Can you eat those? Jerusalem artichokes

One of the standbys for farmers market cooks during this part of the year is jerusalem artichokes. These tubers are not artichokes. In fact, they have nothing to do with artichokes whatsoever.

My understanding is that they are the root of a sunflower varieity. And that makes sense. In most romance languages, the word for sunflower is something like "girasole" which means "turning toward the sun" (and once I made that connection, I could remember an Italian verb, "girare," to turn, which I just kept on forgetting. Now, it's like "turn turn turn," or "gira gira gira" whenever I write. Now if I could remember that guidare is "to drive, " and not "to lead," I could get there from here. ) Okay, enough digression.

Anyway, these guys seem to come in two different types. One is very gnarly and twisted, and always reminds me of some complicated geometric pattern. I tend not to use these, because the other variety looks like a cross between a ginger root and a fingerling potato to me. These are much easier to peel, and peel them you must, because the skin is not too savory.

You can slice them and fry them like chips, or you can boil them and mash them like potatoes, but the way I like to use them most of all, is - big surprise here -in soup. I love the creamy texture they bring to things, and their unusual flavor. Sometimes, however, I find their flavor TOO unusual.

To me, underlying the base flavor of the jerusalem artichokes is an almost "burnt" after taste. It's not unpleasant, but a little of that goes a long way. I've not heard anyone else describe the flavor like that, and they do show up on very fine menus, so maybe it is in fact just my set of taste buds. But in any event, trying to mediate that taste, without killing it, led me to this soup. As did another inspiration.

I love restaurants which post their menus on line, especially if they are menus that change frequently. It's inspiring to me, when I see what cooks are doing elsewhere. Sometimes, I can't do it, because what they have available simply hasn't come around in the Northeast yet. But I can make a mental note of "Hmmm. That's a good way to cook asparagus." or "I never thought of putting that together with peas," and so forth. So in looking over recipes one day, I saw that Chez Panisse was serving what they called "Alice's artichoke and jerusalem artichoke soup." I never saw them serve it again, and of course they didn't post a recipe, but with the idea of using the two of them, I went forward. And I like the soup. Although they aren't related, it seems to me that the flavors compliment each other. Here it is.

Now, first, let me 'fess up that I do in fact use a convenience food here: frozen artichoke hearts. In the Northeast, whole artichokes are expensive. And of course the work involved in cleaning an artichoke down to the heart is not a small investment in time. So I buy frozen artichoke hearts. Okay, okay, hang me, stop reading the blog, assail me in public, do what you like. But before you do, try the soup, huh? Then come back and tell me that I'm a traitor to localism and fresh food everywhere.

First, you will need your soup "base." I use my standard trio of an onion, a carrot, and some celery. I try to chop up about half a cup of each of them. I stay away from herbs, because they don't seem to work real well in this soup. Artichokes are a difficult marriage with other food. Citrus works well with them, but not in soup. So I simply put olive oil into my pot, enough to cover the bottom nicely, and add my chopped veggies and a pinch of salt. I let these cook, until the onion goes translucent, and the crackle begins.

Prior to this, however, I will have peeled, and cut a pound of jerusalem artichokes into coins. You don't HAVE to peel them, if you're going to use a food mill. But if you aren't, and many of you don't have a food mill, peel them. I add the coins together with two boxes of frozen artichoke hearts to the pot, and wait a few minutes (I don't bother thawing the artichokes. The cooking process is more than sufficient). My usual quart of chicken stock goes in, I taste the mix for salt and adjust it to what I like, and then, when the pot comes to the boil, I lower the heat and cover.

Remember the rule of thumb I told you with the other soups? If it grows underground, cover the pot, if not, don't? Well, here we have two major ingredients where one is, and the other is not, an underground veggie. When that happens, I cover the pot (Gee, it sounds like I'm reciting a cooking version of the song "The Name Game," don't I?)

The girasole roots will take a while to get tender, and the artichokes will cook quickly. It's actually okay. I've found that artichoke hearts don't seem to mind the longer cooking, which is really overcooking. But if you do, then wait until the girasoles are beginning to get soft, and add the artichoke hearts at that point. It's really your call.

When they're nice and soft, well.. if you've been reading the soup recipes in this blog, you know what to do: cool and puree. Or cool and mill, if you've got the skins of the girasoles to deal with. Then taste.

