This story originally appeared in The Orange County Register.

The homely russet potato is not much to look at — especially when you compare it to the swirling architectural beauty of a head of Romanesco broccoli, or the seductive lipstick-red of a radish. But the russet’s allure lies beneath its skin: a creamy, unblemished flesh so versatile, it can transform into a bevy of appetizing eats using just about any cooking method invented.

Yes, these grubby little tubers clean up real nice.

One of my favorite russet makeovers is the galette, where potatoes take a cue from the Romanesco’s structural swirl. To make a galette, potatoes are cut into thin slices, then arranged in an overlapping spiral to form a circular tart. Between potato layers, you can use your imagination to add aromatics, herbs and cheese to flavor. I love the combination of onions, garlic and rosemary — it’s a fragrant classic that never disappoints in a potato dish. This combo also works well if you plan to serve the galette with meaty main courses like beef and lamb.

Now, it’s true that traditional galettes are prepared with a pastry crust, but this isn’t necessary when you’re using russet potatoes. When the galette is baked, the potato slices act as both crust and filling — the top and bottom layers crisp and brown into a crust all its own, while the galette’s center remains pillowy and light. After baking, the galette is inverted to showcase a smooth, even surface of golden potato goodness. (And I promise, inverting it is a lot easier than you may think.)

There are a few methods for making a potato galette, but the breeziest is baking with a nonstick cookie sheet. The sheet acts as a blank, wide canvas for you to create your masterpiece, and the Teflon coating keeps individual potato slices from sticking to the sheet when you eventually flip the galette over onto a serving plate.

This is also a recipe where you can brush up your knife skills. Making thin, wispy potato slices may take a bit of patience if you’re a newbie, but the end result is well worth it. And don’t worry if your slices are uneven or slivered. You can arrange slices to mask these imperfections – but only if you want. In my experience, the flawed, rustic galettes are the best ones. (more…)

When I was a kid, coming home from school to the aromas of cinnamon, star anise and ginger meant that we would have pho for dinner. Score! I’d throw my backpack on the couch and run to the kitchen to watch my grandfather char onions halves and ginger over the open flame of a burner until they turned black. He’d let me add them into the pot when they had cooled a bit.

When I got older and moved out of the house, I took those scents along with me. Nowadays, it seems I can’t make a stock or broth without using those ingredients to flavor them. There’s always a little Vietnamese inspiration in even the most American soups I serve, like split pea or even this chicken and rice soup. It’s good for any occasion, even an elegant one, if you know how to plate it. I’ll explain.

Say you’ve made this soup and you’re eating it out of a mug, only later you realize that you need something more elegant. In other words, something to help you apologize to your boyfriend after you’ve had a fight. Well, you can turn this soup from homey to handsome with just a few tricks. Pack the rice into a small ramekin to mold it into a circular shape, then overturn the ramekin onto a shallow bowl. You’ll have a neat little rice mound where you can artfully arrange the shredded chicken and parsley. And here’s the kicker: If you’re really in the doghouse with your boyfriend, you pour the hot chicken broth into the bowls at tableside. Now that’s service that says “I’m sorry.”

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

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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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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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Every now and then I wish I could poke little children with spoons. Why? Because there are few things in this world that we like to see inflated. A soufflé is one of them. A bratty little puffy-cheeked child is not.

Somewhere in time, children learned that the way to personal satisfaction was to fold one’s arms, inflate your cheeks and take as deep a breath as your little lungs will allow. You’d hold your breath until you got your way, no matter what kaleidoscope color action was happening on your face. Often, there would be a pleading parent in the immediate vicinity. This is called the Face-Off, and it ends horribly each time — with either a passed-out toddler or a bruised adult ego.

Ego-wounded adults, this is where spoons come in. We know that poking any soufflé with a spoon results with its collapse almost upon contact. My clever mother knew that the only way to deflate me during these patience-trying times was to poke me — lightly, but firm — with a spoon (or a pointer finger, if a spoon was not available). This resulted in giggles, which signaled that I had started breathing again. Mom, 1, me, 0. The experiment concluded with positive results every single time.

