Nashville Food Blog

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Say what you will about fusion cooking, but the union of Jewish and Chinese cuisine is a match made in heaven in Soy Vay teriyaki sauce, which recently nudged its way into the Fox family repertoire. The kosher blend of preservative-free soy sauce, ginger, garlic, onions, soy and sesame oils and sesame seeds is pretty much everything I would put in a marinade if I happened to have all those ingredients on hand.

The label narrates the origins of the product--which is what results when a Chinese girl meets a Jewish boy and they compare family cooking habits. The label also recommends the Veri Veri Teriyaki sauce for fish, meat, poultry, tofu "and whatever else you may dream up."

After preparing Soy Vay salmon and chicken to rave reviews, Shiksa Fox pretty quickly dreamed up pork teriyaki to get rid of the frozen rolling pin of tenderloin at the back of the freezer. She was already eight hours into the marination before she began to worry about being struck by a thunderbolt.

In the end, the roasted pork--succulent, salty and nutty, with a dark caramelized finish--outweighed any non-Pareve guilt. I earned a "Mommy, you are a genius," and dinner went off without a smiting.

Sheila Lukins, one-time proprietor of the 165-square-foot-shop Manhattan takeout shop The Silver Palate and author of several cookbooks, has died at age 66 of brain cancer.

She and business partner Julie Rosso opened the shop in 1977, selling cocktail fare, salads, pastas, side dishes, cookies and mousses. They also catered, and made sauces and preserves. Their food incorporated a wider world of flavors, including Greek, northern Mediterranean, Provencal, and rustic Italian.
It wasn't just a store -- it was a force for cultural change, and soon the need for a cookbook was obvious.
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The Silver Palate Cookbook was published by Workman publishing in 1980. Many Americans discovered pesto, fresh mozzarella, balsamic vinegar and arugula in its pages. It's been referred to as the "Joy of Cooking for a new generation of American cooks."

Its best-known recipe is Chicken Marbella, a marinated combination of unlikeliest ingredients (prunes, olives, 1/4 cup of oregano, brown sugar) that cooked into an irresistibly garlicky, sweet-tangy caramelized sauce.
 

You people just don't want me to succeed, do you? Just as I began to steel myself to make it through another Meatless Monday, what should appear in my Google Reader but this meatsterpiece?

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You may remember Ben Frank, the Larry Flynt of his own food porn domain at the blog "I Ate That" from his beet battle with Crema's Rachel Lehman. Proving he's no one trick pony, Ben has offered his own Greek-inspired take on the classic cheeseburger and fries using gyro seasoning, Chèvre cheese and Parmesan roasted butternut squash fries.

Gallop your goat over here for the full skinny while I curl up with a nice wheatgrass smoothie for dinner. I think I can. I think I can.

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The Wall Street Journal recently posted a story entitled "Vegetable Gardens Help Morale Grow," detailing the benefits of employee agricultural projects at several companies. If you don't believe the author's thesis--i.e. that growing stuff makes people happy--ask my 4-year-old, who recently brought home two Japanese eggplants from his pre-school garden.

"WE BROUGHT YOU EGGPLANTS!" He screamed, brandishing two shiny bulbs--one white and one purple--along with his empty lunchbox and a ream of crayon-scribblings.

For two days, he chattered about eggplant--the archetypal yuck food of my own childhood. He detailed the planting of the garden outside his classroom this spring, the subsequent monitoring over the summer and the ultimate harvest, during which he and a beloved teacher "sneaked outside to pick it."

On the afternoon before I actually cooked the eggplants for dinner, he took umbrage at something I said--something as baleful as "Sweetheart, it's time for a nap"--and he took aim at me with his greatest threat: "If you make me rest, I will not share my eggplants with you!" (Entry No. 1 in my journal of "Things I Never Expected My Children to Say.")

