In my flurry of avoidance baking and cooking last week, I threw together the dough before starting in on the evening’s dinner preparation. I’m typically irritated by desserts that require “resting” time. A few hours in the refrigerator just stops my momentum, and by the time the dough has properly relaxed, I don’t feel much like rolling it out and mussing up the counter top yet again. But things worked out nicely in this instance because I made the dough and promptly forgot about it – until the next morning, that is, when I hankered for something sweet to accompany a cup of Earl Grey tea.

As it turns out, these were Stu’s father’s favorite cookie. I never met him, as he passed away long ago, but I so wish I had. “Do you think he’d have liked me?” I often ask Stu, and depending on how much I’ve pestered him about the laundry and that leaky faucet, he either gulps and nods quietly or breaks into a big smile and says yes, yes he would have very much liked me. It’s usually the latter, and it definitely was as Stu took his first bite into one of these cookies.

They’re basically a shortbread with ground pecans standing in for some of the flour. Feel free to slice these any way you want, but I do so like the look of free-form cut squares that fall just short of uniformly shaped. You may be tempted to chew these. I feel that it is a better idea to bite off a small piece and hold it gently on your tongue, until the butter melts and the whole thing becomes soft and warmly sweet.

Photo by Stu Gallagher

Pecan Sandies

I have adapted these ever so slightly from Smitten Kitchen - I have made a few small changes to Deb’s recipe, which she has adapted from Last Course. The most important piece of advice I can give you is to make sure your rolling pin (or empty wine bottle, if you’re the sort of person I am) and counter top or table are generously floured. This dough has a tendency to get sticky, and I wouldn’t want you to fall into despair, as I sometimes do, when my cookies refuse to transfer onto the baking sheets.

• 1 cup pecans, plus 1/2 cup more
• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon almond extract
• 1 teaspoon salt (not coarse)
• 3/4 teaspoon baking powder
• 2 tablespoons raw or brown sugar (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Spread 1 cup of the pecans on a baking sheet and place in the oven until browned and fragrant, about 10 minutes. When bit into, they should have a firmer, crisper give under the teeth than when untoasted. Remove from the oven and let cool completely.

Pulse the nuts with 1/4 cup flour, until they are finely ground – do not go so far as to make a paste out of them.

Use a hand or stand mixer to cream together the butter and sugar until fluffy and light. This will happen much more pleasantly if the butter is soft, so do take it out of the refrigerator a few hours ahead of time. (I never remember to do this and resort to microwaving it. I always overshoot the timing, though, and end up with a molten puddle of butter.) Add the extracts and beat to combine.

In a separate bowl mix together the remaining flour, the salt and baking powder. Add that into the butter and sugar and mix until just combined. Add in the ground pecans and use a wooden spoon to combine completely.

Separate the dough into two equal-sized discs (I find it easier to manage later on in smaller quanities.) Wrap it tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 3 hours or overnight.

Take the dough out of the refrigeratore 20 minutes before using it. Flour a flat surface generously and preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Roll out the dough to 1/8th” thick (the original recipe calls for 3/16″, but that number distresses me greatly. I think 1/8″ is sufficient.) The recipe calls for not re-rolling scraps, which is just fine by me. Obviously the proper thing to do with them is to eat them all as the cookies bake.

Slice the sandies into 1″ squares – or use a cookie cutter – and place them on a parchment-lined baking sheet. I greased the sheets with butter, though, because someone used all of my parchment paper to light a photo project. Either way.

Place a pecan in the center of each cookie. Or not. I got lazy halfway through. Sprinkle with the raw or brown sugar, then bake for 12-15 minutes until lightly golden and cool on a rack.

My subconscious mind is an asshole. No sane person would willingly embark on a 3-hour, flour-flying everywhere, crusty-bits-stuck-to-pans “adventure” on a Tuesday night when there are two hungry children in the next room, neither of whom finds things like braised shanks or “international” spices very amusing. But I listen to it every time. And every time, like clockwork, 2 hours into my project I find myself rubbing chicken grease out of my jeans and staring at a pile of dishes, thinking, very simply: was this worth it?

I’m a freelance writer, which means that 70% of my time is actually spent avoiding writing. I’m not alone in this (Am I? Am I?), but every time I sit down in front of a blank computer screen, that curser blinking (rather judgmentally, I might add), I just want to retreat into the kitchen. Cooking is easy; it’s the writing that’s difficult.

So it happened on Friday afternoon at about 3 o’clock. After organizing my desktop items and dusting the keyboard with a Q-tip, I figured it was time to give up and give in. Writing wasn’t going to happen. I began to think about dinner: there was that pound of ground turkey, wasn’t there? It’d be easy to make burgers. “Too easy!” my monkey mind piped in. “Why not meatballs?” I consented and got to work.

Meatballs aren’t difficult to make – that is, there’s not a whole lot of skill involved – but they do require a laundry list of ingredients and a few pans. This not being sufficiently maddening, I decided to pair them with a risotto and roasted parsnips.

By 6 o’clock, I was predictably elbow-deep in a sinkful of soapy water, cleaning round three of a medly of mixing bowls and saute pans. Stu arrived home with the kids who gave their stamp of approval on the menu, except for the four-year-old, who has apparently developed a sudden and urgent aversion to risotto, and we sat down to dinner.

The meatballs were a hit – moist and garlicky, with a gently golden crust and flecks of fresh parsley inside. Rowan ate all of hers and then, trembling, brought a forkful of risotto up to her lips. It paused there, a hint of tears welling up at her eyes, until she deposited the rice on her tongue and made a quiet primal sound of pain. Stu added a dollop of ketchup to the rest and she ate happily. I shook my head and my monkey mind chirped “Ketchup! Was it worth it?”

I looked to my left, at the half-finished dishes, then to my right, at the empty plates and contented smiles. Considering the alternative – not cooking – I firmly told myself to shut it. This was absolutely worth it. And it will be, every time.

