Ingredient Spotlight - Bitter Melon

"Ugh, I HATE bitter melon!" my friend proclaimed, inspiring a sarcastic "Once again, with feeling!" from me.  "My mom makes bitter melon, I think she only cooks it when she's mad at me," he said.


Bitter melon

We were chatting about fruits and vegetables that are hard to find in the US, and my mention of bitter melon sparked an immediate, and quite heated, reaction.  That was the moment I knew I had to get my hands on a bitter melon and see for myself why it was my friend's most hated vegetable. 

Bitter melon is technically a fruit, although it is eaten as a vegetable.  Interestingly, it is also widely used as a medicinal plant.  Some cultures use bitter melon to treat ailments and diseases such as malaria, cancer, and some viruses.  Bitter melon does in fact contain compounds that are useful in medicine.  The fruit grows in tropical and sub-tropical climates and looks like a pale, ridged cucumber.  Some specialty stores and higher-end markets will sell bitter melon from time to time, but you're far more likely to find it if you live in a city with a good-sized Asian population.  I found mine in Boston's Chinatown. 

Once it was time to taste-test this new and exciting veggie, I realized that I had no clue how to prepare it - does the skin stay on?  Are there seeds, and if so, are they edible?  Those were questions for Google.  Turns out, the skin is edible, and while the seeds and the pith are technically edible, removing them takes away the overwhelming bitterness.  Just slice lengthwise and remove the seeds as you would from a cucumber (I, however, cut a cross-section so that you could see what the inside looked like).

The verdict?  I loved it!  It keeps the crunchy, watery texture of a cucumber when stir-fried, and I thought it tasted like a grassy cross between artichokes and chicory.  When I mentioned that to my bitter melon-hating friend, his reaction was, "Exactly.  I don't know why you would want to eat that."  I liked bitter melon for the same reason I love broccoli rabe, escarole, and radicchio - no, not because they're Italian - I like the taste of bitter vegetables.  Bitter melon is certainly not for everyone; it's one of those veggies you either love or you hate.  That being said, if you ever see a bitter melon, try it and decide for yourself! 


Bitter Melon Stir-Fry

boiling water
10 dried shiitake mushrooms
10 dried tree ear mushrooms*
2 T. coconut oil or vegetable oil
2 shallots, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 T. dried shrimp (optional)
1 bitter melon, sliced

For the stir-fry sauce:
1/4 c. low sodium soy sauce
2 T. rice wine or dry sherry
1/2 t. szechuan peppercorns
1 t. red chili flakes
1 t. grated ginger
1/4 t. white pepper
1 t. cornstarch
1 T. cold water

cooked rice, to serve
toasted sesame seeds, to garnish

Dried mushrooms

First, prepare the dried mushrooms by placing them in a bowl and covering them with boiling water (approx. 1/2 cup).  Let them soak for about 10 minutes.  In the meantime, prepare the stir-fry sauce by combining all ingredients but the cornstarch and water in a bowl.  In a separate bowl, blend the cornstarch into the cold water, then add this to the sauce.

Now, drain the mushrooms and squeeze out any excess water.  Slice them into 1/4" strips and set aside. 

Heat a wok or large frying pan over high heat.  Add the coconut or vegetable oil, and once it is melted, add the shallots, garlic, and dried shrimp, if using.  Stir-fry for a minute or so, then add the bitter melon and the sliced mushrooms.  Stir-fry for an additional 3-4 minutes. 

Finally, add the stir-fry sauce and continue to stir-fry until all the vegetables are coated and the sauce has thickened up a bit, approximately 2 minutes. 

Spoon into individual bowls of cooked rice and sprinkle with a generous pinch of toasted sesame seeds.

* These may also be labelled "cloud ear mushrooms" or simply "black fungus." 

"Good" Pizza Day at the Willy C!

Freshman year!

