Down-to-Earth Inspiration (Fall Cookbooks)

Once every few weeks, I pull one of a stack of boxes from my clothes closet and lift the lid with a mix of verve and trepidation.  Sleeping—or, more accurately, hibernating—head to toe are objects known to most as pumps and to me as relicts.  Until Elinor was born, including the final weeks before that delicious day, they accompanied me to the office five days a week.  Now, I rely on flats, except when Dave and I venture out to taste the latest from San Francisco’s restaurants.

Last weekend, I unearthed a pair of black, pointed-toe d’Orsay stilettos, the kind with tomato-red soles, to accompany me to dinner and drinks.  We started at a so-called tavern, where carbon-filament bulbs narrowly illuminate walnut-paneled walls and the fare is standard turn-of-the-twentieth-century San Francisco: roasted marrow, oysters on the half-shell, and the rough-and-tumble Hangtown Fry.  My kind of place.

Later, we sauntered down a 25-percent-grade hill, which felt at least twice that in three-inch heels, to the unmarked door of a speakeasy.  After providing the proper password, the hostess showed us to our high-back oak booth, where we tucked into a few cocktails (in truth, I sipped one, the most I’ve had in the last 21 months) of an earlier era.  Think frothy egg whites, gastriques, absinthe.  Then cue the Paul Whiteman tracks.  My drink, The Liberal, combined rye whiskey with sweet vermouth and Amer Picon, the herbal orange bitters from France.  It was sublime, but would have been truly so served in my beloved coupe glass.

Nights out like this one, or eating out in general, inspire.  For us, they beget lively conversation.  For me, seeing how a chef treats an ingredient, whether in its preparation or a companion flavor, often provides fodder for home cooking.  But what I appreciate moreso about eating out is seeing what I consider the chef’s living, breathing portfolio.  What story is woven from the menu, how the food is plated, the ambiance, the friendliness of the staff?  From these observations, the chef’s philosophy begins to show through.  Yet, I remain somewhat skeptical of these details, wondering how many decisions were made with an eye for minimizing food costs and if the decor’s narrative is an attempt to compensate for deficiencies in the food.  In the end, restaurants are businesses trading in food; computations of black and red muffle creativity and credo.

Cookbooks, on the other hand, are a more intimate, pure conversation with the author.  For one, to write the requisite and much appreciated introduction, the writer must step back to consider her fundamental assumptions about food, the ideologies that will underlie her collection of recipes.  I enjoy introductions immensely, whatever their length, because, through them, I am in direct conversation with the author about a profoundly intimate topic—why she cooks and how.  This is inspiration of another kind, less polished and highfalutin, more cozy and down to earth.  And while glam is fun on occasion, I’ll take grounded most any day of the week.  For this, Dave’s and Elinor’s bellies thank me.  And so do my feet.

What follows are my favorite print conversations with cooks these days.  May they inspire you to cook and to eat well in these dark months. [donotprint]

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Just give me the goods. Souploveis a darling, self-published pamphlet in which Oaklander Rebecca Stevens gives “12 simple seasonable soup recipes.”  With precise instructions and accessible ingredients, these recipes are made for weekday cooking.  The summer recipes, like Tomato Fennel with dry sherry, were bright and thoughtful and have me eager to try the fall and winter options, like Roasted Mushroom with sage and Pure Parsnip with a splash of white wine and apple juice.  Double any of these and make ahead my favorite fall salad dressing (1 minced shallot, 1/2 cup buttery extra-virgin olive oil, 3 tablespoons sherry vinegar, unrefined sea salt, and freshly milled pepper).  Then add a loaf of crusty, naturally leavened bread, and you’ve got dinner for everyone, big and small, all week.

Recipes with style and a dash of storytelling.  Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, two old friends and veteran food-industry stand-outs, share a studio space in which they cook and eat and write and photograph beautiful, real food in Canal House Cooking.  Can I join?  For now, only via their quarterly cooking journal, equal parts cookbook, narrative, and food magazine.  Each issue is arranged by whatever topics currently inspire them—this summer, for instance, featured sections such as Avocado Love, Luncheon Salads, and Gone Fishin’.  The writing is pithy and the recipes homey and traditional.  The current volume, the fifth, bound in vibrant royal-blue linen, is entitled The Good Life, in other words, holiday eating.  Being a lover of all liver-based food, my heart jumped upon seeing The Big Livers section.  Those less inclined to offal will appreciate Holiday Sweets, with recipes for the doughnut-hole-like Nuns’ Farts and Pear Upside-Down Cake.  The recipe Chicken & Mushrooms defines fall and is waiting to be made for a group of friends on a dark, chilly night soon.  And, while the topics vary from volume to volume, the first, It’s Always Five O’Clock Somewhere, is constant.  Thankfully.

Part memoir, part entertaining tome. Unlike his previous book of seasonal menus, heart of the artichoke and other kitchen journeys, the new book by Davis Tanis, the Chez Panisse chef, introduces two new sections.  One talks about kitchen rituals, those “ordinary, private moments” in the kitchen—peeling an apple, eating oatmeal, beans on toast, and resealable plastic bags; I especially appreciate this section, colored with short, vivid prose, given my recent inclination to a spoonful of coconut oil and raw honey as an afternoon snack.  The other new section, Simple Feasts for a Long Table, offers four clean, thoughtful menus for feeding a crowd of 15 to 20 people.  I’m tempted to try the Turkey Deconstructed menu, which solves the problem of dry breasts and just-cooked legs by roasting the breasts and braising the legs.  Brilliant.  The rest of the book is seasonal menus in Tanis’s standard understated style, self-described in a recent reading I attended as “thinking of food in its simplest essence and then adding a few clothes.”  While the menus tend toward Mediterranean flavors, Tanis includes polished Vietnamese and Middle Eastern menus, too.  Another that I will definitely try draws from his time cooking in Santa Fe: a platter of jicama, radishes, and oranges to start followed by slow-cooked carne adovada (braised pork shoulder with a chili paste) with hominy and Mexican-chocolate ice cream to finish.  With its creamy, matte pages, photos by Christopher Hirsheimer, and tight writing, this is a lovely book to behold.

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Text and photo © Blue Egg Kitchen 2010

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