Brown Butter Cardamom Sugar Cookies

This is my new favorite cookie recipe. I tried several recipes, but none of them had the texture + flavor combination I was looking for. So, when all else fails, make it up as you go. I think that life goes this way too. As Hugo is solidly in the toddler phase, in which he has what seem to be irrational preferences and dislikes foods he loved the day before, Ben and I have been improvising more. It is stressful and scary to improvise—moreso with children than recipes, admittedly—but sometimes it leads to new flavors and sounds and hopes and dreams. And, in the piles of broken hopes and the shattered glass of failed experiments, at least we have some delicious cookies to encourage us along the way.

3 1/2c. APF
1 t. baking powder
1 t. kosher salt
1 t. cardamom seeds, coarsely ground
2 sticks browned butter, cooled to room temp (or chilled if done ahead of time)
1 stick butter, at room temperature
1 c. granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1 t. bourbon (vanilla extract would do fine, but do not use imitation vanilla)

Optional: Cardamom Simple Syrup Glaze
1 c. granulated sugar
1 c. water
1 t. cardamom seeds, coarsely ground

Steps:
1 (do anywhere from 1h to 1day ahead of time): brown the butter: put two sticks of butter in a saucepan over medium heat, cooking until the butter is slightly browned (not black) and smells nutty. This process will take a bit of time; resist the urge to crank the heat; it increases the likelihood of burnt butter, which does not smell nearly as nice. Pour through some sort of filter (confession: I used our pour-over + a filter) and save.
2 - (optional) make cardamom simple syrup: bring to a boil the water, sugar, and cardamom seeds; let steep for at least 15 minutes before using (I reserve the rest of the syrup for italian sodas, which are lovely with this syrup).
2 - preheat oven to 325 (if the oven is not fully preheated, the bottoms of the cookies will brown faster than the rest of them or will even burn
3 - whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, and cardamom together
4 - cream brown butter, butter, and sugar together until light and fluffy
5 - add eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition
6 - add bourbon, mixing well after addition
7 - add dry ingredients and mix on low speed until just mixed (do not overmix!)
8 - wrap in parchment paper in a cylinder or square shape and place in the freezer for at least 2h.
9 - slice 1/8-1/4" cookies and bake in preheated oven
10 - (optional) brush with cardamom simple syrup

Enjoy!

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The World is Brand New

I think I knew you

Before time began

I wonder if you were here 

Watching and waiting

For just the right time

Knowing us better than we know ourselves.

You didn't fill a hole

Of something missing

But created a space

Stretching and breathing

Possibility into plausibility

   Hope into happy tears

   Fear into courage.

The world is brand new.

Dearest little Hugo,

We brought you home just before midnight on Christmas. There are some things you need to know about us and the world, but the most important thing you need to know about Mama and Papa is that our lives revolve around food. We'll teach you these things, slowly but surely, as you grow. This is pure joy for us, and you are pure gift.

What you need to know about feasting:

There are no half measures allowed. If you cannot bring yourself to feast properly, content yourself with a slice of bread, butter, and some radishes. If you feel the impulse to be miserly when showing love, force yourself to go to the store, buy the most expensive bottle of wine you will consent to buy, a loaf of baguette, some salami, and call a friend who will sit with you patiently until you find yourself again. Even when we are at our most awful, we are not meant to be alone. 

Speaking of which, feasting is never done alone. It is what connects us to each other, to the world, to the sinner-saints who have gone before, and to the Creator, who laughs with joy as we trip over ourselves attempting to be good or do life right. We were made for joy, made to tell stories and laugh, and to savor moments in time that exists in the veiled middle space between the absolute knowledge of Now and the ephemeral awareness of the Eternal.

Now, for some apologies:

- We will hold you while we feast, which means we will spill food on you. We may not notice this at first if we do. You will probably get dirty in the kitchen. A lot.

- Our kitchen sometimes gets very warm (which you do not like any more than being very cold); it will be worth it in the end, but you may have to endure some heat in the waiting spaces (it's a good life lesson).