In the end, he rested, I cooked, and later we all dined on homegrown eggplant. Shaved into thin coins with the mandoline, sauteed with garlic in olive oil and sprinkled with fresh grated Parmesan, the simple preparation earned the highest praise: "Mommy, you are a genius. I love eggplant." (Entry No. 2 in my journal of "Things I Never Expected My Children to Say.")

With harvest in full swing, who else is reaping the rewards of gardens at school or work? Specifically, how are you preparing your homegrown eggplants?

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My carb du jour is orzo. The little rice-shaped pellets recently stole my affections from couscous, which was my pet starch earlier this year. Like couscous, orzo has a form that belies its substance. Both foods masquerade as high-fiber whole grains--looking like cereal separated from chaff--but they're actually shaped from ground semolina. The pretense amuses me in the same way that savory ice cream tickles my funny bone.

Despite the titillating trompe-langue, I still haven't managed to prepare an ace orzo recipe. There's always the cold pasta-salad standby with diced vegetables, olive oil and vinegar. Orzo adds heft to soup. And hot with butter and salt is a sturdy alternative to humdrum noodles. But if someone has a recipe that exploits the looks-like-rice-but-feels-like-spaghetti textural play, I'd love to have it.

Ask a parent and you'll hear it: the week before school starts is positively lethal. The children are bored with the pool, the neighbors, the toys, the television. But they're anxious about school, too.

We found an art project we'd never heard of: a recipe for moss graffiti. Looks like graffiti, eventually, but it grows bigger and greener and leaves the world more beautiful.

nicked from environmentalgraffiti.com

a bull made from moss graffiti

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Moss Graffiti Mix
1 or 2 clumps of moss
2 cups buttermilk or plain yogurt
2 cups water or beer
1/2 teaspoon sugar
Corn syrup, optional
Wash the moss well to remove all the dirt from its roots. Combine the moss, buttermilk, water and sugar in a blender and puree. If the mixture seems like it will drip from a paintbrush, add enough corn syrup to thicken it to a paint consistency. Apply it to a brick or other wall. Check back weekly to spray the design with water (when it's hot and dry) or apply more moss paint.

We made a batch and painted a bricko block wall with it. If I were to make it again, I'd use half as much beer. That way, it will be thick enough that we won't have to add corn syrup.

One afternoon down, three to go.

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Following up on an earlier Bites thread that may as well have been titled "What Good is a Banana Pepper, Anyway?" I have an answer.

The solitary plant that yielded a lone comma-shaped fruit a few weeks back recently rained down peppers. The expression "coals to Newcastle" came to mind, as did my father's saying: "The bad news is it tastes like shit, but the good news is there's enough for tomorrow."

Necessity being the mother of invention--and my necessity was to feed four adults with a bunch of near-their-sell-by-date ingredients and a half-dozen banana peppers that were so big they reminded me of the Gilligan's Island episode when they grow the super-sized radioactive carrots--I came up with this extremely precise recipe:

Mix some cream cheese with some feta and some bacon crumbles. Cut tops off peppers and extract seeds. Somehow or other, jam cream cheese-feta-bacon mixture into peppers. (Do not let guests see you do this--it's not pretty.) Place peppers in greased baking dish and cook at 350 degrees for about 40 minutes.

The good news is it was fantastic, the bad news is I'm out of peppers. Hint, hint.

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Scene intern Caroline Hallemann contributed this post.

Do you yearn for eggnog ice cream long after yuletide? Reminisce about Ben & Jerry's long-gone Tennessee Mud? Want to celebrate the harvest with ice cream loaded with fruit from your own orchard?

Mike Duguay of Mike's Ice Cream (the creamery that supplies the decadent frozen wares at Sip Cafe in East Nashville and Mike's Ice Cream Fountain downtown) can make these and other dairy dreams come true with his customizable ice cream catering. The minimum order is five gallons, which can be scooped into pint and quart containers if requested. Prices range from $100 to $300 for the minimum, depending on ingredients and the time required to satisfy your ice cream whim.

