[Breakfast in Sebastopol, November 2008.]

all is said and done with, the dishes washed and put away, the guests departed and already arriving east, the laundry spinning itself into cleanliness, the tail end of a long holiday weekend is a bit melancholy. Lucky, then, that summer came back to San Francisco just for today and I was able to steal a little hour to sit outside with my book in the sun. I realized this afternoon there are so many birds in this city — not, of course, that there weren’t in Washington, but maybe it’s that I can hear them more the higher up I go. In DC there were so many in the spring their raucous singing became almost background noise. But in this windy city, up on my roof it is very quiet and a crow wings by overhead calling as he flies and I swear today I could hear hummingbirds chirping tunelessly from somewhere nearby.

It was so warm today — hot, even — it got me wistful for summer again though tomorrow is December 1 and the solstice not far ahead. I wanted very much to be at the beach, perhaps Limantour, in the bright sun, or at Bodega Head with the ocean foaming and crashing bluely away below the trail. I also wanted very much, I must admit, to be on a little beach along the Mediterranean with a book and a jug of water and a stomach full of good cheese and bread and wine and all the time in the world to stretch out for daydreaming.

I’m feeling a bit of the wanderlust lately, it’s true; I am thinking of visiting the U.K. maybe next fall (though that’s so far away from now!), I have little hopes of perhaps seeing Israel before the end of 2009 though at this point it’s more ‘hope’ than ‘plan,’ and I am wishing most earnestly for flaky phyllo pastries and lukewarm beer and an ocean warmer and clearer than anyplace I have ever seen. Oh, Hellas! I’m sure you are chilly and rainy right now, as is proper since it’s the end of November, but I can’t help but remember how hot your summer days can be. There’s a reason everything shuts down for a few hours in the afternoon, and I think especially during the rush of the American holiday season we’d be wise to employ the same practice. As it’s not summer and I am not dipping my toes in the sea off Halkidiki the only thing really do is have a glass of wine and some pistachio nuts and pretend I’ll be there soon.

[Afternoon snack, November 2008.]

Today was a bit of a work day after that earlier outdoor respite and I was up early to wish my traveler off on his journey. I baked a few things for an article (and also, truth be told, for me) and tried to write said article (coming along, j’espere) and gazed at the beautiful amount of leftovers I was sent home with from our weekend of eating. In addition to Thanksgiving dinner there was a Friday night of potato-chard lasagna (meat, too, but I refrained) and salad and cake; a post-feast breakfast of fried eggs and toast; a Saturday morning of french toast and lots of coffee; and then last night I treated us to Little Star, which come to think of it, could be what triggered the Grecian longing (we ordered the namesake pizza, which is heavy on the feta and spinach).

Still and all: it’s nice to be home to my cozy apartment, smelling of good butter and sugar and warm from the oven, even if the weekend passed much too quickly. I refuse to look at the upcoming weather forecast lest I be disappointed with days of fog after such an unexpectedly lovely and shining Sunday, though those leftovers should tide me over and past any climate-influenced grumblings. I am setting my sights on a holiday break at the end of December (oh lovely few days off! and hopefully no rain for camping!) and while there’s quite a bit to do up until then most of it is stuff I want to do (the usual flurry of holiday cards, parties, shopping, baking) which is a fine thing. Really, the only problem I currently am experiencing — despite the slight wish for a plane ticket out of the country — is that still I have a hankering for split pea and spinach soup but still I must hold off until I work my way through all those delicious dishes in my fridge.

Oh, it’s such a hard life.

[In the backyard, November 2008.]

Actually, I suppose that should be pre-Thanksgiving lentil soup, because I cooked a big pot of this delicious, vegetable-laden goodness last Tuesday for my office as a little pre-holiday celebration and also to sort of cleanse our palates for the big feast that was to come in just a few days. But I think the Saturday afternoon after the crumbs from the herb rolls, apple pie, corn bread stuffing, and mushroom galette have been swept away would also be the perfect time to slow down and have a bowl of this simple, nourishing soup.

