Plates to Share: 303 Cafe & The Gallows

We walk to 303 Cafe, with Roxie leashed up. The inside is all shiny wood and exposed brick, but we can't sit inside with the dog. The cafe couldn't be nicer and, when there are no outside tables left, the hostess brings a table and chairs out to the sidewalk. We're so happy and Roxie is too.

Our waitress laughs: "You've expanded the cafe!" I'm tempted by the omelets and the tuna melt, but I want something a little smaller. We order smoothies -- mine is the (non-alcoholic) Pina Colada with pineapple and coconut milk -- and we share the MidEast Antipasto. It's a perfect dish to share -- pita chips piled high, olives, a few moist falafel, and little saucers of hummus, tzatziki and tabbouleh. I wish that I had my camera. I really do. Because the sky is blue, and the street is quiet, and my smoothie is delicious. And I don't feel like I'm in Boston anymore.

With Roxie in tow, we head for the tennis court at Jeffries Point. We set the dog up in the shade with a bowl of water and a stick to chew on. We play, zinging the tennis ball across the net. When I look back at Roxie, she's sitting there happily, watching the game. She's such a sweet dog.

When we realize that it's late, we hustle back, drop off Roxie, take the fastest showers ever, and get in the car. We're trying to make it to the South End and traffic is bad. There's a lot of swearing and gesturing coming from the driver's seat. I don't drive in Boston and I'm no help. So, instead, I flip the mirror down and I put on some blush.

We've missed SoWa and we're hungry. We decide to go to The Gallows. I like The Gallows much more than expected. There are a few macabre touches -- skulls and small bird statues -- in keeping with the name and the dining room is beautiful, with walls of light wood planks.

And what do we share? Its version of a Mediterranean platter: the Farmer Platter. Smoked chunks of eggplant, cherry tomatoes and thinly sliced onions, yogurt and chickpeas, quinoa with plenty of parsley, and a little hunk of cremont cheese. The eggplant has a little bite to it, which is especially good paired with the tangy, gooey cremont. The cheese reminds me of the chevre I had so often in Paris... it's not crumbly like the goat cheese that we're used to here in the States.

Smoked eggplant... looks funny, tastes delicious

The bartender is hilarious and enthusiastic ("I've been here since 9... I love it!"). The cocktail menu reflects the move in Boston towards what I'll call crafted cocktails -- lots of playing around with bitters and infused liquor. We have a drink a piece -- mine is the Shanghai Mojito. I don't taste the lychee, but it's a great, refreshing mojito and not too sweet.

The bar is getting busier. But, since it's Sunday and we're a little tired from the sun, it's time to go home.

Celebrating a Birthday with Cookie Dough

Confession: L and I hijacked E's birthday.

In the best possible way. You see, E didn't really want to celebrate. She had a hard week at work.

Oh wait. You're confused. I have two friends named E. They both have summer birthdays. I'm talking about the E who is friends with L too.

L and I are planners. When we made Restaurant Week reservations, we plotted out our strategy via text. We texted to update each other when we were on hold... and when we got the reservations.

E's birthday was no different. We made our plans the weekend prior. L decided to infuse simple syrup with lavender and make cocktails. We agreed that I would make dessert and drop it off at L's office the morning of E's birthday so she could stash it in her freezer.

On Tuesday, I made Maida Heatter's Frozen Fudge Cake and my Chocolate-Dipped Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Balls. Everyone likes cookie dough. Everyone. And these cookie dough balls are even better. Because I dipped them in semisweet chocolate. Oh yes. I think you'll like them.

Wednesday, we joined E for a work event and played dumb ("Oh, so what are we doing for your birthday?").

Later, as I sat at a bar in the South End, I got text updates from L: She couldn't find lavender. Plan b was a basil-cucumber gin martini. And champagne. That's a good plan.

We celebrated E's birthday on Thursday with cocktails and cake and cookie dough. E made dinner too, because she is a wonderful hostess and spoils us. We sat, and talked about real estate, the Kardashians, and Vermont. And then we made our bucket list for the rest of the summer and E froze the leftover fudge cake for another evening with friends.

