Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental

The couple agreed on a lot of things, maybe even most things. They agreed about religion and they agreed about politics. They were both punctual to a fault and didn't care that their cars were held together (literally) by duct tape. Neither of them liked camping or theater, both loved road trips, Wyoming, donut shops, used bookstores, clam shacks, and the fifth season of Girls. He made her laugh all the time. She made him laugh when she sang. They tried to live by the Golden Rule and expected the same from their children. You could say they shared the same values, at least when it came to the important stuff. 

Or should we say “important” stuff. 

One fine May morning, the wife walked into the kitchen and found her husband at the counter cutting beautiful, big, sweet, crunchy cherries she’d bought at the farmers’ market into little raggedy pieces. He put these sad cherry filets into a Tupperware container for inclusion in their son’s lunch bag. 

What a tender and caring father, thought the wife, to make his 15-year-old son’s lunches.

And what a barbarian, thought the wife, to cut gorgeous cherries into limp pieces. 

He probably didn't know any better. After all, he hadn't been raised in a fruit-worshipping household as she had. She decided to treat this as a teaching moment. Gently and benevolently, she said, “You know, you shouldn’t cut up the cherries. It ruins them. They lose all their crunch.”

The husband, whose favorite fruit might well have been the banana, said, “Ok. I didn’t know that.” He finished cutting up the cherries and snapped on the Tupperware lid.

The rest of the day passed peacefully.

The next morning, the wife went into the kitchen and there her husband stood at the counter making their son’s lunch again, mutilating cherries.

“What are you doing?” the wife cried. “I told you yesterday, cherries are supposed to be kept whole.”

“I heard you,” said the husband. 

She said, “But. . .”

He said, “Let it rest. Don’t push it.”

“But you’re ruining the cherries!” the wife said. “And you’re sending the message that cherry pits are a huge when they’re not! You’re turning our child off to cherries!” 

 Possibly she sounded a bit shrill. One would have to ask the neighbors.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the husband replied. “Don’t push it.” 

There was a hard, warning edge to his voice, an edge the wife didn’t hear often but knew she should heed. Still, the wife would have pushed it. A tendency to push it was one of her very few character flaws. Mostly, she was perfect. Mercifully, at that very moment the wife’s sister called. The wife left the kitchen and whispered her frustration about the cutting of the cherries to the sister, who shared her dismay. Or pretended to. The sister agreed that yes, it was wrong, like someone putting an ice cube in a glass of great red wine or ordering a dry-aged New York steak “well done.”  The conversation calmed the wife, who did not renew her ridiculous argument with the husband about the cutting of the cherries, even though she knew she was 100% in the right.

The rest of the day passed peacefully, as did the rest of the week.

But the wife’s thoughts kept wandering back to the cherry contretemps. It was funny that a couple would fight about cherries. Not money, not sex, not Sanders vs. Clinton, not laundry, not the remote control or asking for directions or self-destructive habits, but cherries. It seemed to her that in twenty years of marriage she and her husband had basically fought just one fight, over and over again. Broadly speaking, it was always about cherries. That is to say, it was always about the proper role of eating in daily life. Even when an argument was about chickens or goats or the garden, it was somehow about the proper role of eating in daily life. The wife cared a lot about cooking and food. In fact, she was preoccupied by cooking and food. The husband wasn’t. In fact, he was actively hostile to food. When they were courting, he had said that he wished he could consume nourishment in a pill -- and she had found this bizarre, but charming. At the time.

Sadly, while presidential elections came every four years, meals happened three times a day.  

Were they ever going to stop bickering about cherries? The wife couldn't see how. They'd both dug in their heels. While cherries weren't going to end their marriage, there was no question cherries made their marriage slightly less delightful.

On Sunday morning, to the wife’s surprise, the husband asked if he could join her at “the fruit fair,” which was his name for the farmers’ market. The husband almost never accompanied her to the fruit fair. He would glower at the prices and the silly people who exulted over dainty little bunches of organic baby carrots. What was wrong with the 5-pound bags from Safeway? The fruit fair could ruin the husband's day. 

But if he wanted to subject himself to the fruit fair, the wife was happy for his company. It was a beautiful morning and the fair was crowded with people carrying baskets and pushing strollers and tasting blueberries. The couple strolled past the organic creamery and the goat butcher, the honey guy, the waffle truck, the organic apricots and peaches and the crates of Little Gems lettuces and basil. They talked about their children, who, they agreed, were both shaping up nicely. They talked about what movie they should see later that day and chose Maggie’s Plan. They decided they would like to go to Mexico City for a long weekend, but not this summer. The wife did notice that her husband periodically vanished. When she would turn around to ask if she should buy some strawberries that she'd been hovering over, he would be gone. A minute or so later, he would reappear and take any bags she might have acquired.

Finally, she asked him where he kept wandering off to.

“I walk away whenever it looks like you're going to pull out your wallet,” said the husband.

He did not say this in a sarcastic, accusatory way. He said it in a calm and kindly way. He seemed to be in an extremely good mood. 

It hit her suddenly, the way it did from time to time, what a good man she had married. As much as it annoyed her when her husband cut up cherries and filled the freezer with Steak-Umms and made caustic jokes about the meals she cooked, it had to bother him just as much, perhaps more, to see her lavishing money on wild salmon, a curry leaf tree, white corn, organic pea shoots, cookbooks, preserved lemons, and so on and so on, year after year after year, a river of precious cash flowing into the pockets of people producing things like Vita Mixes and sunchokes and mizuna, the purpose of which he would never in this lifetime understand. Never. 

When she looked at things from his point of view, she shuddered. 

But there he was in his baseball cap and Birkenstocks, amiably carrying bags of expensive foodstuffs that she wanted and he absolutely didn't. By simply wandering away when it looked like she might pay $6 per pound for Utah giant cherries, he had figured out how to keep his cool. Couldn't she find a way to hold her tongue when he cut those cherries up into little pieces for their son’s lunch. Yes. Yes, she could. Of course she could. They could get past the cherry fight and this was how. It was all about quiet acceptance and accommodation. She’d seen the light!

Unfortunately, one of the depressing lessons that it had taken her decades to learn was this: You keep having to see the light over and over again. The same light.

But for now, this week, this spring, she could see it. And on the following Wednesday night when he made a caustic remark about the delicious riced cauliflower with pumpkin seeds and goat cheese she’d served for dinner, she just smiled.  

