Underground Food Academy Update

The Underground Food Academy is up and running!

With over 130 students signed up and a half a dozen classes in the works, things are going exceedingly well. Last Sunday brought the inaugural class- a visit to Alemany Farms. Alemany Farms is an urban farm, right off the 280 freeway just on the side of one of the hills that makes Bernal Heights. Arriving at the farm, I had more than a little worry that my students wouldn’t be into it. After all, they were in for more than a few hours of actual, physical labor paid off by a harvest and simple farmhouse dinner of locally sourced meats and cheeses. But everyone dove in and got their hands all kinds of dirty. I felt slightly awkward taking (what I thought would be) the cushy job of weeding raspberry plants while a couple of them picked up shovels to fold in the new horse manure into the compost. But they were into it. Seriously.

Through the day we weeded, composted and harvested. And none of it was easy work. Even picking green beans for the dinner, which I thought would be really rewarding, took its toll on my back before too long. Within hours I had such a greater appreciation for all the effort that goes into the food on my plate.

Dinner was locally themed, as I took a cue from the urban farm to source meats, cheeses and wines produced as close to city centers as possible. We had a great goat cheese from Petaluma, a sheep’s milk from San Andreas, plus a kick-ass Mt. Tam from Cowgirl Creamery. Charcuterie came from Framani and Molieri in the east bay. So good, and so damn satisfying.


Class #2 took an entirely different tack, as we visited Adam Smith at Fog City News for a seven course chocolate tasting. Adam has amassed one of the most astounding chocolate bar collections in the city, and his knowledge of chocolate is more than a little impressive. He took the group on a descending tour of cocoa percentage. All the way down to zero with our toes dipping into the dark, sinister world of white chocolate. He talked us from bean to bar and back again, explained the difference between a chocolate maker and a chocolatier and gave me some good ideas for field trips. We rounded out the tasting with some mix-ins with my suggestions. Bacon! Cardamom! Salt! Everyone left with a few bars and a stomachache. Job well done.

Next up, well, check the class listings.

On the Move: Lamb-tastic

Cooking from the Cupboard continues as I defrost my freezer and forage for the best ingredients the pantry has to offer. I must say, it’s going pretty well.

From time to time when I’m ordering produce from the CSA, I’m tempted by the meat offerings. The lure of some grassfed beef or lamb is too much to resist, and I take some home to leave in my freezer until I forget about it. Which happens a lot. Right now I have a whole lot of chuck roast and a couple of pounds of ground beef to conquer.

Today, however, I took on the lamb.

As faithful readers know, I went on something of a cardamom kick earlier in the year, which really turned into a gateway drug for other spices. Cumin came in the mix. Then playing with peppercorn mixes.

You see where this is going?

I took some little lamb loin chops, let them take a quick marinade with a spice mélange, garlic and olive oil, then hit them with hot heat about 3 minutes a side in a pan. I let them rest from their flurry of activity while I deglazed the pan with a little white wine and butter, steamed some zucchini and made some cous cous. And a mid-summer morrocan feast was born.

Not bad for 30 minutes of work.

On the Move: What's for Dinner

The City by Mouth may soon be something of a misnomer. I'm making the big leap to the East Bay. Lots of reasons. Lack of summer, lack of kitchen combined with some real estate prospecting and I find myself packing some boxes. In an effort to pack a few less, I'm challenging myself to subsist solely on what's in my fridge, pantry and freezer until I make a fresh start. I'll still be picking up my CSA, but other than that, if I can avoid the market, I will. That being said, I reserve the right to call on Wok Inn Cafe or Giorgio's when I want. Gotta eat there while I'm around

I've got enough protein in my freezer to last for more than awhile, and it's time I got to it. On the way home, I remembered some not-long forgotten chicken breasts. Defrosted, sauteed with some leeks and tossed with some fettucine, and I had dinner. It might not be thrilling to look at, but it was damn good to eat.

More adventures to come.

those people at work. they know me so well.

