maggiethecat

Have you a local supermercado? If so, buy a pint of the crema: I think it's an almost perfect cross between creme fraiche and sour cream in both texture and flavor. (This shiksa can pound down numerous latkes, and looks for every opportunity to do so.)

Andie: Thanks for the beautifully illustrated tutorial. Where else where I find that but here? I have many many jars of mango chutney lined up in the pantry.

Dang I was going to order the meat toppers for pencils but they seem to be out;( These would make a great secret Santa gift ← My box appeared tonight, and Perpetual Child included a crazy silly finger puppet in the wrapping. I must have wiped them out of stock --- many sushi and bacon items are sitting on my table. Fun site, great service. Susan, I am not worthy. Your bag is brilliant, and what my mother calls the "granny string" is the most elegant ever.

As the push for the artisanal Xmas prezzie is into the home stretch, I'm looking for a super recipe for Jalapeno Pepper Jelly to snuggle into the gift boxes along with the chutney and mostarda. Does anyone have a knockout recipe? ( I'm totally down with the use of Certo and green food coloring if that's what I need to produce a shimmering green jar of the stuff.) Thanks in advance.

The Fat Duck topic in the UK forum has been around for awhile, but Tim Hayward's recent review is not to be missed. Check it out.

I moved to Chicago as a child bride in the early 70s -- my bridegroom had all kinds of teacher deferments and dodged Nam-- and I remember that Diana's was a hot place, like Louis Szatmary's (sp?) Bakery or the ineffable green and gold splendor of the Empire Room at the Palmer House hotel. Where were you as a cook during these years? What made you believe that you could open a restaurant? Or would this be a peek into Part III?

I have a tin of anchovies in my cupboard or fridge precisely for pasta puttanesca attacks. Olives, anchovies, salty, spicey STARCHY quick enough to cook between tricks --as legend has it --perfect PMS food. I'm not sure that the classic recipe calls for a shower of grated parm, but I do it anyway. As mentioned many, many posts ago, I'm all about unnatural acts with pasta.

Brooksie! I too am so, so glad to see that the Times has decided to take a step upward in class. Godd for you.

Oyster Guy and Shuckin Forever I love this thread, and not just because I spent some time in my early youth living between Malpeque and Caraquet. It's fresh and tangy and real.

How true, Miss Rachel. And I'm proud to say that my parents, daughter and son-in-law continue to explore the far-away and exotic on their own tables, as do we. People who love to eat, and to cook are -- cue sappy music -- the luckiest people in the world. Especially if they are the earth's lucky: people with access to food at all, let alone the prosperity and time to experiment and lick the beaters and run out for that frivolous indespensible ingredient. What luxury, what occasion for Thanksgiving! To continue on the theme of cross-cultural Thanksgivings... My daughter and son-in-law spent Thanksgiving with his parents in Louisville. His mother, Pham Nguyen, is a magnificent cook, a genius of the Viet kitchen. But still, around noon last Thursday I got a phone call from my daughter. I heard SIL tapping away on his laptop in the background, searching recipe sites. "John's Mom has made a turkey, but she doesn't know the sides. How does this dressing recipe sound? Is this how you make cranberry sauce? " I dispensed motherly advice, and heard back today -- the dressing and sauce were wonderful, and they extended themselves to sweet potatoes and green bean casserole (Christopher Kimball's version.) With Pham's Vietnamese starters and soups, it must have been quite a meal. Can we really bring about World Peace and Understanding around the dinner table? Sweet to think so.

As an unreconstructed Northerner (Chicago via Quebec) who's had a chance to spend some time in The South recently, I think this primer is all we need as a guide to this topic. Vernacular, Waffle Houses and weather make Southern Food Southern, much more than the actual food. Why? Hang on to your flowery hats, you charmin' darlins' : My grandmother in Southwestern Ontario, cooked all those "Southern" specialties, including grits, though they were called cornmeal mush. She grew okra on the farm and catfish swam in the muddy depths of local streams. With the exception of some Creole and Cajun stuff and barbecue, Gammy's recipe file looks identical to any Miss Louella's. Ham. Biscuits. Ambrosia. Chicken and Dumplings. Fried chicken. Coconut cream pie -- and cake. Mac and cheese. Chow chow. Cobblers, peach and otherwise. Pecan pie. Deviled eggs. Turnip and mustard greens, green beans in pot liqour. She had those shelves stacked with Southern writers invariably call "jewel like" preserves. I thought this was Canadian farmhouse cooking -- and it was. It's farm cooking for huge stretches of North America. Establishing the geographical boundaries of the South is obviously up for debate, but I'm not going to dispute Southern Food Culture -- I've experienced many of the things on this humorous list myself. I'm not arguing the culture or the weather, I'm actually (Heretic!) arguing the food. Most of the stuff eaten on a picnic table under a mossy oak is eaten on a picnic table under a maple tree. (All Canadians sprinkle vinegar on their fries. McDonald's in the South don't have tiny plastic packs of white vinegar lying in the bins next to the packages of salt, pepper and ketchup.)

