronizing small businesses. It is true all year long, but during the holiday shopping season, there is no better present for these foundations of the economy than to spend a few gift-giving dollars on their goods and services.

We need to walk off the calories from breakfast at our favorite bagel place, and what a pleasure a Saturday walk downtown is during this time of year. As expected, the card store is brimming with the good cheer of boxed cards and collectible ornaments, as staff circulate among the shoppers to perform the old-fashioned (and smart) service of holding their selections at the register. Fragrant wreaths in pine and juniper are crowned with velvet bows and stacked in front of the florist. Inside, everything from bayberry centerpieces to sprays of smoocher’s mistletoe reflects the season’s rich palate of evergreen and white. The bakeries are dispensing treats, each according to the owners’ own customs: crumbly almond cookies dusted with powdery sugar, fruit-studded bread from panettone to stollen, shortbread stars dipped in chocolate and cinnamon.

Home stores do a brisk business during the winter holidays, for aside from such niceties as holiday decorations they sell both small, pretty gifts and the necessities for welcoming guests into the home. One favorite spot offers stacks of joyously tacky guest towels and clusters of gleaming brass candlesticks. Another offers reindeer hand-hewn from Adirondacks lumber and a cacophony of twinkly lights in every color from sedate clear to the-hell-with-it rainbow. The antiques store has gladdened its windows with old-timey mercury glass and vintage holiday tableware. A particular favorite, Inside Astoria, numbers among its carefully curated selection of home gifts and goods a charming selection of imported, hand-painted holiday ornaments.

photo: Eric Diesel

Many of these places also sell gift books, and if you are lucky enough to live in an area with an independent bookstore, patronize it. There is no more thoughtful gift than a book, and most bookstores can order anything they don’t happen to have in stock. Whether your holiday is Hannukah, Christmas, a birthday or just because, a book is a joy to open not just as a gift but ever afterwards. Books will warm the cold nights of winter, be riffled by the first breezes of spring, accompany us to summer beaches, and be ready for back to school come autumn. Here is a list of gift books to inspire you both as a gift giver and a homekeeper – and if they inspire you to drop any hints to the holiday shoppers in your life, that’s okay too!

Cooking. For a year’s worth of stick-to-the-ribs Sunday suppers, consider pairing Betty Rosbottom’s Sunday Roasts with Marlena Spieler’s Yummy Potatoes. These small, simple cookbooks are beautifully executed with good, sumptuous recipes and photography to match. Foodies have been drooling for years for Todd English to release a new cookbook. His Cooking in Everyday English both exemplifies this chef’s slightly offbeat but inarguable kitchen philosophy and gives home cooks a sporting chance to achieve it. English has generously provided the recipes for some of his best dishes, including many that diners enjoy at Olives, Figs and Beso. The Murray’s Cheese Handbook is slim, portable, easy to use and authoritative, and would make an especially fine gift if paired with a small wedge of one of the recommendations therein. Similarly, you could pair Janet Fletcher’s beautiful and useful Cheese and Wine and The Cheese Course together, or with a cheese board or knives from your favorite local shop.

Entertaining. As one would expect, Martha’s Entertaining sets the standard for coffee table books about the aesthetic of living. This gorgeous, lavish volume of soirees from no less an icon of style than Martha Stewart would be a masterpiece simply for its design, but it is also useful. That marriage between practicality and artistry is fundamental to Stewart's impact, and with this book, she and her team settle any quibbles about the two once and for all. Let us hope that a decorating volume is in the works. Samantha Nestor's Living with Wine could just as easily be catalogued with the decorating books below, but this showstopper will cause any home entertainer who doesn't already have them to start sketching out their plans for a wine cellar and the tastings they'll host once it's completed. Also beautifully executed is Brad Thomas Parsons' Bitters, and almost no volume is more timely to the current old-world aesthetic swirling around cocktail culture. Present this handsome book alone or with a bottle of bitters you mixed from one of the recipes it includes -- in our urban home, the favorites are apple, orange and cedar.

Interiors. Devotees of mid-century modern will get a kick out of the 1961 edition of the Better Homes and Gardens Decorating Book, which might as well be called the Betty Draper Decorating Manual. An edition of this masterpiece original right down to the mylar flyleaves is spotlit on the shelves in my newly redecorated home office along with its cousin the Better Homes and Gardens Sewing Book. You can frequently find vintage style manuals in various editions at used bookstores and their online counterparts. The true Draper of style as substance is Dorothy Draper, to whom it is not an exaggeration to refer as not just one of the founders of contemporary home design but one of its tastefully dramatic pillars. Her Decorating is Fun! is a treatise on design, a guidebook of information and insight, and a statement as a design object itself. Another pillar of dramatic design, William Haines, left fame as a silent era movie actor to achieve it as a movie colony interior designer under the auspices of none other than Joan Crawford. Class Act: William Haines Legendary Hollywood Decorator is a suitably lush tribute to this master of Hollywood Regency design. If perfectly wrought tinseltown vulgarity isn’t your style, perhaps the aesthetic, simultaneously rough-hewn and refined, of Pottery Barn Home is. And if not that, then the practical inspiration of The House Beautiful Home Book is inarguable.

Craft and Holiday. Holiday books are nice gifts for the holidays, assuming that you’re giving them to someone who celebrates. It’s hard to imagine that anyone wouldn’t find something fun and useful in Martha Stewart's Handmade Holiday Crafts, which takes us, our scissors, our glue sticks and our glitter tubes through a year of projects, instructions and inspiration. Both nostalgia and its cousin camp achieve sentimental traction and receive due respect in Susan Waggoner's Christmas Memories and David Seidman's Holiday Lights. Finally, for the hardcore nostalgist on your list, consider Jacqueline de Montravel's The Vintage Table and Ellyn Anne Geisel's The Kitchen Linens Book. Either or both of these darling volumes would be perfect for anyone who loves setting a pretty vintage table or puttering around an old-fashioned linen closet, or immersing themselves in the memories that inspire the settings and that become the legacy of holiday celebrations.

Sunday Supper: Glazed Ham

2011-12-05T17:00:00.133-05:00

It is the weekend after Thanksgiving as I write this, and not alone among homekeepers this weekend, I have had to crawl out from under a mantle of sluggishness after the frenzy of autumn activities whose first peak was Halloween and that climaxed on Thanksgiving. We had a great holiday, full of gratitude and sharing with family of friends both established and new. Everyone expressed that the turkey and the greens were among the best ever, and while appreciating that compliment I thought the same of the appetizers, wine and dessert that guests so thoughtfully brought for sharing. But what many guests both attending in person and viewing the photos online seemed most to like were the menus I designed and printed for the Thanksgiving place setting!

Thereafter began a Thanksgiving weekend of activity that is atypical in our urban home. As I wrote when addressing the topic of Thanksgiving leftovers, John and I don't typically engage in much activity during the weekend after Thanksgiving, which so many consider to be the first weekend of Christmas. That Friday we joined our dear friends Kat and Douglas in Manhattan for a film followed by dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. It was a quintessential New York evening, complete with cab rides and cocktails, and was a lovely coda to the time we'd spent together just the day before. On Saturday we finished cleanup while by request I made a simple supper of Mexican food. On Sunday, I ventured no further than a quick walk to the business district.

Holiday lights are going up in Astoria, as sons in undershirts scramble upon rooftops while fathers in sweatshirts futz with electrical cords on porches. I have to admit I find this transitory period stimulating and disorienting in equal measure. Yes, it's nice to see the excitement in people's eyes, and already that much-needed spirit of politesse has surfaced. But it's unseasonably warm in the northeast, and as a child of sunny holidays and despite a planned second citizenship in Los Angeles, I am not ready to trade in snowscapes for sunshine during the winter holidays. Part of the reason I moved to the northeast is snow, which was rare where I grew up and which, then as now, I associate with the winter holidays. I still have a stack of Archie comic books going back to my elementary school days, and in every holiday issue, the panels are filled with snowflakes and sweaters. I pored over these images of tree stands and malt shops during a Riverdale holiday, and treasured them enough to keep them. I can’t say that we get snow every Christmas in New York, but we do so often enough, and somehow Christmas doesn’t seem imminent to me unless it’s snowing, or at least cold enough that it could.

Snow is not the only difference between a southwestern Christmas and a northeastern one. Last summer (last summer!) I wrote about our beloved Nana, a lifelong child of the Pennsylvania mountains. In that column, I mentioned her holiday ham, which was served cold with a mustard sauce. To me, Nana’s Christmas ham was a revelation, as slick and salty as a Mystic schooner, as creamy and cool as a Vermont dairy. Nana’s ham was served with your choice of rye or potato bread, dill pickles and her famous “farhn’ice.” Revelers just in from a romp in a snowbank drank hot chocolate or coffee spiked with “the hard stuff” she kept sequestered in a cupboard. There were platters of sparkly sugar cookies and slices of stollen studded with dried fruit and dusted with powdered sugar. It was in the northeast that I first learned about the Advent calendar, and how to make gingerbread.

I was used to the holidays of desert and prairie. I was a willing accomplice as my grandmother labored over mincemeat for three autumn days once the orchard fruit came in. Mincemeat pies appeared on the Christmas sideboard, along with pies and cobblers of every kind as guests shuttled in and out bearing their finest efforts for sharing during a holiday open-door policy that also included making paper chains from leftover holiday gift wrap and pomanders from oranges and cloves. On Christmas day we had hot biscuits and green beans that had simmered all day in the pressure cooker. The ham was warm from sweating overnight in a low oven and sweaty from a sticky blanket of glaze. Every household had a heritage recipe for ham glaze. These contained everything from Coca Cola and cherry preserves to maple syrup and bourbon. My grandmother’s – at least my best approximation of it – is below.

If you serve ham during the holidays, now is the time to order it. The best ham will come from your local butcher, but good hams are available in grocery stores both brick-and-mortar and online. In the store, I like Cook’s; online, try The Swiss Colony. Wherever you get your ham, you should know that there are two primary categories of it: country and city. A country ham is rubbed with a dry cure and dried in a smokehouse. Butchers and gourmet shops have easiest access to country hams, and they are priced accordingly. A city ham is brined before being smoked and cooked. City hams must be marked “ham,” “ham in natural juices,” “ham in water,” or “ham in water product.” If choosing a city ham, prefer the first, accept the second and avoid the last two. All hams are derived from the tail end of the pig: either shank for the bottom cut or butt for the top cut. Whether your ham is from the city or country, get one still on the bone and choose it for its shape and weight (therefore carvability and yield). Whether the ham is shank or butt or spiral-sliced or not is a matter of personal preference.

GLAZED HAM

Do not skip the pre-soaking step; whether your ham is country or city, it will be necessary both to warm and clean the ham before cooking it.

For the ham
1 bone-in ham, approximately 10 pounds
1 large baking bag
Hot water

For the glaze
1 8-ounce jar orange marmalade
3/4 cup Grade A amber maple syrup
2 tablespoons American whiskey, such as Jack Daniels
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon ground red pepper

Country ham: 12 – 24 hours before cooking
If using a country ham, unwrap the ham and soak it according to the accompanying directions for process and duration.

City ham: 4 hours before cooking
1. Unwrap the ham and remove and discard plastic pieces if any, such as doneness testers or the plastic disks that sometimes cover the bone. If the ham is accompanied by a packet of glaze, place the packet in the freezer for another use.
2. Place a bowl or stock pot large enough to hold the ham in the sink. Unfold and open a baking bag. Place the bag with the opening upwards in the bowl/pot.
3. Carefully place the ham inside the bag. Pull the bag taut along the ham and use the accompanying twist-ties to tie the bag tightly across the top. The bag should form a nice tight fit around the ham. Use kitchen scissors to cut away excess plastic from the bag if any.
4. Use the kitchen scissors to cut small slits midway up the bag at the 12, 3, 6 and 9 o’clock marks around the circumference of the ham.
5. Carefully fill the bowl/pot to the rim with hot water. It is okay that the water will leach into the bag.
6. After two hours, carefully empty the bowl/pot of water by tipping it sideways into the sink. Refill the bowl/pot with hot water.
7. After two hours, carefully empty the bowl/pot of water by tipping it sideways into the sink. Cut the baking bag away from the ham and discard the bag.

Approximately 2 hours before serving
1. Preheat the oven to 300 degrees.
2. Settle the ham with its wide, flat side down on a rack in a roasting pan big enough to hold it. Cover the roasting pan with its ovenproof lid or a double layer of aluminum foil, shiny side down. Place the pan containing the ham in the oven.
3. While the ham cooks, measure the glaze ingredients into a small saucepan. Place the saucepan on the stovetop and turn the burner to low.
4. Cook the glaze on low until it reduces in volume and the spices release their fragrance, approximately 10 minutes.
5. Once glaze is reduced and ham has been in the oven for 1/2 hour, loosen the covering on the pan. Use a silicon brush to brush the ham with glaze, loosely covering the pan after brushing the ham with the glaze.
6. Repeat step 5 above every 15 minutes until ham is cooked through and nicely glazed. Total cooking time will vary based on oven heat and the weight of the ham, but is typically 1-1/2 hours.
7. After 1-1/2 hours, use an instant-read thermometer to test the ham for doneness by inserting the thermometer into a deep portion of the ham without touching the bone. The thermometer should register 140 degrees F; if it doesn't, continue baking the ham until it does.
8. Once the thermometer registers 140 degrees, remove the pan from the oven and place it on the stovetop. Use lifters to transfer the glazed ham to a cutting board; loosely tent the ham with foil to rest while you prepare the sauce.
9. Measure remaining glaze if any into the juices that have collected in the bottom of the roasting pan. Turn the burner to low. Heat the roasting pan on the stovetop until they are slightly thickened and very fragrant, approximately 5 minutes.
10. Carefully decant the reduced glaze into a serving bowl. Serve with the sliced ham.

Weeknight Dinner: Turkey Noodle Soup

2011-11-25T10:00:00.006-05:00

So it’s over. Thanksgiving dinner has been prepared and served and consumed and the leftovers have been distributed. The linens have been pre-treated and bundled into the hamper. With any luck, you’ve even made some headway on the dishes. If you had the energy, you settled in front of the tv last night with the last of the pumpkin pie and the season's first viewing of Miracle on 34th Street. About the last thing you want to think about today is dinner.

Maybe you don’t have to. For many, the day after Thanksgiving is one of activity from transportation hub to shopping district. Both the airport and the mall are destinations that, once your labors there are concluded, beg for a stop on the way home at a favorite dining spot. For us, this is the local diner. There is something centering about sliding into a booth and unfolding the gatelike menu in a place where they’ve fed you countless times before. On this day where rest and readjustment are already butting heads with activity and expectation, a gooey cheeseburger, a towering omelet, a short stack of buttery pancakes, a blue plate special is grounding, even normalizing. Just be sure to tip your server generously, for instead of taking today off they’ve been at work.

I have to admit that, in our urban home, we have spent our fair share of black Fridays among its bustle. We have made the requisite expedition to Macys to herald the shopping season and we have hidden from the very same thing in a movie house. One year with John’s visiting sister, we spent the day learning about feudal Japan at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and concluded the day in the wonderfully relaxing atmosphere of our favorite Japanese restaurant. But as the mantel of hosting Thanksgiving passed to us from Mama Diva, we found that we were disinclined (read wiped out) to do much out in the world, and we developed the practice of passing this special Friday in the best location there is: home. We pack up the china and stemware, making notes of any for which we will need to chase down replacements if yesterday’s festivities got out of hand. We polish and sequester the silver, knowing it will not be that long until it reappears on the Christmas table. I make a big breakfast to start the day but leftovers inevitably start sneaking out of the fridge.

What to do with Thanksgiving leftovers has been the turkey call of homekeepers since long before the advent of the magazine press or the world wide web. As far back as when kitchens were hearths, the motto of homekeepers has been waste not want not. Many preservation techniques and preparations that survive to this day are a result of this practice. These, of course, pre-date Thanksgiving and are also out of its cultural purview. But the same impulse that caused an Indian homekeeper to dry venison and caused an Elizabethan merchant to preserve fruit in brandy caused a San Francisco restaurateur to invent turkey tetrazzini. That chef had both a love of a certain operatic soprano and a refrigeration unit full of leftovers, and combined both with a cream sauce into passage onto the pages of culinary history.

The golden era of Thanksgiving leftover creativity and craziness was mid-twentieth century America. Sometimes this was of necessity, as from the depression era work collective to the World War II homefront both the turkey or the pan to cook it in could be in short supply. The imperative to stretch a meal did not dissipate with the advent of post-war consumerism, but even though the new prosperity didn’t reach everyone, it changed the American kitchen. Cooks from professional to practical, many of them caught between older days of want and newer ones of its absence, investigated new ways to marry thrift with expression. Abundance impelled creativity and new practices of daily living emerged.

My beloved and well-paged copy of the Fannie Farmer cookbook contains an entire section of suggestions for leftover turkey, from obligatory sandwiches to custardy timbales to saucy enchiladas. She suggests it as an ingredient in curry, pilaf, wild rice casserole and (my favorite) as a replacement for the ricotta filling in stuffed manicotti. This is just one of the ways in which Fannie was ahead of her time. Nowadays, a content area of what to do with leftover turkey is compulsory in every lifestyle entity that publishes about Thanksgiving.

Urban Home is no exception, and in our urban home, the favored use for leftover turkey -- after we've each gobbled a big slovenly turkey sandwich with havarti and mustard on white toast -- is turkey noodle soup. Soup grounds and centers by nature, for it takes us back to that hearth, but poultry soups seem especially to do that. The ingredients -- root vegetables, fowl, some broth, some seasonings -- are the essence of simplicity, and that distillation speaks to our souls.

Yes, there is something sacred in a bowl of turkey soup. The vegetables that flavor the broth flavored the turkey as it roasted; they grew deep in the coddling magic of soil even as the turkey roamed its surface. The wheat that went into the noodles grew its golden head in the last of the summer sunshine. Turkey reflects these flavors and then some, for roasted turkey has among the most complex flavor profiles there is. Turkey is abundance and soup is simplicity. What better dish is there to cuddle up with on this day that is either among the year's busiest or laziest, however you observe it?

TURKEY NOODLE SOUP

This recipe includes the directions for making your own turkey stock but don't worry if you don't have the turkey carcass; just use a good low sodium stock from the supermarket. Don't worry about how much leftover turkey meat you should have; however much you have is enough. You should have most of the ingredients for this soup left over from the week's cooking, but if not, they are simple to obtain during a quick trip to the grocery.

For the stock
1 turkey carcass
1 small yellow onion
2 dried bay leaves

For the soup
Pulled turkey meat
3 medium carrots
2 medium parsnips
2 ribs celery
1 small yellow onion
1 12-ounce bag wide egg noodles
Turkey stock
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 medium cloves garlic
1 dried bay leaf
2 teaspoons dried rubbed sage
2 teaspoons dried thyme
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Early in the day
1. Place a large stock pot on the stove top. Place the turkey carcass and 2 dried bay leaves in the stock pot.
2. Peel the onion and remove the stem and root ends. Use a sharp knife to slice the onion in half; halve each half. Add the quartered onion to the pot.
3. Fill the pot with clean, cold water until it covers the carcass. Cover the pot.
4. Turn the burner to low. Cook until very fragrant, approximately 6 hours.
5. Check the stock every 2 hours. Use a skimmer to remove and discard oily foam if any from the top of the simmering stock.
6. When ready to use, remove and discard the carcass. Use the skimmer to fish out the bay leaves and onion pieces. If you wish, pour the stock through a strainer before using.

One to one and a half hours before eating
1. Place a large soup pot on the stove top. Place the butter in the pot.
2. Peel the onion and remove the root and stem ends. Place the onion on the cutting board. Halve the onion from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into thin crescents. Cut across the crescents to form dice. Scrape the diced onion into the pot.
3. Rinse the celery and place the ribs lengthwise on the cutting board. Cut across the top and the bottom of the ribs to remove the calloused top and bottom of the stalks. Cut across the stalks to form crescents. Scraped the cut celery into the pot.
4. Use a peeler to peel each carrot and each parsnip. Working one at a time, cut off the top and bottom tip of each carrot and parsnip; do not use the large, tough top of the vegetables. Cut across each carrot and parsnip to form coins approximately ½ inch thick. Scrape the cut carrots and parsnips into the pot.
5. Sprinkle the vegetables with salt.
6. Turn the burner to medium. Use a silicon spatula to stir the vegetables together with the melting butter.
7. Once the vegetables have started to cook, place the lid askew on the pot. "Sweat" the vegetables, stirring frequently to keep them from sticking, for 5 minutes or until the carrots and parsnips start to soften and the mixture begins to release its fragrance.
8. While the vegetables are sweating, peel the garlic and remove the root end. Halve each clove; remove and discard any sprouting from the center.
9. After five minutes, remove the lid from the soup pot. Give the vegetables a stir.
10. Add the pulled turkey meat to the mixture in the pot. Sprinkle the mixture with salt. Stir the mixture together.
11. Slowly add enough stock to the pot to cover the turkey-vegetable mixture by two inches. Add the bay leaf and the peeled garlic cloves to the pot.
12. Cover the pot and cook the soup (no peeking) on medium-low for 40 minutes.
13. After 40 minutes, uncover the pot and check the soup. It should be very fragrant with soft vegetables.
14. Cut open the bag of egg noodles. Distribute two or three nice handfuls of noodles into the soup. Add the dried sage and thyme to the soup.
15. Recover the pot and cook until the noodles are cooked, approximately 10 more minutes.
16. Stir the soup well before serving. Garnish each bowl of soup with several grindings of fresh black pepper.

Music for Thanksgiving

2011-11-20T12:00:00.151-05:00

We are spending much of this weekend in high preparation mode for Thanksgiving. The last of the groceries have been obtained from supermarket, farmers market, specialty shop or our own back yard. Jars of succotash from summer canning have been brought out of the pantry and the greens have been torn and are soaking. Cranberry sauce bubbles in the pot, some to be decanted into the serving dish for the Thanksgiving table, some to be ladled into small jars for guests to take home. Later this week, we will pick up the turkeys, taking care as we snuggle the cleaned birds into their briny bath to respect them for their sacrifice and to thank them for it. There are pie crusts and fillings to prepare, rolls to ready, sourdough and corn breads to dry.

The home must be readied. Linens from tablecloths and napkins to guest towels are brought out of storage, inspected, laundered and ironed, as we make notes of pieces that will need repurposing and replenishing. Silver, from a generational heirloom set to one whose heirloom status is just begining, is buffed and shined. The best dishes are unpacked and washed, and it doesn’t matter if these are fancy pieces from a registry or a box set from a discount house. Relish trays and appetizer plates are rinsed, along with as many cocktail, beer and wine glasses as we can corral. We can’t forget dessert plates, coffee cups and cordial glasses. We even remember to clean out the coffee maker!

Preparation is fun because it is both anticipatory and practical. Accomplishing a task is its own reward, but for a holiday, every task accomplished is also a marker along the journey to the big day. As that day dawns, we move from sleepy breakfasts to focused preparation. Members of the household are shooed out of the kitchen and put to work straightening up the house before the first guest arrives. In the war zone, turkeys are positioned in roasting pans, often to be served alongside ham or, as was the case in Mama Diva’s kitchen, barbeque. The table must be set, with a serving piece positioned on each trivet. We never know how we’re going to make room on the table for all of the dishes, but we always do .

And, of course, guests charter in and out. During prep week, we fielded phone calls and emails to answer the neverending question “what can I bring?” After so many years of attending Thanksgiving in our urban home, our guests know to bring the heirloom dish or family specialty without which their Thanksgiving is not complete. Not everyone cooks or wants to, but everyone wants to contribute, and there are many ways to do so. It is a common practice to deputize a couple of guests as sommelier. Working together, they can choose both red and white wines as is the correct practice for turkey; perhaps an after dinner pour such as port or Cognac; even the Madiera for the gravy. Someone else can bring the beer. Someone who likes to eat and drink more than they like to cook or mix volunteers to bring plastic containers so that everyone can take home leftovers.

And someone is put in charge of the music. Though we do allow for the morning news and parade broadcasts, it is a rule for Thanksgiving in our urban home that the tv goes dark and stays that way once the first guest arrives. Anyone who must catch a few moments of the big game is welcome to tune it in on the bedroom set, but we have never found that anyone avails themselves of the option. Among all of the other things it also is, Thanksgiving is a dinner party, and dinner parties are better served by music and conversation than by the glare and blare of the television set.