It always makes me a little nervous when workplace birthday festivities come along, because it’s usually the job of the office to distill your personality or your interests into one card or sign or cake or something. You get a card about karate when you quit it six months ago or a banner in the shape of a bottle of wine that just goes to confirm your burgeoning suspicions that you might be coming in hungover to the office a little too often. So when the rouse to call me into the kitchen came last week, I approached with a little trepidation. What did these people think I was all about?

They nailed it. Meat cupcakes for me, Giants ones for the other birthday celebrator in the office. Cats, ostensibly, for the both of us.
Meat cupcakes. Little porterhouses rendered in frosting. Well done.

Sandwiches and Parks

I didn’t always like parks. Not by a lot. Portland would have its days of seasonal gorgeousness and like freed prisoners, people break free of their cold corners and flood the parks. Suddenly everyone has a Frisbee or a dog. It’s college again and layers are shed to reveal inexplicably toned legs and arms. Dean once said it’s like a plane of hotness lands in PDX when the sun comes out. If you admitted to spending The Incredible Weekend inside, you were met with a haughty, disapproving look. So I’d try and play along. Take a towel and a book to the park behind my apartment and be at the park. And there I’d sit, shifting from one uncomfortable position to another, lying on my stomach, sitting Indian style, casually resting on my back propped on my elbows watching the dogs run by. I’d last about 20 minutes before I wrote the whole thing off as a hippie activity and go inside, draw the blinds and catch up on my Netflix. I’d lie on Monday. Said I went on a hike in Forest Park.


But in the lexicon of the lol: Park. Ur doin it wrong.

I was missing sandwiches. And I was missing the right park.

I’ve fallen for Dolores Park. It’s the only place I really ever want to be, watching the endless parade of entertainment go by. Motley crews of hungover missionites looking to make the best of the day. Cyclists laying down their fixed-gear bikes like proud trophies. Bridge and tunnelers creating the scene of an ersatz J.Crew photo shoot. And the families hurridly making their way to the other side of the park, away from the open containers, the swearing and the man who wanders from blanket to blanket with a cooler, singsonging “ganja treats.”

Dolores Park is a dangerous half-block away from some of the best food in the city. Besides the burritos, there’s Bi-rite, where their small aisles become even more unnavigable when the temperature spikes above 60 degrees. Hipsters in shorts and everyone with a bag a little too big tries to make themselves smaller as they turn sideways to choose some produce or order a sandwich. Apologies abound and patience can run thin, but the selection and sandwiches are worth the wait. The deli line and check-out line get confused quickly and if you don’t have a number in your hand, there’s little hope of seeing lunch outside of 20 minutes. I’ve sat outside, waiting to meet a friend and seen park-bound person after park-bound person trip out of the store, shell-shocked and weary, wide-eyed, ready to take their hard-earned lunch and do a fucklot of nothing for a few good hours.

And of late, I have a new plan. It’s not as convenient, but probably takes about the same amount of time. The answer? Saigon Sandwich. It’s a tiny little shop in the Tenderloin that’s rumoured to be a front for some shady dealings. And really, with their bahn mi being so instantly addictive and euphoria inducing, I wouldn’t be surprised if some dust from the bricks of heroin they may or may not be bundling in the back aren’t making it into the roast pork. Seriously, they’re that good. Freshly pickled vegetables, succulent meats and some kind of magic sauce all on a crusty French roll. For $2.75. Seriously. Not a typo. Two dollars and seventy-five cents.

Friday I was in a different park. A friend of mine is new to working on the Embarcadero, and had yet to uncover the simple beauty that is Secret Deli. The shop is entirely non-descript, could be in any office complex anywhere, but the lady there, she does amazing sandwiches. I don’t know what it is, but she can make a turkey-avo-swiss-on-wheat-no-tomato-no-mustard like no one’s business. The tuna melt on dutch crunch is just as awesome. I went for my regular and he ventured for the Cadillac Chicken, a veritable coma-inducing gut bomb you can really only get on a Friday where you have no intentions of being productive.