Photo by Stu Gallagher

Turkey Meatballs

Serves four

• 2 slices white bread, crust removed
• 1 pound ground turkey, at least 5% fat
• 1/4 cup whole milk
• 1 egg, beaten
• 1 large garlic clove, chopped finely
• 1/3 cup grated parmesan cheese
• 1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped
• Salt, pepper

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Toast the bread until it is firm and crusty, but just barely colored. Let cool, then pulse in the food processor, until it becomes coarse crumbs. Set aside.

Place the turkey in a bowl and assess the situation. I used organic turkey and found there to be quite a bit of liquid along with the meat. If this is your case, drain the excess liquid out, then proceed. Add the milk, egg, garlic, cheese, parsley and bread crumbs. Season well with salt and pepper.

Mix everything together with clean hands, then roll the meatballs to your desired size. I went slightly smaller than ping-pong balls for this one, but if you have the patience of a saint, mini meatballs the size of dimes might be fun. I said might. Place the rolled meatballs onto two parchment-lined rimmed baking sheets.

Bake in the preheated oven for 20-30 minutes, depending on the size of your balls. (I’m sorry. I’m twelve.) Remove from the oven and serve. These freeze well, I imagine.

All day long yesterday I dreamed of quinoa patties bursting with chickpeas and cashews, then pan-fried in a skillet. Hell if I know what gave me the idea; we had a bag of red quinoa that seemed to be calling out my name and the rest just fell into place. I cooked the grain in chicken stock and added a teaspoon of Ras el Hanout, a Moroccan spice blend of turmeric, cinnamon, nutmeg, white pepper, anise, caradmom, cloves, all spice and mace. If you’ve never cooked with it, please do. The 11-year-old declared the resulting dish very “cinnamon-y and weird,” but I think it creates a careful balance between sweet and savory and goes wonderfully with lamb.

Once the quinoa had cooled, I tossed it with rinsed and drained chickpeas, chopped cashews and a generous shower of salt. I cracked three eggs in a bowl and whisked vigorously, then poured it ontop of the mixture and stirred to combine.

This is where things went a little haywire. I picked up a meatball-size fistful of grains and packed them down into a puck, squeezing tight between my palms. I released my hand and the grains tumbled apart, back into the bowl. I tried again. I added a little olive oil. I tried again. The quinoa just wasn’t meant for patties, or else I wasn’t.

In the end, I dumped it all into a frying pan and pressed it into a uniform, cake-like structure. Into the oven it went for 20 minutes at 350 degrees. It came out firm and crisp, with a bit of a golden sheen. I cautiously cut into it and was pleased to find that it had held its shape, not unlike a fritatta with an identity crisis. We ate it with a spinach salad, swiping bites of the cake across the plate to mop up an apple cider vinaigrette. I would love to try it with a yogurt sauce.

So, quinoa cake. Ultimately quite a happy surprise. I totally meant to do that.

Photo by Stu Gallagher

Quinoa Cake

Serves 6-8

• 1 cup quinoa
• 2 cups chicken stock
• 1 teaspoon ras el Hanout
• 1/2 cup cooked chickpeas, roughly chopped
• 1/3 cup roasted, unsalted cashews, roughly chopped
• 3 large eggs, beaten
• 2 teaspoons olive oil, divided
• Salt
• Optional: fresh parsley

Place the quinoa in a medium saucepot and cover with stock. Add in the ras el Hanout and stir. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat and simmer until all of the stock as been absorbed – about 20 minutes. Let cool slightly while you preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Add the chickpeas and cashews. Taste, then season well with salt. Add the eggs and stir to combine.

Coat the bottom and sides of a large oven-proof skillet with 1 teaspoon of oil. Press the quinoa mixture into the skillet and press down firmly to flatten. Drizzle the remaining teaspoon of oil over the top. Bake in the oven for 20 minutes, until firm and set. If you wish you, may broil it for 1-2 minutes at the end to enhance the crust and color.

Remove from the oven and slice into pieces. Sprinkle with fresh parsley, if you have it on hand.

Did you know that Jay-Z and Usher wrote a song called Hot Tottie? I did not. The spelling is puzzling, but all the same, the name is familiar.

Apparently this juicy musical morsel is over a year old, but it’s new to me. I’ve always sort of believed that I’m a 74-year-old trapped in a 24-year-old’s body, so it will surprise no one that my only association with the phrase was NOT the rap song, but a medicinal, cure-all drink, made especially for winter nights.

I’ve been fighting a persistent headcold for the past two weeks, and after bright pink cough syrup, herbal tea and even whole cloves of garlic did nothing to relieve me, I decided to take more drastic measures. I needed something hot and strong, and a Hot Toddy was just the thing. I’ve had one here and there, but they’re by no means a staple of my repertoire. I did a little research before making one of my own.

As I spiraled down the search engine hole, Google suggested I might be searching for Jay-Z. You can see how this confused me. I wasn’t aware that Jay-Z had dabbled in recipe development, but he seemed to be enough of a Renaissance man that it wasn’t too far off. I clicked.

Wow.

The geriatric in me balked at the lyrics (“I’m like ooh Kemosabe / your body is my hobby / we freakin,’ this ain’t cheatin’ / as long as we tell nobody.”) Offensive sentiment aside, what does that even mean? The 24-year-old girl in me, however, did a little dance in her chair. Okay, on my chair. And all around the living room. It’s a catchy tune.

Once I got back on track, I remembered that Amanda Hesser of Food52 had created a Hot Toddy recipe a while back. Hers calls for lime and dried cherries. Brilliant! I followed her lead, swapping lime for the orange I had on hand and replacing the cherries with prunes. Once again: I am old. Soaking the prunes in bourbon for an hour before making the drink transforms them into boozy little surprises at the bottom of the mug. If you have a strong aversion to prunes, just think of them as the olives in a martini glass – a nibbly reward for making it through your beverage.

And this is a very good beverage. Well-worth reaching far back into the good liquor cabinet, the one where you store all of the high-end stuff. The one that’s too tall for you to reach, even when standing on a chair.

