I like Portland! Finally got to spend a little time in the greenest city thanks to a little business trip (read: free plane ticket), and yes, those food magazines weren’t fucking around: It really is a wonderful food city. Not that I ate well the whole time (I drank, too…oh, and worked), but I did a pretty serious job of ingesting a solid cross-section of the city.

The first night we ate not nearly enough little bits of Asian-sweet calamari appetizers over lots of drinks. Counterpoint: Starving and mildly hungover the next morning, I inhaled an egg sandwich bagel with bacon. Then we had pizza for lunch. Yikes.

Wednesday night was the big team dinner at Andina’s. Sassy habanero-spiked passion fruit cocktails, addictive tapas (I had to push the little cheezy poofs away so as not to plant my face in the platter and humiliate myself), and then a perfectly cooked New York strip with chimichurri. But for my ballooning stomach, I was not ready to part with the accompanying parmesan tuile, but I had to make room for dessert: a peony-adorned goat cheese flan that was so astonishingly light and mild, I shamelessly licked the plate clean.

(Why don’t Americans understand the beauty of not-so-sweet cheesecake? The Italians get it, the Spanish apparently get it. Sheesh.)

In any case, I was thankful I ate so much when we retired to the bar. My flan helped absorb the booze. Lots of booze.

On Thursday, my workmates headed home, and Nicki wisely picked the fantastic Pok Pok as my real initiation into the local dining scene. Tsingtaos, sticky, spicy, crunchy chicken wings, and Pok Pok’s signature smoked chicken with sticky rice, coupled with brilliant company and even a lovely ride home — wow. I may consider returning to Portland for the wings alone. And the company, of course.

Friday lunch: fish and chips with John, starring a local IPA and fresh fucking halibut. (Is Oregon that close to Alaska?) Friday night, the pièce de résistance: Nicki picked out Le Pigeon — not much to look at from the outside, but a warm and cozy neighborhood-like place with an open kitchen, a bold menu, a disciplined chef, and a very nice waiter named Brian.

Nicki’s salad inspired my own (comparatively lackluster) grilled romaine when I returned home; my garlic noodles with snails and ramps made me nearly weep. (Nicki even tried a snail, which to her credit, are really not that pretty.) Another perfect steak for me, perfect skate for Nicki, and then, wow:

Near to bursting but so delighted by the menu and the company and the conversation and the wine and good ole Brian, I naturally responded with a chipper “Of course!” when queried on dessert. So we inspected the dessert menu, handwritten on the wall near our table.

Chocolate cake of some sort, something else lovely, but then, I shit you not, foie gras profiteroles. Now, even I had to pause on that one, and not only because I was unconvinced sometime vegetarian Nicki wouldn’t run screaming from the table at the mere suggestion. But egged on by our neighbors at the other end of the table, we went for it — and holy jesus, they were good! Warm profiteroles filled with a light foie gras mousse, drizzled with an amazing orangey caramel and sprinkled with a fleur de sel…um, yeah. And free Sauternes from the host, who accidentally hit me on the head with a plate. Portland may have made me gaga.

Saturday, and my last day in town, my charming new friend joined me for a brilliant finale: an old-fashioned Reuben, laden with housemade pastrami and sauerkraut, surrounded by hordes of gluttonous peers and 52 cups of coffee. No wonder I felt like crap that afternoon, but I could have loitered there for hours. (Why didn’t I? Questionable.)

So for at least a few days, I’m on a me-style cleanse, which has nothing to do with lemon juice and cayenne pepper cocktails (shudder) and everything to do with vegetables and good grains. I concocted this dinner in honor of Portland, and to linger a little longer over the small crush I developed there (who typifies all of the following): a little spicy, extremely attractive, great-smelling, hearty, and healthy to boot.

I winged the ingredients based on the contents of my fridge, and so can you. Just don’t blow off the tofu: You need to press the hell out of it, so it’s nearly dry, then stir-fry it in a very hot pan in a little oil until it’s browned. The outside will be crispy, the innards pleasantly custardlike. As when you cook meat, don’t skimp on the browning, or all you’ll have is limp soy. Ick.