Eleven years ago, I was an ambitious, energetic college freshman at SUNY Fredonia.  Majoring in pre-law, I truly believed that the world was my oyster and that I had a bright, lucrative future ahead of me.  This was at the tail end of Clinton-era prosperity, before the 2000 election and the Florida recount, before 9/11, before I transferred to Northeastern University, before the wars, before the market crash, and before it dawned on me that life isn't going to be an endless string of bonus checks and fashionable parties, but rather a daily grind of putting the new cover sheets on my TPS reports.
 

Yours truly, at a good,
old-fashioned kegger...


Ahh, the year 2000.  After "surviving" Y2K, the days ahead seemed celebratory, and celebrate we did!  We shook our bon-bons.  We let the dogs out.  We let Sisqo see that thong-tha-thong-thong-thong.  Britney hadn't yet flashed her naughty bits, Facebook didn't exist, and Bostonians still groaned about The Curse of the Bambino. 

Kinda surreal.

I made some great friends at SUNY, a few of whom I still talk to regularly and am willing to get felt up by TSA to visit.  When I reminisce with these friends, one of the things we still talk about fondly from that era is the "good" pizza from the Willy C (or to all you non-Fredonians, The Williams Center, which is the hub of non-alcoholic student activity).

The "good" pizza was nothing more than thin-crust pizza margherita with a kick of garlic, but compared to Willy C's other pizza offerings, which featured doughy crust, cheap, greasy pepperoni, rubbery cheese (often burnt), metallic, bitter black olives, and absolutely tragic-looking bits of green pepper, the "good" pizza was reason to run to the nearest computer, log on to AOL Instant Messenger, and let everyone on your buddy list know that the Willy C was serving the "good" pizza! 

Two nights ago, I dreamed about the "good" pizza, and I wouldn't rest until I had it.  My options were limited - I could make some phone calls to SUNY's dining services office to see if it still existed, and if so, when they'd be serving it next, then hop on a plane, rent a car, drive to campus, and wait until the "good" pizza came out of the oven, or I could try to duplicate it.  I chose the latter.

If you went to SUNY Fredonia for more than 5 minutes and you want a trip down memory lane that doesn't involve Scummy's, Coyle's, Brigham Road, or high times at the Chinese buffet with the suspiciously large 'chicken' wings, try this recipe at home sometime! 

The "Good" Pizza

1-2 roma tomatoes, sliced into 1/4" thick rings
1/2 lb. pizza dough
cornmeal
2-3 T. peppery olive oil
2-3 cloves garlic, pressed or sliced paper-thin
1 t. pesto, or 1 T. shredded basil leaves
a few grinds black pepper
1 cup shredded mozzarella

Preheat the oven to 465.  Lay the tomato slices on paper towels to remove excess moisture.  In the meantime, sprinkle cornmeal on your pizza tray or cookie sheet and stretch the pizza dough so that a very thin crust is formed.  Place the dough on the cornmeal - this is the best way to prevent it from sticking. 

In a small bowl, combine the olive oil, garlic, pesto or basil, and pepper.  Mix well, then brush over the pizza crust, leaving 1/2" uncoated around the edge.  Top with an even layer of shredded mozzarella, then place the tomato slices on top of the mozzarella. 

Bake for 13-15 minutes, then remove from oven, let the pizza cool for a few minutes, and slice and serve. 

Salad - A Love Story

Poor salad.  It gets such a bad rap.  Long thought of as "chick food," mass media and advertising perpetuate the myth that salads are never eaten because they're tasty and satisfying, but because the eater is demonstrating his or her weight control efforts and trying to be "good" that day. 

I'm head over heels in love with salad, but I keep our relationship on the down low.  I rarely order salads in restaurants for the totally lame reason that I'm very thin and don't want to be judged and thought of as *that* girl - you know, the fat-free dressing on the side, ice water with lemon, cut off a pinkie before taking a bite of a bacon cheeseburger, "do I look fat?" type...I digress.  I know that I shouldn't let other people's nosy judgments affect my meal choices, but I do.  So I make my salads at home, and I make them taste awesome! 