The citrus notes are bright and strong but not at all bitter, thanks to the depth of the bourbon and the nutty sweetness of the raw sugar, which is a beautiful golden color and almost sparkles in the right light. It is a drink for people who like dark spirits; if you’re a strictly vodka-and-gin kind of person, this might not be your cup of, err, tea. The Hot Toddy does feel medicinal, but it tastes like a treat. Drink it all before it cools. Your throat will thank you and, if nothing else, your senses will trick you into thinking you feel well again.

If Usher and Jay-Z were trying to reinvent and rebrand the Hot Toddy as a hip, young thing, let this be my stance of opposition. This is a classic drink for serious occasions and I refuse to take part in any activity that says otherwise. Just don’t look at my iPod.

Hot Toddy
Makes one

• 2 dried plums
• 2 ounces bourbon
• 3/4 cups water
• 1 thin slice lemon
• 1 thin slice orange
• 1 generous teaspoon raw sugar

Drop the plums in the bottom of a mug and pour over the bourbon. Let sit for one hour.

Heat the water, citrus slices and sugar over medium-high heat, stirring gently, until the sugar has dissolved completely – just a few minutes. Remove from the heat and pour over the bourbon. Stir to combine and serve.

*All photos, as always, are by Stu Gallagher.

I don’t know what made me think of spaetzle. It’s certainly not something I make often, nor is it something I’ve ever craved. Blame that on my mother – in our house, comfort food was buttered egg noodles. I don’t recall her ever making spaetzle from scratch, though after learning the process in culinary school I won’t hold it against her. It’s not so much difficult as it is messy.

I am messy. I am scattered and chaotic, but my mother is not. She is efficient and clean and smart. I may have inherited her love of books and her knack for wrapping Christmas presents, but where the recent spaetzle obsession came from is anyone’s guess.

I like how it sounds – shh-PET-zuhl! – but I also love the way the free form noodle-dumpling hybrids take on butter, salt and warm baking spices. At the French Culinary Institute, we made it with nutmeg and crisped it in a skillet. If memory serves, my chef-instructor critiqued my spaetzle as too large and a bit clunky. I’m also quite sure I ate it all, probably with a serving spoon, and felt immediately better.

The more I thought about spaetzle, the more I experienced a deep, urgent need to consume it. I wanted to feel the way it warmed me from the inside-out, the way it filled my stomach and then my heart. And so after a stressful week, I put it on our ritual Sunday dinner menu.

“It’s a dough, basically, but a simple one. Sometimes with spice,” I tried to explain to Stu, who looked at me with a slightly bewildered look. “So you make the dough, which is really more like a batter, now that I think of it, and then place globs of it over a colander.” I took a deep breath. “So then you take a pastry scraper [For reference, I have not once used a pastry scraper in his presence.] and push the batter through the holes in the colander. They fall into the water – did I forget to mention the pot of boiling water? – and cook, just like pasta.”

He nodded nervously. “Sounds … great!”

Oh. And one more thing. Do you remember two months ago, when I stuck my nose up at pumpkin-themed foods? I’m so over that. Or maybe I just feel it acceptable to embrace them again, now that the hype has died a little. I had a bit of canned pumpkin left over in the fridge, remnants of a sponge cake gone horribly wrong (do check out Wednesday’s Post-Standard for that one), and decided that it’d go quite nicely with the nutmeg I already planned to put in it.

I began laying out the ingredients for the spaetzle late Sunday afternoon – I wanted the eggs to come to room temperature before combining everything. There were no eggs in the house. I knew this, of course, in the back of my mind, as I was the one who used the last of them to make scrambled eggs for the kids. They were deemed a minor failure by the eleven-year-old who thinks tomatoes are weird, thanks for asking. So no eggs. This wasn’t a big deal. A small grocery store is around the corner, and Stu was happy to make the trip.

So we picked up eggs (and paper towels, and a magazine) and trekked back home where I mixed together the batter and let it rest while I readied chicken thighs and delicata squash.

When Stu and I collaborate on this website, we typically do things in one of two ways. Mostly, he sets up the shot and takes photos of a finished product like brownies or roasted lamb while I drink wine in the other room. But sometimes we get the idea in our heads that an action shot would be fun. And by “action shot,” I mean completely scintillating things like chopping parsley and stirring a pot of stew. Spaetzle falls under category two, we figured, as surely our readers would appreciate the slow, deliberate drip of egg batter oozing out a colander.

I readied my materials while he stood by, ready with the camera. I positioned the colander over a pot of boiling water, spooned the first dollop of batter into the colander and pushed down hard with a wooden spoon (has anyone seen my pastry scraper, by the way?). Not a drop came out the bottom. I pressed harder, moving the batter around the bowl. “Nothing’s happening!” I shouted, as Stu wiped the steam off his lens. A few minutes more of shaking and pressure and a few drops of batter fell from the colander and dropped into the pot. “Plan B?”

In an attempt of kitchen craftiness I grabbed a slotted spoon and used a soup spoon to place a bit of batter on it. This did not work very well.

“Um,” said Stu as the batter squished over the sides of the spoon and fell in the pot in ungraceful clumps. He pointed to the perforated cylinder we use as a catch-all for our kitchen tools.  ”Do you want to try this?” I nodded, my cheeks pink and forearms covered in dried splotches of batter. He washed it quickly and handed it off to me. Using it was a little unwieldy but manageable.

The bits of batter that fell were generous. They puffed up plump and faintly orange the moment they hit the water. I drained them and tossed them in a hot pan with butter and a big crack of black pepper.

They were exactly as I remembered – as I’d imagined – pleasantly chewy, with a warming sensation from the spices, a freshness from the pumpkin and a sinful finish of butter and hints of herb that coated my palate.

I’m a firm believer that comfort food shouldn’t just feel indulgent – it should be simple and pleasant to make. So maybe spaetzle isn’t the most calming, therapeutic of kitchen tasks. But it tastes damn good. And that just might be even better.

