I grew up hating coconut. It smelled like suntan oil to me, and called to mind a revolting Hostess confection known as a Snowball. Snowballs were round and hot pink and unnaturally soft. The only texture came from the “coconut” coating, which looked and felt like dryer lint. Snowballs were so cloying and mushy that I couldn’t stomach them at any age, which is saying something. I had a towering tolerance for sweet and mushy as a cavity-prone child of the 70’s. Snowballs put me off coconut for decades.

Eventually I encountered less processed versions of coconut. And once I tasted coconut milk in savory marinades, sauces, and curries, I fell in love. Coconut milk is rich and fragrant. It’s an utterly luscious vehicle for hot, complicated spices, redolent of tropical climes. I’ve never met a coconut curry I didn’t like. Still, it took time to get past the memory of those Snowballs and open my heart to coconut desserts.

 I made my first tentative stab at coconut dessert with Ina Gartens’s coconut cake. It was perfection.  In the glow of that cake, the texture of coconut actually seemed like a good thing. A thing to embrace, rather than flee. Hostess Snowballs began receding to a faint, menacing, hot-pink memory. My conversion to sweet coconut was recently complete when I made my first-ever batch of coconut macaroons. These bad boys have a crumbless, chewy consistency all their own. They are moist, and ever-so-slightly flowery. Bittersweet chocolate adds a deep, dark and creamy counterpoint.  

Not only do these cookies embody intriguing flavor and texture, they also score high on the unfussiness scale.  Of course, I had to go and gild the lily by dipping them in chocolate. That’s wholly unnecessary, and it pretty much doubles the preparation time. I won’t fault you if leave them un-dipped.  But if you have a few extra minutes, you’ll be glad you dipped. Really glad.

I considered several macaroon recipes, and went with the simplest (naturally). This recipe is adapted from the one printed on the bag of Baker’s brand sweetened coconut.

Chocolate-Dipped Coconut Macaroons
makes about two and a half dozen cookies

1 14-ounce package of sweetened coconut flakes
¼ cup sugar
3 large egg whites
2 teaspoons almond extract
½ teaspoon salt
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

In a large bowl, stir the coconut, sugar, egg whites, extract and salt with a wooden spoon.

Place batter by generous, rounded tablespoonfuls onto parchment-lined cookie sheets.

Bake for 15-20 minutes, until edges are golden brown. Cool completely.

Melt chocolate in a double-boiler (or a glass or metal bowl placed atop a saucepan of gently simmering water).

Dip the bottom of each cookie into chocolate, up to a depth of about a quarter inch. Place cookies upside down on parchment paper until chocolate cools and hardens (about 20-30 minutes).

Sorry I’m late. My discipline went on vacation, then missed its train, then slept through the alarm, then called in sick. Can you believe it? Yeah, me neither. All that aside, I missed sharing recipes with you, kind readers. What better outlet for my glaring food-talk issue than this little blog? Where else can I recall last night’s dinner in excruciating detail without clearing the room? My friends, family, neighbors, and colleagues have suffered enough. So I’m back. Thanks for sticking with me.

I’ve got a recipe for you. I’m weary of wintery braises and stews. I want something fresh and bright to remind me of warmer days. This recipe deserves a drum roll, or maybe a symphonic theme song, heavy on the strings. It’s a favorite around here. Let me list some reasons that you should run right out and buy some tuna post-haste.

Reason #1: Jewel-like beauty. The deep pink tuna and serene green avocado recall a half-open peony, batting its riotous eyelashes with the promise of Spring.  

Reason #2:  Texture. Ooh, la la. Each bite offers a nuanced nudge to the tongue. It’s melting, soft, and smooth. Tuna and avocado are already plenty sultry on thier own. Put them together, and they’re practically too luscious for primetime.  Add some zing, crunch and kick (lime, shallots, and wasabi), and you’ve got a one-dish meal that satisfies every sense.  Which brings me to

Reason #3: Flavor. This is a dish where tastes unfurl in rich and subtle layers, each more satisfying than the last. The interplay is everything.  And last, but certainly not least

Reason #4: It’s quick.  What more can you ask for? Fifteen minutes, folks. Fifteen minutes to a bowl of blushing fulfillment. Can you beat that?