- You will likely someday tire of your Papa and I saying dinner is at 6:30 but forgetting ourselves in the moment, sipping our martinis as 6:30 slips toward 7:30 and 7:30 to 8:00. (Last night, dinner was supposed to be at 5 but began at 7; for having a 3-day old baby at home, I felt like this was still a victory, but it was a victory in the same way raising a child or making a delightful feast or doing anything that reveals love for something other than oneself is a victory).

- Sometimes, our food won't taste good. It comes with the territory of trying new things. Sometimes, trying new things leads to disaster; sometimes it leads to new levels of awareness of life. One never knows which until one tries; the only guaranteed way to fail is to refuse to try something new. It also leads to a small life guided by Fear, which is terrible at making decisions, at loving others more than oneself, at generosity, and most disappointingly, at recognizing the gift of life and creation.

Late on Christmas night, we welcomed you home the only way we know how: by saying a blessing over you in every room of the house and toasting you with scotch. Yesterday, we celebrated your coming also the only way we know how - with making a Christmas feast for our families. We ate roasted goose, mashed potatoes, gravy, sautéed green beans, freshly baked bread (with cultured butter... no half measures for feasting), champagne to toast, and a 100-point Pinot Noir to sip. Family took turns doing dishes, helping in the kitchen, and staring at you. When dinner was finally ready, we lit beeswax candles, turned down the lights, and raised our glasses in your honor in prayer, in thanksgiving, in blessing, in the fullness that we didn't know was possible until you came.

I pretty much only paid attention to you and to dessert. 

For dessert, I made Buche de Noel. I forgot to make Swiss merengue the first time (leading to blowing through 1 dozen eggs instead of 1/2 dozen). At one point, I needed to have my feet up, so I sat on a barstool with my poor swollen feet on another barstool, watching the mixer as I tossed in cubes of butter for the Swiss buttercream. Sadly, the heat in the kitchen was too intense for the buttercream, so I managed to curdle it as I was attempting to beat it in preparation for putting on to the cake and didn't have sufficient time to exercise patience for it to come back together (next year will be better!). Over dinner, we told stories (mostly about your Mama's siblings while they were growing up) and watched the beeswax candles melt as you slept peacefully in your crib and then in your Papa's arms.

Our lives are forever changed, and you deepen our roots: re-discovering the joy of the Feast, the promise of new life, and remind us that every day, to an extent, is a new life, each drop of water a reminder of who and Whose we are, each feast a foretaste of the life to come.

May you be blessed with love, with peace, with hope, and with hunger that teaches you to long for the Feast of all creation.

Love,
Mama and Papa

Pregnant (17 Weeks) Feasting: Roasted Kabocha Squash, Homemade Pasta, and Beurre Monté

So... a lot has happened since I last hung out here. As much as has happened, though, things stay the same. Except for the baby on the way part, I suppose... which means things that normally sound awesome to me almost all the time (garlic, coffee, salad, sourdough bread) don't sound good or, worse (garlic), cannot be kept in the house with my sensitive stomach. BUT there are still things to eat, still feasts to happen (with a few sips of Ben's wine instead of half the bottle), and still adventures to have.

Tonight, I am feeling particularly good. My first inclination when I am feeling well is not to get ahead on prelim prep (which I should be doing), but rather, to cook. Tonight's menu: Roasted Kabocha Squash with Homemade Tagliatelle and Beurre Blanc. Who says feasting can't happen on Wednesday? Pretty much nobody. If they do, you might want to consider new friends.

I love kabocha squash. It is sweet, has great texture (i.e. not stringy), and requires only simple seasoning to make it show off.

I love homemade pasta. It is satisfying dough to make, and really doesn't require that much time considering the quality of the final product.

I love beurre monté. It is a simple sauce that is great for dishes that need only a little bit of richness to tip from "good" to "perfection."

