food, and other musings

Recipe: Tomato Pie

The Houston Chronicle published one of my recipes today!

It was for Tomato Pie, something I learned to make the summer I turned sixteen. The woman who taught me was named Isabel; she was French, and had come to Virginia that summer to teach at a French language immersion camp I attended.

Only a handful of girls showed up for her cooking class that day. I remember that as she worked, instructing us with practiced hands, she talked - about shops and boyfriends and the bonds shared among women. Isabel seduced us with her honesty and respect: Here was a twenty-something woman, so chic and worldly (despite her unshaven arm pits) trusting us with intimate revelations and treating us as equals.

I couldn't wait to make it for my family when I got home in August; part of me must have believed that it lent me a sense of quiet sophistication, and I felt that I had come home changed, older somehow.

(Ha! Try fatter.)

Fifteen years later, this dish has become a perennial favorite. I've made it for my parents, roommates in college and friends at countless dinner parties; the recipe has been copied down by most of them and incorporated into their weekly menus. It is easy and inexpensive to make, and it pairs well with leftover cold roasted chicken and a simple green salad, a cozy meal at any time in your life.

Isabel's Tomato Pie
Yield: 4 slices (2 servings as an entree or 4 as a first course/side)

2 TBSP Dijon mustard
1 9-inch pie crust, frozen or homemade according to your favorite recipe
1 TBSP olive oil
1/2 cup Swiss cheese, grated (or 4-5 slices)
5-6 Roma tomatoes, sliced thinly
Salt and pepper

1. Preheat oven to 350. Spread the mustard evenly along the bottom of the pie crust with the back of a spoon, then repeat with the olive oil.
2. Sprinkle or layer Swiss cheese on crust. Top with one layer of tomatoes, placing the first tomato in the center and moving out in slightly overlapping circles until the crust is covered.
3. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Bake for 30 minutes or until crust is golden and cheese bubbles.

Isabel's Tomato Pie

Recipe: Tomato Pie
Published 3/30/05 in the Houston Chronicle food section.
In brief: An article about foolproof recipes. (NB: Article was not authored by me, but recipe was.)

Download tomato_pie_recipe.pdf

Oh Chantico, Chantico, Wherefore Art Thou, Chantico?

Thus spoke this Juliet when she got to the bottom of her first cup of Chantico, Starbucks' new drinking chocolate.

Ooo-eee! Baby!

It's not hot chocolate - oh, no no no no no - it's more like liquid chocolate. Closer to fudge sauce though a smidge more pourable. It tastes like brownie batter. Deep chocolate, a hint of cinnamon (just a hint) and so full of rich flavor that as I walked home, my small 6-ounce treasure grasped tightly in one sweaty palm, the scent came wafting up and took over my nose. I took a teeny sip. Then another. Then another one, bigger this time. Before you know it, my bag of groceries had hit the sidewalk with a loud smack and my head was tilted back in a mad frenzy of chocolate drinking. I felt something akin to Dracula's unquenchable thirst after waking up from eternity.

Run, don't walk, I tell you. (Definitely run. It'll help you work off some of those 21 grams of fat. Good thing I ran a few miles this morning but, you know, not everyone is as sporty as I am.)

NY Recipe: Cream of Zucchini Soup

Little Sister got busy in her Manhattan kitchen this weekend making a pot of her favorite soup. She's been making it since college and has, on occasion, been known to whip up a batch for me. Rich, though not bad for you (thanks to a smart fat-free substitution) it does indeed banish the winter doldrums. I may make some this week if the nasty March rains keep up.

Depressed by New York’s thick drizzle and grey skies, I decided to cook up one of my longstanding favorites, cream of zucchini soup. I am a huge zucchini fan, especially when I can buy it from the Greenmarket at Union Square where I like to spend lazy Saturday afternoons enjoying the fresh, often organic offerings from farms across New York. No winter visit is complete without a cup of steaming hot cider and a slice of banana bread.

And so, needing a pick me up this past Saturday, I donned my cherry-printed apron and entered the kitchen, freshly purchased zucchini in hand.

I should note that we have an ongoing competition with the woman in the apartment across the fire escape from us, who is always in the kitchen cooking. Her commitment, while impressive, is – what’s the word? - annoying, so whenever I am in the kitchen I try to show off to the best of my ability just in case she happens to be spying on us (though certainly we never spy on her!). I feel particularly superior when I make everything from scratch.