This recipe is adapted from Ina Garten’s. I have four of Ina’s books, and I am here to tell you they are worth every penny of their hefty hardcover prices. You should all go out and buy one. You won’t be sorry. There. That’s my public service announcement. (And no, I don’t work for her publisher. I’ve never met her, despite the fact that I consider us on a first-name basis. I’ve never even seen her TV show, which is weird, right?)

TUNA & AVOCADO SALAD WITH WASABI-LIME DRESSING

2 pounds fresh tuna steaks, about an inch thick
4 tablespoons olive oil, plus extra for brushing
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
zest of two limes, chopped fine
1 teaspoon wasabi powder
6 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice
2 teaspoons soy sauce
10 dashes Tabasco
2 large ripe avocados, large diced
1 shallot, sliced thinly
2 sliced green onions
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds

Brush room-temperature tuna steaks with olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Grill (or sear in a hot sauté pan) for one and a half minutes on each side. Allow steaks to cool for a few minutes before chopping.

Meanwhile, in a small bowl, combine the olive oil, salt, pepper, lime zest, wasabi powder, lime juice, soy sauce and Tabasco.

Cut the tuna into chunks and place them in a large bowl. Add the shallots and dressing and mix gently. Add the avocado and mix gently again. Sprinkle each serving with green onion and sesame seeds.

Happy New Year! I’m afraid all the holiday hoopla led me to neglect my little blog for a couple weeks. It’s too bad, because a lot of mighty fine eating went on around here. Not to worry, though. I saved some recipes for you, which I’ll trot out over the next few weeks.

In response to holiday butter overload, I decided to make a New Year’s Eve dinner that involved no milk fat. I am here to report that no flavor was sacrificed. In fact, the lemongrass chicken with ginger-lime dipping sauce was all the fireworks I needed to declare an auspicious beginning to 2010.

I was concerned that using so much lemongrass would result in a splintery, crunchy texture, like eating roasted bamboo. But I chopped the lemon grass very finely, and by the time it marinated all day then cooked for an hour, my worries proved unwarranted. The lemongrass just added fabulous flavor and a light note of crispness to the perfectly browned chicken skin.

The lemongrass was tantalizing, but the ginger-lime dipping sauce was the real star of the show.  It’s hot, sweet, salty, tangy and irresistible. I plan to make it again ASAP. I think I’ll marinate shrimp in it, then grill and dip. There’s almost nothing I would not happily dip in this sauce. It would make a fabulous dressing for a salad with grilled beef. The possibilities are endless. Make a double recipe of the sauce. You’ll thank me.

I served this chicken with coconut rice and stir fried broccoli with garlic and chili flakes. Sadly, I only managed to take the one uninspired picture. We had a houseful of hungry people ready to eat, and I didn’t have time for pictures.

This recipe was inspired by one in 101 Delicious Chicken Recipes, from the Best of Fine Cooking series. Their recipe is for roasting a whole chicken. I used thighs and drumsticks. I also added some liquid to the pan for a sort “broasting” effect (crispy on top like roast chicken, moist on the bottom like braised chicken.) It worked out perfectly. This is a fantastic dinner-party dish. The bulk of the time goes into the marinade, which is made well in advance, and the chicken doesn’t need much attention while it cooks.

LEMONGRASS ROAST CHICKEN – serves four

½ cup finely chopped lemongrass (3 or 4 stalks)
2 tablespoons finely chopped shallots
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
4 ½ teaspoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon dried red chili flakes
1 ½ teaspoon kosher salt
2 tablespoons sugar
4 pounds chicken thighs and drumsticks with skin and bone
½ cup chicken stock
¼ cup lime juice
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 tablespoon vegetable oil

In a large non-reactive bowl, combine all but two tablespoons of the lemongrass with the shallots, garlic, fish sauce, soy sauce, chili flakes, salt, and sugar. Add chicken and toss to coat. Marinate from six to 24 hours, stirring two or three times. Bring chicken to room temperature for an hour before cooking it.

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Mix chicken stock and lime juice in a small bowl.

Place chicken in a single layer in an oven-proof skillet or baking dish, skin side up. Pour and scrape the marinade from the bowl onto the chicken. Add the chicken stock and lime juice mixture to create a shallow layer of liquid around the chicken.

