Not that I have any idea, but this seems like a reasonable question. Besides worrying about backne, awkward conversation, which shoes to wear, and how you greet someone you’ve only “met” electronically (do you shake hands? hug? I’m not kidding), one definitely needs to take comfort in the pre-date food. So rule #2: comfort food.

And yes, you need to eat, particularly if you’re going out for drinks. That’s rule #1.

So what to eat? Don’t want to eat anything too heavy, in case you veer off for snacks at some point, and to ensure you don’t nod off. Anything stinky or gassy, out…for obvious reasons. Rules #3 and 4. Starch might be good, so you don’t get hammered as you nervously burn through your first drink in 5 minutes flat. Well, just don’t do that anyway. Rule #5.

And rule #6: Whatever it is, it shouldn’t require a lot of cleanup, so you can get out of the house and show up on time. (I don’t know about you, but my date would lose points showing up late to a first meeting.) But frankly, you’re probably too distracted to get complicated anyway.

So I’m going with simple and delicious and comforting and aromatic.

A pal brought me a basket of Meyer lemons last week (the first crop from her tree), and I actually have some greens in the house, so I’m making the pasta with lemon, creme fraiche, and arugula from Amanda Hesser’s Cooking for Mr. Latte.

The dish couldn’t be easier: Cook some linguine, toss it in a bowl with a handful of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, the zest of a couple of the lemons, and a few handfuls of torn arugula. Add a half cup of creme fraiche, some juice from the lemons, and freshly ground pepper. Sprinkle with a few tablespoons of the pasta cooking water, if it’s too thick. That’s it.

I don’t have creme fraiche today, so I’m using my new favorite ingredient: thick and creamy Greek-style Fage yogurt. I’ve been using that stuff lately wherever I’d use sour cream, and sometimes even to thicken a sauce when I’m out of cream…it’s awesome. I suspect the tang here will be lovely.

The date, we’ll see. But don’t forget rule #7: Brush your teeth before you leave.

Weirdest kitchen accident ever.

I somehow just threw blackstrap molasses all over the floor and into my right eye.

Good news is that I also found a recipe for the blackstrap molasses (most non-healthnut recipes call for original strength, not the burly blackstrap flavor): Tartine ginger cake. The batter is so thin, I can’t believe it’ll turn out, but we’ll see.

Make soup. And cornbread.

The soup because you feel like crap, it’s cold out, and you need something warm and spicy with vegetables and soothing broth. The cornbread because it’s so easy, you’ll barely expend any of your dwindling energy, and oven-fresh bread is probably one of the world’s ultimate comfort foods. Besides soup.

If you don’t believe me: I made the cornbread after I’d already started the soup, and by the time I was finished with the dishes, everything was ready. Here’s the verbal re-creation of the Mark Bittman recipe I used (verbal because I feel so yucky, I don’t feel like getting up):

Heat some fat in an 8″ square pan. (I used bacon drippings! Don’t ask.) While you’re doing that, mix together 1 1/2 cups of cornmeal, 1/2 cup of flour, a teaspoon of salt, 1 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder, a tablespoon of sugar, and maybe some smoked paprika. Mix together 1 1/4 cups of buttermilk or yogurt and an egg, then stir that into the dry stuff. Pour it in the pan, cook half an hour, done.

So to the soup: I’m a big fan (well, maybe just an enthusiast) of “whatever’s in the house” soup. (I’m sick, ok? Maybe I really want pho, but I do not feel like going to the store.) My strategy is to think about what I do have that’s fresh, evaluate the freezer, then pick a genre. Tonight I had some leftover shredded pork shoulder (I know, good, huh?) and little in the way of fresh veg, so Mexican seemed like the right direction.

Pantry tip: Always, always keep some beans in your freezer. Once a month, while you’re watching TV or something, just simmer a pound of dried beans in water to cover, maybe with a few cloves of garlic, until done. Divide into pint containers or Ziplocs and freeze. You can dump the frozen beans right into your cooking soup! And if you’re really stuck, cook up some rice, defrost some beans, pull out the hot sauce, and you have easiest dinner ever.

In any case, I’ll spare you a recipe, since I didn’t really have one, but here’s what went in, in order of appearance:

• onions, carrots, garlic (some chopped chile in adobo would have been nice, but I was out…too lazy for dried chiles)
• a couple of fresh kaffir lime leaves I got from Michael’s tree (some lime zest would be fine)
• a few spoonfuls of tomato sauce, a half pint of still-frozen black beans
• some really good chili powder, salt, oregano
• 4 cups of stock (water would be fine, with all this other stuff)
• chopped-up leftover pork
• a can of hominy, some frozen spinach, cilantro

When it was good and hot, I ladled myself a huge bowlful, topped with a bit of crumbled feta (watch the salt) and some of the cornbread.

