I started my internship at Aldea with a trail, and because I came straight from the world of puppies, sparkles and rainbows, unlike some of my more seasoned co-workers, I’d never actually had a trail before. I was largely a miserable failure, taking excruciatingly long to perform the simplest tasks. (At one point, every single cook stopped what they were doing and showed me how to shave chives. If you’re so inclined to cut them perfectly, try using the whole of your knife blade in a sort of sliding motion.) Anyway, despite how the story goes in my head, it couldn’t have been too tragic because I was asked back, and the rest, as you know, is history.

But I think what I remember the most from that first time on the line is learning how to plate a salad from Carl. Carl was working the garde manger station that night – sort of. It seemed to me he was actually ricocheting back and forth between 3 different stations, but the important thing was that when an appetizer or small plate order ticked in, he was by my side, working like a madman. I was standing at his side like a moron, saying “Uh-huh. Cool. Yup. Got it. Cool,” to everything he said, even though between all that kitchen lingo and his broken English, I could only understand about a quarter of it.

An order for a Lolla Rossa Salad came in, and per the recipe’s specifications, he put the Lolla Rossa lettuce in a bowl, along with some tatsoi and a generous drizzle of sunchoke-shallot vinaigrette. He seasoned the greens too, and then looked at me. “You always use the glove,” he said, his face inches from mine. “In an open kitchen, people see everything, and they watch too. The glove, you always use.”

He reached his hand into a quart container where he presumably kept them. “Oh, shit!” he said, coming up empty. There were no more latex gloves. But the salad needed to be tossed, then plated, and tickets were lining up quickly. He gave me a positively wicked look and laughed and plunged his bare hand into the salad bowl. “Naked is moooore fun!”

I bit back a laugh and tried not to look surprised. Who was this guy? He wiped his slick hand on a towel and arranged a smattering of beets on the plate.

Later, when I began working garde manger, I dressed my own Lolla Rossa salads. Because Carl was right – we were in a restaurant kitchen – I always pulled on my glove before tossing the lettuce. When I transitioned from restaurant to home cook, I welcomed the relaxed time constraints and used tongs to mix things up. But yesterday, as I seasoned a bowl of organic romaine lettuce in my own kitchen, I thought about Carl’s jointed laughter. I stuck my hand right into the bowl and swirled the greens around, letting them acquire a sheen of vinaigrette. I fussily arranged the lettuce in a towering heap and, because it was just me, licked the vinaigrette off every single one of my fingers. It was peppery and zingy, with a hint of pink peppercorns. It was delicious, and I hadn’t even gotten to the salad yet. Carl was right. Naked is way more fun.

Aldea Dressing

I would never disrespect my chef and coworkers by publishing a recipe we used at the restaurant – those are closely guarded secrets. And besides. I accidentally left my moleskin recipe notebook in the kitchen on my last day. But I did pick up a trick that I’m happy to share. The vinaigrette we used on the Lolla Rossa was made smooth and dreamy by the addition of creme fraiche. Ever since then, I’ve been hooked on the stuff. I also like to include sherry vinegar and pink peppercorns in my vinaigrette. Even though this version is much simpler than theirs, the flavors take me right back to the restaurant. I like to call it my “Aldea Dressing.”

• 1/4 cup sherry vinegar
• 1 teaspoon light brown sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon crushed pink peppercorns
• 3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
• 1 tablespoon creme fraiche
• Salt, to taste

Combine the sherry vinegar, brown sugar and peppercorns in a bowl and whisk to combine. (I like to first place the peppercorns on a cutting board and crush them with the back of a frying pan. They retain some of their integrity that way, rather than being ground to oblivion in a pepper mill.)

Slowly whisk in the olive in. Once it’s emulsified, whisk in the creme fraiche. Season with salt.

Drizzle over lettuce and dress in whatever level of nudity you’re most comfortable.

Basil Lemonade for 4

• 1 cup fresh lemon juice
• 3/4 cup simple syrup, cooled
• Handful of fresh basil leaves, sans stem
• 4 cups cold water
• 4 shots gin

Mix the lemon juice, simple syrup and water in a pitcher.