Pumpkin Spaetzle

Serves 4-6

• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 scant tsp. salt
• 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
• 1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg
• 1 tsp. dried sage leaves
• 2 large eggs, room temperature
• 3/4 cup milk, room temperature
• 1/2 cup cooked pumpkin (fresh or canned)
• 2 tablespoons butter

Mix together the flour, salt, pepper, nutmeg and sage in a large bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk and pumpkin until completely combined and smooth. Pour the wet ingredients into the middle of the dry and mix together with a spatula. If it looks too thick, stream in a bit more milk. It should be thick enough to coat the back of a spoon but thin enough that it falls from the tip of it in easy ribbons. Set aside for at least 15 minutes – on the countertop, not in the fridge.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Once it’s at a rolling boil and the batter has rested, prepare for spaetzle-making. You’ll need the following materials:

• A colander with large holes
• A large spoon or ladle
• A strainer, set over a mixing bowl
• A spider strainer (like the one in the photo at the top of the page)
• A pastry scraper or wooden spoon

I know this all looks rather daunting. But if I can get through this you can too.

Situate the colander directly over the boiling water. You may want to hold onto it with a towel as it’ll get quite hot. Ladle or spoon about 1/4 cup of batter into the bottom of the colander and use the pastry scraper or wooden spoon to push the dough through the holes and into the water. As soon as it hits the water, it will begin to cook. Use the spider strainer to stir the pieces gently, and let them boil for 3-4 minutes. Once fully cooked, remove them with the spider and drop them in the stationary strainer set over the bowl.

Continue this until all of the dough has been used up. Be patient and continue to work in small batches. Once all of the spaetzle has been cooked, remove the pot from the heat and discard the water.

Heat the butter in a large, nonstick skillet over medium high. Once melted (you may cook it a bit longer, if you wish to brown it into a nuttier flavor), add the drained spaetzle and cook for 2-3 minutes, until lightly golden and ever-so-slightly crispy. Finish with extra salt and pepper and serve warm.

It’s my fault. I’ve been awfully negligent, avoiding not only writing here, but writing in general. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, but it was largely fear that kept me away.

As part of my job as Food Columnist for the Post-Standard, I write monthly pieces that get posted to the web at Syracuse.com. I am proud of the food I create and the recipes I write there. It has been an opportunity unlike any other, one that allows me to stretch my skills both in and out of the kitchen. It has been a challenge, but a positive one, and I am thankful for every piece that gets published. When I dove into this new position one year ago, I was prepared for the editorial quirks and the frustrating food moments.

I was not prepared for the backlash of internet critics, pushing on me at every turn. At first, it was my appearance they picked apart. If I wore a sleeveless blouse in the accompanying photo, they cried out at my immodesty. If I wore a turtleneck, I was frumpy. My hair was too plain, my smile too big, my chin too large and my mannerisms too awkward. (I am awkward! I won’t deny it!) Half cried foul and claimed that the newspaper hired me based solely on my appearance.  The other half scoffed and said that couldn’t possibly be true – for I simply wasn’t attractive enough to ride on my looks.

I let this roll off my back for months, ignoring the chatter as best I could. But the criticisms got worse. My skills and knowledge were drawn into question. Not one recipe passed without some barrage of snide remarks about its simplicity and, in turn, my ineptitude.

My friends assured me the criticism was just noise – that I shouldn’t even listen to it. I tried not to. But as the chatter grew louder, I found it increasingly impossible to cover my ears tight enough. Their harsh words penetrated me and shook me to the core. I lost my confidence and worse, my voice.

For the first time in my life, I found myself afraid to write. It’s not that I had writer’s block. On the contrary, I was itching to document the barley and beef stew I made, the spicy green curry and the venison backstrap, seared and served with roasted root vegetables. No, I was scared that the angry critics would find more fuel for their fire. I was scared that they would find me here, find fault with my words. That they would attack me again. That I wouldn’t be strong enough to handle it.

But I have had enough. This is my house. I built this, and am proud of every word, every photo, every recipe. This is my house, and no one will keep me from it. I will not hide anymore. I have food to talk about, and recipes to share. And I’m going to do it as only I can.

—

Stu and I have become increasingly adventurous in our Sunday supper. What used to be a cobbled-together meal of cheese, bread and heavily brined olives slowly became long-simmered sauces, precise measuring, laborious kneading and chopping. It has been, if you ask him, quite worth the effort. As the rooms fill with the warm scent of tender garlic, animal fat and stock, our stomach groan louder and louder. Truth be told, I like the process, the long prep lists and parade of dishes.

Each week we attempt to outdo ourselves, so as I scoured my favorite food writers’ books and sites for inspiration yesterday, I knew I had a good lead from Clotilde Dusoulier of Chocolate & Zucchini. I landed on this recipe for slow-roasted lamb shoulder. The combination of salty anchovy, bright lemon zest and piney rosemary sounded nothing short of perfect on a sunny but very cold winter day.

Off we went to the store, only to find a tragic shortage of lamb. We had our pick of a few small chops or an enormous, hulking leg, covered in a milky sheen of fat. I’ve looked at those legs many times, sometimes even reaching out the graze the packaging with my fingers. I never buy them, convincing myself that a much more economical cut of neck or cubed shoulder will do just as nicely. But oh, did I want that leg. I picked up a 4-pound one and turned it over in my hands. It was plump and perfectly round. I imagined rubbing the paste of anchovy and herb all over it, how the flavors would mingle and form a crust when roasted. I looked up at Stu. From the twinkle in his eye, I could tell he was thinking the same thing.

When we got home, I took the leg out of its packaging and patted it dry. I set it next to me, admiring the grassy, almost iron-tinged scent that filled the air as I mixed together meyer lemon zest, anchovy paste, rosemary and whole-grain mustard. I seasoned the meat on all sides and spread the paste over its surface. I rolled up my sleeves and massaged the flavors together. It felt tactile, soothing. It felt like the promise of a great meal.