Chocolate-Dipped Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Balls

(Adapted from Joy the Baker's Chocolate, Peanut Butter Cookie Dough, Toasted Marshmallow Cupcakes)

1 stick unsalted butter at room temperature (it should be the consistency of toothpaste)
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoons salt
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons cashew butter (You can use any nut butter; I like the mild taste of cashew butter)
2 cups semi sweet chocolate chips

Beat the butter and sugars with a hand mixer until light and fluffy, about three minutes. Beat in the cashew butter and the vanilla extract, mixing well after each addition.

Sift together the flour, baking soda and salt. Add it all at once to the butter and sugar mixture and beat until incorporated. Stir in one cup of the chocolate chips.

Scoop out tablespoons of cookie dough and roll into balls. Flatten each ball slightly so that each has a flat base. Place the balls on a cookie sheet. Refrigerate for forty-five minutes.

Melt the remaining cup of chocolate chips in a saucepan over medium heat, stirring to prevent it from burning. 

Dip the cookie dough balls into the melted chocolate. I find it's easiest if you hold the cookie dough ball by the flat base and rotate the rounded top through a spoonful of chocolate. And be careful -- the chocolate will be hot.

Refrigerate the balls for at least forty-minutes or until the chocolate is fully hardened. The cookie dough balls will last for several days if you refrigerate them.

What Are You in Love With?

"What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination, will affect everything. It will decide what gets you out bed in the mornings, what you do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you. Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything." -- Pedro Arrupe

I am in love with food. Reading, learning, doing. Cooking, eating, sharing. Taking photos, writing, blogging. Up early to write, up late to bake. I'm in love with simple summer fruit -- a slice of watermelon or a handful of cherries -- and I'm in love with long afternoons of cooking and recipes that never end.

I am in love with my new espadrilles. It's a hot and heavy love affair.

(Photo source: Polyvore)

I am in love with running. Those early morning runs when the grass is still dewy and there's a breeze. Those runs when it's so hot and I'm so thirsty. All runs.

I am in love with the possibility of summer. How everything seems easier, a little more golden. And I'm in love with the prospect of a New England fall.

I am in love with birthdays, holidays, and any reason to celebrate. Any reason to come together.

I am in love with this remix. U2 and Busta? Awesome. Dance party by myself? Absolutely.

I am in love with Boston. And I'm learning to love what isn't perfect about this city. Because it only makes the good parts even better. 

Where Are You From and Where Are You Going

Near Cafe Nation, E and I stop and laugh at the sign in the corner grocery store window.

What are Irish groceries, anyway? E guesses soda bread. I guess Irish butter. Then I remember that Brighton Center used to have a strong Irish community. So the sign makes sense.

And my next question is -- where did the Irish go?

E tells me that East Boston used to be Italian. She estimates it's now 60% Hispanic. And the last vestiges of the Italian community are Santarpio's and Rino's.

Where did the Italians go?

And the North End? Sure, it's still Italian. But the percentage is falling fast.

I wonder how long Southie will still be Irish. According to Stuff Magazine's Hot 100 list (July 26-August 8, 2011 edition), the Seaport District is the "Hot Summer Hangout." And, deeper into Southie, Local 149 recently opened. It tries very hard to call itself "a neighborhood joint." But there's whipped goat cheese and caramelized onion marmalade on the menu. So, I'm not really sure how "neighborhood" it is. But maybe it fits in with the neighborhood-to-be... Southie a few years from now.

And, once again, Boston is hopeful that Downtown Crossing is making a comeback.

The reinvention of neighborhoods is fascinating to me.

There are neighborhoods that have retained their historic names, but really have little social fabric. The West End can't really be called a neighborhood, can it? The neighborhood that was there was demolished in the 1950's. It's now a sea of concrete: MGH buildings, high-rise apartment buildings, and low, stocky bunkers.

Then there are neighborhoods whose name you'd never know. Like the teeny, tiny Bay Village. It's precious and so quiet. It looks just like Beacon Hill and was built by the same artisans. The demographics are unbelievably diverse. And no one knows where it is. (Hint: it's tucked between Park Plaza and Tremont Street.)