Add 4-5 basil leaves and a generous amount of ice to four highball glasses. Pour one shot of gin in each glass and top with the lemonade. Stir with a swizzle stick. Sweet and subtle.

Alternately:

• Muddle the basil leaves before adding the ice.
• Freeze the basil in ice cubes prior to making the drink.
• Use a low-calorie lemonade mix, like Crystal Light.

To make a simple syrup:

• Bring 3/4 cup water and 3/4 cup granulated sugar to a boil in a saucepan. Once boiling, stir and remove from heat. Let cool.

Finn works late, which is just fine by me, because I like to eat late. And though our new relationship is anything but routine, we have worked out a nice little course of events. At exactly 8:30 on the dot, I press his call button. “Hello?” his voice comes through the speaker.

“Hel-lo!” I say, smiling and striking a small sort of pose, as if he can see me. He can’t, though, because he’s pressing the buzzer that lets me into his building. I ride the elevator three flights up, knocking a reusable grocery bag against my knees and chewing the inside of my cheek. When I reach the third floor, the elevator spills me out directly in front of his door. I push on the doorknob – he’s left it open for me – and peek my head in. The windows have been thrust up and the double doors leading to his roof deck are marvelously wide open as well. There is a bit of late evening light left, and the breeze feels extraordinary.

He’s usually doing a lap around the loft, fixing this and arranging that, apologizing for it being messy (it isn’t), for the big paddle fans being inadequate (they aren’t), for him being sweaty (he is, but I like it). I stand on my toes and kiss him; sometimes I’ll set my groceries down and sometimes I won’t, wrapping them around him as my hands meet at his neck. He kisses back, and then I bound off to the island where I begin taking out his knives, his pans, his paper towels and bowls.

I like cooking for Finn because everything we eat together is a first-time adventure. I don’t always hit the mark, but he is always honest, and that is even better than lavish compliments.

The other day, I brought a handful of fat, pinkish scallops to dinner. I’d noticed that, on two recent occasions out, he’d ordered scallops. I’m a girl who pays mind to that sort of thing, so while at the grocery store, I’d quickly snapped them up and made plans to sear them for supper.

I rooted around in his pantry, searching for an oil with a high smoke point – canola, vegetable, even peanut’d do – but all I came up with were bottles of extra virgin and walnut oil. I could have clarified some butter – it’d tolerate the heat better without its milk solids – but I was hungry. And besides, I wanted to move dinner along faster so we could get to dessert. “This won’t do!” I muttered to myself, but I put on a pretty face and promised him that it wasn’t a problem at all. Of course I could sear the scallops in olive oil. It would be fine.

It was, really. The oil did get a bit too hot and smoky, and although I could taste a slightly nutty-edging-on-burnt tang to the scallops, he promised me they were cooked well. I thought nothing more of it and certainly assumed the matter was forgotten by him as well.

A few nights later, as I picked at the last of my arugula, grapefruit and avocado salad, Finn put both hands on my knees and grinned. “Did you see the present I left you in the pantry!?”

My eyebrows shot up. A present! “No! I haven’t!” I reached over and put my hands on his thighs. “What is it?”

“It is …” he paused for dramatics. “A big ol’ bottle of canola oil,” he said with a satisfied smirk.

“Ha-ha!” I laughed a real, genuine belly laugh. “I love it.” I rubbed my palms over his jeans and thought about how lucky I felt. For the first time, I wasn’t the only one with a good memory and knack for thoughtful, unexpected gifts. And that discovery was the best surprise of all.

Perfectly Seared Scallops for Two

• 6 plump scallops
• 1/4 cup pan-searing flour
• Kosher salt
• Fresh black pepper
• 2 tablespoons canola oil
• 1 sprig fresh lemon thyme, picked

Really pat the scallops dry; they should be devoid of any moisture. If you have time, placing them on a paper towel in the refrigerator for a half-hour will help things immensely. Season them well – on all sides – with the salt and pepper.

Place the pan-searing flour on a small plate and spread it out. Some people may accuse me of cheating by using flour, but I love how crisp and crusty the scallops get with a thin layer of flour. If you don’t have pan-searing flour, that’s all right. Simply sift some all-purpose flour onto a plate and proceed. Pan-searing flour is really, at the heart of the matter, just ultra-fine flour. Anyway, coat the scallops in the flour and shake off any excess. You want no more than a light sheen.

