The two days of Christmas
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When I was a little girl, Christmas was a spiny, sparkly tree floating on a sea of shiny, sparkly boxes. I’d wait 364 long days for a few ho...
Scone City
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Once again, I’m hawking priceless family treasures over at Seattlest. Last week, it was my great-grandfather’s swashbucklingly boozy egg nog...
The art of so-called side dishes
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Maybe it is a product of our time, a generational thing, or just a matter of pheromones, but I keep falling in love with vegetarians. I spen...
Seattle(st)’s Best Egg Nog
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Over at Seattlest, I’m revealing the age-old secrets of my family’s egg nog recipe, passed down from my maternal great-grandfather J. P. Har...
A coming-of-age, in cookies
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It may have notoriously waving wheat and pastures full of prime Angus steak, but truth be told, Oklahoma’s food scene is most famous—in cert...
Saving the holidays, one macaroon at a time
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This week’s installment of Seattlest finds me conquering the Christmastime cheese ball and supplanting it with more readily edible—and enjoy...
Plain Jane, with chickpeas
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Peanut butter on toast. A soft-boiled egg with salt and pepper. Butternut squash boiled in cider and mashed. A carrot dunked in lemon-tahini...
The best laid plans, and a Linzer tart
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I started with the best of intentions. When I set out for Oklahoma a week ago, I planned to return with rapturous photos of a bronze-skinned...
Seattlest gets jealous, makes soup
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Over at Seattlest, the soupe du jour is butternut squash with pear, cider, and vanilla bean, a homespun knock-off of a dish from one of my f...
The state of the sprout
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I wait all year for Brussels sprouts. Many pine away patiently for October’s first pumpkins or November’s puckery cranberries, but I hang my...
What it boils down to
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Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are. So spoke Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, legendary French gastronome. On the surface,...
Seattlest + Macrina = true love and ginger cake
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In this week’s Seattlest episode, I’m devouring a ginger pear upside-down cake from Leslie Mackie’s Macrina Bakery & Café Cookbook, a co...
In praise of braising
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I’m not one for favorites. I have no favorite movie, no favorite color, no favorite number, no favorite song. Declaring something a favorite...
It’s raining, it’s pouring, and Seattlest is roasting
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Over at Seattlest, I’m singing the praises of roasted chicken, a favorite cold-weather staple and, as luck would have it, one of the first m...
A handy life strategy, dinner included
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A few devoted readers may remember when, about eight months ago, in a post involving Spandex, my mother, erogenous zones, and whole wheat br...
Joining the club: Seattlest
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Sometimes details escape me, such as when I’m engaged in heated battle with a virus. For example, I have—until today—completely forgotten to...
The semantics of stewing
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In the English language, there are only a handful of phrases that come with their own built-in laugh track, and sadly, “stewed prunes” is on...
A state of melt
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The last time I was this sick was 12 years ago, during the Christmas holidays of my freshman year of high school. Though my memories of the ...
Going steady
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Every kitchen has its strong, silent staples. I’ve certainly got my stockpile of oils and vinegars, condiments, rice, pasta, beans, butter, ...
Sog Story
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I am, dear reader, a bread snob. I’m a harsh critic of crust and crumb, a stickler for sourdough, and very, very picky about my pain au leva...
If it’s Friday, it must be eggs-and-beer night
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It was a Friday night, and you know what that means: good Catholics won’t eat meat; Shabbat-savvy Jews won’t sow, plow, reap, grind, sift, k...
How I hit the hard-ball stage
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A couple of well-meaning readers have recently inquired into the foundations of my relationship with food, or, more succinctly, the origins ...
An interlude, or what happens when she digs in her archives
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Last week I was tagged—not once, but twice—for the 23rd-post-5th-sentence meme, a nifty little game that would have me dig into my archives,...
Sneaking in under the wire: pappa al pomodoro
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I’ve never before thought of myself as any sort of doomsday prophet, but lately it seems that I’ve been in an awful rush to admit defeat to ...