Roast chicken for 45 minutes, basting once or twice with pan juices. Meanwhile, mix the last two tablespoons of lemongrass with the cilantro and oil.

After 45 minutes, remove chicken from oven and spread each piece with some of the cilantro mixture. Return chicken to oven and roast for 10 more minutes.

Remove chicken from pan and serve with ginger-lime dipping sauce.

GINGER-LIME DIPPING SAUCE – makes 2/3 cup

2 cloves garlic
2 Thai bird chiles (I substituted about one tablespoon of diced jalapeno without seeds.)
1 teaspoon of chili-garlic sauce (available in the Asian section of most groceries)
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh ginger
3 tablespoons fish sauce (also available in the Asian section of most groceries)
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
¼ cup water
2 tablespoons brown sugar
2 tablespoons sugar

Chop garlic, chiles, and ginger finely (or mash them to a paste with a mortar and pestle). Place the chopped or mashed ingredients in a small bowl.

Add chili-garlic sauce, fish sauce, lime juice, water, and sugar. Stir to blend. Let sit for at least 10 minutes before serving.

I’m feeling dense and leaden from overindulging on holiday bounty. This could spell trouble, as we’ve still got considerable holiday bounty ahead. Today I craved green. Something light and bright, quick and tasty. My thoughts turned to a favorite soup I used to order often at the Dale Street Cafe in Colorado Springs. That was many years ago. A quick google search shows that the restaurant is still around, although it’s changed owners since I ate there. This soup was inspired by theirs.  

Sweet peas and romaine offer a lovely spring-green counterpoint to heavy holiday fare. Lettuce in soup might sound strange, but trust me, it works. The intense shamrock hue belies a delicate bouquet and subtle flavor. It tastes grassy and sweet and altogether fresh. It was the perfect choice for this, the darkest day of the year.  You could add a little cream at the end for richness, if you’re so inclined. Personally, I love the lightness.

SWEET PEA ROMAINE SOUP

3 tablespoons olive oil
2 shallots, chopped (about a cup and a quarter)
1 12-ounce bag frozen peas, thawed
1 medium head romaine lettuce, sliced into 1-inch strips
1 tablespoon kosher salt
3 cups water
1 tablespoon finely chopped mint leaves
2 tablespoons lemon juice
black pepper to taste

Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add shallots and saute for five minutes.

Add romaine leaves. Cook, stirring regularly, until leaves are completely wilted (about five minutes).

Add peas, water, and salt. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer for ten minutes.

Puree soup in a blender or food processor.

Return soup to pot. Add water if it seems too thick. Add mint leaves and lemon juice. Stir, season to taste with salt and pepper, and serve with a mint leaf garnish.

Thursday evenings can be a little fraught at our usually-peaceful house. We’ve soldiered through most of our weekly obligations, and we’re getting tired. I want a few minutes of peace after work. (Seriously, is that too much to ask?) Edna, our standard poodle, wants a walk. She looks at me all askance.  My five-year-old wants my attention, and he’ll stop at almost nothing to get it. My husband wants exercise, which helps him maintain his enviable even keel. God knows someone around here needs an even keel. So there we all are, wanting things we may or may not get. And we’re hungry.

Nights like this, when my patience is frayed and everybody wants something, I want simple comfort food. When I say comfort, I mean delicious, hearty, and warm. When I say simple, I mean just a few minutes of cooking, a few ingredients we have on hand, and not much chopping or clean-up. By this measure, Pasta Puttanesca may just be the perfect food. Puttanesca’s miraculous effort-to-flavor ratio has defused countless crabby Thursday dinners.

If you are squeamish about anchovies, I sympathize. I eat anchovies, but I eat everything.  Even so, I’m a little leery of anchovy ambush. Anchovies can pack a punch. Plus, they look like hairy worms. But anchovy-haters, please believe me. The anchovy here is a subtle, salty undercurrent: heartening and perfect, like the smell of the ocean. Your innocent taste buds (who are just trying to remain civil on a testy Thursday evening, after all) will not be assaulted by giant stabs of fishiness. The anchovy dissolves and lingers, lending complexity to what would otherwise be merely a plucky tomato sauce. If you wonder what mysterious force drives you to lick your plate indecorously and demand seconds:  It’s the anchovies.