Heat a frying pan (I do not recommend non-stick for this; it never seems to do the job well) over medium-high heat. Add the oil and heat until it just begins to smoke faintly. Add the scallops. Leave them be for a minute or two; a golden crust will form if you aren’t impatient. Once they’re able to be wiggled loose from the pan, flip them over and cook just a minute more. If they aren’t yet cooked through (the middle will look opaque if they are), flip them on their sides and finish cooking that way. Remove from the pan and divide among two plates. Place a leaf of lemon thyme atop each scallop for a sunny, bright burst. Serve with salad or, if you’re lucky enough to have a Finn who cooks steak well, a nicely  grilled New York strip.

One of my students is gluten intolerant, and while we can usually avoid the problem entirely by making things like seared tuna and blueberry smoothies, the menu this week called for pancakes. I’d never cooked pancakes without wheat, so I was pleasantly surprised to find a great gluten-free flour by Bob’s Red Mill. Because I don’t make “regular” pancakes with a mix, I figured that these should be no different. I did add some extra egg to the batter, as well as some cinnamon the disguise any “off” taste that the kids might discern, but for the most part, I stuck with my favorite tried-and-true pancake recipe.

The boys all helped – measuring, stirring, even folding in the delicate, beaten egg white. (To my surprise and delight, they all knew the definition of the word!) I handled the griddle, and when the pancakes were done, each boy tried one with our homemade strawberry syrup. I was a little worried that they’d complain about the flavor or texture, but when one young cook bounded up for his sixth small pancake, I had to laugh. They might’ve be gluten-free, but these pancakes weren’t lacking in anything.

Gluten-Free Pancakes

• 1 1/2 cups gluten-free flour
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 3 1/2 tablespoons granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 3 egg yolks
• 3/4 cup skim milk
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 2 egg whites, beaten to soft peaks
• Cooking spray

In a large bowl, combine the flour, salt, sugar, baking powder and cinnamon. Mix well.

In another bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, milk and vanilla. Add to the flour mixture and stir to combine. A few lumps in the batter won’t hurt anyone. Using a large spatula, fold in the egg whites, taking care not to deflate the fluffiness of the batter (or, as my English-challenged culinary instructor used to say, “DO NOT LET IT DEFLAME!”).

Warm a nonstick frying pan or griddle over medium heat and spray it with a light sheen of cooking oil. Ladle a small pool of batter onto it the hot surface and let cook until small bubbles appear on the surface of the pancake. Flip it and cook for a minute or so more. I find that with pancakes, as with crepes, a few test ones are usually sacrificed before I hit a rhythm. I typically use medium heat because anything higher leaves me with hockey pucks that aren’t quite cooked in the middle.

Serve with maple syrup or, as we did, frozen strawberries cooked down into a juicy syrup.

It’s easy to tumble down the rabbit hole, reading descriptions of past romances – I myself have done it on more than one occasion – so I can’t say I was entirely surprised when the man who will henceforth be known as “Finn” brought up a few of my old pieces. “I was reading Figs, today” he said. “And I have a couple of questions for you.” I answered them as best I could and he seemed at least partially satisfied, so when the subject was broached again later that night, I listened closely. I wanted to hear what he had to say.

“The thing is,” he said, rubbing his thumb on a glass of Hendricks and tonic water. “It was really exciting to be written about. I read about the mussels, and about me, and it felt all great …” The glass was wet with condensation.

I nodded and ran my own fingers up and down the stem of my wine glass. I was listening.

“But then I read about this guy, and that guy, and the chef and the whatever,” (He flushed a bit and I thought him almost unbearably cute.) “And I wonder if … if you’re just happy now and, like with everyone else, it’ll wear off.”

