Snack Time: Ketchup on Salt and Vinegar Chips

Step 1: Rip open a bag of kettle-cooked salt and vinegar chips. My favorite brand is Kettle's 40% reduced-fat because they seem to have more salt and vinegar flavor.

Step 2: Acquire good ketchup. I eschew Heinz in favor of Hunt's because Heinz uses high-fructose corn syrup.

Step 3: Pour chips into a bowl and drizzle with ketchup.

Step 4: Enjoy the most savory flavor extravaganza your taste buds have ever experienced. If you happen to be like me, a little saltiness is never enough. The tangy-sweet ketchup takes the S&V chips to a whole different level—one that is certain satisfy any salty-crunchy cravings you have in the wee hours of the morning. Or, you know, at three in the afternoon.


Bon saveur!

The Sunny-Side-Up Egg: A Lesson in Patience

A sunny-side-up egg is the highly sought after prize of patience. I believe in you.

You need:

1 egg (I splurge on cage-free)

a pat of butter, a tbsp of oil OR bacon fat

patience, young grasshopper

How To:

1) Heat your choice of fat in a small skillet over medium-low heat.

2) Be patient. 

3) Once the butter melts or the oil/fat starts to shimmer, crack your egg and gently place in the pan.

4) Lower the flame to low. Be patient.

5) Once the white looks set and opaque, spoon some of the hot fat over the yolk of the egg. This is called basting. The gentle heat will cook the top of the egg without turning it white like covering the pan would. 

6) Baste the yolk until the top of it feels hot to the touch. Yes, I touch my eggs. 

7) Turn off the heat and serve your egg in whatever way pleases you. 

The biggest mistake people make when cooking eggs (any way) is having the heat far too high for far too long. Being patient pays off--taste for yourself. 

Sunny egg with bacon, tomatoes and tomatillos. 

The Best Tuna Salad (Mayo-Free)

I love mayonnaise.

In elementary school, I dunked soggy fries in piles of the stuff. I'd snatch a handful of those little pasteurized packets at the end of the lunch line and squeeze it out on whatever I pleased later that day. I'm not ashamed (well, maybe a little ashamed) to admit that I have probably squeezed mayo right into my mouth. It just adds the perfect texture and flavor to things!

Tuna salad, while being pretty good when mayo is involved, is one of those rare items that I believe tastes way better without.

My tuna salad consists of the following: ripe tomatoes, cucumbers, parsley (and whatever other fresh herbs I have), green onions, salt and freshly cracked black pepper, a couple generous glugs of extra virgin olive oil, fresh lemon juice and topped with a fabulous hot sauce. 

Voila! Healthy, delicious, refreshing tuna salad. I prefer this tuna salad because I always feel good after eating it. There are way more veggies than in its mayo-laced counterpart (a smattering of celery doesn't count as a serving of vegetables) and I can taste each ingredient clearly. Lemon juice brightens, olive oil adds delicious fats and hot sauce kicks everything up a notch. 

Next time you've got a can of tuna and some veggies on hand, give this tuna salad a try. 

Hint: It's excellent piled on good crusty bread and topped with a slice of provolone. 

I always just devour it with a fork.

Breaking the Fast: Yogurt & Cherries

Breakfast is not only the most important meal of the day; in my opinion, it is definitely the most tasty and satisfying. While I ADORE eggs, bacon, sausage and all of those jazzy breakfast foods, some mornings I wake up with a hankering for lighter fare. Cue yogurt.

Yogurt is the ultimate feel-good, malleable breakfast base. This morning I topped it with freshly ground flax seed, fresh Bing cherries and a drizzle of honey from Honeyrun Farm, an company that produces delicious honey in Williamsport, OH.

Juicy.

Tangy, refreshing, perfectly sweet and surprisingly satisfying. Look for more Breaking the Fast posts in the future, many of which feature yogurt!

Cherry Clafouti

Wondering what to make when guests are expected in half an hour and all you've got is a bag of cherries in the fridge?
I, too, found myself in this predicament one beautiful summer evening. My brain flitted back to a post I'd seen on the legendary Ruth Reichl's blog about sour cherry clafoutis and I decided to find a recipe and whip up this classic French dessert. Clafoutis is traditionally made with sour cherries, but I made do with the sweet Bings I had on hand. I also had no cherry pitter, so rather than fumble around with some sort of inefficient homespun method of getting the stones out I just plopped those bad boys right in the batter, whole and beautiful. As a child I always thought it a good time to spit out the pits while enjoying cherries and my guests certainly enjoyed the dessert no less. It came out of the oven puffy and gorgeous and took its time deflating.

After the clafoutis cooled for 5 minutes I drizzled some raw Ohio honey on top in place of confectioner's sugar. I recommend the honey :)

Cherry Clafoutis

(recipe is modified from SAVEUR)

INGREDIENTS

1 tbsp. unsalted butter, softened
1 ¼ cups milk
6 tbsp. sugar
1 tbsp. vanilla extract
6 eggs
Kosher salt, to taste
¾ cup flour
3 cups black or sour cherries (if you're planning ahead of time, soak these in brandy overnight in the fridge...divine)
Confectioners' sugar, for dusting

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Heat oven to 425°. Grease a 9″ cast-iron skillet or baking dish with butter; set aside. Combine milk, sugar, vanilla, eggs, and salt in a bowl. Whisk until ingredients are mixed in together, then add flour and whip until smooth.