I love the palpable identity of streets, neighborhoods, and cross-sections and how that identity shapes what we do and how we live. Activity in the Financial District follows the rhythm of the workday closely.... busy at 6pm, empty at 8. As you take the Red Line out towards Davis Square, you'll see more and more plaid -- The hipsters have moved in. Expect lines for brunch on Beacon Hill's Charles Street. and in the South End. When the weather is nice, there's people-watching on Newbury Street and sun-bathing on the Greenway. If you're taking the Green Line on a game night, at least one tourist will ask you whether to get off at Kenmore or Fenway. Don't make the mistake of shopping at Whole Foods on Cambridge Street at noon -- that's when all of the MGH doctors go to lunch. And, if you're into cannoli, you have to pick a side: Modern Pastry or Mike's.

This is Boston.

I've lived all over the country and all over this city. My friends are spread out in every direction, on every line of the T.

And what I'm looking for is a neighborhood to ground me.

Farmers' Market Flowers

I'm hurrying across the bricks of City Hall Plaza. I'm late for a meeting down by Science Park.

And then I get really, really distracted and I'm another 10 minutes late, because I have to stop. The City Hall Plaza Market, organized by the Boston Public Market Association, is so gorgeous. You would stop too.

Piles of When Pigs Fly bread stacked up high, green beans, yellow squash, and, at the Noquochoke Orchards stand, vibrant flowers in blue ceramic jugs.

I buy three flowers -- all of them pink -- for three dollars and I ask if I can take a photo. The lady behind the table -- short with a great, big smile and grey hair -- says, "Sure, whatever turns you on!"

By this point, I've totally forgotten about my meeting.

Panna Cotta Two Ways

Did you know that I like dessert?

Wednesday night, I made a small blueberry clafouti for one.  The heat wave was beginning and I chose to bake. My logic? Flawed. The clafouti? Good.

Thursday night, E, L, and I shared three desserts at Sibling Rivalry: a chocolate tart, blueberry bread pudding, and angel food cake with strawberry compote.

And Saturday? I texted M: “I want to make a small dessert but I don’t know what.”

A minute later, I had the answer: panna cotta. M always comes through.

I adapted David Lebovitz’s Perfect Panna Cotta recipe. Panna cotta is meant to be easy, and it is.

But there’s a trick. Oh yes. There’s a trick to the five minute five ingredient recipe.

The mixture of cream and sugar must be warm. It must. You must take it off the stovetop, stir in the vanilla, and pour it over the gelatin immediately. Otherwise, there won’t be enough heat to melt the gelatin. And when the gelatin doesn’t melt, you’ll have to ditch the whole batch and go out in the 100-degree weather to buy more cream. And you don’t want to do that. No, you do not. You want to get it right the first time.

But, if you do wind up at the grocery store, you better find some really fantastic, ripe summer fruit. I picked out plums – for panna cotta topped with plums and a chocolate glaze – and $9 worth of cherries – for a summery panna cotta.

Oh. I should tell you. There’s a really hard part to the recipe. Waiting for the pannacotta to firm up in the fridge. It’s so hard. I’m not a patient person. Especially when dessert is almost ready.

I love dessert. 

I think you're more patient than I am. Maybe you could teach me to be patient.

Because the panna cotta is worth the wait. So here it is, two ways.

Summertime Panna Cotta with Sliced Cherries

(Adapted from David Lebovitz's Perfect Panna Cotta Recipe)

1 cup heavy cream

1 1/2 tablespoon sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon powdered gelatin

1 1/2 tablespoon cold water

1 cup de-stemmed, pitted, and sliced cherries

Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water in a bowl. Be sure to sprinkle it evenly to avoid any clumps. Let it sit for five minutes. 

While the gelatin is dissolving, heat the heavy cream and the sugar in a saucepan over medium heat until the sugar is dissolved (1-2 minutes). Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla. 

Pour the warm cream mixture over the gelatin and stir until the gelatin is dissolved. 

Divide the cherries between two small custard bowls. Divide the panna cotta and pour it over the cherries. Refrigerate for two to three hours until the panna cotta is firm to the touch and is jiggly. 

Serves two. 