It's every kid's fantasy job to invent ice cream flavors--Bites readers, indulge your inner child. What flavor would you have Mike churn up?

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Former Metro councilman Jeff Ockerman hit the big time when his recipe for scallop ceviche won the Chairman's Challenge recipe contest hosted by Food Network magazine.

According to Food Network editors, "We were swimming in seafood recipes after we announced that the secret ingredient for our February/March 2009 contest was citrus. We got 20 entries for orange salmon alone! But only one dish had judges talking Iron Chef: Jeff Ockerman's scallop ceviche."

Director of Health Planning for the State of Tennessee and an adjunct professor of law at Vanderbilt University, Ockerman got the nudge to enter the contest from his 83-year old mother.

"She handed me this magazine in mid-March after I drove her and my father back home from a Florida vacation, saying 'Here, this might interest you,' " Ockerman says. "Even though I decided on the recipe quickly, I was fairly analytical. I thought of three criteria that I'd use if I were a judge: When would the winning recipe likely be printed? What's an unusual dish that's easy to make? What unexpected ingredient would make the judges notice this recipe?

"The idea of a ceviche just popped into my head; it's an interesting-sounding dish and it's very easy--mainly chopping vegetables. I had some candied citrus peel in the fridge that I'd made earlier, and I thought putting something usually used for jams and baking in a scallops-vegetable dish would attract the judges' eyes. And because the lime juice makes it so acidic, I added the citrus syrup."

The complete recipe is posted after the jump.

I vaguely remember in the early 80s eating a powder-dusted novelty snack called bacon-and-eggs popcorn. It was OK. Not as good as the sour-cream-and-onion variety, but still amusing and salty and went great with Molly Ringwald movies.

After tasting Loveless Cafe's recently debuted Piggy Popcorn, a salty-sweet orgy of popcorn, caramel and bacon, all I can say is the person who spray-painted the yellow coating of flavor particles onto that breakfast-flavored movie snack from my tween years should be ashamed. Very, very ashamed. Piggy Popcorn makes it taste like packing material by comparison.

Popped in bacon grease and tossed in caramel sauce and chewy nibs of thick bacon, Piggy Popcorn is to Cracker Jack what filet mignon is to the gray bits of hamburger on a frozen school pizza. Each perfectly puffed kernel of Piggy Popcorn yields an airy crunch, broken softly by a molar-bonding layer of caramel or rebounded by a leathery tag of Loveless' hickory-smoked country-cured bacon.

Loveless staffer Colleen Phelan gets the recipe credit for Piggy Popcorn, which retails for $6.95 per seven ounces at Loveless Cafe or the online store.

Say what you will about Loveless biscuits--some say they're the best, while others disagree. I could argue both sides. But if there's a better bacon-caramel popcorn around, I'd like to taste it. No, seriously, I'd like to taste it. Please send it to 210 12th Ave. S., Nashville, TN 37203.

In the culinary equivalent of putting the French pronunciation on Target to yield "tarzhay" or J.C. Penney "Jacques Penné," the blog Fancy Fast Food turns fast food into meals that look better than they taste, for sure.

For instance, in an effort that will bring tears to the eyes of food stylists
Tacobellini reconfigure a Burrito Supreme and a beef taco into something that looks like tortellini in sauce. It's a testimony to the transformative power of food styling.

Other fast food makeovers include KFC into chicken chowder and White Castle into tapas de Castillo Blanco. Hey, don't laugh--I compiled an entire cookbook of these in 2005.

For you budding artists and food stylists seeking a unique medium, here are directions from the site for submitting your own extreme haute viandes du junque.

Up for the challenge? Submit your Fancy Fast Food culinary masterpieces to fancyfastfood[at]gmail.com. Remember the rules: no additional ingredients are allowed other than a simple garnish (which won't necessarily be eaten anyway, [i.e. parsley]), and no Photoshopping other than minor adjustments in sharpness or color correction. Please submit a "before shot" and photos of the makeover process as well.