Having armed myself with an inspirational glass of wine, something I recommend as the first step to every recipe, I began to chop away, enjoying the scent of lemony parsley and pungent garlic and the feel of the silky smooth slices of zucchini. There is something really satisfying about standing over a huge boiling pot of veggies as the steam rises up into the air and fills the kitchen with earthy aromas. My favorite part of making this soup is my newfound love, the immersion blender; I use it to puree the soup to a creamy mint green. (Unfortunately I got a little carried away this time, and the loud and protracted whirring interrupted K. at a crucial moment of her “can’t miss” TV drama Macleod's Daughters.)

Cream of Zucchini Soup with Parmesan Crisps
Yield: 6-8 servings

Originally a Weight Watchers recipe (believe it or not!) this soup is great hot or cold and lasts well in the fridge up to one week. It can also be frozen for up to 3 months. It doesn't take long to make once all the ingredients are chopped, and I like to serve it up with either a slice of cheese toast on pumpernickel bread in the winter, or with fresh boiled shrimp and a squirt of lime in the summer.

1 TBSP olive oil
1 onion (white or Vidalia), chopped
3 large cloves of garlic, minced
4 cups boiling water
1 chicken bouillon cube
7 medium zucchinis, chopped
½ cup fresh basil, chopped
½ cup fresh parsley, chopped
15 oz. fat free evaporated milk
1 tsp red pepper flakes
Salt and pepper to taste
1 cup fresh Parmesan cheese, grated

1. In a large pot, heat oil and sauté onion and garlic until golden, about 7 minutes. Add water, chicken bouillon cube, zucchini, basil, and parsley and bring to a boil. Let simmer 10 minutes, or until veggies are soft. Stir in evaporated milk, red pepper flakes, and salt and pepper. Use immersion blender to puree. (Giggle like a maniac and shout "wheee!" as it does its job.) Heat another 10-15 minutes, uncovered, to let thicken.
2. Meanwhile, make Parmesan crisps: Preheat oven to 350. Place silver dollar-sized clumps of cheese on cookie sheet. Bake until melted and pliable, about 5 minutes. Remove and let cool, then use to garnish soup.

Aqua

It's rare to encounter anyone in this city, resident or visitor, who hasn't heard of Aqua. Hearing the restaurant's name, most nod their heads with enthusiasm, Aqua having made - and kept - a name for itself under chefs George Morrone, Michael Mina and, most recently, Laurent Manrique. Tucked away in the Financial District, Aqua is almost incognito, the only hints of its presence the valet sign out front and a dim glow that spills onto the sidewalk as people come and go. Encountering it is like noticing an underwater creature who blends into its environment so well that you don't sense it until it shifts.

When you step inside, you may find the din surprising. What was so hushed on the outside is alive and bubbling on the inside. On the right, comfy couches provide a resting place for those awaiting tables or, at night's end, a place to lounge over one last Bailey's on the rocks. The bar stretches along the right wall, square pillars gently separating it from the dining area. Gargantuan floral arrangements and similarly proportioned mirrors make diners feel almost Lilliputian in the main dining room, but if you're lucky enough to snag a seat near the window, the noise and grandeur fade into the background, and a table for two seems like just that.

Mr. Food Musings and I started with a rosé champagne from Bruno Paillard. Nearly bubbleless and the color of raspberries thinned with cream, it paired well with the amuse bouche, or as SF restaurants now call it, assuming a level of fine dining familiarity in their clientele, the amuse: a doll-sized teacup of potato parmesan soup, flush with the flavor of potato, and a tiny crabcake plopped in a squirt of lemony sauce. Our palates were tickled indeed.

We started with the chilled shellfish platter. Often served in a show-stopping three-tiered table topper, Aqua's version is elegant and understated, a simple metal bowl filled with crushed ice and delectable nibbles from the sea. Kumamoto and Malpeque oysters nestled in their icy beds next to Littleneck clams, cracked crab legs with a dusting of freshly ground pepper, and plump Gulf prawns; sherry mignonette, cocktail sauce, lemons and oh-so-cute miniature bottles of tabasco sauce were their stalwart companions. The plate was finished with a small bowl of ceviche, salsa-like in consistency and flavor, bits of corn and avocado swimming up from below; tortilla crisps proved handy replacements for fork and spoon. Just before the plate was cleared, one of the teeny tabasco bottles jumped into my bag! Mr. FM and I looked on in shock, but in the end decided we couldn't deny the little guy a home. He slept in the satiny folds of my clutch purse all night long and awoke ready for sentry duty in the kitchen cabinet.