Selecting and playing music for a party is a specialized skill. Music for a party is as much a part of the setting for the event as the décor, the table service, the food and drink themselves. Because it sets the scene, the music should be reflective of the event while evoking the atmosphere for it. Party music always succeeds best when the selections are curated with this in mind. For Thanksgiving in our urban home, we take a few hours on an afternoon such as today to create playlists on the home computer and then burn CDs from songs we have down- or uploaded from legal purchases. On Thanksgiving day, we will place these CDs in the multi-changer, which is wired to play in the living room, dining area and kitchen. One press of the RANDOM button and the soundtrack, curated thoughtfully, will play all day long.

For Thanksgiving, we focus on American music. We have found that a mixture of jazz, heartland standards and, yes, show tunes provide the right atmosphere for this party. Below are our suggestions for Thanksgiving music. In the spirit of generosity, we have curated a public playlist at Spotify (look for Urban Home Thanksgiving at Spotify; account required). Thanksgiving playlists often focus on songs about food and drink, and we’ve included a lot of these, but our first consideration is the mood and history of the selections. As a grandchild of the Oklahoma dust bowl, I had to include some Woody Guthrie, both in honor of my grandmother and of all of those whose Thanksgivings have been or are lean. Likewise we included some shoutouts to our beloved Mama Diva, for whom Thanksgiving was not complete without Dinah Washington and Sarah Vaughan. I had to include Ethel Merman as an ode to both Sally Adams and herself, and Doris Day as a tip of the pillbox hat to all of those sixties romantic comedies where the interior design worked almost as hard and as stylishly as the leading lady did.

MUSIC FOR THANKSGIVING

Throughout the year, we keep an eye open for CDs to add to our collection. In Los Angeles, spending an afternoon at Amoeba is a given. Unfortunately, record stores are becoming a rare breed in New York City. Tower, Virgin and HMV are all gone. The venerable Spotlight Records has long since abandoned its brick and mortar sanctuary at the gate of the East Village. Academy is still open on its atmospheric side street in the Flatiron. Other than online, a surprising source for buying CDs is the local chain coffee house. Whoever manages the music department at Starbucks earns their daily Venti; they often have great compilation albums right at the register. This year, these have included great folk-rock, be-bop and speakeasy collections.

Jazz and Jazz Vocals. Many believe that jazz is the great American musical artform. There are a lot of subgenres of jazz, which can make this artform intimidating to venture into by new listeners. Almost any outlet that sells jazz records, including online, will have informed staff and customers who can make recommendations based on what a new listener is interested in or willing to listen to. Try pretty much anything recorded by such legends as Thelonious Monk, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker or Chet Baker. Dave Brubeck’s Take Five defined cool jazz through its exploration of unusual time signatures. Beat poets were heavily influenced by jazz; sneak a few of the resulting jazz poetry recordings into the mix.

Jazz vocalists define musical range both by their pipes and by their catalogs. No mention of jazz vocalists is complete without including such greats as Ella Fitzgerald, Dinah Washington, or Sarah Vaughan. As with Monk or Dizzy, you can’t go wrong with anything in their catalogs. Try any of Ella’s Songbook recordings, Washington’s historic What a Diff’rence a Day Makes, and Vaughan’s Swingin’ Easy. Peggy Lee started out as a big band singer before hitting her stride in the 1950s with a succession of swingin’, smokin’ albums; try Black Coffee or Things are Swinging. As anyone who’s been on a birthday cabaret juggernaut with me will affirm, I am powerless to resist the fluttery voice and precision musicianship of Blossom Dearie. Try such delights as Once Upon a Summertime, Give Him the Ooh La La and My Gentleman Friend.

Indigenous American Music. Another great American musical artform grew not out of clubs and streets but along highways and side roads. It’s hard to imagine a more authentically or inherently American singer-songwriter than Woody Guthrie. The “dust bowl troubadour” recorded what was virtually the soundtrack of the American road. Try any of his legacy recordings not just for the purity of their sound and spirit but to recognize their place as the oral history of an era and its people. You could say the same about another expression of indigenous music – one that, arguably, bridges citified jazz and dust bowl folk as it poured out of the gramophones of the time. Speakeasy music is instantly atmospheric and a great deal of fun, and if that isn’t the definition of party music, I don’t know what is. Try Starbucks’ Speakeasy Times compilation, or any of the volumes in Rich Conaty’s Big Broadcast series. Finally, to honor the Native American roots of both this holiday and the people whose land this was this land before colonization, consider weaving some of this truly indigenous music into your mix. We are big fans of Robbie Robertson’s contemporary native recordings, as well as the archives of First Nations music at the Library of Congress.

Movie and Show Tunes. One could (and many do) argue that film and musical theatre are inherent American art forms, and soundtracks and show recordings reflect this American scope. For a Thanksgiving mix, songs culled from these recordings provide a fun, tonic note to the serious melodics of jazz or heavy content of depression era chorals. Musical performers often had profitable studio careers; try any of the compilations from such legends as Judy Garland, Ethel Merman, Doris Day, Carmen Miranda or Mary Martin. From the screen, the Mad Men soundtrack hits a sophisticated retro groove. In our urban home, the signature soundtrack for Thanksgiving is Rolfe Kent’s jazz ensemble music from the film Sideways, which focuses, appropriately and melodically, on the pleasures of food, drink and companionship.

Greens

2011-11-15T08:00:00.169-05:00

Photo: John C. Wilson

You’ve read before about the powerful role of matriarchy in my life. Aside from the lifesaving steadfastness of my Osage grandmother, the shadowy meticulousness of my French-Swiss grandmother, and the bawdy good spirits of our beloved Nana, alert readers have detected references to Mama Diva. As I noted when writing about Nana, if I write less about these women who were and are so important not just to my life but to so many lives, it is not to diminish the power of their influence but because, as is sometimes true of memories, the closest ones hurt the most.

But among the other things it is about, Thanksgiving is about memories, and if pain is carried along with those, then that is not inappropriate for this holiday. Though it is celebratory, Thanksgiving is built upon hardship. The turkey gives of itself to feed us, and the holiday itself proceeds not just from the difficulties experienced by Puritans in what they called “the new world” but from the difficult subject of first contact between Native Americans and those colonialists. Perhaps it has to do with its placement after Halloween, which has a deeply spiritual core whose root is passage, both of time and of lives within time, but Thanksgiving is a time to remember. Though memories of her are a constant companion, there is no more appropriate time to honor Mama Diva that during this period of gratitude and remembrance. Because, as anyone who experienced the holiday with her will affirm, Thanksgiving does and ever shall belong to Mama Diva.

I met Mama Diva on my first day as a young actor/model working at a high end cosmetics counter in a big department store – fittingly, that day was a black Friday. I don’t think too deeply about why we gravitated to each other. I like to believe it was simple kismet. I do know that she saw something in me and I definitely did so in her. We became inseparable in what was to become, along with my husband and my grandmother, the most profound relationship of my life. And for that, I am truly grateful.

By the time I met Mama Diva, John and I had a long-established practice of hosting Thanksgiving dinner for our citybound friends. Mama Diva had an even longer established practice of doing the same. Accordingly, so long ago that I can no longer pinpoint when, the festivities were consolidated. We moved our Thanksgiving from our small, cramped apartment in Brooklyn to her expansive, packed apartment in Harlem. We took our friends and our recipes and our traditions with us, and she met us at the door with hers, and invited us inside.

Memories abound of those times. In writing this piece, I reached out to my family of friends to ask if there were any memories they wanted to share. Among the first to respond was Lissa, who reminded us that when we first started going to Mama Diva’s for Thanksgiving, Harlem had not yet gentrified. Though her pocket of Harlem was not inherently dangerous, the visit nonetheless required some precautions, which Mama Diva arranged via a street escort. How well we remember clambering down the wide sidewalks of that elegant neighborhood, bundled against the northeast chill, laden with boxes of food and bottles of booze. Once buzzed inside, we thanked the walker with an invitation to either come up or stop by later, then clattered across the echoing expanse of the foyer and up the winding stairway. Mama Diva would be waiting on the landing, steam heat and the rich blooming smells of soul cooking roiling out of the open doorway to her apartment.

If Thanksgiving is about family, then family among friends was forged on those fourth Thursdays in November as truly as it is in any dining room whose inhabitants happen to be linked by DNA. I can’t think of a single way that it wasn’t a family holiday except that there were no fights, no misunderstandings, no acrimony. It was such a family day that one year, Lissa brought her mother, and it is reported that this gracious and beautiful woman still glows at the memory of that Thanksgiving, as do we that she was with us. Sisters often brought suitors brave enough to face an audition under no less an all-seeing, all-knowing gaze than Mama Diva’s. And, of course, Mama Diva had her own collection of callers. One time, she invited a gay boy of her acquaintance who brought his boyfriend of the moment. This lad’s family had never really celebrated Thanksgiving and it turned out that he was ill prepared for the carb overload. To this day, not a Thanksgiving goes by where we don’t break into a chorus of “kawffeee” as we recall him stumbling around whining for a cup of just exactly that.

Most of the memories, though, are fleeting. These snippets of experience and remembrances of moments accumulate and, as each year passes as it beautifully and unforgivingly does, coalesce. In the mosaic of my mind, I recall: balancing the plates on our knees. Jockeying for a place on the couch and, if you missed the couch, the game of musical chairs to find one sturdy enough to hold you (Stephen: “ass through chair!”). Smooth jazz on the stereo (Douglas: “now here’s your local forecast”). The incredible smell of the apartment as you first came in. The apple cider, the egg nog, the whiskey. Her sweatshirt, her apron, her slippers (Little Mildred: “footies!”). The pile of dishes afterwards that never seemed to go down. The excitement of the dogs, freed from their holding pen, when they were finally allowed to join the party (John: “Quaddafi!”). Parading throughout the building, bearing slices of dessert and sips of champagne (Lissa: “Freixenet.”), in an open door policy that just exactly echoed the early colonial practice of Harvest Home.

Photo: Eric Diesel

And the food (Kat: “collard greens and nanner pudd’n”)! Two big turkeys, one baked with a ham hock and one baked without for guests who didn’t eat pork. A saddle of salmon and a pot of barbecue. Fragrant clumpy cornbread stuffing and thick dark giblet gravy. Brown and serve rolls and fluffy white rice. Mashed potatoes and candied sweets and creamed onions and pureed rutabagas. She labored for days while I baked pies (Ali: “pie lieutenant”) and cakes and made cranberry sauce. The group favorite was spice cake from my grandmother’s recipe but Mama Diva’s favorite was chocolate-almond torte. Guests brought wine or appetizers or (her favorite contribution) a twenty dollar bill that was destined to make its way to the number hole, where it had better have the sense to return redoubled.

Mama Diva ran a true soul kitchen, so definitively that when I was asked to write a section about soul food for a food encyclopedia I interviewed Mama Diva for the piece. Though she was quite capable of letting her food speak for itself, she was as ready to talk about soul food as she was to cook or eat it. One of her greatest peeves was the common confusion between soul food and southern cooking. She believed that identifying soul cooking as southern cooking was an expression of racism, and she could get quite passionate about it. She was not immune from either the temptation of a few sips of Courvoisier or their effects, but she didn’t need much lubrication to launch into a lecture that was just as certainly a lesson about soul cooking as what was happening stovetop and plateside. Or at the table. Tellingly, no one was turned away. A lot of people came through that kitchen. Sometimes they ate alone in a corner and sometimes they joined in the ribaldry. No one went away empty-handed. Everyone had another meal waiting in a plastic dish, even if it was secreted in their belongings by the hostess when they weren’t looking.

She taught me – and, I dare say, all of us – a lot. She had led an amazing life, from a childhood of want on the Lower East Side to a young womanhood as a noted beauty to a mature womanhood as an artist. She had lived in Los Angeles and Virginia but she was the very essence of Harlem grandeur. Perhaps my favorite stolen moment of the day was gazing upon faded photographs in chipped frames. The woman in those pictures was unaccountably young and quite breathtakingly beautiful. In her day, she had been known as China Doll, for both her beauty and the reverence it commanded. That was a time and a place that to be a great beauty was its own vocation, and brought with it the attentions and responsibilities of fur-swathed and bejeweled evenings in nightclubs. Time had done what it will do, but when she came into our lives, she was no less beautiful. She may no longer have exactly favored the doxie in those frames, but the twinkle in her eyes was the same, as were the camera-ready smile, the quick wit, the regal carriage, the fixed nails, the golden bracelets clanking at her wrists. She was never more beautiful than when she spoke about those days, for it was as if they were happening as she described it. And that is the potency of memory.

I spoke with her by telephone every day. One year, during one such conversation, the inevitable transpired and she confessed that she didn’t think she had the energy to host Thanksgiving that year. I think we all had been quietly expecting this and, though I can’t say a plan was formally in place, as a family we made arrangements without missing a beat. We transferred the event to John’s and my apartment, even though our move to Astoria was so recent that we didn’t yet have a dining room table. No matter; we were used to balancing plates on laps. Kat and Douglas picked Mama Diva up in Harlem and the family converged upon Astoria. We did our best to replicate Mama Diva’s menu and her skills as a hostess, and her pronouncement of the day as a success ranks as one of the proudest moments of my life.

I am comfortable that I speak for anyone who was there that the exact geographic center of Mama Diva's kitchen was the behemoth pot of greens abubble on the stovetop. Greens are the soul of the soul kitchen. They are as pivotal to soul cooking as barbecue, fried chicken and black-eyed peas. Greens are a field crop, the leafy outcroppings of mustard, turnip or collard plants. Some would say they are tough to love and they are definitely tough to cook well. They are rugged survivors in the wild and retain that characteristic in the kitchen, where they must be attended to with equal amounts of discipline and affection. But they give of themselves if the cook is giving in preparing them. I would be lying and thereby risking an ass-kicking from Heaven’s banquette if I told you the below is the absolutely authentic recipe for Mama Diva’s greens. But I have been with her as she made them, and I think I have approximated her greens very closely and maybe even exactly. At the very least, the below is a fail-safe recipe for what I hope will become a Thanksgiving tradition in your home: stewed greens that are, truly, memories in a pot.

GREENS

That is not a typo in the amount of greens you will need for Thanksgiving dinner; greens cook down. Do not skip the step of soaking the greens; it both removes the extensive grit that are part of cooking with fresh greens and initiates the process of tenderizing the greens that will conclude with the day-long cooking.

For the greens
6 - 8 bunches assorted greens, such as collard, mustard and turnip
2 smoked ham hocks
1 pound small turnips
2 medium yellow onions
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
½ teaspoon hot red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon table salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

For the pickled onions
2 medium red onions
1/2 cup white vinegar
2 bay leaves
2 teaspoons granulated sugar
2 teaspoons table salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 whole allspice or cloves

One or two days before Thanksgiving day
1. Fill the kitchen sink or a large clean food-safe bucket with water.
2. Separate the leaves from all of the greens. Plunge the leaves into the water.

3. Allow the greens to sit in the water for 30 minutes, using your hands to swirl the greens in the water a couple of times during that period.

4. Drain the water from the greens and rinse the greens well under a stream of cool water.

5. If the greens feel gritty, repeat steps 1 – 4 above.

6. Once you have thoroughly cleaned the greens, place a large clean mixing bowl and a large stock pot near your work surface.

7. Working one cleaned leaf at a time, use one hand to steady the leaf while using the other hand to strip down the spiny rib at the center of the leaf. Collect the ribs in the bowl and collect the leaves in the pot.

8. Once you have stripped all of the greens (it will go quickly once you get your rhythm going), cover the pot with its lid. Set aside in a cool place until Thanksgiving day. Check the greens a couple of times during the resting period, picking through to discard any that display discoloration.

9. Pick through the collected ribs to select a half dozen that are brightly colored and clean smelling without being fibrous.

10. Align these ribs side by side along a cutting board. Use a sharp knife to cut across the ribs to form small cross-cuttings.

11. Scrape the cross-cut ribs into a plastic bag and refrigerate until Thanksgiving day.

12. Peel the red onions and remove the root and stem ends. Place each onion on a clean cutting board reserved for fresh vegetables. Halve each onion from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into thin crescents. Scrape the onions into a heat- and refrigeration-proof bowl.
13. Measure the vinegar into a non-reactive pan. Add the sugar, salt, pepper, bay leaves and allspice/cloves to the pan.
14. Place the pan on the stovetop and turn the burner to medium. Bring to a boil, stirring with a wire whisk to dissolve the sugar and salt.
15. Once the brine is boiling and the sugar and salt have dissolved, turn off the burner. Pour the hot brine over the sliced red onions. It is okay if it doesn't seem that there is enough brine for the onions; the onions will shrink a bit as they season in the brine.
16. Cover the dish containing the red onions and refrigerate, stirring occasionally to ensure that the onions are evenly distributed throughout the brine, until ready to serve on Thanksgiving Day.

Early on Thanksgiving day

1. Peel each turnip and use the tip of a small paring knife to remove the cone-shaped core at the top of each turnip. Place each turnip cored side down on the cutting board and use the knife to halve each turnip from the point downwards; halve each half. Place the quartered turnips in a colander and rinse under cool water. Leave in the sink to drain.

2. Empty the rested greens into a bowl large enough to hold them. Rinse out the stock pot. Place the pot on a back burner of the stovetop.

3. Mix the salt, pepper and pepper flakes together in a small bowl and place near the greens pot.

4. Measure the brown sugar and cider vinegar into the pot. It is okay if the mixture foams; that is a normal chemical reaction.

5. Peel the onions and remove the root and stem ends. Place each onion on a clean cutting board reserved for fresh vegetables. Halve each onion from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into thin crescents. Scrape the onions into the pot containing the vinegar and brown sugar.

6. Empty the bag containing the cross-cut greens ribs into the pot.

7. Unwrap the ham hocks and nestle them into the pot mixture.

8. Add a few handfuls of the rested greens to the pot. Add a quartered turnip and a sprinkling of the salt-pepper mixture.

9. Turn the burner to low. Cover the pot.

10. Continue cooking throughout the day, checking the pot approximately every ½ hour to add greens and turnips to the pot, sprinkling each addition with the salt-pepper mixture. As the greens start to really cook down and the onions/ribs start to soften (this will take a couple of hours), stir the contents of the pot after each addition.

11. Cook until you have used all of the greens and turnips and all of the contents in the pot are soft and very fragrant, approximately six hours. Serve hot directly from the stovetop, passing the dish of pickled onions at the table.

Wild Rice with Currants and Ramps

2011-11-10T14:00:00.006-05:00

The food of autumn is celebratory in nature, comforting and lush. An autumnal pork roast arrives at table on a freshet of steam scented with rosemary and apple. A tumble of earthy mushrooms crowns a bowl of silken risotto for a simple weeknight dinner; for an even simpler dinner, we pass puffy biscuits along with a bowl of steaming succotash. For Sunday Supper we gather round the hearth fire to fill our bowls with generous helpings of beef stew. Cider, the essence of autumn, is served hot and spiced in cups, sweetly spread on warm muffins, even ladled into our bowl of chicken and vegetables. We wash our dinner down with a malty-sweet pour of pumpkin ale. For dessert, there’s a spicy cake topped with buttery brandied pears, served with plenty of hot coffee. For brave souls, there’s even a slab of mincemeat pie.

But the centerpiece meal of autumn – fittingly, also the season’s last hurrah before winter festivities commence – is Thanksgiving dinner. It’s inconceivable to me not to host Thanksgiving dinner – as you’ll read in a forthcoming column, I’ve been doing so for more years than I can recount -- but I number among family, friends and readers individuals who don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. For some, it is because they are not American, and, while they respect this distinctly American holiday as far as they encounter it, it means about as much to them as Boxing Day means to Americans. For some, it is because they are Native Americans, and they see Thanksgiving not just as a white person’s holiday but one that is especially controversial, even painful, to First Americans.

My grandmother was Osage and so am I, so I respect that viewpoint among those who have it. But my grandmother took a different approach. Though she had been born into an Indian clan on a settlement on the White River, her husband was white and a turkey farmer to boot. She ran their Oklahoma homestead with respect for her own family heritage but as a farmstead modern to those times. To her, Thanksgiving was important not as an illustration or an effect of the struggle between colonial and Native Americas but as an opportunity to share.

It was expected that an Oklahoma homestead would deliver a generous and grateful Thanksgiving, and hers did. Word traveled via moccasin telegraph that there would be food “down on the farm” for anyone who wanted to show up, and it was understand that one might be put to work when one arrived. People did arrive, often bearing their own house specialty in their finest serving dish. All of the food, from these offerings to my grandfather’s turkeys cooked with my grandmother’s unfailing skill, was placed on the sideboard, as guests jockeyed to fill their plates and find a place to sit. The event was so festive that she even looked the other way when the menfolk opened a few contraband bottles of beer. I can still see her pushing tendrils of hair behind her ears and smiling a secret smile as she oversaw what was, on this holiday that was controversial and beloved in equal measure, essentially a potlatch.

Though there was a definite farmhouse aesthetic to my grandmother's food, her cooking took a decidedly Native turn at Thanksgiving. She prepared turkeys using an indigenous method of curing fresh kill birds with salt, herbs and river water that presaged the practice of brining. She had put up succotash during summer canning, when the corn and beans were at the height of their flavors. A big bowl of roasted seeds from the jack o’lanterns was placed on the gleaming walnut surface of the table in the hallway, so that guests could scoop up a spoonful in passing as they dropped off or collected their hats and pocketbooks. The pumpkin flesh was baked into pies for the dessert board or bread for the ride home. The bread was baked in a marathon session in early November in the coffee cans my grandmother collected year round for just that purpose. She made her dressing with cornbread and pecans and harvested her own turnip greens and canned her own cranberry sauce from berries special ordered for her by a grocer in Tulsa.

These berries were no more indigenous to the American southwest than was wild rice, but she served both. It would not have occurred to her not to. In her mind, these dishes formed a connection with the first ancestors from across the continent. I believe that she felt genuine kinship with the keepers of the cranberry bogs of the northeast and grassy marshes of the far north. She understood the sacredness of native foods from corn and squash to deer and buffalo meat, and transmitted this from field to kitchen and from dish to plate. For the official Urban Home recipe for cranberry sauce, click here. And for a recipe for a sumptuous wild rice side dish with which to make your Thanksgiving sideboard -- and its visitors -- groan, see below.

WILD RICE WITH CURRANTS AND RAMPS

American wild rice is not a rice but the grains of one of three species of marsh grasses native to North America. Wild rice must be harvested by hand, which accounts for its status as a delicacy. Be sure your wild rice is harvested in the Great Lakes or Gulf regions, preferably by a Native American business from a tribe to whom this grain is sacred, such as the Ojibwa and Chippewa. It is important to inspect your wild rice before you plan to cook it. The grains should be long, thin and chestnut colored with an earthy fragrance; none of them should display signs of mold. If they do, do not use this rice; return it for a fresh batch. If you can't find the wild onion known as ramps, use scallions.

1 cup wild rice
1 cup chicken or turkey stock, preferably homemade
2 cups cold water
1/2 cup dried currants
1/4 cup unsweetened cranberry juice
1 bunch wild ramps
2 teaspoons dried rubbed sage
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 dried bay leaf
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Place inspected rice into a colander and rinse the rice under a stream of cool water.
Place a large stock pot or saucier on the stove top. Decant the water and stock into the pot. Add several shakes of salt to the liquid in the pot.
Cover the pot and turn the burner to high.
Measure the dried currants into a small bowl. Pick through them and discard foreign particles if any.
Measure the cranberry juice into the bowl containing the currants. Use a silicon spatula to mix the currants and the juice together. Set aside to reconstitute while you prepare the rice.
Once the water/stock mixture has achieved a full rolling boil, add the rice to the pot in a thin stream. It will look as if there is too much liquid for the amount of rice; that is okay. The rice will absorb almost all of the liquid as it cooks.
Add the dried sage, bay leaf and several grindings of fresh black pepper to the pot containing the liquid and the rice. Stir all of the ingredients together.
Place the lid on the pot, making sure it fits securely. Turn the burner to low.
Cook (no peeking!) for 45 minutes.
While the rice is cooking, lay the ramps on the cutting board. Align the ramps side by side and across the bottom. Cut across the bottom of the row of ramps to remove and discard the stringy root ends of the ramps. Use the knife to cut across the top of each ramp where the green part starts to show softening or roughening. Use your hands to pull away and discard the papery outer skin of each ramp where present; not all ramps will have this.
Align the cleaned and prepped ramps on the cutting board. Use the knife to cut across the ramps to form coins.
Scrape the cut ramps into a bowl until ready to assemble the dish.
After 30 minutes, check the currants. They should be plump and chewy. Drain the currants in the colander.
After 45 minutes, remove the lid from the cooking pot. The grains should be plump and tender and have absorbed most or all of the liquid. Taste one to confirm; if warranted, replace the lid and cook for five more minutes.
Once the rice is cooked, 45 - 50 minutes per step 14 above, turn off the burner and remove the pan from the heat. Working carefully to avoid steam, gently shake the cooked wild rice into the colander that contains the drained currants. Add the butter to the hot rice in the colander. Remove and discard the bay leaf.
Use the silicon spatula to stir the buttered and seasoned wild rice together with the reconstituted currants.
Leave the mixture in the colander until ready to serve. Just before serving, stir the ramps through the wild rice and currants.

