Oignons Glacés à Brun

I have lots of ideas for blog posts I'd love to share with you this Thanksgiving. There's still a lot left to do in my kitchen and I may be a tad overzealous in thinking I can get it all done and write about it, so no promises. We'll see how it goes (but I'm feeling pretty optimistic)!

Personally, I think side dishes are the best part of Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey's great, don't get me wrong, but when I go back for seconds (and thirds), I'm loading up my plate with sides. This year I'm making, among other things, pearl onions glazed in butter and sugar to create a deep brown color and a rich, caramelized flavor. It's called oignons glacés à brun. They're super easy to make and offer a big wow factor to enjoy.

Peeling pearl onions can either be the most annoying process known to man or it can turn into a meditative experience that comes from choosing a relaxed approach. When you focus on a repetitive process with the intention to let everything else go (in yoga, it's called japa), your parasympathetic nervous system steps in to help back you away from the cliff of stress. And who doesn't need a little calm, especially in the face of cooking Thanksgiving dinner?! Here's a trick: put the onions in a pot of boiling water for a minute, which will make the skins a lot easier to peel off. Leave most of the root in tact so the onions keep their shape (just shave off a sliver of the bottom with your paring knife to neaten them up).

Lay out your peeled pearl onions in a single layer in a sauté pan. Add a tablespoon of (unsalted) butter, a generous pinch of salt, and about a teaspoon of sugar. Fill the pan with enough water to come only half way up the sides of the onions.

You'll need to make a fancy contraption called a cartouche, or a parchment paper lid. The cartouche pushes the steam back into the onions, cooking them quickly and trapping in moisture. I swear we used a cartouche in every single class at the French Culinary Institute. It's an awesome little invention and I'll be sure to share other ways you can use it in your kitchen.

Fold a piece of parchment paper into quarters. Think of it like a little book and keep the "binding" to the left. The folded seams stay at the top. Fold the paper in half from the bottom to the top, and then repeat that fold two more times until you have what looks like a paper airplane.

Measure the circumference of your pan by placing the tip of your cartouche in the middle and then cutting the parchment where it touches the rim. Unfold your paper airplane et voilà, your very own cartouche! Très bien!

Snuggle your cartouche right on top of the onions and turn on your heat to medium-high. Allow the water to simmer down to almost nothing. The timing really depends on the size of your pan, but plan on checking in after about 10 minutes. If it's your first time, don't go too far. Stay on top of the situation. Stab an onion with the tip of your paring knife to make sure it's tender (and if it's not, just add a little more water and let it simmer a bit longer). 

Once you have about a tablespoon of water left, remove the cartouche.

As the water evaporates, the sugar will begin to caramelize and coat your pan in a lovely shade of brown. Get those onions to roll around in there so they don't stick. When things start getting really brown, add a little bit of water to the pan (like a teaspoon), give the pan a good shake, and you'll see the onions start to take on all of that delicious brown color. You can repeat this process—adding water, shaking the pan, coating the onions—until you get the color you're looking for. Any shade of brun tastes good, folks, so it's really up to you.

You can makes these in advance, store them in the fridge, and then just warm them through before dinner. This would be a great side dish to bring to someone's house. You could add some lardons in there for a salty kick to compliment the sweetness of the onions. I mean, lardons make everything taste ridiculous. Just have fun with the process; it's a great one to add to your cooking repertoire.

Ok, I'm off to make a pumpkin pie, set my Thanksgiving table, and hopefully share it all with you. If you don't hear from me it's because I got caught up in the moment. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Salade Niçoise

I took two hugely memorable summer trips to Europe as a teenager, accompanied by my whole family. We wandered through Italy, Switzerland, and my beloved France, exploring the tastes and sights as we traveled across the countryside in our rented Volkswagen bus. There were no reservations and no agenda other than the list of flea markets, organized by date and town, which my mother boldly used as our road map.

Les marchés aux puces are what I remember most about our trips. Each market gave us a snapshot of what life was like in that particular corner of the world. We would make a day of it, arriving early to snatch the best goods, resting for lunch in a nearby café, and then wandering a bit more until exhaustion forced us back to the car in search of a place to rest our bones. I always loved the moment when I stood at the threshold of the hunt, not knowing what treasure I might find buried in an unassuming box or strewn haphazardly on a table amongst a sea of junk. In life, that sense of not-knowing doesn't typically fill me with the same excitement and so browsing the flea markets is, in a way, my practice—a reminder to gaze into the unknown with awe and wonder. We frequented dozens of markets in our travels, and my eyes were soon able to scan the aisles like a pro, quickly seeking out the glimmer of silver or the softness of linen. I credit my love (and any skills I may possess) for design to those hours spent curating my own personal collection of flea market finds.

Fervent shopping was hard work and so we would all break for lunch, collapsing into an outdoor café, our mouths parched and our stomachs grumbling. My mother—a perpetual creature of habit—devoted herself to the tireless work of taste-testing the same lunch, day in and day out. Unbeknownst to the country of France, she became the unofficial connoisseur of her favorite dish: la salade niçoise.

To this day I have a special place in my heart for a niçoise salad. It's true that it is especially delicious in the summer, when the more delicate varieties of lettuce are in season. But it's also true that when you love something that much, it doesn't really matter when you eat it. What I learned from watching my mother enjoy the many incarnations of this meal is that there really isn't a 'right' way to make it. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I have adopted her love for cette salade. I like to be able to create a dish in much the same way that my mother planned our trips through Europe—with her passion and her instincts as her guide.