This is a soup where, if things are too thick, I would stay away from dairy. I would go with more chicken stock, or water if you feel that the taste is too strong. Garnish? Well, I wouldn't say no to garlic croutons here, but I think that would be about it.

You can find these jerusalem artichokes at farmer's markets. They keep well, but make sure you don't forget about them in your fridge. Once, I did, and they got a little damp, and then began sprouting! I had visions of sunflowers dancing in the air of our extra room, and planted them, but alas, nothing ever came of them. Maybe I'll try it again this year. So much has changed, that perhaps my brown thumb is turning green. I'll let you all know, later in the year

Want to try making the hardest dish you'll ever cook?

Don't get nervous, because the recipe, which is NOT mine, is very easy. It's almost counterintuitive, and it's something you probably love to eat.

It's roast chicken. Really. Think about it for a minute. When was the last time you had a really good roast chicken? Bet it hasn't been in a while.

Roast chicken is one of those foods that people remember fondly, but usually, I find that they are remembering the good things that happened around the food, rather than the food itself. If you sit there and think about it, you probably don't order it in restaurants, because you figure it's going to be just "so-so" (and you're usually right), or bad (also often true), not as good as you had it when you were growing up ( I won't go there), but more than anything else... I bet you don't make it at home. And I want to know: why not?

You probably have some idea that this is a weekend meal, something that takes enormous amounts of time and labor, with basting, and all kinds of other steps that are just way too complicated to do.

Well, let me say a few things here. First, one of the true tests of a restaurant - a GOOD one - is how good is there simple roast chicken. As a matter of fact, if you want to determine how committed a restaurant is to good cooking, this is what you should order: green salad with vinaigrette, roast chicken, and fresh fruit (or the closest dessert the restaurant has to fresh fruit). Before you say "Oh the hell with that, I could make that at home," I'll say you're right. Then why don't you? Back to that nasty time element huh?

Some years ago, Judy Rodgers, the head chef and owner of "Zuni Cafe" published her recipe for roast chicken. At Zuni, they serve over 100 roast chickens a night, even though they have a wonderful, superb seasonal menu. They roast to order, which means an hour wait for dinner. And in food crazy San Francisco, people wait. And it's worth it. Village Restaurant in NY makes superb roast chicken (the best in NYC, in my view), but Zuni's is better. Way better. It costs more, and you have to be in San Francisco, and you have to order a whole chicken (best to serve for two or more), but it's all worth it. I make her recipe all the time. You should too. We don't have wood burning ovens like Judy does, but this is darn close.

You DO have to do some preparation . First, you have to buy the best chicken you can find. That means Farmers' Market, or an organic one, or however best you can do. Don't use a supermarket chicken here. Second, you shouldn't buy one much over three pounds. 2.5-3 pounds is best, but the recipe can go up to 3.5 pounds if that's all you have. Finally, you need to do something the night before. You have to take the chicken out of its packaging, wash it inside and out, dry it, and then rub about a heaping teaspoon of salt all over the bird. Then, put it on a plate and refrigerate it, UNCOVERED overnight. The reason you're doing this is to dry the skin out, so that it gets nice and crispy when you roast it. What will happen is that the salt will draw out some of the juices , but then the bird will pull the salty flavor back in, in effect "brining" your bird without the need for a bucket or any of that nonsense. If you happen to have some cheesecloth, or something that you can wrap the bird in and throw out when you're done (think salmonella here, folks), do wrap it, but it's not necessary.

When you're ready to cook, preheat your oven to 475 degrees. Yup, 475. And let it stay there for about ten minutes. Then, get a pan that is oven safe ready. Ideally, the pan you use should be just big enough to hold your bird, but many of us don't have pans that are a perfect size. Use what you have. Heat the pan, without oil, for five minutes, at medium heat.

Now, fearlessly, take your chicken and put it, breast side up, into the pan. You're going to hear massive, noisy hissing and spitting, but you won't get burned. Remember, there's no fat in this preparation. Now move the whole pan into the oven, and let it roast away for thirty minutes. After thirty minutes (after twenty or so, you'll begin smelling that wonderful smell of chicken), carefully take out the pan, and with tongues or whatever you have on hand, turn the bird breast side down and put it back in the oven for fifteen minutes. It may very well stick, and that's okay. The skin will be torn a little, but read on. It's not necessarily a bad thing. You'll do this one more time, turning it back breast side up, for ten, if the clucker is 3 pounds or less, fifteen if more.