Pumpkin Ales

2011-11-05T10:00:00.103-04:00

photo: Eric Diesel

I am honored to report that Urban Home Blog has regular readers, some of whom have been following since the launch and some of whom come aboard each time a new column publishes. During this month of Thanksgiving, I take a moment to express my gratitude to readers. Thank you for doing me the honor of reading my words. Thank you for supporting me with comments, clicks, recommendations and retweets. Thank you for trusting me enough to send me homekeeping questions via social media. Sometimes these simply require a quick answer, which I am always happy to share. Sometimes these turn into assignments, such as the decorating gig over the summer that I mentioned in the Labor Day decorating column. Sometimes they turn into columns, such an early reader who asked a laundry room question that turned into one of the first Urban Home columns.

Regular readers are used to reading about the pumpkin’s role as official mascot of autumn. Halloween isn’t scary or complete without a jack o’lantern, while the Thanksgiving centerpiece showcases an architectural arrangement of gourds. Shades of orange, especially this dark saturated tone, are a constant in the décor of our urban home. Used judiciously, orange dashes around rooms to simultaneously invigorate and ground them. I don’t write as much about gardening as I should, but in the northeast, along with apple orchards, pumpkin patches are autumn’s top weekend destinations. This year I have noticed an explosion in the variety of groceries showcasing pumpkin, but in our urban kitchen, it has long been a seasonal ingredient of choice. Beyond its leading role on the Thanksgiving pie board, we have folded pumpkin into cheesecake, sealed its butter in jars and poured it into our coffee cups. We haven’t even published all of the recipes we utilize for showcasing this versatile ingredient, including pumpkin risotto, ravioli, curry and ice cream. But Lou Siebert Pappas has published many of them, in her wonderful slim cookbook devoted to squashes.

One annual ritual without which the season would be incomplete is the appearance of pumpkin ale. These brews, which range in color from pale amber to deep russet and in flavor from toasty and malty to spicy and sweet, have evolved from a devoted cult to a booming seasonal business. This is in part due to the craft beer movement, which, though far from a new phenomenon, has redoubled its influence in recent years. Beer aficionados, demanding the respect for their quaff of choice that is accorded wine or coffee, have built communities around the appreciation of beer. Any foodie or entrepreneur (sometimes we’re both) will confirm that, when a determined audience organizes itself around a cultural occurrence, a cultural force can emerge. In food and drink, provided that all of the players can harness and sustain the resources of finance and interest, this typically splits into two primary thoroughfares for production: mass and artisanal. And that is what the craft beer movement is about: appreciating and advancing the efforts of craft breweries, which make beers with an attention to method, quality and history that have believers hoisting a mug to the power of small business.

No beer was more ready to move to the full, foamy head of the glass as a result of the craft beer movement than pumpkin ale. This brew, which was known to, opinionated about and hoarded by a small, devoted sub-sect, has become as ubiquitous this time of year as candy corn. Though pumpkin ale is in its renaissance, for a long time it was brewed mostly by home brewers and a handful of breweries. This was a bump in the country road of pumpkin ale’s history. In colonial times, pumpkin was a common addition to the mash from which beer is brewed. In fact, pumpkin’s indigenous availability on the North American continent versus the relative challenges of growing malt often meant that pumpkin outright replaced malt in the mash. Pumpkin beer was a common pour at the tavern, and a common ingredient in tavern specialties by the glass, notably a flip, a “tonic” that also included rum, brown sugar and, one extrapolates, space on a cot in the back. Its historic significance is part of the reason that pumpkin beer found itself rescued by the craft beer movement. That, and the taste.

When I first started drinking pumpkin ale, in order to obtain it, you had to have a source for it. This was so long ago that I still lived in Brooklyn, and in my case, this was a tavern that would sell a sixer to a customer in the know. Nowadays, a quick internet search yields hundreds of varieties of pumpkin ale. These range from brews so deeply local and cultish they are only available on tap in specific taverns to the big brewery varieties that appear on supermarket and state store shelves this time of year.

The pumpkin patch is so crowded with brews that it is a challenge to know which are worthy of your tankard. Here are my recommendations from this year’s crop of pumpkin ales. Though I’ve tasted some marvelous small-batch craft ales, for this column I have concentrated on brews that should be easy to obtain for readers of legal drinking age. While wine is always a welcome guest at the Thanksgiving dinner table (for Urban Home’s list of turkey-friendly favorites, click here), consider inviting a few bottles of the below. Finally, no innkeeper would be surprised to hear it but readers might be: pumpkin ales are almost always better with food. Aside from Thanksgiving dinner, try them with snacks warmed with spice – one such is Urban Home’s own recipe for curried popcorn. Individuals with a sweet tooth will be pleased to learn that pumpkin beer agrees with sweets, including what’s left of the Halloween candy.

Supermarket shoppers have gotten used to sighting the distinctive black and orange six pack as a harbinger of autumn, but it is what’s in a bottle of Brooklyn Brewery Post Road Pumpkin Ale that makes it a perennial large-batch favorite. This low-foam brew quickly reveals a dominant note of sweet-hot spices, with toasty hops mellowing just as quickly as context. To some, the powerful spice profile equals points deducted, but I credit this ale for the strength of the spice notes as well as for the comfort of the cushion they rest on. I also credit it with being one of the beers that led to the pumpkin ale renaissance and that, to this day, exemplifies it. Yes, there are pumpkin ales with more complicated flavor profiles, more artisanal approaches, more devoted followers, etc., but there is none that is more honest – and that is the very essence of ale.

Tasters’ opinions are invariably split over Southampton Publick House Pumpkin Ale. Drinkers who like it cite its noticeable pumpkin flavor while those who dislike it cite a burnt aftertaste. I credit the latter with the dark characteristic of this ale, which will not be unfamiliar or unpleasant to devotees of old-world ales -- of all of the ales on the list, it is the one you can most easily imagine an innkeeper pouring into a pewter tankard. While the ale is pure, it does tussle with the pumpkin-spice profile. If this were a wine, tasters would cite it as “jammy.” We’re dealing with beer and pumpkins, so let us agree to cite the corresponding quality as “buttery,” understanding that to some quaffers this will be an advantage. This beer is generated by a historic Long Island tavern long revered for its hospitality, so let us agree that in that context, it’s allowable, even poetic, for them to bottle a pumpkin beer whose defining quality is its journey down the middle road.

Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale is a complex beer which skirts the debate over grains versus pumpkin versus spices by forging unity between the three. Like the Southampton, tasters either enjoy or dismiss this light, flavorful ale. I find it affable in the glass, with a welcoming quality that encourages the opening of a second bottle. Its warm, friendly character evokes the autumn leaves and covered bridges of its New Hampshire homeland. Yankees are known as a crisp, crusty species, but this ale embodies the warm spirit of Yankee welcome that lurks behind the iron bolts of all of those Colonial doors. I, for one, can't discount an ale so reflective of its hidebound roots, for accord within roughness is one of the secrets of living in this landscape that is never more beautiful than in the autumn.

Autumn on the other side of the country is captured in a distinctive brown bottle tellingly detailed after a compass. Uinta Brewing Company Punk’n Harvest Ale comes from a craft brewery in Utah known for an equal reverence for good beer and good stewardship. Perhaps it is the pioneer spirit of the Western landscape that impels them to brew and bottle with such a damn-it-all attitude, and perhaps it is my pioneer spirit as a transplanted Westerner that makes their pumpkin ale one of my two favorites on this list. This extremely interesting ale unfolds with a strong core of pumpkin and a light touch with the spice, and is then cut right down the middle with a Pacific logjam of cedar and balsam on the finish. The herbal profile – especially executed so well -- arguably elevates this beer out of the realm of pumpkin ales and into a new territory. If that’s not pioneer, I don’t know what is.

Dogfish Head Punkin Ale is a craft enthusiast favorite. Notes from caramel to molasses dog the punkin in this ale, which lands with a noticeable punkin middle and a bouquet of cinnamon, nutmeg and clove that is, in fact, not far from pumpkin pie. Some deduct points for that, but I find this complex beer to be charismatic. The flavors are strong and autumnal, as befits a season that starts with an equinox and progresses through frights to gratitude. Along with the Uinta, this full-bodied is ale my favorite from these tastings. That said, I should note that some tasters cite a soapy flavor to this ale. I don’t experience that, but the dark, hoppy quality of the ale interacting with the strong spice profile could produce that response in people who have the genetic sensitivity to cardamom or cilantro.

Woodchuck Special Reserve Pumpkin Cider is not a craft ale but a limited production cider. By the glass, I would stick to Woodchuck’s established and no less autumnal formulations, especially their spectacular autumn and granny smith apple ciders. On its own, I found the pumpkin cider to be harsh, even disorienting. However, something about the pumpkin cider teased my mind (was this the wood that the woodchuck was attempting to chuck by brewing a pumpkin cider to begin with?) Following what was either a hunch or a prompting, I composed one of my favorite autumn drinks with this pumpkin cider. Accordingly I am pleased to announce, with an evening’s worth of research to back it up, that a Snakebite made with Woodchuck Special Reserve Pumpkin is a special squashy and slithery treat, and is the new standard for this drink in our urban home. Now we just need to come up with a name for it. A Squashed Snake? A Pumpkin Bite?

Mold and Mildew

2011-10-25T10:00:00.002-04:00

Skeletal hands down, Halloween is the favorite holiday among the spooks, specters and creepy-crawlies in our Urban Home. The home office is decorated in high-goth style with mortuary and cemetery collectibles and arcane medical equipment, while silhouetted along the window, the famous collection of haunted houses acts as a beacon for weary travelers both earthbound and noncorporeal. A cool October weekend finds us unwinding orange twinkle lights for twisting around window frames, and unpacking vintage Halloween decorations with which to haunt window sills and tabletops. Scary tales from the homekeeper’s library are stacked by comfy chairs, for dipping into by lamplight.

On this night when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, spirits travel freely between their realm and ours. The ease of passage through the portal is the basis for many screams on this spookiest of nights. Occultists confirm that, as a rule, we needn’t fear spectral entities, for even on this holy night they cannot connect with us unless we are open to the contact. That doesn’t mean they won’t try, and if their message is urgent, they may resort to whatever tricks they can manifest from the crypt: a gust of chilly air, a whiff of decaying perfume, an overturned glass, an image in a mirror, a word from a planchette, a whisper in an ear, a shiver down a spine.

From ghosts and goblins to trick or treaters, you could make the argument that the essence of Halloween is dealing with unwanted guests. You could make the same argument regarding homekeeping. After shelter itself, the fundamental goal of homekeeping is creating and maintaining a livable environment. This includes safety and cleanliness, and if the lights in the window beckon spirits on their travels on the holy night of Halloween or kids in costumes on more direct missions concerning candy and pranks, more mundane entities may be drawn to your home via temptations as simple and elemental to the homestead as structure and water.

Homekeeping writers often shy away from the question of dealing with household pests because it’s not a sexy enough area of content to generate a high number of hits on a website or to sell pages in a magazine. Also it’s just plain icky. That said, few areas of content in this discipline generate a more focused and determined web search than a homekeeper who is in a panic about the subject. Some of the volumes in our homekeeper’s library devote some pages to the issue, usually concerning pest control. There are guides in print and online for dealing with insects and vermin, bedbugs being the unwelcome visitor to most recently infest their fair share of the free press.

One set of home visitors who are notable both for their insistence on arriving and their reluctance to leave is mold and mildew. From the telltale black and brown spotting that is the bane of anyone trying to disinfect a shower stall to the rare but vexing toxic black mold that is a genuine medical and structural threat, few substances generate a more universal ick than these common, unavoidable fungi. It is every homekeeper’s responsibility to learn how to manage the presence of these unwelcome visitors. In this season of the creepy and the crawly, here is a guide to two of the most insidious homefront invaders.

MOLD AND MILDEW

As with previous cleaning guides at Urban Home Blog, this guide is not meant to be a comprehensive checklist nor a compensated endorsement. This guide is based on my research and experience as a lifestyle writer and a homekeeper. For invaluable assistance with this guide, I am grateful to the United States Environmental Protection Agency and the University of Wisconsin, Department of Biology.

Definition. Mold and mildew are fungi, a kingdom that also includes mushrooms and yeasts. Fungi are neither plant nor animal but their own distinct kingdom. Mold and mildew are microorganisms comprised of enzymes for digestion and spores for reproduction. Molds belong to the general fungal divisions Zygomycota, Ascomycota and Deuteromycota. Mildew is a specific type of Ascomycota. A grouping of mold or mildew microorganisms is identified as a colony.

Appearance and Odor. To the homekeeper, the primary distinctions between mold and mildew are the differentiations in color and texture between the two. Household mold is black, green, red, blue or brown or a combination of these, with a fuzzy or slimy texture and a noticeable physicality. Mildew is gray, white, silver or a combination of these, with a powdery or downy texture and a splotchy or patchy appearance.

Mold and mildew colonies release a characteristic musty odor as part of routine self maintenance. That odor is the result of gasses known as volatile organic compounds (VOCs), which cause physical reactions in people, animals and plants who are sensitive to them. It is fair to state that when the musty odor is noticeable, that is confirmation that the colony is thriving. Some rare molds produce mycotoxins that can produce severe reactions; see below to learn some basic information about these molds and their toxins.

Habitat. Mold and mildew are attracted to moisture and thrive in damp locations. Mold and mildew are not dependent upon light to exist, and because the colony spreads by spores, growth can occur in any direction. The colony will inhabit as much of the host as conditions allow. Unless it is controlled by outside forces, there is really nothing to prevent a colony of mold or mildew from spreading infinitely.

In the home, mold is attracted primarily to architectural elements such as walls, ceilings, floors, moldings and infrastructure while mildew is attracted primarily to bathroom surfaces, paper and fabric. In the refrigerator, mold usually attaches to cheese, meat, or produce while mildew primarily attaches to produce. In the garden, mold finds hosts from bark to rocks to the ground cover while mildew finds hosts among leaves and flowers. In the home, the most common locations we notice mold and mildew are the bathroom, the kitchen, the basement and the garbage cans. Unfortunately, it is the locations where we can’t or don’t notice mold and mildew that they can do the worst destruction: in walls, under flooring, in HVAC systems, and in unfinished attics, basements and crawlspaces.

Chemical Management of Common Household Mold and Mildew. Caught early and managed effectively, simple colonies of mold and mildew can be controlled but mold and mildew cannot entirely be eradicated. This is because mold feeds and therefore advances by a process known as filament absorption. The spores extend themselves into a feeding ground. In the household, this includes such porous materials as wood, drywall and grout. Mold cannot penetrate solid substances such as glass, tile or granite, but can traverse short distances across the surfaces of solid substances.

It is important to understand this because when we remove mold and mildew we are only removing that part of the colony that we can affect on the surface. Though it is tempting to use this as an excuse to avoid what is an unpleasant task to begin with, this actually makes it more urgent to remove as much of a mold or mildew colony as we can get to. Aside from the benefits of disposing of the reachable area of the colony, surface cleaning and disinfecting create an inhospitable environment that will minimize the presence of mold and mildew in the home and is the most effective way to minimize their impact on the home environment.

Though in our urban home we try to practice green homekeeping whenever possible, we do believe that for some situations, only strong disinfecting chemicals are effective. Most home economists and biologists agree that it is almost impossible to effectively manage common household mold and mildew without respectfully and safely using strong chemicals. It should be noted that green housekeepers suggest three substances to manage mold and mildew: tea tree oil, grapefruit seed extract and vinegar. Many cleaning guides also suggest borax, ammonia, hydrogen peroxide or baking soda.

Several cleansers and disinfectants are manufactured specifically to combat mold and mildew, and many others contain as part of their formulations ingredients that combat mold and mildew. When distinguishing among these, it is important to choose one with bleach, which will be so identified on the front label and with the name sodium hypoclorite in the ingredient panel, active in the formulation at a level of at least 1.8%. Two consumer products to consider are Clorox Clean-up with Bleach and MoldStat, both of whose efficacy is enhanced by being used in conjunction with a bleach-infused cleaning “eraser” such as Mr Clean Magic Eraser.

Removal of Basic Colonies of Common Household Mold and Mildew. Outside of comprehensive or toxic infestations, which will require professional management (see below), the best approach to manage basic colonies of mold and mildew is a three-way attack. First, remove as much of the current infestation as possible. Second, create an inhospitable surface both where the infestation had become noticeable and in any area where it may try to spread. Third, maintain the inhospitality as part of routine homekeeping.

Here are instructions for removing a simple colony of mold or mildew from accessible and cleansible household surfaces such as a wood, drywall, tile and grouting, laminate and pipes. For fabric surfaces such as rugs, curtains or upholstery, contact a cleansing professional certified in mold remediation.

Equipment and Technique
Cleaning solution containing at least 1.8% bleach
Cleaning eraser
Rubber or latex household gloves
Allergen-blocking face mask
Plastic scraper
Plastic bucket lined with a plastic trash bag
A spray bottle filled with clean water

1. Ventilate the area that requires cleaning.
2. Suit up with gloves and an allergen-blocking face mask. If the colony inhabits an overhead area, consider clear eye goggles and a hair covering as well.
3. Use the scraper to remove as much of the colony as you can reach without harming the surface area that is hosting the colony. Position the bucket to catch the scrapings, being sure that they land inside the trash bag so that you can properly dispose of them. Dispose of the scraper in the bucket.
4. Once you have physically removed of as much of the colony as you can, spray the entire area with the cleanser. Be careful to follow the instructions for safe usage, which should include indications of safety of surface contact and which should be available on both the product label and the manufacturer’s website.
5. While waiting the amount of time specified on the label/website for the cleanser to stay on the surface being cleaned, use the cleansing eraser to scrub any areas that evidence smaller traces of the colony, as well as the area where you removed the heaviest growth. Dispose of the cleaning eraser in the bucket.
6. After the amount of time specified on the label/website for the cleanser to stay on the surface being cleaned, use the spray bottle to wash the area clean of residue.
7. Ventilate/heat the area well so that the surfaces dry quickly.
8. Remove the gloves and mask and dispose of them in the bucket. Seal the trash bag containing the scrapings, eraser, gloves and mask and seal the bag in a second bag. Properly dispose of the double-bagged refuse. Disinfect and thoroughly dry the bucket before re-using it.
9. For damp home environments such as bathrooms and basements, use a dehumidifier or a moisture absorber to reduce the attractiveness of the habitat to the colony.

Management of Toxic Molds. Some molds are harmful to human and animal health. These include toxic black mold, but this is not the only harmful mold. Only a mycologist or a toxicologist can identify if a household mold is a toxic one, and only a medical doctor can treat the effects if any on individuals who have come into contact with toxic mold. For information on managing actual or suspected colonies of toxic molds, click here, and for information regarding exposure to toxic molds, click here.

Benefits. Scary stories sometimes conclude with happy endings, so it should be noted that mold and mildew are not harmful de facto. Harm, when it happens to home structures or the beings that dwell within the home, is an effect of the natural state of being of these fungi. When we impact the colony, we are doing harm to this life form with a conscious intention that the life form itself does not reciprocate.

Many fungi are beneficial. The most immediate examples are the kitchen fungi mushrooms and yeasts. Just as without mushrooms our pizza would be naked and without yeast we wouldn’t have bread, without mold we wouldn’t have cheese. In addition, just as there are molds that are harmful to human health, mold also gives us an important medicine – Penicillium, which you and I know as the antibiotic penicillin. Finally, appropriate to the spirit of the season with which we began this column, it is important to note that without these microorganisms – the study of which is admittedly not for the squeamish – biological waste from plant matter to human corpses would not decompose.

Autumn in New York

2011-10-20T10:00:00.001-04:00

Just a few weeks after the equinox, New York has settled into autumn as if it was a comfy blanket. We’ve had several glorious weekends in a row, just right to inaugurate the annual rite known as autumn in New York. The streets swelled on the first chill Saturday of the season as New Yorkers stayed in town en masse for the first weekend since Memorial Day. There was not a seat to be had at tavern, brunch spot or sidewalk café as we met to catch up with ourselves and our city over omelets, cappuccinos and Bloody Marys. New Yorkers wrapped in jackets and snuggled into sweaters lined up at the movies, as our favorite rep house welcomed autumn with its usual slate of programming designed to evoke post-show opinionating at a favorite bistro.

Shops are signaling readiness for the autumn holidays with a fervor that I don’t remember seeing for years. Walking the Flatiron and SoHo that weekend, I saw appropriately scary or homey displays (or both) everywhere from Crate and Barrel and Pier 1 to West Elm and Fish’s Eddy. At Pottery Barn, I was delighted to find a string of lights designed as caged crows. These birds, which represent both intellect and dread, find a welcome perch in the spooky, scholarly atmosphere of our home office.

But if name brand window-shopping is one of the delights of city living, it is the small shops that give our neighborhoods character, just as they do on main streets throughout the country. It is my autumn tradition to spend a chilly Saturday afternoon on my favorite such stretch in the West Village. A handful of old-fashioned Halloween candy from Li-Lac is the perfect companion for a leisurely stroll along dew-slick cobblestones and storefronts glowing amber. I often find The Golden Rule hosting a wine tasting behind the leaded windows of their storefront on Hudson Street. I've written before about McNulty’s, whose caffeinated embrace pours right out of an historic doorway on Christopher Street. A pound of their spiced pumpkin coffee resides in our urban kitchen from Labor Day straight through Thanksgiving, and gifts of French Roast Java Mountain Supreme will be tucked with jars of homemade jam into Christmas parcels when that time comes.

This year, I was delighted to encounter new businesses that suggest signals of faith in the economic future. The tiny Meadow delighted my epicurean heart and palate with a dentist’s nightmare selection of imported chocolate and an apothecary’s dream selection of bitters. I will alternate using Bitter Tears’ sassy Lucille and sexy Lolita bitters to anoint my Manhattans until the holiday season, when I will switch to Black Russians. For that season, both gifts given and hinted for will be found at LEO Design. This is not strictly a new business but one relocated from the recent unfortunate gentrification of Bleecker Street. This shop's selection of pieces from the American Arts and Crafts school is so carefully curated and beautifully displayed that I imagine the ghost of Cole Porter HimSelf spinning the period music that plays in the background.

It is appropriate to think about the winter holidays, not just because they will be here before we know it but because autumn is the gateway to the dark half of the year. At the equinox, we achieved the perfect balance between shadow and light as the earth, poised in tranquil suspension between sun and moon, experienced an equal amount of daylight and starlight. But even as we appreciated that moment of perfect balance, the scales were tilting, and dark hours began to overtake light ones. The eternal journey continues towards the winter solstice, around which the winter holidays arrange themselves. That journey is marked midway by All Hallow’s Eve, an important holiday known religiously as Samhain and secularly as Halloween.

From pagans for whom it is a night of both celebration and solemnity to school kids of all ages for whom it is the night of tricks and treats, Halloween is the official holiday of Greenwich Village. The Halloween parade has been a tradition since 1973, when theatre artists aspired to create a spectacular street happening based on the ethos of the holiday. One of the founders was Ralph Lee, a master puppeteer who was one of my teachers in grad school. Ralph and the co-founders of the parade, who had been theatre artists since the heyday of street theatre in the 1960s, had a large backstock of puppets and masks from that work. They put these to use along with music, street performers and actors to entice watchers into joining the parade itself. How thunderstruck many of those spectators must have been, for, appropriately, that first parade was not announced. It just manifested on the streets in a blast of color and noise that was perfectly in spirit with the happening of a community-based final harvest festival.