My office is pretty neat in that we have an enormous, light-filled kitchen with a Wolf stove and all the various cooking accouterments you could wish for. I’ve baked pies and other coworkers have made latkes and sometimes we take food up to the roof where we’ll have a barbecue — and this is all at work. I am fortunate enough to have coworkers who not only encourage me to indulge in my penchant for cooking but will eat nearly everything I make willingly and, dare I admit it, fairly happily. We had some mushrooms and carrots leftover from a previous salad-making in our communal fridge and I thought it would be grand to use them up in a soup. I posited making a split-pea but a few, ahem, weren’t so keen on that idea so I’ve filed it away for when I’m back in my own little home kitchen (Sunday night, perhaps, I can finally make myself a nice, stewy, spinachy pot of those bright green legumes). Lentil, I thought. Most everyone likes lentils (and, I must add here that the one coworker who previously professed not to enjoy them very much did actually eat her entire bowl) and they’re cheap and quick to cook.

So in between a few edits I sauteed onion and garlic, dumped in lentils, and crumbled bouillon. Another coworker made corn bread muffins, and I’d brought in a pumpkin pie. People wandered in and out remarking on all the good smells, and around 12:30 we all convened in the kitchen to sit down to hot, brothy bowls of soup, munch on muffins, and cut thin slices of pie.

It was a fine afternoon.

Legumes are the vegetarian’s saving grace — all that protein, all that calcium — and there are so many ways to prepare them quickly and healthfully. Lentils are perhaps one of the fastest to cook, as they require no soaking in advance, and if popped into a pot of soup the cook can wander away to have a cup of tea while they simmer toward silkiness — or, if you’re so inclined, do a bit of work at the same time.

Lentil Soup

2 cups lentils, rinsed
8 cups water
1 cube vegetable bouillon

1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. pepper
1 tsp. dill
1 onion, chopped
5 cloves garlic, sliced
1/2 pound spinach
2 carrots, chopped
10 mushrooms, sliced
1 can crushed tomatoes
olive oil

In a large pot over medium heat, sautee the onion and garlic in a few tablespoons of olive oil until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the mushrooms and carrots, adding a little water if necessary so they don’t stick, about 5-10 minutes. Add the salt, pepper, and dill and stir. Add the lentils and stir a few times, then add the water. Crumble the bouillon and add. Bring to a boil then lower to a simmer. Cover and let simmer for about 20 minutes or until the lentils begin to soften. Add the spinach, tomatoes, and more salt and pepper to taste. Cook about 10 minutes more.

Serve very hot, with bread.

Thanksgiving 2008 was chilly and grey, but we managed to sit down early-ish at 4p to dinner. Here, a small sampler of the meal:

Cranberry margaritas, of course, to start things off.

Spanikopita, dolmas, hummus.

The bird.

Lightly sauteed vegetables.

Mushroom galette.

It was a great meal.

[Wildcat Beach, Pt. Reyes National Seashore, July 2008.]

I’m at my parents’ house for the long weekend and the kitchen has been filled up with good smells for days. I worked a half day from home yesterday and then the real work began: I peeled and sliced apples and wound them through a bowl of cinnamon and sugar and flour; I whisked corn meal and eggs and vegetable oil together, baked the loaf and and let it dry out on the counter to be turned into apple-cornbread dressing with shallots and mushrooms later on today; I rolled out pie crust and dumped in pumpkin puree laced with nutmeg (baked it just a tad too long I think, rats); I sauteed onions and garlic in olive oil and made a sort of roux with soy sauce and flour that somehow transformed itself into thick, salty, unbelievably delicious vegetarian gravy; I made a batch of hummus.

That’s just the tiniest portion of the meal we’ll eat this afternoon, and it will come as no surprise I’ve eaten lightly this morning in preparation.