The weather gods smiled upon the July Fourth crowd on Whitland Avenue, especially upon Nancuy Lipsitz, who entered an impeccably zesty lemon cake in the annual potluck contest. Her citrus confection, pictured above, piqued the judges' appetite and curiosity: How did that cake keep its pristine frosted integrity in the sweltering height of summer?

Indeed, on an unseasonably temperate day, Lipsitz's cake kept cool, with two layers of sponge that had just enough sturdy crumb to contrast with the layer of silky lemon curd and creamy whipped frosting. Tasting that balanced beauty of sweet and sour was like taking a swig of icy lemonade after so many sips of tepid soup.

Even judges Dan and Ellen Einstein from Sweet 16th: A Bakery in East Nashville were wowed by its calm cool, leading our potluck judiciary, including Elaine Wood and Nicki Pendleton Wood, to award Lipsitz the red ribbon. (First place went to Angela Sandoval's understated yet seductive offering of warm Jack Daniels candied apples, which were surprisingly delicious and which--I'm not sure--I might have caught Nicki daubing behind her ears.)

Other awards of the day went to Susan Trotman--whose blue cheese-bacon-tomato-basil tart tied for first with her own Parmesan-bacon-tomato-basil tart--and Cathy Brown, who put forward an oddly appealing broccoli salad with yellow raisins and sunflower seeds.

Out of 23 dishes this year, only one black-bean salad landed on the judges' table. Between that and the weather, it was a banner year for the Whitland crowd.

On the occasion of the Nashville Scene twentieth anniversary party, our big swingin' marketing department (or someone equally ossum) landed us a cocktail custom-crafted for the occasion, The Cover Story.

It was the first party I've attended with its own signature drink, since I'm old school. (And I love the way that adding "school" to "old" makes me seem so much younger.)

Back in the day (by which I mean 20 years ago), you signaled your sophistication by drinking California wine, or better yet, Spanish or Italian wine, instead of Singapore Slings or keg beer. Signature cocktails are a trend I'm totally down with, except that I hate to end a sentence with a preposition.

There were even little recipe cards. Thanks, marketing and Big Mike.

Cover Story
1 1/2 ounces Finlandia Tangerine Fusion
Splash of good quality orange juice
Cranberry juice
Stir the mixture with ice. Strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a wedge of grapefruit.

After downing 138 ounces of fresh carrot-beet-ginger-lemon juice, a girl starts to think of ways to mix things up a little. After all, the Carrot Zinger Orangification Journey (i.e. my quest to drink enough of Fresh Blends' so-called Carrot Zingers to turn myself orange) does not preclude other beverages, such as, say, gin.

So I called upon the team at The Patterson House to see what they would do to goose the wholesome medley. (These guys made a cocktail of bacon, for crissakes--surely they can pimp some carrot juice with a little hooch.)

Indeed the 100-proof team at the speakeasy on Division Street responded with this formula:

2 oz. light rum
1 oz. carrot juice
1 oz. ginger syrup
1 oz. lime juice
1 oz. beet juice

I haven't tried it yet--I'm saving it for my weekend CZ dose--but I'm pretty sure it needs a sassy name to finish it off. And possibly some bacon.

What can we call this beverage?

Of course, the main purpose of this posting is to use the above headline, and for that I almost apologize. Still, I recently pulled my mandoline out from behind the waffle iron and ice cream maker--I don't know how it got lost in the cabinet-cave of neglected wedding gift appliances--and sliced up some cucumbers. It took about .25 seconds to shave the cuke down to a nub--approximately the same amount of time it took Google to search the pun "Mandoline Reign," which, yes, has been used, and usually in reference to something Ron Popeil made.

I added some olive oil, apple cider vinegar and kosher salt to the cucumber disks, and voilà: a salad to make my family utter the blessed words "Mommy, you are a genius."

Something about slicing things really thin makes them great. I have this same epiphany every time I come across a salad of thinly shaved apples and fennel or a pile of paper-thin pickled ginger. Or potatoes chips.

