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.

These last few weeks have been so busy, I haven’t even made time to call my mother, and my eyes are now so sunken I look like I’m 60. My boyfriend Zinedine Zidane got himself thrown out of the World Cup finals, but I couldn’t be upset when my want-to-be-adopted homeland of Italy took the trophy home, and they lit Rome on fire. (I love Roma, but it looks even better with firecrackers.)

In any case, the cooking bonanza began. In unintended deference to the French soccer captain, or perhaps in honor of Ty’s favorite part of Barcelona, the Crepe Man, I’ve been on a serious crepe kick.

Ty’s favorite:
The crepe man

July 4th, Independence Day, I was manning the fort at home, watching the Italy-Germany game on the Spanish channel, with the 30-second delayed ESPN feed going on the computer, and developed a burning urge for blintzes. I had already made some ricotta, which would last only another day or two, so why not? I lifted a recipe for whole-wheat crepes from the Williams-Sonoma site, and off we went. Blintzes with sweetened ricotta, lightly hit with some cinnamon, then pan-fried in butter. Yum. And so good for me, too.

A batch of crepes produces about 10, which means leftovers! In a self-proclaimed masterwork of refrigerator scavenging, I put together Wednesday dinner with bits and pieces from the fridge: A bit more ricotta made pink with some bolognese I’d frozen a few weeks earlier, mixed with some spinach, then wrapped in crepes and baked like cannelloni — or, more accurately, crespelles — honoring my newly championed Italian boys.

My crepe obsession (which likely started when I was six, and Mom and Dad first took us to The Magic Pan) went a little nutty when Traci and I decided to throw a birthday brunch for Kevin at my house. I don’t give parties much, and when I do, I go a little overboard. OK, fine, a lot overboard, but it’s always fun to cook like a maniac for a week, and plans menus, and arrange invites, and crepes! It was a brunch, after all.

When I see our pal Chris’s photos, I’ll recap the menu. (The man is a photo genius, and he snapped shots of the food! I’m hoping for lessons.) But the crepes were key:

Blintzes, of course. I made a rather dry batch of ricotta, so I mixed that with about half as much cottage cheese plus powdered sugar, a dash of cinnamon, and egg. (I hate cottage cheese, by the way, but if used creatively and very well seasoned, it actually makes a brilliant cream sauce, and lightens some heavy cheese concoctions beautifully.) The honey-wheat crepes came straight from my Tyler Florence book, Real Food, as did the fig-orange compote I served alongside. A hit.

The pièce de résistance, however, was Tyler’s smoked salmon torte. I blew a rather large wad on about a pound of smoked salmon, which was by far the toughest part of this misleadingly complicated-looking dish.

To construct: Spread a buckwheat crepe (a fantastic recipe, by the way) with a thin layer of softened cream cheese, then a layer of salmon. Top with another crepe and some cream cheese and sprinkle with chopped red onion, capers, dill, and ground pepper. Repeat about 5 times, then chill, wrapped in plastic in a springform pan and topped with a plate. Just before serving, I spread a last layer of cream cheese on its top and decorated the “cake” with extra onion, capers, and dill. Because the cream cheese had set in the fridge, the torte proved astonishingly easy to slice, so the layers stayed intact — and with all those fixins, how couldn’t it be good? Ty polished off the leftovers before nightfall.

Snack of the day, when no one’s around to protest, and you want something quick but delicious:

Slice a nearly ripe peach in two and remove the pit. Rest each half on its backside and cover it with a spoonful of crumbled Gorgonzola. Run them under the broiler, or even in the microwave, if you’re feeling really lazy. When the cheese is melted, your peach is warm, and you’re ready.

You’ll have a hard time restraining yourself from gobbling the whole thing up in under a minute, but why not? You don’t have to share.

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?

Back a week from our decadently long trip to Barcelona and Italy, and though I haven’t had any time to think since I’ve been home, never mind cook, all I can dream about are these outrageously beautiful strawberries. Our produce is amazing, but seriously, Italy is like another planet.

torta della nonna

Listening to early-’90s punky stuff while stuffing my face with homemade popcorn tossed with cheese and white truffle oil and trying futilely to focus on writing sensible documentation for the hosting world about blog tools…lordy, what have I become? Yet I find myself wondering, What is Plaid Retina doing right now?

The link between music and food is obvious and has been discussed at great length, certainly, but I’m not convinced that the relationship between, say, Jawbreaker and chopping greens for soup, or Nuisance and a lovingly rolled-out pie dough have been fully examined.

Speaking of which, I finally decided to go for it and, though giving up my aspirations to ever make one like Lino’s, put together a homemade torta della nonna. Honestly, the ubiquitous pie can’t really ever be that bad, loaded as it is with lemon and pine nuts and (dreamy) ricotta.

(Actually, a side note: This pie is, I believe, often made with pastry cream, which may explain why some tortas have a puddinglike texture, while mine is fairly dry. Also, I may love photography, but I do not know how to take pictures of food. Side image is for reference only. If you want food porn, visit Nordljus.)

I can’t get enough ricotta, so I don’t know why I don’t make it weekly, but the time is certainly right when it’s the star of the plate. (I also forget that when made with cream, especially, homemade ricotta takes no more than a couple of hours to cook and drain.)

Mario Batali includes a recipe in Molto Italiano that asks for pine nuts in lieu of what I thought were standard wheatberries, which worked for me, since I didn’t have either time or inclination to schlep over to Rainbow in the rain for said wheatberries The dough is a lovely-feeling pasta frolla made with butter, olive oil, egg, vanilla, flour, salt, and sugar, though I’m convinced that Mario’s measurements are short on liquid — it wouldn’t come together without an additional sprinkling or three.

Rest the dough, mix together your ricotta, egg, lemon, and sugar, roll the dough, and line the pan. If you have a removable-bottom tart pan, this is the time to use it — I looked to a nonstick springform for straight sides, and found it simply too slippery and way too high to grip the bottom layer while it awaited filling (I also probably overheated the dough). A royal pain in the ass, in any case.

Still, after a short fight, the crust was laid and filled, and the delicate top layer placed and crimped. A short bake revealed a beautiful golden crust (thank you, olive oil) and puffed filling, just sweet enough to enjoy with coffee but restrained enough to pair brilliantly with some of that dessert wine languishing in my cabinet. (It also works well with framboise, I learned last night….)

But the best praise of all came unexpectedly when Ty, who doesn’t even like sweets, accepted a sliver and announced that that he loved it. (And as an excellent post-script, I brought the rest to work and appeared to make some coworkers happy, other than poor Justine, who made the mistake of asking me for advice on cheesecake. I talked her ear off.) It’s no Lino pie, but that’s not bad.

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.

OK, I’ll give Rosie one thing: She may not have been crispy or beautiful, but she sure did smell good. I really, really didn’t want to wash that pan. Maybe I don’t hate her after all.