2009: Goodbye to All That

And so that was Christmas. Or Christmas Eve, rather. It has always been my favorite holiday. When I was growing up, we celebrated it more elaborately than Christmas Day, with literally dozens of relatives packed around tables, an insane amount of food, and eventually a round of caroling in the neighborhood, with one of the littlest cousins very insistently, but with his or her best smile, holding out the UNICEF collection box.

This year promised to be far more low key, however, and my mother — for the first time ever — agreed to let me host it. The plan was to drive to her house that evening, though, so that on Christmas morning we could all wake up together, so my debut run was with a restrained lunch, not a blowout dinner.

Still, I stuck to the Italian tradition of serving seafood, and started with smoked salmon appetizers before moving on to a first course of cioppino, a simple seafood stew. (I followed this recipe, but added a dozen little-neck clams.)

For my non-fish-eating sister's sake, we followed that with a vegetarian shepherd's pie (there's a joke to be worked out in making a Christmas shepherd's pie with seitan in it...), a tart, crisp, radish and pomegranate salad, and then a salad of mixed greens, nuts and dried fruit. After that came a bowl of clementines, my Aunt Teresa's wouldn't-be-a-holiday-without-it chocolate mousse and an Italian cheesecake, or pizza di ricotta.

Also for the first time, my mother climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment (for 16 months she's been claiming bad knees) and there was pleasant conversation, much clinking of glasses, I was complimented on my apartment, my tree, and my cioppino, and no one fought or cried or talked much junk about anyone else. We also pulled on our coats and headed out the door not feeling like our stomachs may burst. A Christmas miracle.

I hope your holidays were warm and wonderful and filled with small moments you're still marveling over. And even more, I hope that the new year has every blessing in store for you.

Love,
Michelle














Pizza di Ricotta

Filling:
2 lbs of ricotta (organic or non-RBST is ideal)
the zest of half a lemon
1 tbspn vanilla extract
1/2 cup sugar
4 eggs
1/2 tsp cinnamon

Pastry for the bottom crust and lattice top:
2 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 stick butter
1 tsp vanilla
the zest of half a lemon

Heat oven to 300. Blend the filling ingredients until smooth, and then set the bowl aside in the refrigerator. To make the pastry, simply combine the pastry ingredients (no need to overwork this), divide the dough in two, and roll each into a circle. Use the first circle as a bottom crust, and then pour in the filling. Slice the second circle into 2-inch strips. (If you have a pastry cutter that makes the edges pretty, even better.) Lay half the strips diagonally and the other half vertically, and then crimp the ends where they meet the bottom crust.

Bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the crust is a light golden color. It will still taste delicious if you take it out when the crust is as white as the filling, but I promise you it won't be as appetizing on the table.

Note: Cold the next morning, this is the greatest breakfast ever (for anyone who obsessively loves ricotta).


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In a word: cold!

Twenty-eight degrees and a bright winter sun that, while it was awfully nice of him to show up, did little to really warm anyone. I was in and out, an abbreviated run: more Brussels sprouts (we're addicted, I'll share the new recipe soon), a semolina loaf, two apple danishes, cider, milk and yogurt, and I was hurrying back home to coffee, my sunny dining table, and The New York Times. (Are those last four words cause for some readers to turn away?)

In this weekend's NYT, Gastronomy is an Editor's Choice (hurrah!). Plus, it's the magazine's Year In Ideas issue. Did you know that cows with names produce more milk? Or that a new type of faucet may help to contain kitchen fires? Or that a prefecture in Japan with high levels of naturally occurring lithium in the water has fewer suicides than other areas? I'm just saying, it's not all bad.














*My mother-in-law sent me home from Thanksgiving with a bouquet of red-berried branches from her holly tree, happy to pass them along before the birds, deer and wild turkeys devoured them. I noticed this morning that our neighbors have a beautiful purple variety. Besides crumbs from the waffle truck parked on our corner, what delectables are so busying the Brooklyn birds? These plump gems looked so luscious, I wanted to nibble them myself.
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December's First Saturday: Grand Army Plaza and The New York Times

Last week's profusion of pies and sweet potatoes and other Thanksgiving-side-dish-bound ingredients were all shrunk back to more customary proportions, at Saturday's greenmarket, and instead all things Christmas-y were on full blast.

I arrived with the drizzle of freezing rain that the forecasters had been promising. Combined with never having been an early-December decorator — not wanting the holiday to feel diluted by the time it finally comes around — the sight of freshly cut trees and holly branches and pine boughs did nothing to warm or sway me. I was cold and increasingly damp, and had exactly four thoughts keeping me busy: To secure two Bread Alone almond-apple danishes before they sold out. To make the $30 in my jacket pocket (why didn't I wear a coat!) also cover milk, cheese, fruit and vegetables for the first half of the week. And to get home and back into my pajama bottoms as quickly as possible.

And then there was The New York Times' review of "The Gastronomy of Marriage" in the Book Review.














































I was told a few weeks ago that it might make it in, and I'd been hoping for maybe a thumbnail and a sentence.

And still, over the last week I'd started bleating out a little prayer: Please don't let them be mean to me. Shampooing my hair, brushing my teeth, making the bed, I'd sent this silent mantra to the heavens: Please don't let them be mean to me. Please don't them be mean. It terrified me to think that all the effort of the last five years could be undone — dismissed — with a few words.

In the end "Gastronomy" shared a full page with Julie Powell's "Cleaved," and Christine Muhlke, the food editor of the NYT Magazine, called me "Doris Day" and made fun of me for using canned corn — in February. (An aside: I told this to my non-NYT-reading mother today, who replied, "There really is such a taste difference between canned corn and frozen...")

There were a few comments and snarky asides I'm still thinking through, but in all: A girl could do far worse than canned corn and Doris Day. Relief.

I picked the smallest Brussels sprouts from a pile, traded in two empty glass milk bottles for a full one, and bought apples, pears, onions, curly lettuce, and a quarter-pound of Cato Corners' stinky Hooligan cheese, and headed home with a single dollar in my pocket.

R. took my bags as I came through the door and ground the last of the Stumptown beans, and back in pajama bottoms I plated the danish and sliced up one of the apples. Then together we sat and ate and talked, and enjoyed the crema on our coffees and the sizzle of sleet on the windows.

Which, of course, is the real measure of my days.


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