I put my hand on his chest. Poor Finn! I hadn’t even thought about what it might be like to acknowledge a new lover’s past romances. And in such great detail! Now it was my turn to flush: my cheeks brightened and my hand moved up from his chest to the side of his face. “Fair enough,” I said, and I really meant it. It’s difficult enough to convince an extraordinary man you really, actually care in a way others don’t, and here I was, mucking up all of my hard work with Harlequin-tinged romance stories. “You’re right to feel that way,” I said. “But if I may be honest with you, I’d like you to know that, with all sincerity …”

He rubbed his palm gently on my thigh, right underneath the hem of my skirt. I took a deep breath: “I have never, ever, with any man I’ve had, felt the way I do with you,” I said, and I really meant that too. “I’m comfortable with you,” I said, wiggling down into the couch, “and I feel sexy with you.” I let my middle finger slide over his lower lip. “You want me to succeed, and you’re proud of what I do.” I bent my knees, my legs creating an arc over his. “You’re successful and driven and generous – so very generous! – and all of those good things I’ve always wanted but could never seem to find in one person.” I took a deep breath because I had meant all of that as well, and the honesty felt both good and bracing.

He pressed his forehead into mine and sighed. “But you don’t know me.” I started to protest and he continued. “You don’t know me, not all that well yet.”

“Yet! Yet! But give me a little credit. I know who I am and I know what’s important to me.”

“He gripped my legs. “I am. I am! I am giving you credit! I just think we both need to really give it time. See where it goes.”

We both laughed. This was exhausting! “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore!” he said.

“Yes! Then let’s talk about something else! Anything else!” I threw my hands out in exaggeration and let my right one flutter down to my wine glass. I sipped. “I’m thrilled that my Facebook page is gaining so many fans.”

He grinned. I cocked my head. He really did have a fantastic smile. “You need to put that picture of the radishes up there.”

Two nights prior, I’d made a simple salad of radishes and red romaine. The lettuce was pillowy soft and, so far as lettuce leaves go, awfully plump. As for the radishes, I’d cooked them in water and butter until they were soft and sweet. A talented local photographer and friend had stopped by and gotten snap-happy, taking some beautiful pictures of the little salad.

“You think so?” I asked. I thought about the radishes, how they had dissolved in our mouths like cotton candy, and how the sea salt crackled under our teeth as we bit in. “They were good, weren’t they?”

“Yes!” he said. “I don’t even normally like radishes. Honest, I don’t.”

I beamed.

“But these … they didn’t even taste like radishes. They were incredible. Different than any radish I’ve ever had.”

I relaxed my face into a cheeky little smile. “Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

Candied Radishes, For Two

• 8 radishes, any variety, rinsed
• 1 tablespoon butter
• 1/3 cup water
• 1 tablespoon granulated white sugar
• Sea salt
• Fresh black pepper

Trim the radishes of their tails and tops and halve them lengthwise. Place them in a skillet or frying pan along with the butter, water and sugar.

Cook over medium heat – simmering, really – until a paring knife pierced into a radish is released easily. Ideally, this point will be reached just as the water is completely evaporated. If the water evaporates before the radishes are soft, just add a bit more in. If they are cooked through before the water evaporates, simply crank the heat and let it boil away.

Cook the radishes over high heat, shaking the pan or prodding them with a wooden spoon, so they become caramelized and crispy on their outer edges. Remove from the heat and season well with sea salt and pepper.

Picture by K Glam PhotoStudio

He nodded and lay down next to me with a book of local history and recipes. I snuggled my head onto his chest and lay quietly for a few moments, listening to the Adirondack birds. I traced his skin, sticky from the afternoon’s sunscreen. I drew a deep breath; I could smell his clean, light cologne through the Banana Boat. He held the book with his left hand and fingered the fabric of my shorts with his other.

Earlier that weekend, the four of us had sat lawn chairs right down in the knee-deep water, reclining back and trailing our hands in the lake. We laughed and teased each other, stopping every once in a while to proclaim absolute contentment. I couldn’t be happier if I tried. While the boys drank beer, O and I walked a few laps around the shallow water, searching for fresh-water mussels. We found handfuls of slippery black shells and carried them back to the dock for inspection.