Children and souffles weren’t meant to remain inflated for long periods of time; they have to depuff at some point. With both subjects,  a little prodding allows the depuffication to happen sooner rather than later. I hope this information is helpful to the moms and dads who suffer through the public tantrums of their children (like the family I ran into at the supermarket a few months ago).

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

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I always thought that any grilled sandwich with at least a 2:1 ratio of cheese to meat/veggies/etc. could be correctly defined as a grilled cheese. Currently 44 percent of voters on Serious Eats disagree. To this majority, grilled cheese is nothing more than bread, cheese and heat. Are they right?

Think of Campanile’s Grilled Cheese Night, and how it might offend this group of purists with it’s weekly nightmare of “grilled cheese” dishes like burrata with capers, both versions of Croque and Ahi tuna. None of these fit the literal meaning of grilled cheese as defined by this group. (I picture the purists huddled in a picketing pack outside of the restaurant, holding signs depicting sandwiches with big red Xs drawn through them.)

If we continue accepting only literal meanings, then many playful spins on certain culinary words wouldn’t quite work. Any reference of the word “steak” that doesn’t apply to actual meat would be wrong (one example that comes to mind is Marcel’s watermelon steak with tomatoes on season 2 of “Top Chef”). I’d also argue that the only true grilled cheese is just the cheese itself, like a grilled Halloumi or queso fundido. Being rigid in definitions takes the fun out of creating new dishes, doesn’t it?

Serious Eats reader Pavlov sums it up best with his comment: “A grilled cheese is whatever I say it is!”

That’s perfect. A grilled cheese is defined by whatever you say it is. It can be classic or have all the bells and whistles of a Campanile grilled cheese.

So today, my definition of grilled cheese has marinated onions, Dijon mustard and skirt steak — a personal homage to my favorite offering on Campanile’s menu. If you’re inclined, you can serve it with watermelon steaks for a truly non-literal meal.

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

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If you ever need to find me in a crowd, just follow the string of heavy silences I leave in my wake. It goes like this: I’ll say something, you’ll nod your head and smile, and then you’ll stand frozen while holding your mojito, wishing desperately that someone will come along and save you from me. Eerie silence ensues.

It happened recently when I met Michael Chiarello at a “Top Chef Masters” preview event. There were fans looking over my shoulder, PR reps flanking Chiarello and all kinds of activity in between. In an attempt to ask him something for a follow-up story I wanted to write, I managed to winnow that boisterous man down to a nodding and smiling animatronic. (Cue the crickets.) I’m not quite sure how I do it, but it may have something to do with nervously ramming three questions together in a single, incoherent sentence.

It’s kind of weird being a journalist who gets panicky around selective sources.

The Symposium for Professional Food Writers was yet another event that had me exponentially intimidated. The sheer number of attendees who’ve published cookbooks, the James Beard awards won and the fact that most of them could grow flourishing gardens with both hands tied behind their backs made me feel like a fraud. I’ve written some stories here and there, but did I really know anything about food? I can barely keep a potted thyme alive for longer than a month.

But my nerves subsided slightly when I met cookbook author Tara Mataraza Desmond. Her friendly nature put me at ease, foreshadowing what the week-long conference would be like: welcoming and encouraging. It was exactly what I needed. I had my awkward moments for sure, but I wasn’t a basket case (well, not the whole time). Had I not met Tara in the elevator minutes before the symposium began, I wonder if my experience would have been a little more anxiety-ridden.

So when Tara sent an e-mail to SPFW attendees about a blogger potluck being held in conjunction with her new cookbook “Almost Meatless: Recipes That Are Better for Your Health and the Planet,” I jumped at the chance to join in. The book is co-written by Joy Manning, with recipes that emphasize grains and veggies rather than meat (that’s the “Almost” part). I took on the shrimp and slow-roasted tomato risotto.

As a journalist, I think it may be difficult for me to write an unbiased review of this recipe because I’ve met Tara and think her a genuine and thoughtful person. So I’ll just leave you with this: The recipe reflects the person. And I’ll replace my own further thoughts with letting the recipe and photos speak for themselves. Or better yet, what do you think of them? (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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