Let them eat mud

Be still, my heart.

Where the hell did the time go? Not just the five weeks since my last post, but the nine months since I weepily saw Isabel off to college? I just drove fourteen hours up to Walla Walla, Washington, packed her and her Birkenstocks, her suitcases and her friend's skateboard, into our car and drove fourteen hours back home. We listened to The Looming Tower and I saw my first Trump signs. We had a lot of time to talk. I told Isabel that I hate Donald Trump to the point of borderline derangement. She told me she doesn’t wear shoes to class sometimes. I told her she should wear shoes to class. She told me it’s not hampering her life, not wearing shoes, so why should she? I told her I hoped she at least hasn’t started wearing pajama pants in public. She told me she hasn’t. I told her she should see The Meddler. She told me I should read The Souls of Black Folk. I told her I have a lot of ideas but can’t seem to finish anything I start. She told me she wants to study in Vietnam or Thailand. I told her I’m pining after a dog, but her father doesn’t want one. She told me not to get a dog. We saw a lot of abandoned motels and barns. I kept hoping we'd see some abandoned puppies too, but we didn't. Now we are home.

This morning over breakfast Mark said, “I wonder where the Trump Presidential Library will be, Mar a Lago or --” He had to stop because I attacked him with a dirty dishtowel. 

I don't ordinarily mention politics on this blog, but my dislike of Trump isn't fundamentally political. It's animal. 

Anyway, friends, I’ve been cooking, but I haven’t been thinking about cooking and it’s the thinking, not the cooking, that gives me something to write about. I started wondering if maybe I should fast for a day or two because nothing makes food sparkle like going on a diet. The minute I decide to restrict my eating in some way I become completely fascinated with food, particularly the food I'm not allowed to eat. That would be great for the blog. I'd be so inspired! Alas, I’ve also found that nothing makes me get fat quicker than going on a diet. 

On a diet, I'd be obsessed with that picture. It would be full of poetry, mystery, sex appeal. Not on a diet, I just think the cake looks tasty.

So I did not start a diet yesterday. I made a Mississippi mud cake instead.  You bake a chocolate-pecan sheet cake and, while it's still warm, top with a lot of mini-marshmallows. After the marshmallows have softened a bit, spread with a fudgy icing of butter, cocoa powder, and sugar. According to a story in the Houston Press, the recipe "is believed to have originated post-World War II in the kitchens of domestic cooks eager to make sweets using new-fangled packaged ingredients, such as mass-produced miniature marshmallows. The texture and appearance. . . struck some as resembling the banks of the muddy Mississippi river, and so the name stuck."

I doubt it. I don't think anyone looked at the cake and thought it looked like the banks of the Mississippi River. Because it doesn't.

The cake was good. It was good. See? What a wan little addition to the food writing oeuvre. My writing would be much improved if I were on a diet. On the other hand, I had a small piece of the cake and that was plenty. If I were on a diet, resisting a second small slice would have been a mighty struggle.

There are lots of recipes for Mississippi mud cake on the internet, but Paula Deen's looks particularly luscious. The recipe I used came out of America's Best Loved Community Recipes.

I was trying to weed out my shelves and this cookbook looked pretty lame, until I opened it and discovered it was full of enticing recipes.

more of those new-fangled mini-marshmallows put to use

Maybe "enticing" isn't the right word for this one, but I am definitely intrigued. 

I felt I had to give a couple of the recipes a try before jettisoning the book. Prior to the Mississippi mud cake, I made a very solid beef stroganoff and a fabulous sweet potato poundcake that we demolished in a few days.

It was light, soft, and you could really taste the sweet potato. If anyone wants the recipe, I will happily supply.

Also, the book had a vintage inscription from Mark. He'd given it to me for my 32nd birthday.

So I can't get rid of it.

He was a boldly colored cat, and burly in his prime.

In closing, we had fifteen good years with our beloved Krazy Kat. He disappeared for a couple of days last week and then Owen found him in the yard, gaunt, mewing feebly, and covered with cobwebs. I took him to the vet straight away, the vet examined him, sighed, said Krazy was suffering the classic ills of feline old age, gave me some options, strongly recommended euthanasia, brought out the needle when I nodded my head, and that was all she wrote. He was a dear cat, a rugged, independent cat, our easiest cat. We loved him. We will miss him. 

Back to Whiskas

We didn’t go anywhere for spring break. Mark worked, poor guy, while Owen and I toured a local art college, ate fried chicken and waffles at a famous soul food restaurant, saw Midnight Special, paid a visit to the pediatrician (6 feet, 132 pounds, a height-weight ratio I'd associate with war zones), searched in vain for copies of the first installment of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Black Panther at three different comic book stores in three different Bay Area counties, acquired a youth bus pass at the transit center, bought our cats their first ever organic cat food, which they hate, and planted a vegetable garden. It was a good week. I’m sorry it’s over. 

As to cooking, Nigella continued to deliver delicious dishes with almost zero effort on my part. Her green minestrone (from Nigella Kitchen) is basic and tasty. Ditto her parsley pesto (Nigella Kitchen), which is like basil pesto, but milder. I served it on spaghetti and the whole pound was gone in about twenty minutes. I like to think Owen ate most of it, but fear he did not.

I was skeptical of Nigella’s cheesy chili (Nigella Kitchen again), a melange of Spanish chorizo, ground beef, canned beans, cocoa, and oregano, as it contained no chili powder. How can you call something chili that contains no chili? You can’t. Sheesh. The “chili” was pathetically bland so I added a couple teaspoons chili powder and that did the trick, brought the whole dish to life. Who'd have thought. Anyway, once the spicing was adjusted, the chili was fantastic. It’s called cheesy chili because you add big chunks of fresh mozzarella to the hot chili at serving time which allows you to spoon up gooey pieces of melting cheese, sort of like chili pizza. Mark said, “Why don’t you make this once a week forever?”

That’s it for food this week. Here are some book recommendations:

*In At the Existentialist Cafe, Sarah Bakewell sorts through an unwieldy mass of material -- personalities, politics, history, gossip, unintelligible German philosophy -- to recount the history of 20th century Existentialism in a way that anyone can read and understand. I came across an amazon.com review that described this excellent book as “glib,” which annoyed me so much that I actually replied. Sure, if you want to grasp all the nuances and complexities of Heidegger’s thought, go right ahead and grab a copy of Sein und Zeit. I wish you well. See you in thirty years. If not, try At the Existentialist Cafe. People seem to think it's easy to write about complicated subjects in a lively, accessible way for the common reader.  I would guess it's much easier to write about complicated subjects in a cryptic way, for the expert.