“We should cook these tonight,” we said. The boys’ faces twisted with a combination of amusement and horror. “Yeah … maybe …” Finn said, his voice trailing off as he put a tentative hand on my lower back. “I don’t know how …” he searched for a polite word. “… good they’d be.” T wasn’t quite as tactful. He grabbed a mussel and hurled it back in the water. “Yu-ahhhhh!” he shrieked as the bivalve whipped through the air. I squeezed Finn’s hand and I laughed hard, happy to be comfortable with friends, happy to be with him.

—

Back in bed, I recalled the scene. He smiled and turned the page of his book. “The mussel has probably stuck itself back in the sand by now.” I nodded. Mussels liked to burrow, cozying into the ground. I’d noticed the circular patterns they made in the lake floor.

He kissed the top of my head and began to read. “Good eating and hospitality have long been a tradition for residents of Upper Saranac Lake,” he started. I closed my eyes and pulled myself deeper into his side, cuddling up.

Mussels with White Wine Sauce

• 1 pound fresh mussels
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1 medium-sized shallot, diced
• 1 clove garlic, crushed
• 1 cup white wine (Whatever variety you have will do, but I do like Chardonnay for this.)
• 1 generous pat of butter

Soak the mussels in a bucket of fresh, clean water for a half-hour, then scrape them clean of any grit or beards. With your finger, tap any mussels that may have opened, and if they refuse to close back up, discard them. The healthy, live ones will snap shut at the intrusion of privacy.

Meanwhile, soften the shallot and garlic in a large, wide pan with the olive oil. Try not to gain any color on the shallot; using a patient, medium heat will typically do the trick. When they are soft and translucent, add the mussels to the pan. Pour the wine in and raise the heat to medium-high. Cover the pan and shake it gently. The mussels will open almost immediately – in about two minutes.

As soon as they’ve opened, kill the heat and use a slotted spoon to transfer them to a serving bowl. You may wish to reduce the wine by a touch; to do this, just keep the heat on for a minute more. Once sufficiently reduced, swirl in the butter. It will thicken the sauce further. Pour over the mussels and serve with a loaf of crusty, crackly bread. Some people choose to pull the tender meat from the shell with a fork, but I prefer to use my fingers.

Maybe miracles do happen, or maybe we all just prayed hard enough, because Grandma was moved from ICU to a regular hospital room, and then, today, back to my parents’ house.

A smattering of family was still around when she shuffled back into her favorite chair to catch the Yankees game: my aunts Barbara and Pat, my uncle Dennis, my sister. We held a very different kind of pow-wow from the week before as we cooked dinner. We sipped gin and tonics, wine and beer and teased each other in the way that families so often do (and that my family does so very well).

When we finally sat down to burgers, salt potatoes (low sodium variety, we joked, as we’d prepared some sans-salt for my Grandmother) I noticed Pat holding her hand out to me. “Salt? Pepper? What do you want?” I asked.

“Your hand,” she said with a smile.

“Oh!” I blushed and gave it to her. We said Grace, and then we toasted each other, making certain to clink every glass.

As we ate, my aunts, uncle and father told stories of their childhood. I love when they do this. Their eyes light up and they all get very giggly (perhaps it’s the wine), and the way my father laughs, slapping his knee, just melts my little-girl heart.

“Do you remember the blackbird?” Dennis asked as we passed around the platters.

I cut into a bit of lettuce and looked at him inquisitively.

“Details, Dennis. Details,” Barbara implored.

“Well Vincent once brought a dead blackbird in from outside and put it in a bowl. He was going to eat it!”

“WHAT?” I shrieked. “No way.”

“I swear,” Dennis said. “And mom got mad because it was a new bowl.”

We all turned to the head of the table to look at Grandma. She just rolled her eyes back in the way she always does, moving her entire head with her pupils.

“Well I don’t remember that,” Barbara said. “It must have happened before I arrived. I was adopted, you know.”

Pat giggled and my father laughed. I felt a pulse in my heart, powered by each corner of the room. “Gross,” I said. “Did he cook it first?”

“No, no!” my mother said, jumping in on the action to recite a nursery rhyme. “He thought it was supposed to be ‘four-and-twenty-blackbirds … baked in a pie.’”

We all shuddered and laughed some more.

Later in the evening, I decided to get to the bottom of things. I sent Vincent a text message: Do you remember ever eating a blackbird?

