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.

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.

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!

radicchio

My deep love for radicchio may have something to do with its glorious color or some feeling that I’m doing my body good, but I chalk it up more to my undying love for all things Italy. Some of the farms around here grow the very Italian radicchio di Treviso, which I buy unfailingly at the market whenever it appears, generally with a quarter pound of pancetta in the other hand.

If you’ve never tried it, let me be the first to tell you that radicchio wrapped in a salty cured meat is one of the best goddam things you’ll ever put in your mouth.

So here’s tonight’s absolutely ravishing, surprisingly quick, and thankfully not-too-bad-for-you dinner (you’ll be glad when you’re licking your plate clean). You’ll need to run to the store for this one, but with only a few ingredients, the trip won’t take long.

What you’ll need for you and a friend:

about 1 cup of polenta
a pat of butter
freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
one or two heads of radicchio
3–6 oz. very thinly sliced prosciutto or pancetta
2/3 c. balsamic vinegar
extra virgin olive oil

Part 1: Make some polenta. I am not fond of the instant variety, and handmade is so, so easy: Just boil some water and salt it. Add the polenta (rough cornmeal) in a slow stream, whisking constantly, then simmer over medium heat, stirring often with a straight-bottomed spoon, for 20 minutes or so. You want it soft, so go with a ratio of 4–5 parts water to 1 part polenta. Add a little milk if you like, and always, always finish with a pat of butter and a good handful or two of Parmigiano-Reggiano. You’ll have more than enough for two.

Part 2: Quarter your radicchio. I prefer the tubular Treviso, but if you can only find round Chiogga radicchio, that will do just fine. Wrap each quarter tightly in a piece of prosciutto (if the pieces are narrow, use two). Heat a little olive oil in a pan and place the wrapped radicchio in the pan, seam-side down. Turn the radicchio often until the prosciutto crisps up. Remove the quarters from the pan and give them a nice sprinkling of pepper.

Now add another tablespoon of oil and the balsamic to the pan and boil it until it has reduced and thickened up a little bit. This is your sauce — wonderful on the food, but don’t hold your face over the pan, or I guarantee you’ll start sneezing.

Time to eat: Spoon some polenta onto your plate, then a couple of quarters of radicchio. Spoon some sauce over both…then eat quickly before your friend steals it off your plate.

I tend to go a little nuts when I have a day off, which partly explains the parade of treats coming out of my kitchen this weekend. My oversupply of clementines explains some of the rest: clementine jam, yogurt (sweetened with the clementine jam), and candied clementine peel, which fortuitously, I learned, turns out to be one of the few things Shelli can stomach in her early pregnancy.

The big news is that after several years of drooling, I finally did it and purchased my first-ever piece of Le Creuset. (Thanks to my always generous brother, who blessed me with a big-ass gift card for Christmas, nudging the decision-making.) I am in love.

I went with the dual-toned red, 5.5-quart size — the most versatile, in my opinion (I really don’t cook massive roasts all that often), and thoroughly manageable, which means I won’t strain my back pulling it out of the oven. I brought it home less than 24 hours ago and have already used it twice.

Le Creuset demands braising, so I headed straight for Bi-Rite for something worthy of the maiden voyage. Beef, clearly, and the Bi-Rite folks actually had boneless chuck roasts, perfect for a lovely brasato al Barolo (beef braised in Barolo wine — or Cabernet Sauvignon if, like me, Barolo is a little beyond your budget). (Later I took my first shot at the now-infamous No-Knead Bread. More on that later.)

If you’re going to go large, you might as well go all the way, so I decided to pair the beef with some homemade pappardelle. Why not? If I had more time on my hands, I’d make pasta all the time. After you dig out the pasta machine and get a little workout kneading the dough (don’t skimp on the kneading!), your work is nearly done. A little rest, a spin through the machine, and a little cutting, and you’re ready to go.

Maybe it was cook’s intuition, but the pasta turns out to have been a great call, since it turns out that I overcooked the beef. Sigh. Backup plan: Shredded and resubmerged in the braising liquid, with some peas thrown in for sweet and color, beef in Barolo makes a brilliant pasta sauce. We’ll call it Pappardelle con Sugo di Bresato…e Piselli.

Despite what any of those right-coasters might believe, California is not really all that warm. If you’ve ever visited San Francisco, you likely made an emergency shopping run to pick up a cozy sweatshirt or jacket to warm up when the fog started rolling in. It’s not foggy now, but it’s damn cold. I mean blowing-on-hands, shoulder-cramping cold.