Today is Thanksgiving, one of my very favorite holidays mainly because it combines two things very close to my heart: food, of course, and the giving of thanks — or, really, the feeling grateful for. In the past year or so I swear I have been feeling even more full of gratitude than ever before and I’m not sure to what I can attribute this — yoga? more days spent at the ocean? a new fascination with photographing all the beautiful things I am lucky enough to come across — but there I are some days I am simply grateful that I feel grateful. Does that make sense? It might sound a little silly but honestly I am so glad, so, yes, grateful for every day I get to wake up and make myself a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee for breakfast. I mean, of course there are many (err, many) days I rise on the wrong side of the bed and burn my toast or drink green tea because I’m out of milk and there is just no way I can drink my coffee without milk or cream. In general, though, I know I have it pretty good and I try not to take it for granted.

Each year on Thanksgiving I can’t help but reflect on the things for which I’m particularly grateful. Today, I feel very thankful for

- My family and friends, always
- This beautiful place in which I live — in all its bright sun and crashing ocean, redwood forests and bay trees that sweeten the air

- The 11 (!) miles I ran last Saturday and the 6 I did today along the sun-swept back roads
- My two wonderful farmers’ markets, both within walking distance of my house
- Cowgirl Creamery
- A new president so very soon
- The food we’ll eat today, and that we are fortunate enough to have such a bountiful table. To be able to eat enough every day to feel full
- My book group, which is so much more at this point (you know it, ladies)
- The hope of peace
- Possiblity
- Backpacking plans for late December, rain be damned
- All the travels I’ve made in the past year
- That I’ve finally learned to love Brussels sprouts
- Point Reyes in sun and wind, and fog, too

Wishing you lots of good food, friends, and family today and every day.

[Pumpkin pie, for the office, November 2008.]

In addition to baking biscuits on Sunday afternoon I also baked a pumpkin pie. I thought I’d deviate from my usual — using the recipe on the back of the can of pumpkin puree as my guide and no, in the interest of time I don’t usually roast a pumpkin and use it in my pie though I promise that would taste so much better, truly — and scoured gourmet.com for a recipe. In the latest issue there’s a recipe for a pumpkin tarte with an anise seed crust that I will file away for next year because yeah. But instead I went with a version from a few years ago that called for caramelizing the sugar before mixing it into the pumpkin puree, and used heavy whipping cream rather than evaporated milk. I was intrigued.

And, you know, it was pretty good. The crust especially was delicious, maybe also because I’ve not been making a butter crust recently (olive oil, most of the time), the filling smooth and sweet. I missed the taste of the caramelized sugar, though, and I don’t think it’s because I didn’t boil down the syrup enough, and if I made this again I’d probably up the spice quota a bit to give it more of a kick, but overall it was just fine.

I brought it in to work yesterday and my coworkers gobbled it up with no complaints which seems to me a good mark of success. Tonight I’ll make another pie the old-fashioned way, so I’ll have to taste-test and see which I like better. It could just be I’m used to the other recipe — or it could be that this one just wasn’t the very best. Either way though, you could definitely serve this pie at dinner tomorrow and end up with no leftovers.

You know how I feel about pumpkins so I don’t need to go on about them yet again, but suffice it to say pumpkin pie is one of my very favorite desserts and I don’t even like pie, really. I’m pretty excited for tomorrow. On my agenda for tonight is an apple pie and a pumpkin, vegetarian gravy, and cornbread for the dressing I’ll make tomorrow — which doesn’t sound too bad (mom’s doing the bulk of the cooking this year). The applesauce is taken care of and if the rain holds off I’ll be able to sneak in a quick 6 miles before all the feasting begins.

What are you making for Thanksgiving dinner?

Caramel Pumpkin Pie, from Gourmet

For pastry

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 sticks (10 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 to 5 tablespoons ice water

For filling

1 cup sugar
1/3 cup water
2 cups heavy cream
1 (15-oz) can solid-pack pumpkin (not pie filling; a scant 2 cups)
1 1/4 teaspoons ground ginger
1 1/4 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
Pinch of ground cloves
Scant 1/2 teaspoon salt
4 large eggs, lightly beaten

Make dough:

Blend together flour, butter, and salt in a bowl with your fingertips or a pastry blender (or pulse in a food processor) until most of mixture resembles coarse meal with some small (roughly pea-size) butter lumps. Drizzle evenly with 4 tablespoons ice water and gently stir with a fork (or pulse in processor) until incorporated.