I love wine. Though it's not part of my feasting right now, I already look forward to the nights that the baby magically decides to go to sleep at a decent hour, making dinner with Ben, and sharing a bottle of wine while the candles burn down, laughing about how horrible the next day will be because the baby will inevitably wake up earlier than we want him/her to the next day. It is not the practicality of the feast that draws me to it, but rather, its impracticality. Dreams of re-discovering myself and Ben in this new venture, of what is the same and what is changed, brings me joy. Joy need not mean that it is easy, smooth, convenient, or even happy. Joy comes in the moments of foolishness in which we forget ourselves for a moment and stop wishing to be someplace else and sit where we are, overcome by the gift that is life. We dream of teaching our child how to cook, how to tell the difference between marjoram and oregano, how to practice the feast in ways that will change as s/he grows. I think we will grow with him/her, becoming in ways that we hadn't imagined becoming, undoubtedly stretched and pulled, but raising a glass to that which is and that which is to come.

Roasted Kabocha Squash
Preheat oven to 400.
Kabocha Squash
Olive Oil
Salt
Pepper
Cut squash in half. Scoop out seeds (I rinsed and saved mine; I am hoping to plant them for a fall harvest; you can also clean them off, let them dry, and then season them as you would pumpkin seeds and roast them in the oven until golden brown).
Rub the inside of the squash with olive oil and sprinkle salt and grind pepper into cavity.
Roast cavity-side down until a fork easily pierces the outside flesh (it should feel similarly to a cooked sweet potato when done).

Homemade Egg Pasta
2 1/2 c. flour
2 eggs + 1 yolk (I reserve the leftover whites in a container in the refrigerator for future use... I am trying to learn how to make French macarons, so I have blown through quite a few egg whites; I have not yet been successful).

Place flour in bottom of mixer or on a wooden table. Make a well in the center of the flour. Break eggs into the well. If using a mixer, using the dough attachment, mix the dough slowly for a few minutes until incorporated and then increase the speed to medium until the dough looks smooth, elastic, and uniform. If making by hand, using a fork, whisk the egg yolks; once mixed, make slightly bigger circles to incorporate flour slowly (SLOWLY), pushing the flour up toward the eggs with your hand at various intervals to keep the egg from escaping the well. Once incorporated, knead the dough for 3-5 minutes or until it is smooth, elastic, and uniform. Let rest 20 minutes. After 20 minutes, roll the dough:

We are lucky to have an attachment for our mixer that rolls pasta. This takes considerably longer using other means. I would recommend finding a hand roller, as it will help make uniform pasta. I do not trust myself to roll the dough by hand; it is very difficult to make it thin enough and uniform enough to have a good end product. Gradually roll the dough. If using a Kitchen Aid or other dough-rolling attachment, start with the roller at the widest setting. Flatten dough to make it pass through the roller more easily. Run the dough through the roller at least twice on each setting. If the dough starts looking like cellulite (you'll know if you see it), it needs a little more flour. Dust (and I mean DUST - too much flour will mess with the texture) the dough before you put it through again. Proceed, running the dough through each setting twice until it is the desired thickness (I stop at Kitchen Aid setting 6; though this would not pass at Italian restaurants where they actually make their own pasta, it is a good balance between thin and workable). Sprinkle each side lightly with flour. Fold the dough in half a few times, cut into 1/4-1/2 inch strips. Unfold the dough and let it sit for a moment. Cut noodles to the desired length. (We never use the cutting attachment for our Kitchen Aid; it rarely cuts through the pasta, leading to frustration and fits of cursing. If you want to try them, email me, and I will send you mine.) Put the pasta in the freezer to dry for at least 30 minutes (freezers have more uniform moisture than outside environments, making it a bit easier to anticipate how quickly the pasta will dry). You can save leftover pasta, uncooked, in freezer bags.

Beurre Monté (don't make until right before serving: see below; it's #4 in the lineup)

2-3T Water, heated in pan
4T Butter, cut into little squares (I quarter the butter and then "slice" the quarters).
Salt, to taste.
Pepper, to taste.

Heat the water until bubbles form around the outside of the sauté pan. Once the bubbles have formed, start whisking and gradually add the butter, chunk by chunk. The idea is to emulsify the butter and water, forming a thick sauce. This requires patience, but once you've learned to do it, you will have in your arsenal a versatile and delicious sauce. I don't know that there is a remedy for when the butter fails to emulsify except for swearing and trying again. This is (part of) the reason why Ben and I buy butter 2lbs at a time.