I’ve made Puttanesca more than any other meal in my life, unless you count grilled cheese. My family never tires of it. Even my son (who pretty much subsists on fruit, nuts, and breakfast cereal) loves it. For him, I serve just the sauce-soaked noodles, doing my level best to avoid dishing up the dreaded “chunks” in the sauce.  (You may fault me for indulging the no-chunk decree, but it’s a battle I choose not to fight. Life is short, and he comes by his strong opinions about food honestly.)

I’m not sure how to attribute this recipe. It’s as old as the Italian hills. I’ve seen many Puttanesca recipes. They all have pretty much the same ingredients. I’ve adapted this one quite a bit over the fifteen years since I first copied it from a book called 365 Ways to Cook Pasta, by Marie Simmons.

PASTA PUTTANESCA  - serves four to six
(I usually halve the recipe and it’s more than enough for two adults and a picky five-year-old)

1 pound dried pasta
¼ cup olive oil
4 garlic cloves, minced
½ teaspoon hot red-pepper chili flakes
1 tablespoon dried oregano
1 28-ounce can small-diced tomatoes, with juice
½ cup pitted Kalamata olives, chopped
4 teaspoons capers, rinsed
8 anchovy fillets (less than a two-ounce can), minced
½ cup parsley, chopped

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil for the pasta. Cook the pasta until it’s barely al dente. Reserve a half-cup of the pasta cooking liquid.

Meanwhile, heat olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet. Add garlic and chili flakes and sauté until the garlic is golden, about 30 seconds.  

Add tomatoes, olives, capers, and oregano. Simmer gently for about ten minutes.

Add anchovies and parsley and simmer two or three more minutes.

Add pasta and reserved pasta water. Toss the pasta and sauce and heat for another minute or two.

Tis the season for Dungeness crab in these parts. I got caught up in the excitment and bought four crabs on sale. My idea was to toss them on the table for our guests that night, and let the adults have at them with an assortment of pliers and nutcrackers and such. I’d provide melted butter and lemon juice. Easy, right? I thought it sounded novel and fun. My husband thought it sounded tedious and messy. He felt so strongly that he volunteered to pick the meat.  I jumped in for the novelty and fun…

Turns out it takes a long time to pick the meat out of four recalcitrant crabs. We didn’t have the right tools, or the right attitude. But after a spate of cracking and cussing and stabbing and picking, we ended up with a spectacular mountain of crab. (For the record, two crabs are more than enough for this recipe. You can also buy already-picked crab meat, if you promise not to complain about the cost. Picking crab is hard work.) Once I finished admiring our handiwork, I realized I had to come up with something crabbish to serve our friends, who were arriving imminently.

I’ve never even heard of crab risotto. But once I got the idea in my head, I couldn’t let it go. I pondered adding all sorts of other ingredients, but I ended up discarding most of them in the interest of simplicity. I didn’t want to get in the crab’s face with too much stuff. Crab has a subtle flavor that wants a delicate touch.

Never before have I made risotto without parmesan, but crab and parmesan don’t jibe to my way of thinking.  So I relied on butter for richness, because crab and butter are pretty much soul mates.  Lemon got an invitation to the rather exclusive party, too, because lemon is just that cool. Other than that, it was a mighty basic risotto, mostly just designed to build a suitable stage for the crab. Which it did beautifully, if I do say so.

My friend Sarah called in the midst of my “What exactly would a crab risotto look like?” moment. She suggested putting big bites of crab right on top of each serving. This made for a lovely presentation and a sumptuous first bite. She also had the bright idea to boil the shells for the risotto stock. But alas, I had already tossed them in a fit of pique. Next time I’ll do that. This time I used half chicken stock and half water and a few extra glugs of white wine. You could try fish stock or clam juice. Just taste as you go and don’t be afraid. You can switch to water if the flavor of your liquid is getting too strong. Risotto is very forgiving.

CRAB RISOTTO
serves four

3 tablespoons olive oil
2 shallots, chopped fine (about 1/2 cup)
1 cup Arborio rice
1 cup white wine
4 cups  of stock made from boiling the crab shells (or substitute 2 cups of chicken stock and 2 cups of water…see last paragraph above)
3 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon lemon zest
¼ cup lemon juice
salt and pepper to taste
2 cups crab meat at room temperature, divided (one cup of the bigger bits, one cup of the smaller shreds)
¼ cup chopped parsley
¼ chopped green onion
4 lemon wedges

Heat olive oil over medium-high heat in a large pan.

