I’m not gonna lie. This isn’t a gourmet dish that came about through many moons of research and testing. It was birthed when its parents, desperation and craving, met late one night in a refrigerator half-stocked with vegetables my mother has never heard of and more booze than I would ever care to tell her about. We all know that chance encounters sometimes don’t work out, but on that night, desperation and craving were at the right place at the right time. It was love at first sight.

Desperation wanted to use all of the ingredients in the kitchen that were on their last legs. Craving wanted nothing more than a giant bowl of wiggly spaetzle — the same spaetzle that caused a young culinary student (ahem) to hide in a corner of the kitchen storeroom while shoveling it into her mouth with her bare hands.

Together, desperation and craving created a meal with echoes of that curious day when three-quarters of the spaetzle mysteriously disappeared from the Culinary Arts 122 class. Only this time, there was broccoli rabe, prosciutto and toasted pine nuts to share the spotlight. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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Hey all! Here’s my latest installment of “Food 101,” which was published in The Orange County Register today.
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Now that the Superbowl is right around the corner, how about treating your friends and family to a super appetizer along with those obligatory chips, dip and wings?

Crab-stuffed mushrooms only look difficult to make. A large tray with an army of mini sized appetizers, each little soldier with a browned, bubbling cheese crust only suggests that you’ve painstakingly slaved over them for days. Really, the most work you’ve done is chop up some vegetables and spoon filling into some mushroom caps.

Don’t let the ingredient list intimidate you, either. The bulk of it is just vegetables and cheeses that you will cook and mix together in a large bowl. All of these ingredients can be found in your neighborhood supermarket, even the jarred crab meat (check the fresh seafood display).

And if you really want to impress your friends, make sure to grab some lemons while at the store. Ever wonder why lemon wedges are served alongside fish? It’s because their tartness brightens the subtle, sweet flavors in seafood. You can experiment for yourself: Once the stuffed mushrooms have cooled slightly, pop one in your mouth and observe the taste: it’s good, right? Now sprinkle some lemon juice on a second stuffed mushroom and munch on that. Pow! Flavors are instantly enhanced, and you can really taste that crab.

For this recipe, you will need a large bowl, large frying or sauté pan, and a baking pan – maybe two. You can also prepare the filling a day ahead of time. Just make sure to refrigerate and cover with plastic wrap. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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There once was a Le Creuset pot,
Whose insides were blackened a lot,
When a cook disregarded
To stir constantly when prompted –
Please learn from her: stir more often than not!

You and I both know that candymaking requires way more attention than say, a casserole or whatever you cook in that Set-it-and-Forget-it Ronco thing you got for Christmas. I don’t have to tell you that. But I do have to tell me that.

It’s what I like to call Recipe Performance Fatigue. After making a recipe a dozen times, you start to get a little lazy with it. Ingredients are skipped, corners are cut. The beauty of cooking is that most of the time, your dish will still be fabulous despite the RPF tendencies you gravitated toward while making it. But candymaking doesn’t have room for all that corner-cutting. This is especially true when you’re making caramels and are dealing with sugar that boils and bubbles like the contents of an active Hawaiian volcano.

RPF is how I skipped the part about “stirring constantly,” ultimately leading to the stubborn black circle of carbon lining the bottom of my beloved enameled pot.

But I will say that the Le Creuset pot’s demise wasn’t in vain. For one, I’ve been scrubbing and soaking it for a couple of weeks and it seems to be slowly helping in lifting out the blackened mess. And to my surprise, the batch of caramels set up beautifully, glistening and cracking in all the right places when you cut them. And they were lacking any foul taste that would hint at my kitchen debacle. It was a Christmas miracle, so much so that I had to sprinkle them with fleur de sel — delicate flakes and tiny cubes that would come as close to snow as Southern California would allow. RPF, eat your heart out! Now, back to scrubbing my pot.

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

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I have in my kitchen what one local chef tells me is “the kiss of death.”

“An electric range?” she asks. “How do you ever get anything done with one of those contraptions?”

Well, I told her, it’s getting easier. But it’s still an uphill battle.

Moving from my previous apartment meant leaving the luxury and reliable power of gas, where everything cooked evenly and the oven temperature was always spot-on. What a dream that was.

Now I’ve got this shifty nightmare with hardened coils in place of those glowing rings of blue flames.

Simple tasks, like using the broiler to brown things like garlic bread and Croque Monsieur, are super tricky. This broiler gets points for reaching temperature at the drop of a hat, yet it’s one hell of an overachiever, blackening everything in its path within a matter of seconds. How odd that the familiar scent of garlic, butter and bread turns to that other familiar odor of char and carbon the minute you turn your back to the stove. Kiss of death, indeed.

This is why I say thank goodness for blowtorches.

Though one can toast garlic bread without a broiler under normal oven settings, the drama of literally taking matters into your own hands is kind of therapeutic when your counter is lined with pans of blackened oblong shadows of the meal accompaniments they once were.

A blowtorch means angry flames shooting out of your fingertips to match the anger in your heart every time you pull a charred one from the broiler. It means victory.

So maybe I’m not skilled enough for the technology of an electric range yet, and maybe I have a bit of an inner pyro. But despite the kiss of death, I do have my garlic bread. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.) (more…)

You know what I like about Thomas Keller’s recipes (aside from everything)? His simplicity. Yeah, he’s got intricate recipes with ingredients not readily available to many home cooks, but when he gets the chance to be simple, he’s good at it. Especially when we’re talking about recipe titles.