My favorite salad recipe is loaded with greens ranging from mild and buttery to hearty and bitter, and it features flavor-packed anchovies, ripe tomatoes, hard-cooked egg, crunchy omega-3 loaded toasted flax seeds, distinctive seasonings like pink peppercorns and lavender flowers, all topped off with peppery olive oil and a squeeze of tart lemon juice.  I don't use a salad bowl; I eat from a Corelle 2-quart serving bowl.  I like to eat my industrial-sized salads with homemade garlic bread, charcuterie, and wine.  Put it this way - I can turn "rabbit food" into gluttony.  I know that people who belong to the Church of Our Savior Calorie Counting will probably shake their heads and immediately write me off as a lunatic when they see that I'm serving a salad alongside slices of fatty pork sausage and a carb dish that uses 1/2 cup of butter, but guess what?  Some people eat salad not because they have an irrational phobia of calories, but simply because - GASP - it tastes good! 

The key to a meal this simple is to use the best possible products you can buy.  Don't use bottled salad dressing - all that's needed to dress a salad is a good extra-virgin olive oil and a lemon.  Don't buy a salami or summer sausage that's loaded with more chemicals than meat (I like Creminelli Salami Tartufo, a spicy pork sausage dotted with bits of black truffle).  Why anyone buys that nitrate-loaded mall kiosk shit is beyond me - once you find a good brand and a seasoning style that you like, you'll never eat that salted & petrified dog food again.  And please don't desecrate my garlic bread recipe by using something that's been on a truck or a shelf for five days; buy a baguette from a local bakery that bakes its goodies on the premises.  As for butter, it is worth it to seek out European-style butters, which have a higher butterfat percentage than American brands.  And for Pete's sake, banish from your brain the thought that eating salad is a merely a means to an end. 


My All-Time Favorite Dinner Salad

2 cups oak leaf lettuce, torn into bite-sized pieces
1 cup chicory or dandelion greens, torn into bite-sized pieces
handful baby arugula
3 anchovy fillets, minced
1 hard-cooked egg, chopped
1 T. finely minced onion
1 T. capers, rinsed
a few black olives, sliced
3 cherry tomatoes, quartered
generous splash olive oil
salt & pepper
pinch pink peppercorns
sprinkle of Herbes de Provence
sprinkle of lavender flowers*
sprinkle of toasted flax seeds
sprinkle of toasted pignoli
squeeze of fresh lemon

In a large salad bowl, combine the lettuce, chicory or dandelion, arugula, anchovy, egg, onion, capers, olives, and tomatoes.  Splash the olive oil directly into the bowl, then add the salt, pepper, pink peppercorns, Herbes de Provence, toasted flax seeds, and toasted pignoli.  Toss well until all the lettuce leaves are coated with oil.  Squeeze in the fresh lemon juice, toss again, and serve with garlic bread, sliced salami, and a crisp white wine, such as Pinot Grigio.

Garlic Bread

1/2 cup European-style butter, softened to room temperature
2 cloves garlic, pressed or sliced paper-thin
1 T. peppery olive oil
1 small baguette, sliced on the diagonal

In a small bowl, combine the butter, garlic and olive oil.  In the meantime, heat your broiler and toast the baguette slices for 1-2 minutes on each side, until they are golden but not burnt. 

Spread each toasted baguette slice with the garlic/butter/oil mixture, then place in the broiler with the oven door open for another 15-20 seconds or so, or until the butter mix has completely melted and seeped into the bread.  Serve on a plate with 1/4" thick slices of salami. 

* Make sure you are using lavender flowers intended for consumption rather than potpourri - non-edible flowers are often loaded with chemicals and preservatives

Linguine with Sausage, Tomatoes, and Broccoli Rabe

It's been quite some time since I've posted a recipe that didn't highlight an ingredient or feature a culinary backstory rivaling the Old Testament in word count, so today I offer you a basic, straightforward recipe that is both easy and fun to prepare.  All of the ingredients used are simple and easy to find, but if for some reason you cannot find broccoli rabe, kale, escarole, or collard greens would be acceptable substitutes. 