The spirit of shock, joy, and celebration remains in the contemporary Halloween parade, which along with the Thanksgiving parade and the Pride march is New York City's largest such event. The Halloween parade swarms its loud, gaudy way down Sixth avenue to culminate in a free-for-all at Jefferson Market. Local news stations cover the event live, with everyone from news anchors to costume designers to lifestyle writers taking the podium to share their thoughts on the proceedings. Citizens and visitors dive right into the revelries along with the jugglers and street musicians and puppeteers and mummers. The creativity and expression of the Halloween parade perfectly echo both the spiritual legacy of the night and the free-spirit legacy of the Village. Though the traditional monsters abound from vampires and werewolves to robots and aliens, the best costumes result from simple creativity. Liberate a refrigerator box from a streetside delivery. Spray-paint it gold and cut an aperture. Put on your gypsy finery and rig the box over your shoulders. Just as sure as you can say "deposit a quarter and Madame Zora will tell your future," you're a fortune telling machine. Punch eye holes in that same box and wheat paste it with oceanic gift wrap from the 99 cent store, and you're an aquarium.

Halloween is perfectly positioned between the quickening of pulse that arrives with Labor Day and back to school and the logistical aerobics that commence at Thanksgiving and proceed straight through Christmas to New Year’s. As are all seasons, autumn is transitory, and, as befits a holiday whose root is transition, Halloween is the high water mark for autumn pleasures. The leaves are showing their richest colors and the evening chill is at its most agreeable. The rich flavor of pumpkin and heady fragrance of spice appear not just on our dessert board but in our beer steins, our latte cups, our pasta bowls, even our votive cups. Add to this the delightful fun of scary stories and the touching stories of monsters who need our love, and we understand that the most poetic of seasons is poetic for a reason. After summer, with its expansive themes of travel and leisure, autumn is the return to the hearth, the security of structure, the embrace of home.

Urban Bar: Corpse Reviver

2011-10-15T10:00:00.001-04:00

In our urban home and, I would wager, along with damn near everyone we know, we were riveted earlier this month by Ken Burns’ outstanding telling of the tale of Prohibition. This was not the first Sunday night John and I have spent in the Fitzgerald era. For as long as I’ve been able to tune a radio, few Sunday nights have passed absent the jazz age company of The Big Broadcast, a weekly show devoted to spinning the music of the 1920s and 1930s. Our film library is heavy on 30s musicals and melodramas, and my collection of Rudolph Valentino films and ephemera is almost as extensive as was the wailing wall that fateful week in August, 1926.

We split our attention between a long-established residence in New York City and the increasing likelihood of either a second residence in or relocation to Los Angeles. If New York was the epicenter of the Prohibition speakeasy then, L.A. is the epicenter of the Prohibition cocktail today. In LA – truly one of the drinkingest towns I’ve ever been to -- cocktailology goes beyond lifestyle and art form to reverence. It is fitting to order your speakeasy cocktail at The Tar Pit, for that room is dedicated to times gone so far by it wasn’t bootleggers who were patrolling the area but dinosaurs. Down the street at Jar, the irony of being served a perfect Manhattan in the heart of Hollywood isn’t lost. Up on Hollywood Boulevard, the martinis at Musso and Frank are rightly reckoned as those by which all others are measured, as applies to whatever they’re pouring at the Frolic Room.

Crazy obscure cocktails from times passed have a special cachet in LA. Perhaps this is because Los Angeles is widely recognized as one of the most haunted locations in the nation. To take a brief tour of haunted Hollywood, click here. Cool bars in LA often have the speakeasy vibe, from the burnished and velvety interiors to the pub menus to the fact that to locate them is often something of a treasure hunt. Not infrequently, entering one is akin to stepping through a portal to the past – a neat twist for a city that turns on the dime of the new, the now and the next.

Specific libations find specific homes either by room, by bartender or both. Downtown, not far from a stretch of stale-smoke tap rooms offering pool tables and dollar drafts, one can, with effort, cause the entrance to the Seven Grand to materialize. In this dark and clubby setting, downtowners in suits from the nearby office towers rub ectoplasm with spectral entities in jazz age finery over libations from a menu tagged by date. As befits the six-feet-underground vibe, the best cocktails are off-menu.

I don’t know what it speaks to about their occult practices if any, but the Seven Grand mixologists have a demonstrated facility with the Corpse Reviver. This concoction literally embodies the idea of times passed, because there’s a cadaver right in the name. Further behind the veil, however, is the history of the drink. Other than in the graveyard, the first confirmed sighting of the Corpse Reviver is in the venerable Savoy Cocktail Book. There it is nestled as creepy and potent as goofer dust between the Coronation and the Cota. As did many of these cocktails, over time the Corpse Reviver sank into the ground. Eventually it crawled back out, taking the form modern zombies recognize. For the corpse of the name isn’t a cadaver, it’s a drunkard. And the reviving of the name isn’t necromancy, it’s medicine.

Only your voodoo priestess knows how, but the Corpse Reviver got lumped into the category of bar preparations – some alcoholic, some not – meant to cure hangover. Unlike the Bloody Mary or the Prairie Oyster, which had a passing and arguable medical rationale as hangover remedies, the Corpse Reviver takes the straightforward approach. No fewer than three shots and one dash of straight alcohol are stirred together with fresh lemon juice in a hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you approach that we can justifiably call the embalming fluid of the mortician who buried you.

As any mad scientist will tell you, to revive the corpse, one’s potion must be exactingly measured. In preparing the Corpse Reviver, there is no latitude for measure. Accordingly, the recipe below measures liquor in ounces rather than our preferred method of shots. Uncommon to magic spells, there is some room for latitude with ingredients. This is because two of the ingredients for the classic Corpse Reviver were unavailable for a long time, and one of them still is. Original recipes for a Corpse Reviver use Kina Lillet, a specialty of the Lillet House that now provides us with Lillets Blanc et Rouge and was a apertif of wine, macerated liqueurs and quinine. Though, as is often true of occult elements, someone inevitably swears they have a source for it, Kina Lillet has been out of production for decades, and Lillet Blanc is the accepted substitute. The other element, Absinthe, was illegal in the United States for decades, but no longer is.

In a correctly rendered Corpse Reviver, each ingredient is distinguishable while balanced against the other flavors. It is tart, sweet, floral and herbal all at once. Decant your Corpse Reviver into a short martini glass to appreciate the suitably ghoulish pale fluid, rendered opaque by the louching of the Absinthe. One taste and you will understand the cult of this exacting and blithe spirit from times gone – perhaps way gone – by, as well as this warning that by tradition seals all mention of this historic libation: “Four of these taken in straight succession will unrevive the corpse again.“

CORPSE REVIVER

This recipe is for a Corpse Reviver 2. The Corpse Reviver 1 – a mix of brandies and sweet vermouth – was so unpopular among the zombies in our Urban Bar that I have not included it here.

3/4 ounce quality gin, such as Plymouth, New Amsterdam or Hendrick’s
3/4 ounce Cointreau
3/4 ounce Lillet Blanc
¼ teaspoon Absinthe, such as La Fee or Lucid
1 lemon, preferably organic

1. Run the lemon under your palm along the bar. Cut the lemon in half and use a lemon press to juice the lemon halves over a glass, working over a sieve to catch any pith or seeds.
2. Ice down a martini glass. For directions, click here.
3. Fill a cocktail shaker reserved for clear alcohol with ice.
4. Add the gin, Cointreau and Lillet Blanc to the cocktail shaker.
5. Measure 3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice into the cocktail shaker.
6. Measure the Absinthe into the cocktail shaker.
7. Place the lid on the shaker and shake vigorously -- up and down, not side to side -- until the top is too cold to touch.
8. Empty the water and ice from the glass.
9. Remove the cap from the shaker. You should have a silken, pale yellowish-white cocktail.
10. Decant the cocktail into the iced glass.
11. Garnish with maraschino cherry.
12. Serve immediately.

Weeknight Dinner: Cider-Braised Chicken

2011-10-10T10:00:00.005-04:00

Autumn is a glorious time for celebrating the sacred details of daily living. Whether it’s for pleasure or chores, a walk turns into an adventure by the simple act of being outside. Crisp breezes tease around shoulders comforted by well-worn flannel. Leaf-shedding trees are bursting into autumn’s showstopping palate of brown, gold, russet, orange and amber while conifers are sprucing up to show off sturdy vistas of evergreen. A hot coffee beckons at the corner coffeehouse as we go about our errands, perhaps attended by a slice of spicy coffee cake or flavorful quick bread.

Back home, summer’s play clothes are folded away for the last time this season. Sweaters are unfolded and inspected. Woolens that are stored effectively should exhibit no nibble holes from the hungry mandibles of moths. Blankets and comforters are shaken from cedar chests and refreshed by an afternoon in that cool autumn breeze. We clean and store the beach towels and make a mental note that soon it will be time to inspect the Thanksgiving linens. We visit with our houseplants as we refresh their top soil. As good plant parents, we want to help these members of our families prepare for overwintering.

The end of the day when we change over the home from summer to autumn begs for a cozy meal. At Urban Home Blog, autumn weeknight dinner menus include an aromatic roasted pork loin served with warm apples, a woodsy plank of salmon served with olives and potatoes, and a big bowl of beef stew brewed with beer and onions. This year, our signature weeknight dinner for the autumn season is a plate of fragrant sautéed chicken, served with a quick, flavorful pan sauce made with herbs and apple cider.

Apple cider is the official drink of autumn. We serve it hot and spicy from ladles and scoop it thick and sweet onto our toast, so it seems a natural progression to cook a meal with it. I thought I was so smart to cook with cider, but a spot check of two volumes in the Homekeeper’s Library of vintage cookbooks confirms that a cider pan sauce or glaze is a long-establishing cooking practice. Both The Culinary Arts Institute Encyclopedic Cookbook (1950) and Farm Journal's Country Cookbook (1939) use apple cider to create a glaze for holiday ham and roasted vegetables and as an ingredient to replace the wine or beer in beef stew.

Here is my original recipe for an autumnal dinner of cider-braised chicken. As is typical for most stovetop braises, the chicken is briefly sauteed before the vegetables -- in this case the small flat Italian onions known as Cipollini, which agree with the sweet-savory character of the dish -- are added to the pan along with the braising liquid. It’s a simple preparation, which is as welcome after a day of doing chores as will be the orchard fragrance it releases as it braises on the stovetop. Serve your cider-braised chicken with roasted vegetables, a plate of biscuits and cold ale.

CIDER-BRAISED CHICKEN

Most cooks prefer to buy a whole chicken and cut it up themselves, but you can have the butcher prepare two breasts and four thighs for a braise. Cipollini onions are available at farmer’s markets and in the produce section of larger supermarkets. If you can’t get cipollini onions, use pearl onions. This recipe serves four.

4 halves from 2 whole bone-in chicken breasts, preferably organic
4 bone-in chicken thighs, preferably organic
1 pound cipollini onions
2 medium cloves garlic
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
¼ cup cake flour
1 cup apple cider
3 tablespoons brandy
2 teaspoons Balsamic vinegar
2 teaspoons dried thyme
1 teaspoon dried rubbed sage
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil

1. Unwrap the chicken pieces and rinse under cool water. Pat dry with clean paper towels. Place the chicken pieces on a heatproof platter. Sprinkle the chicken pieces with salt and several grindings fresh black pepper. Lightly cover the chicken with a piece of parchment paper. Set the covered chicken aside to rest while you prepare the onions and the flour mixture.

2. Fill a saucepan halfway with water. Place the pan on the burner and turn the heat to high. Fill a bowl halfway with cold water; add ice to the bowl.

3. Once the water in the saucepan is boiling, add the onions to the boiling water. Cook just until the onion skins start crackling, 1 minute.

4. Turn off the burner. Drain the onions into a colander and then transfer the onions to the iced water. Use your hands to stir the onions in the iced water. When the onions feel cool to the touch, drain the onions into the colander.

5. Measure the cake flour, dried rubbed sage, 1 teaspoon dried thyme, a good shake of salt and several grindings of fresh black pepper into a pie plate or a shallow bowl. Use a wire whisk to incorporate the dry ingredients.

6. Place a large sauté pan on the burner. Drizzle the bottom of the pan with a five count of extra virgin olive oil. Add one pat (1 tablespoon) butter to the pan. Heat the burner to medium-high.

7. Working one or two pieces at a time, place the chicken pieces into the seasoned flour mixture. Turn the pieces to ensure they are evenly coated with a thin layer of the flour mixture. Return the coated pieces to the platter as you go. You should have just enough seasoned flour to coat eight pieces of chicken.

8. Once the oil develops a sheen, gently place the chicken breasts, meat-side down, into the pan. Shake the pan gently to ensure that the chicken doesn’t stick. Cook the chicken breasts until the tops are golden and fragrant, approximately 5 minutes. Once the tops of the chicken breasts are cooked, use kitchen tongs to flip the chicken pieces so that the bottoms of the chicken breasts are resting in the hot oil. Cook until seared, approximately 2 minutes.

9. Use the tongs to carefully transfer the cooked chicken breasts to the platter and arrange them so that the seared tops of the breasts face upwards, undisturbed.

10. If the pan is running dry, refresh with a three-count of extra virgin olive oil. Add the remaining pat (1 tablespoon) of butter to the pan. Place the chicken thighs in the pan and cook as in Step 8 above. Transfer the cooked chicken thighs to the platter as in Step 9 above.

11. While the chicken is cooking, prepare the onions. Use the tip of a paring knife to remove the root and stem ends of each onion. Use your fingers to rub off and discard the papery outer skin that should be loose after the boil-and-blanch method in steps 2 - 4 above. Continue until you have cleaned all of the onions.

12. Once the chicken is seared per steps 8 - 10 above, peel the garlic and remove the root end. Halve each clove; remove and discard any sprouting from the center. Slice each half lengthways into slivers and then each sliver lengthways into matchsticks. Cut across the matchsticks to mince. Scrape the minced garlic into the pan. Add the peeled onions to the pan.

13. Cook the garlic-onion mixture until the mixture starts to give off its fragrance, approximately 2 minutes. Use a heatproof silicon spatula or wooden spoon to stir the mixture and to scrape up the browned bits from the bottom of the pan.

14. Reduce burner to low. Gently add the cider to the pan. Use the spatula or wooden spoon to stir the pan mixture until well-combined. The mixture will thicken.

15. Carefully measure the brandy and the Balsamic vinegar into the pan mixture. Use the spatula or wooden spoon to stir the pan mixture until well-combined.

16. Use the tongs to gently nestle the chicken pieces into the mixture in the pan. Be careful to place the chicken pieces so that the seared tops are facing upwards and not covered with liquid. Sprinkle with the remaining teaspoon of thyme.

17. Once you have placed all of the chicken in the pan, cover the pan.

18. Cook undisturbed on low until the chicken is cooked safely through to 165 degrees on a meat thermometer, approximately 25 minutes.

19. After 25 minutes, lift the lid and give the pan a gentle shake. The chicken should be golden and cooked through and the sauce should be fragrant and velvety.

20. Distribute the braised onions and sauce among four bowls. Top each bowl with a chicken breast and thigh. Serve.

Pear Coffee Cake

2011-10-05T10:00:00.019-04:00

Attentive readers have deduced that, along with wine, coffee is the official sponsoring beverage of Urban Home Blog. I am still honored that last winter’s coffee column was mentioned by no less an authority than my favorite mystery author. Last week we gathered in jangled online and in-person mobs to celebrate National Coffee Day. From posing with a newspaper on that beautiful background you see whenever you visit Urban Home Blog to helping me to write it, coffee is the most hospitable of beverages.

Before coffeehouse culture achieved its full foamy head with just a dusting of powdery aromatic cinnamon, hosting a coffee klatch was an expected part of every homekeeper’s repertoire of skills. In those days when “text” was words on paper and “tweet” was what birds do, the clarion call would go out by telephone, handwritten note or even hollering across the back yard to “come for coffee.” Though they could be formal, coffee klatches were inherently informal, and that was their charm and, for that matter, their usage. An impromptu gathering of friends and neighbors to bond, grouse, commiserate or just get to know each other over a cup of coffee is group support. It’s no coincidence that today, the evolution of “come for coffee” often leads to the local coffeehouse, nor is it accidental that that coffeehouse is wired for the wi-fi that helps us to log onto social media while we're there.

Of course, coffeehouses existed before Starbucks made that fateful decision to expand operations. Coffeehouses were typically located in big cities and college towns, where they had in turn migrated from European culture capitals. If, in the popular imagination, coffeehouses from the beat Village to University Avenue were forums for intellectual discourse, one can’t really say that on the homefront, the klatch was any different. Whether the coffee was inky demitasse perched on dime-sized tables or strong home brew served off of what is tellingly called the coffee table, minds and mouths were at work.

One thing they were working on was dessert. Whether elaborate fancies posed in glass cases or more homespun efforts displayed proudly on heirloom china, a sweet accompaniment is as important a partner to a cup of coffee as is sugar, cream and an opinion. In fact, at both the pastry chef and home cook levels of competition, constructing an appropriate dessert to serve with coffee was a barometer of skill not just as a cook but as a host.

Cookbooks and home entertaining guides from the era usually have entire sections devoted to the coffee klatch. Without fail, they include recipes for coffee rings and coffee cakes. A coffee ring is a filled quick bread baked in a ring, often slashed open so that the insides have the chance to huddle together in the oven’s warm embrace before being drizzled by a quick cool-down of powdered sugar icing. One such, a “della robbia wreath” of honeyed bread dough, sugared fruit and brandy, looks to require a Meilleurs Ouvriers de France level of commitment that I firmly believe home cooks would have no trouble with. But most are simpler, for a coffee treat echoes the cup it accompanies, and though that is a complex ballet of flavors so dramatic, nay poetic, that it inspires buzzed lifestyle writers to unedited flights of wordsmithing fancy, at its core, coffee is a simple, earthy beverage.

And that leads us to coffee cake. A coffee cake is typically a brown sugar cake, itself an almost lost artform in which the deep flavors of brown sugar mixed with sweet-hot spices mount a two-fold offense to infiltrate a cake both within the batter and along the streusel top. Aside from coffee cake, the most recognizable form of brown-sugar cake is the upside-down cake.

Whether it’s the famous white box with blue lettering you grab from the rack you swore you were going to avoid at the supermarket to an heirloom recipe handed down from your Nana, coffee cake is the perfect and, let’s admit it, expected offering for a coffee klatch. Here is my original recipe for a coffee cake that takes advantage of the season’s orchard bounty with a crown of buttery pears baked, in a tip of the hat and the pan to the upside-down cake, right under a spicy and brandy-laced caramel topping. Serve your pear coffee cake with your favorite blend – see my recommendations here – and just see how the conversation, and the smiles, progress when you send out the invitation to “come for coffee.”

PEAR COFFEE CAKE

Almond flour is available in the baking sections of larger supermarkets and online, but if you can’t find it, buy whole unsalted almonds and finely grind them using the grinder attachment of a stick blender. In our urban kitchen, we use a handheld mixer to make cakes, but you can use a stand mixer for this recipe; just adjust the mixing directions accordingly.

4 medium ripe firm-fleshed pears, such as Anjou, Bartlett or Bosc
2-½ sticks unsalted butter
1 cup all purpose flour
3/4 cup ground almonds or almond flour
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
½ cup granulated sugar
1-1/2 cups packed brown sugar
1-1/4 teaspoons ground cinnamon
3/4 teaspoon ground allspice
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
½ teaspoon ground cardamom
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 tablespoon brandy
3 large eggs
Non-stick cooking spray

1. Heat the oven to 350 degrees.

2. Spray an 11-inch baking pan with non-stick baking spray. Place the prepared pan safely within reach of your working surface.

3. Unwrap two sticks unsalted butter and place the butter in the well of a deep bowl. Use the wrappers to loosely cover the butter. Set the bowl aside so that the butter can soften.

4. Fill a bowl large enough to hold the pears halfway with water. Add a few drops commercial produce cleaner to the water; swirl to combine. Gently remove stickers if any from the pears and place the pears in the water.

5. Unwrap the remaining half-stick of unsalted butter and place the butter into a small saucepan. Melt the butter over low heat, swirling the butter in the pan to help it along. Once the butter is melted, turn off the burner.

6. Use a spoon to fill a 1-cup measure with brown sugar. Use the back of the spoon to press the sugar into the measure so that it is “tightly packed.” Transfer the tightly packed brown sugar to the melted butter. Use a wire whisk to break the sugar up into the butter. Measure the brandy and ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon into the butter-sugar mixture. Whisk the mixture until no lumps remain.

7. Hold the pan containing the butter-sugar mixture over the prepared baking pan. Transfer the butter-sugar mixture to the baking pan. Use a silicon spatula to get all of the mixture into the baking pan, and to smooth it in an even layer across the bottom of the pan.

8. Remove the pears from the cleaning water and place them into a colander. Rinse the pears under cool water.

9. Working one at a time, place each pear stem-end up on the cutting board. Cut the pear in half from top to bottom. Halve each half to form quarters. Use the knife to remove the stem, seeds with their hard core, the blossom end, and any bruised or discolored areas. Cut each trimmed quarter in half to form eighths. As you go, align each eighth in a slightly overlapping layer across the butter-sugar mixture on the bottom of the baking pan.

10. Measure the flour, almond flour or ground almonds, allspice, nutmeg, cardamom and remaining 1 teaspoon of cinnamon into a bowl; use a whisk to combine. Place the bowl of spiced flour near the mixing area.

11. Tightly pack the remaining 1/2 cup brown sugar following the directions in step 6 above. Place the brown sugar into a bowl. Add the granulated sugar to the bowl containing the brown sugar. Place the bowl near the mixing area.

12. Place the vanilla extract, the eggs and the measuring spoons near the mixing area.

13. Use a handheld mixer to whip the butter until it is pale and creamy; approximately two minutes. Use a silicon spatula to scrape down the beaters and the sides of the bowl.

14. Add the dry brown sugar mixture to the bowl containing the whipped butter. Use the mixer to whip the mixture together until it is thick and creamy, approximately two minutes. Use a silicon spatula to scrape down the beaters and the sides of the bowl.

15. Break an egg into the bowl containing the butter-sugar mixture. Measure the vanilla extract into the bowl containing the butter-sugar mixture. Use the mixer to whip the egg and the vanilla into the butter-sugar mixture.

16. Add one-half of the spiced flour mixture to the batter mixture in the bowl; use the mixer to beat the mixture just until combined. Add the second egg to the batter mixture, followed by the remaining half of the spiced flour mixture, followed by the third egg. Beat the batter after each addition just until combined.

17. Hold the bowl containing the batter over the prepared baking pan. Use a silicon spatula to gently transfer the batter to the pan, moving the bowl down the pan in order to minimize the disturbance to the pear-brown sugar mixture on the bottom of the pan.

18. Carefully transfer the pan to the preheated oven. Bake undisturbed for 20 minutes.

19. While the coffee cake is baking, position a baking rack large enough to hold the cake over a double layer of paper towels or a clean cookie sheet.

20. After 20 minutes, check the cake using a cake tester or toothpick; the tester should come out clean. If warranted, bake the cake 5 minutes longer. Once the cake is cooked through, remove the cake from the oven and turn the oven off.

21. Place the baking rack upside-down on the top of the cake pan, so that the bottom of the baking rack is facing upwards. Use pot holders to grab the pan and the rack and to hold them together. Flip the pan and the rack so that the rack is on the bottom. The legs of the baking rack should pop down.

22. Stand the baking rack with the inverted cake over the paper towels/cookie sheet. The cake should fall onto the rack.

23. Gently remove the baking pan. Use the silicon spatula to remove and replace any dislodged or stuck pear topping.

24. Let cake cool 5 minutes before serving.

Apple Cider Jelly

2011-09-25T10:00:00.108-04:00

Harvest celebrations are common to many cultures. In America, harvest gatherings from hayrides to corn mazes open the path to Thanksgiving, in which abundance and gratitude for it spill forth as if from the cornucopia that is the symbol of the season. Fittingly, Thanksgiving is positioned just as autumn decays into winter. It was hard to imagine during lazy, sunny days, but we have been turning towards the winter solstice since June, and Friday’s equinox marked the halfway point of that journey. Their placement between the height of summer sun and the gathering twilight of Halloween underscores the importance of the year’s harvest holidays, for the abundance we celebrate is both cumulative and transitory.

Autumn is the season of Sukkot, the week-long Jewish celebration that commemorates the 40-year journey through the desert after the Exodus. Along with religious rites, feasting is the hallmark of Sukkot. Meals are consumed in a temporary hut called a sukkah that honors the temporary shelters built by the ancestors as they wandered the desert. In New York City, sukkahs appear in both residential areas and city parks. In the latter, “Sukkah-fests” give the faithful and the artistic the opportunity to interpret this wonderful holiday by interpreting the sukkah structure itself.