*Eileen, the narrator of Eileen, a disturbing, riveting novel that was nominated for some big awards last year, is a resentful, sexually repressed young sociopath with an eating disorder who shares a filthy house in a dismal New England town with her alcoholic father and works at the local prison for boys. Yep! Fun. Ottessa Moshfegh really “goes there” with her anti-heroine, which makes for some wonderfully dark, bracing reading. You don’t often meet characters this miserable and toxic and if you like that sort of thing, as I do, you will like this book very much. Eileen lets you know from the beginning  that something big is going to happen to change her life and I couldn't wait to get to this thrillingly twisted event, whatever it might be. Alas Moshfegh let me down! Did she lose her nerve? The book falls apart towards the end. It's still impressive, but I can only half recommend it.

*Hope Jahren’s memoir, Lab Girl, made me think about trees in a whole new way, which is to say, it made me think about trees. Short, enthralling chapters about tree life alternate with long chapters about Jahren’s human life, which has included bipolar episodes, sexist colleagues (she was banned from her own lab during her pregnancy), professional triumphs and travails, trips to collect plants and soils in the wilds of Ireland and the American South, her longstanding devotion to her eccentric lab partner, and, above all, her mad love of science. This book is uplifting, super-smart, incredibly well written, just delightful. I highly recommend it. 

Never pick up hitchhikers

Clearly, I am a fan.

All I want to cook right now are quick, easy dinners that everyone will like and eat and not complain about. I currently have no desire to bone chickens, stuff dumplings, master cassoulet or even fry doughnuts. What is happening to me?! Have I become normal? I keep wanting to say, “I’m so lazy,” but falling back on “lazy” is what’s lazy. Lazy would be actually wanting to cook an elaborate dinner and then slumping on the sofa to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre instead. I don’t want to cook an elaborate dinner, I choose to slump on the sofa watching classic horror movies. 

And for this state of mind, Nigella is really just perfect.

Someone in the comments asked me to pick the best Nigella Lawson book and the short answer is, I can’t. Her voice and style are so distinctive and consistent that it’s hard for me to remember which book a recipe comes from. For instance, the two fantastic dishes I made this week -- Korean kheema and crustless pizza -- came from Nigella Kitchen, but they were so quick and easy I thought they’d come from Nigella Express. I flipped through Nigella Express looking for them so I could describe them to you and soon realized it was the wrong book. Maybe as I cook steadily from Nigella’s oeuvre I’ll get a better handle on the identities of the different books, but for now, I’ll just say I like them all.

So, here are the two recipes I loved this week:

-Korean kheema. The name could use some work. Kheema is an Indian ground lamb dish and this is a ground turkey dish with Korean flavors. It’s powerfully spicy, so if fire isn't your thing, skip this altogether. The original recipe includes peas, which I replaced with big handfuls of baby spinach. Pre-washed from the bag, naturally -- not lazy, a choice, and a good one, albeit a bit expensive. I almost substituted ground beef because I don’t like ground turkey, but trusted Nigella and was rewarded. There’s so much flavor (and so much sugar!) in the sauce that you won’t be able to tell what protein you’re eating. Also, I have wondered whether Nigella meant to call for rice wine vinegar, which is tart, rather than rice wine/mirin, which is sweet.  Or maybe she intended to call for a non-sweet type of rice wine? I used mirin, but it would be interesting to see if rice wine vinegar added another dimension. Maybe next time I’ll try it. Finally, you will need gochujang, available in Asian markets. If you want another use for it, have a bunch of friends over and make bo ssam.

I doubled the recipe and this is reflected in my adaptation:

Whisk together 1/4 cup gochujang, 2 tablespoons honey, 2 tablespoons rice wine (mirin), 1/4 cup soy sauce. Stir in 1 pound ground turkey and let marinate as you get everything else ready. Chop a bunch of scallions. Heat a tablespoon oil in a skillet. Add the scallions and a few big handfuls spinach. Cook for several minutes until the scallions are soft and the spinach has shrunk to almost nothing. Add the turkey and stir-fry 5 minutes or so until it’s cooked -- it’s hard to tell when it’s done because you can’t really see the color. Err on the side of caution and cook longer rather than shorter. Mix 1/4 cup rice wine with 1/2 cup water and use this to swill out the sauce residue in the turkey bowl. Add to the pan. Cook for a minute or so until everything is bubbling and very hot. Serve with rice -- you need a foil for all that flavor -- and top with chopped cilantro. Sometimes you can skip the garnish, but the cilantro really brightens this rich, spicy dish. Serves 4, or 3 with leftovers.

*Nigella’s crustless pizza is, in my opinion, dreamy. Sadly, not so good for you. Also, “crustless pizza” is a misnomer because the pizza actually makes its own crust. That’s the magic of it. You mix egg, flour, salt, and milk, and fold in some shredded sharp cheddar. (Nigella doesn't specify sharp cheddar, but I recommend it. Also, buy the pre-shredded if it’s cheaper, as it was at my supermarket.) You pour this batter into a buttered pie plate and bake. It will puff almost to the top of the pie plate, like a popover or Yorkshire pudding. Now top with more shredded cheddar and pepperoni and whatever else you want. I used some fresh mozzarella and I think the dish benefited from the extra cheese. Bake a few minutes more until everything is melted and hot. The crust is crunchy on the edges, slumped, cheesy, and tender in the middle. I doubled the recipe and made two pizzas.  Three of us ate one and a half. The recipe is here. I wanted to make a salad to go with it, but in the end, I could not be bothered. Yes, that was a choice, but it was a stupid one, and lazy. Serve this pizza with a salad.

I'm that kind of person

a very rugged mousse

Not even Nigella is perfect. The orange muffins from Nigella Bites are merely ok and her instant chocolate-orange mousse from Nigellisima didn’t work out for me (although it has worked for others, apparently.) To make this intriguing instant mousse, you whip cream and fold in some sweetened condensed milk. Nigella: “for the self-styled tastemakers of the world, condensed milk is really beyond the pale. So how can you blame me for wanting to slip it into any recipe whenever possible?”