Don't miss this discussion of British Food writing here.

Exactly so, Sandra.

Pho is sovereign against colds. So is my Nana's toddy: Boiling water, lemon juice and honey to taste, a huge splat of black current jam and tot of whatever's hanging around. Inhale. Sip. Sleep.

"Into the Vietnamese Kitchen" Trust me, I really don't need any new cookbooks, but this one is fresh, practical and provides so many beautiful dishes and techniques. A great guide to a great cuisine.

Nana and Grandad on my mother's side, Gammy and Kellar on my father's (My grandfather's first name was McKellar,named after Duncan McKellar, a Canadian artist/poet who died in the first world war, a friend of my great-grandfather's. It was shortened to Kellar, and even his children called him that.) Rachel, you know how I feel about your magical writing. It's a gift to have you blogging this week. P.S. For all you Rachel fans, check The Daily Gullet in the next few weeks or so.)

Gin Bourbon Scotch Dry Vermouth Sweet Vermouth Pernod or similar Campari Cognac Sherry dry Rum I too wouldn't include bitters in the bottle count -- it's a household staple in the fridge door, nestling between the Lee and Perrins and the Grey Poupon. As for a citrus digestif, er, we roll our own, so perhaps I should include a utility bottle of brandy or vodka -- never drunk by themselves, but used for preparing other things.

Lucky Bitch! I may be lower on estrogen now than when I started this topic, but all these Grrrrl nutrition choices sound logical and wonderful to me.

It will work. I've made similar rolls from a recipe in the old "Joy." and they're the soft dinner rolls everyone wants. Go for it.

Nostalgia alert: I lived two blocks from Parc in the McGill "student ghetto" of the seventies. Trust me, there was nowhere to eat on Parc in my day, but there was a decent, dusty old style quincaillerie where I bought cheap pots and pans. I'm thrilled that Parc (um, Park back in the day) is dusting itself off and getting to be a dining destination.

Dear Winners: Please PM me your particulars, and I'll get your prizes in the mail.

Steven’s right: Gully is wired. He’s bouncier than Tigger, ten five-year olds after birthday cake and a root beer float, or my college flat mates jacked on Dexedrine during finals. He jumped like Jordan to reach my doorknocker, scattered two squawking cats and slammed his party mix CD into the player. I’m a dancing fool, and no one appreciates the retro party buzz of the B52s more than I, but Love Shack three times through was enough for this woman’s ankles. I left him to chill with the Dorothy Parker special: a triple martini, ensuring that he’d be unable to mount the Hostess. I loaded the silver bullet with a dozen olives, because experience has taught me that Gully will tongue forth the pimentos, insert the olives over his fingertips, and reenact the Agincourt scene from Henry V -- Hank Cinq always the green Bad Boy on his right index finger. Lots of folks don’t know that under that razor-thin façade Gully is a deeply cultured pack ‘o pixels. Dinner was essentially free. A bunch of buddies had been for dinner last Saturday and left behind swag like two pounds of artisan lox. I’d overbought the heavy cream for the occasion, had stocked up on Costco butter, and never attempted Thomas Keller’s quiche from the almost virgin Bouchon that’s been hogging the space on my bookshelf. Of course, I dispensed with his paddle-mixer shortbread approach to the pate brise, and whizzed the dough about in the Cuiz. The pennies in the penny jar jumped onto the foil to act as pie weights, Gully was declaiming drunkenly about happy bands of brothers while I scalded the cream, sliced the salmon and grated the gruyere. His Falstaff is without equal, but when I called “Gueullie est servie” he glided into the dining room, poured me a glass of white plonk, fiddled with finocchio and blood orange salad, and sliced himself half a smoked salmon quiche. It quivered, the custard flecked with pink patches of salmon. Even Gully admitted that Keller couldn’t have rolled out a more buttery, tender, crispy crust. I’d slipped Schumann’s Kindersceneninto the CD player (Horowitz, bien sur) and watched as my tanked-up, carb-cuddled buddy nodded off. He’s upstairs in the guest room. I kissed his little blue forehead, whispered “Good night, Sweet Gully” and washed the dishes, trying to remember my Paypal password.

You're my kind of theologian! Grease, salt and crunch of the highest order.

It was good. The crust crackled, we got tons of oven spring ... a very very good loaf. I think we're ditching the wooden spoon next time, and we'll take it for a short spin in the KA -- we had a few gobs of unmixed flour, totally embarrassing. But oh, the crackle and flavor. This was fun. It works.

Kim: Buy some inexpensive vodka, place in a widemouth jar,squeeze the juice into said vodka, allow to steep for a few weeks. Strain through cheesecloth, add some sugar syrup if you need to. Bottle! Carolyn: The orange/clove pomanders! I made those in my early teens, and man, they were work. But as you say, with the lovely bow, they were gorgeous and Christmassy. Rachellindsay: You're right: Homemade jam is an artisanal classic.