And a great meal it was. The paste had slowly transformed into a complex crust: earthy, salty and bright all at once. It had trapped all of the moisture inside the lamb, which had become impossibly tender. I loved it deeply and immediately. I wanted to tell you about it. Because that’s what I do. Because that’s what I’ve always done, and what I always will. Because it’s who I am. I won’t soon forget it.

Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb

Adapted from Clotilde Dusoulier

• 1 leg of lamb, bone-in if possible, about 5 pounds
• 2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, chopped finely
• 1 teaspoon whole grain mustard
• 3 fat cloves garlic, chopped finely
• 1/2 teaspoon capers, drained and chopped finely
• Zest of 1 lemon (meyer if possible)
• 1 tablespoon anchovy paste
• 1 teaspoon brown sugar
• 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• Salt, pepper
• 2 cups red creamer potatoes, quartered

Rinse the lamb and pat dry. If there is an extraordinary amount of fat on the lamb, gently slice some off. A bit of fat is welcome, as it will render in the oven, but too much results in a rather chewy bite. Place the leg on a cutting board or large plate while you prepare the paste. Season it first, generously, with salt and pepper.

Whisk everything but the potatoes together, and season with salt and pepper. Taste it, to make sure the flavors are right. The garlic and anchovy, while powerful, should not dominate or upstage the lemon and herb. Rub the paste all over the surface of the lamb, massaging it into the skin. Transfer the lamb to the refrigerator for at least 3 hours.

Take the lamb out of the fridge half an hour before cooking, and preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Toss the potatoes in the bottom of a roasting pan (season them first, please) and gingerly set the lamb on top. Roast the lamb in the oven for 25-30 minutes, and then lower the heat to 300 degrees. Cook for about 2 hours, until the temperature reaches 130 degrees. Remove the lamb from the oven and let rest for 15 minutes before slicing and serving with the potatoes.

It was the middle of December, and the executives were hungry.

I was working as a catering cook at a Conference Center in New York City, a job that consisted of cooking meals for business meetings, cocktail hours and plated dinners. In this particular instance, the company had specifically requested a menu be created: low-fat butternut squash soup, artisan rolls, and to start, a Caprese salad.

A Caprese salad is a thing of beauty. Hailing from the island of Capri, it’s breezy Italian dining at its best. Tender basil leaves are strewn over soft, plump mozzarella. When it’s really good, the mozzarella isn’t just sliced from a ball, but made fresh, and pulled into a small satchel shape, so meltingly tender you’d swear it’s cream. This is all anchored by juicy, red tomatoes – it’s simple, flavorful and delicious. Typically. The integrity of a Caprese salad relies drastically on the quality of the tomatoes used. Ripe, in season and at room-temperature transforms the salad to a whole new level.

But like I said: this was the middle of December. Tomatoes peak here in late summer, hanging on through early fall and fading completely by the end of September. You can find tomatoes all year, though, and so that is what we did. Who knows where they came from? Florida, possibly. Our clients didn’t seem to much care, so we put in an order. Our big-truck produce vendor had dropped off a shipment that morning, full of cantaloupes, raspberries, avocados and those “winter white” tomatoes.

It was my job to prepare the salad, so I got to work slicing them. They were firm, without any give under my fingers. They were cold, from their chill in the walk-in freezer, and pale, like the color of a once-red sweatshirt that had been hit with bleach. When my knife made contact with the flesh, no juice ran out onto my cutting board. No seeds slipped into my palm. A small bite confirmed what I already knew. These tomatoes sucked.

I arranged everything artfully on a serving platter, hit it with an obscene amount of sea salt, drizzled extra virgin olive oil over everything and sent it out, crossing my fingers and praying. Please don’t let them send it back. Please. I was petrified that they’d be outraged by the quality of the tomatoes, demand something different.

But five minutes went by, and then half an hour, and then the servers were bringing back an empty dish. Suddenly I felt angry. They should have been outraged. They should have refused to eat those tomatoes. Didn’t they know that something was intrinsically wrong with that salad? Didn’t they care?

Maybe I was being unfair. Maybe they really did care. Maybe they just chose not to speak up. I’ll never know. But from that moment, I knew that I’d never eat so thoughtlessly. I promised myself that I’d never again eat a tomato out of season.

—

It is easier than ever to eat. We are bombarded with options, with places to shop and restaurants to try. Everywhere we go grocery stores and television commercials scream at us that food should be convenient, fast and indulgent. We can get anything at any time, from authentic Thai food to kiwi fruit to Italian cured hams. And that’s not always a bad thing. It’s important to open our minds and expand our palates. I’m the first to admit that I wouldn’t much like to live without French wine or English blue cheese.

But those things are treats. I build the majority of my pantry and food stock with locally-grown vegetables and fruits, with pasta made from artisan producers, with eggs from happy chickens on beautiful farms I can easily visit.

—

I’d like to pause here to ask you a few questions.

Can you imagine flying to Florida for a dentist appointment? What if we sent our children to boarding schools in the Midwest? If we needed a lawyer, would we seek one out in Argentina?

Of course not. It would be silly. It wouldn’t make sense, logically or financially. And besides: we are part of a community here. We would never do that to our dentists, our teachers, our lawyers.

So why do we do it to our farmers?

—

Barry Estabrook is a smart writer who feels just as passionately (perhaps more) as I do. A former contributor to Gourmet Magazine, he recently wrote Tomatoland: How Modern Industrial Agriculture Destroyed Our Most Alluring Fruit. It’s a hot book, the spark of much debate and outrage among the big players in big-profit farming. I’d like to read you a few excerpts from it:

On a visit to my parents in Naples, Florida, I was driving I-75 when I came up behind one of those gravel trucks that seem to be everywhere in southwest Florida’s rush to convert pine woods and cypress stands into gated communities and shopping malls. As I drew closer, I saw that the tractor trailer was heavy with what seemed to be green apples. When I pulled out to pass, three of them sailed off the truck, narrowly missing my windshield. Every time it hit the slightest bump, more of those orbs would tumble off. At the first stoplight, I got a closer look. The shoulder of the road was littered with green tomatoes so plasticine and so identical they could have been stamped out by a machine. Most looked smooth and unblemished. A few had cracks in their skins. Not one was smashed. A 10-foot drop followed by a 60-mile-per- hour impact with pavement is no big deal to a modern, agribusiness tomato.