This golden season is symbolized by the abundance of the orchard as it fills bushel baskets. Tree fruits from snappy apples to buttery pears are peaking right now. Also at the orchard, they’ve fired up the cider press. I’ve written before about apple cider and its role as the official drink of autumn. But did you know you can preserve apple cider in a jar? Handled attentively, cider expresses a jelly that is both nuanced and deeply flavored. It is no accident that no county fair is complete without tables of glass jars shimmering in the slanting rays of late season sunlight. The county fair is a harvest festival, and canning is a practical, but artistic, expression of appreciation for the harvest. Here is an original recipe for welcoming autumn into your home by capturing its signature flavor. This recipe will yield about eight 8-ounce jars, but if you wish, use double the amount of 4-ounce jars so that once you’ve preserved this sweet distillation of the harvest, you can express the spirit of the harvest by sharing.

APPLE CIDER JELLY

It is essential to follow safe canning practices. For instructions on safe canning, click here: http://www.uga.edu/nchfp/publications/publications_usda.html, or here: http://www.freshpreserving.com/getting-started.aspx.

6 cups apple cider, preferably organic
7 cups granulated sugar
1 1.75 box powdered fruit pectin
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1-1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground allspice
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1. Prepare canner, jars and lids.

2. Place a large clean Dutch Oven or stock pot on the stovetop.

3. Measure the cider and the lemon juice into the pan. Turn the heat to high.

4. Add the pectin to the cider/lemon juice mixture. Use a wire whisk to stir the mixture until the pectin is completely dissolved.

5. Measure the sugar into a large bowl. Measure the spices into the sugar; use a clean wire whisk to combine. Place the spiced sugar safely within reach of the jelly mixture on the stovetop.

6. Once the cider/lemon mixture has reached a full rolling boil that cannot be stirred down, add the spiced sugar all at once to the cider/lemon mixture. Being careful to avoid splashing yourself with the hot mixture, stir the mixture until the sugar is dissolved and the spices give off their fragrance. Heat on high until the mixture returns to a full rolling boil that cannot be stirred down, approximately 2 minutes.

7. Once mixture reaches full rolling boil that cannot be stirred down, turn the burner off.

8. Working carefully to avoid burning yourself or overly disturbing the jelly mixture, use a slotted spoon or skimmer to skim foam off of jelly and into the bowl that contained the sugar.

9. Place a clean towel on a counter near the canner.

10. Use canning tongs to remove hot jars from water bath. Do your best not to touch the hot jars; let the tongs do the work. Place hot jars mouth up on the clean towel.

11. Use a jar lifter to transport a jar mouth-side up to the pan containing the hot jelly. Place a clean canning funnel into the mouth of the jar. Use a clean spoon or ladle to fill the jar with jelly to the ½-inch mark. Continue until all of the jars are filled. It is okay if there is jelly left over; refrigerate it for use within 1 month.

12. Check for and remove air bubbles if any (see instructions).

13. Use a clean, damp sponge to wipe the rim of each jar. Center a clean, hot lid (see instructions) on each jar. Screw a band down on each jar until it meets resistance; increase just until tight.

14. Use canning tongs to return the jars to the boiling water bath. Add more water if necessary to ensure that the jars are completely covered by boiling water by 1 inch. Process in boiling water bath for 10 minutes.

15. After jars have processed for ten minutes in the boiling water bath, turn off the heat. Remove the canner lid and set aside. Let jars sit in hot water ten minutes.

16. After ten minutes, use the canning tongs to remove the jars. Being very careful of the hot jars, lids and liquid, place jars upright on the towel. Allow to sit 24 hours. After 24 hours, check for a vacuum seal (see instructions). Label each jar with the contents and the date prepared. Safely prepared, stored and sealed, the jam will keep for one year from date of preparation

Roasted Vegetables

2011-09-20T20:00:00.070-04:00

Though it is usually a poetic season, autumn seems to be straggling in this year. Summertime was a season of atmospheric turmoil as a history-making drought scarred the western landscape while in the northeast, the Susquehanna flooded its banks. My thoughts were with not just friends and family in these areas but everyone affected. A college friend posted photos of her flooded Pennsylvania hometown, while in upstate New York, a dear friend posted photos of the devastation caused by Tropical Storm Irene. Relief efforts are ongoing in all areas; to learn how to help, click here and here.

One way we can all help is to patronize farmer’s markets. These institutions give a region’s farmers a crucial forum for their work with the land. This is always important, for many farms rely on such venues as farmer's markets as a source of the funds that allow their farms to operate, but after this summer of weather extremes, it is more important than ever. During drought and flood, not only do crops suffer but so do the stewards of the land.

At Urban Home Blog, we have always done and will continue to do our part. We have championed the farmer's market from the sunny expanses of its expression in Los Angeles to the tightly controlled real estate of Union Square. We always cook with the freshest ingredients possible, obtaining them whenever we can from a source as close to the grower as possible. Really, it's no sacrifice, for who wouldn't want to eat the healthiest, freshest food grown by loving hands and collected via a lovely walk through those rows of stalls?

We gather the freshest, tenderest lettuces for our salad bowl, the crispest apples and juiciest pears for our pie plate and canning jar, the most fragrant herbs for our soup pot. And it doesn't stop there -- at most farmer's markets, there is space for local craftspeople from the creamer to the vintner to the knife sharpener. While you're gathering fruit for pies and jam and cider for boiling, don't neglect your veggies. Along with tree fruits and grapes, root vegetables, crucifers, lettuces, chiles and mushrooms are peaking right now.

Something about these first crisp nights draws us back to the hearth. No dish is more fundamental to the spirit of the embers, for a vegetable is one of the most elementary expressions of cultivating our own food, and roasting is the most elementary expression of the urge to cook itself. Once, as a species, we moved from gathering food to growing it, we learned that we have to nurture a plant to get it to bear forth. Once we learned to heat our food in the bane-fire, we learned that roasting is a form of nurturing.

The charred skin and creamy flesh of a roasted vegetable connects us with distant, vital memories of gathering around the fire at dusk, of a hot bite of something good to eat, of knowing that the earth's generosity is a sign of love. With autumn on the ascendant, with roasting vegetables coming into their own and with farmer's needing our support, there is no better time to prepare a pan of roasted vegetables. Here is an original recipe for you to add or perfect this fundamental skill that should be in every cook's repertoire.

ROASTED VEGETABLES

The spirit of this dish is best served by being flexible about its construction. This dish should highlight the best available produce on the day it was prepared. Accordingly, though this recipe reflects the mix of vegetables we like to roast in our urban home, the best mélange of vegetables is simply the best of the day's offerings. These could include turnips, celery, fennel, firm-fleshed squash such as butternut or acorn, even beets (if you must). This recipe will serve 4 – 6 as a side dish.

3 - 4 medium carrots
2 - 3 medium parsnips
½ pound baby potatoes, such as Yukon Gold or Red Cloud
1 medium sweet potato
1 – 2 large leeks
1 medium firm sweet apple such as Delicious, Gala or Winesap or firm sweet pear such as Anjou, Bosc or Bartlett
4 - 6 sprigs fragrant, woodsy herbs, such as thyme, oregano or rosemary, or a mix of the three
Non-stick cooking spray
Walnut oil or extra-virgin olive oil
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

2. Line an 11- or 13-inch metal or ceramic baking pan with a layer of aluminum foil, shiny side up. Spray the foil with non-stick cooking spray. Pull a length of foil long enough to cover the top of the pan; spray the shiny side with non-stick cooking spray and set aside.

3. Drizzle the bottom of the pan with oil. Sprinkle the bottom of the pan with kosher salt and several grindings of fresh black pepper.

4. Position an in-sink colander in place. Place a scraps bowl, a clean cutting board devoted to vegetables, a peeler and a sharp knife on your work surface.

5. Align the leeks side-by-side on the cutting board. Use a sharp knife to cut off the root ends of the leeks; place them in the scraps bowl. Moving up the body of the leeks, cut the white and pale green parts of the leeks into coins about 1/4" inch wide; stop when you get to the rough dark green upper leaves. Set the dark green upper leaves aside to clean and use for sachets des epices or place them into the scraps bowl.

6. Scrape the white and pale green leek coins into a bowl. Do not worry if they are gritty. Cover the leeks with cold water and set the bowl aside. As you work, check the water every few minutes. When it is cloudy, empty the bowl of water by tilting it toward your hand and using your hand as a dam to keep the leeks from tumbling out. Refill with water and check again a few minutes later. Within two or three changes of water, the water should stay clear and the leeks will be clean of grit.

7. Empty the potatoes into the colander and rinse the potatoes thoroughly. Pick through the clean potatoes, using the tip of a paring knife to remove eyes or brown spots if any; deposit imperfections into the scraps bowl.

8. Rinse the cutting board. Use a peeler to peel each carrot and each parsnip, letting the peels fall into the scraps bowl. Working one at a time, cut off the top and bottom tip of each carrot and parsnip; do not use the large, tough top of the vegetables. Place the cut tops and tips of the vegetables into the scraps bowl.

9. Working one at a time, cut across each carrot, parsnip and potato to form coins approximately ½ inch thick. Return the cut vegetables to the colander. Rinse again with cool water and leave to drain while you prepare the sweet potato.

10. Peel and rinse the sweet potato. Use the tip of the knife to cut away any tough eyes or brown spots; add these and the peel to the scraps bowl.

11. Lay the sweet potato on the cutting board; cut the sweet potato in half lengthways. The flesh of the sweet potato will be tougher than that of the other vegetables, and will require stronger pressure so be extra careful that the knife doesn't slip. Cut each half in half to form quarters. Align the sweet potato quarters and cut across them to form half-coins ¼” thick. Add the sweet potato to the vegetables in the colander.

12. Peel the apple or pear. Working quickly, place the peeled apple or pear stem-end up on the cutting board. Cut the fruit in half from top to bottom. Halve each half to form quarters. Use the tip of the knife to remove the stem, seeds with their hard core, the blossom end, and any bruised or discolored areas and add them with the peel to the scraps bowl. Cut each trimmed quarter in half; cut across each to form bite-sized chunks. Add the chunked apple or pear to the vegetables in the colander.

13. Pick up the colander and, holding the colander over the sink, give it a good toss to mix the contents well and to drain the last of the water if any.

14. Distribute the vegetable mixture across the prepared surface of the roasting pan. Drain the cleaned leeks, checking for any residual grit and re-rinsing if necessary, and add the leeks to the mixture in the pan.

15. Drizzle the mixture with oil and sprinkle it with kosher salt and several grindings of fresh black pepper. Working one stem at a time, hold each herb stem over the mixture in the pan. Strip down the stem in the opposite direction of the leaves’ growth, so that the leaves fall onto the mixture in the pan.

16. Position the length of prepared aluminum foil sprayed- and shiny-side down across the top of the baking dish. Crimp the edges of the foil onto the top of the dish, to form a tight seal.

17. Place the dish in the oven. Roast the vegetables undisturbed for 25 minutes.

18. After 25 minutes, remove the dish from the oven and pull back a corner of the foil, being careful of escaping steam. Use the tip of the knife to test one of the carrots; it should be soft and well on the way to tender but not cooked through. If the carrot isn’t ready, recrimp the foil and return the pan to the oven for 5 more minutes.

19. If the carrot is ready, or after 5 more minutes of roasting, remove the foil from the dish, being careful of escaping steam. The vegetables should be nicely cooked through and should have expressed a flavorful liquid.

20. Use a silicon spatula to stir the vegetable mixture, to coat it with the pan juices. Taste the mixture and adjust for seasoning if warranted.

21. Return the pan to the oven and roast the vegetables until they are well-cooked and slightly charred, approximately 10 - 15 more minutes. Serve immediately – and don’t forget to compost the contents of the scraps bowl!

Switching the Bedroom and the Home Office

2011-09-15T17:00:00.067-04:00

photo: Eric Diesel

Readers of Urban Home Blog know that John and I typically spend Labor Day doing a large-scale home project. In 2009, this was updating the dining area and in 2010 it was the living room. We had not planned to do a project in 2011, both because with those two projects the apartment had more or less come together and because, with a potential relocation to or second home in Los Angeles, we were building our savings. But I have learned that decorating projects are never truly completed. Both by inhabiting the rooms and through exposure to design itself through professional events, retail and media, one always sees areas great and small that one would do differently, could improve upon, would refresh. So while I was happy with the design of our urban home, I was also aware of changes that I would make given the opportunity.

One such was the utilization of the rooms themselves. City apartments follow "lines," meaning that the layout of each apartment on each floor echoes that of the apartment above and below it for the height of the building, with allowances for some floors such as entry, basement and penthouse. Your apartment line affects everything from the prestige of placement for those who care about that to, as everyone cares about, cost. The layout of our line is an ell with the kitchen/dining area inhabiting the lower foot of the ell. Rooms open along the riser of the ell. Flow is very important in a dwelling. The floor plan should invite both occupant and guest to navigate instinctively. For example, in our apartment the living room is the first room one sees when entering the apartment. Framed as it is by a double-wide doorway, it welcomes one to step into it -- to settle onto the mid-century modern sofa in paprika upholstery, to pop a DVD from the shelves of them into the player, to filch a piece of candy from a golden dish.

When we first moved in, the placement of many rooms occurred naturally, but we struggled with placing the home office and the bedroom. A logical choice for the bedroom would have been at the very front of the apartment, which is both next to the bathroom and the farthest room away from the common areas. However, that room fronts the street and we were concerned about both street noise and light pollution from a nearby landmark bridge. There was a room at the back of the apartment whose placement beside the kitchen puts it at the bend of the ell but along the back wall of the building itself. This makes this room the darkest and quietest in the apartment. Though it meant guests would pass our bedroom en route from living room to kitchen and dining -- thus, I feared, disrupting flow -- we placed our bedroom there and put the home office at the front of the apartment.

photo: Eric Diesel

I never stopped wondering about the decision to place the bedroom here. While I appreciated both the quietude of the room and the quality of the light as it fed through three windows embraced by the stately branches of a maple and the protective tendrils of ivy, it was those windows along with the long, narrow dimensions of the room that made placing bedroom furniture such a challenge. Ultimately, though as a designer's challenge it held some interest, it turned out that there really was no way to design the room so that it was proportional, pleasing and, oh yeah, restful. Not to overshare, but it even made getting up during the night to take a leak into a mountaineering trek across the length of the apartment.

Meanwhile, the room we were using as an office was only slightly better suited for that role. Everything had to be designed around a room that is essentially a square, but in an office, the fundamental shape from desk to bookshelf to computer screen to books to file folders to the papers they store is a rectangle. Neither noise nor light pollution were a problem for a room devoted to working and learning, but we did learn during open-window seasons that the street is, in fact, a moderately noisy one. I learned to appreciate as a form of city music the steady hum of traffic feeding onto the city bridge less than a block away. I wrote countless columns looking out that "writer's window" -- you have often read my references to the hollyhock bush that grows just outside, to the intoxicating smoke of barbeque grills during warm weather, to the sight of skiers navigating snow banks during blizzards.

As I've written about, last summer I went and got myself some cancer (as of this writing I remain cured), and even despite the energy lost not just during that time but that nags to this day, this year I woke up one mid-summer morning and thought, "why not go ahead and switch these rooms?" Though we had done intermediary work in the bedroom, I had never been satisfied with its design. Further, the bedroom furniture was 20 years old -- among the first household purchases for a young and barely solvent couple -- and was definitely showing its age. Anyone who has been with me on my "rounds" knows that, as many design professionals do, I am in the habit of visiting home stores to see what they're showing -- and also knows that for years I've been lingering over the displays of new bedroom furniture. After confirming that our savings could withstand the assault, we decided to buy new bedroom furniture, and to switch the bedroom and the office.

Thus, a summer that began innocuously as one of picnics in the park, visits with friends and walks through the city became one of the paradox of relaxing by doing work. It turned out that switching two rooms was the largest task we've undertaken in our urban home since the move into it. For, as anyone who's just dropped their kids off at college will confirm, that's what hauling the contents of one room into another one is: a move. This project proceeded as a move does: over weekends, evenings and other days off from work, with plenty of hot baths, take-out dinners, frustrations and rewards. I documented the journey via my twitter account, dispatching routine updates I hashtagged "renovation weekend No. X" and tweeting photos of the project as it progressed. As a result of my sharing the project via this media, I got a design gig I was able to accomplish quickly and invest the proceeds from into my own decorating project, and some on-air attention from a deejay whose program kept us company for many of those working hours.

photo: Eric Diesel

In looking at those photos, it's amazing to see how much work went into this room switch, and how long ago those weeks of effort already seem, though they really were just a month or two ago. I remember the first weekend trip to pick out the furniture -- we rented a car, which Captain John bravely piloted along the BQE on a golden summer day. We chomped the ice left in our cups from our lunch stop and I fiddled with the radio to coax out some appropriate road tunes. We had agreed that if we were going to do this it was worth doing right. Accordingly, we made the commitment to obtain investment pieces, including a quality mattress as a reward for the airbed we were sleeping on while the project was underway. It was worth making a day of it to drive to a showroom and dedicate an afternoon to the decision. The old bedroom suite had been a sleek set in black and russet, a good style when first obtained and one that performed faithfully for the ensuing two decades, but for our new suite we chose larger scale, almost stout pieces in an espresso finish. The larger scale, deeper finish and chunky cut of the new pieces would be characterized by a marketer as "masculine." Perhaps they are; if so, that's appropriate for a bedroom inhabited by men.

But beyond gendering a set of furniture, the pieces anchor the room by scale and tone. Though there are obvious utilitarian functions, from a design point of view, that is what a bedroom suite should do: anchor the room, so that all of the design elements (which, by the way, include function) proceed from how those pieces inhabit that space. Remembering this when shopping for bedroom furniture will help prevent that unfortunately well-known sinking feeling of a set that looked great on the showroom floor but looks off when it's assembled and placed in the room. The sales staff should be asking you questions that indicate that they understand this -- asking for your measurements of wall, door and window, if there will be electronics to take into consideration, even about your window and linen treatments. We walked into the showroom knowing we were furnishing a square room at the front of a city apartment building. That meant we wanted pieces that had presence but an economy of it -- strong enough, if you will, to take on the sights and sounds streetside without being macho about it.

While we were in the showroom, John surprised me by suggesting we look at club furniture. It turned out that he'd always wanted a home office with a sofa in it, and he turned out to be right. Though the office already had a club chair in chocolate leather, we found a matching club sofa whose dimensions agreed with the new office. We already knew we were going to line three walls of the office with shelves, reserving the fourth for the desk, computer setup and file cabinet. Placing furniture in the middle of a room is a somewhat gutsy move; home decorators are often intimidated by it. But we lose so much when we design a room only along the walls. The club furniture looks just exactly right placed in an ell in the center of the room, lit by a mission style floor lamp that is itself an ell. The lines and curves of the furniture and lamp reflect and reinforce each other. Appropriately, they are attended by a table of photography, design and architecture books just right for dipping into by lamplight. And this is the vista, framed by the doorway that once framed the running board of a bed, that greets the eye as one passes through the apartment.

photo: Eric Diesel

Neither room required many touches to give it personality. The office remains the goth room, where my collection of mortuary and cemetery collectibles harmonizes nicely with John's collection of arcane lab equipment. The famous collection of haunted houses and witches still marches along one wall but, as a haunted house should, the darkness of the room invites welcome. There is room for greenery in the form of palms, plants which have a clubby feel and which, as all plants do, contribute their living energy to the surroundings. This echoes the green light of the trees and ivy just outside the window, and will give me as much inspiration as I write as that not-forgotten hollyhock did. On the walls are scientific prints and pictures of witches, stage magicians and talking boards. There is even room to realize a lifelong dream with the placement of a wine library, both book and bottle. The fundamental color scheme of the library remains black and parchment as inspired by ink and paper, but has been adjusted for its new surroundings by the inclusion of green from the plants and scarlet from the wine.

In the bedroom, most of the accessories we already had were a fine fit with the new furniture. Inspired by the intimacy a bedroom connotes, I have always used the bedroom as the primary display area for photos of friends and family. The disparity of the images -- from fragile "types" of early ancestors to parental graduation pictures, from snapshots of good times with friends to professional family portraits -- is both highlit and unified by mismatched frames all in black, and mattes handcut in the same orange paper. These migrated easily to their new surroundings, as did the vintage dresser and boudoir lamps we use for ambient lighting. I make a photo assemblage of every musical event John and I attend, and these are arranged on the wall as an evocation of good times. We are film buffs, and once they arrive from the framer's, the remaining wall space will be devoted to posters of some of our favorite films, which will harmonize with an assemblage I made of our emotional visit to Rudolph Valentino's grave.

The new nightstands proved to be narrower than we had calculated for, but the narrower top space provided an opportunity to obtain new bedside lamps. I was sure someone could use the lamps currently in service if we added them to the pile of furniture and accessories to be donated. I took my time with the decision regarding the new lamps -- again, every sales person from Crate and Barrel and West Elm to Mxyplzyk and Delphinium knows me by sight as someone who talks to them, often sends recommendations their way and does his share of spending while he's at it. I found gear-adjusted metal lamps at Pottery Barn, which have a steampunk quality that agrees with the vibe of the room. They look perfect topped with drum shades in a color I can best describe as red curry. This color agrees with the coffeehouse colors of espresso and cream -- enlivened by autumnal shots of pumpkin and persimmon -- that comprise the room's color scheme and is echoed in the new linens that a new bed deserves.

As for the noise, that is, in fact, an issue, but it is one we can manage. The simple purchase of a noise maker ameliorates much of the street noise, and an investment in handsome wooden blinds helps block out both street noise and street light. Due to its placement in the line, these walls are strong enough to support a tv, so once it arrives a modest set will be anchored to the wall. That will add to the quiet livability of this room, elevating it from a room just for sleeping to one that, along with its partner at the other end of the apartment, contributes to that flow of daily living that is the fundamental reason homekeeping exists: transforming structure into home. It took a lot of work, but the results were worth the effort. Though there was a period of chaos, harmony -- even serenity -- was the reward.

Outfitting a Tool Kit

2011-09-10T10:00:00.079-04:00

People seem surprised to learn that I know my way around a hardware store. People often associate homekeeping with those aspects of it that have to do with recipes, decorating, entertaining, crafting, etc. Perhaps this applies especially to lifestyle writers, for we generate a lot of content in those areas. Yes, I cook, clean, decorate, craft and write about it, but that is all under the rubric of homekeeping. I am proud to be able to hem my own pants and arrange a tablescape and frost a cake, but I am also proud to be able to unclog a drain and wash a window and change a fuse.

There are numerous dimensions to homekeeping, and they all proceed from the home itself. Wherever we live -- apartment or condo, tract house or mansion, trailer or chalet -- the fundamental aspect of our home is the building itself. That building requires attention to its structure and that attention includes simple upkeep and repair. These basic, learnable skills are vital to homekeeping, and they require tools.

A basic home tool kit is an essential item in every home. With one, you will be able to handle most fundamental upkeep and repair on your own, reserving advanced tasks – for example, plumbing and electrical – for established, licensed contractors. That said, it’s strangely difficult to find a guide to outfitting a tool box for simple home use. In the spirit of the home improvement project John and I typically do on Labor Day weekend, here is a guide to outfitting a basic home tool kit. Click here for a free printable download of the guide.

Outfitting your home tool kit doesn’t have to be too demanding of your resources of money and time, but it will take some attention. Though it is tempting to purchase one of the pre-packaged tool kits stacked at the entrance of the home center or discount house and be done with it, those kits are of varied quality at best. It is much better to outfit your tool box with individual pieces. When you purchase individual pieces, you can select the best quality for your budget.

The best way to accomplish this is to make friends with the staff at the home center or hardware store. Talk with them about what you want to buy and how much you want to pay, being sure to state that the tool will be for typical household use. They should then present you with one or two options which in their opinion represent usability and durability and are within your budget. They will answer questions of safety and storage, and will demonstrate usage. As a bonus, when that day dawns (and it will) where you decide to take on a project of greater scope than simple repair or upkeep, and you need help with supplies or instructions, they will be available to help during a quick phone call or visit.

Household Tool Kit

This guide will help you outfit a tool kit for basic home use. You will inevitably collect individual pieces on an as-needed basis. These may include such items as claw bars, chisels, mitre boxes, socket sets, staple guns, wire strippers, planes, vises, rasps etc., but these specialty items are not included in this list of basics.

Remember that safety is of primary importance not just in using tools but in storing them. Store your tool kit and all items associated with it in a space that’s safely out of reach of children, the infirm, and pets.