Linguine with Sausage, Tomatoes, and Broccoli Rabe

1 lb. dried linguine

splash olive oil

1 lb. hot Italian sausage, removed from casings

1 onion, quartered lengthwise, then sliced

small bunch broccoli rabe, chopped into bite-sized bits (approx. 4 cups)

1 28oz. can whole tomatoes, or 2 lbs. fresh tomatoes
2 t. fennel seeds
2 t. dried oregano
1 T. butter
salt and pepper
grated pecorino, to serve

Cook the pasta.  In the meantime, heat a generous splash of olive oil in a large pot over medium-high heat.  Add the sausage and brown it, separating it into bite-sized chunks with a wooden spoon as it cooks.  Cook for a minute or two, then add the sliced onion.  Cook for approximately 5 minutes, or until the onion is soft. 

Next, add the chopped broccoli rabe and saute for about 5 more minutes, stirring occasionally, until the leafy bits of the broccoli rabe have wilted. 

Now, add the liquid from the canned tomatoes to the pot.  Take each whole tomato and crush it in your hand over the pot, as shown in the photo to the right.  I like to think about the person(s) at the top of my shit list when I complete this step - it's mildly therapeutic.  Alternatively (but not nearly as emotionally satisfying), if you are using fresh tomatoes, simply chop them and add them to the pot along with a splash of the pasta cooking water. 

Once the sausage, broccoli rabe, and tomato sauce has cooked for at least 10-15 minutes, the cooked pasta can be added.  The trick is to add the pasta when it is cooked but still slightly firm, as it will continue to cook after you add it to the sauce - nobody likes mushy linguine. 

Once you've added the pasta to the pot with the sauce, toss gently so that each strand is coated.  Add the butter, salt, and pepper, and toss again until the butter has melted.  Serve in individual bowls, topped with freshly grated pecorino romano.

Ingredient Spotlight - Concord Grapes

Concord grapes.  Their unmistakable aroma caught me by surprise as I scanned a produce market with my mom.  I picked up the container of grapes, breathed in their scent, and put them in my basket.  "What are you going to do with those?" my mom asked.

"No idea," I replied.  "Smell them?" 

Just one sniff of Concord grapes always manages to transport me right back to my childhood in Erie, Pennsylvania.  For those unfamiliar with the dot on the map where I spent the first 18 years of my life, Erie is home to more than decaying industry, lake effect snow, and the infamous pizza bomber.  Seated on the shore of the shallowest Great Lake, Erie has miles of sandy beaches and truly gorgeous sunsets.  Head east on PA Route 5, pointing away from the rusted out city, and you'll find acre after acre of vineyards belonging to local wineries, where seemingly endless rows of native grapes grow atop cliffs overlooking the lake's blue waves. 

As a child, I had access to a grapevine.  Yup, a single grapevine.  A sore thumb in my working-class neighborhood of brick rowhouses, postage-stamp yards, and blue-collar folks more loyal to beer than Barolo, my neighbor's vine of Concord grapes grew along the wire fence separating her yard from ours.  Although the scent of the grapes was intoxicating in the fall, my mom's flower garden didn't appreciate the shadows cast by the grapevine's broad leaves.  My neighbor, who canned and preserved whatever she could get her hands on, often juiced the grapes.  I don't remember her doing this so much in later years, but man, oh man, did those grapes smell delicious. 

Reminiscing aside, I still had no idea what to do with my grapes after I purchased them.  I don't know how to make wine, and even if I did, Concords are a "foxy" grape ("foxy" refers to a musty characteristic in grapes), and as such, they aren't generally used in winemaking.  Concords are pretty tart to eat out-of-hand, and their large seeds offer a crunchy, bitter surprise to the unsuspecting eater.  I wasn't quite convinced that I wanted to use the grapes as anything more than a catalyst to ignite a stroll down memory lane, but in the end, I decided it was time to make new memories and a new recipe. 