In fact, after the cucumber triumph, I mandolined some red potatoes that I had on hand and tried to deep-fry them. This did not work. They sizzled for, like, eight minutes in peanut oil (Paula Deen recommends two to three minutes for homemade potato chips) and were still flaccid. I researched the matter and learned that red potatoes are too sugary to deep fry with success. So I'll stick with sweet potatoes, which work like a charm. Huh?

In any case, what are some other good uses for a mandoline?

I recently indulged in a homemade banana pudding that might have spoiled me for any version of the Nilla wafer confection made with a Jell-O brand instant product. A sultry marriage of rich, satiny homemade custard, frothy whipped cream and crisp cookies kissed with edges of perfect sogginess...ah, I could wax on about the sublime texture of that dessert.

But what really intrigued me was its name: Eloise's Simply Delicious Lyman's Favorite Banana Pudding.

The grandmother of a lifelong friend, Eloise is responsible for many of my happiest taste memories--from banana pudding to pea soup--all of which share the prefix "Eloise's Simply Delicious."

After realizing that she often discovered recipes, tested and perfected them and lent them out, never receiving credit for her formulas, Eloise began to brand them. Hence Eloise's Simply Delicious Lyman's Favorite Banana Pudding, created for her beloved husband, Lyman.

It's unclear whether Eloise has an alternate recipe for a Simply Delicious banana pudding that was not Lyman's Favorite (Eloise's Simply Delicious Lyman's Second-Favorite Banana Pudding?), but, knowing Eloise, if she did have multiple recipes, none of them called for instant pudding. Eloise's Simply Delicious is a very different thing from "simple."

The recipe for Eloise's Simply Delicious Lyman's Banana Pudding is after the jump.

My balcony garden is coming along swimmingly. All the plants are growing and prospering--though some kind of creature does seem to be nibbling at my sweet basil. And I've already used almost every herb in the bunch--oregano with roast chicken and potatoes, basil on pasta dishes, dill in chicken salad and scrambled eggs, Thai basil in stir-fry, mint in beverages and rosemary in flatbread. Unfortunately there is one outlier: a beautiful little sage plant that has been summarily ignored.

I can think of plenty of cold-weather dishes that make ample use of this fragrant friend, but am striking out when it comes to spring cooking.

Anyone have any ideas for light seasonal dishes? What herbs are being ignored in your home gardens?

In honor of Mother's Day, the folks over at Gaylord Opryland Resort & Convention Center sent over some recipes and tips for treating Mom on her special day.

Forrest Parker, executive chef at Cascades Seafood Restaurant and Wasabi's, forwarded a recipe for crab cakes that looks delicious, and chef Seth Kondor of the Old Hickory Steakhouse offered a recipe for stuffed pork chops. (Both recipes are available after the jump.)

In my house, where the majority of the residents can't reach the drawer with the pancake spatula, these celebratory meal plans are still a few years off.

But Laurie Potts at the Wildhorse Saloon hit on one of my favorite treats, which is so simple even my tiny brood could indulge me with it.

"My ideal Mother's Day breakfast would be delicious muesli served in a crystal goblet!" Potts said. Of course, I'll be happy when my kids can pour some cereal in a bowl for me, but here's Potts' recipe for muesli--something to aspire too:

Tennessee's Mother's Day Muesli
Dry oatmeal
Cantaloupe small dice
Toasted pecans
Dried mixed berries
Dried peaches
Strawberries
Vanilla bean yogurt
Fresh chocolate mint leaves

Make a layer with each item and repeat three times.

It was either the Lee Brothers or Paula Deen who said it best: Red velvet has always seemed to me to be a name in search of  a flavor.

I've read a lot of cookbooks, and as best I can tell, Red Velvet originated as a way to dress up a cake with no other flavoring than a spoonful of cocoa. The originals used a "poor man's buttercream" (flour and milk cooked to a sauce consistency then whipped with margarine) while a cream cheese frosting is the usual topping now. To me, that's not a flavor profile.