Tool Box
Get a durable plastic tool box with a deep well wide enough to accommodate the largest item (typically the saw), a removable tray, and a hinged well in the lid. Click here to order the tool box we like at Urban Home Blog.

Tools
Drill. One 6- or 7-amp corded power drill, accompanied by a bit kit. Store the drill and bit kit with a 12-foot extension cord devoted to them and the accompanying safety goggles. If you prefer a cordless drill, remember that it will require charging, and it will be heavier to hold than a corded drill is. If you have brick walls, you will need a drill of a slightly higher amperage, and will need a set of carbonite bits.

Screwdrivers. A minimum of two each flat-head and Phillips screwdrivers, both in small and large sizes. Nice to have: one screwdriver set in graduated sizes in both heads.

Hammers. One 1-pound ball-and-peen or claw hammer with a rubber grip. The grip is important – a metal grip will feel heavy and unwieldy, and a plastic grip will slip. Nice to have: a picture hammer.

Saw. One 15-inch steel blade general purpose saw with a silicon cover for the teeth. Safety concerns make it especially important to buy a quality saw and to learn how to use it safely.

Pliers. One pair each slip-joint and needlenose pliers with rubber grips.

Wrench. One adjustable wrench with a moveable jaw. For a household tool kit, one strong adjustable wrench is a sufficient investment over a wrench set.

Awl. One 4- or 6-inch awl with a high-impact plastic or rubber head.

Mallet. One 1-pound heavy duty mallet with a rubber head.

Rulers. One metal ruler in either 1-foot or 3-feet length and one lockable 25-feet tape rule. Nice to have: a metal L-square or T-square.

Levels. One straight-edge level (sometimes called a torpedo) at least 1 foot in length. Nice to have: a small-scale torpedo and a carpenter's level, which aside from straight-edge work allows for angle work.

Hardware
Clamps. A selection of C-clamps in graduated sizes; typically, two each in small, medium and large. Nice to have: a selection of spring clamps.

Nails. One packet each of 1-inch penny or picture nails and 2-inch heavy duty nails. Good nails are essential to good home repair and maintenance. Buy steel or iron nails and be willing to replenish them regularly.

Screws. One kit of screws in graduated sizes and two sets each of screws and anchors in 1/2" and 3/4". Buy steel screws and be willing to replenish them regularly.

Nuts, bolts and washers. One packet of nuts, bolts and washers in assorted sizes

Picture-hanging kit. One picture-hanging kit to include picture wire, picture nails and toothed picture hooks.

Cup hooks. Two packets of screw-in cup hooks.

Et Cetera
Knives and scrapers. One box knife with a set of extra blades stored in the body of the knife, one 1-1/2 inch putty knife and two 2-inch plastic scrapers. Nice to have: an X-Acto knife with a card of extra blades. Store all of these safely in a dedicated area of the tool box.

Scissors. One set of muscle shears or heavy-duty scissors. Nice to have: a pair of medical scissors with a 2-inch blade. Both of these are very sharp, so store them in a safety pouch in a dedicated area of the tool box.

Glues. One small bottle carpenter's glue, one card of single-use tubes of heavy duty adhesive and one small bottle of nail polish remover.

Tapes. One roll each duct tape, masking tape and electrical tape. Nice to have: one roll each painter's tape and plumber's tape.

Sandpaper. One set of sandpapers in very fine, fine and medium grit.

Gloves and goggles. One set of canvas or leather work gloves and one set of gardening gloves with rubber grips on the fingers. As noted above, store the safety goggles with the drill.

Penlight. One heavy duty high-beam penlight with a set of extra batteries.

Marking tools. One mechanical pencil with extra leads, one laundry marker, and either a metal compass or a plastic circle-and-line template with graduated sizes.

Allen wrenches and hex keys. Get in the habit of saving the assembly wrenches supplied with knock-together furniture and storing them in your tool kit. Place a penny with them; it will prove invaluable in turning the screw that opens many of your tools themselves.

Finally, keep a do-it-yourself manual with your toolkit. However, remember that, while mastering basic home repairs is a dimension of homekeeping, any task that is actually or potentially dangerous to property or life should be undertaken only by professionals. So keep a phone card in your tool kit containing the names and telephone numbers of your electrician, plumber, and other contractors whose labors will not just repair and maintain your home but will keep its occupants safe.

Labor Day

2011-09-05T08:00:00.008-04:00

As seasons do, summer is drifting away. The earliest portents of autumn have appeared. On a walk through the park this morning, I noticed that many of the trees -- some still shaking off their trauma from the recent tropical storm -- had shed the first of their leaves for the season. Perhaps also shaking off the last of the effects of the storm, squirrels seemed just this side of panicked as they rushed around readying their urban homes for autumn -- even, given the far-thinking nature of these creatures, (stage whisper) winter.

It is fitting that today is Labor Day, for we have earned the day off. Though we equate summer with a slower pace, it's been a busy season at Urban Home Blog. We got a head start on our annual Labor Day decorating project, a large undertaking which consumed every weekend in July through early August. It was exciting not just creatively and as something that impacts our home but professionally, as I tweeted our progress (including pictures). I was heartened at readers' interest in the project. Writing about this project led to an outside decorating assignment, and even got me a few words on a favorite radio station.

My best friend came to New York for a Pride Weekend that turned out to be more prideful than most, as same sex marriage was legalized in New York state. Aside from our usual round-robin of favorite haunts in the Village, he joined us for evenings at our favorite Basque restaurant and our favorite steakhouse. Thanks to our wonderful family of friends, this last turned into an impromptu celebration of John's and my finally being able, after twenty years together, to say we are engaged. The weekend culminated a few days later in an expression of true gratitude and pride as I fulfilled my annual, and deeply gratifying, volunteer role of overseeing the graduation ceremony for Harvey Milk High School.

We traveled to the Pennsylvania mountains to attend a surprise keystone birthday party that my brother's wife skillfully arranged for him. The event was held in a beautiful home in the Poconos on a summer evening cool enough for deer and foxes to sniff at the edges of the area warmed by the fire pit. The buffet groaned with Pennsylvania specialties, including sausage and peppers drenched in the region's signature red sauce and a never-ending supply of the best chicken wings I've ever eaten. We ate cake under fireworks and drank beer and wine and reminisced and said hello to frogs, simultaneously curious and shy, as they hopped upon the patio before hopping away just as quickly as the weekend would.

Back in Astoria, in the business district over Labor Day weekend I watched kids circulating the aisles of stores, filling baskets with school supplies. They will probably behave otherwise on the morning of, but they seemed as excited about the first day of school as their parents seemed grateful. That revitalized energy is the hallmark of this month where summer transitions to autumn. September is a month where culmination meets reinvigoration. Along with school supplies come new clothes, for the start of a new grade means another year's growth.

On the homefront, it is time to transition the summer home to the autumn one. For some, that means getting in a few more weekends at a second home before shuttering it for the season. For some, it means setting up well-lit areas for homework both scholarly and professional, for restocking the pantry, for changing closets from cotton and duck to flannel and wool, for taking heavy quilts and comforters out of camphor-scented storage. We check off and store the first round of canning and preserving not just to stock the larder for long months ahead, but to make room for the next round: putting up harvest fruits and vegetables.

Whether it is back to school or back to work, September grounds us with the renewed energy of satisfaction from tasks accomplished, duties met. But that doesn't mean September is a harsh taskmaster, for even as the work week picks up, nights and weekends are still carry the fresh air of freedom. Time presents itself for late-summer walks through the park, weeknight dinner dates, weekend picnics. Just ask any virgo: September is the intermediary. Leisure is earned as a result of work, and work seems less trying in this agreeable context. Though we throw open the windows to cooler evenings, there is still plenty of sunshine to warm the days.

Preserving Memories

2011-08-25T12:00:00.054-04:00

Summer is full of holidays. We passed out sammies at the Memorial Day picnic, after placing bowls of potato salad and pepper cabbage at the community table. We celebrated the red, white and blue with a banana cream pie and the Tricolour with a French-inspired Weeknight Dinner that included French martinis and a salad dressed in vinaigrette. The month of Leo beckoned, and we celebrated the good life with a classy cocktail party and a fabulous weeknight dinner. August is the month of the first harvest, and this bounty is too plentiful not to express our gratitude for this abundance, by using a bumper crop of green beans to make three-bean salad and turning black-eyed peas into Texas Caviar.

These all had shades of remembrance in common, for summer is the season of making memories. Memorial Day sets up summer as the season of remembrance, as we recognize the service of soldiers from the Revolutionary War to contemporary tours of duty. It is the season of summer vacation and summer homes, of community gatherings and home entertaining, of visits with friends and family in locales from exotic to familiar. In our urban home, summertime is heavy on birthdays, but we also celebrate Pride Weekend, honor the Fourth of July and observe Labor Day. It is also the season of at least one anniversary, as I passed one year out from being diagnosed with and cured of cancer.

There are lots of ways to preserve memories. Shadow boxes, scrapbook pages and photo albums protect mementos and crystallize memories. Last summer, making scrapbook pages at night of the California vacation that inaugurated the Summer of 10 helped me through the days of treatment that wound up defining that summer. Wherever it is based -- from kitchen to garden, from wood shop to drafting board -- a creative project grounds and centers. Skill and training meet inventiveness and expression, and perception emerges. Perhaps this is especially true when doing memory-keeping projects, which by their very content force us to examine where we are in our lives through the lens of where we were when the event we are conserving took place. Perspective went into the camera lenses that framed and captured the shot. How could anything but perspective emerge from handling the photo?

We keep memories not just of our own summertimes but of lives lived long ago. One of my earliest content areas for Urban Home Blog was scrapbooks and albums. This started because I inherited a box of old photographs, some very old and many damaged. I made the decision to preserve these historic documents and to weave together their stories, whether captured by a flash bulb or scrawled on the back of old card stock. That project goes on to this day. Because this project is complex and requires deep concentration, I find myself working on it in the quiet of early morning or late night. Many ghost watchers advise that it is during quiet times that spirits attempt to communicate, so who knows, maybe unseen hands guide mine as I sort through these delicate photographs and tintypes, and generational voices whisper as I try to deduce the stories these fragile records from another era have to tell.

And, as is the tradition both in our urban home and in homesteads across the country, both the height of summer and its descent towards autumn herald canning season. The availability of fresh fruits and vegetables peaks, and we are compelled to preserve some of this bounty in jars. Every jar put up now is insurance against future want. The hard-won wisdom of providing for the future goes into every jar, but conservation is also an act of gratitude. We are literally preserving the fruits (and vegetables) of days of abundance. It is no wonder competition for the blue ribbon is so intense at the county fair, for these high stakes are captured in the simple, pleasurable taste of fresh preserves.

In the spirit of preserving memories, I am pleased to offer free, downloadable canning labels from Urban Home Blog (click here). The ghostly backgrounds are distilled from heirloom family photographs from the Depression era, while the concentric circles around the labels represent the twine that frequently encircled jars of food from that era. These labels are designed to print on any standard 12-round label sheet such as Avery 5294. They look especially good printed on clear labels, with the contents of the jar and the date canned written on the label with a brown or dark red pen (to order a set of my favorite crafting pens, click here). I hope they are of use to you both practically and creatively, as you preserve your own memories of abundance.

Texas Caviar

2011-08-20T10:00:00.006-04:00

Photo: Eric Diesel

County fair season will soon be upon us. E.B. White created the most famous county fair -- including the most celebrated pig and the savviest spider -- in literature while at the movies, Technicolor musicals used the canning competition for plot points involving Marjorie Main's wine jelly in Meet Me in St. Louis and Fay Bainter's mincemeat in State Fair. The fact of the county fair as an important influence on early- and mid-twentieth century homemaking is evident in the homekeeping literature of those days. Any such -- for example, Blue Ribbon Recipes for County Fair Winners -- takes for granted that the reader intends to excel not just in making jam, jellies and relishes but blue-ribbon pies, cakes, breads, main dishes, sides and salads.

Though she was always industrious, my grandmother was a fairly laid back person every month of the year except August. During August, her industry increased (hard to believe that was possible) and a competitive quality peeked out of her personality. August was the month to get everything ready for entry at the fair, and she took that seriously. I don't believe my grandmother's pride in her talents as a homekeeper ever crossed the line into hubris, but I also have to acknowledge that she did take it personally if she didn't win at least one blue ribbon. She was known for her pickles and relishes and for her apple jelly. I remember being terrified of the huge pressure canner with its clamps and dials but she wrangled it as if it was nothing to do so. I remember her standing over the canner as the steam in the kitchen grew so intense that her hair curled in brown tendrils around her face. I remember marathon sessions of cutting soft, fragrant green beans, still warm from the vine, into bite-sized pieces for pressure canning. I remember stirring the golden stew of creamed corn before it was ladled into the jars.

It was a western kitchen, and along with the green beans and the corn my grandmother grew a variety of peppers, from simple garden bells to a fire scale of chilies. Unlike many home cooks of the era, my grandmother wasn't shy about using herbs and spices, and she had an affinity for peppers both as plants and as ingredients. She made a fierce pepper jelly that I still make and serve on cornbread during chili suppers, and she often served vibrant salsas tableside. And at least once a year, during August canning, she made Texas Caviar.

In the tradition of that time and place, there was a competition at the county fair for fresh dishes made from the grower's garden. The entries could include anything from a fresh relish to a composed salad, but the key was to showcase your own produce outside of the canning jar. The fundamental ingredient of Texas Caviar is black-eyed peas, which are tricky (though not impossible) to home-can. Most western homekeepers had both a brace of pea vines and a house-specialty version of this dish. Accordingly, it was not uncommon to see an entire county's worth of depression glass bowls crowding the competition table, many of them proudly spooned with a mound of its owner's Texas Caviar.

Some modern palates will interpret Texas Caviar as a salsa, but it is really a spicy bean salad. Black-eyed peas (cowpeas if you grew them yourself) take well to a one-two punch of vinegar and cilantro followed by a three-four knockout of onions and peppers. My grandmother would have insisted on using yellow or orange banana peppers for a bit of color along with the hot peppers, and that is reflected in the recipe below. Serve your Texas Caviar with any Tex-Mex fave such as tacos, chili or enchiladas, or pack it up as an offering for the last of the summer picnics. And, though no one wants to think about winter nights during this fair season, once you master the first step, you will be ready to make your pot of black-eyed peas for New Year's Eve.

TEXAS CAVIAR

Hungarian peppers are the elongated, waxy looking ones that are typically available in green, red, orange, yellow or striated varieties; they will typically be jumbled together when on display. If you cannot locate a ham hock, use two slices of good bacon.

1 pound fresh shelled or dried black-eyed peas
1 small ham hock
1/4 cup cold water
2 small yellow onions
2 yellow, red or orange Hungarian peppers
1 jalapeno or Serrano chile
1 tablespoon brown sugar
2 cups cider vinegar
2 bay leaves
4 medium cloves garlic
1 bunch fresh cilantro
1-1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon mustard seeds
1 teaspoon ground oregano
2 teaspoons salt
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Pour the beans into a colander and pick through them, discarding any stones or any beans that evidence discoloration or soft spots. Rinse the beans and leave in the sink to drain.

2. Place a large stock pot on the stovetop. Place the ham hock into the pot. Add the water, 1 teaspoon salt, several grindings of freshly ground black pepper, bay leaves and brown sugar to the pot. Turn the burner to low.

3. Peel the onions and remove the root and stem ends. Place each onion on a clean cutting board reserved for fresh vegetables. Halve each onion from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into thin crescents. Cut across the crescents to form dice. Scrape half of the diced onion into the pot containing the ham hock, water and spices. Scrape the remaining half of the diced onion into a large mixing bowl.

4. Peel the garlic and remove the root end. Half each clove; remove and discard any sprouting from the center. Press each garlic half into the mixture in the pot.

5. Once the ham hock has released its fragrance, gently add the black-eyed peas to the pot. Use a silicon spatula to mix all of the ingredients in the pot together, keeping the ham hock centered in the pot. If the mixture is running dry, add another 1/4 cup water.

6. Cover the pot and cook the black-eyed peas until tender, approximately 1 hour. Check the pot at fifteen minute intervals to test for doneness, and to add more water if the mixture is running dry.

7. While the beans are cooking, rinse the cilantro under cool water and set aside to drain on a double layer of paper toweling.

8. For each Hungarian pepper, place the pepper on the cutting board. Cut each pepper in half from cap to bottom. Cut away and discard the stem; cut away and discard any white pith from inside each half. Rinse each half under warm water to remove the seeds (if saving seeds for planting, do this step over a fine mesh sieve to catch the seeds). Cut off the rounded top and bottom of each half; set aside for snacking. Working one halved pepper at a time, flatten each remaining pepper, skin side down, against the cutting board. Cut each flattened half into 1/8-inch strips and cut across the strips to form 1/8-inch squares. Scrape the cubed pepper into the bowl containing the onion.

9. For the chile pepper, put on a clean pair of food-safe rubber or latex gloves. Place the chile pepper on a clean cutting board. Cut away and discard the top and bottom of the pepper. Cut the pepper lengthwise into halves. Use the tip of the knife to remove the seeds and pith (if saving seeds for planting, do this step over a fine mesh sieve to catch the seeds. Flatten each pithed and seeded pepper half, skin side down, against the cutting board. Cut each flattened half into thin strips and cut across the strip to form dice. Scrape the diced chile pepper into the bowl containing the onion-pepper mixture.

10. Sprinkle the onion-pepper mixture with 1 teaspoon salt. Use a silicon spatula to combine the mixture. Set the salted onion-pepper mixture aside to cure while you make the dressing.

11. Measure out the vinegar. Add the cumin, mustard seeds, oregano and several grindings of fresh black pepper to the vinegar. Whisk the spices into the vinegar; set aside until time to assemble the dish.

12. Once the black-eyed peas are cooked to tenderness, gently remove the ham hock. It is okay if some of the meat from the hock remains in the pot. Gently transfer the peas to the colander to drain while cooling, approximately 10 minutes.

13. While the peas are draining and cooling, chop the leaf ends of the cleaned cilantro to equal approximately 2/3 cup packed loosely. It is okay if the measurement is not exact.

14. Once the peas are drained and cooled, use a silicon spatula to transfer them to the pepper-onion mixture, using the spatula to fold the mixture together as you go. Use the spatula to fold the chopped cilantro into the mixture.

15. Pour the dressing onto the mixture, using the spatula to get every bit of it. Use the spatula to fold the mixture together. The mixture should become very fragrant as you do so.

16. Cover the mixture and refrigerate 30 minutes. Stir lightly before serving.

Chili Sauce

2011-08-15T12:00:00.011-04:00

photo: Eric Diesel

There was a time when any American homemaker worthy of their apron canned. It was as expected a component of the domestic arts as sewing or cleaning. As with the need for clothes and a clean living environment (or, for that matter, the garden or the homestead themselves), preserving food became a form of expression that grew out of necessity. In the days before commercial mass food processing, though the larder was stocked with such staples as flour or cornmeal as they were obtainable, most food was either grown or caught by the homesteader. Preserving what was available evolved as a way to make bounty, when it happened, last. Ice, salt and sunshine each contributed, from the brine that “corned” beef to the air that dried venison and berries for pemmican.

An industry of glass jars with sealable lids evolved during a timeframe approximate to the Industrial Revolution, along with such concurrent advances in food preservation as pasteurization, seamed metal cans and freezing. On the home front, those glass jars with their metal lids became an important advance in the domestic arts as homekeepers moved from the basics of safety and technique to the pleasures of invention and execution.

Though canning cannot be said to be an American invention, the American landscape offered an abundance to inspire the capture of its own finest qualities. Sweet crabapples were jellied with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg while cranberries fresh from the bog were put up with a whiff of orange rind and clove. Vinegar and salt turned anything from a bumper crop of cucumbers to a previously unusable watermelon rind into pickles. Any gardener who’s planted it will tell you that mint will take over your garden plot if you let it; any canner will tell you to seal this excess in a jar. Southwesterners pickle peppers, make jelly out of them, and use them to flavor salsa.

Other home-canned goods came from preserving practices well-established in specific cuisines. Though we think of mincemeat as a Victorian treat (or threat, depending on your viewpoint), its history traces back to the European middle ages. Middle Europeans had been making sauerkraut long before the “Dutch” settled the Pennsylvania hills. Giardiniera was a staple of the Mediterranean kitchen. Even succotash lent itself to being sealed in a jar, provided the canner could get the pressure right to protect those delicate flat soft beans and perky kernels of corn.

If you think you saw Grandma’s competitive side emerge when she was setting biscuits, then that means she shielded you from her true intentions during canning season. A home canner’s skill became a badge of honor both at the homestead and in public. Each household canner developed their own specialty, from a famous flavor of jam to a special-recipe relish. It was common for each homestead to enter their best efforts for blue-ribbon consideration at the county and state fairs, where an august committee debated with true expertise, perfect seriousness and expanding waistlines the merits of home-made jams, jellies, pickles, relishes, condiments, sauces, snacks . . . even beer and wine.

No competition was fiercer than that for the crown of the chili sauce champion. Almost every homestead had its own recipe for this condiment, and no secret was more closely guarded with no end result more proudly displayed on the ribbon table. That was because chili sauce, with its complex mélange of fruits, vegetables and spices, was an all-purpose condiment that was judged for how well it fulfilled multiple offices including sitting atop a hamburger, trailing along a tube steak, glopped onto a pork chop, stirred into a bowl of soup and on its own.

Almost no one makes chili sauce any more, and at Urban Home, we mean to reverse this unfortunate reversal of fortune. Below is a recipe for this old-fashioned condiment from my urban kitchen. Like many canning recipes, especially for old-fashioned preparations like chili sauce, this recipe looks like a lot of steps. But there is a rhythm to the cutting, chopping, stirring, and fussiness that echoes the natural bounty that we are preserving in the first place. It is, in fact, as steady and rhythmic as the process by which the orchard put forth the apples to begin with.

CHILI SAUCE

It is essential to follow safe canning practices. For instructions on safe canning, click here: http://www.uga.edu/nchfp/publications/publications_usda.html , or here: http://www.freshpreserving.com/getting-started.aspx. This recipe makes approximately eight half-pint jars. You may find the Urban Home Blog Guide to Herbs and Spices useful for this recipe; click here for a free printable download.

2 pounds juicy red tomatoes, such as plum
6 stalks celery
2 medium firm sweet apples, such as McIntosh, Red Delicious or Jonathan
1 green bell pepper
1 red bell pepper
1 banana pepper
1 small white onion
1-1/2 cups white vinegar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 cloves garlic
2 bay leaves
1/2 teaspoon whole cloves
1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns
1/2 teaspoon juniper berries
2 teaspoons mustard seeds
2 teaspoons celery seeds
2 teaspoons onion seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground mace
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon salt

1. Prepare canner, jars and lids.

2. Place a large Dutch oven or stock pot on the stovetop.

3. Rinse the tomatoes, celery and peppers using a commercial produce cleaner and place in an in-sink colander to drain.

4. For each tomato, use the sharp end of a tomato knife or paring knife to remove the stem end of the tomato. Cut the tomato in half vertically; halve each half. Cut each half into quarters. Cut across the quarters to form chunks. As you go, scrape the chunks and all accumulating juices into the pot.

5. For each pepper, place the pepper on the cutting board. Cut each pepper in half from cap to bottom. Cut away and discard the stem; cut away and discard any white pith from inside each half. Rinse each half under warm water to remove the seeds (if saving seeds for planting, do this step over a fine mesh sieve to catch the seeds). Cut off the rounded top and bottom of each half; set aside for snacking. Working one halved pepper at a time, flatten each remaining pepper, skin side down, against the cutting board. Cut each flattened half into 1/4-inch strips and cut across the strips to form 1/4-inch squares. Scrape the cubed pepper into the pot.

6. Peel the onion and remove the root and stem ends. Place the onion on the cutting board. Halve the onion from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into thin crescents. Cut across the crescents to form dice. Scrape the diced onion into the pot.

7. Rinse the celery and place the ribs lengthwise on the cutting board. Cut across the top and the bottom of the ribs to remove the calloused top and bottom of the stalks. Cut each stalk lengthwise in half; halve each half. Align the quartered celery stalks and cut across the quarters to form dice. Scraped the diced celery into the pot.

8. For each apple, use a peeler to remove the peel from an apple. Working quickly, place the peeled apple stem-end up on the cutting board. Use a paring knife to cut the fruit in half from top to bottom. Halve each half to form quarters. Use the tip of the knife to remove and discard the stem, seeds with their hard core, the blossom end, and any bruised or discolored areas. Cut each trimmed quarter in half; cut across each to form bite-sized chunks. It is okay if the pieces seem large; they will break down as they cook. As you prepare each fruit, scrape the chunked fruit into the pot; stir to incorporate to prevent discoloration.

