Shot Through The Heart

I started this blog because I wanted to see how well I could write about food. Sometimes I think I've gotten that just right, that I've captured my delight or horror or confusion in just the right way.

And sometimes, I sit down to write and can't think of anything more poetic than "Dude, chicken was totally on sale" and "this recipe is kinda cool and shit."

This is one of those times.


The Totally Cool Chicken and Artichoke Heart Saute

This would be particularly good over pasta.

1-2 Tbsps canola oil
1 1/2 lbs chicken thighs, cut into bite sized pieces
1/4 cup fresh basil, chopped finely
4-5 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 lemon
1/2 lime
12 oz artichoke hearts
1 can large olives
4-6 oz feta cheese crumbles
pepper, to taste

*Coat the bottom of a skilled with the canola oil, and heat on medium high heat.

*Add in the chicken, basil, and garlic. Squeeze the juice from the lemon and lime over the chicken. Saute until the chicken is just about cooked -- 5 to 6 minutes.

*Stir in the artichoke hearts and sprinkle with as much pepper as you want. Cook until the chicken is completely cooked, with no pink in it.

*Stir in the olives and feta. Serve.

The Changing of the Chard

"Sometimes you people really make me pissed off." -- my grandmother


Allycen: You know what I hate? Tomatoes.
Nanny: How can you hate tomatoes?
Allycen: I've always hated tomatoes.
Nanny: You know, your taste buds change every few years. Maybe you should just try a little bit, maybe you'll see that you like it.
Allycen: Nope. I tried some recently and I still hate tomatoes.
Nanny: I don't understand how we can be related.

I have this conversation with my grandmother at least once a year, usually just to rile her up, but also mostly out of habit. Occasionally she'll ask me how I feel about ketchup (meh) or I'll tell her that it's her own fault that I hate tomatoes, since she's been insisting to me since I could walk that one day I'll come into the tomato-loving family tradition.

Luckily, there is one vegetable that we have no trouble agreeing on: Swiss chard.


I have memories of being very young, in my grandmother's garden with her as she cut the stalks of chard to serve for dinner. We would take it upstairs in a colander and wash it out -- or anyway, she would, because there were frequently spiders in the leaves and I feel even more strongly anti-spider than I do anti-tomato.

And there, in my grandmother's kitchen, I learned to love not just Swiss chard, but the perfect taste of vegetables fresh from the ground.


I haven't had Swiss chard in a very long time. I'm glad my taste buds haven't changed so much that I don't like it anymore.

Swiss Chard and Pintos

adapted from here

2 Tbsps olive oil
4-5 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 tsp, approx. crushed red pepper flakes
1 bunch Swiss chard, rinsed and chopped
1 small tomato, chopped
juice from 1/2 lemon
juice from 1/2 lime
1/4 cup queso fresco
salt and pepper, to taste

*Preheat oven to 350. Lightly grease a baking dish.

*In a skillet, heat the oil, garlic, and red pepper flakes on medium for about 1 minute. Add the chard, cover, and cook for 4 minutes.

*Uncover, and stir in everything else except the queso. Cover again and cook for another 4 minutes.

*Transfer this mixture to the baking dish and stir in the queso.

*Bake for 15 minutes.

I left my heart there

I can't go to San Francisco in the same way that I could go to Montreal, or Paris, or Dubai; I can't even go to San Francisco in the same way that I could go to Denver, or to Seattle, should I ever leave here to live elsewhere. That's because San Francisco is home for me; San Francisco is where my blood is. I have the same sort of complicated relationship with the city that most women have with their mothers. (I'm assuming of course, since my mother is totally perfect and beyond reproach, and whenever we spend time together another angel gets his wings.)

San Francisco is one of the great foodie hotspots in the world, and indeed I don't feel right there without going to Boudin and wandering around the wharf with a bit of sourdough in my hand.

San Francisco takes bread very seriously.