Carefully take out the pan and move the chicken to a plate to rest for ten minutes. Now look at the good stuff you got in there, maybe even some very crispy skin. Add some liquid- chicken stock if you're being abstemious, white wine or vemouth if you're not, let it sizzle for a minute, turn on the heat and as they always say "stir up those lovely brown bits to make a tasty pan sauce."

Okay, so now you have a roasted bird, and some pan drippings. What do you do? Well, you have to carve the beast. Remember: let the knife do the work for you. There will be obvious places to cut. For example, the breast bone of a chicken is actually very soft, and a good, solid knife will cut right through and give you two halves. But before you do that, deal with the legs. Pull the tip of the drumstick away from the bird, and you'll see a joint, right above the thigh. Start there. Insert your knife and move it around. You'll find the socket, and just press down. The leg will come away. Of course, you'll do this twice, and then cut the breast down the middle with one thrust. If you feel more comfortable with a poultry shears or other big scissor, that will do it too.

This is delicious with some baked potatoes (which you can bake while the bird is roasting, on a second rack of your oven). You can feel guilt free about the chicken: remember, you didn't add any fat - so if you want some butter on your potato, go right ahead (although you may want to consider a few drops of a really nice olive oil instead). Make a salad too. And eat some fruit for dessert. something fresh and seasonal.

Who says you can't cook like the best restaurant cook?

Now, you're done

People who cook...

are the most generous people you'll meet. I don't necessarily mean that on an economic level, although that can be true too. The fact of making something for someone else to eat, when you think about it, is a brave, and generous act. It's sharing, in a very basic sense.

But cooks do more than that. They share of themselves. Very little defines a cook more than his or her recipes. And I can think of very few cooks who will not share recipes with people who simply ask. I think the stories about chefs with tight lips, who say no, are apocraphyl. I've never gotten a no from any cook whom I've asked about a recipe. There have been times when I've had to cut down proportions from sixty portions to six, or had to buy a French/Croatian/Portuguese dictionary, but that's been because that's what the particular cook used or had . And there have been times when I've gotten "oh, it's this and that and this and that...." (with the particulars, ) but no measurements. Those are usually home cooks, like my Nana. A typical question and answer session with Nana would go something like

"Then you cook the pasta"
"For how long do you cook it Nana"
"You see."
"Oh."
"Then brown your meat, but don't make it too brown."
"How brown is too brown, Nana?"
"You see."

You see? That's how she operated. She wasn't concealing anything, this is how she operated. If anyone gave her a recipe, written down, she immediately threw it out and said "BAH. Tomatoes, peppers, onions, mushrooms, pork. Who needs a recipe?" And she never did.

Now, this is all by way of another story about my friend Huck. That's what I'm going to start calling Michael, because it's easier than writing out "my huckleberry friend" everytime. Huck is cooking a dinner party this weekend. He's a brave, gutsy man. Cooking for people is always unnerving. Trust me. If you knew how unwound I get before every dinner party, you'd swear that I put valium in my portion of the first course. By the time I sit down, I'm usually ok, but there's always that sense of nerves, regardless of how many times you do it.

Anyway, Huck ran his menu past me, and we were talking about first courses. We settled on soup. And then I began thinking: you know, when I started doing dinner parties, how much I wished I had an extra pair of hands. So I offered to make the soup. Not because Huck can't make the soup himself. The menu he's making shows that something as simple as a vegetable puree is well within his grasp. But who needs to "stretch," when really, you're trying to be the cook, a guest, the host, and probably put the make on someone. (This IS Huck we're talking about).

So we settled on celery root soup, after I put on my bossy boots (A new expression I learned: British slang for a domineering person. A dominatrix in a cook's suit. Hmmm). Here's the recipe. Make it for yourself, but better yet if you do what I keep on preaching: you make one thing, have someone else make a second thing, and have someone else make a dessert, and then share.

First, you'll need two good sized celery roots. These are UGLY vegetables, like I wrote about before. Cut away the brown, nasty looking outsides, and you get a big lump of whitish gray flesh, like a thick potato. Cut this into cubes and then put it under water to keep it from browning while you get the rest of the vegetables ready.

