When I was pregnant with my son about a hundred years ago, food was not my friend. I had no appetite while carrying that little guy... except for tomatoes. I could not get enough tomatoes and I found a gazillion ways to fix them. Funny thing, too...to this day, my son loves tomatoes. He eats them raw for snacks and pops those little grape tomatoes in his mouth like, well, like grapes!
That summer just before I gave birth to him, I was feasting on all things tomato, especially since it was the season they were plentiful. Consequently, I have many recipes. The one that follows is just about the most delicious way to use up Roma tomatoes. The secret is to roast them at a really, really low temperature for hours until they become sweet and somewhat dehydrated. There are many, many ways to use these tomatoes--in sauces, as a base for a pesto, tossed with pasta, warmed and folded into fresh baby spinach leaves.
Around our house, our favorite way to enjoy these sweet, little nuggets is to simply spread them onto crusty bread that has been toasted up with a little drizzle of EVOO.
Roasted Roma Tomatoes
12 Medium Roma Tomatoes (sometimes called plum tomatoes)
Approximately ½ cup extra virgin olive oil
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper
Dried Italian seasoning (optional)
Head of garlic, cloves pulled apart, but kept in their individual papers
Baking Sheet
Parchment Paper
Preheat Oven to 275 F
Slice the ends off of the tomatoes and then slice them into thick, 1 inch pieces (crosswise). This will mean that some tomatoes will be sliced into thirds, some just in half, depending on the size of the tomatoes
Lay them on a parchment lined baking sheet
Lay the garlic cloves in between the tomato slices
Sprinkle generously with salt and pepper
Drizzle olive oil over, covering the surface of each tomato
Sprinkle with Italian seasoning (optional)
Place into oven and roast for 2-3 hours, until they are shriveled, soft and just slightly brown.
Some ideas for using roasted tomatoes:
- Use as topping for pizzas
- Chop, toss with a little fresh basil and pile onto toasted French bread slices (sort of a bruschetta)
- Toss in with vegetables during the last five minutes of roasting
- Chop & combine with sautéed onion; then, sprinkle over baked chicken
- In Risotto or flavored rice dishes
- In stews, pasta sauces and soup
- As a base (or an add-in) for a fresh pesto
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Good Old Summertime
Ah… summer. It’s just about here. Conjured up for me are some wildly varied memories of the season. As a child, I lived in many different states on the upper east coast, as well as some years in Florida; and now a couple of decades or so (most of my adult life) spent in Southern California.
The scent of summer is what stays with me mostly. In Annisquam, Massachusetts, tucked away in the little hills near Gloucester, I recall the smell of bubblegum, earthworms and the salty sea air. We lived within walking distance of the local docks, a favorite hangout for my brothers and me. We little kids would tie some fishing line to a stick, and attach a hook. If we didn’t take the time to dig up worms, we’d use freshly chewed Double Bubble as bait. (I kid you not!)
I would lay face down with my head hanging off of the edge of the dock and excitedly drop my line and yank up as many of those little minnows our bucket could hold. My brothers and I would then march back up the hill to home. Proudly, we presented our haul to Mom, grinning from ear to ear. Our mirth quickly turned to immense disappointment at her refusal to cook up our catch!
In a quiet suburb of Waterbury, Connecticut, the summer sun would set against the backdrop of wildflowers growing in the field on the back side of the cul de sac. Bouquets of balsam and buttercups were punctuated with the beams of fireflies. All of the neighborhood kids stayed out ‘til ten playing hide and go seek. I have a sweet, vivid memory of walking my little brother home. I was about 12 years old and he was maybe 8 and a half. He asked me all about the moon as if I knew how it was hung and who put it there. (How times have changed!)
Summer down south brings memories of the searing heat and humidity of Florida as it burned my nose upon stepping out of an air conditioned house. Looking out from the car port, the air hung in a literal wave of frizzle. My friends and I would play paddleball with tennis rackets early in the morning just down the street. Then, we would take two city buses to bake on the beach, coated in baby oil like hens on a white-hot grill. “Jaws” had just come out in theatres and, after seeing that movie, we made a pact to stay out of the warm, Fort Lauderdale waters!