Squeeze a small handful of dough: If it doesn’t hold together, add more ice water, 1/2 tablespoon at a time, stirring (or pulsing) until incorporated, then test again. (Do not overwork dough or pastry will be tough.)

Turn mixture out onto a lightly floured surface and divide into 4 portions. With heel of your hand, smear each portion once or twice in a forward motion to help distribute fat. Gather all of dough together with scraper and press into a ball, then flatten into a 5-inch disk. Chill dough, wrapped tightly in plastic wrap, until firm, at least 1 hour.

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 375°F.

Roll out dough on a lightly floured surface with a lightly floured rolling pin into a 14-inch round, then fit into quiche pan and trim excess dough flush with rim of pan. Chill until firm, about 30 minutes.

Bake pie shell:

Lightly prick bottom of shell all over with a fork, then line with foil and fill with pie weights. Put quiche pan on a baking sheet and bake pie shell until side is set and edge is pale golden, 18 to 20 minutes. Carefully remove weights and foil and bake shell until bottom is golden, about 10 minutes more. Cool completely in pan on a rack, about 30 minutes.

Make filling while shell cools:

Bring sugar and water to a boil in a 3- to 3 1/2-quart heavy saucepan, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Boil syrup, washing down side of pan occasionally with a pastry brush dipped in cold water and gently swirling pan (do not stir), until mixture is a deep golden caramel, about 10 minutes.

Reduce heat to moderate and carefully add 1 cup cream (mixture will bubble vigorously), stirring until caramel is dissolved. Stir in remaining cup cream and bring just to a simmer.

Whisk together pumpkin purée, spices, and salt in a large bowl. Whisk in hot cream mixture, then add eggs, whisking until combined well. Pour filling into cooled crust and bake until puffed 1 1/2 inches from edge and center is just set, 55 to 60 minutes. Cool in pan on a rack, about 2 hours. (Pie will continue to set as it cools.) Remove side of pan before serving.

[Sweet potato biscuits, November 2008.]

This past Sunday was lovely — yoga class, a quick brunch meet-up, more coffee from my favorite spot, the farmers’ market, and then home to throw two sweet potatoes in the oven. I put on a load of laundry and thought about scrubbing the bathroom but it was so gorgeous out, so warmly, bluely, beautifully sunny and not-November that I took my book up to the roof for an hour to shirk chores and responsibilities for the littlest bit. Sometimes you just have to, I suppose, and I’m so glad I did, because it left me refreshed for the baking and house-cleaning flurry which followed. My apartment was warm and bright and cozy from the oven and all the good smells coming forth from it, and it really was a perfect afternoon.

Or maybe I just believe that because I finally baked sweet potato biscuits and they were, literally, to die for. No, I mean it. Really.

[Before the oven.]

The thing was: for whatever reason, I’d been hankering to make sweet potato biscuits for awhile — weeks even, I think. I get these funny ideas in my head sometimes (I mean, I don’t eat regular biscuits too often, though if they’re on a breakfast menu I’ll more often order one than not, and I certainly never bake them myself) and I’ve learned simply to go along with it as usually, it’s a good thing. So I searched ’round the Internet and found a few promising recipes I then cobbled together to make up my own version with brown sugar and butter (a risky decision since I’d never used any of the recipes before let alone combined them but sometimes I like to live recklessly). I really was counting on these little biscuits to be something special, even though there was no reason for it other than my wild, foolish hope.

Oh, it was my lucky day. The batter came together quite quickly and after impatiently hovering in the kitchen waiting for the allotted time to elapse I pulled my baking sheet from the oven, marveled at my orange-y beauties, piled on a healthy pat of butter, popped one into my mouth and shouted oh my god! (I really did) because it was so darn good. Sweet from the potatoes and brown sugar, a little spicy from the cinnamon, the biscuits were saved from being too cloying from the buttermilk’s tartness. Rich, buttery, decadent, and wholly delicious I ate three in quick succession (all well-augmented with softened butter) before taking a deep breath and forcing myself to take a break.