Add rice and stir to coat it with oil. Saute rice for about two minutes.

Add shallots and sauté until soft, about three more minutes.

Add white wine and reduce heat to medium. Cook at a gentle simmer, stirring frequently, until the wine is almost completely absorbed.

Add stock a half-cup at a time. With each addition, stir occasionally until the liquid is almost absorbed. Then add another half cup. (You may not need the whole four cups. Taste the rice as you go. You want the grains to remain separate from one another and not get gloppy. Cook it just long enough that the rice no longer crunches when you bite it.) This process will take about 25 or 30 minutes.

Add the butter, lemon zest, and lemon juice. Stir until they are incorporated.

Remove the pan from the heat. Add the cup of small crab bits and stir gently. Taste for seasoning and add more salt, pepper, or lemon as needed.

Divide the risotto between four plates. Put a quarter cup of big crab bits atop each serving.

Sprinkle parsley and green onion on top, and serve with a lemon wedge.

Chocolate-dipped candied orange peel (also known as orangettes) are a lovely holiday confection. And this post is actually one big public service announcement.  I made all kinds of mistakes, so you don’t have to.  See how virtuous I am?

I’m afraid orangettes are fussy fare. I’m willing to make exceptions to my unfussy mandate in the interest of holiday cheer.

Last week, when I first developed a hankering for candied citrus peel, I scoured the web for recipes. They varied wildly from one another. I, of course, chose the quickest one. The one that didn’t entail blanching and re-blanching strips of peel before boiling them in sugar-water. What I got was a very pretty and very bitter batch of candied peel. Even coated in sugar, the bitterness lingered waaay too long. I love bitter, so believe me when I tell you it was too much.

Next I opted to make orangettes, figuring that the chocolate would counteract the bitterness in the orange peel. I also decided to blanch the peels three times, as several recipes recommend.  However, because I am impatient, I only let them boil for about five minutes each time. The recipes I read called for 10 or 15 minutes of boiling each time. The results are what you see pictured here. They were plenty tasty enough to eat, but still too bitter. I am a frantic hare who should really take a page from the tortoise’s book.

Bottom line, I learned some things that will inform my next batch, which I am confident will be perfect. The first thing I learned is that some instructions merit following. Oh wait, I already knew that. I just haven’t figured out how to discern which instructions merit following. So really, the first thing I learned is that I love The Joy of Cooking, by Irma Rombauer.

I had relegated The Joy of Cooking to my seldom-used pile of cookbooks. I thought it was dated, and not really my style. But upon closer inspection, it’s absolutely my style. The instructions are loose. I like that in a cookbook. Plus, there are recipes for cooking bear, woodchuck, and muskrat, which bespeaks a certain fearlessness in Irma. I admire that. But the main thing I like about The Joy of Cooking is that Irma validated my hunch that salt could effectively tame the bitterness of citrus peel.

You know how I’m hopelessly in love with preserved lemons, right? They are proof positive that salt removes bitterness from citrus peel. I wondered if a variation on that method could be applied here, without ending up with overly-salty candy. Irma Rombauer said yes. (I knew I liked her.)

The recipe below reflects my lessons learned. While I haven’t tried it yet, I feel confident enough to recommend it. I’m determined that I will not be defeated by candied citrus peel. Not after all the time I’ve spent making pretty, bitter little candies. I’ll keep you posted. Or better yet, you can keep me posted.

ORANGETTES

Four medium oranges (look for ones with thin peels)
salt
2 cups sugar
4 ounces good bittersweet chocolate

Cut the top and bottom ends off the oranges. Cut the peel off the oranges in six sections, as close to peel edge as possible.

Cut peel sections in half lengthwise, so you can flatten them more easily, and remove as much pith as you can with a paring knife. Some pith will remain. Don’t worry about it.

Cut peel sections lengthwise into quarter-inch wide strips, as evenly as possible.

Place the peels in a non-reactive bowl with enough salt water to cover. (One teaspoon salt per cup of water.) Soak for at least 24 hours. Drain, rinse, and soak peel in fresh water for 20 minutes. Drain again.