I still feel crappy, but I bet I’ll be better tomorrow.

Can’t decide what to make for dinner? If you’re truly uninspired by what’s in your fridge, crave nothing in particular, and really want to leave it to the gods, you’ve now got an option beyond 1. throwing darts at your cookbook collection, 2. giving up and calling for takeout, or 3. going hungry and drinking a beer instead.

You can always check your food horoscope.

(I didn’t say it was a good option. In a pinch, I turn to pasta with garlic, olive oil, and cheese, but that’s just me.)

carnitas

Sometimes I feel like an oddball when I wake up early on a Saturday morning, reach for the milk for my coffee, notice 2 pounds of pork shoulder in the fridge, and decide I really ought to make carnitas before I head out for the day.

But that’s what I did.

I love my little slow cooker (though I think I need to upgrade to a full-size one if I’m ever going to use it for entertaining). I’m not sure why it’s any safer to leave that thing going instead of the oven while I’m out, but so far so good.

From pastry chef and all-around creative (and hilarious) cook David Lebovitz, I learned that carnitas is just a basic braise. Who knew? Brown chunks of pork in a heavy pan, deglaze with some water, and toss it all into the cooker with a cinnamon stick, garlic, a couple of bay leaves, cumin, and several kinds of chile powder (I had chipotle and Rancho Gordo New Mexican). Five hours or so later, shred the meat and spread it out in a roasting pan with the remaining liquid. Roast until crispy and utterly irresistible.

Why is it so good? Well, it’s pig. But it’s also pig roasted in a glaze of its own fat. Can’t beat that.

(Hey, the traditional method is to deep-fry the meat. This is better, no?)

The photo is horrible, but the carnitas made for a fine taco, particularly graced with some of those beautiful tomatoes I brought home yesterday, a good helping of avocado, and a healthy squirt of lime. I really should have invited someone over for dinner.

To celebrate September, I’ve decided to eat as many tomatoes as humanly possible before autumn really hits hard.

Not shown: the bales of basil I brought home to complement the tomatoes.

I’ve been going a little hog-wild on the summer vegetables.

Well, not quite as much as I’d like — I still can’t choke down $5.99 a pound tomatoes, beautiful as they may be. Just a hint of mealy and I’ll feel guilty even looking at my wallet.

But fava beans, totally different story. I’ve enjoyed fava beans for ages partly as one of those delicacies you rarely toy with at home but love to order in little locavore-oriented restaurants along with your farm-raised whatever and a much-deserved glass of wine.

Anyway, I got over the precious factor and fell madly, deeply in love the day we arrived with Erminio for our annual visit to Davide’s fattoria in Panzano, in the Chianti. Yeah, I know, and it gets better. It was a beautiful day, and quiet, with only a few wine tourists arriving for lunch, a light mist over the vineyard (I am not kidding), and I was hungry, nearly salivating in anticipation of Davide’s mom’s grigliata or pappardelle con cinghiale. Or both. God.

Then here comes Mom herself, strolling out of the garden with a cheery ciao! and a basket full of fave, just picked, young, pert, so, so fresh.

Needless to say, we ate them all.

The second time I fell madly in love occurred only a few days later. (You can fall madly in love twice. It was in Italy, for god’s sake!) Dinner at Lino’s, always brilliant. Lino is a joker, but he does not fuck around with the food. I spoke bad Italian with Noriko, who’s been hiding out in Lino’s restaurant for years, learning Italian and very little English, cooking and serving, and refusing to return to her family in Japan.

We finished dinner and were relaxing with the rest of our wine as the last real customers trickled out when Lino sat down with a huge bowl of shelled but unpeeled fresh fava beans, chunks of crystally pecorino (a rare pleasure, as Erminio prefers the fresh and far milder cheeses), and a bottle of unmarked, weeks-old olive oil.

There is no better finish to a meal. I nearly cried.

So the fava beans are sort of near to my heart, and with their short, short season, I can’t help myself when I pass the bean and artichoke people at the market. Yes, they’re still $4.99 a pound, and yep, a pound of favas in their pods equals about four tablespoons of shelled and peeled beans (and yes, preparing them does take an ungodly 20 minutes or so), but I love them.

And I’m worth it.

So tonight, in honor of me, a play (courtesy of Biba Caggiano) on bucatini alla gricia, with bacon in lieu of guanciale, spaghetti in favor of the very difficult to eat gracefully bucatini.

