Yes, I’m back. To anyone paying attention: I apologize for disappearing. Let’s catch up. It’s not like we haven’t been eating.

The latest: I’ve been on the “save money, don’t go to the store” angle this week…well, actually, this month, which explains why the pantry is running thin. I’ve been getting a little too spendy on the outings (culinary and not), but that’s always a fun excuse to play the pantry challenge. What can you make based almost entirely on pantry and freezer ingredients?

(I make exceptions for essentials like onions, garlic, carrots, and lemons, which are easy to keep on hand in bulk. So can you.)

My pantry-challenge meals lean toward grain and legumes without question. The house is officially bereft if I’m out of canned tomatoes or pasta. You can always make something brilliant with those two lifelines and spices alone; even better if you’ve got some meat (bacon? pancetta?) or jars of capers and olives on hand. Talk to me about pasta. I can go on for hours.

So tonight I’ve got leftover baked pasta with broccoli and goat cheese (no tomatoes!) waiting for me, but last night I went “healthy” by hitting the dried beans. Easy as hell, and I’ve prepped the freezer for pantry raids down the road.

The procedure: The moment I walked in the door, I poured a bag of bulk dried chickpeas (maybe a little more than a pound?) in a pot with two inches of water to cover and got them going over high heat. No presoaking, no fancy prep. Dried beans, water. Poured a drink and sat down to finish some work.

About an hour later, I dug a couple of Italian sausages and half a bag of frozen spinach out of the freezer, chopped some onion, carrot, and garlic, and located the leftover tomato sauce from the pizza I made last week. Browned the sausage, then softened the vegetables in olive oil. I deglazed with some sherry — the chickpeas nearing done — and added the tomato sauce, sausage, and my favorite, pimentón.

When that mixture was bubbling satisfyingly, I ladled a few scoops of the chickpeas with their cooking liquid (and the couple of cloves of garlic I added halfway through cooking) into the pot, simmered a little while, added the spinach, some parsley, and a dash of sherry vinegar, and presto! Done. Actually quite good, and perhaps half an hour of active cooking time.

Almost as great: several pints of cooked chickpeas prepped for the freezer and an even faster meal another day.

What do you make when you’re too lazy to go to the store and too cheap for takeout?

A quick note to any restaurateurs or web developers paying attention: Flash sites for restaurants are stupid.

Actually, Flash sites are stupid in general, but for restaurants the problem is as irritating as bad lighting or cold bread during the meal itself. Everything in moderation, people, including your flashy animations and hipster mood music. If I’m going to your restaurant’s site, I almost undoubtedly seek one of three things:

1. Your menu
2. Your phone number
3. Your location

That’s it! I want to know if I should eat at your place, and if I’ve made my decision, I want to know when and how to get there. I don’t want a fucking movie of a bunch of dorks clinking drinks after work, or two pretty people leaning close over…I can’t even see the plate! Show me what you’ve got, or I just won’t bother unless coerced by more forgiving and better-dressed friends.

I’m trolling the ole Internet for a new place to eat tonight and remembered that Sammi recommended First Crush, where she celebrated her sister’s birthday this week and had a wonderful time. I waited for the intro to load and endured the groovy slow-jam and everything, but I can’t even open the damn menu. Fuck ‘em.

A long, sweaty weekend, one of the rare astonishingly hot days in San Francisco, and I’m just way too far from the beach. Ty was getting heatstroke in Laguna Seca with Valentino Rossi, and I wanted to keep myself busy…so I baked.

Well, first I ate and socialized: Jonas and Melissa came to town, and I found myself nominated once again to be social coordinator (hilarious, really, when one thinks about how socially backwards I really am). But first, dinner.

I made a bargain with some folks at work, many of whom live in lovely homes with yards in the steamy South Bay: Bring me the fruit from your tree, and I will make you treats. From Cara I got a bag of Meyer lemons (which immediately turned into lemon bars); from Jin a bag of the most enormous Eureka lemons I have ever seen. All organic, naturally, and I swear, these things are as big as Nerf footballs. I couldn’t even carry home the entire bag at once.

The lemon biscotti (image lifted
from Leite’s Culinaria)

Jin’s lemons became lemon biscotti, as I had some citron vodka in the house. Crunchy but disappointingly not so lemony, despite the vodka, zest, and lemon oil. Round two went into an enormous batch of lemon curd (I know, I’m not terribly creative). Jin claims to love lemon curd, fortunately, so I’m hoping the jar I gave him won’t go to waste; the rest was split between a gift for Angus and a good-size scoop still waiting in the fridge for my spoon. Tonight the lemons would also become dinner.