2. Pour batter into buttered skillet, then distribute cherries evenly over top. Bake until a skewer inserted into batter comes out clean and a golden brown crust has formed on top and bottom of clafoutis, about 30 minutes. Dust with confectioners' sugar or drizzle honey before serving. 

The batter is custardy, a little reminiscent of crepes, and the cherries burst open of their own accord, spilling ruby juice over the top of the clafoutis. It looked like a masterpiece but took almost no time. 

Happy eating!

Celina.

Ode to Radicchio

Tightly furled orb of

Rosy royal purple,

Your leaves not only cling to

One another, but they stretch across

The entire diameter

Of your round body,

Hugging the next leaf desperately,

With abandon,

Even slipping under others

so as to make removal difficult.

This is protection,

This is love,

This is relentless stubbornness;

Radicchio is stubbornness at its

Most

Beautiful.

As my fingers tug,

Your leaves tatter in protest

As if screaming,

“I do not want to leave!”

but if I tug and peel apart

torturously,

slowly

carefully, patiently,

I will discover the tenderness

In the center

And I will smile because

Your heart, O tenacious radicchio,

Is as tender and trusting

As a newborn baby.

This is what you’re hiding

This is why the adult leaves

Upon your body and

Still deep within layers

Expand and cling to every part,

Resisting exploration

In order to protect this:

Sweet lavender clamshell leaves,

Miniscule,

Loosely bundled into your core.

They are too trusting,

Too naïve,

And they fall apart in my hands,

Not yet old enough to be bitter

To be protective

To be stubborn

To be scared.

My First Visit to a Jamie Oliver Restaurant

Maison Publique
Location: Montreal, Quebec, Canada.

Yes, Canada.

Let me take a moment to express my absolute, undying, infinite love for Montreal. The city that I've visited so often as a child with my family but never really explored has been patient with me. This summer I finally carried myself and my notebooks and my adventurous taste buds to Montreal in search of inspiration. On my last day in the city, the sun found me alone on a bench in Old Montreal, near the historic Notre Dame church (more like cathedral!), head tilted back, mouth stretched into a peaceful smile, notebook open in front of me, and content with the decision that yes, I would have to come back and spend more than a week here and yes, I will definitely spend an entire year here, absorbing the French language, admiring the stunning architecture, reveling in this little slice of Europe obscurely lodged in North America. Montreal won me over, with its remarkably kind strangers, beautiful colloquial expressions, and serene mountains as a backdrop to the bustling city center.
On my last evening, after coffeeshop-hopping and walking a total of approximately 12 miles, I made my last stop at Maison Publique, one of Jamie Oliver's restaurants. I had stopped by two days prior with my cousin, only to find it closed, so of course I had to come back. I'm a stubborn girl, and in this case I'm glad I persisted. Jamie Oliver is my favorite celebrity chef, so admittedly I did go into this place with a bit of a bias, but I did attempt to keep a critical eye.

The best way to describe the ambience inside this old building is "elegantly masculine". Deer antlers mounted here and there are functional as paper towel holders (in the bathroom) or Canadian hockey-emblazoned-hat hangers (near the entrance). A few antiqued and tilted mirrors hang high on the walls and contribute the illusion of extra space to the cozy restaurant.
So this is how Jamie Oliver rolls... I think to myself as I admire the sturdy wood tables, the tin ceilings, the contrast of romantic and strikingly feminine lighting against the cool, dark color scheme. Ollie's got style.

I'm greeted with smiles (I wish everybody was as nice as these Canadians!) and I seat myself at a table against the wall. There's a game tonight and Maison Publique has one flat-screen TV above the bar so it's bustling inside, with all guests facing the TV. I chuckle to myself as I recall the hockey fans shouting their team's name in the metro station earlier, with an enthusiasm matching that of my fellow Ohioans about our Buckeyes.
My lovely server, Felix, is knowledgeable and discloses his distaste for marmite when I inquire about the oyster dish laced with the classic British condiment. While I take my time deciding, he suggests two wines and brings both bottle out to me with a tasting glass for each.

Notably, all wines on the menu are Canadian and these two were no exception. I preferred the Pinot Gris over the Rosè. I am no wine expert but as the drinking age in Canada is 19, I decided to begin my exploration of the wine world. This was an excellent start. The Pinot Gris: crisp, refreshing, fruity but not too sweet.

I decided on the Baked Oyster ($10), a mammoth thing under a thick layer of marmite mayonnaise, broiled, served in shell. 

The coarse salt base is a nice little touch.