Your soup base here is onion (a large one, diced), and one or two carrots, also diced. If you like things sweeter, use two. When they're diced, put them in a soup pot that you've covered with olive oil, and cook them slowly, until the onion goes translucent. When that happens, drain your celery root, and add it to the pot with a quart of chicken stock (if you're lucky enough to know Dave, use his homemade stuff, but a good canned one will be fine). Add a big teaspoon of salt. Bring this to a boil, then lower the heat, and cover the pot and let it cook away for about thirty minutes (a good rule of thumb, but not perfect, for veggies, is if it grows underground, cover it when you cook it. If it doesn't, don't).

While this is going on, melt about two tablespoons of butter in a frying pan, and peel ,core and slice one large, or two small apples. Use eating apples, like granny smiths, or something like that. Don't use "cooking apples here. Brown them in the butter until they just get some golden color. Take them off the heat.

Check the celery root and, if it's soft enough to pierce easily with a knife, you're ready. Let everything cool down if you're going to use a blender, or don't bother if you use a food mill. One way or the other, add the apples to the celery root, and then puree everything. The mixer will give you a smoother puree, the food mill, a more rustic one. Take a look at it: is it too thick for you? Then add water, or stock, or milk. Use milk after you taste it if you think it's too strong. When you taste it, add more salt if you think it needs it. And you're done.

You can garnish this with your favorite, crispy pork product. Huck is serving a Mexican dessert, and I would tell him how to make chiciarones, but that's for another day. Crispy bac0n, a slice of sausage, some chopped prosciutto, or crispy pancetta, are all good.

This will make about two quarts, maybe more. That's plenty for eight people as a first course.

"In bocca di lupo, Huck." (It's how we Eyetalians say good luck). But you're gonna be fine. And next time you're gonna make it for me.

Officially, you're done now.

"Ducking" back in

I don't know what it is about that poor bird, but I can't help but make bad puns when I'm writing about cooking duck. Ah well. Perhaps the recipe will make up for it.

Previously, I wrote about the wonders of duck breast, and how it cooks so quickly, eats like a steak, and makes a wonderful meal. I talked about how fifteen minutes after you start, you can have a wonderful dish in front of you.

Well, that's not true for the legs. And if you think about it, it makes sense. Ducks "paddle" all day long, moving themselves through the water. If you think about how tired you get after a good swim, you'll realize that muscles are being worked, hard. So duck legs are much tougher than those large, tender breasts that we talked about previously.

When you're trying to figure out what to do with a cut of meat, you have to try to imagine where it came from on the animal. And then figure out if that muscle is a working muscle. For example, shanks of any animal are going to have tougher, more muscular meat. So you will need to braise them. They simply will tighten up and get tough and inedible if you try to cook them the way you cook the breast, or the filet mignon, or the ribeye, or anything like that. So when you're working with duck legs, think s.....l......o.....w. And think delicious. The recipe I'm going to give you here is stolen shamelessly from one of my favorite other blogs, www.davidlebovitz.com. You should all be reading his posts, and his books. David is one of the best cooks around. He bills himself as a pastry and dessert man, but anyone who can provide a recipe like this knows what he's doing period. I believe that he would shrug his shoulders and say "this isn't rocket science you know," but basically, cooking is hardly rocket science.

David gave the recipe for raw duck legs, but you could also use it with duck confit. I have done it with both. The only thing that changes is the wine. For me, the combination of duck confit and zinfandel is a magic match. If I don't have zin around, I'll look for something fruity, besides myself. For the regular duck legs, I like something with more tannin, maybe even a young cabernet sauvignon. But my fall back wine for this always seems to be pinot noir. That may be because there's always a lot of it in the house, and I follow the prescript "if you wouldn't drink it, don't cook with it."

Okay, here's what you need. You need four whole duck legs, either fresh ones, or confit. You will also need about a pound of prunes. Don't stop reading, c'mon. You really do like them. Remember when they tried to have us all call them "dried plums?" Mother of Mercy, save us. What is wrong with calling a prune a prune? G EEZ. Spend your money on good ones. Don't get the delmonte ones. Go to a health food store, or go online and order some, but get the good stuff. The duck deserves it. Finally, you will of course need your bottle of wine, and while it's optional, I cannot think of doing this without putting about six sprigs of fresh thyme and a big piece of orange rind into the dish.

