Things have gotten busy in my corner, starting with the launch of a food blog with Orange Coast magazine (covering foodthings in Orange County!). Almost exactly on the blog’s launch date, things at my day job swelled, and I’m working longer hours to meet the writing/editing demands. It’s hairy, to say the least.

I’m not at all complaining, though. Life is full right now. But thankfully, it’s full of very, very awesome things.

All of this means I’ve been coming home later than usual. Instead of cooking, I’d much rather order pizza or some Thai, or (ideally) have someone spoon feed me soup or bread pudding for dinner. I specifically say bread pudding because it’s one of the most ultimate comfort foods, one where you don’t have to expel much effort to eat it. Bread pudding requires little chewing, if any at all. And right off of the spoon, it slithers down the back of your throat in a savory mush that warms your insides in a medicinal sort of way. (I underbake it just to experience this exact sensation every time.) Other mushy foods like mashed potatoes and guacamole tend to stick to the roof of your mouth, but bread pudding seems to know where it’s going right from the get-go.  You spoon it in,  and down it goes without any resistance at all. And it’s got chutzpah: If it could, I bet the it would make it’s own little slurping noises when you swallow it.

I bought Sunday Suppers at Lucques at the Los Angeles Times book fair a few years ago. Chef Suzanne Goin was perched in a booth signing books for a line that was at least 45 minutes long. After she signed mine, I sat on the grass and flipped through it, almost immediately landing on this recipe for caramelized bread pudding with chocolate and cinnamon. With that page alone, Goin made me a fan.

Now, if only someone would make this bread pudding for me before I summon the pizza guy. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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“I think it would be cool to fly a helicopter,” my boyfriend said while pummeling his Xbox controls one afternoon. He had spent the last 10 minutes maneuvering his way through the skies of “Grand Theft Auto” on the Annihilator, a chopper with a seemingly endless supply of manly ammo. He’s right, I thought. It would be cool. Just not on the Annihilator. I made a reservation for an intro flying lesson soon after.

Whenever I’m on a plane, I like to stare out the window and imagine that the tiny world below is edible. The plowed, circular fields of Iowa look like wheat crackers. The Grand Canyon is an artsy bowl that can be filled with almost any kind of soup. Red barns and silos pass for sausages, and clouds are either wisps of cotton candy or the fluffy tops of meringue pies. (I always request a window seat.)

Helicopters though, are nothing like planes: instead of hurling down the runway for takeoff, it was more like God himself had cupped his hands together and carried us calmly upward and across the sky. I snapped panoramic views of the city with my camera, stopping only when I noticed that everything was looking rather edible.

Huh, I thought. The Queen Mary looks like a sushi roll. I closed one eye and pretended to pick the ship up between my fingers. Tree clusters resembled broccoli, and roads became thin strands of black licorice. Even buildings looked like Chiclets and petit fours. The world was just a giant, crowded dinner table.

It went on like this until I noticed the clouds, which weren’t quite the meringues they usually are when they form fluffy pictures in the sky. Seeing that, I made a silent promise to make my own. Clouds, that is.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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There’s this story of a famous journalist who started his career at a daily paper in a town so tiny, that there was no real news to write about. I mean, we’re talking daily AP photos of squirrels on skis and a whole lotta bake sale stories.

But he refused to settle for those ho-hum tales. Instead, this guy would throw a dart at a city map that was hanging on his wall, and wherever the dart landed was where he was going to find his next story. It didn’t matter if the dart pierced the middle of an intersection or the corner of an open corn field. He would find a story.

Using that method, he met all kinds of interesting people, and equally interesting stories ensued. Now, he’s a big-deal reporter in a metropolitan city. Bake sales be damned.

I never learned the name of this guy – and that detail alone makes the tale scream fiction over fact. But real or not, it reminds me to think creatively when developing recipes: Pick an ingredient and develop the flavors around it, just as he picked a place and developed a story around it.

The tale also helps when choosing one recipe over another to try. But instead of using the dart method, I close my eyes and mix up all the cookbooks on my office floor, then point a finger at a page. There. Done.

It was a similar situation when I made this Gorgonzola and leek crème brulee. It was one in a handful of recipes that we testers at Leite’s Culinaria had to choose from in order to fulfill our monthly testing duties. I closed my eyes, and with finger poised at the computer screen, I made a selection.

Only, as luck would have it, my fat, sausage-of-a-finger landed on three recipes instead of one. Of course, I thought. Just when this dart method of choosing was proving to be foolproof, this happens.

But fat finger be damned. I made them all.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for more)

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Being in a sour mood doesn’t always have to mean that you want to plant crossed arms in front of your chest or scrunch up your face and hold it there for as long as you can. Being in a sour mood can be a good thing.

Like when you’re in the mood for something sour, for example.

I for one am a big advocate for putting sour cream in quick breads like muffins, pancakes and coffee cake. Sour cream adds a moistness (fat! Yes!) and tang without even a mutter of its presence. If it’s added in the right quantity, you won’t even know it’s there. It’s ummph, and just because it’s pucker-worthy doesn’t mean it’s having a bad day.

(Click “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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In my early years of college, I was editor-in-chief of our campus newspaper. The first decision I made under that title had nothing to do with breaking news or investigative stories, however. Instead of getting down to business, I planned a party instead.

It was kind of business-related. I thought it would be cool to have a summer bonfire at one of the local beaches as kind of a get-to-know informal event, so editors could befriend some of the incoming writers and vice versa. We’d have a united staff, I thought, bonded equally by our love of sniffing out the news and the strong friendships that would stem out of this gathering. It was gonna rock.