Salade Niçoise

Lettuce of your choice. Butter lettuce (Boston Bibb) or Oak Leaf lettuce are my favorites.

Can of tuna packed in oil.

Green beans, boiled for 5-8 minutes in heavily salted boiling water, then shocked in an ice bath. 

As many hard boiled eggs as your heart can handle.

Tomatoes, rough chop.

Olives (which I don't always use but sometimes they just feel right).
Potatoes, boiled until tender.

Dressing

Whisk together dijon mustard (an oversized teaspoon), chopped shallots (let's say a tablespoon), red wine vinegar, salt and pepper. Slowly pour in your oil as you whisk. Remember: 3 parts oil to 1 part vinegar.

This brown transferware pitcher is one of my favorite flea market finds.

Like in a true salade composée, neatly arrange all of the components on top of your lettuce instead of tossing everything together. This is a great salad to serve guests because you can place the prepared ingredients into separate bowls and allow your friends to follow their fancy.

After a lazy lunch spent recuperating from our morning's adventure, we would gather our things and head back to the van. We must've been a sight—awkwardly managing our shopping bags and, like true tourists, maneuvering through crowded cafés and busy sidewalks leaving a path of destruction in our wake. Luckily my parents always packed garment bags (for oil paintings), duck tape (to secure boxes and the garment bags) and extra luggage (for all of our brocantes). In those days you could still lug bottles of olive oil on board a plane along with your other six pieces of carry-on. Ahh, those were the days.

I hope you enjoy this salad—a veritable meal in and of itself—as much as I do. Every bite transports me to those summers in our rented Volkswagen van, driving off to the next spot on my mother's map. I believe it's good for the soul to make something in your kitchen that reminds you of the sacred moments in your life. There is a little piece of my soul in this salad. Bon appétit!

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

I've been eating tons of veggies this summer, thanks to the CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) share I purchased at the beginning of the season. Every Wednesday I receive a bushel of produce and I'm left with the challenge of trying to figure out how to devour it all in one week. Lest I remind you that my beloved doesn't eat anything green. He just watches me gorge myself on vegetables while he casually sips his Coca-Cola. My fridge is literally overflowing with the bounties of summer—beets, cabbage, sweet peas, salad turnips, swiss chard, and on and on. Sautéed greens in olive oil and garlic has become a staple in my diet (I especially love it over pasta with a little homemade pesto).

My problem (besides the fact that I struggle to eat everything before the arrival of next week's delivery) is that it's too freakin' hot to cook anything. Out of desperation, I created a summer coleslaw that allows me to throw everything but the kitchen sink into one dish. It has been a lifesaver!

To make the coleslaw I simply chop up summer cabbage and whatever else I'm trying to eat before its shelf life expires. Kale, summer turnips, radishes ... the sky's the limit. I would say the only required ingredients are cabbage (or some kind of hearty green) and shallots, which round out the flavors. The dressing is non-fat Greek yogurt, lemon juice, and dill. I usually start with about a 1/2 cup of yogurt and 1/2 lemon, tasting and checking that there's enough dressing to coat all the veggies, adding more as necessary. I finely chop the dill (I like a lot of dill, but any amount will taste fantastic) and then add sea salt and pepper to taste.

It is seriously the simplest salad in the world and it tastes so insanely fresh. I love recipes where there's no right or wrong because it forces me to trust my instincts. Have fun experimenting with different combinations of vegetables and savor your efforts with a perfectly chilled glass of white wine. It's heaven on a hot day.

Stoop Sale Cookies

Last month I decided to get rid of the storage unit I've been hanging onto for the past six years. Truth be told, I hadn't thought much about the unit (thanks to AutoPay) until I started watching the show Storage Wars on A&E. Being a flea market/thrift store fanatic myself, it's no wonder I like watching a bunch of reality show characters bidding blind on storage units in the hopes of finding something valuable amongst piles of unmarked boxes. I also find it endlessly fascinating that people could just simply abandon their belongings. This point is fantastically ironic given the fact that my storage unit had been all but forgotten save for Christmas when we would make our annual pilgrimage to retrieve the holiday decorations.

A few months ago I couldn't have told you what was in my unit. Sure, there were some large items I could see from the front door, like the mountain bike I bought on a whim that summer in the Hamptons when my house mates wanted to take a stab at roughing it. There was also some furniture I bought at the antique store where I worked on the weekends right after college; I thought it would be a great way to meet people and pay for the pieces I needed to furnish my first apartment. Besides what I could see from the threshold, I was at a total loss for what sat waiting in those cardboard boxes. Had my unit gone up for auction, I wouldn't have had even the slightest competitive edge over any of those Storage Wars personalities. Emptying the unit was a huge undertaking but I was highly motivated, not just because of the oodles of money I would save, but because it dawned on me just how ridiculous it was to hold on to things that I had no knowledge of owning.

Rummaging through all the stuff was like revisiting my past lives. Each object seemed to embody the spirit of another me, and although they triggered faint memories, it almost felt as if I was sifting through someone else's belongings. The good news was I thought I had superb taste! I found a whole box full of kitchen supplies and happily snatched up some beloved linens and books. The bad news was that for every item I wanted to bring home I found ten I wanted to throw away. How is it that I could have accumulated this much crap? The fact that I had paid to hold onto this stuff just added insult to injury. Surrounded by piles and piles of junk, I felt keenly aware of the yogic practice of non-hoarding which, up until this point, had remained completely illusive to me. In that moment I understood the value of non-attachment because each object I now categorized as junk had, at some point in my life, been considered precious.