Panna Cotta Topped with Sliced Plums and Dark Chocolate Glaze

(Adapted from David Lebovitz's Perfect Panna Cotta Recipe)

Additional ingredients needed:

1 ripe plum

3 ounces dark chocolate

4 teaspoons heavy cream

Prepare the panna cotta as described above, omitting the cherries. Refrigerate the panna cotta for two to three hours until it is firm to the touch. 

Slice the plum thinly and arrange 1/2 over each bowl of panna cotta. 

Melt the dark chocolate in a small saucepan over medium heat, stirring to prevent it from burning. Remove from the heat and stir in the heavy cream. 

Drizzle the chocolate glaze over each bowl. Serves two. 

Heat Wave Part II

100 -- degrees today in Boston.

34 -- minutes of tennis. Then E and I gave up. 

14 -- ounces of coconut water. 

4 -- inches of hair my stylist cut off. And now I have side-swept bangs too.

2 -- trips to the grocery store. When my first batch of panna cotta didn't turn out, I had to buy more cream. 

9 -- dollars spent on juicy black cherries. I probably should have looked at the price. 

Heat Wave

Where I'm from, we have air conditioning... everywhere. And people know better than to go out in the heat of the day.

Here in Boston, heat makes people panicky. And then they walk around in the heat and talk about the heat.

I'm not denying it's hot. It's too hot to bake, or to stand over a stove. It's too hot to run outside. So what do I do?

I have my ways to cope.

Last night, I was supposed to meet L and E for a walk over to the South End. But my white jeans and linen button down were too hot. I flew home, changed to a lace minidress, and took a taxi, beating them to Sibling Rivalry by five minutes.

And then I did one of my all-time favorite things. Most parents teach their children how to throw a football or to use an iron. Mine taught me how to order food. So I ordered appetizers for dinner. With the air hot and heavy outside, the smaller, lighter dishes were more appealing: a salad of sunchokes, fennel, and grapefruit with spicy arugula followed by a plate of sauteed shrimp.

This morning, dehydrated and tired, I stopped to buy a banana and coconut water. I'm all about potassium. Seventeen ounces of coconut water later, I felt superhuman.

At 1pm, I was face down in iced coffee. No, really. I moved my iced coffee as close to the edge of my desk as possible and leant over, keeping the straw in my mouth and sipping as I typed.

At 6pm, it was time to go home -- no option, but to leave the air conditioning. I fought with the rest of the city to get on the T. Six trains went past before one came with enough room to squeeze on. I couldn't reach the handrails, but it didn't matter. The train was so full that I was braced in position.

Until the heat wave breaks, I'll be hiding out in the air conditioning and wearing my big straw hat if I have to go out.

And then maybe on Sunday or Monday, I'll go back into the kitchen. I'm thinking about custard and ice cream and frozen truffles.

The Only Solution

Like Mika sings, “Baby, I hate days like this... when it rain and rain and rain and rains.” Figuratively, of course.

The only thing to do is to put clean sheets on the bed, turn the air conditioning to “igloo,” and take a three hour nap.

And then go for a run.

I was disorganized. I went back for my sportswatch. And then back again for sunscreen. And once I was greased up and smelling like coconut, I had to pick a direction. I stood on my stoop, squinting against the sun. Right, left, or straight.

Or, around the corner then straight. I ran straight for 22:30 minutes, turned around, and ran straight back.

It was my first time running in a few weeks, and the first time in months that I didn’t set a pace. I covered some ground – four neighborhoods, plus a lot of mental territory.

Brownies. Cupcakes. Thomas Keller’s chocolate bouchons. I’m tired of too-sweet cupcakes and I’m playing around with proportions of flour, dark chocolate, and sugar.

My baseball cap, the same cap I wore during the B.A.A. 10K. It started slipping around, falling over my eyes. Is the cap too big? Or is my head freakishly small? Important questions.

Geography. What grounds you, emotionally and literally. A sense of place. Not that I had any – In the trance of block after block, I had to look up at the street signs to remember where I was.

Getting so thirsty. On the way back, I passed runners I had seen earlier, headed in the opposite direction, sharing in the experience of this hot afternoon. We all brushed sweat off our foreheads and looked for shade. 

And I rolled to a stop in front of my building, still thinking about brownies and cupcakes, but feeling much different than at the start. 