Beauty, in this case, is only skin deep. According to figures compiled by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, Americans bought $5 billion worth of perfectly round, perfectly red, and, in the opinion of many consumers, perfectly tasteless fresh tomatoes in 2009—our second most popular vegetable behind lettuce. We buy winter tomatoes, but that doesn’t mean we like them. In survey after survey, fresh tomatoes fall at or near the bottom in rankings of consumer satisfaction.

Perhaps our taste buds are trying to send us a message. Today’s industrial tomatoes are as bereft of nutrition as they are of flavor. According to analyses conducted by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, fresh tomatoes today have 30 percent less vitamin C, 30 percent less thiamin, 19 percent less niacin, and 62 percent less calcium than they did in the 1960s. But the modern tomato does shame its 1960s counterpart in one area: It contains fourteen times as much sodium.

When forced to struggle in the wilting humidity of Florida, tomatoes become vulnerable to all manner of fungal diseases. Hordes of voracious hoppers, beetles, and worms chomp on their roots, stems, leaves, and fruit. And although Florida’s sandy soil makes for great beaches, it is devoid of plant nutrients. To get a successful crop, they pump the sand full of chemical fertilizers and can blast the plants with more than one hundred different herbicides and pesticides …

—

Mr. Estabrook is right. And here’s something else to chew on: yes, eating from far away means a less-than-great product, but it also means harming our community. There are so many reasons to shop here. If we eat locally, more money stays right here, in our community. The environmental ramifications of shipping food across the world are atrocious and unfair. But the less our food travels, the kinder we are being to our fragile earth. The attention we get from our neighbors tops the half-interested “customer service” from far-away companies.

As not only a food writer and cook, but also as a busy working woman who maintains a household, I know it’s hard sometimes. It’s tempting to swing by a chain restaurant when I leave the office late, or to feed the children broccoli from California because they don’t like in-season squash. It’s tempting to take the easy road out, and you know what? Sometimes I do. We all do. And that’s okay. I’m not here to guilt or shame you into buying 100% local. That’s hardly a productive attitude.

What I want to talk about is the fact that if we shift our attitudes – just a little bit – and make an effort to eat locally most of the time, instead of just when it’s convenient, we’ll find that it’s actually a lot easier than we thought. Let’s line our kitchen and refrigerator shelves with local produce and food products, so that when we reach for a snack, we don’t have to think twice about eating within our community. Let’s ask our favorite restaurants what percentage of local product they cook with – and if they might consider bumping up that number. Let’s start a conversation, soak up inspiration from our unique agriculture. Let’s ask farmers what the heck to do with carrot tops and beet greens. Let’s not be afraid of cooking, because that’s what makes our local foods really shine.

I know I am preaching to the choir – and please forgive me for that. But if we want our communities to thrive, our people to prosper, and our children to know what good eating is, we have to invest in our farmers. We have to turn to them first for our food needs. We have to trust that they know what they are doing. We have to spread the word, to convince everyone what we already know:

Local food is delicious.

—

You know why local food is delicious? Because it isn’t about fuss or obnoxious presentation. It’s not about showing off. It’s about sustenance, yes, but not just that. I believe that at the heart of the local food movement is a deep desire to bring out and enhance the natural beauty of what occurs here. It’s about exploring flavors that are ingrained in our heritage. It’s about learning what our soil is telling us, what our animals really taste like. It’s about doing what only we can, and embracing that. Being proud of it.

Why else is local food delicious? Because local is synonymous with “in season.” And because – as we know – there is nothing tastier than eating foods at the peak of their perfection.

Eating with the seasons doesn’t really require a big change or upheaval on our part. We already know, on some level, what tastes good when. We go crazy for ramps and asparagus at the first sign of spring – we’ve been hoping for greens, and they’re a sight for sore eyes. The garlicky, assertive ramps remind us of rebirth, and asparagus’ versatility inspires us. We crave strawberries in late spring because that’s when they taste best. These strawberries are not the sour, white imposters of December, but blood-red, and sweet.

Summer is for tender baby greens, for squashes and corn. For grilling and picnics and eating raw.

Fall turns out hearty beauties: intensely flavored root vegetables, like parsnips, carrots and radishes, and deep greens like chard and kale. For tree fruits that inspire a fierce dedication (Macintosh apples, anyone?)

Winter is a continuation, time to hunker down with more of the same and supplement with meat – and, if we were lucky enough to have canned and preserved the year’s bounty, a time to reminisce and remember.

These things all come very naturally to us. It’s not rocket science.

But to make it all even easier, our farmers, growers and food producers have practically (and sometimes literally) brought food to our doors.

Farmers markets aren’t just a weekend attraction anymore – they’re everywhere, and often operate multiple days a week. We can get so much more than eggs and fried dough on Saturday morning. If we plan well and bring a few reusable shopping bags, we can do the bulk of our weekly shopping at the market. Cheese and meat, bread and salad, milk and honey and maple syrup, onions and shallots, butter and cream are all available. And if this doesn’t sound inspiring to you, if this doesn’t make you want to cook – make you hungry – then I think we’re speaking a different language.

It can be hard to carve out the time necessary to visit the market every week. Farmers know that. That’s why so many of them now offer CSAs – Community Sponsored Agriculture. For a small fee and the promise of support and loyalty, farms will select, pack and ensure you get a hearty supply of what’s good and growing. Every week. Often, the time between picking and pick-up is mere hours. Compare that with produce that’s grown a continent away then shipped, sailed, trucked and bumped countless miles under who-knows-what conditions.

And here’s the best part. There are more than a few farms in the area. There are more than a few food producers. Each one is different, brings a certain something to the table.