I had to let go. There was no other choice. A wave of clarity washed over me as I sorted through the mess. Photo albums, college memories, and old letters went into the "keep" pile. The rolls of wrapping paper with only enough paper left to wrap a 1-inch square box, the clothes (oh my God has my style changed) and the manuals from my 200hr teacher training (although hilarious to flip through) went directly to the "Goodwill" pile. There were some things I loved but just didn't need, so I decided to have a stoop sale to make the act of letting go a little less painful.

We hung signs up all over my neighborhood, advertising my goods and bribing people with homemade cookies ("available only to those who BUY!"). I figured an oatmeal walnut chocolate chip cookie sprinkled with sea salt would help turn any ambivalent waffling into a final sale. These cookies were my first attempt at creating my own recipe for a baked good. The science of baking is totally lost on me so the task of figuring out the perfect ratio of flour/sugar/baking powder/egg was daunting to say the least. I decided the only way to figure it out was to try. Luckily I had many willing taste testers (like any good yoga teacher, I bribed my students with homemade cookies if they really gave their all in class). With a little tweaking, the feedback was unanimous ... the cookies are delicious!

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Cream 2 sticks of room temperature butter, 1 cup of tightly packed light brown sugar, and 1/2 cup regular sugar. Add 2 eggs and 1 tsp vanilla. Add the dry ingredients—1 1/2 cups flour, 1 tsp baking powder, and 1/2 tsp salt—only until just combined. Finally, stir in 3 cups of oats, 1 cup of chocolate chips, and 1/2 cup of chopped walnuts. Spoon about a tablespoon of dough into your hands, allowing the heat of your palms to form the dough into a presentably round shape. Once they were on the cookie sheet, I flattened the tops just a little and sprinkled each one with a bit of Maldon sea salt flakes. Bake for 20-25 minutes on the upper rack of your oven, or until the bottoms are golden brown. Allow to cool for 5-10 minutes and then transfer to a wire rack.

Books for sale resting on top of a 1950's table.

A collection of shoes resting on a 100 year old trunk.

The stoop sale was a huge success, if you count my having fun as being successful. If you count my financial gains relative to how much I originally spent on each item plus the money I spent to store it all ... well, let's just not count my financial gains. Practicing Sutra 2.39 (aparigraha, or non-hoarding) seems pretty wise. We do not need all of our stuff. Moreover, we cannot find our sense of self in all of our stuff. We are not our cars, or our shoes, or our furniture. What was once your prized possession is later left collecting dust in some storage unit. It makes me think that non-hoarding is not simply the practice of letting go—of saying goodbye at the end of a long relationship with our forgotten belongings. Aparigraha is also the practice of taking a powerful pause before buying that special something you feel will fill the gaping hole in your sense of wholeness. It is the skill of knowing that the answers do not abide in the external, but rather deep inside. Clearly (as illustrated by the photo above), no amount of shoes will help you step forward in the direction you want to move. On a side note, no one bought any of my shoes, so I donated them to Goodwill. Someone is now walking around in a killer pair of Barbara Bui flats, and for that, I couldn't be happier.

Tiramisu

I read somewhere that you should never try a new recipe if you plan on sharing the end result with others. The logic behind this advice is intended to save you from the humiliation of failure should your kitchen experiment go awry. While I'm sure this suggestion has proven helpful to some, I wholeheartedly disagree. There's no fun in making something safe—a proven winner—because the whole joy of cooking (at least for me) comes from my connection to the process, not the end result. Julia Child was quoted as saying, "The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a 'What the hell?' attitude." My thoughts exactly. That being said, I've had my fair share of flops, but they've taught me to let go and move on (which has only served to further fuel my courage in the kitchen).

So when my friend Paula asked me to bring dessert to her cookout, I was inspired to try and make Tiramisu. When I embark on this kind of challenge I usually pull a few recipes and start to get a feel for the ingredients and the process. Tiramisu is an icebox cake, so there's no cooking involved, just assembly. How hard could it be? And with espresso, chocolate, heavy cream, mascarpone cheese, and brandy as the ingredients, how bad could it taste, even if I screwed up? After flipping through a few books, unable to find a recipe that really spoke to me, I just decided to wing it. What can I say—I like to live on the edge.

Be forewarned: there's enough espresso in this recipe to grow hair on your chest and enough brandy to give you a bit of a buzz. This dessert is not for the vice-free partygoer. This dessert is the life of the party.

First, choose the dish you're going to use. I initially pulled out a large 8 x 12 inch baking dish but as I started to place the lady fingers in the bottom I realized that I wouldn't have enough cookies to fill the entire container. I ended up choosing a slightly smaller, oval dish. Whatever you have will work perfectly.

1 package of Savoiardi cookies (Italian ladyfingers)

3-4 shots of espresso (you could probably use strong coffee as a substitute)

1 pint heavy cream

8 oz mascarpone cheese

6 T brandy

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 cup sugar

any good quality chocolate you have laying around (to shave on top)

Prepare the espresso first so it has time to cool (you can let it rest in the fridge while you get everything else ready). Whip together the heavy cream, mascarpone cheese, brandy, vanilla, and sugar until soft peaks form.