Put your oven up to 325, and while that's happening, deal with your duck legs. Remember when I told you to put the duck breasts in the pan cold? Well, not here. Here, what you are going to do is, first of all, cut the legs into the components, i.e, the thigh and the "drumstick." This isn't as easy as it sounds. Even if you're used to cutting chicken legs into pieces, ducks have a slightly different anatomy. But be patient. There's an old saying about letting the knife do your work for you, and it's true here. Let the knife find the place where the joints meet, and push down. The first one will take a bit of time, the next three will be a breeze, you'll have a new skill, and you'll feel very pleased with yourself. I promise.

IF you are better organized than I am, you will have done the cutting of the legs, a day or two ahead of time, so that they can sit in the fridge with a good teaspoon of salt having been rubbed into them. But if you aren't, do it when you're cooking the dish.

You want to brown the legs well. No oil in the pot again. Just put them down, but please don't crowd your pot . I use a big Le Creuset. Listen to them cook. Engage your senses. When you hear a distinct change, something like a change from a sizzle to a crackle, turn them over and do the same thing, and keep on doing this until you have finished with all of them. Do it this way with the confit too, if you're using it.

When everything is browned, carefully pour off the fat, into a dry container. One that's heat insensitive (once I did this in a plastic measuring cup and had modern art and a floor of duck grease when I was done. Use a metal bowl). Put the duck back in and, off the flame, pour in a bottle of wine. Then add the orange and the thyme. Cover the pot, put it into your oven, and let it just bubble away for about 2 1/2 hours. Then, open the oven, uncover the pot (wear a glove), and add the prunes. Now, here's something important. Prunes with the pit in them will give you more flavor. But think of who you're cooking for. Will they be able to deal with it, or are you going to be on Judge Judy paying arguing over dental bills? If you use the ones with pits, make sure you tell people, otherwise Judge Judy will smite you, and who wants that?

Let the thing cook away for another half hour or so. The prunes will become very soft, and unctious, almost like a thick, fruit jelly.

Now when this is done (I don't think David does this, but I do), take out the pot. Again, wear gloves, and take all the solids out and put them to the side, in some kind of bowl (not the one with the fat in it). I turn up the heat way high and boil this stuff down to about a cup and a half/two cups, and then put the solids back in. I try not to serve it the same day, because it tastes better when it sits, as all braises do, but if you must, then go right ahead.

I will confess that I waste the duck fat. Other people, like my friend Jane, would find a way to use it, even if she rubbed it all over her body and swam the English Channel, but I cannot get The Guymeister to eat potatoes cooked in duck fat. (So maybe while he's away, I'll invite Jane over and we'll eat them. Ya up for it sweetie?).

You need something nice and starchy to go with this. Noodles strike me as the right thing, or if you're fortunate enough to know how to make spaetzle (we'll get to that sometime in the future), that would be even better.

This is a nice dish to do on a lazy weekend, although who has one of those anymore? But try it anyway, I think it's a really nice, hearty dish, something we all need come the cold winds of February and March. To beg to differ with T S Eliot, in terms of cooking, I think that March is the cruelest month.

So now, you can use everything , or almost everything in the duck. I WOULD post a recipe for duck liver mousse, but not too many people are gonna deal with that. For the feet, check with your local Chinese Nana.

Enjoy

Something to go with that soup?

When I wrote the blog about French potato leek soup (sorry, I am not going near spelling the word correctly), I talked about putting some kind of protein out there with it. Well, what?


This was something I had to give some thought to. See, Guy and I normally eat something like a pizza, or a big piece of quiche, or maybe savory bread pudding, with the soup we eat on Monday night. But given the high potato content in this soup, something starchy wasn't going to cut it. Maybe it's a sign of my increasing age that, while ten years ago I probably could have eaten a pizza with a bowl of this soup, I can't do it anymore.

So I turned to something that I really should make more often. Whether you call it frittata, or tortilla, or something else (there is a version in Japanese cooking and I can't remember what it is), there is a sort of culinary "universal" in a cake of eggs, and leftovers.