Now, I don’t think I’ll be making these again for Thanksgiving dinner later this week because that menu is pretty well planned out by this point, and adding yet another dish might cause the dining room table to buckle under its weight, but if I was hosting my own holiday meal I certainly would. I might, in fact, make them for New Year’s Eve. Or Christmas lunch. Or, you know, this coming Saturday afternoon.

A few instructions: the biscuits must be eaten warm, no excuses. They’re best heated in the oven, though the microwave will do in a pinch. They also must be eaten with lots of good (salted) butter and maybe a little bit of honey. Often they’re sliced and filled with ham, though this vegetarian will abstain, and I wonder how a thin wedge of cheddar cheese might taste? Too sweet-savory? Or just right?

Try it and let me know.

Sweet Potato Biscuits, adapted from several recipes I found online

3 c. all purpose flour
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 Tbs. salt
1 Tbs. baking powder
1/2 tsp. ground allspice
1 tsp. cinnamon
10 Tbs. butter
2 c. mashed sweet potato (about two large potatoes roasted and mashed, with peels discarded)
1/3 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Mix the dry ingredients and sift together. Cut in butter to make a coarse meal. Stir in sweet potatoes. Add milk and stir until sticky. Turn out dough onto a floured surface and roll to one-half inch thick. Cut with a small cookie cutter or a round glass and put on a greased cookie sheet about 1 inch apart (or: drop by teaspoonfuls onto the cookie sheet if you’re pressed for time, like me).

Bake 12-15 minutes until very lightly browned.

Vegans: swap margarine or vegetable shortening for the butter and put 1 tsp. vinegar into 1 cup of soy milk (and then use 1/3 cup of that) to make non-dairy ‘buttermilk.’

[Cheese and wine, November 2008.]

I was watching some silly movie the other night that took place in England. The plot was pretty lame (but yes, the couple got together in the end, as they should have) and I don’t remember who was in it — however, there was a scene in which a family was sitting outside at a white-swathed table in the long, soft English afternoon eating and drinking wine and it looked just marvelous.

It’s no secret I love a party. Heck, I’m already planning the menu for my New Year’s Eve party — which, somehow, has grown to at least 10 guests and counting — even though I am kind of horrified at myself for thinking that far ahead. (For the record, possibly some sort of braised and baked fish; a sweet potato souffle; lots of roasted vegetables of course; other things I haven’t decided on yet except that I think actually it might be revised to be more like small plates and pot-luck … oh, dear g-d, you see how I am.) So when I see what appears to be a perfect scene in a perfect setting (England. Countryside. Lovely grey light. Summer.) I just … want.

What is it about making something special out of a meal? This is the time of year when we’re thinking even more than usual about how to lay the table, what to serve, what time to serve it, who will share the food with us, where we’ll sit down to eat. I still have that little dream of a Thanksgiving set in a clearing in a redwood forest, with an outdoor fireplace, good red wine, cool snapping air, simple, seasonal, healthful dishes, all my beloveds gathered round. The conservation would be lively and comfortable and we’d probably have gone for a hike earlier in the day to whet the appetite (the practicality of how we’d cook all the food is not important I guess). Doesn’t it sounds perfect? One day, I promise.

Of course, something I always must have at any sort of party large or small is a cheese plate. A few weeks ago I’d been cooking and baking all day (my usual Sunday activities, as you know) and as I’d been sampling little bits of whatever it was I was working on I wasn’t terribly hungry when it came dinner time. I’d picked up a few beautiful apples at the farmers’ market that morning and as I am usually well-stocked with cheese I cut up an apple, some cheddar, poured myself a glass of Zin and flopped down on the couch to watch my HBO Sunday night circuit. I guess because I really wasn’t too hungry I didn’t feel like weighing the plate down with bread and I didn’t miss it. The apple, sweet and crisp, was the perfect complement to the sharp cheese, and I was left satisfied but not overfull.