Into this airy-runny-cloying cream you now fold melted chocolate, fresh orange juice, and Aperol. Alas, the chocolate seized when it made contact with the cream and I couldn’t seem to break it up again, so there were all these chunks of seized chocolate in the mousse. Mark, who didn't know this was unintentional, said, “The chocolate chips are a nice touch.” 

a very boring muffin

I'm glad someone thought so. I feel that the whole point of mousse is the smoothness. But even if the texture had been perfect, this mousse was too fruity, too sweet, and I would have given it a thumbs down anyway.

But I will forgive Nigella anything.

a very charming book

I’m trying to write a little about books I read, at least when they’re good, which Mary-Louise Parker’s collection of autobiographical essays definitely is. Her essays take the form of fantastically odd, mostly endearing letters to men who have played a significant role in her life, including her revered childhood priest, the oyster picker who provided the oysters for her father’s last meal, a beloved wether goat, and the hospital orderly who tried unsuccessfully to take her newborn son to the nursery. As an actress, Parker is funny and off kilter. So are her essays. They contain no gossip and almost no names. Don’t expect to read about how Billy Crudup left her for Claire Danes when MLP was pregnant with their son. This comes up, but only very obliquely in the apology letter she addresses to the poor NYC cab driver who picked her up around that time and started driving in the wrong direction. ("So, Mr. Cabdriver, I apologize for the profanity and the blame. I caused your turban to pop loose from its foundation and that was extreme. . . .") She makes it funny -- she makes almost everything funny -- but there's real heartbreak in these essays, too, and grief, disappointment, and self-reproach. They're pretty great.

Lately, it feels like I can turn any book (or movie) into a source of self-help inspiration. You know, news I can use. Is that wrong? Shouldn't my approach to art be more disinterested and pure? Yes, probably, but who cares. I found plenty of juicy self-help tips in these pages, particularly in the essay entitled “Dear Mentor.” 

Parker:

“Our first week rehearsing together, we were outside on a break and you asked me what my character did at night when she couldn’t sleep. I rattled off stuff I thought was super-interesting before I said, 'and I feel like she’s the kind of person who . . .'

“I kept on, but something I’d said had given you a twitch Your face was very close to mine and I remember the direction our bodies were facing in the courtyard, all of that. . . .

“You were nodding while I rambled and when I stopped you said, 

“'Uh huh? All that is good? But I would be careful of thinking about people as ‘kinds of people.’” 

I didn't think Mary-Louise Parker (i.e. beautiful actress) was the kind of person who could write sparkling, brainy, and delightfully bizarre essays.

Spend even just a few hours trying to avoid instantly categorizing the people you run into. I have. It's interesting and it's hard. 

Less contempt prior to investigation

Go!

The new documentary City of Gold, about Los Angeles Times food critic Jonathan Gold, will make you hungry, of course, but the movie is about much more than food. It’s a love letter to multi-ethnic Los Angeles, a meditation on the role of criticism in our culture, and a study of the way a vast and seemingly unknowable megalopolis can be tied together by one writer’s sensibility. It’s also the portrait of an eccentric genius. I do think Gold is a genius. Can I use that word? Ugh, I hate that word. I’m not even sure what it means. But I have a collection of Gold reviews that I read cover to cover many years ago even though I don’t live in L.A. and couldn’t eat at any of the restaurants. If that’s not evidence of genius, it’s evidence of real brilliance.

I was unprepared for the Gold persona. I expected him to be as polished and charismatic as his prose, but he’s an unassuming, freckled walrus of a man with long, greying, red hair. He lives amid piles of books and drives a beefy Ram 1500 truck. I keep wanting to use the word “Falstaffian,” but that’s only because he’s stout. In fact, Gold isn’t Falstaffian at all. Rather, he comes across as gentle, quiet, genial, and empathetic. He rides around L.A. creating this incredible, ever-changing map of the city in which the plot points are taco trucks, pupuseries, hot dog stands, and Korean restaurants. People navigate by that map. People have learned about not just the foods of their enormous city, but the staggering diversity of cultures within its boundaries.

Gold is a generous and kind reviewer. One of the people interviewed praises him for his refusal to indulge in the contemporary American habit of expressing “contempt prior to investigation.” I tried to take a pen out of my bag so I could scribble this line on my hand or something, but everything fell noisily out of my bag onto the floor of the theater which is one way to spoil your movie experience. I remembered the line anyway! And when the movie ended I looked it up on my phone and discovered it’s a well known concept from AA. Perhaps you’ve heard it before, but it’s new to me, and inspiring. I jump to contemptuous conclusions all the time based on little to no investigation and it wouldn’t be bad to curb this tendency. While sitting in this very coffee shop typing just now, a fleshy tattooed guy came in wearing orange shorts and a red tank top, super-loud clothes that revealed way, way too much hairy back for this venue. Or any venue? Mark met my eye and shook his head. I said, “No contempt prior to investigation.”

He said, “I’m going to feel contempt. I don’t need to investigate. Gross.”

It was gross. Still, it's worth thinking hard before you jump from grossness of the attire to any kind of judgment of the person who chose to wear it. Obviously. Kindergarten lesson. And yet I forget.

Back to City of Gold. My favorite part of the movie was an interview with Roy Choi, founder of the Kogi food trucks and author of L.A. Son. Choi says that when he was just starting out he had all these exciting but inchoate ideas about what he wanted to express with his cooking. Then he read Gold's review of his food and he thought, that’s it. JG explained what Roy Choi was doing to Roy Choi. He also explained it to the rest of us. That's one of the vital roles that a great critic plays, one that Yelp never will.

Anyway, I liked this film a lot and recommend it. I can’t say the same of Batman v. Superman. Superhero movies don’t usually go over my head, but I could never figure out why exactly Batman and Superman were fighting. That was pretty crucial to appreciating the movie. It was Owen’s second viewing and he walked out in a state of such intense artistic rapture, that I can’t dismiss the film completely. I’ve investigated, but even so I’m not prepared to express contempt. Just bafflement.

All about sucking at sports, Owen, licuados, and me

Owen inherited his athleticism from me. In other words, he is a pauper. Are he and I unathletic because we’re uninterested in athletics? Or did we lose interest in athletics because we have no athletic ability? The answers to these questions (with regards to me, anyway) are rooted so deeply in the swampy origins of my narrative that I will never know. I was bad at sports as far back as I can remember and therefore - or because of that -- I found them extraordinarily unpleasant, humiliating, and pointless. Today, I am basically indolent and sedentary and happiest when my life involves moving from the sofa to my bed to the seat of a movie theater, punctuated (maybe) by a gentle evening walk around the neighborhood wearing normal street clothes and cute shoes.