I had crème fraîche leftover in the fridge from Kevin’s brunch, so I finally got to try Amanda Hesser’s recipe for pasta with lemon, crème fraîche, and arugula, with spinach in lieu of the arugula. (You can find the recipe in Cooking for Mr. Latte, which despite the precious title is actually a fascinating, witty, and saliva-inducing read. Don’t miss the almond cake.) It wasn’t nearly as puckery as I’d feared, since I wasn’t using Meyer lemons; but the creaminess and slight tang of the crème fraîche was set off nicely by the sweet spinach and bite of the pasta — quite wonderful, really.

The quickie dinner gave me time to eat and plan drinks in honor of the last-minute Jonas and Melissa visit (Nihon, as usual), which thankfully we kept early, so I was up in time to hit the farmer’s market the next morning.

Keeping a really long weekend story short for the moment, the market led to gift-certificate spending at Williams-Sonoma, then a well-deserved, if sweaty, nap and a lovely steak and panzanella dinner for one. Later, drinks again, this time at Medjool, until all the buttheads showed up and we had to flee to Doc’s.

Yesterday? With all those egg whites in the fridge, I had to get to work, and despite the junglelike feel of my kitchen…yep, angel food cake (it’ll go nicely with the lemon curd!). So maybe it is strange to wake up and bake a cake on a Sunday morning for no one in particular, and it’s certainly irresponsible to keep the gas on for an hour when power is at a premium, but you can’t beat a light dessert in the dead of summer.

Which is why I finished the day by making lemon sorbet.

I’m still working on Kevin to commit to building a brick oven in the backyard of his new house, but until then (or I buy a grill!), I’m now a convert: Pizza at home is not the nightmare you’d lead yourself to believe. It’s no 1200 degree charred-in-all-the-right places operation, for sure (no Yellow Bar), and when you find that your mozzarella has turned, you can’t send the stage down the street for more, but damn, it’s actually pretty good.

My old bagel argument — as in why bother to make bagels when you can buy a much better one for 50 cents down the street — is actually moot here. My freshly made frankenpizza (leftover chicken parm, Parmigiano-Reggiano, and oregano) is a million times more tasty (and less salty) than the frozen variety, and it’s sure as shit cheaper than the drool-inducing, though still no Yellow Bar, Delfina pizzas around the corner (I will NOT call them pies).

I actually don’t remember the last time I bothered, but it’s not nearly as much of a pain as you’d expect: With Mike on the phone, even, I whipped together Mark Bittman’s food-processor dough, adding some cornmeal for crunch, plus the sassy olive oil I toted home from Barcelona, and set it to rise. Mike went to bed, I washed some dishes, and the dough miraculously puffed and grew. All it needed was a little pushing and shoving, a good stretch, and a thin layer of flavorings (homemade tomato sauce, gorgonzola, and salami for pizza #2). I slid my little art piece into a 550 degree oven, and 10 minutes later… Yum!

Crispy crust (could be a little thinner), a bit light on the salt, but a perfect smear of tomato. Next time, fresh mozzarella. And yes, I should have frozen half of the dough for another night…but who doesn’t like cold pizza for lunch?

Never will be. In fact, lately I feel about as boring as I’ve been in a long, long time. I’ve been going out too much, for one thing (and this as I’m trying to save money for the big vacation), but then old friends come to town hungry, newer friends talk you into bloodies and brunch, and I come home tired and uninspired and needing to work. Which is not to say that I’m not cooking. I make dinners I barely notice in the evening but dutifully reheat the next day for lunch. What a bore.

Which may be why last night was so silly! I came home practically drooling and craving a meatball sub but without the motivation to actually make meatballs. (Thought I couldn’t ask for better bus conversation, volleying restaurant recommendations with Nicki for an hour has a devastating effect on my gastronomic inclinations for the evening — i.e. I just wanted to go out.) The sun was still visible, the air downright balmy, and dammit, al fresco seemed like just the ticket…until the sun started going down, I’d already nibbled on (ok, fine, gorged on) a pile of hothouse cherry tomatoes and some delicious aged gouda, and I sliced my finger open with my recently sharpened paring knife. OK, staying home. But what to eat?