The air in Southern California is unlike that of any other area of the country. It’s full of smog, and in the summer, we affectionately refer to the heavy brown stuff as “schmaze.” It’s simply the smog bearing the weight of the heat from this desert environment. Many of the scents of summer here are not much different than those of other seasons in the Golden State…it smells like busy, like constant movement. With cups. And phones. Moving fast, like little bullets in the armor of choice: car, bus, van, motorcycle.
Then there’s me: Swimming Upstream.
In honor of sitting here on the precipice of summer, I have created a lovely, summer chicken dish. It’s simple and refreshing. Pair it with this salad and you have something wonderful to enjoy out on the patio…wherever you spend your summers.
SIMPLE CITRUS CHICKEN
4 split, medium sized, bone-in chicken breasts (2 whole)
1 Lime
1 Lemon
1 Orange
Three tbsp. minced garlic
¼ Cup extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper
Preheat oven to 375 (can also be prepared on gas or charcoal grill). Zest all of the citrus into a small bowl and mix in the garlic. Loosen the skin from all four of the chicken breasts, but do not remove. Place an equal amount of the zest mix under and on top of the skin of each breast. Drizzle over the olive oil and salt and pepper. Bake for 35-45 minutes, until cooked through.
The scent of summer is what stays with me mostly. In Annisquam, Massachusetts, tucked away in the little hills near Gloucester, I recall the smell of bubblegum, earthworms and the salty sea air. We lived within walking distance of the local docks, a favorite hangout for my brothers and me. We little kids would tie some fishing line to a stick, and attach a hook. If we didn’t take the time to dig up worms, we’d use freshly chewed Double Bubble as bait. (I kid you not!)
I would lay face down with my head hanging off of the edge of the dock and excitedly drop my line and yank up as many of those little minnows our bucket could hold. My brothers and I would then march back up the hill to home. Proudly, we presented our haul to Mom, grinning from ear to ear. Our mirth quickly turned to immense disappointment at her refusal to cook up our catch!
In a quiet suburb of Waterbury, Connecticut, the summer sun would set against the backdrop of wildflowers growing in the field on the back side of the cul de sac. Bouquets of balsam and buttercups were punctuated with the beams of fireflies. All of the neighborhood kids stayed out ‘til ten playing hide and go seek. I have a sweet, vivid memory of walking my little brother home. I was about 12 years old and he was maybe 8 and a half. He asked me all about the moon as if I knew how it was hung and who put it there. (How times have changed!)
Summer down south brings memories of the searing heat and humidity of Florida as it burned my nose upon stepping out of an air conditioned house. Looking out from the car port, the air hung in a literal wave of frizzle. My friends and I would play paddleball with tennis rackets early in the morning just down the street. Then, we would take two city buses to bake on the beach, coated in baby oil like hens on a white-hot grill. “Jaws” had just come out in theatres and, after seeing that movie, we made a pact to stay out of the warm, Fort Lauderdale waters!
The air in Southern California is unlike that of any other area of the country. It’s full of smog, and in the summer, we affectionately refer to the heavy brown stuff as “schmaze.” It’s simply the smog bearing the weight of the heat from this desert environment. Many of the scents of summer here are not much different than those of other seasons in the Golden State…it smells like busy, like constant movement. With cups. And phones. Moving fast, like little bullets in the armor of choice: car, bus, van, motorcycle.
Then there’s me: Swimming Upstream.
In honor of sitting here on the precipice of summer, I have created a lovely, summer chicken dish. It’s simple and refreshing. Pair it with this salad and you have something wonderful to enjoy out on the patio…wherever you spend your summers.
SIMPLE CITRUS CHICKEN
4 split, medium sized, bone-in chicken breasts (2 whole)
1 Lime
1 Lemon
1 Orange
Three tbsp. minced garlic
¼ Cup extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper
Preheat oven to 375 (can also be prepared on gas or charcoal grill). Zest all of the citrus into a small bowl and mix in the garlic. Loosen the skin from all four of the chicken breasts, but do not remove. Place an equal amount of the zest mix under and on top of the skin of each breast. Drizzle over the olive oil and salt and pepper. Bake for 35-45 minutes, until cooked through.
Monday, June 7, 2010
A Foodie Flubbed
OK—as promised, a look back in my foodie closet:
In 1999 my husband, Brett, and I planned a trip to Hawaii. This would be my first jaunt over the water to the exotic landscape some Americans actually mistake for another country.