Now, let's get one term right here. I did write "tortilla," and I meant it. We all know Mexican corn and wheat tortillas as breads. But in Iberia, a tortilla is an egg dish, usually served at room temperature, and almost always based on wonderful fried potatoes. A well made tortilla is a thing of joy. It's a wonderful snack or meal, and since it is not served cold, or even hot, you can make it, and leave it alone. Italians have their frittata, and again, it's one of those things where, if you ask 100 Italian cooks how they make it, you'll probably get 100 different answers. Potatoes are NOT a "must" in Italian frittate, but there's usually some kind of vegetable, maybe some meat, and it's sometimes thinner than a tortilla, and sometimes not.

The whole point is, we're talking a thick, egg based kind of cake here. Thick, as contrasted to the thin omelets and crepes that we know from French cooking. One of the differences is that, when cooking a tortilla or frittata, you are not going to move the eggs around. They cook slowly, with heat coming up from the bottom to cook the top, and maybe finishing with a quick second or two under the burner.

Traditionally, you need at least six eggs to make one of these, but we're just going to make a small one, for two people, so I'll use four in this recipe. What you do is break four, large eggs, at room temperature (helps with the cooking), into a bowl, and stir them until they're broken up. You don't want to put too much air into this. Thickness counts in this kind of dish. Add a bit of salt, and any dry spices or herbs you might like. What they are very much depends on what you feel like and what you have around. I grew up eating peppers and eggs, and so mine has peppers in it: pickled spicy peppers that I bought from a Farmers' Market vendor, called "Ricks Picks" The sample they gave me convinced me to try them. Some cheese element is also good in these. I had mozzarella around, so I cubed some of this. Use TINY cubes. Dice them nicely. Otherwise, you will get big globs of YUCK when it's done. You can also use an onion element, and I normally would, but for the leeks in the soup. I also took one small chorizo sausage, and sliced it thinly. All of this gets mixed directly with the eggs.

Then pour all of this into a well oiled pan. For me, a non-stick is essential with this, for reasons that will be clear as we go on. More professional cooks may not need the non-stick, but I do. You cook this, at medium low heat while you bring your oven broiler up high. Watch the eggs. You'll see a decided change, as they go from liquid, to semi solid, to just about firm. That's where you want 'em. Eggs continue to cook off the heat, and if you cook them too hard, they will turn very rubbery. Who needs that?

Now, what you'll do is take that pan, and put it under your broiler for no more than about fifteen seconds, to just brown the top of it. Pull it out of the oven, and if you want to add a sprinkling of parmesan to the top, don't let me stop you.

Now, comes a moment where you have to be patient, and also be careful. That pan just came out of a very hot oven. You could get burned badly, given what you need to do next. So, let it sit for five, maybe ten minutes. Then get a plate bigger than your pan, cover the pan and put one hand on the middle of the plate. Protect your second hand with an oven mitt, or a towel, and grab the handle. Now, fearlessly, turn the whole thing upside down. If the eggs don't 'plop' out immediately, shake the pan a bit, and if it still doesn't work, oh well, get in there with a paddle or spatula and get them loose on the plate.

And there you have it. Something a little different from your standard egg dish, and good with something starchy, like our soup. We eat ours with an argula salad to round out the meal.

This is a good thing to have in your repertoire. You can, for example, put something substantial like crab or shrimp into the eggs, cook it up, and then when it's cool, cut it into small pieces and serve it as cocktail food. Or use it in a sandwich. It's good and substantial, and it gives you a chance to use up odds and ends in the fridge.

Give it a try. I think you'll like it.

Yes, you can have a biscotto

In fact, you can have two. If you make them right. Biscotti are one of the things that I never buy when I'm out. Why? Well, to be blunt, I find them disgusting, and so untrue to what a biscotto is, that I can't do it. (Biscotto by the way is singular. If you're only eating one, you're not eating "a biscotti." You're eating a biscotto. Once you get to two, it's biscotti.)

You all know, from exposure, that "biscotti" mean "twice (bis) cooked(cotti). And that's because these lovely cookies are in fact baked twice. The classic, basic kind (the ones I grew up with) are loaded with anise flavor, and nuts. Usually, but not always, the nuts are almonds. And they are hard. They are designed for dipping in espresso , or wine (especially the lovely variety called cantuccini, which are Tuscan), or something that you're drinking. When Nana gave me biscotti, it was never with a glass of milk. It was half strong coffee, and half hot milk. And I could sit at the table with my aunts, and blush when they said things about me, and pretend I didn't see the bottle of strega, that strong, potent, liqueur that they were ladeling into their coffee. After an hour or so, the laughing got louder, the jokes got dirtier, Italian overtook English, until someone would say "ladies, we have to stop. Otherwise our husbands will be doing the cooking."