9. Peel the garlic and remove the root end. Half each clove; remove and discard any sprouting from the center. Slice each half lengthways into slivers and then each sliver lengthways into matchsticks. Cut across the matchsticks to mince. Scrape the minced garlic into the pot.

10. Measure the vinegar, sugars and salt into the pot. Use a metal spoon to stir the mixture thoroughly. It is okay if the mixture starts to foam; that is a common reaction between the sugars and the acids.

11. Turn the heat to low and start cooking the mixture. Watch the mixture and stir it periodically to prevent the mixture from scorching.

12. Measure out a double layer of clean cheesecloth and place it on the cutting board. Place the bay leaves, cloves, juniper berries and peppercorns in the cheesecloth. Tie the spice bag with kitchen twine and nestle it into the mixture in the pot.

13. Measure the mustard seeds, celery seeds, onion seeds, ginger, allspice, nutmeg, mace and red pepper flakes into a small bowl; stir to combine.

14. Once the mixture starts to thicken and release its fragrance (approximately 30 minutes on low heat), stir the spices into the mixture.

15. Continue to watch the mixture and to stir it periodically. When the mixture is very thick and fragrant (approximately 1 hour on low heat, but individual cooking times will vary), turn the burner off.

16. Place a clean towel on a counter near the canner.

17. Use canning tongs to remove hot jars from water bath. Do your best not to touch the hot jars; let the tongs do the work. Place hot jars mouth up on the clean towel.

18. Wrap a clean tea towel around a hot jar, being careful not to let the towel touch the rim of the jar. Use the towel to transport the jar to the pan containing the hot chili sauce. Place a clean canning funnel into the mouth of the jar. Use a clean spoon or ladle to fill the jar with chili sauce to the ½-inch mark. Continue until all of the jars are filled. It is okay if there is chili sauce left over; refrigerate it for use within 1 month. Check for and remove air bubbles if any (see instructions).

19. Use a clean, damp sponge to wipe the rim of each jar. Center a clean, hot lid (see instructions) on each jar. Screw a band down on each jar until it meets resistance; increase just until tight.

20. Use canning tongs to return the jars to the boiling water bath. Add more water if necessary to ensure that the jars are completely covered by boiling water by 1 inch. Process in boiling water bath for 20 minutes.

21. After jars have processed for 20 minutes in the boiling water bath, turn off the heat. Remove the canner lid and set aside. Let jars sit in hot water ten minutes.

22. After ten minutes, use the canning tongs to remove the jars. Being very careful of the hot jars, lids and liquid, place jars upright on the towel. Allow to sit 24 hours. After 24 hours, check for a vacuum seal (see instructions). Label each jar with the contents and the date prepared. Safely prepared, stored and sealed, the chili sauce will keep for one year from date of preparation.

Weeknight Dinner: Beef Salad with Blood Oranges and Gorgonzola

2011-08-10T17:00:00.004-04:00

The Leo sun is blazing intensely in the northeast. Everything seems gilded under the lion’s all-seeing eyes and, yes, a bit showy in response to the tossing of that golden mane. The season’s best apricots simmer in the jam pot while dough for Lammas bread rises in yellow ware crocks. Fittingly for the month of the first harvest, leos from Mick Jagger to Martha Stewart teach us about both the good life and the efforts it takes to achieve it. Lions are good parents, and those apricot trees required the simple, vital acts of planting and nurturing to bear fruit. But lions have their savage side, and even as they grew strong in the sunshine, those golden heads of wheat achieved their fullness at the blade of the harvest scythe.

Any astrologer (or leo) will tell you that everything in the lion’s life must be of the best quality, and this in turn reflects their role as keeper of the sun’s golden light. This is on display on the leo’s table, where the very best ingredients will be prepared to highlight their very best qualities. (They will be served on the nicest china, too, if there’s a nice tonic capricorn placement somewhere in the stars). Even if you don’t dig astrology, the dedication to quality is fitting for this month of fruitfulness born of sunshine, for while the first harvest celebrates summer’s apex, it also quickens our pulse towards autumn, and the work that that spectacular season will bring.

August meals are as casual as soup and a sandwich or as opulent as special night on the town, but whatever we’re eating, in August we have our pick of the best of everything. That is reflected in this month’s Weeknight Dinner: beef salad. Modern cooks and diners don’t often associate beef with salad, and when they do it’s the steakhouse wedge that accompanies a T-Bone (and thain’t nothing wrong with that), but this dish has enjoyed a renaissance, due to its appearance on menus designed by chefs sensitive to connection and given to interpretation. Beef, properly treated, marries well to greens – just ask any cow at the graze -- and this is the idea that lands a well-done and pun-intended beef salad on your plate.

Beef salad is primarily associated with Asian cooking. Xa lach thit bo is Vietnamese comfort food; lively with the cavorting flavors of fish sauce and coriander and crunchy with radishes and bean sprouts. Often the plate is finished with hanh dam, the vinegared onions that are a signature of this cooking. A Thai beef salad is finished with prik kee noo, those notably hot Thai chile peppers, and a sprinkling of cilantro, basil or mint. The Chinese version incorporates a successful pairing of oranges and sesame oil.

Though beef salad is a favored item from the Asian menu, my favorite interpretation of this dish is American bistro. At a trattoria in LA, my beef salad was served in a savory bath of Worcestershire, mustard and anchovies over arugula, while our go-to New York City pub serves it with merlot and root vegetables over watercress. In researching the dish, I found that it was once a high-water mark of downtown luncheon spaces, and perhaps that accounts for its resurgence on the modern bistro menu. However we learn about it, cooks are inspired by beef salad. Once you master the basic steps of searing the beef and assembling the salad, the possibilities for invention and expression are endless -- and if that doesn’t correspond to the month of leo, I don’t know what does.

My original recipe for beef salad is below. Unlike a London Broil, in which the beef is marinated for a long time before being cooked on hot iron, the beef for this salad is prepared with the sear-and-roast method common to bistro kitchens. A good cut of meat combined with this fail-safe prep insures a tender, meaty forkful, while the pan drippings are used to create a rich dressing that builds substantial flavor. Toss a salad of peppery arugula and bitter radicchio with slices of sweet red onion and intense blood orange and finish the platter with creamy Gorgonzola. Serve your beef salad with the last of last year’s giardiniera (or the first of this year’s), a tray of olives or a basket of fresh rolls. Pair it with an assertive red wine and have a panna cotta ready for dessert.

BEEF SALAD WITH BLOOD ORANGES AND GORGONZOLA

Blood oranges should be coming into season at the Farmer's Market, greengrocer or Italian grocery store. Look for small, evenly colored oranges that feel plump when you hold them and evidence no soft brown spots or mold. If you can't locate blood oranges, use Seville oranges, navel oranges or tangerines. For beef cuts, the USDA recommends an internal temperature of 145 degrees after cooking and resting; in professional kitchens, this is usually between 125 -- 130 degrees.

For the beef
1 1-1/2 pound flat boneless beef cut for broiling, such as flank or skirt
1/4 cup dry to medium-dry sherry, such as Manzanilla, Fino or Amontillado
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for the pan
1 teaspoon dried thyme
Salt (Greek sea salt works well)
Freshly ground black pepper

For the dressing
1/4 cup assertive dry red wine, such as Bordeaux or pinot noir
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
2 medium shallots
1 teaspoon dried thyme

For the salad
2 bunches fresh arugula
1 small head fresh radicchio
1 pound blood oranges
1 medium red onion
1 1/4 - 1/3 pound wedge gorgonzola

Marinate the beef
1. Rinse the beef under cool water and pat it dry. If warranted, use the diamond end of a metal meat mallet to pound the steak to uniform thickness of 1/2 inch.
2. Rub beef on both sides with salt. Sprinkle each side of the beef with freshly ground black pepper; use your hands to rub the pepper into the beef.
3. Measure sherry, olive oil and dried thyme into a shallow glass dish large enough to hold the beef. Place the beef in the marinade and turn the beef several times to coat it thoroughly.
4. Cover the dish with its lid or plastic wrap and refrigerate for two hours, turning the beef in the marinade at the one-hour mark.

Prepare the salad
1. Pull or cut the leaves of the arugula from the sandy roots; discard the roots. Rinse the leaves under cool running water until they no longer feel gritty; place on several layers of paper towels to dry.
2. Place the radicchio core side down on a cutting board and use a sharp knife to slice down vertically, halving the radicchio. Use the knife to remove the core from the bottom of the halves. Halve each half, and then to cut each quarter into spears. Separate the leaves and place in the bowl of a salad spinner. Spin dry.
3. Set aside two to three oranges for juicing. Working one at a time, place one of the remaining oranges on a clean cutting board devoted to produce. Use a citrus knife or sharp paring knife to remove and discard the stem and blossom ends of the orange. Use your hands or the knife to peel away the orange rind and the white pith beneath the rind.
4. Use the knife to cut each orange in half from top to bottom. Use the knife to cut away and discard the white pith down the center of the orange. Use the tip of the knife or your fingers to remove seeds if any; discard seeds or save for planting.
5. Lay each halved orange flat-side down on the cutting board. Halve each half from cut end to cut end to form quarters; halve each wedge to form eighths.
6. Continue peeling, pithing, seeding and cutting each blood orange until you have approximately 1 to 1-1/2 cups orange wedges.
7. Peel the onion and use the knife to remove and discard the root and stem ends. Cut the onion horizontally into thin rounds; cut each round in half to form thin crescents.
8. Distribute the cleaned and dried arugula and radicchio across a clean serving platter. Tuck the orange slices and onion crescents into the greens.
9. Use a sharp cheese knife to cut the gorgonzola into slices; it is okay if some of the cheese crumbles as you slice it. Distribute the gorgonzola across the greens, reserving some for garnish.

Prepare the dressing
1. Remove the root and stem ends of each shallot; remove the papery outer skin. Halve each shallot from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into crescents and then cut across the crescents to form tiny dice. Set aside until ready to prepare the dressing.
2. Use a juicer or citrus press to juice the blood oranges into a small bowl, working over a sieve if necessary to catch any seeds or heavy pith. You should wind up with 2 – 3 tablespoons blood orange juice, but don’t worry if the measurement isn’t exact.
3. Whisk the vinegar and dried thyme into the blood orange juice. Set aside until ready to prepare the dressing.

Assemble the dish
1. ½ hour before serving, heat the oven to 375 degrees.
2. Place a cast iron skillet or stovetop- and oven-proof sauté pan on the stovetop. Set heat to medium-high. Drizzle the bottom of the skillet with a two-count of extra-virgin olive oil.
3. Remove the beef from the marinade and shake dry of excess liquid. Discard the marinade.
4. Once the olive oil evidences a sheen, use tongs to gently place the beef into the pan. Sprinkle the beef with several grindings fresh black pepper.
5. Shake the pan gently to prevent the beef from sticking. Sear the beef without disturbing for one minute.
6. After one minute, use the tongs to turn the beef over in the pan, standing back to avoid flare-ups or splashes of hot oil. Sprinkle the beef with several grindings fresh black pepper. Sear for two minutes.
7. Once again, use the tongs to turn the beef over in the pan, standing back to avoid flare-ups or splashes of hot oil. The bottom of the beef where it was just seared should evidence a nice brown seal.
8. Turn off the stovetop and use potholders to place the pan, uncovered, into the oven. Pan roast the beef for approximately 10 minutes for rare.
9. After 10 minutes, use potholders to remove the pan from the oven. Use caution: the pan will be very hot. Use the potholders to turn the handle of the pan towards the back of the stovetop.
10. Use tongs to carefully transfer the beef to a clean cutting board reserved for meat. Loosely tent the beef with foil and set aside to rest for 10 minutes.
11. While the beef is resting, carefully stir the minced shallot into the collected juices in the hot roasting pan. Use a silicon spatula or wooden spoon to stir the shallots until they are translucent and browned on the edges, which should occur very quickly.
12. Carefully add the red wine vinegar to the pan. Use the spatula or spoon to stir the vinegar, pan juices, and shallots. Leave the dressing base in the pan on the stovetop until it is time to finish the dressing.
13. After the beef has rested for 10 minutes, remove the foil from the beef. It should be dark and very fragrant. Use the tongs in one hand to steady the beef while you carve the beef into thin slices against the grain with a strong, sharp knife held in the remaining hand. Discard juices if any that pool on the cutting board.
14. Once you have carved the beef, carefully transfer the slices to the salad. The beef should be just warm enough to lightly wilt some of the greens. Sprinkle the remaining gorgonzola over the salad.
15. Use potholders to carefully hold the pan containing the dressing at an angle over the bowl containing the orange juice/balsamic vinegar mixture. Carefully pour the pan juices into the bowl. Whisk until the orange juice gives off its fragrance and a light emulsion forms.
16. Pass the platter of salad with the dressing, for diners to serve themselves.

Fire and Ice

2011-08-05T10:00:00.007-04:00

It is a sunny Sunday morning as I write this, and I am sitting with a cup of coffee on a bench in the business district. Shopkeepers are unrolling gates and raising awnings. A light breeze tickles my skin, but I can tell it will be the last such until sunset as heat is already rising from the sidewalk. On this deep summer day of golden sunshine, hints of cooler climes have already started appearing. Just yesterday, the display of sand pails and shovels in the hardware store window was replaced by towers of canning jars. Both the drugstore and the stationary store have put out school supplies, and the owner of the card store is hanging the banner that announces the discordance of its annual Christmas card-and-ornament preview.

Sunday morning is one of the best times for people watching. A cluster of renters new to the neighborhood clutches iced coffees and waits for the home store to open. They are buzzing with plans for the first Saturday Night House Party they plan to host in their new place. More established citizens are taking the dignified walk to church. Husbands – and, it must be said, widowers – wear their Sunday pants hitched high, while the proud shine on their shoes echoes the pomade in their plastered down hair. Wives model their prettiest dresses and flash their finest jewelry, but in this Greek neighborhood, widows wear layers of black – no matter that the bank thermometer already shows 95 degrees.

Having just made one year out, my thoughts have been waxing nostalgic. I write often about the effect my grandmother had on me as I grew up out west. When the time came to move north for school, another profound influence entered my life: Nana. Nana was a Pennsylvania woman who had weathered wars and want, worries and relief, disappointment and demands. She was one of the most loving spirits I have ever met, and if while writing Urban Home Blog I don’t mention her as often as I do my Indian and French grandmothers, I think it is because the wound of her absence is, in its way, deeper.

When she came into my life, Nana lived in a sweet house overlooking the grey ribbon of the Susquehanna River. The Susquehanna is a moody, industrial river, one whose spirit is beautifully captured by Kerouac in the acclaimed “Ghost of the Susquehanna” passage of On the Road (to this day my favorite book). Nana’s home was as neat as a pin and fairly glowed with a quiet welcome that perfectly matched its setting on a high bank of this somber river. At Nana's, the fireplace glowed warmer, the air smelled sweeter, the towels felt fluffier, the cookies tasted better. That’s not to say that Nana and Poppop were saints (though, actually, they were). For example, they had that wonderful ribald sense of humor that one often encounters in individuals where experience meets big heartedness. Poppop smoked cigars and drank beer and Nana loved a good dirty joke and a glass of whiskey. One of my fondest memories of that time and place is playing cards with them in the basement with its picture glass view of the river. I won’t reveal the details, but during that game I learned not only how to read cards, but that that was not the only of life’s tricks that I had yet to learn and that they had long since conquered.

Though she was of English ancestry, Nana’s table reflected its placement squarely in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country. In this cooking, a meal, especially a celebratory one, is laid out to the philosophy of “seven sweets and seven sours.” To a boy who was used to a Christmas ham fresh from the oven and sticky with glaze, Nana’s mustardy version, served cold, was a revelation. At her table I had my first rolls made from rye flour and caraway seeds, still warm from baking and just waiting to drip with whipped butter. She fed me my first plate of chicken and waffles (and, at the same sitting, my second and third). She introduced me to red-hots, one of the crowning achievements of Pennsylvania Dutch cooking, in which apples are macerated in a syrup flavored with spices and cinnamon candy. And she introduced me to Pennsylvania Dutch cole slaw, which she called, simply, fire and ice, as in, “Grab the firen’ice for the table, willya?” This agreed with half of the church ladies who each had their own blue-ribbon version of the dish, but disagreed with the remaining half who called it “pepper slaw.”

I was used to the mayonnaisey cole slaw of countless picnics, in which a mixture of shredded roughage including cabbage, onions and carrots are mixed into a thick dressing made from mayo, sugar and vinegar. I do like mayonnaisey slaw, but fire and ice is my favorite. In fire and ice, the shredded vegetables are augmented with garden peppers and quick-pickled in a sweet and sour brine. The vegetables take on a bright flavor and a chipper crunch. Nana’s version, interpreted below, was clean and pure. This is an important distinction because it is easy to find recipes for this slaw that incorporate everything from cream (!) to the dreaded beet (!!) that insinuates itself into so many Pennsylvania Dutch dishes. Beets may have their place on some plates, but I can state with absolute rightness that they should be nowhere near this dish. As the card-carrying food- and lifestyle-writer whose training continued at Nana’s table, I did due diligence regarding the correct recipe for fire and ice. This included consultation with the supreme authority of the Trinity Episcopal Church Heritage Cookbook, a tome in which Nana's own recipes make several appearances. The version below, developed in my kitchen, is true to the spirit of this classic Pennsylvania Dutch dish.

FIRE AND ICE

Do not skip the step of salting the cabbage; it is necessary to the success of the dish. Many cooks use a large chef’s knife to quarter cabbages; I use a strong bread knife. You can obtain a good one here. This is a fresh slaw, not appropriate for home canning.

For the salad
1 head green cabbage, approximately 1-1/2 pounds
1 green bell pepper
1 red bell pepper
2 ribs celery
2 medium carrots
1 small bunch scallions
Salt (Greek sea salt or kosher salt work well)

For the dressing
1/4 cup ice water
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/2 cup white vinegar
¼ cup granulated sugar
½ teaspoon celery seeds
½ teaspoon table salt
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
½ teaspoon hot paprika

1. Position an in-sink colander in place and place the jar or box of salt within reach of the colander.

2. Rinse the cabbage under cool water and remove and discard any loose leaves or leaves with yellow or black spotting.

3. Place the cabbage core side down on a clean cutting board devoted to fruits and vegetables. Position a strong bread or chef’s knife blade down over the head of the cabbage and press firmly down through the core to split the cabbage in half. Position each cabbage half cut side down on the cutting board, and use the knife to cut downwards through the core to form quarters.

4. Position each quarter cut side down on the board. You should see the triangular piece of core at the bottom of each wedge. Use the knife to cut away each core. Use the knife to cut across each quarter from cut side to cut side to form thin ribbons. Use the knife to cut across the ribbons to form tiny chunks.

5. Transfer the chunked cabbage into the colander by the handful. Sprinkle each handful of cabbage with salt before adding the next handful. Once all of the cabbage has been added to the colander and salted, use your hands to gently squeeze the cabbage so that the salt can work into the pieces.

6. Fill a bowl large enough to hold the peppers with water. Add a few drops of vegetable cleaner to the water. Remove produce labels if any from the peppers. Submerge the peppers in the water and gently swirl. Remove each pepper from the cleansing bath and rinse each pepper under cool water.

7. For each pepper, place the pepper on a cutting board. Cut the pepper in half from cap to bottom. Cut away and discard the stem; cut away and discard any white pith from inside each half. Rinse each half under warm water to remove the seeds; if saving seeds for planting, do this step over a fine mesh sieve to catch the seeds. Cut off the rounded top and bottom of each half; set aside for snacking. Working one halved pepper at a time, flatten each remaining pepper, skin side down, against the cutting board. Cut each flattened half into 1/4-inch strips and cut across the strips to form 1/4-inch squares. Scrape the cubed pepper into the colander containing the draining cabbage.

8. Use a peeler to peel each carrot. Rinse each peeled carrot under cool water. Working one at a time, cut off and discard the top and bottom tip of each carrot; do not use the large, tough top of the carrot. Lay each carrot on the cutting board. Cut each carrot in half lengthwise; halve each half. Align the four quarters on the board and cut across them, forming tiny wedges. Scrape the wedges into the colander containing the draining cabbage and the peppers.

9. Rinse the celery ribs under cool water. Place the ribs lengthwise on the cutting board. Cut across the top and the bottom of each stalk; discard the calloused top and bottom of the stalks. Cut each stalk lengthwise in half; halve each half. Align the quartered celery stalks and cut across the quarters to form dice. Scraped the diced celery into the colander containing the cabbage, peppers and carrots.

10. Lay the scallions on the cutting board. Align the scallions side by side and across the bottom. Cut across the bottom of the row of scallions to remove and discard the stringy root ends of the scallions. Use the knife to cut across each scallion where the white part meets the green part. Remove the green part of each scallion and set aside for another use.

11. Use your hands to pull away and discard the papery outer skin of each scallion where present; not all scallions will have this. Use the knife to cut each scallion in half lengthways from top to bottom. Align each scallion quarter lengthways and use the knife to cut the gathered scallions crossways into tiny pieces. Scrape the diced scallion into the colander containing the cabbage, peppers, carrots and celery.

12. Use your hands to mix the vegetables together in the colander until they are well-distributed. Leave the vegetables to drain until fairly dry, approximately ½ hour.

13. While the vegetables are draining, place the water, vegetable oil and vinegar into a large mixing bowl. Add the salt, celery seeds, black pepper and paprika. Measure out the sugar. Pour the sugar into the mixture with one hand while using a wire whisk to stir the mixture with the other hand. Whisk until the salt and sugar dissolve and a smooth emulsion forms. Set aside to season while the vegetables drain.

14. After ½ hour, pick up the colander and shake it vigorously to express all of the excess water from the mixed vegetables.

15. Add the drained vegetables to the bowl containing the dressing one handful at a time, shaking the vegetables dry as warranted and mixing into the dressing before adding the next handful. Continue until all of the vegetables have been added to the dressing.

16. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for a minimum of two hours before serving.

Summertime, Part Two

2011-07-25T08:00:00.028-04:00

As I write this, much of the nation, including New York City, swelters under a blanket of one of the worst heat waves in half a century. Outside my writer’s window, where six short months ago intrepid souls were skiing snowdrifts that were as tall as the tops of the buried cars, the sky blazes turquoise and the air shimmers with golden sunlight. One feels the intense heat with the few steps it takes to move the trash to the curb. And while we grouse about the heat wave and alternate turning up the air conditioner with trying to moderate its use to conserve power, we remember that our few days’ discomfort is not the same as that experienced on a tour of duty in the desert, or weathered without benefit of indoor climate management.

We also remember that it is summertime. While summer is the season everyone looks forward to, summer sunshine comes with the price tag of summer heat just as surely as Christmas presents come with the price tag of ice and snow. In writing about summertime last year, I see I mentioned everything from summer vacation to the first harvest to canning. Last July, New York City also experienced its requisite heat wave, one I navigated not just through the peaks and canyons of Greenwich Village and Chelsea but through a labyrinth of doctors and nurses and technicians and administrators and service agencies, culminating one blistering day in late July with heavy reliance on my fiancé (and partner of twenty years and counting) and friends and family as, for the first time since adolescence, I was wheeled into an operating room.

This weekend, I marked the one-year anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer. I alluded to this in my summertime column last year as well as in additional columns since, but I did not disclose the disease itself. I didn't go into details because I didn't want to focus on having been sick and did want to focus on being well.

Cancer is an invasion by means outside of your control but within your body. That feels like a betrayal that is, in turn, incomprehensible. So, to be honest, I needed to conserve my strength for battling the disease. I hope none of my readers ever learns this first hand, but one of the first things they tell you during what will turn out to be many “you have cancer” talks is to tell who you want, when you want, how you want and how much you want. “Cancer” is a terrifying, ugly word, and people almost always react to it badly. The person with cancer is the one who has to fight the battle, and there is no describing how real and how dire that feels. The battle is not helped by encountering someone else being upset, especially when the person with cancer may be hoping to rely on family and friends for support during what can be guaranteed to be a challenging and often difficult time. Perhaps it is selfish and demanding, but it is no less true for being so.