Perhaps inspired by our recent bout with tartares, both tuna and ostrich, we moved on to the tuna and wild striped bass tartare. Tuna tartare is still one of the signature dishes at Aqua, and Manrique's touch brings a sense of the exotic: served on a wide white plate and topped with a quail egg, the tuna is mixed with sweet date paste, lemon confit, garlic and harissa, a spicy orangey-red Tunisian chili paste, then nudged into the shape of a triangle by the patient server. The portion was so grand that I let Mr. FM have three or four bites, and my generosity was rewarded with a bite of his wild striped bass. Molded into a circle and topped with caviar, the bass sat atop exquisitely thin slices of fresh, light cucumber, each bite a taste of Spring herself. The dry Riesling that I sipped with my tuna was, quite possibly, the best food and wine pairing I've ever had. Kudos to the sommelier.

Since Aqua is known as a seafood joint, I stuck with the theme and ordered John Dory for my entree. The chewy, mild white fish was emboldened by crispy bits of succulent pork belly, endive braised and tart with a touch of vinegar, and gnocchi so small they resembled mini-marshmallows. Mr. FM enjoyed his duck two ways, a rare seared breast and smattering of confit, as well as the smoky hash-like jamon. We toyed with ordering the Shea pinot noir we'd had at Tartare, but let the sommelier guide us to a fuller-bodied Penner-Ash. Unfortunately, we would have been happier with the Shea or something more restrained.

The cheese course was worth forsaking the sweets; I didn't write down our selections, but we ordered a firm cow's milk cheese, the only local cheese on the menu, then chose a bleu, whose hide was mottled with veins of ashy blue that suggested deep waters. Our server recommended a creamy Spanish that I believe was made from sheep's milk. All were so different and so elegant, none too big or overpowering. The server didn't explain the accompaniments, but if I had to guess I'd wager they may have included apricot preserves for the cow's milk, something figgy and a little date bar for the Spanish cheese and a mellow honey for the bleu. The little petit-fours that were served with the bill were cute, perhaps more so than they were good; the table next to ours left them wholly untouched. Though I can't vouch for the pastry chef on this visit beyond the warm olive-rich bread we enjoyed, past desserts have been stunning - chilled mango soup with scoops of housemade sorbet, and a chocolate espresso napoleon with overlapping layers of thinnest chocolate. Divine.

When we got home, Mr. Food Musings complained of having eaten too much. "But it was worth it," he sighed.

Aqua, San Francisco, 252 California Street, 415-956-9662

Recipe: Blood Orange Tart

I've never had much of a sweet tooth; my cravings have always been savory. When I was a little girl, I'd eat slices of butter - plain, no bread or crackers. (Hey, I don't mess around.) Once I'd finished with one pat I'd ask my parents for another in what became a familiar refrain: "More butter, please."

Then it was onto salty snacks: Cheetos, Ripples potato chips with Sealtest French Onion dip (recently replaced by a luscious Barefoot Contessa recipe), cashews, which I rudely pick out of nut mixes, even at parties - why should I eat the filberts and Brazil nuts when no one else does? And then there's the mecca of savory snacks, the french fry. Food of the Gods' gods, salty, hot, melt-in-your-mouth mouthwatering: I would go to hell and back for french fries. Just ask Mr. Food Musings; his hand has been slapped enough to know that I - Do - Not - Share - French - Fries. Uh-uh. No way.

Rather than feel bogged down by my preference - fine, by my addiction - I've always thought myself far superior to friends who can't live without sugar for more than a few hours. I'd watch in mild disgust as my friend R. would fold stick after stick of chewing gum into her mouth, finishing a jumbo pack of cinnamon within 20 minutes time. When E. would reach for another Swedish fish or Smartie, I'd recoil in horror at the sickening sugary sweetness of it all.

But lately, I'm beginning to wonder if something's changed. See, when a normal person is presented with a fresh and juicy blood orange, they imagine biting in and letting the juices run down their chin, sucking the flesh of the blood-red segments (though not all blood oranges are darkly hued) and reveling in the oh-so-orangey flavor.

Me, I see dessert. As in a lusty little tart topped with a caramel sauce or, if I'm feeling lazy, an orange slice or two. (Hint: click on "lusty little tart" for the recipe.)