I mean, I wasn’t sitting at a luncheon party in the English countryside but I don’t know, there was something sort of special and sweet about it anyway — maybe because it was a little different than the usual thing and because I put it on a pretty plate and so savored the bite of the apple against the smooth slices of cheese. I’d argue such a plate would be perfectly appropriate on this year’s Thanksgiving table, or at a New Year’s gathering, or even for a Boxing Day snack.

Sometimes I wonder if I like to throw parties for the little ceremonies they involve as well as for the food. You know what I mean: the choosing what napkins to use (I have three options: plain white, from eight years ago when I moved into my first apartment and treated myself to cloth napkins at Pottery Barn; a lovely golden-flowered set, which I picked up on sale at Williams-Sonoma ages ago in Washington; and a set of every-day, slightly faded red ones given me last year for my birthday) and how to fold them, what flowers or greenery to arrange just so on the table, what tablecloth would look best against the food, what sort of champagne would go with the cheese plate, etc. etc. It’s all part of the little thrill of planning I suppose.

I realized yesterday, as I crumbled probably my year’s quota of butter into various baked goods and thought seriously about finding a new recipe for gingerbread, that the holiday season is nearly officially upon us. Gulp. Oh, I’m almost ready, make no mistake, but it did give me pause for a moment. There’s so much to do before the first day of the new year dawns — things I want to do, but still — and dreamily imaging table settings isn’t really the most productive use of my time.

But it sure is fun.

[2008 apple sauce, October 2008.]

When I was growing up we had in the backyard from roughly June through October (or, some variation of): plums, nectarines, blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, walnuts, almonds, apples, many other vegetables during the summer months. Typical to oblivious children, I don’t think my brother and I really appreciated — or even were aware of — how fortunate we were to be assigned the ‘task’ of picking blueberries, our adopted dog Taffy always close by, stuffing two berries into our mouths for every five we threw in a bowl. But, then, isn’t that the true beauty of a fortunate childhood — to be so fully in the moment you have no need to think of the next day or even the next few hours? It is enough simply to be with your dog panting quietly on the dry grass in the shade, listening to the crows call overhead, eating fruit.

My mom sometimes made strawberry jam from the garden strawberries and the kitchen smelled delicious, all hot and steamy from the big pots on the stove. As I grew older I used the blackberries in pies or maybe even a tiny batch of jam once in awhile or as the perfect garnish for the mini angel-food cakes I’d bake for my dad.

Every year, though, for a long time, she always made applesauce.

I loved apple sauce days; I can’t remember if I ever really helped out more than to just peer into the bubbling pot every so often, but I know there was lots of peeling that went on and the process took at least an entire day, possibly more. All the the fruit came from our trees in the ‘orchard’ and I still pilfer apples from the lone tree still standing when I got home in late summer. It was a bit of work of course but I loved eating that apple sauce come the holidays — and when we had it with a weeknight dinner it elevated the meal into something special.

Last year I too made a lot of applesauce with boxes of Inverness apples a few over-zealous trees produced without aid of water or fertilizer. It’s true that that coastal fog is good for something, and over in West County (i.e. Sebastopol) the Gravenstein apple trees survive and thrive simply on the fog that inevitably blows in during the early evening. My home town once was known for its apples; in fact, it was given the moniker of “Apple town of the world” for all the sauce, juice, and dried apples its trees produced.

Now, though, when I go for my runs along the back roads — over to Pleasant Hill, mostly — it breaks my heart a little to see a lot of the orchards replaced with vineyards. I’m not denying grapes are pretty to look at, but those 100-year-old apple trees are not just special but indicative of the whole region. And they have so much character. (Not to mention: with California in yet another of its perpetual drought cycles self-sustaining agriculture which doesn’t tax the ever lowering water table is key.) Those trees have been around far longer than most of the area’s current residents and while it’s true one can’t stop the march of progress, and change is mostly a good thing, I do wish my beloved apple trees would endure for yet another 100 years.