A few weeks before leaving for Hawaii, I came across a review in the Los Angeles Times for a new French restaurant in Honolulu. (Our trip included a one night stay on Oahu before heading over to a resort on Maui.) Since the review was really positive and we wanted each experience during our short trip to be memorable, I called to make a reservation. A really sweet sounding voice picked up the line at the restaurant, one with a very thick French accent. I remember gleefully thinking, “how authentic—French staff; this place is the real deal!”
I explained that I had seen an article in the Los Angeles Times about their restaurant and wanted to make a stop there when we were in Honolulu. She happily recorded our reservation. I didn’t give it another thought other than remembering to write down the address and phone number to take with me on the trip.
After arriving in Honolulu (which was shockingly Vegas-like crowded—people & smoke everywhere) we went straight to our hotel, the Sheraton Waikiki. We were looking forward to our first vacation dinner at the lovely French eatery that evening. It was sure to be a wonderful start to our five days in paradise. (My apologies, I cannot remember the name of this great restaurant!)
We grabbed a taxi over to the restaurant, and once inside marveled at the ornate paintings and rich décor, very savoir-faire. We were greeted by a woman in her mid 50s who spoke in broken English with a heavy French accent—I recognized the voice as the same who had taken my call weeks earlier. I gave our name and said we had a reservation.
Immediately, her demeanor changed. She became a little giddy as she led us, menus in hand, in that kind of hopping walk I have seen in older, cherubic woman. She surely seemed a happy camper at her job! As we sat down, she muttered in French something to the waiters that passed. Brett & I just looked at each other, puzzled, and with a shrug of our shoulders simply decided whatever was going on didn’t have anything to do with us.
The service was perfection at this restaurant! We enjoyed each course, along with delicious wine all while being well-attended to by the wait staff. As we lapped up the remainder of our crème brulee, the older French hostess came by and told us the chef would like to meet us, and would we like a tour of the kitchen.
Brett looked at me, oblivious, “The kitchen," he whispered to me in a question. "Why would we want to see the kitchen?!”
I hushed him, “No, you don’t understand,” I whispered. “Being invited into a chef’s kitchen is an honor!”
“Of course,” I nodded to the older woman, “We would be honored to meet Chef (whatever his name was).” I was thrilled, though had no clue as to why we were chosen for this special peek behind the scenes.
We were then led past the wait staff and into the kitchen. The chef introduced himself, again a very thick, French accent—I could hardly make out what he was saying. And, by now, I had come to see that the hostess was most likely the chef’s mother, and a very proud parent at that!
Chef took us all around his kitchen explaining the layout and showing off all of his gadgets from special mixers to large ovens and the prep areas. I still remember so vividly the huge table where they prepared homemade pastries and desserts. It was all new and quite impressive. Since we really could not understand much dialogue between the pair of them due to the “Frenglish,” a long conversation was impossible, so after the tour, we headed back to our table and paid the bill.
By this time, it had become quite late. As we approached the front of the restaurant, we inquired of the French hostess about a taxi. She smiled, again the French muttering and the hop-hopping leading all three of us out the front door. The evening surprises continued with a shower of rain coming down outside. The hostess motioned for us to just wait near the entrance to the restaurant, and she went skipping down the walk towards the busy street. Before we knew it, this lovely woman was waving her arms wildly in the rain in an attempt to capture a cab for us. It was really quite funny, and so sweet, too; though at this point we were really wondering what had led up to this exhaustive display of service.
My last memory of this restaurant was this adorable lady standing in the street waving goodbye at us as we looked out the back window of the taxi. Wow—if that wasn't the best service ever! It was clear that we were give the royal treatment; no other customer was given that much attention.
Then it hit me! I think she thought we were restaurant critics from the LA Times!
When I first called, maybe all she could make out was LA Times and "reservation." With her poor grasp of the English language, that explanation made perfect sense... the attentive wait staff, the chef, the tour of the kitchen—and best of all, the sweet woman at the heart of the misunderstanding flagging down a cab for us in the pouring rain!
What a great night. Brett and I have a hearty laugh when that memory comes up. The only thing I feel bad about is the absence of any review in the Times after our visit! Our French hostess was most likely tres disappointed.