He sent one back: That sounds like something Dennis would do.

Ah-ha! I squealed and showed the telephone screen to everyone. We were standing around my Grandma’s bed, saying goodnight. As we laughed, I looked at everyone’s face. They all wore the same expression – relief, mixed with fatigue. We weren’t laughing because the thought of eating a blackbird was particularly funny, but because it felt so good to have a reason, a right to laugh. I let my eyes wander to the bed where Grandma sat, her shoulders slightly hunched. She looked tired too, but even from across the room, I could sense her heart getting stronger, filling up with love.

Blackbird Tart (adapted from two recipes from Gourmet and Bon Appétit)

This pie contains no fowl, but it is delicious nonetheless, and very good for a family dinner.

You may wish to make a pie crust from scratch for this recipe. I prefer no-fuss tart doughs, myself, so when pies are required of me, I typically purchase them from the store. That might be a naughty thing to admit, but there it is.

Anyway, you’ll need a bottom crust, and if you wish to use a traditional pie one, you’re on your own. If you choose to make a tart, then follow my advice and mix one stick of unsalted butter with 1/3 cup of granualted sugar, a pinch of kosher salt, 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1/4 teaspoon lemon extract and 1 1/4 cup of all-purpose flour. Stir with a rubber spatula until combined, then press into a tart pan with a removable bottom. Press the dough down evenly, covering both the bottom and sides of the pan. Using a small off-set spatula, scrape at the top of the crimped edges, cutting off the dough to an attractive, neat edge. Dock the dough with a fork and bake at 375 degrees for a little over 15 minutes.

Remove the shell from the oven, but keep it in the pan. Let it cool on a rack while you toss together 5 cups blackberries, 1 cup granulated sugar, 1/4 cup cornstarch, 2 tablespoons melted unsalted butter, 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, 2 tablespoons fresh orange juice and 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon. Pour gently into the tart shell and bake until berry filling is bubbling-hot and melty, about 30 minutes.

Let cool slightly then serve, heaped with ice cream, whipped cream and, if you wish, blackbirds.

There are, to my knowledge, two schools of thought in regards to the proper way to prepare beef carpaccio. The first involves wrapping the meat (I champion the tenderloin) in plastic wrap and freezing it until very firm. It’s then sliced thinly and pounded even more so with a mallet between layers of plastic wrap. You can certainly make carpaccio this way (Smarty-pants Alton Brown does, and at any rate, it’s largely considered to be the “proper” treatment), but I prefer it prepared as such:

Season one very good beef tenderloin with olive oil, salt, ground black pepper and fresh thyme. In this instance, it’s best to buy your meat from a reputable, local provider. Do note that unless you are preparing carpaccio for an army or small country, you probably won’t need an entire tenderloin. I suggest saving the majority of the meat for another use.

Get a sauté pan good and hot over the flame and sear the beef on all sides. A nice crust should form, but take care not to burn the meat or cook it through. Let it rest on a cutting board or plate until cool and then, using great care, slice it as thinly as you can possibly manage. A sharp knife and a steady hand are both helpful here.

You may wish to get fancy and further shape your beef – into triangles, perhaps – or you may simply lay it out on a serving platter.

At this point, I suggest you dress it with a bit more salt, pepper, lemon juice, extra virgin olive oil and curls of parmesan cheese. A green salad (arugula is pleasantly bitter) dressed with an acidic vinaigrette goes well too.

Because it was the dead of winter when we cooked, the roma tomatoes we received were less than desirable. In fact, they were largely inedible; “Winter Whites,” I believe my friend Jacques once called them. To render them palatable, my Chef Jared suggested we roast them slowly in the oven.

“You really want to dry them out,” he explained in his urgent, precise way of speaking. And, because he knew I needed to hear things twice: “You really need to dry them out.”

“Uh huh. Okay. Yup! Sure. Definitely!” I’d respond, half-listening and half-thinking about what I was going to have for lunch. He’d look at me critically, with a slight twinkle in his eye and I’d trot off to my station. Once I cored and halved all of the tomatoes, my wrist would stop moving. What happens now? Herbs? Oil? Temperature? I roasted tomatoes for so many events, I usually ignored his specific instructions and had to pop back over to his cutting board to ask whether garlic should be included this time and at what temperature they should be cooked. He always answered specifically and clearly: no sense in getting things wrong just because his greenest cook couldn’t listen.