Now for the fun part! Pour the cooled espresso into a shallow bowl. Give each lady finger a quick dip in the espresso (on both sides) and place it in your dish of choice. The key to the dipping is to keep it brief; do not let your ladies bathe too long or you'll get soggy tiramisu. Layer the bottom of your dish with the caffeinated (or caffeine-free) cookies and then pour half of the whipped cream concoction overtop. Shave a little chocolate over the cream.

Ellie, my assistant, surveying the ingredients.

Two happy blondes.

Repeat the entire process, creating a second layer. Place in the fridge for an hour or (if you're a planner) overnight.

Over at the barbecue, I admit I was the tiniest bit anxious about how my dessert would actually taste, but when those vrttis (thoughts, mental interruptions) popped up I just doused them with my vodka tonic and continued having fun. By the time I got to the Tiramisu it was half gone. It was a huge hit! A few people told me they loved that the ladyfingers still had texture, and I enthusiastically explained to them the secret of the "quick dip". They were amazed.

I loved this dessert so much I decided to make another one today; this way I get to share the recipe with you and I get to eat it again at my family's Memorial Day barbecue. (It's not all looks, folks.) I was so excited to make it I forgot to add sugar to the whipped cream, but I'm confident it will still taste good. Attitude, after all, is as important as the ingredients.

Fettuccine with Asparagus and Poached Egg

Last weekend I made dinner for my mother on her boat. It couldn't have been any more perfect just to float on the Hudson and enjoy a homemade meal. What I loved about the whole thing was how it all came together. Meandering through the farmers' market only a few hours earlier (inspired by the fresh produce and the fact that I had the weekend off) I was suddenly struck by the desire to cook. I bought my ingredients—asparagus, eggs (from Grazin' Angus, the best eggs ever), strawberries, and goat cheese—called my mom, and the rest was history.

And what could've been better than fettucini? You're right, nothing. While the water was boiling, I chopped the asparagus into bite-sized pieces. The asparagus were added into the boiling pasta during the last two minutes of cooking. As I drained the pasta and asparagus, I reserved one cup of the water to help make the sauce. 2 T of butter, a few T of parmesan, salt, and pepper went into the pot with the pasta and asparagus, and I added enough of the reserved pasta water to help the sauce coat the fettucini. I plated the pasta over at the boat, where my mother poached two of those amazing Grazin' Angus eggs. Lots and lots of freshly ground pepper gave it the perfect taste. I could hardly contain myself as I split open the poached egg and all of the neon orange yolk oozed down into the layers of fettuccine goodness. Each bite was like heaven in my mouth.

The goat cheese was crazy good. There are no words. 

For dessert we had fresh strawberries, which actually tasted like strawberries, a detail that I know must resonate with everyone. They were sweet and tart and bright red. A little shortbread cookie was the perfect compliment.

I loved the simplicity of this meal. As I stretched my legs out, staring out over the city skyline, I felt so grateful to have allowed myself the luxury of getting swept away by my creativity. I'm learning that creativity is similar to meditation. Trying to be creative prevents me from being creative.You can't force it to arrive, you have to invite it in and then get out of the way. Totally relaxed and inspired, I found myself saying, "More of this, please." Allowing rather than doing makes the space for life to unfold on its own. It's my new summer mantra and I'm excited to see where it will take me.

(Easter) Sunday Brunch

It's been a million years since Easter, which makes writing about Easter pretty useless at this point. You are probably as interested in bunnies and Easter eggs as you are in, oh let's say, your taxes. I feel the need to explain. I've sat on this post since, well, Easter because it kept needing more time in the oven. I decided to just wait until the cake tester came out clean rather than trying to pawn off some uncooked post about a holiday that has long since passed. Ironically, in waiting for my thoughts to bake, I came face-to-face with the exact struggle I was trying to articulate—guilt over not doing "enough"—and to prove (to myself) I have truly learned my lesson, I've decided to move full speed ahead with this post. If you keep reading you'll find a recipe for buttermilk biscuits, so at the very least I hope you'll be inspired to put on an apron this Sunday and whip up some brunch.

This Easter, I reluctantly accepted that I would need to let go of my penchant for perfectionism because I didn't have the time to do everything I would've like to have done. The entire holiday weekend was jam-packed with commitments, not the least of which was a five hour anatomy lecture I had to teach on Easter Sunday. No matter how I sliced it there just wasn't enough time for elaborate entertaining. Instead, I rummaged under my bed and found the remnants of decorations from those years when I must have had a lot of spare time on my hands. Peering through the dust bunnies, I found some baby chicks, birds' nests, and robin's eggs. I felt both grateful and disturbed to have had a small forrest of creatures living under my bed.

The large branches I bought at the Union Square Green Market made a statement without a lot of effort. Wait, what am I saying? Carrying them home on the PATH train was an all-out war; I'm fairly certain I took a few peoples' eyes out that day. When I finally arrived home I realized that I could've cut the same exact branches off the trees in front of my apartment (although I think it would've been illegal to do so). Drama.

On the menu front, I decided to stick with something relatively simple—scrambled eggs and bacon—until the shame of not doing enough prompted me, at the last minute, to make homemade buttermilk biscuits. Thankfully they were a breeze to make. They even gave the bacon a run for its money.