In 1999 my husband, Brett, and I planned a trip to Hawaii. This would be my first jaunt over the water to the exotic landscape some Americans actually mistake for another country.
A few weeks before leaving for Hawaii, I came across a review in the Los Angeles Times for a new French restaurant in Honolulu. (Our trip included a one night stay on Oahu before heading over to a resort on Maui.) Since the review was really positive and we wanted each experience during our short trip to be memorable, I called to make a reservation. A really sweet sounding voice picked up the line at the restaurant, one with a very thick French accent. I remember gleefully thinking, “how authentic—French staff; this place is the real deal!”
I explained that I had seen an article in the Los Angeles Times about their restaurant and wanted to make a stop there when we were in Honolulu. She happily recorded our reservation. I didn’t give it another thought other than remembering to write down the address and phone number to take with me on the trip.
After arriving in Honolulu (which was shockingly Vegas-like crowded—people & smoke everywhere) we went straight to our hotel, the Sheraton Waikiki. We were looking forward to our first vacation dinner at the lovely French eatery that evening. It was sure to be a wonderful start to our five days in paradise. (My apologies, I cannot remember the name of this great restaurant!)
We grabbed a taxi over to the restaurant, and once inside marveled at the ornate paintings and rich décor, very savoir-faire. We were greeted by a woman in her mid 50s who spoke in broken English with a heavy French accent—I recognized the voice as the same who had taken my call weeks earlier. I gave our name and said we had a reservation.
Immediately, her demeanor changed. She became a little giddy as she led us, menus in hand, in that kind of hopping walk I have seen in older, cherubic woman. She surely seemed a happy camper at her job! As we sat down, she muttered in French something to the waiters that passed. Brett & I just looked at each other, puzzled, and with a shrug of our shoulders simply decided whatever was going on didn’t have anything to do with us.
The service was perfection at this restaurant! We enjoyed each course, along with delicious wine all while being well-attended to by the wait staff. As we lapped up the remainder of our crème brulee, the older French hostess came by and told us the chef would like to meet us, and would we like a tour of the kitchen.
Brett looked at me, oblivious, “The kitchen," he whispered to me in a question. "Why would we want to see the kitchen?!”
I hushed him, “No, you don’t understand,” I whispered. “Being invited into a chef’s kitchen is an honor!”
“Of course,” I nodded to the older woman, “We would be honored to meet Chef (whatever his name was).” I was thrilled, though had no clue as to why we were chosen for this special peek behind the scenes.
We were then led past the wait staff and into the kitchen. The chef introduced himself, again a very thick, French accent—I could hardly make out what he was saying. And, by now, I had come to see that the hostess was most likely the chef’s mother, and a very proud parent at that!
Chef took us all around his kitchen explaining the layout and showing off all of his gadgets from special mixers to large ovens and the prep areas. I still remember so vividly the huge table where they prepared homemade pastries and desserts. It was all new and quite impressive. Since we really could not understand much dialogue between the pair of them due to the “Frenglish,” a long conversation was impossible, so after the tour, we headed back to our table and paid the bill.
By this time, it had become quite late. As we approached the front of the restaurant, we inquired of the French hostess about a taxi. She smiled, again the French muttering and the hop-hopping leading all three of us out the front door. The evening surprises continued with a shower of rain coming down outside. The hostess motioned for us to just wait near the entrance to the restaurant, and she went skipping down the walk towards the busy street. Before we knew it, this lovely woman was waving her arms wildly in the rain in an attempt to capture a cab for us. It was really quite funny, and so sweet, too; though at this point we were really wondering what had led up to this exhaustive display of service.
My last memory of this restaurant was this adorable lady standing in the street waving goodbye at us as we looked out the back window of the taxi. Wow—if that wasn't the best service ever! It was clear that we were give the royal treatment; no other customer was given that much attention.
Then it hit me! I think she thought we were restaurant critics from the LA Times!
When I first called, maybe all she could make out was LA Times and "reservation." With her poor grasp of the English language, that explanation made perfect sense... the attentive wait staff, the chef, the tour of the kitchen—and best of all, the sweet woman at the heart of the misunderstanding flagging down a cab for us in the pouring rain!