Does this mean I've crossed a line? Hmmm. Must make a quick run to McDonald's for fries tomorrow and see.

NOTE: A word on cake plates, transporting tarts to a friend's house and the like. If you, like me, own a cake plate that has sloping sides (what idiot came up with that idea, I'll never know) I recommend NOT putting the empty pie shell onto it, then filling it the next afternoon with chilled orange curd. You know you are doing it all for the sake of vanity so that the photo you take will show a perfect tart, lovingly garnished and set atop a tall platter. Remember that pride goeth before a fall. You will have one heck of a time getting the tart off the sloping cake plate without cracking it into a million little pieces, and you will surely cry (if you are the cook) or get yelled at (if you are the Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Spouse trying to help with 3 types of spatulas) and, despite strategic maneuverings that would surely make NASA and McGyver proud, your tart will, like Humpty Dumpty, need to be put back together again. And your Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Spouse will NOT under any circumstances be able to drive over 25 MPH in the car on the way to the friend's house, for whom all this was done in the first place, and upon arrival you will instruct the friend NOT to look at or, God forbid, touch the tart if they know what's good for them. You will cut it (as if it needed cutting) and serve it in secrecy so that there are no witnesses to your abject failures in the pastry kitchen. When pressed by your friend, you will pretend that things like this don't bother you one whit. See, you are the type to laugh these things off. "Ha ha!" you giggle, weakly, to prove your point while in the background your Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Spouse guards your dirty little secret.

Ode to a Vegetable

Humble southern vegetable,
your stem stubbed,
your tail curved and oh-so-thin,
your skin fuzzy like the Peach, your garden neighbor;
your seeds slick my knife with their sludge.

Fried up golden brown and crisp, or
thrown in a pot of gumbo.

Okra! How I love thee!

When I was a child, only you,
of all the vegetables,
ever merited seconds (and, when Mom made enough,
thirds.) At Grandma's, you arrived in a paper bag,
top crumpled to hide
its precious cargo,
fresh and dirty still from being pick'd.

Though you are a stranger still to some,
I greedily steal you from grocery shelves,
piling you in bag after bag to take home
and fry up.

I can never get enough.

"Fried" Okra

This barely qualifies as a recipe, and I don't actually deep-fry the okra (or even roll it in flour to coat it) - after all, I have my health to think of. But fried okra is all about the okra (and salt!) not about the fry, so it still tastes much like it did when my mother used to make it. It's made an addict of Mr. Food Musings.

2 TBSP vegetable oil
1/2 lb. okra, chopped
salt

1. Make sure everyone else in the house is either out for the night or asleep.
2. Heat oil over medium heat till hot but not smoking in a non-stick pan (or, if you want to be authentic, in your grandmother's blackened skillet that is never washed, only wiped out). Add okra and cook until somewhat softened on the inside, crispy on the outside, and darkened to a deep green, 10-15 minutes. Season with salt to taste and eat directly from the skillet.

Recipe: Chicken Pot Pie

When I was a kid, my mom would serve those individual chicken pot pies every now and then. My brother and I would always trade - I'd give him the insides (mainly the icky peas and the other vegetables) and in exchange, I'd get the crust and the thick unctuous broth that stuck to it.

I forgot about pot pies for a while, until one night Mr. Food Musings and I went to Liberty Cafe, a little restaurant tucked away in Bernal Heights. There I had what is undoubtedly the best pot pie on planet Earth. They don't take reservations, and Mr. FM hates to wait for his food, so we got into the habit of going on Sundays around 6 pm, a time when most restaurants are refreshingly empty of crowds. I've never ordered anything but the chicken pot pie there; the flaky top crust, when punctured, releases a fragrant cloud of steam and the fresh potatoes, pearl onions, carrots and peas just scream out home-cooking. I got so addicted for a while that when my parents came to visit that was one of two places we took them to eat in the city. (Come on, in this city? You know I had it bad.)

Making a pot pie of my own has been a long time coming. For several years I've had the Joy of Cooking dog-eared to the Winter Vegetable Pot Pie with a Cheddar Biscuit Crust page, and with this week's arrival of Farm Fresh to You produce everything clicked into place.

I started by making my own chicken stock. Annoying, I admit, but it's not like I normally do that kind of thing, it's just that our freezer has been stuffed with so many chicken carcasses for so many months that it was time. (I told you once before that I hate wasting food. This past Thanksgiving I convinced Little Sister to take the turkey carcass back to New York with her, on an airplane, so she could make homemade stock. She did - well, to be perfectly accurate The Boyfriend did - is that love or what? - and the onion soup she made with it was lovely.)