There are so many restaurants there, so many opportunities for culinary pleasure, that it can be hard to choose one. Unless, of course, you are me, in which case there is really only one option:


Of all the kitchens that I have called home, this one is the most home to me -- my grandmother's kitchen. It hasn't changed in thirty years, although it has a toaster oven in it now and a different step stool from the one I used to sit on as a child, watching as my Nanny made pancakes or lasagna. This is the kitchen that made me a cook; it is inevitable that now I would want to cook in it.

I have something of an undeserved reputation in my family for being a gourmet cook. This is because I can talk a good game and there are few opportunities for them to make me put my, well, recipes where my mouth is. If they only knew how often I make macaroni and cheese, my cover would be so blown. So when I went to California last week, with the full knowledge that I would go and be able to cook almost every day, I was a little intimidated by the prospect. What if my skills fell flat? What if I couldn't think of a single thing to make for dinner?

I should not have worried. The first day, I made pesto from scratch to please my oldest niece.

There is no easier way for me to please people than to make pesto. It requires no ancient family secrets, no special equipment, nothing more exotic than a bunch of very fresh basil and garlic, and a good olive oil.

And there's no easier way to please my niece than to make pesto for her, as evidenced by how often she asked if she could have some of the leftovers. It's the gift that keeps on being delicious.

After that? It was cheesecake. Turns out my family, like most people, are happy to call you a gourmet cook just for the simple reason that your presence means they don't have to be in the kitchen.

And then I almost died, depending on how strict your definition of words like "almost" and "died" is. I was in the car with my mother and Nanny, going down a hill when the brakes failed. Fortunately, my mother was able to stop the car and pull over, and no one was any worse for the wear -- except that, of course, my mother and grandmother were totally freaked out. Me? Not so much as fazed. I went home and made macaroni and cheese for everyone, the ultimate comfort food.

It was exactly the right thing.

There are a thousand ways to wow in the kitchen. You can set things on fire (on purpose or not), you can spend hours slaving. But mostly all you have to do is turn the stove on, gather a few ingredients, and mix them together. And then bask in delicious.


The Youngest-Sibling-Totally-Has-Issues Shrimp Saute

1 pound shrimp (fresh or frozen is fine so long as they're thawed)
2 Tbsp olive oil
4 or 5 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1/2 of a lemon
1/2 of a lime
1/4 cup fresh basil, chopped finely
pepper and salt, to taste

*Coat the bottom of a skillet with the olive oil and heat the pan on medium.

*Add the garlic to the pan. Cook for about a minute.

*Add the shrimp and basil. Squeeze the juice of the lemon and the lime over the shrimp.

*Season with pepper and salt as you like. Cook until the shrimp is pink. Cooking time will vary depending on the size of the shrimp, but it should be about 5-7 minutes. Serve.

Ain't No Fool Like An April Fool

My father, on the occasion of his 46th birthday:



My father was a funny man who had precious little capacity to be serious, but he hated April Fool's Day. I suspect that he would have embraced it wholeheartedly had he been born a day earlier or later, but as it was, he was fundamentally offended that people celebrated his birthday by playing tricks on him. I went through a phase as a child where I thought that silly pranks were pretty funny, but I grew out of that quickly enough and embraced my father's disdain for the holiday.

So in my family, on April Fool's Day, we didn't play pranks. We had Irish Soda Bread instead.



Why? Because it was my father's birthday, and he liked it. Or maybe he just liked my mother, who liked making it. Either way, every year she would make it for him, and because she added currants or raisins or something ridiculous like that, I wouldn't eat it. (Not very much of it, anyway.) I was confused -- I thought it was a sort of cake that wasn't sweet, and I thought my parents were a little touched in the head.

Which they almost certainly were, but not on this point.



Soda bread is just bread -- a daily bread that doesn't keep long but doesn't take long, either. A hearty kind of comfort bread, and I'd almost say it's better than the kind with yeast in. I didn't know what I was missing as a kid -- but I know now.

I followed this recipe almost exactly, but I skipped the sugar and skimped on the honey. I'll skimp even more next time. It's a little sweet, but that's all right -- it makes up for the day, for the bitter part that accompanies April 1st since my father died. And for the snow we have in Seattle today, Mother Nature's April fools.