What a great night. Brett and I have a hearty laugh when that memory comes up. The only thing I feel bad about is the absence of any review in the Times after our visit! Our French hostess was most likely tres disappointed.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
True Confessions
I realize that what I am about to say is very controversial--and I said from the get-go that I would not use this space to grate my contentions. On the contrary, my recipe for each post intended to produce breezy, benign commentary on family, friends and food. Allow me to risk my paycheck here.
I think I'm a foodie.
Yes, a host of dubious discourse exists in defining the quarter century old term "foodie." The nomenclature was introduced in the 1984 book, The Official Foodie Handbook by Ann Barr and Paul Levy. According to these two journalists, foodies are folks who are just really into food. (It's amusing to me that the authors are based in England--that great gastronomic ghetto.) The infatuation goes beyond consumption, though, into the total epicurean experience including preparation, origin and education about all things food.
Well, that's me. Face it, maybe you as well.
Foodies are a direct result of the vast, seemingly endless access we now have to information. With the advent of cable TV and the Internet came a seat at the table with the so called experts. As a matter of fact, every aspect of pop culture has its niche somewhere in that black hole hooked up to our Dell Notebooks. After all, "Gastroporn" graced the title page of one Foodie Handbook chapter. Need I say more?
Well, I will, of course.
How many cookbooks do you own? Probably not a fraction of the number of manuals your mother relied upon. I rarely crack a book when seeking out recipes, preparation tips or menu ideas. To be sure, I still grab open that annoying plastic covering to my Bon Apetit, flip to the back page and read the Feedback column immediately. I mean, who knows when party conversation will lead to what John Legend keeps in his fridge (eggs, hot sauce and butter--admit it, you wanted to know).
The good news is there's beau-coup banquet room in the Foodie Club, unlike the high brow Gourmet Society of earlier decades. Foodies sometimes just talk about food; rather than preparing or eating it. And, most notably, Foodies are not limited to seemingly sophisticated fare. It's perfectly acceptable for Foodies to wax sophomoric about hot dogs and ketchup! Foodies have been called everything from connoisseurs to wizards, blowhards to fatties, and everything in between. I don't mind though.
Just don't call us late to dinner.
Tune in tomorrow for part two ... I can't wait to share my experience of actually being recognized as a bona-fide Foodie, albeit a bit of a misunderstanding.
I think I'm a foodie.
Yes, a host of dubious discourse exists in defining the quarter century old term "foodie." The nomenclature was introduced in the 1984 book, The Official Foodie Handbook by Ann Barr and Paul Levy. According to these two journalists, foodies are folks who are just really into food. (It's amusing to me that the authors are based in England--that great gastronomic ghetto.) The infatuation goes beyond consumption, though, into the total epicurean experience including preparation, origin and education about all things food.
Well, that's me. Face it, maybe you as well.
Foodies are a direct result of the vast, seemingly endless access we now have to information. With the advent of cable TV and the Internet came a seat at the table with the so called experts. As a matter of fact, every aspect of pop culture has its niche somewhere in that black hole hooked up to our Dell Notebooks. After all, "Gastroporn" graced the title page of one Foodie Handbook chapter. Need I say more?
Well, I will, of course.
How many cookbooks do you own? Probably not a fraction of the number of manuals your mother relied upon. I rarely crack a book when seeking out recipes, preparation tips or menu ideas. To be sure, I still grab open that annoying plastic covering to my Bon Apetit, flip to the back page and read the Feedback column immediately. I mean, who knows when party conversation will lead to what John Legend keeps in his fridge (eggs, hot sauce and butter--admit it, you wanted to know).
The good news is there's beau-coup banquet room in the Foodie Club, unlike the high brow Gourmet Society of earlier decades. Foodies sometimes just talk about food; rather than preparing or eating it. And, most notably, Foodies are not limited to seemingly sophisticated fare. It's perfectly acceptable for Foodies to wax sophomoric about hot dogs and ketchup! Foodies have been called everything from connoisseurs to wizards, blowhards to fatties, and everything in between. I don't mind though.
Just don't call us late to dinner.
Tune in tomorrow for part two ... I can't wait to share my experience of actually being recognized as a bona-fide Foodie, albeit a bit of a misunderstanding.
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