Grilled Pork Tenderloin with Concord Grape and Wild Boar Bacon Reduction

1 pork tenderloin, about 1.5 pounds
1 c. Concord grapes, halved
2 large garlic cloves, minced
2 T. olive oil
2 T. balsamic vinegar
2-3 sage leaves, minced
1 T. coarsely ground black pepper
1 T. butter
2 ounces wild boar bacon, cut in 1/4" dice*
1 small shallot, finely minced
1/3 c. light-bodied white wine
1/3 c. chicken or ham broth
Concord grapes on the stem, to garnish

Combine the grapes, garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, sage leaves, and pepper in a large glass or plastic container with a tight-fitting lid.  Using a potato masher or the back of a fork, mash all the ingredients together until a fragrant paste is formed.  Place the pork in the dish with the grape paste, rubbing the paste on the pork.  Marinate up to 24 hours, shaking the dish occasionally.  The longer you marinate the pork, the fuller the flavor will be. 

When you are ready to cook the pork, heat a grill or grill pan over high heat.  In the meantime, brush the grape marinade off the pork, reserving the marinade.  Grill the pork on each side until no pink shows.  Each side should take about 5 minutes; the pork is ready to turn when the pork easily releases from the grill/grill pan.  If you are using a grill pan, transfer the pork loin to a shallow ovenproof dish or a baking sheet lined with foil, and bake for 10-15 minutes.  This step is not necessary if using a charcoal grill. 

While grilling the meat, make the grape and boar bacon reduction.  Place the reserved marinade in a small saucepan with the wine and chicken broth.  Bring to a quick boil, then reduce heat to a low simmer.  Keep covered so liquid does not evaporate, and simmer for about 10 minutes. 

In a separate saucepan, melt the butter over medium-high heat.  Add the diced wild boar bacon and saute until the fat has melted and the boar bacon is crispy.  Add the minced shallot and saute for another 3-5 minutes, stirring frequently, until the shallot is soft and translucent.  Do not let the shallot burn. 

Now it is time to add the marinade liquid.  Place a very fine sieve (or a strainer lined with cheesecloth) over the saucepan containing the boar bacon and the shallot.  Pour the contents of the marinade pan through the sieve, pressing the remaining solids with the back of a spoon to release as much liquid as possible.  When all the liquid has been squeezed out, discard the solids and bring the grape liquid to a boil, and whisk the sauce until it begins to thicken.  If it does not thicken up, you can "cheat" by blending 1 T. cold water with 1/2 t. cornstarch, and then whisking this into the sauce. 

Once the meat is done, take it off the grill or out of the oven and let it rest for 10 minutes.  Slice into 1/2" thick rounds, and arrange the rounds over polenta squares.  Spoon the grape sauce over, and garnish with a small bunch of Concord grapes. 

* If you cannot find wild boar bacon, you can substitute regular bacon or pancetta.  Wild boar bacon is available by mail from Savenor's, one of my local butcher shops.

Ingredient Spotlight - Ricotta Salata

Most people are familiar with ricotta cheese.  Used to stuff pasta and cannoli, ricotta is made from whey left over after cheese production.  When ricotta cheese is pressed, salted, and aged, it becomes ricotta salata.

Ricotta salata is similar in texture to feta, but it is milder and much less salty.  Traditionally used in shaved or grated form to add a finishing touch to dishes, its fresh, milky flavor is a pleasant addition to any salad containing tomato, cucumber, or cold, cooked grains.  Ricotta salata can also be used as a lighter, less pronounced substitute for parmesan or pecorino when finishing a risotto or a simple pasta dish. 

If you are not fortunate enough to live in a city with a large Italian population, ricotta salata may be difficult to locate, as it is not a common or mass-produced variety.  Italian markets, specialty shops and better supermarkets are good sources, but if you cannot find ricotta salata, it can be purchased online.  If you can get your hands on this cheese, do try it in the recipe below!