To serve: 1) set very salty water to boil (it should taste like the sea); 2) peel the squash or scoop it out of its skin (peeling makes for a more attractive finished product, especially if you can't scoop out the whole squash in one go). 3) Cut the squash into 1/2 inch squares (alternatively, leave the squash halved and put the pasta in the cavity). 4) Make the beurre blanc; 5) Drop pasta into boiling water (it cooks for considerably less time than dried pasta; be sure to check it regularly, tasting it to see if it has achieved the right texture. It should be firm and a little chewy, but it should not get stuck in your teeth). Gently toss the pasta with the squash. Plate the pasta and squash; pour a little beurre blanc over the top.

Don't forget the wine!
Or the candles!
Or the company!

Celebrating the Only Way We Know How

It sounds rather melodramatic, but I wonder if we - as humans - go through the process of lots of little deaths throughout our lives. Each little death chisels us, fashions us, shapes us, creates something new out of the old. It is each little death that shapes who we are and how we are in the world. It is each little death that prepares the way for each breath of new life and each glimmer of hope. It is with each little death I realize the gift it is to be alive.

So we celebrate. We celebrate because there is much to be celebrated. As our fingers are pried away from the false securities to which we cling, away from our buffered selves, away from false pride, we celebrate whatever is coming; not because there is a guarantee it will be better, not because we have some sort of assurance that this will all pay off, but because we are declaring that it is all worth it, regardless.

We are foolish, and we are fools. This, I think, is what it means to be a person of faith.

We celebrate the only way we know how: with food and drink.

"Buy boutique tonic water tonight. We are celebrating."

Gin and Tonics a la Big Carroll (I think)
This recipe is (maybe wrongly, I'm not sure) credited to a man whom I never met. I have heard so many stories about him from his children and grandchildren that I can almost hear his belly laugh and, thanks to them, I have tried his recipe for a gin and tonic, over long conversations on a summer porch, with lazy dogs lying at my feet. Gin and tonics, for me, say "summer" as nothing else does. The ordering of ingredients is important.

Handful of Ice Cubes
2+oz gin (I prefer Tanqueray, but, as you wish)
tonic water (as expensive as you can manage)
lime wedge (use 1/4 of a lime; don't skimp!)

Place a handful of ice cubes in the bottom of a glass. Pour 2oz gin on top, followed by tonic water and squeeze and drop the 1/4 lime into the glass as well. Now, float a splash of gin on top. Drink without stirring. Better yet, find a friend with a good porch, show up with a bottle of gin, expensive tonic and limes, declaring that they have no other plans for the evening but to tell stories and fire up the grill.

Rest in Peace, Dear Friend.

On September 5, a great Sinner-Saint who has taught Ben and I much about love, theology, and cooking, and rendered us unable to separate the three, died. An Episcopalian priest and prolific writer, he wrote on parables, theology, church, and - most importantly to me - cooking. The Supper of the Lamb has saved Ben and my marriage countless times; it was Capon who reminded us that everything we receive in this world comes as gift:

"In a general way we concede that God made the world out of joy: He didn't need it; He just thought it was a good thing. But if you confine His activity in creation to the beginning only, you lose most of the joy in the subsequent shuffle of history. Sure, it was good back then, you say, but since then we've been eating leftovers. How much better a world it becomes when you see Him creating at all times and at every time; when you see the preserving of the old in being is just as much creation as the bringing of the new out of nothing. Each thing, at every moment, becomes the delight of HIs hand, the apple of His eye. The bloom of the yeast lies upon the grape skins year after year because he likes it; [it] is a dependable process because, every September, He says, That was nice, do it again," (The Supper of the Lamb, 85).

This one of my favorite quotes. I use it in many situations, but I especially need to remind myself of it when the shadows grow tall and faith grows thin. It has shaped me in ways of which I am still unsure. Capon has taught me the extravagance of the Feast and the extravagance of the Host, showering upon us things for which we would never have thought to ask in the midst of difficulties we doubt we'll survive.