Thai-Style Tofu Stir-Fry

1 lb firm tofu, pressed for 20 minutes between paper towels, then cut into large cubes
neutral oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
a couple of dried red chiles
a thumb-size knob of ginger, minced
two stalks of lemongrass, peeled to their soft cores and minced
2 red bell peppers, roughly chopped
two handfuls of sugar snap peas, destringed and halved
a handful of arugula (or any green)
soy sauce
fish sauce
lime
chopped scallions
cilantro, chopped
peanuts

Heat a couple of tablespoons of oil in a hot skillet until nearly smoking, then add your tofu, stirring every once in a while until nice and brown. Retire the tofu to a plate.

In the same pan, pour another tablespoon or so of oil, then send in the chiles, garlic, ginger, and lemongrass. Stir-fry for a minute or two until fragrant, then toss in your peppers and peas. Fry another couple of minutes, then pile in a handful of arugula. Add a few dashes of soy sauce, a few of fish sauce, and your tofu, and toss until the arugula wilts. Turn off the heat and stir in the juice from your lime, the scallions, and the cilantro. Serve over brown rice and sprinkle with peanuts, more lime juice, and some chili sauce, if you have it.

If you don’t make pasta for dinner at least a couple of times a week, you’re an idiot. Or you don’t have a day job.

It’s the only food that can take so many variations, so many sauces, pairs so brilliantly with nearly every food (meat or veg, and that includes potatoes), and can be prepared so quickly.

Nearly every cuisine has an equivalent of a starch with some delicious topping, but pasta is simply my favorite. And since I’m taking Italian classes on Mondays now, and I arrive home late and starving to death, it’s the ideal Monday dinner: fast, easy, Italian, delicious.

You’ve read that you can make a pasta sauce in the time it takes to boil the water. Well, that’s absolutely accurate. Here’s a good one to try when you need something quick and punchy. Vary at will.

Linguine with Sun-Dried Tomatoes

large handful of sun-dried tomatoes (dried, not the ones packed in oil)
2 large cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
a shake or two of chile flakes, or a crushed dried chile
3 medium slicer tomatoes (or a few more plum tomatoes)
olive oil (quarter cup or so)
handful of parsley, chopped
1 lb dried linguine
freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (fresh only)

Set a large pot of water to boil. Now we steal an idea from the brilliant Mark Bittman: Mince half of your sun-dried tomatoes, and cut the others in half so they’re more or less bite-sized but not too hard to fish out of some boiling water.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat, then toss in your minced tomatoes, garlic, and chile. Turn the heat to low so the garlic starts to soften but won’t burn. While that’s cooking, dice your fresh tomatoes. When the garlic has turned golden, add the fresh tomatoes to the pan — juice, seeds, and all — and a pinch or two of salt.

When your water comes to a boil, drop in the large pieces of tomato. Let the tomato pieces float around for a couple of minutes, then fish them out and add them to the skillet (that’s the other part of the Bittman technique).

When the water comes back to a boil, salt it heavily, then cook your linguine. When it’s nearly done, save some of the cooking water (in case your fresh tomatoes were dry), then drain the pasta and add it to the skillet, tossing with your now insanely delicious-smelling sauce and a little of the cooking water, if needed, plus the parsley and some Parmigiano-Reggiano.

(I used to forego parsley in many recipes, since I didn’t always have it on hand, but the parsley is really a beautiful touch here, adding both freshness and some lovely contrasting color. Try not to skip it.)

Serves 2–4, depending on how hungry you are.

PS: I would have included a picture, but I decimated the dish almost immediately.

When the girls informed me that they were all coming over on Saturday to throw me a housewarming party, I couldn’t really say no — especially since celebration for us really means a flimsy excuse to put on dresses, eat a ton, and get drunk.

The theme was all things français, and though told not to lever un doigt, I sort of couldn’t help it. So besides vacuuming, stashing away my stacks of as-yet-unread magazines, and mopping the kitchen floor, I decided to make some cookies. Small enough not to interfere with anything the ladies might bring over, but a contribution of goodwill…sort of a party favor.

The first selection, of course, was French macarons, because they’re Shelli’s favorite. I thank David Lebovitz for the fantastic recipe, which I fucked up royally. (My fault, not his. Macarons are easy to overcook, and when they’re chocolate, and you can’t go by sight….)

Anyway, they were fine when sandwiching thick layers of dark-chocolate ganache, and anyway, the girls would be drunk by the time dessert rolled out. Sometimes it’s just the thought that counts.