Leftovers, no. More cheese, probably not wise. Cereal? Depressing. (No one should ever eat cereal for dinner. Ever. Unless you’re in college and your only other option is cafeteria food.) But I didn’t really feel like cooking.

Rhubarb! I have rhubarb. Then it all came together. I’m making friggin pancakes.

Long story short, I made a quick compote of the rhubarb and whipped up some cornmeal pancakes. Syrup just seemed indecent along with the slightly too sweet compote, so I busted out the sour cream to support the pink rhubarb. Inspired! It actually looked pretty, too.

But you’re certainly burning up with curiosity about my other culinary ventures this week. Admit it.

Breakfast theme: a new batch of yogurt for the week — lime-coconut, which I’ve been plotting for weeks. It’s actually a bit thin (did the acid overwhelm the culture?), but surprisingly not too tart, and even better along with some of the sprinkly granola I cooked up at the same time (heavy on the fruit and seeds, and not very sweet). I’m starting to hate those little leaky jars, though. And no, I’m not a damn hippie — I just decided that it’s stupid to spend $4 on a yogurt-granola-berry parfait at work, even if it is delicious.

Spanish theme: in honor of our impending visit to Barcelona, a “smoky” clam chowder — actually more of a stewlike concoction thickened with rice instead of potato and a little too light on the “smoky.” For some bizarre reason still not understood by even me, I bought Soyrizo in that one. Chalk that one up to the voices in my head. (Chorizo has so much grease, it seemed like a good idea, but why does Soyrizo have to ruin the illusion with that starchiness? Thank god I’m not a vegetarian.) Evaluation: good with paprika-dusted croutons, but a little heavy.

Variation on the “pasta again?” theme: a Greek variation of the much more tangy and interesting Sicilian spaghetti with cauliflower, pine nuts, and raisins. This one involved cinnamon, a brothy sauce, and no cheese — actually quite tasty, but definitely not a brilliant leftovers choice, and I miss the capers. Thankfully we’ll also be in Italy soon, so I can remember to stop feeling guilty about craving pasta every day.

On deck for the weekend? I’ve actually been making a list of recipes to try after pouring over this month’s inundation of foodie mags, and reading all my favorite food blogs for inspiration (which is a little distressing, honestly, but only because I’m more than a wee bit envious of some people’s writing skills and industriousness, not necessarily in that order). Maybe I’ll even sweep the floors and catch up on personal email. Wish me luck.

Lisa inspired me today by asking if I had any good soup recipes. Of course I do — I’ve got more recipes than I know what to do with, and I make soup at least once a week — but I told her that I usually just wing it, which is the truth. But I like to check my books for ideas and inspiration (and pictures!), and good ole James Peterson came through for me tonight.

The cheapo market actually had great peppers the other day, which is how I found myself with a pile of beautiful yellows and oranges, with one stray red languishing alongside in the veggie drawer. I had been thinking of peperonata on the way home, but that started to seem boring, so I wanted to do something new. Soup! Thinking I had only yellow bells, I started dreaming of a pretty yellow soup, with some sort of garnish. Shrimp! Ooh, I forgot I had shrimp.

I checked to see what James had to say about bell peppers in his Splendid Soups. He does his red bell pepper soup Mexican-style, with some light chile action, finished with cream and sour cream. I’ve had Mexican overload lately, so I started thinking Spanish instead, which seemed like a lovely way to complement the orange.

Now, I don’t know my ass from authentic Spanish cuisine, but I do have some delicious sherry vinegar that deserves to splash everything, so James and I decided to go with that. I sautéed the chopped peppers with some onion and a lot of garlic, added chicken stock, and simmered away for about 15 minutes. Out came the immersion blender (best $5 thrift-store purchase ever), which let me purée it all right in the pot.

Since the whole operation was so fast, I decided to go the slick route and press the purée through a sieve. Finished the silky orange soup — now at about a medium consistency — with a little cream, salt, white pepper, some of that gorgeous vinegar, Tabasco (for a different kind of kick), and about half of some paprika-dusted goat cheese that’s been crying at me from the cheese stash in the fridge.

The shrimp was precooked (normally a no-no, but dammit, sometimes it really is perfect), so I figured they’d need just a little flavor. I melted some butter and sprinkled it with pimentón, then tossed in the shrimp. (Next time: Dry the shrimp first. Wet shrimp…not so pretty.) The little shrimp proved not much of a garnish (they disappeared in the soup), but hey…it’s just me.