I'm not going to tell you how to make stock - well, all right. If you do it like Nigella and me, just throw the bones of 3-4 cooked chickens into a big stock pot along with 2 peeled carrots, a celery rib, what else...an onion stuck with a clove, the white part of a leek (if you have it), 5 peppercorns, a bouquet garni (that's French for a little baggie with 3-4 sprigs of fresh thyme, a few parsley sprigs, and a bay leaf), cover with cold water, throw in a teaspoon of salt and bring to a boil. Once it's boiling you'll need to skim the scum from the top (disproving the cheerful notion that it's always the cream that rises), then lower to barely a simmer, where the water burps up a bubble once every 5 seconds or so, and leave it uncovered like that for three hours. After that, drain it into a big pot and freeze it in cup-sized portions (for easy use later). Voilà! Simple, just takes time (and some scavenging beforehand).

Whether you go to the trouble of making your own stock or buy some, you'll need 4 cups for this recipe. If I do say so myself, the pot pie turned out nicely. It took me back to my parents' kitchen table, except this time I'd have stuck my brother's hand with a fork before I'd let him take the pretty little peas off my plate.

Chicken Pot Pie
Yield: 4-6 depending on appetites (4 servings in our household)

Instead of a pastry crust, this pot pie is topped with biscuits. To make it easier on yourself, buy stock and a rotisserie chicken. You can also use frozen peas - I used the season's first fresh peas. The pods guarded their contents steadfastly against my eager fingers; some yielded only one or two small peas, but it was worth it. And no, they did not go rolling all around on the floor when I was carrying them over to the pot. What sort of klutz do you take me for?

FOR FILLING
4 cups chicken broth
3 carrots, peeled and chopped into 1/4" slices
3/4 lb. potatoes, quartered lengthwise and cut crosswise into 1/2" pieces
2 large celery ribs, cut into 1/2" slices
1 cup peas, freshly shelled or thawed
2 1/2 cups cubed cooked chicken (I poached 1 lb. worth - two boneless, skinless breasts - then let them cool)
3/4 stick (6 TBSP) unsalted butter
5 small leeks or 2 large leeks, white parts only, or 1 medium onion, chopped
6 TBSP flour
1/4 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg (substitute dried if that's all you have)
1/2 cup minced fresh flat-leaf parsley
1/2 tsp. dried thyme
salt and pepper to taste

FOR BISCUIT CRUST
1 1/3 cups flour
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
2 TBSP cold unsalted butter, cut into bits
2 TBSP vegetable shortening, chilled and cut into bits (Crisco makes a version with 0 trans fats now)
1/3 cup grated sharp Cheddar
1 large egg
About 1/3 cup buttermilk

MAKE THE FILLING
1. In a large stock pot, bring stock to a boil. Add carrots, potatoes and celery and simmer uncovered 8 minutes. Add peas and simmer another 7 minutes or until tender. With a slotted spoon, transfer veggies to a shallow baking dish along with chicken. Reserve stock.
2. Melt butter in saucepan over medium-low heat. Add leeks or onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Add flour and cook, stirring, for 3 minutes to make a roux. Add 3 cups of reserved broth in a steady stream, whisking contstantly, and bring to a boil, whisking. Reduce heat and simmer, whisking, for 3 minutes. Stir in nutmeg, parsley, thyme and salt and pepper to taste.
3. Pour sauce over chicken and vegetables and stir to coat.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
MAKE THE CRUST
1. Put a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 450.
2. Sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a bowl. Blend in butter and shortening with fintertips until mixture resembles coarse meal. Stir in cheese.
3. Break egg into a liquid measuring cup and add enough buttermilk to total 1/2 cup. Beat with a fork, then add to flour mixture and stir till dough forms. Gather dough into a ball.
4. On a floured surface roll or press out dough 1/2" thick. With a small glass or biscuit cutter, cut out as many rounds as you can, then gather scraps, reroll dough and repeat until all dough is used up. (I had two rounds leftover that I'll bake some other time, maybe for a morning Benedict?)
5. Arrange rounds on top of filling and bake until biscuits are puffed and golden and filling is bubbling, 15-20 minutes. (I had to transfer my pie from the middle of the oven to one rung below about 15 minutes in because the biscuits were browning too quickly.)