The real fun was the second round: lemon tuiles from Alice Medrich’s Pure Dessert. I love tuiles. There’s something truly masochistic about eyeing the hot cookies for a full minute after you’ve pulled them from the oven, betting yourself that that one is just set enough not to accordion up when you try sneak the spatula under its edges. And they are really cute after you finally ease them from the pan and drape them over a rolling pin. So curvy.

So the tuiles were sufficiently tasty and lemony, enough to offset the overdone chocolate macarons a bit, but then I faced the plating. How do you arrange cookies that look like Pringles?

Well, duh.

(With thanks to Elise, who boosted my ego immeasurably when she squealed “Pringles!” as I brought them out to the table. )

Most of the time, I come home after a high-stress day and simply collapse in front of the TV. Other days I immerse myself in composing dinner as pure distraction from the stuff I really need to finish up…before collapsing in front of the TV. Then there are the days when I arrive on a mission, angrily going about dinner prep not because I’m mad that I have to eat, but simply to prove to someone (intangible) that I am capable of doing something other than responding to email and cleaning up other people’s organizational disasters.

So tonight I’m winging it. The plan was fish soup with lots of croutons made from three-day-old leftover ciabatta, so I was thumbing through Nancy Harmon Jenkins’s lovely Cucina del Sole for ideas, when I suddenly remembered the eggplant I stashed in the crisper on Sunday. I could have gone the caponata route, or pasta, but inspiration actually struck. Creative energy, maybe. And leftovers.

So tonight I’m having stuffed eggplant. I sliced the smooth and lovely berry (really! coincidentally learned that from Alton tonight) lengthwise, scooped out the innards, and sautéed them in some olive oil with a bit of garlic and oregano. Into the mix: a couple of scoops of the leftover meat sauce from this weekend’s kaddo bourani (an Afghan pumpkin dish), some fresh breadcrumbs (thank you, ciabatta), a handful of chopped parsley, and a couple of spoonfuls of ricotta.

Good enough to eat with a spoon, actually, but instead I stuffed it all back into the eggplant, coated the whole pile in a bit of olive oil, and popped it in the oven to bake until soft.

Someone’s Mediterranean grandmother would be proud.

No, I haven’t been eating only nachos and whiskey for the last few months, but it’s been a weird food time. I did apparently trim an inch off my waist, which is nice, except that now I need new pants.

But anyway, tonight is all about: romesco.

If you’ve never had it, I’m sorry, but we can rectify that soon. If you have, your idea of righteous romesco may vary a bit from mine (every recipe is a bit different), but you know it’s a Catalan sauce made from nuts, tomatoes, peppers, bread, garlic, and vinegar that’s delicious on…well, on just about everything: vegetables, shrimp, chicken, grilled bread, fish, name it.

It’s actually good for you, too! Small amounts of healthy nuts, extra virgin olive oil, no cheese, no other fats, and so satisfying.

I love it as a dipping sauce for poached shrimp. The Spanish, though, have a neat ritual of charring green onions on the grill, then dipping them with their fingers into warm bowls of the stuff, and that’s what I decided to go for tonight. Finger food.

I didn’t have spring onions, but I did have some fat, beautiful leeks. Tip: When you’re going to grill an onion of any sort, it helps to keep the root end intact, so they don’t fall apart. I just trimmed off some of the long roots and the woody green leaves, then sliced the leeks lengthwise in quarters and washed them in a big bowl of cold water (plunging them up and down helps divest leeks of their mud).

A quick coating of extra virgin olive oil, and they were ready for the grill pan, which I used to char the hell out of them. Yum.

The sauce is the key, and what you add to yours will depend a bit on taste and a bit on the state of your pantry. Mine went something like this:

• handful of toasted, skinned hazelnuts
• small handful of toasted almonds (you can use on nut or the other, but I happened to have both on hand)
• one beautiful tomato
• a couple of small slices of toasted ciabatta
• 2 jarred piquillo peppers
• one ancho chile, softened in some hot water
• sherry vinegar

Basically, blend it all up in the food processor, add some olive oil, salt, and pepper, and you’re done. It’s not a clingy dip — more of a dolloping sauce. The texture will be thick and a little nubby, not smooth like a mayonnaise (though now that I think of it, I bet it’d be really good in mayonnaise), the color a rich, rich mahogany. The sauce should have a little kick to it, but in my experience, anyway, it shouldn’t be spicy.

My lovely dinner, then: two slices of that same ciabatta, rubbed with some olive oil and grilled; a tangled pile of charred leek wedges; and a heaping spoonful of romesco. OK, several heaping spoonfuls.