—

Late this summer I picked up a fresh cherry tomato at the market. It was hot from the sun, and small enough to disappear completely into my palm when I wrapped my fingers around it. I squeezed it once, lightly, and it gave tremendously. I bit into it, working to make my teeth break the skin. Once it split, juices ran down my wrist, catching on my bent elbow and dripping onto my sneaker. The flesh was sweet and acidic, balanced as a complex wine.

I popped the rest of it into my mouth and envisioned spaghetti noodles coated in a sauce of raw tomato, crushed garlic and thyme. I pictured homemade mayonnaise slathered on a thick slice of the fruit, and I recreated that old Caprese salad. In the end, I just ate another few tomatoes. They were perfect, just as they were. Ripe, real, local and in season.

What follows is an excerpt from my speech. I look forward to sharing the rest with you soon.

It was the middle of December, and the executives were hungry.

I was working as a catering cook in the Time Warner Conference Center in New York City, a job that consisted of cooking meals for business meetings, cocktail hours and plated dinners. In this particular instance, the company had specifically requested a menu be created: low-fat butternut squash soup, artisan rolls, and to start, a Caprese salad.

A Caprese salad is a thing of beauty. Hailing from the island of Capri, it’s breezy Italian dining at its best. Tender basil leaves are strewn over soft, plump mozzarella. When it’s really good, the mozzarella isn’t just sliced from a ball, but made fresh, and pulled into a small satchel shape, so meltingly tender you’d swear it’s cream. This is all anchored by juicy, red tomatoes – it’s simple, flavorful and delicious. Typically. The integrity of a Caprese salad relies drastically on the quality of the tomatoes used. Ripe, in season and at room-temperature transforms the salad to a whole new level.

But like I said: this was the middle of December. Tomatoes peak here in late summer, hanging on through early fall and fading completely by the end of September. You can find tomatoes all year, though, and so that is what we did. Who knows where they came from? Florida, possibly. Our clients didn’t seem to much care, so we put in an order. Our big-truck produce vendor had dropped off a shipment that morning, full of cantaloupes, raspberries, avocados and those “winter white” tomatoes.

It was my job to prepare the salad, so I got to work slicing them. They were firm, without any give under my fingers. They were cold, from their chill in the walk-in freezer, and pale, like the color of a once-red sweatshirt that had been hit with bleach. When my knife made contact with the flesh, no juice ran out onto my cutting board. No seeds slipped into my palm. A small bite confirmed what I already knew. These tomatoes sucked.

Without fail, every October we get pummeled with pumpkin.

It’s like clockwork; the leaves show a hint of orange, and suddenly we can’t find any other flavor or scent. It shows up in our coffee, our candles, our pastries, our pies and, apparently, even our beer. Call me an autumn Scrooge, but lately I can’t help but feel a little cranky about the whole affair.

Maybe it’s the fact that this year the extravaganza began earlier than ever. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours after Labor Day when the ubiquitous pumpkin latte made its appearance. I was still packing up my shorts and mourning the loss of summer when autumn barged in, and as a result, I never felt quite ready for it.

It’s a shame, because I do love eating in the fall. It feels familiar and satisfying after months of salad. Our wines deepen in color, and our vegetables become heartier. Even our cooking techniques change as we forsake grilling in favor of slow, gentle braising and roasting.

Squash becomes readily available — and not just butternut, but acorn, carnival and spaghetti, too. Carrots make room for their milder, meatier cousins, parsnips, and tender baby lettuces are replaced by thick, hearty kale and chard.

Tiny fingerlings are forgotten in favor of sweet potatoes, which are nice under bruleed marshmallows, but even better in a gratin with goat cheese and sage.

Intensely flavored meat is readily available, from beef short ribs to lamb shanks full of sinew that, when braised, give way to fork-tender bites. For a cook with a little imagination and patience, there is no better season, no time more inspiring.

I’m typically all for it — the biggest champion of the season — but having it all thrust upon me so hastily has made me wary. And so I vowed not to take part in the hoopla.

I refused to revisit my old autumnal favorite recipes, instead tackling a red curry with lime leaves and coconut milk. Instead of drinking mulled cider, I poured Riesling, a bright white wine with summery acidity. And I didn’t miss fall at all. At least, not until a little doughnut made its way into my heart.

Things started out so innocently. It was just another Tuesday in September. I was avoiding writing by scrubbing the kitchen floor and organizing my spice rack. Having not quite sufficiently procrastinated, I drove to the grocery store to have a look around and hopefully absorb a little inspiration.

I found myself loitering near the fresh pastries (as I so often do) when a couple near me picked up two apple fritters.

“I can’t wait until this weekend,” she said, gripping a takeout coffee cup. “Apple picking!”

I scowled, certain her cup was full of pumpkin-flavored syrup.

“And apple cider doughnuts!” he grinned in excitement, and my face softened. As I watched them walk away, my mind started churning.

Apple cider doughnuts: I had forgotten all about them.

How was I supposed to continue my strike against fall when faced with apple cider doughnuts? They’re my favorite kind of treat: sweet, without being a sugar bomb, hinting at fruit and to be eaten without a fork or knife. I reasoned that one little doughnut couldn’t hurt. I picked up the necessary ingredients and hurried home.

Well. Two large batches of doughnuts, a cascade of root vegetables and one month later, I’ve finally embraced fall.

I’m loving the foliage, the cooler air and most of all, the food. I’ve learned my lesson: You can’t stop or slow the calendar, but when eating seasonally is this good, why would you ever want to?

Apple Cider Donuts

For the doughnuts:
1 cup apple cider
3 3/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus 1/4 cup
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ teaspoon ground allspice
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
Pinch salt
½ stick unsalted butter
2/3 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
Generous ½ cup plain yogurt
Canola oil, for frying

For the cinnamon sugar:
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Place the apple cider in a saucepot over medium-low heat and reduce it to 1/3 cup over a low simmer. Once thickened and reduced, remove from the heat and set aside.

Mix the 3¾ cups flour, baking powder and soda, spices and salt in a bowl and set aside for later.