Home is where the fritters are
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Returning from vacation is never a wholly pleasant proposition, no matter how much I love my city of residence, my cozy apartment—deep-pile ...
Bringing home the (Greenmarket) goods
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I owe you an apology, dear reader. For the past week, I’ve cruelly paraded before you a small smorgasbord of foods that, unless you happen t...
Street sweets, or things best eaten on two feet
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At some point in my impressionable youth, I was told that one should never eat while standing up. This well-meaning killjoy of a tip was pro...
Di Fara Pizza, and the exaggeration that wasn’t
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There is something you should know about Brandon: when it comes to food, his main themes are obsession and exaggeration. He takes hot sauce ...
Stashing summer’s last gasp
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When I left Seattle this morning, the city was still tucked snugly under a heavy blanket of clouds. It’s been this way for a week or two now...
Five childhood food memories, or the good, the bad, and the ugly
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Yes, dear reader, it happened to me too. I’ve been tagged* to write about five food memories from my childhood, and frankly, I can’t resist....
“…days that are the good flesh continuing”...on through to dessert
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I am firmly of the belief that a meal has not officially ended until one has eaten something sweet. I’m not the alone, certainly, in holding...
"...days that are the good flesh continuing."
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Seattle may spend eight months out of twelve under cloudy skies, but come summer, it puts on its sunscreen and pulls out all the stops. Ther...
On experimentation, and an unexpected ice cream float
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Experimentation is not my strong suit. On the one hand, this means that I’m every D.A.R.E. mom’s dream child, but when it comes to the kitch...
On picking, prattling on, and preserving
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“Forget our walk; I’ve got a better idea,” Kate announced with a little squeal. “There are blackberries everywhere. Why don’t you come over ...
Cue the clafoutis
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Summer sneaks up on us. It tiptoes in with the first 5:30 sunrise sometime in late spring, and it lies in wait with the green tomatoes, scra...
Better living through slow-roasting
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The word “happiness” has many definitions, but I’m quite convinced that if you looked it up in one of those nifty visual dictionaries, what ...
Trofie al pesto, with drama and a departure
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I may be a crybaby, complete with a mortal fear of needles and a dread of loud noises, but I’m nobody’s drama queen. I like to think of myse...
Orangette turns one
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It all started a year ago today. I tiptoed out onto a big, black screen and tossed up a few tentative words, and 365 days, 121 posts, 1 digi...
On reliables, rituals, and a warm corn salad
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For the restless kitchen-dweller or market maven, a calendar is redundant: we tell time by flora and fauna. Each season has its reliables, i...
On a misunderstood mousse and the girl who loved it anyway
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For a good number of her formative years, my friend Jennifer was constitutionally incapable of following a recipe. It wasn’t an issue of wil...
San Francisco: no famine in sight
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I’m no jet-setter, but when it comes to planes, trains, and automobiles, I generally aim for the first, funds permitting. For someone who li...
9 am Sunday: oatmeal ups the ante
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I accepted the challenge, and I conquered: I cooked breakfast for Jimmy, the reigning king of Sunday mornings, and dear reader, he asked for...
On Independence Day, and the tyranny of bad tortillas
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The Fourth of July is, no question, pretty exciting. There are the parades, the loudly flapping flags, and the burgers that dribble down the...
Suited for each other: rhubarb meringue tart
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I am not, by nature, wildly energetic. I’m far from slothful—give or take a few semantic quibbles, of course—but I’ve never been one to wake...
10 days, tightly packed
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So, the cat’s out of the bag. While you weren’t looking, I snuck off to New York with homemade muffins, the requisite amount of love-struck ...
Introducing: a wonderfully food-obsessed New Yorker, and his orange-nutmeg muffins
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In recent months, I’ve spent a lot of time gushing about Seattle. I don’t plan to stop anytime soon, but I should confess that when it comes...
Tagged: talking cookbooks
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I’ve never been much of a joiner, but when it comes to talking cookbooks, no arm-twisting is necessary. And anyway, I’ve been tagged—not onc...