We tweaked the recipe so many times I can’t possibly remember which variety was our favorite. Whether or not we picked the thyme before throwing it over the roma tomatoes or if we set the convection oven’s fan to low or high is, however, irrelevant.  What I loved about Jared’s and my roasted tomatoes was the way their firm, mealy flesh transformed into lush, intensely flavored treats. We typically layered them in sandwiches with eggplant, squash and ciabatta bread. But this week, as I passed a display of particularly nice-looking romas, I remembered my old job and saw no reason why they couldn’t be enjoyed in a spinach salad.

I tossed the tomatoes with oil, thyme (which Jared always used), oregano (which he never did) and salt and pepper. They baked slowly in the oven for hours, warming the kitchen ever so slightly and weaving a familiarly comforting scent all the way into the stairwell halfway around the house.

I ate one fresh from the oven and while it was very good indeed, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness and nostalgia for December’s Winter Whites. It wasn’t so much the tomato I missed as it was the best Chef I’d ever worked with.

Jared’s Tomatoes

Core and halve some roma tomatoes. Toss them with extra virgin olive oil (don’t you dare use canola), whatever herbs you desire (I like fresh thyme, garlic – Jared always had confit garlic lying around, though raw and crushed is fine – and basil) kosher salt and pepper. Arrange them on a cooling rack set over a sheet pan, cut-side down. Bake for 4 hours at 200 degrees. Remove the skin, or don’t, and use in sandwiches, salads, or as part of a tapas-style spread.

We’d be mid-discussion (I’d be expressing terror over blue whales and snakes) when we heard it: the microwave’s tell-tale pop-pop-poppity-pop. Seconds later, the scent of butter would wind its way up the staircase and we’d stop, mid-sentence, staring at each other with wide eyes and open mouths. Her lips would turn into a wicked grin as she held up her fingers: One, two, three!

“SAVE SOME FOR U-US!” we’d holler, dissolving into shrieks of laughter. Through our gasps, we could hear Mom and Dad groaning and chuckling to themselves.

And we wouldn’t forget, either. Early the next morning, we would leap out of bed and run to the kitchen to see: had they saved us any popcorn? Sometimes they had, but as we munched, we realized with disappointment that it was never quite as good the next day.

When I moved to New York City last year, I lived in a dreary little apartment without a microwave. As a self-righteous chef, I pretended not to mind much – though the truth was I really did miss making popcorn and snuggling into bed with a big bowl of it. Hit late one night with a craving and no way to zap up a snack, I did what any cook worth her salt would: I improvised. A quick scour of the grocery store left me clutching a bag of kernels, and when I got home I began heating up oil in a large stockpot used primarily for soups. I poured in the kernels, cracked open the lid and shook the pot back and forth a little. And there, in the smallest, loneliest apartment in Manhattan, without a microwave or a family to share it with, I made popcorn.

Nowadays, when my sister and I get together at the house we grew up in, we stay awake much later than our parents – though we still swap dating stories and laugh ourselves to sleep. I can’t wait to make her a batch of old-style popcorn; we might even save a few handfuls for Mom and Dad.

Popcorn

• 1 cup olive oil
• 2 branches rosemary
• 1/4 cup popcorn kernels
• Kosher salt

In a saucepan, submerge the rosemary in the oil and heat gently. Do not bring the oil to its smoke point (about 375 degrees) – it should be just pleasantly warm to the touch.

Remove from the flame and let cool. Store the oil in an air-tight bottle (you won’t need all of it for this recipe, and it’s excellent to use as a dip for bread).

In either a popcorn popper or a large stockpot, heat about 1 tablespoon of oil. Add the kernels and cover, leaving the top slightly askew. Shake the pot by its handles (use a towel or potholders!), or turn the crank as the kernels pop up. Kill the flame as soon as the popping slows to one kernel every 2 seconds. Pour into a bowl and top with salt and, if you desire, a splash more oil.