Spaghetti with Fresh Tomatoes, Green Onions, and Ricotta Salata

1 lb. spaghetti or linguine
splash olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 pounds fresh tomatoes, diced
1/2 cup dry white wine
4 green onions, sliced into rings
salt and pepper to taste
ricotta salata*

Cook the pasta.  In the meantime, heat the olive oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pan over medium heat.  Add the garlic and cook until the garlic becomes fragrant, approximately 3-5 minutes.  Do not let the garlic burn.

Add the tomatoes and the wine.  Cook for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally until the liquid has reduced and the tomatoes begin to break down. 

Add the sliced green onions, salt, and pepper.  Cook for about five minutes, or until the onions' flavor has mellowed a bit.  Do not let them become soft and mushy. 

Drain the cooked spaghetti and dress it with a splash of olive oil.  Divide the cooked pasta among plates, and spoon the sauce over the hot pasta.  Using a vegetable peeler, shave your desired amount of ricotta salata over each individual bowl. 

* If you cannot find ricotta salata, it can be purchased online.

Ingredient Spotlight - Ghost Peppers

"Would you like an atomic pepper, Mr. Mentolino?"

Remember that scene in "Dumb & Dumber?"  I'm pretty sure the atomic peppers consumed by the movie's two lovable losers were bhut jolokia, better known as 'ghost peppers.'  Native to India, these fiery fruits set a record in the Guinness Book of World Records in 2007 for being world's hottest pepper.  At 1,041,427 heat units, ghost peppers are approximately 400 times hotter than tabasco sauce on the Scoville scale, which measures a chili's heat based on how much sugar water is needed to neutralize its heat.  To put into perspective just how hot ghost peppers really are, consider that habaneros register 100,000 - 350,000 heat units, while law-enforcement grade pepper spray falls in the 500,000 - 5,000,000 heat unit range.  Rumor has it that biting into a ghost pepper can trigger a heart attack, but according to web sources, it isn't the heat of the pepper that could kill you, it's the potential that the concentration of capsaicin could cause anaphylaxis in some individuals and lead to suffocation. 

That was small comfort as I paid for a 50g carton of ghost peppers at Savenor's Market on Beacon Hill.  Operation "Woman vs. Food" had officially commenced. 

With a tall glass of sugared milk by my side, wearing my large-lensed sunglasses to protect my eyes in case any bits of chili went flying, my heart pounding with nervous anticipation, I pierced a ghost pepper's thick, slightly tough flesh with the blade of my paring knife, then held the cold metal blade against my tongue.  "That's not so bad," I thought.  The pepper tasted bright, almost citrusy, whereas I did not expect to be able to experience any discernible flavor through the fire.  That's when I learned why they're called ghost peppers - boy, do these babies sneak up on you!  The heat hit, but it didn't deliver a burn so much as a tingle.  The heat resonated throughout my mouth, spreading from the point of contact where I'd licked the blade of my knife, and a slight sting crept across my lips.  I sipped some sugared milk to snuff out the heat, then decided I should to try the ghost pepper again, only for real this time.  I sliced off a piece of pepper about the size of a grain of risotto rice, placed it on my tongue, bit into it, and sloshed it around in my mouth, letting the fire spread.

These peppers make "Dave's Insanity" look like "Dave's mild, completely manageable neuroses." 

The ghost pepper's effect was not nearly as devastating as I imagined - after all, I'd pictured myself screaming and scrambling for ketchup and mustard bottles, just like Harry and Lloyd in Dumb & Dumber - but keep in mind that I only consumed a minuscule amount.  If you can get your hands on ghost peppers, try them if you dare, even if only to satisfy your curiosity.

Not knowing if I could handle the heat if I chopped them and added them directly to a dish, I decided to use my ghost peppers to make a batch of hot pepper oil.  With the kind of heat ghost peppers pack, only a few drops will add a spicy kick to any food! 