Homemade Buttermilk Biscuits

8 tablespoons cold butter, cubed

3/4 cup buttermilk

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 t sugar

1 T baking powder

1 t salt

I made the dough right in my food processor. Combine all of the dry ingredients. Add the butter and pulse until it's the size of small peas. With the blade running, pour in the buttermilk until the dough just comes together. Turn out the dough onto a floured surface and kneed with your hands. Roll out and cut out the biscuits with the rim of a glass (unless you happen to have biscuit cutters laying around). Bake for 20-25 minutes at 350, or until the bottoms are golden brown.

Breakfast tasted so yummy, in that good 'ole fashion Southern kinda way. I could've used a Bloody Mary, but other than that it was a lovely Easter. In retrospect, I'm thankful to the Universe for forcing me to abandon my typical "go all out" approach to entertaining (or life, come to think of it). I learned a lot by observing myself through the process. Admittedly, I felt anxious about doing less. My emotions waffled between pride (for attempting to let go) and inadequacy (What are we going to do without homemade menu cards? How will we manage?). I'm so used to trying to accomplish it all that I felt naked without a long to-do list. Some compassionate post-game analysis revealed that perhaps, to some degree, I see the success of a perfectly executed to-do list as a benchmark of my own worthiness.

The pillows I bought at West Elm, which I carried back to Jersey along with the deadly branches, because I felt like I hadn't done enough to decorate.

I'm currently reading Brené Brown's book, The Gifts of Imperfection, and it's calling me out on the shame I feel about not doing enough. As a shame researcher, it's only fair that she uses examples from her own life to illustrate her points. She writes, "...there are days when most of my anxiety grows out of the expectations I put on myself...I want to show the world how great I am at balancing my family and career. I want our back yard to look beautiful. I want people to see us picking up our dog's poop in biodegradable bags and think, My God! They are such outstanding citizens." Frankly, it's just so nice to know I'm not alone.

Make no mistake, if I had had time to dye my Easter eggs with a homemade concoction of extracted organic beet juice, I would have. Spending hours lost in my creativity is extremely relaxing to me—it helps me refill my well. But then there are those times when I just have way too much going on and I can't, for example, make homemade buttermilk biscuits and then write a timely (and perfectly perfect) blog post about it. It kills me, and it's hard to let go of feeling like I'm not doing enough ... of feeling like I'm somehow not enough for not doing enough. Sometimes I force myself to find a way to do it all, but then I black out and wake up months later covered in paper mâché, or sprinkles, wondering what the hell happened to me. Brené sums up this need to keep up with my expectations: "When we struggle to believe in our worthiness, we hustle for it."

All of this self-study reminds me to be aware of what's motivating my efforts. Why do I do what I do? If it makes me truly happy, it becomes an uplifting experience; it brings me closer to myself. If I feel like I have to do something in order to be enough, it only makes me feel more inadequate. I'm trying to edit my overzealous to-do list by learning how to discern between what empowers me and what makes me feel less-than. If not, my long list of expectations will continue to loom over my head, threatening to perpetually make me feel like I'm always falling short of the mark. It's challenging because the unrealistic bombshells are strategically hidden amongst the benign chores.

Do the laundry. 

Make dinner. 

Answer emails. 

Look like a supermodel. 

Take out the trash.

Lower your cholesterol.

Hand-paint Easter eggs.

Be better at everything in general.

I know I'm not alone. Elizabeth Gilbert, in an article she wrote for Oprah.com, suggests the following: "As we head into this next decade, can we draft a joint resolution to drop the crazy-making expectation that we must all be perfect friends and perfect mothers and perfect workers and perfect lovers with perfect bodies who dedicate ourselves to charity and grow our own organic vegetables, at the same time that we run corporations and stand on our heads while playing the guitar with our feet?"

Time with my family reminds me of what's important.

And so it seems a perfectly performed to-do list is not a report card for the Soul. I'm learning that imperfection and inadequacy are not synonymous. As a reminder, I've been repeating this mantra from Brené's book: "Wholehearted living is about engaging in our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning and think, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough."

This work is big and heavy. I'm happy to put my Easter post to bed because I need a break from all of this self-study/vulnerability/shame stuff. I want to go do something fun. As my teacher Mark Whitwell says, "Just live your life and have a nice breathe." Maybe I'll go make a scrapbook of my recent vacation. Or maybe I'll make some homemade lavender sachets for my underwear drawer. Oh, there's so much to do!

Fennel Orange Salad

I think you're going to love this new recipe. There is something about the crispness of the fennel with the sweetness of the oranges that makes this salad a pure delight in the dead of winter. The measurements aren't specific, but no matter the proportions it always seems to taste just right.

Chop one fennel bulb (remove the core) into bite-sized pieces reminiscent of chopped celery. Place the chopped fennel into a ziplock back (or a bowl) and squeeze in the juice of one orange. Peel and slice a second orange, cutting between the flesh to ensure perfect little wedges, and toss them into the bag with the rest. Place the bag in the fridge to marinate, allowing the acid from the oranges to soften the sharpness of the raw fennel (anywhere from a half hour to overnight). When you're ready to serve, dump the fennel and oranges into a bowl and add olive oil, salt, and pepper. Top with sunflower and/or pumpkin seeds. Every bite will feel like sunshine in your mouth.