She cooks, she tells yet again
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Over at Saucy, the June installment of Cook and Tell is ready and waiting, titled “Larb at First Sight.”* This month I revisit a not-so-spec...
Drawn-out days and noodle nights
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Though the topic has already been amply covered by countless wistful love ballads, I’d like to bring something to your attention: the loveli...
9 am Sunday: chocolate, chocolate, and chocolate
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Jimmy springs eternal.Just when it had started to seem as though we’d exhausted all conceivable possibilities for fatty, sugary breakfasts, ...
On fame, funk, and fish sauce
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It seems as though every food—almonds to zabaglione, frumpy to fancy—has its fifteen minutes of fame. Yesterday’s coffee is today’s tea; sus...
Rhubarb: better late than never, and right on time
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I’ve been horribly distracted.Between radishes and fennel, beets and blueberries—not to mention the gaping black hole that was my thesis, wh...
Little family, large appetite
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I come from a very little family.My mother Toni and her identical twin sister Tina measure a mere five feet tall in their (very small) stock...
On rewards and radishes
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I’m a loyal fan of the carrot-and-stick approach. No matter what the task—a thesis to be written, say, or a shower to be scrubbed, another i...
She cooks, she tells some more
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Over at Saucy, the third installment of “Cook and Tell” awaits. This month is the breakfast edition, titled “The Early Bird Catches the Woo....
9 am Sunday: cream and creamier
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We’ve all been wondering when it would happen. Sure, I may have traveled unscathed down a path slippery with butter, and by an astounding st...
On springtime, with a beet-feta tart
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I have a confession to make.I have a dark, dirty, now-not-so-secret fascination with the “missed connections” listings on craigslist. It’s n...
When Paris came to Seattle, or on carrot-fennel soup
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Some days, everything just falls into place. Seattle has been sunny and warm and at least temporarily spring-like; I managed to twist and ca...
Sugar High Friday, or Long-Distance Ginger-Molasses Cookies for Kate
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More often than not, Orangette is just a fancy cover for what might be more appropriately titled “The Molly-and-Her-Friends Show,” or “What ...
9 am Sunday: bubbling oil and beignets
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After a few weeks’ hiatus, it’s high time that I recommitted myself to what has clearly become the celestial purpose of Orangette: making Ji...
On sharing and sugar, with a lot of banana cake
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Like so many others who love the warmth of the stove, I once thought that I wanted to be a chef. One of my half-brothers had gone to cooking...
She cooks, she tells again
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Over at Saucy, the second installment of “Cook and Tell” is up and available for consumption, titled “Have Your Beefcake and Eat With Him To...
For a French-toast master on his 76th
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My father loved to play in the kitchen. For him, relaxing after a long day of patients and paperwork meant pouring a Scotch and taking up re...
Feel-good FareStart
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Back in September—a lifetime ago in blog years, it seems—I wrote about a Seattle nonprofit called FareStart and its weekly Guest Chef Nights...
On routine, with tears, taste buds, and chickpea-tomato soup
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Alright, I admit it: I’m kind of boring.I love routine. I’ve never been good at change—which is to say that I’m actually rather bad at it. M...
Love letter with animosity and asparagus
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Dearest Seattle,Every now and then you’re really spectacular. It’s usually something small and subtle and a little gritty, something I would...
Unreasonable amounts of everything, and pea soup
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When one of your (half-)brothers is a restaurateur, paying him a visit means consuming quite a bit of good food. When one of your (half-)bro...
The sweet and the sour
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“Will you bring dessert?”Now that is one of my favorite questions to be asked. It’s right up there with “Can I kiss you?” and “You’re from O...
Praise for the pig
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Here in Seattle, something is going on. Sunlight is pouring in through my bedroom window at an obscenely early hour (sunrise: 6:05 am), daff...
9 am Sunday: sugar and shortbread
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When my former employer Rebecca and her gay husband Jimmy promised another buttery breakfast, they meant business.As I learned in the Dutch ...
My mother and eggs, à la française
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My mother loves Paris. This should not surprise you; after all, I’ve already made it clear that she is a genius.She speaks nary a word of Fr...