Boil peel in fresh water for 20 minutes and drain again.

Mix two cups of sugar with two cups of water in a medium saucepan. Stir. Add peel. Bring to a boil, reduce heat until the mixture is just simmering. Simmer for 45 minutes.

Remove peels from syrup a few at a time using a fork, and put them on a rack to drip dry. (Put something under the rack to catch the drips.) Allow them to dry completely. (Overnight worked for me.)

Melt chocolate in a double boiler. (I use a metal bowl set on a saucepan of simmering water.)

Dip peel strips into melted chocolate. Place on parchment paper or wax paper to dry.

If you don’t want the chocolate, you can just roll the peels in powdered or granulated sugar instead.

If you try one recipe from this blog, let it be this Provencal Seafood Stew. It’s a wonder of elegant simplicity. The deep fragrance and perfectly balanced flavors deliver the goods with every mouthful. So frenchy and fabulous is this stew that one bite magically transports me to a sidewalk table at a French bistro, where my understated outfit is offset by the perfect scarf, earrings, and heels. (I have a rich fantasy life. I’ve never had a talent for accessorizing. How do Parisian women do it?)

Not only is this soup drop-dead delicious, it’s also a blue-ribbon work-night recipe. By this I mean your soup is done fifteen minutes from the time you start chopping the onion. I do not exaggerate. The stew is sort of a simple riff on bouillabaisse. (Bouillabaisse purists can just relax. I’m not saying it IS bouillabaisse, I’m just saying it borrows some of the complicated flavors to truly excellent effect.)

The only remotely fussy thing about this recipe is that it calls for two things you may not have on hand. Since I discovered this recipe many years ago, I am never without them. They keep. One is saffron. (It’s cheap at Trader Joe’s.) The other is Pernod, which is an anise-flavored liqueur.

Pernod is the key ingredient that elevates this soup into something really special. If you buy Pernod and don’t like this soup, I will personally refund your money. I’m kidding. But I am truly confident that you won’t regret your purchase, even if you’re not a fan of anise, and even if it seems excessive to buy a whole bottle of booze when the recipe calls for two tablespoons. This is one of those times in life when you must make a leap of faith. Trust me. Your taste buds will thank you. Your loved ones will thank you. Your neighbor who gets a whiff of the soup out the kitchen window will thank you.

I think this stew is best served with a baguette, a flowery French white wine, and a soft, smelly French cheese. And maybe a suave French waiter, if you’ve got one of those handy. You can substitute any kind of fish and shellfish you like. Mussels are a nice addition.

PROVENCAL SEAFOOD STEW – serves four
adapted from a recipe in Cuisine Rapide by Pierre Franey

3 tablespoons olive oil
½ cup finely chopped onion
½ cup finely chopped celery
2 teaspoons minced garlic
½ teaspoon saffron threads, crumbled
1 cup dry white wine
3 cups canned diced tomatoes, with their juice
½ teaspoon dried thyme
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 bay leaf
¾ pound snapper or other fish filet, cut into one-inch cubes
½ pound sea scallops, quartered or bay scallops, whole
2 tablespoons Pernod (or Ricard)
¼ cup chopped parsley
salt and pepper to taste

Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion, celery, garlic and saffron and sauté for about three minutes.

Add wine, tomatoes, thyme, pepper flakes, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a gentle simmer and cook for five minutes.

Add seafood. Cover and cook for five minutes.

Add Pernod and parsley. Add salt and pepper to taste.

My mother made this caviar spread for special occassions. For me, the taste is laden with memories of holiday parties in my 1970’s childhood. I loved the preparations even more than I loved the parties. There was a flurry of housecleaning. We dusted off of the good glasses and mixed big bowls of spiked punch. We ironed tablecloths. The house sparkled, and the adults were gregarious and cheery. Maybe it was the spiked punch. Regardless, the caviar spread was always a hit. There were many requests for the recipe, which I dutifully wrote out, because we didn’t have home computers in the olden days.