These Red Velvet Cake balls were as close to good as it gets for me. The cook combined cake with frosting, then dipped them into more frosting. A few included coconut, which was a good idea. A little orange zest would have been good, too.

Still, I don't get the appeal of Red Velvet Cake. If it were white cake, or yellow cake, would people get worked up about it?

As I've mentioned, I am the proud owner of Mark Bittman's book Food Matters. It's full of simple, fresh, healthy recipes and it enlightened me on the joys of no-knead bread. That recipe is really great (I have a loaf on the counter as we speak) but requires foresight in the form of 12 to 24 hours of rising time for the dough.

This leads me to my most recent obsession from Bittman's book: whole grain flatbread (also discussed in his New York Times Minimalist column a couple weeks ago). The whole process takes about 40 minutes, perfect for those days when you have no bread in the house or want a quick, cheap dinner. And all the recipe requires is whole wheat flour, salt, olive oil and an oven-proof skillet--things I always have around.

You can top it like a pizza or liven up the dough and have it with a salad or cold toppings (my future plans include lemon-herb ricotta and prosciutto). I personally think that starting the pan with fresh herbs (I used rosemary and oregano the other day) and half a sliced onion leads to the most exciting result. The onions get sweet and the bits closest to the pan brown to the most intense, delicious state. I topped this finished version with some sliced cherry tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, pine nuts and fresh Parmesan, threw it under the broiler for about three minutes and it was out of this world. (I also experimented with a couple whole garlic cloves in the dough--it created these amazing, intense pockets of roasted garlic. Not for the faint of heart.) The olive oil is really the key ingredient--it creates a crunchy, flavorful crust that had my man exclaiming, "You made this?!"

Here is a video of Bittman making the plain version and one with cauliflower and curry.

Yesterday, I was grabbing my wallet and keys, about to head down to Five Points to grab some lunch when, all of a sudden, it started to rain. Now, my man likes to joke that I'm like a cat in my pathological desire to avoid getting wet in the rain. But that's not exactly true, I love rainy days...when I'm inside.

Immediately my mind starts to work. Is there anything in my kitchen that I can eat that doesn't require real cooking? I have no fresh produce and no bread. I also have no leftovers in my fridge. I don't even have anything edible in my freezer (except vodka and gelato). What I do have is one lemon, one lime and whatever is in my cupboards.

So, I grab some peanut butter, some nam pla, some chili, some sugar and that lone lime and throw together a quick peanut sauce. I toss it with some chewy rice noodles that I boiled for about 5 minutes and top with a handful of roasted peanuts. The room temperature salad was tasty and quick. I was pretty darn proud of myself.

How about you? Any pantry lunches you often turn to?

Nicki Wood

I've been making it for dinner and for parties for about 15 years. This particular batch we took to our neighbor's birthday potluck, which, since we live in a neighborhood of communal child raising, was like a family affair. So everyone's seen the F-V B C Slaw a couple of times, but they still eat it as if it were the revelation it was the first time.

When you're asked to bring a dish to potluck, do you try something new, work from a repertoire of safe bets, buy something, or bring the same thing every time?

With 650 calories, 13 grams of fat and more sugar than I like to ingest in a day, the Cobblestone at Panera is exactly the kind of food I'd like never to see again. And yet, I find myself rerouting my trip to work so I can pass by the mega-bakery just to pick one up.

The Cobblestone isn't actually a muffin, though it's shaped like one. It's a muffin in sweet-roll clothing. Think of sweet bolls of cotton stuck together with a cinnamon-spice glaze then baked until the top scabs up like over-baked apple pie filling. Try to pick a raisin or apple chunk from the crisp, sugary muffin top, and a bite-size hunk of sweet dough pops cleanly out--a delicious fission of a doughy, sticky atom.