I will confess it here: I don't think I've made a single recipe from the book. The recipe I have taken from it is far more powerful: it has been a recipe for living graciously and falling in love over and over again not because it is anything I am capable of doing on my own but because of the echoes of the Creator in creation: in its terrifying otherness and in participating in it, I learn who I am.

Capon has become a dear friend, whom I have never met, and is part of the cloud of witnesses that refuses to allow humanity's "no" to the beauty and extravagance of creation speak louder than the Creator's "yes."

I can't say that the world has lost someone great because great sinners are never, finally, lost; we share with them in Feast of the Prodigals, which beckons us all to its raucous celebration, as we raise a toast to the Prodigal God who is never quite what we expect.

A Perfect Omelette

This morning, I made a perfect omelette. It was fluffy and beautifully browned (some people don't think they should be browned at all, a la French omelettes, but I think they are fools) and had the perfect amount of cheese in it. To make a perfect omelette is a small thing. To marry the person who can appreciate it as much as you do is one of the greatest gifts.

It totally stinks that Ben is working this morning and won't be done working until 11pm because he's taking one for Team B-R and working more than anyone should.

It has never been the big things that teach us how to feast, and it is never the big things that teach us how to fall in love. Feasting, like falling in love, takes practice. Ben and I had no idea what we were doing when we started dating 15 years ago and weren't much farther along when we were married 9 years ago; we had no idea how to cook, no idea what spending half of our lives together would look like and no idea that it was actually all of the detours along the path that make the journey worth it.

We're still not really sure what we are doing, but we can make a mean omelette. Satis est.

Perfect Omelette for One:

2 eggs

2T milk

1/4c of whatever cheese you happen to have laying around

a pinch of salt

a pinch of pepper

freshly grated nutmeg if you dare

fresh herbs if they're around (skip the dried ones; they don't have enough time to meld in dishes that cook fast...)

Heat 1T butter in a cast-iron skillet over medium heat (assuming you have a gas stove... you can make a passable omelette without a gast stove and without a cast iron skillet, but it is difficult to achieve perfection). Whisk together the egg and milk using a circular motion (imagine the circle is vertical instead of horizontal; it will add more air to the mixture and improve the texture). Add the salt, pepper, and herbs. Pour the mixture into the hot skillet. Wait a few minutes until the outsides start to solidify. With a rubber spatula, push back the eggs closest to you and tip the pan toward you so that the un-done egg flows in. Do this once or twice. If your omelette starts to get too done on the bottom, turn down the heat. When there is no more liquid, put the cheese on top of the egg. Swoop the rubber spatula under half of the pan, gently folding the omelette over. Voila!

More importantly: To make a perfect omelette for two, double all of the ingredients and get a bigger pan. And make hollandaise sauce. And open a bottle of rose. 

Perfect Omelette for Two with Hollandaise:

For the Omelette:

4 eggs

1/4c milk

Skip the cheese for this one; the hollandaise will do.

1/2c. asparagus, quickly blanched (see below)

a pinch of salt

a pinch of pepper

Julia Child's Hollandaise from The French Chef Cookbook (As I was doing the link to Amazon, I noticed there are used ones for under $10. Buy it now; you won't regret it.)

3 egg yolks

1T lemon juice

1T water

1/4t salt

pinch of white pepper (we use whatever color we happen to have on-hand)

1T cold butter

1 1/2-2 sticks melted butter (if you are squeamish about using this much butter or if you have margarine in your fridge, skip the hollandaise altogether. Feasting is not for the faint of heart.)

Beat the egg yolks in the pan (before you turn on the heat) to stabilize them and prepare them for what is to come. When the color of the yolks starts to lighten, you know they are ready to be transcended into  perfection. Beat in the lemon juice, water, salt, and pepper; beat for a minute again. Add the tablespoon of cold butter to prevent the mixture from heating too quickly (which will scramble your eggs, which is a sign you need to start over. Having two dozen eggs on hand before you begin this process will help alleviate frustration and increase your bravery; it is worth a few more eggs in the compost to make perfect hollandaise). 