How to make it? Put your water on and shell the beans (a couple of pounds). When you’re done shelling, the water will have boiled, so you can blanch the beans quickly, which will make peeling easier. Pop them out of their skins while the water returns to a boil. Now chop up an onion and a few strips of bacon, then cook ‘em up in that order in some olive oil. At the same time, start cooking your spaghetti.

When your onion is sweet and soft, and your bacon is near-crisp, add the peeled beans, the zest of a lemon (my addition), and lots of black pepper and stir it around for a minute. Add the cooked pasta with a little of its cooking water, toss with a large pile of freshly grated Parmigiano or Pecorino Romano, and you’re done. It doesn’t quite take me back to the farm, but it’ll do for now.

Fresh garlic really is something else, and made me realize how dessicated the stuff we normally store on the counter really is when we bring it home. Where peeling garlic for me is usually somewhat of a smash and slide operation, peeling the fresh stuff I brought home from the market last week was closer to a delicate undressing. Sexy, almost, and very tender.

Wow.

In any case, starving, craving something healthy, and lacking much else in the way of fresh vegetables, I tried Anya von Bremzen’s rendition of Castilian garlic soup, which is insanely easy, really:

Chop up some prosciutto or serrano, slice 6 cloves of garlic, and chop 4. Cut up a hunk of country bread into large cubes. (I was lucky to have the some leftover ciabatta I made last weekend. More on that later, perhaps.)

Sweat the sliced garlic and ham in some very nice olive oil for about 7 minutes until it smells wonderful, then add your bread, stirring to coat with all the now even more delicious oil. Off heat, toss the whole mixture with 2 teaspoons of sweet pimentón, then return to the heat and add 5 cups of stock.

Simmer for a few minutes, then add the chopped garlic and simmer one minute more.

To serve, you add a poached egg. Since I made the full batch of soup, and am eating that sucker alone (probably not all in one sitting), I poached the eggs right in the soup. A little salt and pepper, a glass of wine, you’re good to go.

Now my house smells fantastic, and I’m warm, cozy, and well fed. Can’t beat that at the end of a long, long weekend.

(See Anya von Bremzen’s The New Spanish Table for the recipe.)

I may not be good for much, but I can still make a sweet pasta dinner while rather drunk.

It’s delicious, and good for you, too — you just have to be lucky enough to find all these goods in your fridge.

Sauté some chopped prosciutto or pancetta in a little olive oil until sort of crisp. Take it out. Add some chopped garlic, a bit of sliced onion, and when that’s soft, some half-moons of zucchini. When less than crisp, add a half cup or so of chicken stock, some pepper, and some salt, depending on how salty your meat is to begin with. Add a small head of radicchio, sliced thin.

Cook up your pasta, and when it’s done, add the pasta with some of its cooking water and a big splash (or three) of balsamic vinegar to your pan. Stir, add freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. (Avoid what I did and keep the cheese over the plate or pan, not countertop.) Eat and go to bed happier than before.

Cooking for one can make for a lonely night, but it can also be a nice occasion to make a meal I know no one else wants to eat. When I wasn’t single, I’d take one of my solo nights as an excuse to steam a bowlful of garlicky, salty, sloppy, delicious mussels, cozze, to enjoy with a nice hunk of crusty bread, which could never be enjoyed as a twosome. Weekend nights were almost better, really, because I had no need for next-day lunch leftovers. Today moules à la marinière and some frites just sounded like a good project and a nice payback to myself for staying in.

I’m actually not sure which came first: the mussels plan or my debt review. I realized tonight that with the money I’ve saved, I could actually pay off the heaviest side of my culinary school loans. I’d have to kiss my fuck-you money goodbye — and this is the first time in a while I’ve even had fuck-you money — but I just might be ready.

[side note: As I'm writing this, a culinary school ad appears on TV. Have you ever dreamed of being a chef? Don't borrow.]

So when I pay off my loans, is my culinary education officially over? It’s been long enough, for god’s sake, and I can’t really afford to pay it off yet, but I’m half-tempted to hold on to the bills as some misguided grip on the tricks I’ve known and lost. At the very least, it seems like I need to dig back in to some of my lessons.

And wow, I really do need to practice. A lot. My frites sucked.

I soaked, dried, and parboiled, and I fried again in hotter oil. Should’ve worked in smaller batches, though, because they were sogg-o-rific. Sheesh. I had to make fries as part of my graduation exams, and I’ll tell you, I passed handily. I’m going to chalk it up to an off night. But at least no one was here to give me a hard time about it.

And I did eat the entire bowl of mussels. All by myself.