And initially, at least 30 staff members also thought it was gonna rock, all agreeing to come after we settled on a date in August that worked with everyone’s schedule. As it drew nearer, I started stocking up on goodies like booze and s’more ingredients.

On the day of the bonfire, people slowly trickled in — until the attendee flow just stopped completely. In all, seven people, including myself, showed up. I’ll never forget the moment we gathered around the fire, outnumbered by the boxes and grocery bags that lay before us. I sat there lost in my thoughts of failure in bringing our staff together. But then I heard a laugh, breaking my concentration. “Well, we can have a bottle each,” he said, pointing to the cooler full of vodka, rum and juice. Hmm. There was a bright side after all.

So there we were, all seven of us, with a gazillion boxes of graham crackers, a boatload of family-size Hershey bars and an estimated 3 pounds of marshmallows. And at least 10 bottles of top-shelf rum and vodka.

We drank like kings that night.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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Hey all,

Here’s my latest Food 101 column, which appeared today in the print version of The Orange County Register. It’s not online on the paper’s site, so I’ve posted it below. Thanks for reading!

Potatoes to the rescue
The creamy, mashed dish is a smashing success with most any main course.

By CYNTHIA FUREY
Special to the Register

Stories of superheroes and sidekicks have lined the pages of comic books for ages. Though it’s true that quite of few of these superheroes perform their mighty deeds alone, many of them do have help. The same rings true for main courses and sides: Both have lined your dinner table for ages, mightily feeding your friends, family and dinner guests. But unlike superheroes, something seems amiss when a main course appears without accompaniment. Yes, that beef tenderloin is a glorious spectacle on its own, but it would benefit from an equally glorious supporting cast of characters to share the table with.

Enter mashed potatoes, one of those classic sidekicks that work with almost all protein dishes. Dress them up with Parmesan and mash them until they’re silky, and you can serve them with an elegant roast. Add cheddar with potatoes and their skins, and you’ve got a dish you can take to a picnic or barbecue. Every good cook should have at least one mashed potato recipe in their back pocket, at the ready for when you need to fill a vacant slot on your menu.

I call my own recipe Kitchen Sink Mashed Potatoes, because it seems there’s a little bit of everything in them. Now, I must warn you, these mashed potatoes aren’t for the faint of heart, or those who want to fit into their bathing suits this summer. They will stick to your like the Freshmen 15 you gained in college, like the clingy significant other you eventually managed to shake off. The red potatoes in this recipe merely act as a vehicle for butter, cheese and cream. (But in the recipe’s defense, that can also be said for many mashed potato recipes.)

What they do lack in modesty, however, they make up for in flavor. For one, there’s the aforementioned trifecta of ingredients that seem to make everything taste better, while also functioning in the recipe as texture helpers: Butter and heavy cream add creaminess and fluff, while Parmesan cheese gives them a bit of tang. There’s also enough garlic in them that there’s a chance you may still taste them next week. (If you’re not a garlic fan, by all means, scale back on the quantity called for below.) A touch of chicken stock beefs them up.

While the potatoes are cooling it helps to have a mise en place (a French phrase that literally translates to “everything in place” or “putting in place”). Grate your cheese, chop your garlic and measure all liquids and spices and place them around your work area within an arms distance. When the time comes for you to add these ingredients, you won’t have to stop what you’re doing to measure, pour or chop. It helps to have a mise en place with all recipes.

Kitchen Sink Mashed Potatoes call for grated Parmesan cheese, but you can substitute with other Italian hard cheeses like Asiago or Romano, or a blend of all of them. Mild and sharp cheddar cheese will also work well. Red rose potatoes are used because they can be boiled without breaking down (like their Russet siblings). It’s your choice to keep the potato skins on or off.

You can make them a day ahead of time, stored in refrigerator and reheated on the stove in a pot or in the microwave in a bowl. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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I’d like to write a book.
There, I said it.

That’s something I’ve had trouble admitting to people, for fear of them saying something like “You? A book? What makes you think you’re interesting/knowledgeable/talented enough to write a book?”

But after the Symposium for Professional Food Writers conference, I don’t have trouble telling people this anymore. After you sheepishly admit something like that to Michael Ruhlman himself while at dinner one night, you kind of get over your fear. His responses: “I wanted to write a book when I was your age, too,” followed by, “About what?” and “Why?” Hmm.

Well, I want to write about food. I want to write about food and memory and life and love and all that. Memoir-style. Because I’ve been blessed with a multiracial background, with a loving mother stuck in the ways of pre-war Vietnam, who tried to raise her child in that old manner in this new country. Because there’s a lot to explore in this often hot-blooded mother-daughter relationship, both culturally and personally, that I hope can help other mother-daughter teams out there understand their own relationship dynamics.

Even more, because there’s a story in my Irish/Italian father, too. He’s a lover of Mexican food who told me that he believes he’s an alien from another planet, sent to Earth because his brother wanted to be king of said planet. My father apparently was next in line for the throne. A year later, I would meet him for the first time in 22 years.

And because I believe food heals. Not in the way a person temporarily binges away depression, or in the medicinal or nutritious way, but in that can’t-put-your-finger-on-it, soul-calming way. If you let it, it will assemble you back together and make you whole again. People really need to know that food can do this. It’s certainly done this for me.

I kinda wish I wasn’t embarrassed to detail this to Ruhlman when he asked. I said something along the lines of “I don’t know, I have time; I’ll figure it out.” He probably would have given me some great advice. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for more)

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This week I’ve been at the Greenbrier in  West Virginia for the annual Symposium for Professional Food Writers. The bad news is that it’s coming to a close tomorrow, but the good news (well, for me anyway!) is that I’ll be back to blogging. I’ll report back with interesting tidbits and such next week.  Have a lovely weekend!