More important: flavor? Sparkling — tangy and sharp and smooth (which if you think about it really isn’t an oxymoron). I love it! I think even James might be pleased.

Goddam roast chicken. I don’t know why I make roast chicken. I either don’t like it or I can’t cook it. Likely a bit of both.

I’ve had one roast chicken I really liked — at Delfina, naturally. And actually, Costco chicken is pretty good. But both of these chickens are roasted in hot-ass ovens, or on rotisseries. French housewives be damned, I am now thoroughly convinced that cooking a chicken in a home oven is just asking for disappointment. It’s simply not that good. And it may be a staple of the modern dinner table, but chicken is not cheap. I’ll take sausage. Or beef.

I can cook 14-pound turkeys with my eyes closed, so why not a 4-pound chicken? I salted my fresh, free-range Rosie bird overnight and left her exposed to the dry fridge air all night, hoping she’d dry out just a bit so the skin would crisp up nicely under the heat. I rubbed her with a little oil (was that the fatal mistake?), then peppered her all over and tied her up. A half hour on her chest, then 15 minutes on her back, and I poked her gently with the thermometer — 170°, check. (Too hot, maybe.) She rested for about 10 minutes, and I cut her open. Beautiful, tender, juicy…and goddammit to hell, pink at the bone. Not soft and pretty pink but fleshy, shiny pink, as in not done pink. Shoot me.

Mashed potatoes (with buttermilk and caramelized onions) and artichoke-lemon sauce are ready, laundry is coming out of the wash (I was feeling industrious), and the goddam chicken needs to be cooked some more. Shit.

Aggravating long story short, Rosie’s meat is juicy and flavorful, but the skin is nearly flaccid and still pale, and this in a 450° oven. I mean, c’mon, I need a spit. Maybe a grill. A smoker.

Now I’m torn: Cook a chicken every night until I get it right? Or go back to poaching my birds and sampling Costco birds at Sid’s? At least I’ll have some good soup this weekend. And clean clothes.

OK, fine, yes, I am a dork. And kind of dumb, honestly. I just realized that having a laptop means I don’t have to poke my head around the corner from the kitchen to read a recipe I found online — I can bring the whole goddam thing into the kitchen. Maybe I’ve been missing out because I usually don’t have counter space. In any case…quite a discovery.

So back to the dork part. I had a Saturday like most normal people, I think. Got up late and made a frittata for breakfast with the swiss chard that’s been staring at me balefully from the produce bin for a week (mixing it with capers, some leftover roasted potatoes, and unidentified but delicious grated hard cheese — yum!). It looked like a nice day, so we walked over to the drugstore then wandered down Market for a while, Ty left, and I headed to Hayes Valley for some window shopping. I made my way home when the fog started rolling in, stopped to say hello at Bi-Rite, put away my groceries, and suddenly decided I needed to make gingerbread.

Sometimes I get a bug up my ass about a particular food, and I’ve decided it’s best to just go with it. The bug isn’t always something I need to cook — more a food that needs to happen. A couple of months ago I suddenly developed a craving for hot-and-sour soup. I blew it off that night, too lazy to even call for delivery. (I pretty much never get delivery. Makes me feel too guilty.) The next night, same, so I made something Asian at home. Third night — Jesus, OK! Marched over to Yum Yum House, got my soup, enjoyed it thoroughly, and forgot about hot-and-sour soup again.

I told Jee recently about an episode at school during our final class (making food for the restaurant) after our chef let us know that although he had a menu prepared, he would be thrilled to take our suggestions for the next day’s menu. Out of nowhere — skate! We must have skate. Couldn’t have made Chef happier, but I thought it was just weird, honestly. I don’t eat skate much. Well, OK, last weekend, actually, but that’s the first time I’d cooked it since school (with sauce grenobloise, by the way — lots of lemon, butter, and capers — mmmm). Thing is, I just think about food all the time. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked when a left-of-center dish starts whispering in my ear.

So anyway: gingerbread. I really wanted to make the fresh ginger gingerbread highlighted recently by Leite’s Culinaria but didn’t have the right sized pan. On, then, to Nancy Baggett’s Nicely Spicy Gingerbread, to which I added both crystallized ginger and orange oil.

Now it’s 7pm on a Saturday, and my house smells like gingerbread. I may be a dork, but gingerhouse is not a bad thing.