We took our sandwiches, we made our way to the little patch of park behind Fog City. It doesn’t provide nearly the same entertainment as Dolores. It’s more of an afterthought of urban greening than anything else, but it works. A slightly shady spot under a tree, two sandwiches and an oversized bag of chips and suddenly the workday has floated away. Traffic falls into a white-noise backdrop and muted conversations are only interrupted by the mid-day walking of secretaries and their dogs. Trepadation about sitting directly on the grass is gone and soon enough you’re there, stretched out, sandwich wrappers crumpled and wedged under the shoes you’ve just decided to take off, wondering how long you can stay without raising any eyebrows.

Though I'm inclined to stay for four hours, forty minutes is even enough to sit there, with a friend and a sandwich. "This," I hear myself saying,"this is what life is all about."

Introducing the Underground Food Academy

I'm not one to have ventures. I wouldn't ever really be inclined to start up a start-up or sink any savings into a seemingly sure thing. But then something happened. I had an idea. The kind of idea that keeps you from falling asleep because you can't stop thinking about it. Where new ideas stem from that one and there you are, smiling to yourself as you're walking down the street. This, I realized, could be really big.

Introducing The Underground Food Academy. I could tell you all about it here, but it's better if you just click on over here.

how to make friends. and enemies

Once in awhile a food comes along that’s good. Really good. Maybe even too good. Something so simple and irresistible that people ask you not to make it. “Don’t bring it around here,” they say. “I can’t contain myself.”

But it’s reactions like that, calls from my family where epithets are playfully spat that keep me making more. With a raised eyebrow and a sly little smirk, I offer, “Oh, why don’t I bring something sweet?”

This cruel joke I play, this tempting of willpower and ruin of diets? Simple. Matzoh brittle. Matzoh with a simple butter and sugar caramel poured and baked on, add chocolate chips and a sprinkling of pistachios and you’ve got friends. I’ve brought it to work and it was gone in an instant. I sent some home for Passover and my family almost stopped talking to me. I took it with me to a potluck last week and reveled in sitting across the kitchen, watching people and their reaction. They’d have one piece, then come up with ways of making it ok to have more.

There was bargaining: “The meal was veggie, so another piece is ok.”
Self-delusion. “Just one more piece. Just half of one more piece.”
Displaced empathy: “We can’t let that little half a piece sit there.”
And recruitment: “Have you tried this yet? Here, we’ll split one.”

It was insanely fun to watch. To see people get so excited about something I made. By far, it’s the most satisfying part of cooking for me. To get to watch someone else enjoy it, express genuine joy for what you brought to the table. It was, in a word, sweet.

Like coming across this empty bowl in the office kitchen a scant 20 minutes after I left it there, filled with brittle:

unfamiliar territory

In college, I wasn’t one for experimentation. I didn’t have the obligatory sophomore lesbian one-night stand. I had little interest in drugs. It always struck me that it wasn’t experimentation for curiosity’s sake but more for the shock value of doing it. It wasn’t about learning something from the experience, but about impressing your friends the next day. I was more interested in books and boys.

Some things never change.

But some things do. The older I get, the more confident I become, the more risks I’m willing to take. Things I’m more comfortable exploring. So it’s not entirely unexpected that I find myself down a certain dark road. A toe dipped in an unfamiliar pond. Suddenly and without warning, I’m cooking vegetarian food.

I know. It’s a shock. I’m sure it’s almost as hard for you to read as it is for me to admit. I’ve been alternately mocking and pitying vegetarians for years. I have a subscription to Meatpaper magazine. But driven by economy and curiosity, I wanted to see if I could satisfyingly subsist on veggies and legumes alone. If I could stave off the need to have meat at every meal.

And it’s going ok. I’ve been working on a lentil curry recipe that’s taking off. French techniques and Indian flavors. I start by softening onions, fennel and carrots in a little oil. Then add some simple yellow curry and cayenne. In goes some rainbow chard or kale, a fair amount of vegetable broth, then the lentils and chickpeas to simmer for about 10 minutes.