I know, it sounds like a sissy claim when I tell you it’s in the 30s (”Oh, big deal, we had a blizzard here in Denver!” “It’s pouring muddy slush in New York!”). Well, remember that skiers and East Coasters expect it to be cold in the winter, so they do things like insulate their houses and buy double-paned windows. They might even have parkas and central heat.

In any case, in the weather of two sweaters, jacket, scarf, and gloves, it’s French onion soup time, if you ask me. Skip out of work early, swing by the store, and get a pot going now.

If you’re like me, you probably didn’t get around to making any beef stock this week, so go ahead and use your low-sodium canned stuff. I cheated and made some broth out of the veal demiglace I’ve had languishing in the fridge for a couple of months, but it’s really the onions and cheese that matter.

You need real Gruyère (you’ll blanch at the cost, but buy it anyway) and about five pounds of sweet onions. If you can find only generic yellow onions, or white ones, don’t bother — you need sweet ones, or they’re just never going to caramelize, which means you’ll have oniony soup but not the luxurious browned deliciousness your freezing innards are craving. Some thyme is also nice. And a little bread.

Slice your onions as finely as you can. Your eyes will ache as you sob out a flood of onion tears (unless, as I vow to do next time, you put on some goggles, or you’re just not sensitive to the stuff, in which case I hate you). When you’re done, melt a few tablespoons of butter in a nice big, wide, heavy pot and start cooking your onions over medium heat. You’re going to want them to cook fairly slowly until they start to brown, which can take nearly an hour. Seriously. Just toss them around every few minutes to cook them more or less evenly.

Now here’s a technique I learned from James Patterson, which I think concentrates the flavor a bit: Add a half cup of your broth and cook it down; repeat three more times. I added some sherry at this point, too, just for kicks. Now add 7 or 8 more cups of broth, plus some sprigs of thyme, a bay leaf, and salt and pepper. Simmer for about 15 or 20 minutes, and adjust your salt (don’t skimp on the salt). It’s ready!

I don’t mess around with crocks (well, fine, I don’t have crocks), but you can’t beat cheese toast: Slice some of your bread, sprinkle with Gruyère, and broil for a minute. Add a toast or 5 to a big bowl of the soup, then sprinkle with even more cheese, and pour some wine. Could dinner really be any easier?

(Oh, and to answer your unasked question: Yes, your house will smell like onions when you’re done. But you’ve smelled worse, trust me.)

Thai coconut milk soup (tom kha gai): I used to think this sounded too exotic for a casual night dining alone, but a hundred weeknight dinners can’t be wrong. I’ve made this so many times, in so many different ways — well, all you need is a few pantry items.

Lemongrass is good. In fact, I went with the soup tonight because I happened to have three stalks of it in my fridge (it keeps for weeks — or try dried). If you don’t have that, go with limes. Or lemons and limes. Coconut milk, obviously.

Most recipes call for chicken, but I had frozen shrimp. Perfect. Even better is the Black Japonica rice I made alongside (jasmine is fine, but something nutty with some bit to it is even better). It’s easy, I swear.

I don’t like lots of bits in my soup, so I make a quick stock first: Peel your shrimp and save the shells. Heat some oil in a pot and toss in the shells, some smashed pieces of lemongrass, a few slices of ginger (or even ginger from a jar), some sliced onion, a little garlic, and some spice. If you have dried chiles, you can use those, but red curry paste is even better — I used a couple of large teaspoons. Sauté the aromatics in the oil for a few minutes, then add about 4 cups of stock or water. Let that boil and then simmer for a while — 5 minutes or 30 minutes, whatever works for you.

Strain the stock to get all the bits out (eating lemongrass is a bit like gnawing on wet toothpicks). In the same pot, sauté a little more finely chopped onion and ginger in a little oil, then pour in the stock. When it’s hot, add the shrimp, then a can of coconut milk. If you have some shiitakes, you can throw those in, too. The shrimp will only take a minute or two to cook through. When it’s done, squeeze in a lime or two, add a few splashes of naam pla (buy some fish sauce, seriously — it’s good, cheap, and keeps forever), and some cilantro, if you have it.

Done! Scoop it into a bowl along with a few spoonfuls of some rice, or some noodles. Hot.