For the most part, Keller takes a no-frills approach when naming his recipes. His brownie recipe from ad hoc at home is simply titled “brownies” — minus any capitalization and all the other things you can add to a title (i.e., “double chocolate brownies” or “best brownies in the whole freaking world”). Things many of us do to try and make our recipes stand out from the rest of the pack. He doesn’t need all that.

ad hoc at home, Keller’s latest installment, is by far my favorite.  It’s also the first Keller book that I’ve seriously cooked from, unless you count the time I made Bouchon’s onion soup. Though fantastic, it came at a steep price: Cooking the required 8 pounds of onions for 4 hours made my tiny apartment smell like I had a Funyun party the night before. With each passing day the intensity of the onion scent diminished, but the actual scent got worse. It went from smelling like sweet caramelized onions to the inside the mouth of a halitosis sufferer. But I’d spend another 4 hours of my life stirring a stock pot full of onions for that rich, buttery onion soup.

The wafting aroma of baking brownies is much easier to stomach than that of 8 pounds of slow-cooked onions. And in winter, a house smelling of chocolate and warmed by an oven is one of life’s pleasures. A simple pleasure, just like Keller’s brownies. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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(Note: Giveaway rules appear right under the recipe.)

Friends, the gods are totally smiling upon me today, for today is a double holiday. Not only is it Thanksgiving, but it’s also (Drumroll! Fanfare!) Furey & the Feast’s first birthday. Which means there’s turkey, pie AND birthday cake. I might add that it’s not just any birthday cake, but it’s a chocolate cake.

A microwave chocolate cake. (Are those crickets I hear?)

Normally I’m not too keen on using the nukebox as a cooking method, but this is a special case.

I was 9 or 10 years old when I bought my first cookbook, which I ordered from the pages of that Scholastic book club newsletter you get every month when you’re in elementary school. “Hershey’s Fabulous Desserts” had this beautiful chocolate cake on the cover, all done-up with chocolate curls and strawberry garnishes. What a cookbook was doing in an Scholastic newsletter I have no idea, but I remember thinking something along the lines of holy crap, I can make that?

Among the 140 recipes in this cookbook, there were only a handful of them that a child could make without parental know-how and knowledge. One of them was this cake. My mom had banned sweets from the house long ago, so this cake was, in my eyes, the greatest of mankind’s achievements. I could have cake every single weekday of  summer while my mom was at work, thanks to the ease of the microwave. She’d never know.

So in honor of these childhood and blog firsts, I wanted to “bake” this cake again. Back then, each forkful of cake laced with deviousness was especially delightful. Without that element, would it taste the same after all this time?

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

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My column ran today in The Orange County Register print edition today. It’s not available online, so I’ve posted it here. Thanks for reading!
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Every year, we look forward to the annual holiday eating rituals: A golden, grand dame of a turkey, savory sides and a sweet finale with pumpkin pie front and center. (And if you’re household is like mine, the obligatory post-feast nap follows soon after.)

Though there’s nothing wrong with these traditions, why not mix it up a bit? This year, you may want to surprise your guests by serving pumpkin pie at the beginning of the meal instead of at dessert. How? By turning it into a soup. The transformation can be made even easier by using canned pumpkin instead of fresh, yielding fantastic results.

Canned food often gets a bad rap for being, well, canned. And rightly so; fresh ingredients are almost always better in recipes. But there are few exceptions to this rule, and canned pumpkin is one of them. For one, the canned variety is way easier to use. When you’ve got your hands full with roasting a bird and preparing sides to go with it, chopping, boiling and mashing fresh pumpkin isn’t making the best use of your time. Tip: When buying canned pumpkin, make sure you’re getting “pumpkin puree” instead of “pumpkin pie mix,” which is offered in similar-sized cans with almost identical labels.

This recipe yields a spicy soup that’s just reminiscent enough of a pumpkin pie to seem like a before-dinner treat, but packs enough savory ingredients to warrant it a place as a starter or first course. And with the welcome addition of bacon, cream and butter (necessary ingredients for happiness, in my opinion), everyone’s a winner.

The following long list of ingredients may look intimidating, but I promise the procedures are quite simple: You simply cook everything in one pot. If you have a formal party and want an elegant soup, you can puree it for a soft, velvety texture. But it’s just as good when left as a hearty, rustic soup.

When I make this soup, I like to serve it with pie crust “crackers” on the side. Take some ready-made pie dough (or homemade, if you have it), roll it out and use cookie cutters to cut rounds from the dough. Bake rounds on a baking sheet according to package directions.

Another fun way to serve this soup is in shot glasses. If there are appetizers before dinner, you can easily slide a tray of these onto any table, and guests can help themselves to pumpkin soup shooters. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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Dear readers, I am in a funk. And not the good kind that allows you to wear a sequined gold dress and your sunglasses at night. The kind where everything you cook burns or tastes weird and everything you write reads cliché. It’s not a good place to be.

But onward we go, because cooking and writing is what we do here, however cringeworthy or awesome either turn out.

In the span of one week, four out of the five dishes prepared by my hands ended up as spectacular trainwrecks – ones that made microwaved frozen meals look like five-star food. The sole saving grace was this pasta with meat sauce, which is made annually at the first sign of winter’s chilly weather. It’s a hearty sauce thicker than blood, like an Italian chili almost, that goes well with garlic bread and even eaten alone in a bowl with a large spoon, should you be so bold.

In this case, it’s paired with a fresh pasta recipe adapted from Michael Ruhlman’s “Ratio,” using just the basics: flour and eggs. Nothing else.

I’ve been making this meat sauce for years, and thus it’s a recipe built on intuition. It’s a sauce that does its job and does it well, and with all of the flops I’ve been cranking out lately, it also helps to remind me that success, however little or large, is very, very sweet. And filling. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipes)

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