El Azteca

On my way to an appointment yesterday afternoon with K., my boot camp drill sargent, I stopped into Goldleaf Chocolatier on Union Street. Indulging in a chocolate fix prior to being weighed and having one's thighs measured isn't the smartest idea, you say? Bah! Live a little, throw caution to the wind, tempt fate, I say. (And, perhaps, secure a ready excuse just in case those scales and pincers let you down.)

While two little girls alternately pondered their after school selections and kicked one other, their tired father pretending not to see, I perused the chocolates on display. From thick blocks of fudge to truffles galore, the thing that caught my eye was the Azteca. Though thin, this bar weighs in at 72% pure chocolate and boasts a shimmering layer of gold dust and a carved design reminiscent of the ancient civilization for whom it is named. In further tribute, the Azteca's flavor is enhanced with mole and chile chipotle. I was sold.

At first bite it was a bit dusty, usually a sign of age, but a second bite convinced me it was the goldleaf - the sensation of chocolate tickled my tastebuds, and was followed by a small dose of heat as the chile kicked in. Delightful.

And, apparently, merited: I've lost 8 millmeters off my thighs since November (trust me, it's a lot). Maybe I should have brought K. a chocolate!

Goldleaf Chocolatier, San Francisco, 2250 Union Street, 415-922-5711

The Despair of Infinity

I believe it was the Danish philosopher Kierkegaard who coined the term the "despair of infinity." My college roommate L., who was reading him for a class on faith and reason, introduced me to the concept of overabundant choice and the resulting paralysis and despair. I've no idea what the original context for the work was, but I have come to my own conclusions about what it means, and what it means is that those folks at Capay Fruits & Vegetables are tormenting me with too many vegetables and fruits!

I've mentioned my biweekly deliveries of fresh, local organic produce before. Essentially, Capay Fruits & Vegetables has created a service called Farm Fresh to You - plenty of other local farms do this, too - where you can sign up for weekly or biweekly deliveries of whichever organic, seasonal fruits and veggies they pull out of the ground or off their very own trees that week.

Mr. Food Musings and I have been meaning to sign up for years, but didn't get around to it until a few weeks ago when we were down at the Ferry Building for lunch and we grabbed a brochure from the Capay Organic store they've opened. For $21.50 per delivery we get 4 types of vegetables and 2 fruit selections, plus the occasional cooking item (onions and garlic, primarily) and a newsletter with a few recipes on the back.

Our two deliveries to date have been varied in content, and bursting with fresh goodies full of flavor - knobby, hairy carrots with green tops trailing behind, stubby fingerling potatoes, blood oranges and mini Satsuma mandarins, crisp Pink Lady apples, a huge bag of mixed baby lettuces, two tightly closed artichokes and sweet first-of-the-season snap peas.

(Okay, so stupid me - the first week our delivery came I forgot about it and kept walking by the unlabeled box in the corner of our apartment building foyer wondering why our annoying neighbor didn't pick up their package. Several days later, it occurred to me that our fresh veggies hadn't arrived, so I emailed Georgette at the farm to find out if there had been a delivery problem. As soon as I hit send - of course - it hit me. That box languishing in the corner was mine! (Duh!) I ran down the stairs as quick as my leopard slippered feet could carry me and dragged the box upstairs. Unfortunately, it was too late to save the lettuces, who'd turned brown and slimy after 3 days sitting in their own moisture in a plastic bag, but everything else was salvagable. And yummy!)

This week's delivery has occupied my brain all morning long; I've been spinning through recipe after recipe trying to find just the thing. It's kind of like those logic puzzles we had to do in elementary school: Which recipe uses the most ingredients to the best advantage, taking into account Mr. FM's and my desire to eat healthily as well as our schedule (dinner at Aqua on Friday, out with friends on Saturday and dinner with his folks on Sunday) without leaving anything to rot?

I've finally - I think - settled on using the potatoes, peas, carrots and some of the skinny leeks in a chicken pot pie tomorrow night, baking an apple pie (fittingly, using L.'s gradmother's recipe) to take down to Mr. FM's parents for dessert, and consulting Nigella for the blood oranges - something kicking around in the depths of my memory tells me she's gone on and on before about blood oranges from Seville.

Recipes I rejected:
Leeks au gratin
Potato salad
Roasted vegetables with tarragon
Pasta with roasted tomatoes, peas and fresh mint

I'll let you know how it goes.