Place the saucepan over low (I mean it - LOW!) heat and stir the egg yolks with a wire whip at a moderate speed. Pick the pan up off the heat every now and again to slow the cooking process. If you see lumps forming, you can put the bottom of the pan in a bath of ice water, as Julia suggests, but I am too easily frustrated and get an immense amount of pleasure out of the theatrics of dumping a failed sauce in the compost and starting again. 

Know thyself and respond accordingly if the sauce starts to flop. For me, there is nothing quite like taking a pan of steaming flop and ceremoniously walking outside, opening the lid to the compost and, with a flick of the wrist, dumping the whole thing in. You have not failed it; it has failed you.

Back to the eggs. This is the version of the story where the eggs do not begin to scramble and you have a perfect sauce. Beat the eggs over LOW heat until you can see the bottom of the pan between strokes. When they coat a spoon dipped in the sauce, you are ready to start adding hte melted butter. Start adding the melted butter VERY SLOWLY, dribble by dribble, as you are emulsifying the eggs with the butter at this point in time. This takes patience and a steady hand. Do not give up. This sauce is completely worth it. The sauce will thicken to a heavy cream; when it does, it is stable enough for you to add the butter a little more quickly. Taste it to see if it needs anything. If not, pour it on top of your omelette, which your partner - by now - will have just completed.

DO NOT, however, dump the sauce into the compost if it does not emulsify properly. 

Should it happen that the egg yolks resist the butter (you will be able to tell because the fat will stay separate from the eggs and it will not thicken), you CAN fix this. Two sticks of butter is too much for even me to waste. Three egg yolks are negligible. To fix it, leave a little bit of the egg mixture in the bottom of your pan and pour the rest into whatever you are using to pour the butter in. Start whisking, adding the mixture back in slowly, dribble by dribble, once again. Breathe. Put it down and take a break if you must. Don't throw away two sticks of butter, for the love of all things holy.

For the Omelette:

Blanch the asparagus:

Set a pan of very salty water (it should taste akin to the ocean) on the stove to boil. When it is boiling, dump the asparagus you have cut into 1-inch segements in. They will turn bright green. Remove them after 30 seconds to one minute, depending on how crunchy you would like them to be. Set aside.

Follow the directions for the perfect omelette above, adding the asparagus when you would add the cheese and following the same process.

Cut the omelette in half and slide onto two plates. Pour a liberal amount of hollandaise over the omelettes and garnish with fresh herbs (chives or parsley are particularly delightful) if you have them. 

I love hollandaise so much that Ben has already started scheming of ways to pasteurize the egg yolks so that I do not have to give up hollandaise when I am pregnant (and no, I am not, should you be raising an eyebrow at this). 

Grilled Trout with Horseradish Cream... Lemon Curd for Dessert!

It has been a long time. I have eaten since we last spoke, but I haven't feasted much. I was starting to become scared Ben and I had forgotten. For all the candles and all the wine, neither loosened enough of the oh-my-God-how-are-we-ever-going-to-survive fears of failure, fears of unknown, fears that we have been drawn into a future that is going to be more work and more amazing than we imagined. It's terrifying. There have been times it was all we could do to hold each other's hands, knowing we each needed to journey along the road alone. There have been times we wanted so desperately to connect that we fought because it was the closest thing to a good conversation we could muster.

But we are feeling brave. There comes a point that fear ceases to have any power precisely because it has so much. For us, its domination led to our determination to subvert it. Armed with trout, wine, beeswax taper candles, and a couple of new friends, we have decided to practice the feast until we remember it. We will keep lighting candles, and we will keep drinking wine. Soon we'll break though. On that day, we'll be ready, and we will laugh our heads off, tears streaming, stomach aching. Then we'll know we're home.

Grilled Trout:
- 1 trout per person
- Parsley
- Lemons
- Olive Oil
- Salt and Pepper

Leave the trout whole: heads, tails, eyeballs, etc. If your guests are squeamish about heads, they come off rather easily after they have been grilled (grab a paper towel, take the head, and pull it off. It sounds completely grotesque... I once worked in a restaurant where a waitress, in her frustration that Americans do not want to acknowledge that the thing they are eating was once living and that somehow the head is representative of all this, grabbed a napkin and, at the table, pulled the fish's head off. I had to go back into the kitchen to giggle to myself and regain my composure). Fish have heads. We eat fish. Plus, the cheeks (right under the eyeballs) are the best part of the fish!