Ghost Pepper Oil

2 ghost peppers, quartered*

2 cups olive oil

Add the peppers and the oil to a clean, resealable glass bottle.  Shake and allow to sit for 24 hours.  Use sparingly, adding drop-by-drop to any dish that could use some heat.  Great for bloody marys! 

* Be very careful when working with chiles.  If possible, wear gloves, and do not let the chiles, or anything the chiles have touched, come into contact with your eyes.

Stock Tips?

Dear Readers,

I am in the midst of an awful creative slump right now.  I've taken a few mini-vacations, I've got another vaca on deck this weekend, I've been slammed at work, and I haven't had any creativity, energy, or motivation to write for days.  I've cooked up a few things here and there, but I've been unable to turn the few actual dishes I've cooked into words. 

I promise I will be back with new recipes, new photos, and new stories.  Until then, you might want to buy stock in Maruchan Ramen, Kashi cereal, and Whole Foods. 

Happy Birthday, Bacon, Butter & Booze!

It's Baconbutterbooze.com's birthday - my baby is one year old today! 

365 days ago, I decided to start a food blog.  I sat down on the floor in front of my coffee table with a blank sheet of paper and a pen and jotted down a few thoughts and ideas.  I never had any intention that this would go from a fun hobby to my life's purpose.  I never thought writing posts or hunting down ingredients or studying endless variations of risotto recipes would be things that I'd place on my daily to-do lists. 

(to read where it all began, click here)

In the past year, I've learned how to shuck oysters and subsequently developed an addiction that could cause Dr. Drew to shake his head and groan.  I've gone from texting "Hey Ma, did you read that blog I started?" to a readership spanning 75 countries.  Last summer, I dreaded meeting new people because of the inevitable "So what do you do?" question, but today I proudly hand out Baconbutterbooze.com business cards.  I've tried tripe, sea urchin, salmon roe, bubble tea, pigs' feet, aji sauce, sweetbreads, lychees, wild boar, longans, rabbit, cardamaro, thai eggplant, cactus pads, razor clams, shad roe, tamarind, soft-shell crabs, skate wings, purple potatoes, and many, many new wines.  Last, but not least, I've figured out what I really want out of life - to learn, to create, and to inspire.  Going through life without doing at least one of those three things every day is not living; it is merely existing.

In the span of  8,760 hours, I've come a long way as a cook, as a writer, and as a human being.  Sure, food is necessary for everyone's survival, but food isn't simply a physiological necessity to me; it's a part of who I am.  To take away my ability to cook and share what I've learned and/or created would produce the same end result as cutting off my oxygen supply, my limbs, or my brain function.  Denying me access to a kitchen is no different than denying a drowning man a life vest. 

These days, it seems that everyone with a few pots and pans and a laptop has his or her own food blog.  I don't know if mine stands out at all; I don't know if my writing inspires anyone or if any of my readers have had any great revelations from reading Bacon, Butter & Booze; I don't know if this will ever be anything more than a hobby or a way of convincing myself that I have some sort of higher purpose beyond showing up at my office every day and making money for other people.  That all remains to be seen.  What I do know is that I've had a hell of a year, I'm having a great time cooking, writing, and sharing, and I have no intention of ever slowing down. 

On that note, I must give credit where credit's due and thank everyone who has contributed to this achievement in one way or another.  A gazillion grazie's to:

• My mom, who undoubtedly consumed great food while I was a fetus and probably turned me into a foodie before I even popped out.  Ma, I can't thank you enough.  Nobody has had a greater influence on me in the kitchen, and nobody's tomato sauce will ever top yours.
• All my readers.  Knowing that I'm not writing this stuff in a vacuum keeps me going every day.  As long as you keep reading, I'll keep writing and keep cooking.  Stay curious, my friends!
• Google, for hosting my site and making publishing and advertising so easy.
• The famous foodies whom I admire - Lidia Bastianich, Anthony Bourdain, Gordon Ramsay, Mario Batali, Martha Stewart, Fabio Viviani, Jeff Smith, Ken Oringer, Paul Bartolotta, and many more - you've all been able to turn your dreams into dollars, and I hope to enter your echelon someday.  I admire all of you.
• The food shops and restaurants in Boston and beyond that have kept my fridge stocked and my palate inspired, namely Liz and Keri at Mercato del Mare, The Wine Bottega, Salumeria Italiana, Polcari's Coffee, DiPaolo & Rossi, Savenor's Market, Whole Foods Symphony, Harvest Co-Op, Seaport Fish, Golden Harvest, Enoteca Italiana, Estragon, Umbria Prime, Posto, Morton's Steakhouse, Ristorante Fiore, Tico, Florentine Cafe, KO Prime, and many more.  You're the best of the best, and I'm proud to support all of you.

Although I'm proud of what I've accomplished in the past year, I know that I still have billions of recipes to conquer, and I still have much to learn.  Tonight, when I'm out in my highest heels celebrating with a few of my closest friends, I'll drink to what I've done, but when I raise my glass of champagne, I'm toasting to what I'm going to do in the next 365 days - stay tuned!   

Pepper-Crusted Steak with Strawberry Pesto

Strawberry shortcake?  Yum.  Strawberry jam?  OK.  Strawberry pesto?  ...?  Just trust me.

No need to chase me down and throw me in a straight jacket, this is one of my crazy ideas that just happened to work. 

My food inspiration most often comes in one of these three forms:  1) reading cookbooks or watching TV cooking programs and imagining how I would have cooked a dish; 2) tasting an unfamiliar ingredient or dish and brainstorming how I could cook it myself; and 3) looking in my fridge at all the random odds and ends and trying to determine what I could toss in a pan together that would turn into something semi-edible.

The third form of inspiration is how I came up with the idea for strawberry pesto.  Because me and my black thumb have not once been able to keep a basil plant alive, I'm forced to buy basil in large bunches from grocery stores and farmers' markets, even when I need only three or four leaves.  The leftovers usually go into pesto.  However, I had a few past-their-prime strawberries.  They weren't moldy or anything, but they were no longer shiny and firm.  I thought to myself, "Hmm...I've seen strawberry granita with a hint of basil; so why don't I try basil with a hint of strawberry?"  A few pulses in the blender, and I had a great summery sauce for a perfectly cooked pepper-crusted steak.  The strawberry pesto also makes an excellent dressing for cold whole-wheat pasta! 


Strawberry Pesto

2 large, or 4 small, slightly overripe strawberries, sliced
3 cups tightly-packed shredded basil
2 large garlic cloves, chopped
1 t. kosher salt
olive oil

Combine the strawberries, basil, garlic, and salt in a blender.  Add a splash of olive oil and pulse a few times until blended.  Continue adding a slow stream of olive oil until the pesto has reached a smooth consistency. 


Pepper-Crusted Steaks with Strawberry Pesto

4 steaks, 1.5" thick, brought to room temperature
2 T. cracked peppercorns
kosher salt

Heat a heavy-bottomed frying pan, preferably cast-iron, over high heat.  While the pan is heating, combine the cracked peppercorns with a few pinches of kosher salt on a plate.  Press both sides of each steak into the peppercorn blend. 

Once the steaks are seasoned, check to see if your pan is ready.  It is ready when a drop of water beads up and dances across the pan's cooking surface rather than staying put and sizzling. 

Once the pan is ready, add a few pinches of kosher salt to the pan, then add the steaks.  Sear them 2-3 minutes per side, using tongs to turn them over. 

Remove the steaks from the pan.  Set them aside and let them rest for 5-7 minutes.  It is very important that you do not touch the steaks while they rest; this step distributes the juices, and cutting into the steak too early results in lost flavor. 

Once the steaks have rested, place them on plates and decoratively spoon the strawberry pesto onto the plates.