Trust me, you’ll be rummaging through your fridge looking for things to slather with your sauce. Tomorrow I’m doing asparagus.

We don’t always see a proper Fourth of July in San Francisco, but if peach salsa doesn’t scream summer, I don’t know what does.

It’s a holiday of grilling, which always drives me nuts, since I don’t have a grill nor space for one myself. (Grill pans and broilers don’t cut it on the 4th, honestly.) But here’s the answer: If you don’t have a grill, and your friends didn’t step up, throw together a batch of this deliciousness — then crash the neighbor’s yard party.

With many thanks to Mark Bittman, whose recipe I poached.

Summer Peach Salsa

3 good-size, firm peaches
1 red bell pepper
2 chiles in adobe, chopped finely or mashed with the back of a spoon
the juice of 2-3 limes, or more to taste
a large pile of chopped cilantro
a tsp or 2 of sugar, depending on the sweetness of your peaches
salt to taste

Wash but don’t bother to peel your peaches. Finely dice the peaches and the pepper (1/4 inch or smaller will work best if you want to pile the salsa on chips, but larger is fine if you plan to spoon it over your grillables). Avoid the urge to simply spoon the peaches directly into your mouth.

Mix the peaches and pepper gently with the rest of the ingredients, let rest a few minutes, then taste for seasoning and adjust as you like. Just make sure you don’t overwhelm the peaches!

Makes a few cups — enough for you and a few greedy friends (or strangers), or for a crowd, if you also made fresh guacamole. (We’ll be inhaling both at the beach tomorrow with fajitas and beer.)

I jump at just about any excuse to make loads of cupcakes. They’re cute, perfectly portioned, and much easier to serve than the full-size models. There’s also something so second grade about them that makes me giggle. When you go for more elegant flavors than Duncan Hines yellow or Betty Crocker chocolate, you’re guarantees at least a few smiles, if not frosting-sweetened tears of nostalgia.

Shelli’s 40th birthday, an afternoon barbecue for 30 or so, made for a perfect cupcake date (barbecues scream finger food).

I converted a red velvet cake recipe into cupcake form — wildly misjudging the proper fill level of the muffin tins, such that I had to give each of the red beauties a bit of a haircut on the cooling rack (it was that or risk the edges falling off in transit). Red velvet always makes a splash — it’s really, really red — but be warned: Your guests will ask you what it tastes like (red is not an acceptable answer, apparently).

Since Shelli loves nothing if not variety (and, more honestly, the red velvet didn’t make nearly as many cakes as I’d hoped), I decided to make a chocolate batch as well. And in honor of spring, carrot cake! Why not? My mom’s recipe, moistened with crushed pineapple (and blessedly devoid of nuts), always wins. As an added bonus, cream cheese frosting works beautifully with all three cakes. (I mean, I could eat cream cheese frosting with a spoon, but it’s a little more subtle as a topping.)

In any case, by the end of the decorating phase, cupcakes lined both counters, the stove, and even the coffee table, piles of candied rose petals, cocoa nibs, and silver dragees filling most of the blanks. Shelli’s mile o’ cupcakes!

You can’t beat olive oil, in just about every category — it’s beautiful, aromatic, endlessly varied, versatile, good for you…. In my olive oil haze (I currently have at least a half dozen kinds on hand), though, I tend to forget about that other most glorious of fats: butter. BUTTER.

I haven’t felt much like eating lately, much less cooking, so I bought some asparagus to perk myself up. It is asparagus season, after all, and those fat green soldiers in the market bins standing at attention and shouting spring are simply too much to ignore. But what to do with it?

Grilling is nice, but then I have to think of a partner (an all-asparagus meal might be a little much). Risotto? Too lazy tonight. Mmm, baked risotto! Well, then I risk mushy green stuff. I started prowling cookbooks, and that’s where the butter popped up.

It helps on a weeknight that asparagus is pretty much the easiest vegetable on earth to prepare, as long as it’s fresh. Wash, snap the woody ends off. Tonight I went crazy and cut them up, too.

OK, so I lifted this one from Food & Wine: pasta with asparagus in a balsamic butter sauce. Intrigued? I was, too, and since my doctor’s lispy little assistant weighed me today and cheerfully announced that I have gained less than a pound since last year, I didn’t even feel bad about dropping the olive oil in favor of butter for dinner.