Okay... enough about fish heads. Fire up your grill 40-60 minutes before you want to cook them; the charcoal should all be white. While the fish are still raw, salt and pepper the outsides and the insides. Put inside of each fish several sprigs of parsley and slices of lemon. If you want, you can get some butcher twine and sew up the seams of the fish to keep all of the stuff on the inside. I know a woman (not naming any names) who uses her tapestry needles for knitting to do such a task... I remember (I mean, she remembers) to wash off the needles before returning them to the knitting bin - most of the time. Grill the fish for 5-10 minutes per side (this varies greatly, given the heat of your grill). The fish should be done but not dry. The "touch" test also works well: if, when you push your finger down on the fish and it feels firm to the touch, it is finished. This is also how we test lamb. Why not use a thermometer? As great as thermometers are for such tasks, I do not always have one on me and do not always have time to remember to go get fifteen million things when I am drinking a gin and tonic and grilling. I'd rather just enjoy the gin and tonic and impress my guests by touching the fish and proclaiming it done.

After the fish are done, or, if you split up the tasks, when the fish have been flipped, you can make:

Seared Green Beans with Parmesan, Chilis, and Garlic
- Olive oil
- 2 cloves garlic
- 1 dried chili, crushed
- 1/8c parmesan cheese, grated with a microplane
- 1 lb green beans

Heat the olive oil until it is thin in the bottom of the pan; this occurs just before it starts to smoke. It will be hot. Don't get scared. You might burn yourself. You will get over it and, with time, will learn how to not burn yourself. For the time being, muster your bravest self and deal with the consequences later. It's tough to burn yourself really badly doing this, though oil burns do suck. If you get one, rinse immediately in cold water or, if you're really into cooking, just grab an ice cube out of the freezer and hold it in your hand while you finish cooking. Plate the food and put aloe on the burn. This way, dinner still gets made and you take care of the burn. Anyway, the olive oil is now hot and almost smoking. Throw the garlic and the chili in the pan, swoosh it in a circle, and add the green beans. Leave the green beans for 2-3 minutes or until one side of them has started to blister and turn brown. This is carmelizing the sugars in the beans, which makes them delicious.

After you plate the beans, sprinkle parmesan on top.

Lemon Curd Tartlets for Dessert!!!

I love lemon curd. It is lemony, puddingy, and remarkably satisfying. I make it a lot and there are probably at least three other entries of it on this blog.

Lemon Curd Tartlet
Pie Crust
- 1stick butter
- 1 1/2c flour
- Water
- 1t salt

Cut the butter into small pieces and mix with the flour and salt, squishing it between your fingers until the mixture is uniform and there are no big butter chunks. Add water, stirring with your hands (this is messy!) until the dough feels like play-doh. Roll out fairly thinly and cut to the size of your tart pan. I'm making mini-tarts, but you can make any size you like. Bake at 350 until just before it starts to brown (check it after 10 minutes or when you can smell it).

Lemon Curd (from The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters)
- 4 Lemons
- 2 eggs
- 3 egg yolks
- 2T milk
- 1/3c sugar
- 1/4t salt
- 6T butter (3/4 stick)

Grate the zest of one of hte lemons on a microplane; juice the lemons (there should be around 1/2c). Beat the eggs, yolks, milk, sugar, and salt until just mized. Stirr in the lemon juice and zest and add the butter. Cook in a heavy-bottomed pan (non-aluminum) over medium heat until it coats a spoon (it will be pretty thick and will seem to happen all at once; you'll notice a difference!). If you accidentally curdle it (i.e. it starts to look like scrambled eggs), immediately strain it through a mesh strainer and it is good as new.

Pour the custard into the tart pan(s) and bake at 350 until set... this should take 10-20 minutes, depending on its size.

Voila! Feast! Pictures are coming!