The oyster itself is shucked from the shell, chopped into bite-size bits and its liquor reserved. Sautéed mushrooms and scallions are mixed with the oyster, placed back into the shell, topped with a mayonnaise made with marmite (a pungent British spread made from yeast extract) and the reserved oyster liquor, then it's all broiled and served piping hot. My first bite is hesitant, but satisfying; I detect a bit of tartness, then briny oyster flavor. The third bite reveals the familiar bite of green onions, mild but definitely present. The final verdict: delicious. Bold flavors but kept simple, not pretentious as one could get with such an impressive oyster. Tangy, salty-sweetness of the ocean...I could have done without the extra flavor of the scallions but I didn't mind it. 

My next choice is Felix's recommendation, the Maiale Tonnato ($14), a dish consisting of thinly sliced pork loin, tonnato sauce, shaved parmesan, and arugula. 

I really wanted to love this dish, but it just did not impress me. It was all richness, all animal fats and nothing to really cut it. The arugula added a nice peppery contrast, but not enough to really lift the dish. I had a grand total of four bites before I had to push it away, somehow stuffed to the brim and un-appetized by this combination of cold pork loin and rich tonnato (a sauce of pureed tuna, capers, mayonnaise, and anchovies). The parmesan was unnecessary; I would have preferred tangy summer tomatoes to counteract the heavy, salty sauce. 

Overall, I enjoyed my visit to Maison Publique. I would definitely come back to sample more of their rustic offerings, but perhaps choose some lighter fare. Twas an elegant ending to a fantastic day, and I hope to find myself here again around dinner time not as a visitor, but as a resident of this gorgeous city. 

Bacon

          She had a bacon sandwich this morning instead of getting to work on time. Extra crispy, on wheat toast, greasy silverware on a paper place mat in front of her and a steaming brown mug of generic coffee thawing out her right palm. She works at an upscale coffee shop but she drank that coffee anyway, and nodded a "yes please" to the kind waitress' coffee pot.
          She sat on her scarlet wool coat and tore a chunk out of the sandwich in a rather unladylike manner. Meat is not meant to be eaten delicately, she thought while chewing. Meat has been murdered; meat has been hacked out of the side of an animal; meat is red and bloody. Meat must be eaten in a carnal caveman fashion. Big bites, greasy fingertips, swigs of black coffee to pump the remnants of the previous day out of her bloodstream, to replace them with comforting caffeine.
          She is not a nice young lady. She growls. She is not cute. She sucks the grease off of her fingers. She is late and she doesn't even care.

To Eat on a Grey Winter Day

Eat grapefruit, that carnal pink fruit that one must rip apart in order to enjoy. Notice each juicy aril popping in your mouth; notice the slight bitterness left on your tongue that makes you appreciate the next sweet bite.

Eat a farm-fresh egg cooked simply, yolk runny, white just set. Stare into the unctuous sunshine upon your plate and imagine that the sun in the sky will take the yolk’s cue and be so bold tomorrow.

Nibble on herby olives, packed with rosemary and thyme and lemons and peppers. That little fruit has come a long way from being a hard, bitter thing hanging off of a silvery branch. Perhaps it has soaked in the Tuscan sun, or has drunk Greek rainwater. Perhaps this next one will implore you to close your eyes and travel to its origins.

Drink strong black coffee in a big mug for both of your hands to hold. No sugar, no cream, just deep topaz liquid sliding down your throat and warming your body. The farmers toiled in the heat to produce those beans, and the roaster kept a shrew eye upon them. That which you are drinking is the end product of life-long business, of historic origins thousands of years old. You are sipping time. It invigorates you.

On a grey winter day such as this, eat food guiltlessly, passionately, slowly to savor every layer of flavor. Eat juicy foods that muss up your shirt and stain your fingers, foods that burst between your teeth. Eat brightly colored foods so that the dreary air outside is counteracted by the joy you are relishing, spots of rainbow on your plate. Dare that grumpy winter to dampen your meal. Flaunt the foods you’ve found on a day that seems so devoid of life. Eat. Savor. Bon apetit! 

Gucci Accenti Perfumed Lotion, circa 1995

Why are old things the most beautiful?

     This pale apricot lotion soaks into my skin with its storied perfume, with its layers of wealth and memories. It contains qualities that I could never buy from Bath and Body Works. Those companies could never bottle a fragrance with components such as this: soft vintage feel, old lace, marble kitchen counters and leather chairs for my shoe buckles to persistently puncture; curling ribbons of salty snow-white cheese studded with black sesame seeds; tiny rooms indenting long echoing corridors, rooms lined with shelves of fine liquor or filled with classic furniture warmed once or twice by special guests or one curious niece; big dollar bills pressed into my hand by a doting aunt, along with this Gucci Accenti lotion several years ago. 

     It smells like childhood moments of delight and awe, of the reward for enduring ten hours in the car with siblings, of wonderment at the beauty within my aunt’s immense manor, of appreciation for her generosity. It smells like memories. It smells like elegance and adventures in New York City and the best hide and seek games ever. I spill some on my skin and massage it in so that I can smell like all of that, too. 

Why does this old lotion smell more beautiful than any other scent I've ever worn?

     I sniff the backs of my hands and relish eau du nostalgia.