To that end I would like to say this to my friends and family: I knew. I knew you were upset and I knew when you were managing that offstage for my benefit. Words cannot contain my gratitude then and now for your unselfishness and heroism during this time. I cannot begin to recount the calls and emails. Lissa and Allison sent care packages of chocolate and trashy movie star biographies. Carrie made sure to get food into the house during the recovery period. Kat sat with John (perhaps more accurately, they sat together) while I was in the operating room. As for John . . . words fail me. He was an absolute rock during this period. I am tearing up as I write this, for if ever there was the living definition of a husband standing by his spouse during a time of need, it was John. I so appreciate that the state of New York finally got around to granting legal recognition to our marriage, because if last summer didn’t seal the truth of our relationship as spouses, then the word simply has no meaning.

I am also grateful to my general practitioner, whose watchfulness did not rest as I negotiated the often challenging medical establishment through the protocols for detection, diagnosis, treatment and cure. Having cancer requires a lot of navigation physically, emotionally and bureaucratically, and for help with those I cannot thank the Livestrong organization enough. Every time you see one of those yellow rubber bracelets, it represents real help to a real person fighting a real battle. I gratefully wear mine every day. I am grateful to the specialists and their staffs who were part of my cure: urologist, radiation oncologist, cardiologist, otolaryngologist, neurologist and psychologist. I had a cancer only males can get, so I would be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to entreat every male reading this to do a self-examination once a month. It is simple and painless and the key act to saving lives potentially impacted by male cancers. Cancers specific to males have good recovery and cure rates (at least one such is over 95%) if correctly addressed, and a key element of that is early detection. To learn simple, easy self-examination instructions, click here.

There is a phrase among cancer survivors: five years out. This refers to an important landmark in the journey of surviving cancer: reaching the half-decade point. In a waiting room last week I flipped through a coffee table book of the same title, written by cancer survivor Chris Moschovitis and filled with his wonderful travel photography. Moschovitis’s images are shot with a knowing eye and, importantly, are not arranged by locale or time. As one looks at the images their power accumulates through the seeming randomness of their organization. Awareness surfaces that Moschovitis’s true subject is less the destination than the places and moments along the journey. It’s a lovely, powerful metaphor, anchored in equally lovely and powerful images. For cancer crystallizes your experience into a vivid flash of awareness at a specific point in time – usually, and certainly in my case, the moment you were diagnosed – creating a new threshold through which you step, and from which everything will now proceed. There are both changes to what you thought you knew and greater surety in what you know, each in good measure and increasingly in agreement with each other.

I haven’t made five years out, but one year out I do feel that I have been changed. I mean that beyond the physical, but the physical changes do bear mention. Part of the protocol for the cancer I had was a multi-week course of targeted radiation therapy. Despite the cool factor of numbering among one’s tattoos six medical ones that were designed by nuclear physicists and served as bull's eyes for a laser beam, I have to tell you: radiation therapy takes it out of you. There were days when I was so exhausted that I didn’t even have the energy to get into a car to be taken to the radiation suite. As predicted, my energy did start to return once I finished treatment, but the truth is, it is still not where it once was, where I’d like it to be. As anyone who knows me will not be surprised to learn, having my energy compromised is a serious hardship for me. There is a lot to do in a day, and I don’t like it when the reason I can’t get everything done is that my energy gives out. I understand the necessity of downtime, but inactivity so easily trips over into laziness. Assign it to my being a Capricorn if you wish (Scorpio rising and Leo moon, if you’re keeping track), but laziness is one character trait I cannot find a way to respect.

And that leads to something that cancer hasn’t changed in me: the awareness of time passing. Even as a child, I was aware of time – more so than children are popularly supposed to be. Adults were amazed that I was never fidgety – to the point that a few of them, acting from the faults of their own perceptions, tried to bait me into having a reaction. But I knew that an hour of being told to sit quietly would pass just as quickly as one filled with a game. I loved to read and never objected to having an hour to spend with a book. But I also never objected if that hour included a task to accomplish. In my case – as will not surprise readers of Urban Home Blog – that included not just homework but mending the pocket of an apron, snapping beans for summer canning and then washing out a raft of jars to put them in, straightening out the collection of amber Depression glass in the dining room hutch.

It seems that everything I write circles back to my grandmother, and here she is again. Decades after her own journey ended, her profound influence helped – helps – me during my cancer journey. Among the ways her Osage heritage manifested was a profound reverence for the ever-spinning wheel of time, evidenced by how she inhabited it. Though the sacred details of daily living were given their due, time was experienced seasonally rather than hourly, daily, weekly. Living seasonally teaches the invaluable acceptance of the accumulation of experience through the march of time. But by its very nature as a gift of the spinning Earth HerSelf, it is a subtle lesson. It just seeps in, like rain to roots. At some point, you perceive that you understand it, and that it was always there waiting to be understood.

There are other changes as well. That cliché about not letting the small stuff bother you? It’s absolutely true. A cancer diagnosis – not that different from any other serious life event – teaches perspective. Actually, it forces the issue. Having cancer places you into a community where, whatever your own story, there is always someone whose story is better and there is always someone whose story is worse. Something about encountering serious illness grants freedom from getting too overwrought over life’s grievances, because it puts annoyance into perspective and assigns pettiness the scant respect it deserves. Just this week I weathered a two-hour-plus delay to see my oncologist for our twice-yearly follow-up. I did not mind the wait as the doctor had been called into surgery to help someone who may not have had as much time for waiting as I did -- which, in turn, was true because of that doctor's contribution to efforts on my behalf.

And, if you let it, having or having had cancer invigorates your sense of adventure. Whether we are five years out or ten years out or one year out or just diagnosed or currently in treatment, cancer survivors embrace both the mechanics of daily living and the sacred gift of right now. You find you procrastinate less but you also become better at prioritizing. Outside responsibilities don’t evaporate and we tend to those, but we also tend to our responsibilities to ourselves: to step away from the fray, to balance demands with wishes, to do something if we can because we want to. Of course, this takes innumerable forms. Some of us travel the world and some of us visit our families. Some of us go hang-gliding and some of us make lunch plans. Some of us take that long dreamed-of ballet class and some of us go see the ballet. Some of us cook and garden and clean and decorate and write about it all.

Like many serious situations that life doles out, cancer slams us with the fact of our own mortality. One year out and counting, I am more determined than ever to honor the gift of time by maximizing every moment of the gift. That’s been the philosophy of Urban Home Blog since I launched it, and it was my philosophy long before I was writing about it, when I was just living it. To that end, full circle through the transit of a year and to mark the anniversary of this event that was life-changing for both of us, for the past month John and I have been working on a big decorating project. We are switching the bedroom and home office and updating both in the process. Readers of Urban Home Blog know to look for columns about big decorating projects around Labor Day, but we decided to get started now. Summer presented us the gift of itself. And, frankly, there was no good reason to wait.

Urban Bar: French Martinis

2011-07-20T17:00:00.009-04:00

If the transmissions I’m receiving on my Twitter feed are any indication, everyone attending this year’s Tales of the Cocktail (#totc) is, as expected, having a grand time in N’awlins. Cocktail classes and events are especially appropriate for summertime, when the heat and humidity shoo us all inside as readily as the snow and ice do in winter. From TOTC, I notice a spike in interest in Kahlua-influenced cocktails, a trend of which readers of Urban Bar already know I approve, as we spent last winter reading about and preparing Black Russians for cocktail hour. One colleague calls me a “Russenabler,” to which I respond that I am a “Russevangelist.” Another colleague shared an interaction with a Gin Garden, which could have referred to the cocktail, a bar where one was served, or a place where were grown the herbs that flavor this distinctive spirit.

I am on record in print, as well as extemporaneously from many a bar stool, as firmly believing that a martini is only a martini if it contains gin, vermouth, and olives. With its complex, intertwined layers of flavor, iced gin makes the perfect cushion for the silken slipcover of dry vermouth, and that is why a gin martini is a true martini. The only true wiggle room is in the proportion of the pour, the measurement of which is debated over and accomplished with every bartending philosophy from scientific exactitude to intuitive knowing. To read my recipe for Clean Martinis, click here.

That said, I have also acknowledged my own human frailty by admitting that I will dabble in composed martinis. My favorite is the saké martini, for its personality that is playful and serious at once. Composed cocktails grew out of the practice, during the renaissance of retro cocktail culture, of fashioning new drinks for in crowds. Many such are riffs on the ratio of spirit:mixer whose purest expression is the martini. In a practice that is erroneous in letter but true in spirit, they are called martinis, but as gin is a complex flavor to play with, they usually start with vodka. Fashioning new drinks for in crowds is not a new practice – it is how almost any cocktail evolved. Cocktails come from sources as obscure as an innkeeper’s resourcefulness or as direct as an advertiser’s storyboard. And cocktails with common names unavoidably have more than one interpretation.

Take, par exemple, the French martini. Among innumerable interpretations of this cocktail, two prevail. In most American bars, if you order a French martini, you will receive a confection of vodka, Chambord (the French liqueur flavored with black raspberries, honey and herbs) and pineapple juice. It is widely acknowledged that this martini was created by the Chambord company to highlight its product, and among drinkers of sweet martinis (sweetinis?) its popularity at any given moment is rivaled only by the cosmopolitan and the appletini. In la belle France, if you order a French martini, first you will be given a chance to correct yourself by being asked if you mean a martini rouge. However you answer, your drink will be interpreted as gin and sweet vermouth garnished with an olive and a twist. Here is where it gets interesting, because, once the steamliner deposits us back on American shores, we find that a martini rouge is gin and Chambord, which completes the circle with an elegance that I’m sure we all agree is most chic.

In honor of Tales of the Cocktail and its big easy locale, as well as the receding battle cries from this year’s Bastille Day, below are three versions of French Martinis. Prepare any (or all) of them and settle into your deepest reverie as we settle into summer’s laziest days.

French Martinis

To ice martini glasses, place ice in the well of each glass and fill the glass with cold water. Set the glasses aside to ice down while you build the cocktail. Empty the water and ice from each glass just before decanting the cocktail into the glass.

To make a twist, use a commercial produce cleaner to clean a lemon (preferably organic). Dry the lemon. Use a zester or small paring knife to exise a strip of peel about one inch in length. Before placing the peel in the glass, twist the peel over the drink, releasing the oils onto the surface of the cocktail.

French Martini

2 shots good vodka, such as Absolut, Ketel One or Gray Goose
1 shot Chambord
1 6-ounce can pineapple juice
2 lemon twists

1. Ice down two martini glasses.
2. Fill a cocktail shaker reserved for clear alcohol with ice.
3. Add the vodka, Chambord and pineapple juice in that order.
4. Place the lid on the shaker and shake vigorously -- up and down, not side to side -- until the top is too cold to touch.
5. Empty the water and ice from each glass.
6. Remove the cap from the shaker. You should have a silken, deep rose cocktail with a lot of foam on top.
7. Decant the martinis into iced glasses, pouring the liquid first and then topping each glass with foam.
8. Twist a lemon peel over each cocktail and perch the twist on the rim of the glass. Serve immediately.

Martini Rouge Un

1 shot good gin, such as Tanqueray, Bombay or Hendricks
1/3 shot sweet French vermouth, such as Dolin Vermouth Rouge
1 green olive
1 lemon twist

1. Ice down a martini glass.
2. Fill a cocktail shaker reserved for clear alcohol halfway with ice.
3. Measure the gin and vermouth into the shaker.
4. Place the lid on the shaker and shake gentlly – up and down, not side to side – until the top is too cold to touch.
5. Empty the water and ice from the martini glass. Place the olive in the well of the glass.
6. Remove the cap from the shaker. Decant the martini into the iced glass.
7. Twist the lemon peel over the cocktail and then drop the peel onto the cocktail’s surface. Serve immediately.

Martini Rouge Deux

1 shot good gin, such as Tanqueray, Bombay or Hendricks
¼ shot Chambord
1 lemon twist

1. Ice down a martini glass.
2. Fill a cocktail shaker reserved for clear alcohol halfway with ice.
3. Measure the gin and Chambord into the shaker.
4. Place the lid on the shaker and shake gentlly – up and down, not side to side – until the top is too cold to touch.
5. Empty the water and ice from the martini glass.
6. Remove the cap from the shaker. Decant the martini into the iced glass.
7. Twist the lemon peel over the cocktail and then drop the peel onto the cocktail’s surface. Serve immediately.

Weeknight Dinner: White Fish Fillets with Vermouth, Lemon, Tomatoes and Olives

2011-07-15T17:00:00.003-04:00

Writing about Greenwich Village last month, I had to include a shout-out to Florent, the visionary restaurant from a time and place when the Meatpacking District wasn't chic and trendy but dark and dangerous and when opening a quality restaurant in the area was an act of divine madness. In those days, the Meatpacking District was a shadowy area along the West Side Highway, between the disreputable fringes of the West Village and the gentrifying southern border of Chelsea. As shadow districts frequently are, it was home to a cluster of nightclubs, including Mother, the urban home of innumerable legendary club nights such as the spectacular Night of a Thousand Stevies. A film currently playing the art house circuit and also available on some pay-per-view services chronicles the story of Florent, but what I will say is that it was impossible to get a bad meal there, and impossible not to have a good time.

At no time was this truer than Bastille Day. On this day the owner, himself French, took the party to the cobblestones, in a dementia of rococo finery that included powdered wigs, exaggerated beauty marks, outsized ruffles and a towering cake. In retrospect it was, if nothing else, genius marketing. Just as is true in the dead of winter, at no time do we need a party more than in the dead of summer. Enough time has passed for the high energy party of Pride Weekend to be settling into memory; even July Fourth seems a while ago. A Bastille Day party, especially outside of la belle France, is an opportunity to get together to eat good food and drink good wine, for reasons that need not be more pressing than it's hot and summer is half over.

That said, it is done for Americans (especially those of us avec French ancestry) to mark the accomplishments of French culture on Bastille Day. Even if your striped boatneck sweater is in storage for the summer and your beret is being re-blocked at the milliner's, it's perfectly acceptable -- especially in this heat -- to remain chez vous. Truffaut and Godard find themselves queued in many a home theatre on this day, as do the Cinema du Look films of the 1980s. And many bottles of French wine are uncorked, from the lusty reds of Burgundy to deceptively elegant rosés, from gemlike Alsatian whites to the crown jewel of brut Champagne.

For those nights at home, La Maison Urbaine has le dîner au nuit de semaine très Gallic. This weeknight dinner is inspired by the French facility with seafood, one example of which is the divinely simple technique of braising fish fillets in a low oven with vermouth and butter. So cooking the fish yields a firm, well-flavored fillet that doesn't disintegrate upon contact with either the serving paddle or the sauce. The sauce in this preparation is a riff on Sauce Provençale; this one a chunky confit of juicy plum tomatoes, strident oil-cured olives and friendly herbs. If you prefer, prepare a more traditional French sauce for fish, such as Chivry (white wine, shallots), Ravigote (herbs, capers, onion), or Choron (tarragon, tomatoes, egg yolk). However you prepare your sauce, serve your fish over a daub of white risotto or soft polenta, accompanied by steamed asparagus or a fennel salad and concluding with a selection of delicate French pastries. As you're pouring the last of the Bordeaux you may find yourself singing the Marseillaise, or at least raising a glass to la belle France.

White Fish Fillets with Vermouth, Lemon, Tomatoes and Olives

Obtain fresh fish from a reputable fishmonger. Ask what's fresh that day; the monger should show you a daily catch that evidences clear eyes and no odor other than a clean, briny smell. Have the monger cut fresh fillets or steaks (depending on the fish) and cook them soon after they're cut. This recipe serves two but can easily be doubled.

For the fish
2 firm white-fleshed fish fillets or steaks, 8 - 10 ounces each, such as sole, flounder, halibut or red snapper
1 small white onion
1 medium lemon, preferably organic
3 tablespoons dry vermouth
4 - 6 stems fresh fragrant herbs, such as thyme, chervil, basil, savory, bay leaf or a mixture of these
Unsalted butter
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

For the sauce
1 pound fresh plum tomatoes
1/2 pound oil-cured black olives
3 medium cloves garlic
2 tablespoons dry vermouth
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Extra virgin olive oil

Prepare the fillets
1. Heat the oven to 300 degrees.

2. Place a few drops of commercial produce cleaner into a small bowl. Fill the bowl halfway with water.
Place the lemon in the cleaning solution. While it is submerged, rub the lemon with your hands to remove produce wax and other residue.

3. Remove the lemon from the cleaning solution and rinse under cool water until clean. Place the lemon on a paper towel to dry. Remove stems if any from the tomatoes and place the tomatoes in the cleaning solution.

4. Butter a glass or ceramic baking dish large enough to hold the fillets. Cut a piece of parchment paper large enough to fit inside the dish; butter the paper. Place the dish near your working surface and carefully place the buttered parchment paper in the refrigerator.

5. Peel the onion and remove the root and stem ends. Cut the onion horizontally into rounds.

6. Place half of the onion rounds on the bottom of the buttered baking dish.

7. Unwrap the fillets and blot dry with clean paper towels if warranted. Gently lay each fillet across the onions in the baking dish. For fillets that were cut flat (leaving one side of exposed flesh and one side of skin), place the fillet so that the flesh is facing upward and the skin is resting on the onions.

8. Season each fillet lightly with salt and with several grindings of fresh black pepper. Lay the herbs upon the fillets, evenly dividing the herbs between the fillets.

9. Remove the stem and blossom ends from the cleaned lemon. Cut the lemon horizontally into rounds.

10. Place the lemon slices upon the herbs on the fillets, evenly dividing the lemon slices between the fillets.

11. Measure out the vermouth and splash the prepared fillets with the vermouth. It is okay if the vermouth seeps down into the fish flesh or onto the bottom of the pan.

12. Carefully remove the buttered piece of parchment paper from the refrigerator. Carefully lay the parchment paper, buttered side down, over the prepared fillets.

13. Tear off a length of aluminum foil large enough to cover the baking dish. Cover the baking dish tightly with the foil, crimping the edges to form a tight seal.

14. Place the baking dish in the oven. Cook the fillets undisturbed for 30 minutes.

Make the sauce
1. While the fish is braising, pour the tomatoes from the cleaning solution into a colander. Rinse the tomatoes thoroughly with cool water. Leave the tomatoes in the colander to drain.

2. Place a sauté pan on the stovetop. Drizzle the pan with a four-count of olive oil. Turn the burner to low. Place the salt and the pepper mill safely beside the stovetop.

3. Peel the garlic and remove the root end. Half each clove; remove and discard any sprouting from the center. Slice each half lengthways into slivers and then each sliver lengthways into matchsticks. Cut across the matchsticks to mince. Scrape the minced garlic into the pan containing the heating olive oil.

4. Cut the remaining half of onion rounds into crescents. Cut across the crescents to form large dice. Scrape the diced onion into the pan containing the garlic and the olive oil.

5. Add the red pepper flakes to the garlic, onion and olive oil. Swirl all of the ingredients together.

6. While the onion, garlic and pepper start cooking, place a cleaned tomato on a clean cutting board devoted to fruits and vegetables. Use a sharp paring knife or a tomato knife to half the tomato from stem to blossom end; halve each half. Use the knife to roughly cut the quartered tomato into chunks; it is okay if there are some large chunks. Scrape the rough-cut tomato along with any expressed tomato juice into the sauté pan along with the heating onion, garlic and pepper. Sprinkle the tomato with salt and several grindings of fresh black pepper. Do not stir; the onions and garlic should stay on the bottom of the pan. Repeat with the remaining tomatoes.

7. Once all of the tomatoes have been added to the sauté pan, measure the vermouth and the oregano into the pan.

8. Cover the pan and simmer, undisturbed, fifteen minutes.

9. While the tomato mixture is cooking, place a small bowl next to the container of oil-cured olives.

10. Hold an olive over the olive container and squeeze it so that the pit pops out. Let the pit fall into the container and place the olive in the bowl. It is okay if the olive gets a bit beaten up. Repeat until all of the olives are pitted.

11. After fifteen minutes, remove the lid from the pan. Stir the mixture well to incorporate the ingredients; the onions and tomatoes should be soft and the sauce should be thick and very fragrant.

12. Scrape the olives and any accumulated juices into the tomato mixture; stir. Replace the lid and continue cooking, lowering heat and stirring as needed to keep pace while the fish completes cooking.

Assemble the plates
1. After 30 minutes, remove the baking dish from the oven and gently peel back the foil and the parchment. The fish should evidence a fragrant steam and have expressed a silky pan juice, while the fish should be firm and white. If warranted, place dish back in oven to finish cooking, typically 5 more minutes.

2. Once fillets are ready, remove the baking dish from the oven and gently remove and discard the foil and parchment. Use a fish spatula to gently remove each fillet, doing your best not to disturb the lemon-herb garnish, and place on a serving plate.

3. Use a hot pad to tip the baking dish so that the pan juices pool at the bottom. Use a kitchen spoon to catch some of the pan juice and to drizzle each fillet with a spoonful of the pan juice.

4. Decant the tomato-olive sauce into a serving bowl and pass the bowl at the table for each guest to sauce their fish as they'd like.

Vinaigrette

2011-07-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

photo: Eric Diesel

To almost anyone who grew up in a tract house, “French dressing” is that red-orange drizzle we found on our stack of iceberg lettuce as part of the midweek supper spread. French dressing was called that because a marketer somewhere wanted us – inaccurately, it must be stated -- to associate this somewhat spicy tomato-based mixture with French cooking. This was because, due in no small part to the efforts of The French Chef and The Galloping Gourmet to educate the American palate, French cooking was associated – correctly, it must be noted – with good eating. Putting an interpretation of that into a bottle that mom could pick up at the supermarket was a distinctly American spin, but only le bon Dieu, perhaps in collusion with some food chemists, knows the genesis of the concoction itself.

For the lucky ones who had a parent who practiced in their kitchen what they learned from the local public television station, the lettuce may have been a more assertive field green and the “French dressing” may have been an actual vinaigrette. Unlike the salad bar staple, basic “French” dressing for greens is vinaigrette, a pas de deux between sour and savory flavors dancing in concert with a velvety texture. The encyclopedic section on les sauces (subsection huile et vinaigre) of the mammoth undertaking that is Mastering the Art of French Cooking leads directly with sauce vinaigrette, including a direct, even schoolmarmish, definition of what French dressing for salad is and isn't. At least one cornerstone of American cooking -- Fannie Farmer -- got the message. The very first recipe in the Salad Dressings section of The Fannie Farmer Cookbook is "French Dressing or Basic Vinaigrette." Neither it nor the variations that follow are spicy or red, though one suspects that an investigation commencing with Chiffonade Dressing, which incorporates sweet red pepper into the basic vinaigrette, might eventually lead to the plastic bottle.

In French cooking, executing simple preparations is a test of a cook’s facility in the kitchen. Vinaigrette is the essence of elegance, in which a well-balanced suspension – fragrant with herbs and shallots, spritely with vinegar, touched with Dijon mustard and emulsed with good olive oil -- provides context for the lively quality of fresh greens, just as a frame surrounds a painting. In honor of Bastille Day, here is a foolproof recipe for vinaigrette. Serve it with a toss of good greens, to accompany weeknight dinners from beef to chicken or weekend brunches from eggs to sandwiches. Like all French cooking, a good vinaigrette is an example of good ingredients thoughtfully prepared. Try it once and you will always think about, and act upon, French dressing beyond the bottle.

VINAIGRETTE

Like most salad dressings, this vinaigrette will taste more assertive when you’re testing it that it will when it’s dressing greens.

1 medium shallot
2-1/2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 – 3 stems fresh thyme, rosemary or savory, or a combination of the three
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Remove the root and stem ends of the shallot; remove the papery outer skin. Halve the shallot from root to stem; halve each half. Cut each quarter into crescents and then cut across the crescents to form tiny dice.

2. Scrape the minced shallot into a small bowl. Add a pinch of salt and several grindings of fresh black pepper.

3. Measure the vinegar into the bowl containing the salted shallot. Swirl the ingredients together.

4. Hold the herbs over the bowl containing the vinegar and shallots. Strip the herbs into the bowl by running your fingers down the stalk of the herb in the opposite direction of the growth of the leaves.

5. Set the bowl aside so that the shallots can soften while the herbs infuse the vinegar, a minimum of 10 minutes.

6. Before serving, measure the Dijon mustard into the vinegar mixture; use a small whisk to blend until smooth.

7. Measure the olive oil into a cup or small spouted bowl. Hold the cup/bowl high over the bowl containing the vinegar mixture. Use one hand to pour the olive oil into the vinegar mixture while using the other hand to whisk the oil into the vinegar mixture, until a smooth emulsion forms.

8. Dress the greens with the vinaigrette. Serve the salad immediately.