Butternut Squash Risotto

Today was sublime...the kind of sublime that can only be appreciated when juxtaposed with what feels like months (and months) of non-stop work. My gratitude arrived the moment I woke up and stared at my alarm clock. 10am! The sun was shining and that crisp Fall air put a pep in my step. I had the entire day to myself—no work, no obligations—and I felt relieved to have this precious time to refill my well.

I spent the afternoon in my kitchen, experimenting and channeling my energy and inspiration from the autumn weather into something I hoped would taste as good as I felt. Craving a good, earthy dish expressive of the season, I decided to make butternut squash risotto. It's still light, like the weather, but introduces the heartier tastes of Fall.

Everyone needs to know how to make risotto. I know...you're scared, but you need to roll up your sleeves and try. You must, otherwise you're going to miss out on this killer recipe (and succumb to your limited beliefs about your abilities in the kitchen). I'm not sure which is worse.

The key to risotto is practice, patience, and faith. You need to get used to the feel of risotto—its nuances, personality, and texture—and so you should commit to making it often. The beauty of risotto is that is has hundreds of incarnations and so you can change the stock and the accessory ingredients to reflect your tastes. Patience is a virtue; it's about 30 minutes of non-stop action start to finish. Faith comes in towards the end, right at the point when you're convinced it's never going to come together and that you should quit while you're ahead. That's when you have to keep moving forward. It's just like in yoga: when you come up against a challenge, do more of the right thing.

The foundation of risotto is actually pretty simple. It's important to have all of your mise en place prepared because once you begin, you can't stop. Cut one butternut squash into 1-inch cubes and toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Roast in a 400 degree oven for 30-40 minutes. Finely chop one shallot. Pour 7 cups of stock (your choice: chicken or vegetable) into a pot and bring to a gentle boil.

Melt 2 T of butter in a large pot or Dutch oven (note: put "le Crueset" on your holiday wish list) and sauté the shallots plus 5-10 bay leaves. Add salt and pepper. Once the shallots are translucent, add 1 1/2 cups of Arborio rice and toss for 3-5 minutes. This is the moment when the rice takes on the flavors in the pot, so as you begin to experiment with risotto, you can add different herbs and spices at this point in the process. (Note: saffron would also work well with the butternut squash.)

Now we need to seal in the flavors. Add 1/2 cup of Prosecco and stir until all of the liquid is absorbed. You can also use white wine, but my Italian friend, Pietro, taught me how to make risotto using Prosecco and I think it adds a subtle sweetness, creating a lighter dish.

The rest is history. Add between 1/2 - 1 cup of the hot stock at a time, stirring constantly until all of the broth is absorbed. You will most likely end of using about 5 of the initial 7 cups of stock, but it's always good to have extra liquid available, just in case things don't quite turn out as planned. Taste the risotto as you go, testing the flavor and checking to see where you are in the cooking process. You want the rice to be cooked through but still al dente. The risotto will start coming together gradually, but by the last ladle of stock you will see the signature, creamy texture of a risotto dish. Take one last taste and season accordingly with salt and pepper.

Add the roasted butternut squash and a heaping pile of parmesan cheese (how much, exactly, is up to you). I used vegetable stock today, but it would also taste divine with chicken stock and maybe some sauteed pancetta.

My final thoughts regarding your adventure in risotto are to draw on your experiences from the yoga mat. It's like coming up into a handstand: don't just sit there, strategizing the pose and psyching yourself out. You've gotta kick, dammit. You'll have as much fun with your failures as you will with your triumphs, so crack open a bottle of Prosecco and start cooking!

My Beloved Egg and Cheese

Someone just recently asked me to name my favorite food of all time. That's a big question. At first I felt a surprising amount of pressure to come up with something impressive—something that would wow their pants off—but then, after I took a step back, I realized that my favorite food is actually quite humble in nature. My heart is eternally devoted to the egg and cheese sandwich. I could eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It would be my last meal. One might say I'm a connoisseur.

One of my favorite incarnations of the classic egg and cheese sandwich is this Italian-inspired slice of perfection. It's a great meal for brunch or a simple dinner. It couldn't be simpler to make: delicately poached eggs served over garlic-smeared bread smothered in marina sauce and topped with parmesan cheese and fresh parsley. Need I say more? It is beyond divine, good for the soul, and exactly what you should make when you need to smile from somewhere deep inside.

Recipe inspired by Giada DeLaurentiis

Strawberry Shortcake

Today's the perfect day to enjoy a classic American dessert (and one of my all-time favorites): Strawberry Shortcake! I love this recipe because it's quick and easy to make. Chances are you already have all of the ingredients in your kitchen.

As with any baking endeavor, it's helpful to get organized. First things first: place one stick of unsalted butter into the freezer about a half hour before you're ready to start. Make sure your kitchen counters are clean (to roll out the dough) or if you're short on counter space, place a sheet of floured parchment paper over a large cutting board. Clean and cut the strawberries, to which I highly recommend you add a tiny bit of crushed black pepper and a few teaspoons of balsamic vinegar. Trust me.

Now we're ready to start! Mix 2 cups plus 2 T flour, 1/2 t salt, 1 T baking powder, and 3 T sugar in a food processor. Cut your frozen butter into small cubes and add to the flour mixture, pulsing until the butter is the size of peas. It's important that you can still see chunks of butter in the dough because when the ice cold butter hits the hot oven the water content from the butter will quickly evaporate, creating a flaky and scrumptious shortcake. If you don't have a food processor, you can grate the frozen butter into the flour mixture and use your hands to mix everything together.