What you’ll need:

a nice bundle of asparagus (around a pound)
a splash of olive oil
a little more than 1/2 c. of balsamic vinegar (don’t use your nice stuff)
1/2 tsp. brown sugar
a stick of butter (think of it as a couple of tablespoons — you’re not eating the whole dish)
a pound of pasta (penne, if you want to be true to the recipe)
salt and pepper
freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Put a pot of water on to boil, then turn your attention to the asparagus.

Trim the spears by snapping off their ends (do not use a knife to trim the ends, really — they’ll break naturally in just the right spot), then cut them into about one-inch pieces and toss them in a small baking dish with the olive oil and some pepper and salt (sea salt is nice). Roast the asparagus in a 400° oven for around 5-10 minutes, or until the asparagus is crisp-tender. (Don’t overcook! Mushy asparagus is revolting, truly.)

While the asparagus is roasting, pour the vinegar into a small saucepan and bring to a simmer; cook until only about 3 tablespoons of vinegar are left. (Tip: Don’t hold your head over the saucepan, or the fumes may knock you out.) Stir in some pepper and 1/2 tsp of brown sugar.

While you’re waiting for the water to boil, cut the butter into small pieces and toss them into a large bowl. Grate some Parmigiano over the butter.

When the water is boiling, add a lot of salt (don’t skimp!), then cook your pasta until it’s al dente. Drain and toss it in the bowl with the butter.

Scrape in the asparagus and the balsamic vinegar, and toss like mad until the butter melts. The butter will meld with the cheese and balsamic into a thick sauce that coats the penne and turns it a glorious shade of purplish brown, shiny and punctuated with brilliant green. Top with some more cheese, and you’re ready to dine. Trust me, it’s very, very delicious.

It takes a lot to get back in the groove, but now that the big project has passed, and I’m looking forward to a serious food vacation, I think I can restart the documentation. So I’m back in action with a completely random dinner.

The beginning: a gift certificate to my favorite food store, and an enticing jar of harissa. Next: what to do with the harissa? Harissa means Moroccan, and I conveniently have a stockpile of that. (Stupid not to make it all the time, since it’s possibly the world’s quickest, easiest starch — and also really good with some honey for breakfast.)

Off to the store for some meat and vegetables. I had planned on chicken, but Bi-Rite was cleaned out (everyone cooks on Sunday night!), so I decided to try their pomegranate-marinated lamb leg. I don’t even like lamb, but hey, pomegranate, lamb, Morocco….

A not very long story made short: I cut some zucchini, red onion, carrots, and sweet peppers into large chunks, added a bit of sliced garlic, a few grinds of pepper, and olive oil, spread it in one layer in a casserole, and tossed it into a hot oven to roast. In the meantime, I cleaned the lamb (I hate gristle) and cut it into a few grillable slabs, then got the couscous going.

I’m not joking that couscous is the easiest starch. Here’s the recipe: Boil 1 1/4 cups of water and a bit of butter or oil. When the water is boiling, stir in 1 cup of couscous. Put the lid on and turn off the heat. After 5 minutes, fluff if with a fork. That’s it, really.

I gave the vegetables a good stir every 10 minutes for maybe a half hour, until they were good and soft, and starting to char. But I needed some kind of sauce. OK, so the Morocco thing went out the window, but here comes the harissa: Onto the vegetables I spooned a quarter cup or so of tomato sauce plus a heaping spoonful of the harissa, some salt, oregano, and thyme, then set the pan back into the oven to heat and thicken up. After a few minutes, I tossed the lot of it with some chopped parsley and cilantro and…wait for it…some diced homemade preserved lemon! (The lemons win the prize for longest-languishing ingredient in my fridge, and they’re actually not bad.)

The vegetables are delicious! Harissa isn’t too hot, and more complex than I’d guessed. The fresh herbs were a nice bonus, since I don’t always have herbs in the house. The thin slabs of lamb grilled up in about 10 minutes (I managed to not overcook them).

Final dish: a pile of couscous topped with a hefty scoop of vegetables, thick sauce, and chunks of grilled lamb. And all in about 40 minutes. Yum!

Still buried at work, but I am still eating!

One to file away for later: You know you’re an adult when you can come home after a long day, pop a chicken in the oven to roast, then fry up its liver with some olive oil, capers, and a dab of anchovy paste for a predinner snack, and no one says a thing.

The large glass of red wine is a nice touch, too.