While I usually avoid fruit-raisin things in favor of the chocolate-coconut flavor axis, there's something about the Cobblestone that transcends my normal appetite. I finally figured out what it is: It reminds me of my grandmother's Monkey Bread.

If memory serves, Meme used to cut up disks of ready-to-bake biscuits--the kind that POP! open when you push the side of the canister with a spoon--and reassemble them into a wreath of biscuit hunks. Then she'd glaze the whole thing with a syrup of sugar, cinnamon and maybe raisins or fruit zest, and bake.

Rule No. 1 of Monkey Bread is you never cut Monkey Bread with a knife. You pull it apart, hunk by hunk, which means there is no such thing as a finite slice. You just work your way around the doughy ring, until eventually you get a clean break that leaves the cake looking tidy. This, of course, never happens, so you ultimately eat the whole thing, which is surely at least 650 calories. Regardless, it's the kind of food that's fun to make and perfect for putting in the center of the table for a long, lazy breakfast.

I don't remember the specific formula for Monkey Bread, and sadly, my grandmother isn't around to ask any more. Does anyone have a recipe they could share?

My favorite (non-alcoholic) drinks are flavorful, low-calorie (I prefer to eat mine) and all natural. This makes me an iced coffee/iced tea fiend--it's amazing how a teaspoon of sugar and a splash of milk can make the former taste like a decadent treat.

Today I want to talk about iced tea. Most of the more interesting commercial varieties have a significant dose of sugar (though I will give a shout-out to Honest Tea's kick-ass Moroccan Mint, sweetened with honey and clocking in at 18 calories per serving) or fake sugar and are pretty expensive, so I've started experimenting with brewing my own. (FYI: The best locally brewed iced tea in town, by a mile, is at Bongo East.)

A couple weeks ago I used some leftover ingredients from Thai cooking to craft a basil-key lime version that I liked quite a bit (even if my man insisted that it was "too basily"). And over the last week I have fallen in love with a super-simple lemon-ginger tea that manages to taste vibrant and sweet with no added sugar (though a bit of honey would probably be pretty good). It has also been a great vehicle for using up a huge box of Lipton decaf that has been gathering dust in my pantry for too long.

Anyone else have any interesting iced tea suggestions?

My recipe is after the jump.

I'm on a mission to become a serious home cook. Over the last couple years I've gone from stir-fry, salads and lasagna to whole lamb shoulders, homemade meatballs and a recently perfected food processor som tom while also transitioning into making many simple things I used to buy in--tomato sauce, salad dressing, hummus--from scratch.

Now I'm looking to take things even further: Yesterday I baked my first loaf of bread. I used a no-knead, whole grain recipe from Mark Bittman's new book Food Matters, so it wasn't anything too complex, but it still made me feel accomplished, wholesome and very happy. For lunch, I slathered a couple still-warm slices in a simple mixture of avocado, lemon and salt.

I know Claudia makes her own pasta (something I'm hoping to try someday), but what are some other from-scratch frontiers? Mayonnaise (or aioli)? Ricotta? Jam? Pickles? Corned beef? Puff pastry? Granola? Beer?

Having arrived at my mid-twenties--and recently purchased my very first food processor--I'm at the point in my cooking career where I've gone from throwing a bunch of stuff in a pan and serving it over pasta to more ambitious kitchen efforts.

This weekend, for Valentine's Day, I roasted a shoulder of lamb. Now, that might sound like a challenge, but I actually used a Jamie Oliver preparation and it was one of the easiest recipes ever--you don't even have to chop or peel anything. All you have to do is surround the lamb with some whole sprigs of rosemary and some unpeeled garlic cloves, give it the ol' EVOO-salt-and-pepper treatment, then set it and forget it. For four hours.

(The biggest challenge might have been getting the cut at Whole Foods. At the meat counter they had "shoulder roasts" that had been tied and de-boned--I had to ask for the bone-in shoulder special and was fortunate that they had one lying around. Next time I'll call ahead.)