Remembering things like that makes me smile and cry at the same time. We're losing that sense of "table talk" that my Nana and aunts have. Oh, what I would give to bring it back!

Italian biscotti, when made along traditional lines, are not all that rich, and in my view, fit into Temple Day cooking (it's working by the way. I lost three pounds last week, eating what I wrote about). I compared recipes for "italian style biscotti" and "american style biscotti." A plain Italian biscotto, with nothing added to it, had 91 calories and 1 gram of fat. The corresponding American version was at 153, with 5 grams of fat. And these were for BIG cookies, an anathema to Italian tastes. The recipe that follows is adapted from one that makes "14-16 biscotti." I get about 30-40 from my recipe. So there you have it. Take 91, multiply it by 16, and then divide by 30. There's your calories for that one cookie. Of course, you shouldn't eat fifteen of them at a sitting, but if you did, it wouldn't be the end of the world.

In fact, my feeling is that if the cookies are made well, you shouldn't be able to eat fifteen of them. If there is a lot of flavor, and you pay attention as you eat, you will be satisfied. I guarantee it.

The basic dough for Italian biscotti contains two eggs, that you mix with 2/3 cup of sugar, a half teaspoon each of sugar and baking powder, and then two cups of flour. This is very dry dough, and you should have some liquid (I use water), ready, if the dough is not cohering. Add tablespoons of water until it does.

Now, what are you going to put into the dough? That's a good question. Like I said, true biscotti have nuts and anise seeds in them, and perhaps a glaze of anisette liqueur. But you CAN play with them. I don't like making "freighted biscotti," like the ones you get at that ubiquitous coffee bar that are four days old, stale, and taste of nothing but sugar. Usually, I use one flavoring, maybe two. And in a case like the one below, I stick to strong flavors that are not going to interfere with the structure of my cookie.

I made these in planning for a dinner next week, where I will be serving pomegranate panna cotta for dessert. That's plenty rich, and plenty soft, so I want something crisp, and I want a flavor that plays off of pomegranate. That's not easy. Well, let me rephrase. All the flavors I could think of that play off of pomegranate (pineapple, date, saffron), didn't feel right in a crispy cookie, although the saffron idea is growing on me. But then "ginger" came to mind. Ginger is my baking secret. If you put ginger into something baked, it tastes better, Guaranteed. And very little in the calorie department. And no fat. And you can use whatever you like. If you MUST, use chocolate chips. But I try to stick to essences, chopped dried fruit, nuts, spices, etc.

So I stirred a cup of finely diced, candied ginger into the dough as well as a huge tablespoon of fresh grated ginger. Then I took the dough, divided it in half, and rolled each half into an 18 inch log. The FIRST bake is at 350, for 25 minutes on a parchment lined baking sheet. When they're done, you take them out and let them cool. Just about every recipe I have read tells you to start cutting them after as little as fifteen minutes. Ignore this advise and wait at least an hour. There's no hurry here. You will have much better control, and much better yield, if you wait until they are totally cooled.

When they are, preheat your oven to 325 this time. Go at the log, and cut very severe, diagonal slices, perhaps a half inch wide. Use a serrated knife, like a bread slicing knife. It makes it much easier. Now, you put these back on the baking sheet. You will see different instructions here: leave them standing up, or put them cut side down and then turn them in ten minutes so the other side is up. I've never noticed a difference. The only diference I HAVE noticed is that, if you don't turn them, one side of the cookie will be darker than the other. Bake the slices for 20 minutes (some recipes tell you to do this for much longer. You don't have to ). Then let the cookies cool right on the tray until they are completely cool.

Have one right away. Then put them in a tin, and NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER refrigerate them. They'll keep at least a week if you stay away from them. And when you feel like you just can't live through another lunch of yogurt and salad, help yourself. If you've been good, the little bit of calories you're going to get from that wallop of flavor will be very welcome.

