Orangette turns one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...