It’s good. Really good. It’s got a surprising depth of flavor considering the relatively flavorless individual parts. Then topped with a tangy dollop of yogurt (also new to me, it’s been on my “creepy foods” list for awhile), and it becomes a very satisfying and tasty bowl of food.

But don’t worry, I’m not converting. I don’t think I could make it through life without the crisp skin of a perfectly roasted chicken or fathom a perfect brunch complete without a strip or two of bacon or endure a long, cold winter with at least one day devoted to a long-simmering pot roast on the stove. But it’s nice to know there’s damn good food to be had that doesn’t require a trip to the butcher’s counter.

Flat out of matzoh

Hey kids! If you find the afikomen this year, you might not want to give it back. Turns out there's a city-wide matzoh shortage going on. Is this the first evidence of the looming food crisis? An anti-semetic conspiracy? An indicator that the small shops are too reliant on big purchasing power?

I looked up a recipe for homemade matzoh and, as the story goes, it's insanely simple. Flour water and salt. Mix it up, roll it out, poke holes and bake it. Then get the hell out of Egypt. I'd be all over DIY flatbread, but I woke up with a mean little cold.

Maybe tomorrow.

Hot Knife Action

Impromptu photo shoot this morning for an upcoming project. Fuck, I love my knives.

Sunday Dinners

The Sunday dinners have continued, both big and small. Two weeks ago was Louise for simple broccoli pasta with green garlic. Then there was Heather for rainbow chard fettucine and roasted beets with burratta. It’s been easy and casual and the food has finally been as good as I’ve wanted it to be. I’m no longer frantically trying to cook and eat the last of my CSA goods before the new delivery comes. In fact, my fridge ends up despondently empty by Monday night, leaving me happily justified in ordering Chinese.
Last Sunday I upped the guest list to five, meeting what might be the maximum capacity for my studio dining nook. I had to reach behind the linens to pull out one of the extra leaves for the table for the first time. It was a proud moment.

And it wouldn’t be the first one.

I didn’t have too many initial ideas in menu planning, thought I’d let the produce and the season give me some clues. But with a fridge full of winter-facing veggies and an outside temperature climbing to a freakishly lovely 77 degrees, I was clueless.
All I had were heavy foods and a desire for bright, happy flavors. The answer? Lemon.
But I’ll get to that.
As I’m in the process of working on my first catering job, dinner guests and co-workers have become unknowing test subjects for the menu. Some have been good, some haven’t. Starting with the thyme-onion jam on crackers with goat cheese? Kicked ass.

Continuing with these kale chips I’ve been reading about? Not so much.


The main course was a sweet, bright happy medium of winter ingredients and summer cravings. I did a chicken breast braised with fennel and lemon, served with some herb roasted yukons and some rainbow chard with leeks.


To finish, a shard of homemade matzoh toffee and some strauss vanilla ice cream. Any pic I would have taken would have been blurry, because that damn matzoh toffee is so good, it doesn’t stay in one place too long.

Good show, me. This is exactly the kind of food I love to do. Seasonal, simple, influenced by the weather outside and the feeling inside. Timing was dead-on, company was great. This will be happening again soon.

simple pleasure

A few years ago I was having a quick cocktail party in Portland. I had put together a nice little array of little bites. I had visited my cheese guy and picked up some good pieces, fleshed it out with some charcuterie plus salad bites in endive leaves. I think about ten minutes before people were supposed to arrive, I realized I wasn't going to have enough. I needed one more thing on the table. I turned to the fridge and had some celery, which I cut up as pretty as I could and, realizing I had nothing to make a dip out of, sprinkled some black hawaiian sea salt I'd recently picked up in LA. I thought, it might not taste good, but it'll at least be pretty.

I was wrong. It tasted great. Simple, bright celery tempered with a minerally salt. And it looked more than pretty. Contrasted on a black serving dish picked up by the salt, it was striking. It didn't look like just celery and salt.

It's become a regular snack for me, or a side to my latest lunch plan of charcuterie and cheeses. Seemingly a little fancy for the office lunch table, maybe. But I like it.