She cooks, she tells
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Dear reader, exciting things are afoot, and it's not just that I've baked two loaves of bread, a deadly chocolate cake, a buttermilk...
On social theory, theses, and drastic measures involving cookies
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It’s that time again. Behold a reprise of geekiness.I’m a sucker for social theory. Really, there's nothing sexier than the name “Michel...
On heresy and bouchons au thon
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My French host mother was tall, trim, and proper, with a sing-song voice and a name that skipped and chimed and rang off the tongue. She mov...
“No better life than the good life”
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It was a birthday celebration Nicho-style, with a rousing hike among towering trees, plenty of guffawing, an afternoon rest in a sunny hammo...
9 am Sunday: butter and babies
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One night last week—after five glasses of wine, a deep-fried breaded soft-boiled egg, and a Freudian slip about a man who once fed me a meal...
The bread-baking frenzy
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Dear reader, I’ve been wielding the tools of anthropology haphazardly again.Lately I’ve noticed that every time I cross paths with women of ...
Pâte brisée for a pillow
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I know it’s been said about all sorts of things, but this is the stuff that dreams are made of. I mean it.Our recent discussion of eating, s...
The simple and the unsexy
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After a weekend of cream puffs, a girl’s got to take a breather.Moderation is horribly unglamorous, I know. But, dear reader, I also know th...
Bagnette, breasts, and an excuse to eat pink whipped cream
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“My dowry has just increased exponentially,” Kate announced, smirking audibly into the receiver. “I made cream puffs!”I could hear Kate'...
A man who knows meatballs
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My friend Doron might lust for a more well-endowed kitchen, but he can make a mean meatball.I should have guessed as much. After all, last s...
Eating, sleeping, breathing
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This is getting serious.Last week my friend Doron e-mailed to tell me about a dream he’d had in which he’d gone into a store and picked up “...
An interlude, or what I listen to when eating orangettes
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It’s been making the rounds, and thanks to fellow Seattlite Megan of iheartbacon, it’s come to Orangette: the “music in my kitchen” survey. ...
On Spandex, a mother’s genius, and whole wheat bread
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Sometime in the early 1980s, my mother discovered exercise.First there was aerobics, with its perky wardrobe of pastel tights and leotards w...
(Re)learning Chinese
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I’ve never been a fan of Chinese food, or at least not the stuff that generally goes by that name in the U.S. When I was little, my family o...
Two holy trinities, failure, and the gratin that saved the date
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It’s been a long, mundane week. By day, I poke and prod at other people's punctuation. I cross items off the list. I fall asleep on the ...
Odysseus and the macaroons
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I’m generally very well-behaved, of a willpower that knows few equals. I can bake a whole mess of very treacherous and tempting stuff, stash...
The city of intrepid palates
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Intensive training in anthropology and ethnographic methods has taught me the delicate art of participant observation, and, because it’s a s...
On industry, indolence, and Italian vegetable soup
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Every now and then, something comes over me, and I produce. With no real hunger or purpose, I make, say, three mini-loaves of fancy banana b...
Outline of a Theory of Cabbage
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Be warned: I’m baring my geek stripes. If you’re of weak constitution, please avert your eyes.Since our lengthy discussion of soufflé, I’ve ...
On soufflé and trepidation
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In this world, there are plenty of things to be afraid of, but soufflé is not one of them. We know all too well the horror of a natural disa...
Sugar High Friday #4, or how I got my hands on a pain de Gênes
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It was a circuitous route that brought me to le pain de Gênes, the sunny yellow French cake rich with butter, eggs, and almond paste, and I ...
Feeding a cold: chicken stew and oliebollen
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Since Christmas morning, I’ve been nursing a mild but persistent cold, the sort of thing that manifests itself in unladylike snorts every fe...
2005: The first meal and a trend predicted
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Two thousand five has officially arrived, bearing hip-shakin’ hip-hop, sparkly lights for the Space Needle, an unwelcome nuzzle, and tater t...