Meanwhile, use an electric stand or hand-held mixer to cream together the butter and sugar (make sure the butter is at room temperature). Once the mixture is light and frothy, add the eggs and beat again. Add the reduced cider and yogurt and mix. Using a spatula, add in the dry ingredients and mix until just combined. Over-mixing will make for a tough doughnut.

Transfer the dough to a large piece of plastic wrap and wrap securely. Place it in the fridge for 30 to 45 minutes, until firm but still workable.

Sprinkle the remaining ¼ cup flour over the cutting board and unwrap the dough onto it. Using a floured rolling pin, roll out the dough to Ð-inch thick. Cut the dough with a doughnut cutter, or with two circle cookie cutters (one circle should be smaller than the other, to form the “hole.”)

Place the cut doughnuts on a parchment-lined baking sheet and place in the refrigerator for another ½ hour.

Meanwhile, mix together the granulated sugar and cinnamon. Pour onto a rimmed plate or shallow bowl.

Heat at least 4 inches of canola oil in a very large stockpot to 350 degrees. A candy thermometer affixed to the edge of the pot will help you decipher the temperature. Once the temperature is at 350 degrees, use a hand-held wire cage strainer to drop the doughnuts, 2 or 3 at a time, in the hot oil. Adding too many doughnuts at once will lower the temperature, but on the other hand, if you see the thermometer begin to creep upward to 370 degrees, lower the heat, lest your doughnuts burn before cooking through. Let them cook for 45 to 60 seconds and then turn them over, using the strainer to prod them. Cook for another 45 seconds or so. The doughnuts should be golden, not dark brown.

Drain the doughnuts on paper towels. While they are still warm, coat them with the cinnamon sugar.

Makes about 18 doughnuts

I once dated a man who, while being handsome and well-to-do, as well as occasionally quite charming, had nothing in common with me. We clashed on every level and fought like cats and dogs – or rather, we would have, had we not both been rather passive-aggressive types. I knew my big laugh embarrassed him, so I made certain to do it often and loudly in public. And I’m not proud of this, but I also did continue to make salmon for dinner after he confessed he hated the fish. I prepared it every way I could think of: glazed in balsamic vinegar and honey, dolloped with creme fraiche, baked with a mustard grain crust.  “I thought,” I’d say with enthusiasm set a few notches too high, “I’d try something new!”

So we didn’t work out, which is a happy thing, actually, because I then met Stu and fell in love with him and his big grin and his freezer full of wild-caught salmon. Sometimes I look back on my time with my old boyfriend and find it all so comical, so obviously wrong, I just can’t help but laugh. We disagreed about a lot, but nothing more than food. At the time, I was just opening my eyes to what local, organic eating means but he favored aesthetics and imported intrigue.

Once, when shopping together we passed a high-end food and gift retailer. “They sell the best pears here,” he said. I was perplexed but ready to hear him out. Fresh fruit? From a national chain store that specializes in glazed nuts? “They’re juicy and sweet, but the best part is that they look absolutely perfect.” I tasted one and it sure did look nice, but it wasn’t juicy or sweet, and I certainly didn’t find it very exciting. It was not a perfect pear, and nor were we.

But anyway. Last weekend Stu and I took the kids apple picking at one of those big affair-type places. Ponies and popcorn and donuts and all. We all had a great time and left with three big bags of Macintosh, Cortland and Macoun apples, but on our way back to the car I noticed something that really caught my eye. There, next to the big red barn and bales of hay was a pear tree! A real one! With pears! I like apples but I’d kill for pears, and so I clapped gleefully and pulled one off its branch. The four-year-old nodded in approval, but the 11-year-old  clapped his hand over his mouth and groaned. At that moment I noticed a sign in hand-painted letters: PLEASE DO NOT PICK THE PEARS. How had I missed it? I made a guilty face and shrugged my shoulders. “Ah, well,” I said as we walked toward the car, faster and faster, giggling all the way.

The pear was hard as stone and greener than green. I was pretty disappointed about the whole affair – risking life and limb for the fruit, and all – until I remembered some local pears Stu and I had bought at the market. They were small and slightly browned and a bit pock-marked, but they were good and juicy.

Last night, the four-year-old joined me in the kitchen as I whisked together browned butter, cream, eggs and sugar. Together we layered the sliced pear at the bottom of a pie pan in a sunburst shape and I taught her about clafoutis.

“It’s a funny word, isn’t it? You say it like this: cla-FOO-tee.” She laughed (I’d hoped she would) and licked the spatula, and we were both very content with each other and our evening.

As I wiped down the countertops and put away the ingredients she worked the word around in her mouth. “Ca-floo-dee, ca-doo-flee, fla-coo-dee,” she whispered until a lightbult just about exploded over her head. “CLA … BOOTY!” She said, overjoyed at her wordsmithery.

I had to laugh. What a difference a year makes. I was no longer eating joylessly, artfully. My life had become so full, so happily chaotic, so rife with learning and mess and family and love, that I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

The clabooty was lovely and deep and the imperfect pears had acquired a slight lacquer from the butter. It is a very comfortable, familiar dessert. One that I hope the kids will grow to love.

Pear Clafoutis

Adapted from Bon Appetit

• 1 ripe pear, cored and sliced thinly into long, vertical slices
• 2/3 stick butter, plus more for the pie pan
• 1 cup sugar
• 4 large eggs
• 1 teaspoon almond extract
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 1/2 cup flour
• Pinch salt
• Toasted slivered almonds

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Generously butter a 9″ glass or ceramic pie baking dish and set aside.

Melt the butter over medium heat. Let the butter continue to cook until lightly browned and nutty-smelling. Remove from the heat and pour into a glass measuring cup to cool slightly.

Meanwhile, whisk together the sugar, eggs and almond extract. Slowly whisk in the butter – being careful not to dump it all at once – and then the cream. Use a wooden spoon or spatula to fold in the flour and salt.

Layer the pears in the bottom of the pan, fanning them out in a starburst pattern. Gently pour the batter over the pears, then sprinkle the almonds on top. Bake for 25-30 minutes until set. Remove from the oven and let cool.