In a small bowl, whisk 1 egg into a 1/2 cup light cream. (I didn't have any "light" cream, so I just mixed heavy cream with the 2% milk I had in the fridge ... et voilà, light cream!) Add the creamy egg mixture to the food processor, little by little, until the dough comes together. Turn out the dough onto your lightly floured counter (or cutting board) and press into a flat ball with your hands. Be careful not to overwork the dough; it's not a pizza. Lightly flour your rolling pin and roll out the dough until it's about a 1/2 inch thick. Use the rim of a drinking glass to cut out your shortcakes and then transfer them to a cookie sheet. Place them in the fridge for 15-20 minutes to allow the dough to chill after having been worked and heated by your hands. I've never regarded the timeframe as an exact science, and I usually take them out of the fridge when I start getting impatient. This method seems to work for me!

While your shortcakes are chilling, preheat your oven to 425 degrees. Right before you're ready to put them in the oven, brush a little whisked egg white over the shortcakes and sprinkle with sugar, giving them a sparkly crust. Bake for 15 minutes, or until they're lightly golden. Allow to cool on a wire rack.

To serve, slice the shortcakes lengthwise and place a spoonful of strawberries onto the bottom half. Add a healthy (read generous) dollop of whipped cream and place the "lid" on top, creating a strawberry shortcake sandwich. The results are over-the-moon delicious. You will want to put on your bathing suit and dive in. Happy Fourth of July!

Recipe courtesy of Nigella Lawson.

Anniversary Dinner

Billy and I celebrated our anniversary last week with a homemade dinner and a great bottle of wine. I have to say, it was exactly what I wanted—simple, delicious, loving—and I couldn't have asked for a better way to spend the evening.

On the menu? Mussels in white wine, shallots, and garlic over linguine. I made a frisée salad with warmed cherry tomatoes and a simple vinaigrette. Only now will I admit that I used Vegenaise in the dressing. Had I mentioned this the other night Billy would have vetoed the salad on mere principal. Hey, I've learned to be cunning in the kitchen over the years.

Give the mussels a good cleaning. If you find any open mussels, give them a good tap on your kitchen counter; any that don't close on their own need to be thrown away.

While you're boiling the linguine, finely chop 2 shallots, 5 cloves of garlic, and a 1/2 cup of parsley. Heat 1/2 cup of olive oil on medium-high heat. Add the shallots and sauté for a few minutes until soft. Then add the garlic, stirring constantly, careful not to burn.

Now for the moment of truth! Dump the mussels into the pot along with 1/2 cup white wine, half the the parsley you chopped, and a generous amount of salt and pepper. Cover and cook for 6 minutes. Discard any shells that haven't opened.

Plate the linguine and pour the mussels on top. You can thicken the sauce with a tablespoon or so of butter. Sprinkle with parsley.

This meal couldn't be any simpler. You will love it. Bon appetite!

Get Springy

I'm sure I speak for the entire Northeast when I say that I am done, done, done with this cold weather. At least today it's sunny outside. Last week was just obnoxious—rain, wind, biting cold—and as I trudged through the unforgiving remnants of winter I felt a bottomless black hole in my soul.

I begrudgingly climbed out of my weather-induced funk (because, let's face it, sometimes it's just easier—and secretly more fulfilling—to wallow down there in the darkness) by cultivating the opposite. Baby, it may be as cold as the Arctic tundra outside but gosh darn-it I was determined to make it warm and springy in my heart. Craving something fresh, I dove into the creation of a lemon curd tart. The recipe is easy but promises to wow a crowd; your guests will say, "Wait, you made this?" You'll need the following tools: a false-bottom tart pan, a food processor, and a zester.

I love the tart shell recipe because it's basically shortbread cookie dough that you press into the bottom of a tart pan with your fingers. Cream 1 1/2 sticks of room temperature, unsalted butter with 1/2 cup of sugar and then add 1/2 t of vanilla. In a separate bowl, combine 1 3/4 c of flour with a pinch of sea salt. Slowly add the flour mixture to the butter/sugar, using your hands to mush it all together. Note: You can use a mixer but I find it exorbitantly more satisfying to do it with my hands (plus it allows you to work out your winter aggression). Once the dough has formed, press it into a flat disk using the palm of your hand. Transfer the dough to the tart pan and mold it to the inside of the pan using your fingers. Remember, you're basically making a shortbread cookie so you don't want it to be too thick or you'll have to eat the tart with a steak knife. Stick the tart pan in the fridge to chill, then preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

Once chilled, butter one side of aluminum foil and place the foil (buttered side down) into the tart shell. Fill the shell with beans (I keep a tin of beans in my cupboard for just this purpose.) Bake for 20 minutes and then remove the beans and bake for another 20 minutes (or until the tart shell is lightly browned). Set it aside to cool and meanwhile get crackin' on the lemon curd.

In a food processor, combine 1 1/2 c of sugar with the zest of four lemons. Mix 1 stick of room temperature, unsalted butter with your homemade lemon sugar until smooth. Add four eggs (one at a time) until combined. Then add 1/2 c lemon juice (which you extracted from your zested lemons) and a pinch of salt.