But the medical establishment insists that such a lifestyle leads to illness and premature death, a warning I didn’t take seriously until a few years ago, at which point I started exercising for real. I go to a CrossFit gym. It is a such a bad fit for me. The gym is full of tough, great-looking, gum-cracking mesomorphs who crushed P.E. when they were growing up and went on to play Division One soccer or whatever before becoming stock brokers, unlike, say a yoga studio or a water aerobics class, which is where I really belong. The awesome warrior people at the CF gym are always forking up grass-fed steak salads out of Tupperware and they dissolve protein powder into water. Not milk, water. That’s really hardcore. Meanwhile, after my workout the other day I walked across the parking lot to Walgreen’s and bought up a basketful of half-price Peeps and Cadbury eggs. I felt very proud and rebellious. It’s important to maintain my identity, even if it means I get diabetes.

Anyway, I think the exotic cultural milieu at CF has been part of the draw for me and I've come to really like my coach. There’s a lot to observe and think about and I could probably write a book about what I have seen and thought about over 2+ years at the CF gym. I'm often so busy thinking during my workout that I forget what I’m doing and lose count of burpees or can’t seem to recall how the rowing machine works. You think I'm joking? I wish. Then I wonder if escaping into my head is why I am so bad at athletics or if I escape into my head because I am so bad at athletics.

Unlike his father, who ran cross country in high school and works at a sports web site, Owen has never been into either watching or playing sports. Unlike Isabel, he has never been interested in dance. Owen comes home from school and reads comic books with our elderly cat on his lap and carefully plots his moviegoing for the coming weekend, checking the revival theaters for any stray screenings of The Big Lebowski. He attends to his many collections. He listens to records. He follows a number of TV shows and podcasts. He’s an aficionado of iFunny. He posts reviews on crappy movie sites. He takes very good care of his plants.  

I think he’s adorable and perfect exactly the way he is. 

But I can see that he is gawky and physically uncertain and I understand why a 15-year-old boy might want to make some changes. A few weeks ago, out of the blue, he said he wanted to do CrossFit. I signed him up. He's been twice. Yesterday afternoon, I got there to pick him up as he was running across the parking lot, just like I run across the parking lot, except faster, and he gave me this huge smile as I drove up, like, Isn’t this the stupidest? Oh, I loved him so much just then. As we were driving home he said, “I don’t need to get super-strong or anything, I just don’t want to be a pile of mashed potatoes.” 

I said, “I’d say you’re more like a breadstick.”

He said, “It’s only funny the first time, Mom. Mashed potatoes are funny, but breadstick pushes it too far.” 

I said, “But you look like a breadstick, not a pile of mashed potatoes.”

“You don’t get it, Mom,” he said wearily, so I shut up. 

Back home he stretched Camille-like on his bed with a baggie of ice on his forehead. His emerging post-CF routine involves dramatic languor and requests for exemption from chores, which he does not get. Yesterday, he requested a smoothie. I am anti-smoothie. Smoothies are what people ask for when they want to treat their food as fuel, or a health aid, which bums me out. Smoothies are on the spectrum with protein powder dissolved in water and power bars. My anti-smoothie position is silly and irrational and connected in some way to my lack of athleticism, so don’t get defensive. I am happily married to someone who makes smoothies all the time for himself and our kids. 

Yesterday, because I hate exercise as much as he does and know the toll it takes on body and psyche, I agreed to make Owen a smoothie. As it turned out we didn’t have yogurt or bananas, which are vital smoothie ingredients. We did have strawberries, milk and sugar and I said I’d make him a licuado instead. He was suspicious, but enfeebled enough to agree to a licuado.

Have you ever had a licuado? I first drank one in Costa Rica (though it might have had a different name, I don’t remember) when I was an exchange student in high school and I’ve loved them ever since. I love licuados as much as I dislike smoothies. They are the refreshing and pretty milk-and-fruit shake that you might sip while sitting on a bench in the Zocalo and watching the passerby.You would never add algae or flaxseed meal to a licuado.

Here’s how you make a licuado: Put equal parts ice, cold milk, and fresh, hulled strawberries (or cantaloupe, my favorite) into a blender with sugar to taste. If you’re using a cup of ice, a cup of milk, and a cup of fruit, start with a tablespoon of sugar and see how you like it. You might need more, depending on the sweetness of the fruit. Blend until the ice has pulverized and the drink is foamy. Pour into a pint glass.

As it turned out, Owen likes licuados better than smoothies, too. That's my boy. He said, “This should have been in Make the Bread, Buy the Butter.” 

It was one of the nicest things he’s ever said to me. I didn’t thank him, because if I had he would have taken it back.

Mark was out of town so after the licuado restored Owen’s strength, he did some homework and then I made grilled cheese sandwiches and we sat on the sofa with the elderly cat between us and watched Daredevil. I pulled out a couple of Cadbury eggs for dessert. Then I went to my room and slogged through a little War and Peace and he went to his room and read comic books. I made him a licuado this morning for breakfast and I’m picking him up from school so we can go straight to a matinee of Batman vs. Superman. After all, we would both agree that there’s no better way to spend a beautiful, sunny April afternoon than in a dark movie theater. I would probably pick a different movie, but one day soon Owen will stop spending time with me and I will happy for him, but also incredibly sad. Meanwhile, I don’t really care that much what movies we see. 

Omani food, Nigella Lawson, book recommendations

The "love cake" from Meera Sodha's Made in India = dense, buttery confection of ground cashews, semolina, and spices

I had to turn in an essay for the class I’m taking right around the time the Piglet got interesting and since I couldn’t simultaneously finish the essay and stalk the Piglet, I let the Piglet drop.

If were paid to write this blog, I’d have been fired by now. Or, as Donald Trump might tweet: "She should be fired! Lightweight blog that no one reads anymore. SO SAD!"

cardamom fry breads

Are you following DT's Twitter feed? You should. His Twitter voice is fascinating.


Anyway, I’m not paid, no one can fire me, and I’m back.

I couldn't style Omani food better than they did in the book, so I didn't try.