Apples, particularly Gravensteins, defined my childhood. I attended Gravenstein elementary school after all , and participated year after year in the Apple Blossom parade each spring (playing clarinet for marching band). I’ve baked pies to enter in the Gravenstein Apple Fair in August and have eaten apple crumbles piled high with whipped cream as I wandered the booths, sampling honey and funny-tasting cheese.

So you could say I have a soft spot for apples, and one way I like to cherish them most is to turn them into sauce. Now, my applesauce isn’t as chunky as my mom’s — not because of any particular affinity for smooth sauce; more likely it’s that I put a bunch of apples on to cook down and wander away to do laundry, bake something, read the paper, or or or, and return to a very velvety apple puree — but I like to think it’s still pretty good. I don’t add anything (if I have enough to give away I let the recipient doctor it to his or her own taste) because I think apples are sweet enough as they are, and if they’re good apples you really just want that pure apple taste.

I’m sure most of us will serve apple sauce this Thursday as part of the Thanksgiving feast and I entreat you to make it from scratch. All you do is take about five or so apples (depending on how many people you’re feeding you can use more or less) and peel, core, and slice them. Put in a pot with about an inch of water and bring to a boil; then simmer until the apples are soft enough to mash. Additions might include a bit of cinnamon or ginger, brown sugar, molasses, or honey, depending on your taste. The beauty of making it yourself, too, is that you can make it whatever texture you so choose.

If you’re fortunate enough to have leftovers, a lovely, light dessert for the post-Thanksgiving blues (or if you’re finally sick of pie) is a bit of apple sauce chilled and topped with buttery bread crumbs, nuts, and whipped cream. But, if you’re like me, you’ll probably be scraping the bowl in which the applesauce was served wishing for just one more spoonful.

Apple Sauce with Butter Pecan Crumbs, from gourmet.com

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 tablespoon finely chopped pecans or walnuts
1 slice firm sandwich bread with crust, coarsely ground in a food processor (about 1/2 cup)

1/2 cup applesauce

Garnish: lightly sweetened whipped cream

Heat butter in an 8-inch heavy skillet over moderate heat until foam subsides, then cook nuts and bread crumbs with a pinch of salt, stirring constantly, until golden, 2 to 3 minutes.

Spoon applesauce into a goblet or other glass, then sprinkle with crumb mixture. Top with whipped cream.

Vegans: sub margarine for the butter and skip the whipped cream.

[Saturday snack, August 2008.]

Last night I walked home from work, all the way up Market to the art supply store to pick up watercolor paper, and past the library. I thought I’d catch up with the bus eventually but it was such a gorgeous night — crisp, even, and cool and clear — and I was chattering away so happily to the Greeks in Rochester I decided simply to keep on walking. It was probably about two miles or so, all told, and you know, it really didn’t feel like it. Unfortunately Upper Market has a certain … essence all its own which makes for a less than pleasant experience, but soon I was pointed west up McAllister to Little Star and dinner and I hardly noticed it at all. I think I’ll have to make it a regular thing.

(About that pizza: I think I drove my coworkers crazy while trying to decide what to order. Thin crust with cheese? Deep dish vegetarian? Thin crust with pesto? Dear gracious. I finally settled on deep dish with cheese and mushrooms — pretty simple and not too exciting but oh man did it taste good.)

I love Friday nights just for me — I might stay up late baking a cake or preparing for a dinner party the next day (I do like to take some of my work in advance) or even just trying out a new recipe that I’ve been meaning to (recently, that sweetly unexpected apple cake). Oh, I do go out sometimes as well, or maybe I’ll be in Sebastopol, but some weeks — particularly especially long and exhausting ones — the only thing that helps me make it to the end is the thought of Friday night on the couch with a new-to-me book (or, OK, a reread of a favorite) or a movie I come across quite by chance (last night, ‘Love Actually’) and which completely erases the memory of all those early mornings in the preceding few days.