La Cuisine de Bonne Femme: vichissoyse

There are probably about six misspellings in that title. French is not one of my languages, and I apologize for that. You would think that, for someone who cooks as much as I do, I would know kitchen French at the least, but I don't. Does that mean I can't cook the food? I guess you'd have to ask some French people.

In coming into English from any language, there is a loss. I interpret "Bonne Femme" as the lady who personifies the stereotypical "feminine" values. Almost like the Hearth goddess in mythology (Hestia? Vesta? She has different names). I think of her as the woman who is confronted with having to feed a lot of people, with limited means. Sort of like my Nana, only in France. I think they may also be called "grande mamman." They are a disappearing breed, and that's a shame. Maybe gay men will be the next wave of these wonderful ladies, who specialize in dealing with the world's ills by feeding people something good to eat, regardless of what is available to them.

Potato leek soup (so I don't murder the French language any more than I already have), is an integral part of that cuisine. Leeks, and potatoes , are just about always available. They take a second place when the harvest is full and bountiful, but now that we're in winter, they can star. Who does not like potatoes? And this soup is very much like a big hug (I want to say "French kiss, but. Well, you know).

This soup can be served hot, or cold. My friend Steve loves it cold. I always have it hot, even in summer. It can be pureed to the point of velvet smoothness. Or left chunky, or in the middle, which is where I do it. And it's quick. Remember, those lovely French ladies had other things to do besides cook. And so do you. So having containers of this wonderful soup around is a really really good thing.

What you need is a large bunch of leeks. Say, five or six of them (or, two small bunches). Take a look at them. Make a judgement call. Cut away the part that looks too tough. It is. You can save it for soup stock, but let's be honest: are you going to make soup stock? I didn't think so. Trash them. Now, cut the cleaned leeks vertically, and take a look. Spread out the leaves. Are they dirty? You'll be able to tell right away. If they are, wash them. If they aren't, don't. Then chop them fine. You want at least two cups of finely chopped, white and light green leeks.

Now, to the potatoes. I use three pounds. And I use yukon golds. You can use another potato, but stay away from the ones that have blue or red flesh here. Those are wonderful potatoes, but this soup is pale. Peel them, and then chop them into small chunks. Three pounds of them.

You will also need half a stick of butter, unsalted, or if you are or are cooking for vegetarians, 2 ounces of olive oil, i.e, a quarter of a cup. Heat your fat in a big soup pot, and add the leeks, followed by a big heaping teaspoon of salt. Sautee them, until you hear a change in the sound, i.e, from a vigorous sizzle, to a slow, deep one. Don't let them brown.

When you're there, toss in the potatoes, and stir. Make sure you coat everything with fat. Then add WATER. Not stock, not wine, WATER. I've tried. Water works the best. You'll need about six cups if you want a fairly thin soup, or as little as four, if you want your soup to be the thickness of loose mashed potatoes. Cover the pot, lower the heat, and let them cook for thirty minutes. Check the potatoes. Are they nice and soft? If they are, you're done. If not, let them cook a little longer. It shouldn't take more than 45 minutes. Check the seasoning, and add more salt if you like. Some people add milk at this point, but I don't.

Look at the soup. Do you like the texture? If you do, leave it alone. If you want something really smooth, wait until it cools, and put it through the food mill (Remember all those things they say about potatoes getting gummy in the blender or food processor? They're right). But if you want it somewhere in between , get out that old fashioned potato masher, and get to work. Just about five minutes is what I need.

I made this tonight, and I got about 2.5 quarts of soup. Plenty to share. What to eat with it? A VERY good question. All those potatoes suggest not having any further starch, so dark bread, or pizza, doesn't sound good.

AH. Remember the duck breast recipe I gave you? Well, we had duck last night. There's some left over. Remember when I suggested using leftover duck for a salad? Well.... (I guess I DO like leftovers). "Bottom line" is, put out something with protein and greens and you've got a really fine meal. Drink white, or drink red. Both will go with this. Or, if you feel perfectly smug about what you've done (and you should. You made something really good), have a second bowl. With a second glass of wine. Then have a baked apple for dessert.

I didn't think I was going to enjoy this blog, but yes, I do. I like this one a lot. And I'm going to send it to two of the young ones, Peter and Keith, both of whom have gotten interested in cooking. Yes, I think it will suit my bright eyed little brothers very well