Clement Adventures

In terms of things to eat, I’m pretty lucky with where I live. I’m just a short walk away from Clement St, where you can track down a satisfying Bahn Mi, or the best red-tablecloth pizza joint in the city , or a veritable villa of tasty and impossibly cheap dumpling houses. Going down Clement can feel like going on a little adventure, a quick trip to another country where all bets are off, where you’re bound to stray from the usual because the usual is nowhere in sight. And this sense of adventure that’s triggered, it gets you to try new things, to go a little further off the map then you might be used to. Suddenly you’ve got that invincible vacation feeling and anything goes.

And it can be great. Last night dinner was at a little dumpling place I know only by sight and by sense memory. Somewhere on Clement between 5th and 6th is a little pink place with windows boasting egregiously thick Chinese donuts and trays on trays of steaming dumplings. The menu is expansive, dizzying and encourages trial. Why get mu-shu chicken when you can get wok-fried rice cakes with pork and greens (below).

That plus a platter of hand-crafted leek and shrimp dumplings plus a large-family size plate of pork with mustard greens over noodles. It was a lot of food. It was also $20.
But there are times when adventure can go a little too far. Especially when the adventure leads to Genki Crepe.

Genki Crepe always seems like a good idea at the time. “It’s so cute! It’s so fun! It’s packed full of endlessly amusing Japanese candy and packaged goods! We hardly spent anything on dinner, so let’s go be frivolous! I’m all jacked up on sodium and adventure that I could get anything! A crepe! Yes, a big crepe, the biggest one they have! Wait, they make them with ice cream? And cheesecake? Both? With whipped cream? Let’s get one! Ha ha ha this is so fun!“

And it is. It is fun. It’s fun until about five minutes after you bite into that sweet concoction that sets in a crippling stomachache coupled with a very, very intense sugar rush. All of a sudden the five blocks left to walk home seem impassable and all you’re inclined to do is giddily laugh, hold your stomach and wonder why, why , why you do this to yourself.

But it’s the adventure, the fun of it. The fact that in those five blocks you’ll discover another place to try. A little thai cafe or pho house with no legible menu in the window that just begs you to come in and explore. And to finish the adventure, you’ll wander into Genki Crepe, marvel at the candy and consider the strange sodas but, having learned your lesson, probably head out empty-handed.

not easter eggs

For the last couple of weeks, the eggs I've been getting from my CSA have been a beautiful collection of colors. A few brown, a few white and a few of a delicate blue hue. They look like spring in an egg carton, make me wonder about the origin of dying easter eggs around this time, make me feel lucky. It feels like a treat to get these really pretty eggs that taste so damn good. I like to eat the blue ones last.

something new

I think winter had finally caught up with me. My palate was downtrodden by a parade of root and leafy green vegetables that I’ve been roasting and sautéing again and again. All I could think to do to meats was roast them with garlic and herbs. Totally boring. Totally uninspired.

I wanted to taste something new. I thought bi-rite ice cream would help me out. Bring a little brightness, and it did. I picked up a pint of the oddest flavor I could find, Orange Cardamom, and for a minute or two, it was damn resplendent. But still, orange is a citrus I’m burning out on and cardamom, though I love it, I could already anticipate the taste.

Something newer. Brighter.

I turned to my fridge, and I found a bottle of sparkling red I hadn’t opened yet. I read about sparkling reds years ago as the perfect go-with for a BBQ. I figured why not bring in some brightness to another roasted dinner?

Good call, me.

The Brachetto is lovely. Kind of like a Moscato d’ Asti with a bit more fruit than flowers. Sparkly and refreshing and though it might not make sense seasonally, really cheered up a dinner of roasted lamb loins and sautéed chard.
This is a flavor combination that’ll be happening again soon. Maybe at my next dinner party, say?

The Jam Cartel

I’m not one to linger in denial. I know that I have the capacity and history to be a little obsessive about things. Food things. There’s a particular candy bar sold in Portland I’ve been pining after for awhile. I’ve been known to have the same breakfast over and over again for months on end.