After an afternoon of filling my apartment with the most astounding smells, the lamb emerged, fork-tender and covered with a scrumptious, crispy bark. It was really, truly a party-down culinary triumph. I danced a little. Again. Then I served my lamb with mashed potatoes, some Greek yogurt and a simple green salad. True love indeed.

I jumped the gun on my Valentine's Day plans and roasted a chicken last night. (I'm now thinking of trying out Jamie Oliver's roasted shoulder of lamb on the big day).

Growing up in Jewish household that religiously (ha!) celebrated Friday night shabbos dinner, I have my fair share of experience with roast chicken. My father was a master with poultry--whether it was perfect turkey London broil from a kosher butcher in Northeast Philly, or one of a large stable of delectable chicken recipes. The two roast chickens I remember most dearly are a honey-curry version and the unbeatable cinnamon one.

In recent years, I've tried a couple other recipes--most notably, Simon Hopkinson's from Roast Chicken and Other Stories, which involves slathering the bird in a borderline disturbing swath of butter and finishing it with lemon and herbs--but none comes close to my father's.

Now, I'm sure nostalgia plays a part in my allegiance--I really can't describe the magic intermingling of garlic and cinnamon and how it makes my whole apartment smell like home--but outsiders have been equally impressed. Especially when they take a bite with the pan onions that have been caramelized in chicken fat and garlic.

Please feel free to share your favorite roast chicken. My recipe (top secret!) is after the jump.

It's a mother's nightmare: the all-call from the PTO asking everyone to please bring an international dish to share with the school's food fair. Suddenly I need a recipe for something with global flair, that's cheap and easy to prepare in massive quantities.

Is mac-and-cheese international? Does DiGiorno count? California Pizza Kitchen?

Help me, Bites. You're my only hope. Save me from embarrassing myself (and my child--he'll be mortified by me soon enough) with a tub of Prego-dressed noodles or a clutch of HobNobs from the new Publix.

Whoever supplies the winning recipe will have my undying gratitude.

A few weeks ago, Scene book editor Margaret Renkl taught me how to bake a pumpkin pie. (Here's a hint: It involves store-bought crust and Joy of Cooking.) Freed from the shackles of homemade pie crust, I'm finally hooked on baking. All pie, all the time. I baked all my leftover Halloween decorations. (Upon realizing that he was devouring his very own pumpkin, my 3-year-old reacted as if I'd told him we was eating his hermit crab.) When I ran out of soggy jack-o-lanterns, I turned to sweet potatoes. 

With T minus 48 hours until Thanksgiving, I've still got a little of the baking bug, but my family is pumpkined and yammed out. What other autumnal fruits or veggies--mixed with the usual medium of evaporated milk, eggs and cinnamon and topped with whipped cream--make for a good Thanksgiving pie? Extra points for pies that don't turn out orange. 

Marshmallow, it is generally held, is nature's perfect food. I know, I know. There's also chocolate PLUS marshmallow—that's a gimme. But on its own, the marshmallow is the pinnacle of culinary achievement. I have this on the authority of a certain Fluffernutter.

It has always grieved me, as editor of several kosher cookbooks, that kosher-kitchen cooks could not enjoy marshmallows. But that has changed, friends—and now, because of Elyon Marshmallows, sold at Whole Foods, we can all join as one in the sunny, friendly confines of marshmallow love.

Just in time for marshmallow season! Roasting marshmallows on the fire. Marshmallows for the holiday sweet potato bake. In ambrosia, Five-Cup Salad, Mississippi Mud Cake. Puffy, sugary bliss.

Kosher 'shmallows have a different, less gluey, softer, more sugary texture than nationally marketed marshmallows. They're like a—can I say it without a shiver of delight?—candy to be popped into the mouth, one delightful morsel at a time. It truly is a new day of inclusion in the republic.

And that's only part of the good news. Elyon also makes kosher gelatin—both regular and sugar-free. Southern sideboards everywhere give thanks. And sticky-fingered hostesses everywhere may start offering moist towelettes.