A perfectly respectable book won the Piglet. Not the book I would have chosen, but Hot Bread Kitchen is a perfectly respectable book that I haven’t yet mustered the energy to cook from because, as the title suggests, it's mostly bread and I haven't been in a bread-making mood. Of the books I got to know during the tournament, I really liked Zahav, of course, and Meera Sodha's Made in India, but I ended up falling hardest for The Food of Oman by Felicia Campbell. Initially, I was just fascinated by the obscurity of the topic. Later, I was happily surprised by the workability and deliciousness of the recipes. I expected Omani fare to be standard Middle Eastern, but it’s not, as anyone with a solid grasp of geography might have guessed. Oman is closer to India than to Egypt and you can taste that in these dishes, which are spicy and rich with coconut milk.

So far, I’ve made Campbell's caramelized beef, which involves cooking cubed chuck steak in a pot with spices, onions, cilantro, and water and for hours until the strong flavors have become one with the super-tender meat. I served this with a big pot of coconut spinach and pillowy, slightly sweet, sopapilla-like cardamom fry breads.  I’ve made those fry breads twice more since then, that’s how much I liked them. Some pan-seared meat dumplings were delicious as well, a zesty beef and onion mixture encased in a sticky, chewy dough, like curry potstickers. Only the soupy Omani coconut curry chicken has disappointed.

Omani caramelized beef

The weather has turned fresh and springy over the last week and Omani food is dark and serious. On Monday, I tried to figure out what I wanted to cook next from Food of Oman. The answer was, nothing. It's all too heavy for this time of year. I flipped through Hot Bread Kitchen. Nothing. I thought about Mamushka. Not feeling that either. I wanted something else entirely. But what? I browsed my shelves and when I got to the Nigella Lawson section, I stopped. Nigella. It was time for some Nigella.

What a good call that was. You could live a long and happy food life cooking only from Nigella Lawson's oeuvre. She’s funny, smart, and charming. Her recipes are fabulous and easy. I’m now going to link you to four of them. You are most welcome.

Monday night, I made salmon with mirin from Nigella Express (her “fast” cookbook). You mix soy sauce, mirin, and brown sugar in equal parts, marinate your salmon fillets for a couple of minutes, fry two minutes on one side in a dry skillet, flip, pour over the marinade, cook two minutes more. Remove fish, add a splash of rice vinegar to the pan, pour sauce over fish. Divine. Owen uttered words that have never before crossed his lips. “Is there any more salmon?” 

That night I also served a lovely strawberry crumble that Nigella promised would render bland, watery supermarket strawberries palatable. It did. Recipe for the easy, irresistible crumble is found in Nigella Kitchen (her "catch-all" cookbook) and here. 

Tuesday night, I served so-called meatzza from Nigellisima (her Italian book), which is pizza, but with a crust of seasoned ground meat, not bread.

meatzza

I hate the name, but that's the only downside to this simple dish. It's perfect for all you gluten-free, low-carb eaters and pretty damn great for the rest of us. Recipe here. Use a pound of ground beef, a 15-ounce can tomatoes, and 6 ounces mozzarella. She doesn’t specify the quantity of salt, which I resent in a ground meat recipe like this one as I had to cook several tiny meatballs to get the seasoning just right. A heaping 1 1/2 teaspoons of Diamond Crystal kosher salt did the trick.  

Finally, last night I served another killer Nigella dish, the broccoli-stilton soup from Nigella Express. I've made it before and written about it before, but I doubt anyone remembers. Ten minutes of "active" time to make this soup. Frozen broccoli! Love. Try it. 

  

Now, some books that have nothing to do with food:

LUCY

I read this haunting and lovely novel by the author of Olive Kitteridge in two hours and so can you. So should you. It's about the secret childhood histories we carry around with us that no one in our adult lives can ever really understand. The details of the story are highly particular to narrator Lucy Barton’s troubled family of origin and yet almost made me cry in the ways (good ways) it reminded me of my own not-so-troubled family of origin. 

This book by a former colleague of mine is a thoughtful, big-hearted, and candid non-fiction portrait of life in a small Texas town. Karen Valby gets to know restless high school students who drive hours to the nearest movie theater and conservative older gentlemen who convene pre-dawn every day to drink coffee in the general store. There are towns like this all across America, but I sure don't live in one. I enjoyed getting out for a bit and meeting people I otherwise wouldn't. Highly recommend.

Peacekeeping deals with politics, intrigue, and Americans in Haiti. Mischa Berlinski is a superb writer and his novel started out strong. But page by page my interest seeped away. I got to page 265 and gave up with only a hundred pages to go. I just didn’t believe the story or care what happened anymore, and that’s a big shame because the book has a lot going for it. This review pinpoints the problems, I think. 

Now it's back to War and Peace (page 1022), Donald Trump’s Twitter feed, and easy Nigella dinners.  

How to be a generous critic

Purple cauliflower was on sale at Whole Foods so I bought it. Tastes exactly the same as white, looks less appetizing when cooked, supposedly has a very slight nutritional edge.  

Today’s Piglet review by Michael Twitty weighing the merits of Ruth Reichl’s My Kitchen Year against Hot Bread Kitchen by Jessamyn Waldman Rodriguez is perfection. The writing is funny and vivid, but also 100% sweet and positive, which one could not say of Ari Shapiro’s review yesterday nor, ahem, my last post. Twitty presented this as a tough contest between two superb books and didn’t at any point go negative. Big hearted and gracious. I commend him. I have a copy of Hot Bread and look forward to digging into it. I’ve already cooked extensively from Reichl's bright, companionable book (Twitty: "an incredible braid of her Twitter poetry and recipes she loves"), which I regularly pull out when I don’t know what to make and it's 5 p.m. I trust Reichl’s recipes will be practical and tasty and that I might already have all the ingredients in the house. Sunday night's cauliflower pasta (anchovies, raisins, olives, cauliflower) is just one example of a last-minute Reichl feast.

On another subject, I’ve now tackled a handful of recipes from Meera Sodha's Made in India, most of which are very good. My favorite is the cauliflower, cashew, and pea curry, a simple, rich, substantial “doable on a weeknight” dinner. Sodha's spinach with black pepper, garlic, and lemon is also terrific. I have tried Sodha’s method of making rice and it works beautifully, as Sadie Stein noted in her review, but I prefer my old way, the Madhur Jaffrey way, which yields less oily, fluffier rice.  Recipe at the bottom of this post, in case you’re interested. The only miss was the Gujarati potato curry which was exceedingly dry. It calls for a 7- ounce can of plum tomatoes. I don’t even know where you buy 7-ounce cans of tomatoes. I put in a whole 14-ounce can of plum tomatoes and the curry was still too dry. 