And when I write months I might mean years.

An obsession is different for me than a craving. A craving can be assuaged in a few simple bites. I’ll crave pancakes or steak, but don’t need to have it day after day.

But I got in a little jam with a recent food obsession. I wrote about it a little while ago- the preserved fruits from welovejam. The kumquat marmalade was insanely good. I tried to pace myself, I knew it was in limited supply, but there was nothing I could do. I ran out.

So, being the reasonable person I am, I turned to my jam pusher. I emailed Eric at welovejam:

“Hi there

So, I'm nearing the bottom of my jar of the kumquat jam and I'm getting worried about my next fix. My breakfast has come to depend on good jam. Since I know the apricot jam is months away still, is there another product you recommend to tide me over? I'm in San Francisco, so if there's a grocery I should go to, point me there!”

Like I said, I’ll admit a problem when I have one.

So Eric wrote back, understood where I was coming from, and like a good dealer, came through. He didn’t have the apricot, but he could deliver some elephant heart jam.

And he did. Literally.

At a specified time (10:30 a.m. on a Sunday) at a specified place (my apartment building), Eric dropped by to deliver the goods. It couldn’t have been more like a drug deal if we had planned it. And it’s been good. Completes my latest breakfast kick of slow-cooked scrambled eggs, Niceragua La Union coffee and toast with butter and jam.

I’m really trying to pace myself this time. To hold out until the Blanheim apricot jam is ready. I’ve got about half a jar left of the good stuff. Wish me luck

And now, back to our regular food writing.

In an ongoing effort to resist the call of the take-out menu, I’ve been turning to the contents of my fridge and pantry for simple dinners. And they’ve been coming out really good. Plates of food with only a few ingredients that add up to a lot more than the sum of their parts. I made a broccoli pasta last week that was so good, it felt selfish not to share. In fact, two bites in, I brought it back to the kitchen so I could take a damn picture of it. Which is here:

So, I got this idea in my head that I should really start sharing this food a lot more. Have people over for dinner as much as schedules will allow. I can see my friends, share some food and enjoy food the way it should be enjoyed: with friends.

I kicked off my big plan by inviting my upstairs neighbors over for Sunday dinner But somehow, wrapped up in the idea of Entertaining, I abandoned my simple plan and ended up making something a lot more complicated. I spent all day browning, braising and simmering oxtail stew. I baked fresh bread to start and madelines to finish. It was nonstop work for most of the day and by the time I heard the knock at the door I was exhausted.

And to make it that much more unsatisfying, I wasn’t happy with the food. It was a lot of work for not a lot of payoff. I hadn’t let the liquid separate enough so the stew was too fatty and the meat didn’t get as tender as I hoped it would. And there wasn’t enough salt either.

Still, the bread was good, the cookies were fine, and it felt good to have people over. I’ve just got to go back to my initial idea. Simple, good food. Make a dinner I’d usually make for myself, just make enough to share.

I’ve got more than a few dinners lined up at my place in the next few weeks, and I will try damn hard to resist my cache of clipped recipes and scrawled ideas. I’m going to plan, but not overplan. Keep some charcuterie and cheeses on hand for snacky starters, turn to the CSA contents and basics for ideas. Let the ingredients do the impressing.

More to come on the dinner party series, for certain.

False Advertising

Fair warning, this isn’t a post about food. About a meal I ate or a restaurant I visited. This is about something else.

When I’m not shopping for food, cooking food or writing about food, there is an entire other life I have. I have a day job that keeps me in organic produce and grass-fed beef. And I’m lucky. I have a true love for what I do. As a copywriter, I get to spend my days thinking and writing and working with some of the smartest, funniest people I’ve ever come across. And even though I’m writing in the voice of Starbucks or WaMu, the real voice that comes across is still mine. It’s not uncommon for someone to see something I’ve written and come back with the comment, “That’s so Margo.”