I’m still figuring out this whole cooking-for-one thing; a few months ago I ran into a bit of trouble because the farmers markets were overflowing with gorgeous heirloom tomatoes, new potatoes, and seriously the most beautiful cauliflowers you have ever seen. And everything was so cheap! And local! And I sort of lost my mind and snapped up as much as I could fit into the canvas bag I use expressly for market-going because it was all just so good. The problem was that in my enthusiasm I perhaps picked up a bit too much and thus was faced with a barely-dwindling pile of vegetables I frantically worked my way through in a mad race against the coming Sunday when I’d be back at the market ready to swoon all over again. I mean, I was eating really well but I’ve since learned to be more prudent and maybe only get 1 bunch of basil, say, instead of two (unless I make pesto and then all bets are off). I don’t need quite as much when I’m cooking mostly just for me and I think I’m finally reaching a comfortable balance (my wallet is quite pleased with me, too).

So while last night involved pizza and salad from the local joint another Friday — with me and my cake, or books, or or or — might be half a head of cauliflower roasted salty and caramelized, with a bit of bread and cheese. Or maybe I’ll make whole-wheat spaghetti with mushrooms, tofu, and spinach with a quick lime-laced peanut sauce. Or I’ll roast half a bunch of asparagus on a chilly spring evening just after the time change and slip it alongside a plate of olive oil spiked garlic and white beans. If I’m feeling particularly decadent I’ll treat myself to a glass of red wine and follow it all with a dish of ice cream or milk chocolate pudding. I test out my mood in the early afternoon when I know I’ll be hanging out at home for the night and think about what I really want to eat — sometimes, to be honest, it might be a bowl of home made hummus and carrots and chips, nothing more — and that’s what I’ll have. It’s kind of fun.

Yeah, I guess you could say I’m pretty much getting the hang of things.

The weekend looms, bare and lovely, and I have plans to bake some holiday-inspired goodies (mostly for my office; I’m also going to make lentil-spinach soup at work on Tuesday for a proper send-off to the long weekend, the girls will make cornbread, of course I must bake a pumpkin pie — right?) and sleep in a bit and go to my yoga class. I have a strange hankering to make a big pot of split-pea soup, too, but as I’ll be going out of town next week I might have to put that on hold until after Thanksgiving. Yet I still do have a wish for it …

What’re your pre-Thanksgiving plans?

[Soup and cranberry juice, one of my favorite dinners, November 2008.]

The trouble with leftovers is that you can get tired of them. Or, at least, I tire of them after awhile. I love making an enormous pot of quinoa-mushroom-spinach chowder, and will eat it happily throughout the week for lunch, but by the time beloved Friday rolls around I’m looking at my tupper-ware container with slight distaste — even though it’s one of my very favorite meals. I’m sure you know what I mean.

And yet, we come home late. Or, actually, we don’t come late at all but we come home tired and the thought of cooking a real meal after 9 hours on the job is just exhausting. I am still learning how to manage this whole cooking thing when I am not cooking for anyone else — and believe me, for a nurtrurer like myself, that’s darn hard. Wait, I have to take care of myself? Paging Jessie and Lupe! Is it OK to cook a three-course meal just pour moi?

Well, anyway.

The other night I had some chickpeas and spinach lingering from the night before, and as I went for my cold and dark run, I tumbled in chilly and hungry. I plopped the beans into a pot with a bit of pre-made roasted pepper/tomato soup and yeah I hardly felt any guilt for not making myself a meal from-scratch. Maybe it was because I ran 6 miles and was thus cold and sore but it really hit the spot, like, really. Make of that what you will, ladies.

I’m going to come up with sort-of original recipe for this soup, so I’m warning you now: expect to hear lots more about it in the future, possibly post-Thanksgiving weekend when I will need to return to my vegetal roots and lay off the yummy carbs, cheese, pie (!), wine and all of that good stuff. I mean, it really is so good, but it’s not always so good for the old arteries.

Not to mention: cookie season begins shortly, and I am powerless in the face of giving baked goods as gifts. You’ll see – and I do hope it’ll help you along with your own gifts and saving money during this crashed and burning economy which, to be honest, I’ve pretty much broken up with. Yet I always have hope, and maybe come inauguration day we’ll have a whole other tune to sing.

Until then — chickpeas. Tomatoes. Spinach. Soup. It’s all coming, and soon.