At this point you will look down at your lemon concoction and see a curdled mess, which will send you into a state of panic that I must advice you to rise above. You have not messed it up. Take a deep breath and transfer your sad, curdled batter to a sauce pan where you need to slowly cook it over medium-low heat for upwards of ten minutes. You must man the stove and stand there stirring the pot. It will start to thicken (enough to coat a wooden spoon). I admit I've grown impatient from time to time and turned up the heat when I don't see anything happening. I ended up with scrambled eggs. So again, I must advice you to hold tight and breathe (you can turn up the heat a little bit, but don't get too greedy).

Pour your lemon curd into your homemade tart shell ("Why yes, I made this from scratch"). Let it set at room temperature for a few hours. It's beautiful as it is but you can also get creative by decorating the top with berries. The taste is divinely fresh and zingy. It may be chilly outside folks, but it'll be warm and springy in your soul.

Sunday Beef Stew

I'm lucky to have in my possession a 1966 edition of Julia Child's Mastering The Art Of French Cooking and one of my favorite recipes therein is her classic Boeuf Bourguignon. It's the quintessential winter stew and perfect for a snowy weekend. I've tweaked the recipe and made it my own by adding potatoes and creating an extra thick gravy. I cook the entire meal in my trusty Le Creuset cast iron pot. This recipe is a step-by-step process, offering you an opportunity to practice passionate attention. Be sure to buy a big loaf of bread because you're going to want to wipe the bowl clean.

Preheat your oven to 450 degrees.

Sear 1 1/2 - 2 lbs of your choice of meat (cut into 1 inch cubes, patted dry with paper towels so it will brown nicely). I've found that the meat won't brown as well if the pan is overcrowded. Sear in batches with a tiny bit of olive oil. You'll know when the sides are browned because they will unstick from the bottom of the pan, making themselves available to be turned. Transfer your browned beef into a bowl by the stove.

Sauté a chopped onion in the same pan until soft (approximately 10 minutes). Add carrots and potatoes (peeled and cut into one inch pieces). Sauté for 10-15 minutes.

Return the beef to the pan. Add 1 t of salt and 1/4 t of pepper. Sprinkle in 2 T of flour and lightly toss to coat the beef. Place your uncovered pan in the oven and cook for 4 minutes. Stir the pot and cook for another 4 minutes. Julia writes, "This browns the flour and covers the meat with a light crust."

Turn your oven down to 325 degrees.

Now the fun part! Add 3 cups of "full-bodied young red wine". The wine decision can feel daunting. I've made this recipe with various bottles and then one day I just happened to grab what I thought was a "cheap" red wine and was surprised to discover that it created the most flavorful stew to date! I'm now eternally devoted to Radical Red from The Organic Wine Works, a sulfite-free choice from my local liquor store. Add enough beef broth (I prefer Imagine's Organic) to just barely submerge the contents of your stew. Bring to a simmer and add 1 crumbled bay leaf, 1/2 t of thyme and 2 crushed garlic cloves.

Put the lid on the pot and cook for three hours. Your house will smell like stew heaven.

I usually add a beurre manié to thicken the sauce before I serve. Mix 2 T flour with 2 T butter to create a paste and add to the cooked stew, which will thicken almost immediately. You can add more beurre manié until you reach your desired consistency.

The Impromptu Breakfast

Last night, on a whim, I decided to invite my friend Pietro over for breakfast this morning. We usually meet at our local coffee shop, Two Aprons, but I was in the mood for something different. I love this sort of impromptu entertaining because you just have to wing it! That being said, I tend to cook up elaborate schemes and end up needing to relearn my own self-proclaimed passion for flying by the seat of my pants. For example, last night I came up with the idea to bake a coffeecake before I went to bed so it would be ready for the morning. It seemed like a decent plan at the time but a little post-failure introspection revealed that indeed many things seem like a decent plan over a glass of wine. Then I thought I'd just wake up really early and bake banana bread, but as my alarm went off it became clear to me that I need to get a life.

Orchestrating such elaborate and unrealistic proposals only to procrastinate and fold under the pressure seemed worthy of examination. It appears that a small part of me knows what's going on - that masterminding my creativity actually prevents me from being authentically creative. I push the limits of my carefully laid plans so that I'm forced to improvise. My inner teacher is truly brilliant.

So with 40 minutes to spare I decided to make banana muffins. Surely they'd take less time to bake than a whole cake (although I had no idea, which was all part of my devil-may-care attitude). With a twinkle in my eye I proceeded to add a tablespoon of rum and a teaspoon of orange zest to the batter, because why wouldn't someone with minimal baking knowledge add random ingredients to the recipe? I popped them into the oven and was so bold and outrageous in that moment that I decided to go do a load of laundry. The good news is that the muffins were amazing! The bad news is I have no idea how long they were in there. My best guess would be somewhere between 10 and 15 minutes. Just keep an eye on them; when they're golden, they're golden! You will love them!

1 cup plus 2 T of flour

2 t baking powder

1/2 t baking soda

1/2 cup melted butter (I used salted butter because I didn't have any unsalted. If you use unsalted I would add a 1/2 t of salt to the dry ingredients).

1/2 cup sugar

2 eggs

2 large, extra ripe bananas

1 t vanilla extract

1 T dark rum

1 t orange zest

Combine the dry ingredients in a small bowl.

Mix the melted butter and sugar and then add the eggs. Mush the bananas between your fingers (oh what fun!) and throw them in the batter. Add the vanilla, rum and zest and then slowly add the dry ingredients. Fill the cupcake wrappers about 3/4 full and bake for an undetermined amount of time. (The clean toothpick test is always a good way to be certain they're done.)