There was a time last year when I was looking for work and I had to go to yet another headhunter to show off my book. It’s something I’d done 100 times before and I wasn’t looking forward to it. But something in that meeting, in that presentation of telling the story behind each ad, remembering the moment when the insight clicked or the perfect line came into focus I realized how much I’m really proud of what I’ve done. My work is good. My work is personal. My work is me.

Which is why what happened yesterday was so hurtful.

Yesterday it came to my attention that a (former) friend of mine had stolen my portfolio and passed it off as his own. We had never worked together. We had never collaborated on a single thing. In fact, nearly all my entire print and interactive work and my resume were swiped and re-packaged with his name on the cover. He even took a few food essays and photography pieces and threw them in too for good measure. That part stung even more.

The ad world is really small. There’s a one degree of separation at best. Someone I had worked with years ago came across the work, put two and two (and two and two) together and he was escorted out of the building by end of day. He’s tried to get in touch with me but I haven’t yet responded.

If imitation is the highest form of flattery than plagiarism would be the basest form of it. I’m not sure what the lesson is in all this for me, but I’m glad I can take away the bragging rights that my work is so damn good, someone tried to steal all of it.

To see the work, click over to www.margostern.com

CSA pressure

It's almost become too much. I pick up the produce every week and by Sunday, I've defaulted to roasting everything that can be roasted and cutting up anything else for snacks. Yesterday's lunch involved a baked Japanese sweet potato, sauteed chard with garlic and enough carrot and celery sticks to complete the lunches of a dozen 5th graders.

But I'm trying. I'm trying to be innovative when I can. To try new produce and experiment with cooking styles. And some of it is working.

For instance, kohlrabi.

It's an odd little root. Somewhere between broccoli stalk and cabbage-like, I'm pretty confounded by it. I've snacked on it raw, made it into soup and left it in the fridge to wilt to inedible. I felt bad about the last one.

So I decided to do something new with it. Kohlrabi Vinaigrette.

I peeled the little sputniks, sliced them, then blanched them for a quick 3 minutes in salted water. Then I plunged them into icy water to stop the cooking. Arranging them into disks, I then poured a simple dressing of red-wine vinegar, dijon and olive oil. A quick crackle of black pepper and done.

And you know what, they weren't half bad. A really nice, simple starter. Clean and fresh. A good stalky vehicle for dressing. Next time I'm faced with a bunch of kolhrabi, this is the way I'm going.

Cauliflower is not yet played.

I ignored cauliflower for a long, long time. Raw, it was oddly numbing and tasteless. Steamed was worse. Even with butter, it would be a non-entity on the plate, pushed aside for more tasty veggies that offered even a hint of color or flavor. To describe the taste of cauliflower seemed like a pathetic venture at best.

But then I read a recipe last year for roasted cauliflower. Said that just a dash of salt, some olive oil and some high, prolonged heat made the florets into what they called “cauliflower candy.” Interesting. I like candy. I gave it a shot.

And I’ve been converted. Roasted cauliflower is ridiculous. Crazy tasty. I went further.

I started making cauliflower soup. Added some crispy shallots and shallot oil. A little prociutto. I found chedder cauliflower. Purple cauliflower. Green too. I experimented with romanesco. At one point in August I probably had at least three assorted cauliflowers in my fridge at one time I was cauliflower mad.

But I learned I wasn’t alone. Other people had joined the floret bandwagon and then I read that somehow, somewhere cauliflower had become the hip vegetable of 2007. And that killed me. I didn’t realize I’d been riding the same trend, that I had fallen victim of produce fashion. I crossed off cauliflower from my CSA order.

But something happened. I craved it. I read about something called cauliflower steaks. And if there’s one thing I like more than candy, it’s steaks.

So I put them back on the list. I cut the head cross-wise into 1” steaks, salt and peppered them and cooked ‘em in a pan for 4 minutes a side. Then into the oven to bake at 250° for 10 minutes. The result? Magic. Cauliflower candy gives way to a cauliflower main course. Cauliflower is back on my plate and I’m not looking back, damn it.