This seventies cocktail-party fare has stood the test of time. I still get requests for this recipe, although now I just email it. Even people squeamish about eating fish eggs come back for seconds, as the caviar is tempered with a grassy hit of parsley, the tang of green onion, and the finger-licking richness of cream cheese, mayonnaise, and chopped egg. I serve it with Triscuits, but that’s just a nod to childhood tradition. Any cracker you fancy would be fine. If you do choose Triscuits, I’d go with the low-salt variety. The caviar has salt enough. Sparkling white wine is the perfect accompaniment.  I guess there’s a reason people serve champagne with caviar. I feel festive just thinking about it.

CAVIAR SPREAD
Makes a 9-inch pie-pan full, which is A LOT. Unless I’m making it for a big party, I make a half recipe in a smaller dish.

11 ounces cream cheese, room temperature
¾ cup mayonnaise
6 green onions, trimmed and finely chopped
4 ounces caviar (I wouldn’t besmirch your fine caviar with all this other stuff. The grocery store variety is fine.)
3 hardboiled eggs, chopped
½ cup finely chopped parsley

Blend cream cheese and mayonnaise with food processor or a mixer.

Fold in chopped green onions.

Spread mixture evenly into the bottom of a nine-inch pie plate.

Put the caviar on top of the mayo mixture by the spoonful, then spread the spoonfuls gently with a butter knife to form a thin, even layer of caviar.

Sprinkle chopped eggs evenly over the top of the caviar.

Sprinkle chopped parsley evenly over eggs.

Serve chilled, with crackers.

I am the edgy one in my family. The moody one. The one most likely to say something caustic and regrettable. Somehow I managed to marry a kind and reasonable man. We went on to have a kind and reasonable son. Even our dog, Edna, is kind and reasonable. In my dark and snarky moments, they all three look at me with good-hearted concern, wondering how they can help. It’s infuriating.

On a good day I like to think I just have a lively temperament. My prickly side is balanced by a sense of humor and boundless loyalty and affection. On a bad day, I think I’m a nasty little troll, profoundly undeserving of the gentle sweetness that surrounds me. Regardless of how I feel about it, it seems I’m stuck with myself.

Fortunately, my family raises the bar on my behavior. Tenderness towards them inspires me, increasingly, to zip my mouth when I’m in a mood. (Um, I haven’t perfected that part just yet…) I’ve also learned that energy gets barbed without an outlet, and I have deep reserviors of energy. Cooking gives that energy something to do with itself. Chopping, washing, stirring, and sifting have a calming effect on me.

We all have to eat. That’s one impetus for cooking. Then there’s my endless fascination with the flavors and textures and colors of food. But the main driving force behind my cooking is a longing to make some goodness for the people I love. Obviously, I get to eat it, too. My motives aren’t all altruistic. Still, it’s safe to say that preparing food makes me a nicer person.

While cooking doesn’t change my mercurial disposition, it does lend some equanimity. There is a measure of redemption in feeding friends and family. Each meal is a small, daily gesture of thanks for all the love and forbearance.  Even Edna wins. I offer her little bites, which she takes gently from my hand.

So there you have it. I’m not the sweetest person in the world, or even in my house. But I try to make amends. Can I offer you some cake? This rustic torte is a pure and simple homage to chocolate and almonds. It’s nothing but nuts and chocolate gently held together with sugar, egg whites, and air. It’s nubby, light, and altogether spectacular. The recipe was adapted from one in Pure Dessert, by Alice Medrich.

CHOCOLATE-ALMOND TORTE
12 servings 

1 cup (5 ounces) unsalted, unblanched whole almonds.
7 ounces good quality bittersweet chocolate, broken into big pieces (no need to chop)
3/4 cup sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
7 large egg whites (about one cup), room temperature

Position a rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease a nine-inch springform cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper.

Combine the almonds, chocolate, ½ cup of sugar, and salt in a food processor and pulse until the almonds and chocolate are very finely chopped but not completely pulverized. Set aside.

Beat egg whites with remaining ¼ cup sugar until stiff peaks form when the beaters are lifted.

Gently fold one third of the nut mixture into the egg whites until just incorporated. Repeat with another third of the nut mixture, then once more with the last third.

Scrape batter into prepared pan and spread evenly. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean, or with just a little melted chocolate, about 30-35 minutes.

Cool cake completely and remove from pan. Cover or wrap tightly, and store for up to 3 days at room temperature. Dust with powdered sugar before serving.