Much as I like the particularity of the exotic recipes in this book, I think that when it goes up against J. Kenji Lopez-Alt’s Food Lab in the next few days, Food Lab should win. I think of Food Lab as the Revenant of this crowd of cookbooks, the biggest, most male, and most ambitious and that therefore it should absolutely win. Kidding. That isn't why Food Lab should win, though I do sort of think of it as The Revenant of the bunch. It should win because unlike The Revenant, Food Lab is a true magnum opus, a singular work packed with Lopez-Alt's vast cooking experience, contrarian sensibility, and hard-won, useful data. The recipes are there to illustrate general principles making them at first glance somewhat generic, and this might lead the judge to choose Made in India, which is full of seductive and unique dishes. We shall see. I'm pulling for Food Lab, though Made in India is pretty great, too. 

Last night, I cracked Food of Oman and made the rich, golden Omani lentil soup It could not have been easier or better.  Dried limes, some spices, onions, garlic, a few tomatoes, red lentils. The backstory of this book is fascinating. Felicia Campbell joined the military as a teenager and was deployed to Iraq. Something about the culture spoke to her. Campbell: “In this wild, ancient place, as a restless 19-year-old, for the first time I learned to be still. In Iraqi cafes I was welcomed by those I thought were my enemies, their warmth and graciousness softening my carefully guarded heart, humbling me. With them I learned to sit and simply be, savoring the minutes or hours spent with my platoon, my tribe, safe from the brutal loneliness that lay beyond our encampment. . . .”

Now we know that at least one good thing came out of the Iraq War. It softened one woman’s heart, broadened her mind, and led circuitously to the publication of a very fine book that may soften other hearts and broaden other minds about a culture unfamiliar to most Americans and unnerving to more than a few. Campbell rediscovered the inner peace of her Iraqi sojourn again in Oman, where she now lives. This extraordinary book is a love story of a person for a place. Of a woman for a culture we don’t think of as particularly hospitable to Western women. I had to look up Oman on a map. I had to google "Muscat" to get a mental picture of the capital city. I have a lot to learn.

Apparently I made this for the first time when I was pregnant with Isabel. In the note I complain about the rice sticking together, which probably means I rushed the rinsing process.

Basmati rice, Madhur Jaffrey's way. I have made this recipe a hundred times. The little 1973 book opens right up to the page. The salt is different in my version below because I use kosher. I don't always measure the salt. A big pinch is ok in both places. I don't measure the butter either and usually put in more to be sure it is extra buttery and delicious.

Rinse 2 cups basmati rice in running water, rinse it really well. Soak for a half hour in 5 cups water with 1 teaspoon of kosher salt. Drain. Melt 1 tablespoon butter in a saucepan, add rice, stir to coat the grains. Add 2 1/4 cups water and 1 teaspoon of kosher salt. Bring to a boil, cover, lower heat as much as you can, and cook for 20 minutes. Lift lid. Fluff rice gently with fork. Cover and cook another 10 minutes. If you leave the lid on after it's done cooking, the rice will hold for a quite a while at a nice, warm temperature. I usually start cooking the rice about an hour before we eat. Serves 6.

Clean, clean, clean

Some ripe age ladies I ran into a few years ago. 

Friday's Piglet review of Diana Henry's Bird in the Hand and Pierre Thiam's Senegal was brilliant and made me jealous. I wish I'd written those lines and thought those thoughts, but I didn't. John Birdsall did. Birdsall makes such a strong, fair case for Bird in the Hand that I don't even feel I need to cook from the books to agree. (Though I will.)

This morning Jessica Koslow, proprietor of the adorable Los Angeles restaurant Sqirl, advanced Heidi Swanson's Near and Far over The Food of Oman, a choice I would not have made, though I thought Koslow's review overall was solid. I've cooked nothing from Oman (which looks great) and only the turmeric tea and a pleasant honey-sweetened lassi from Near, but I've spent enough time with Swanson's book (and cooked enough of her recipes in the past) to know that it is just not my thing. I want to be very clear that this is a matter of personal taste, not any failure on Swanson's part. What she does, she does extremely well -- and the better she does it, the less I like it, if that makes sense.

Swanson specializes in lovely, healthy, and delicate vegetarian dishes that she styles and shoots exquisitely, albeit a little wistfully. Everything appears forlorn, pretty, and somewhat wan. In this book there aren't a lot of substantial meal; she seems to be focusing more on dainty drinks and tidbits, grain salads, ricotta bowls and pantry "staples," like quick-pickled rose petals. Swanson: "I tend to keep dried rose petals around and make these now and then for a fragrant addition to couscous or as an accent on fruit salads. . . " She is very fond of rose petals and suggests finishing your breakfast yogurt bowl with optional "fresh or dried rose petals" or "a bit of bee pollen."

Why not fairy dust?

They were terrifying, the cows. 

For some, these touches will be inspiring, evoke a casually graceful and sophisticated lifestyle. In me, they provoke sighs. I find her writing precious. Swanson likes her biscotti "crushed into a little cup of creamy vaniglia or melone gelato." She suggests serving homemade vin de pamplemousse "in a Picardie glass filled with ice. . . I stock up on vanilla beans from the grand cru vanilla bar at Eric Roellinger on Rue Sainte Anne just for this recipe."

In one headnote she describes a big package of raw sugars a friend who lives in India sent her, along with a strainer. The friend tells Swanson in her note that the strainer is "perfect" for making paneer and yogurt. Swanson tells us: "The strainer is flimsy plastic and hard on the eyes, and while I typically avoid plastic, it's effective."

Maybe that last example isn't irritating. I don't know. It just presses my buttons. It would be hard to shop for Heidi Swanson.

What differentiates Near from her previous books is that she's organized chapters around her travels (to Morocco, India, France, Japan, and Italy) and shares dishes she brought home with her and made her own. As Koslow puts it: "This is world cuisine as seen through Swanson's eyes: natural, healthy, clean, simple."

And then, in the next paragraph: "Her recipes rely less on technique and kitchen wizardry, and more on simplicity and brightness through clean cooking."

Clean. I'm not the first person to see the problem of using the term "clean" to talk about food and cooking. Is world cuisine dirty and in need of a Heidi Swanson cleanup? How exactly is Swanson's food cleaner than what they cook in Italy and Morocco? Is it clean because she doesn't cook with meat? Because she explicitly calls for non-GMO products and organic corn starch? Because she avoids plastic? Because she garnishes with rose petals? Does she use less oil? Fewer ingredients?

I don't know if Swanson's food is actually "clean," whatever that means. But there is something overwhelmingly clean about this book, so I sort of understand what Koslow is getting at. But for me, it is not a plus. In the photos of her travels there are no people other than Swanson herself, posing in various exotic, seemingly empty buildings, looking contemplative. In the Indian chapter there is a picture of a ceiling fan with some cute ceiling paper as well as a photo of Swanson wandering in a vacant temple, but not a single Indian person to be seen anywhere. No flooded streets, no cows, no one cooking, no moped carrying a family of five plus their goat. All the colors in her India photos are elegantly muted, too. It's like this great, bright, roiling culture and cuisine has been visually purified and drained of all its dynamism and grit and humanity, not to mention meat and plastic. It is just too pretty. It is just too clean.

FOR ME.

I must repeat: This is a beautiful, thoughtful book. It has integrity. It feels personal and sincere. I'm sure the recipes work. It is going to transport and inspire someone. I am not that someone. You know how it is when you wander into some shop and all the furniture is white and all the coffee tables are glass and you like threadbare old Oriental rugs, antique samovars, and oak? Or vice versa?

I have failed to say anything about The Food of Oman, which I bought and which is packed with dishes I have never seen before and am dying to cook. Coming soon. 

Doable on a weeknight

Oh brother, this presidential election. 

But let's talk about another vitally important contest instead: The Piglet, the always-contentious annual tournament of cookbooks at Food52. 

As ever, they chose a wonderfully eclectic bunch of cookbooks for consideration, works covering the cuisines of Oman, Ukraine, Israel, India, and Senegal, along with a collection of chicken recipes, a baking book, and more. They also selected a fairly eclectic group of judges with the usual complement that doesn’t care about cooking and whose clueless misadventures outrage the vocal subset of Food52 readers that wants substantive criticism. These readers sound off in the comments, this year prompting Food52 editors to write a long, defensive, probably ill-advised post to which readers sounded off in the comments. . . 

And then blogger Phyllis Grant went and did everything right on Tuesday in her terrific review of J. Kenji Lopez-Alt’s Food Lab and Michael Solomonov’s Zahav. Grant cooked the hell out of her assigned books and made the case to advance Food Lab with passion, wit, and earned authority. Yesterday, chef Yotam Ottologenhi followed up with a sturdy little essay weighing the relative merits of Lesley Tellez’s Eat Mexico and Hot Bread Kitchen (which won and which I must acquire asap). Today, Sadie Stein put forth a persuasive argument that Made in India is a better choice for the home cook than Gjelina.

The readers of Food52 appear to be satisfied these recent judges. I am satisfied, though I have no idea if I agree with their judgments. Other than Zahav (love) and Ruth Reichl's My Kitchen Year (like), I've barely touched the Piglet books. In some cases, I haven't even seen the Piglet books. I did a big library run the other day and have since enjoyed a cup of fine masala chai from Made in India and a some anti-inflammatory turmeric tea from Heidi Swanson's Near and Far. I was all ready to mock that turmeric tea, which sounded like a revolting witch's brew of turmeric, honey, black pepper, and coconut oil. But it was a tangy, delicious elixir and instead of making fun of it, I made a second cup.

I've also produced a beautiful chicken soup with dumplings from Mamushka, a seductive collection of Ukrainian dishes. More about this in a subsequent post.

But the Piglet book I've really dug into is Leah Koenig's Modern Jewish Cooking. The sad fact is that while it appeared at first glance to be the blandest, most generic book of the bunch, it was also the most approachable. It's not that the other books are unapproachable, exactly, but as reviewers Claire Mazur and Erica Cerulo put it in their critique, the dishes in Modern Jewish Cooking seem "doable on a weeknight."  I am pretty sure this is one of the main reasons they preferred Modern Jewish Cooking to the patently more original Mamushka. And I have a feeling that judgment was a mistake. But who am I to criticize? "Doable on a weeknight" is powerful when you're lazy or tired or busy, and aren't we all.

So, the book. In her introduction, Koenig tells the story of the genesis of Modern Jewish Cooking: As a young adult living in Brooklyn, she decided to teach herself to cook the traditional Jewish foods she grew up with. She mastered borscht, bagels, and blintzes. Eventually, she began to experiment, putting her own contemporary spin on classic fare, adding jalapeno to her matzoh balls and pumpkin to her challah. The book is a compendium of these updated recipes, along with a lot of sundry dishes that I'd never peg as Jewish (and for which I have hundreds of recipes on my shelves already), like a mushroom-goat cheese tart, roasted broccoli, a wedge salad, granola.

I would like to say that despite my initial indifference I've fallen passionately in love with Modern Jewish Cooking, but I can't. It's been a weeklong marriage of convenience. Don't get me wrong, Koenig has written a very smart, attractive cookbook. But I don't daydream about it when we're apart. I think the right audience for her book is a millennial novice cook who is trying dream up hip Shabbat menus. That isn't me.

I made both of Koenig’s oat granolas (apple and honey, black pepper and pistachio) and while both were fine, neither was as good as Alton Brown's. I baked Koenig’s tender honey-cinnamon cake, which was easy and lovely, but not quite thrilling enough for the scrapbook. The other night I served Koenig’s rosemary-maple roast chicken with a side of her toasted almond Israeli couscous. The chicken was great -- juicy and sweet -- but I have roasted so many great chickens that I can't get excited about a new roast chicken recipe, however great. The Israeli couscous made a pleasantly innocuous starchy side and I’ll forget I ever made it in a few days.

Ah, but here's how it works: I was all set to do something more exotic from one of the other Piglet books last night, like a curry from Made in India for which I had already bought all the ingredients, but I was busy and tired and at 6:30 pm decided I'd throw together a ridiculously easy Koenig cottage cheese-noodle dish instead. You cook some shallots in butter while boiling egg noodles. Mix the two in a big bowl with some cottage cheese, sour cream, and herbs. (The recipe calls for mint, but I used dill.) Per Koenig's instructions, I served this with a green salad. Perfect, not-that-nutritious dinner. I could eat it every night.

And yet even now, even after that satisfying, miraculously simple meal, I still don't feel a romantic spark with this cookbook.