Frosting Gone Wrong

I was born without certain genes. I can't whistle or snap my fingers. I can't fold clothes nicely.

I can't frost cupcakes. I can make cupcakes. I can make frosting. But I can't frost cupcakes.

I'm trying to pipe chilled chocolate ganache -- made only with 60% dark chocolate and heavy cream -- onto chocolate cupcakes and it's just going everywhere. I've googled "how to make a pastry bag out of parchment paper" and I go through about half of a roll.

I give up. I forgo traditional swirls and go for abstraction. I push my finger through the pastry tip to see what comes out. Kind of like throwing paint across a canvas.

The result? My cupcakes have uneven (sometimes spiky...) halos of frosting.

There's icing on the refrigerator, on the salt and pepper shakers, on the floor, on me. I picked the wrong day to wear khakis. Tomorrow is laundry day, for sure.

And then I had a side of cupcake with my icing. For dinner.

A Blueberry Indulgence

Confession: I’m an enabler. Yes, you should eat that piece of cake. Champagne is always a good idea. Play hooky... you need a vacation! I will totally bake you cupcakes for your birthday. And those stilettos? Oh, you should definitely buy them.  Definitely.

I love others’ happiness and pleasures – small and large. And the thing about summer is that there are so many joys to share: warm evenings and cold cocktails, sweating in the stands at Fenway as the sun sets, tennis games. Brunch outside, juicy cherries for a snack, and lobster for lunch. 

And blueberries. I’m so happy it’s blueberry season.

When the grocery store had a 2 for 1 deal on pints of blueberries, I felt like the grocery store was enabling my blueberry obsession. Thanks, grocery store. I mean it. Thanks for having my back.

It may be the summer of the egg. But guess what? It’s the week of the blueberry. I’m starting with crunchy, sweet coconut-almond granola over warm blueberry compote.

And then it’s going to get a little wild. Grey Goose, meet blueberries. Blueberries, meet Goose. You two will get along terrifically.

Coconut-Almond Granola over Blueberry-Cinnamon Compote

Coconut-Almond Granola

2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

3 tablespoons honey

5 tablespoons canola oil

2/3 tablespoon vanilla extract

2/3 cup sliced almonds

2/3 cup tightly packed coconut flakes (I use unsweetened)

1/3 cup walnut pieces

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees.

Combine the oats, almonds, and walnuts in a bowl.

Melt the honey, canola oil, and vanilla extract together in saucepan over medium heat and stir until well combined (1-2 minutes). Pour over the oatmeal mixture and stir well so that the oats are evenly coated.

Spread the oatmeal mixture evenly on a baking sheet and place on the top rack of the oven. Stir the mixture at least every 10 minutes. I’m going to be blunt: it’s best if you watch it like a hawk. Burnt granola happens easily (and does not taste good). Bake the oats for a total of 30 minutes, or until the mixture is golden-brown and still slightly moist.

Let the granola cool on the baking sheet for about 10 minutes, then use a spatula to scoop up the granola and store it in an airtight container. Stir in the coconut flakes. The granola will continue to crisp up. Makes approximately 3 ½ cups of granola.

Blueberry-Cinnamon Compote

1 cup blueberries

¼ teaspoon – ½ teaspoon cinnamon, depending on your taste

½ teaspoon brown sugar

Wash the blueberries in a colander and drain well. Lay them out on several folded paper towels and pat gently to dry with another paper towel. 

Put the blueberries in a saucepan over medium-low heat. Stir gently and, when the blueberries began to soften, very gently mash them with the back of a spoon. Cook until the blueberries have a consistency like a very thick jam, about 5-7 minutes.

Stir in the cinnamon and the brown sugar.

To assemble:

Layer the blueberry compote in a parfait glass (or a martini glass, in my case….) and top with a ½ cup of granola and another 2 tablespoons of blueberries. Serves one person. Definitely, definitely eat it warm. 

Sugary Sugar: a Cupcake from the Kickass Cupcakes Truck

Cupcakes have come to Boston in a major way (only a few years behind New York…). There’s Sweet, Isabelle’s Curly Cupcakes, and many others. And then there are cupcakes on the go. When I passed the Kickass Cupcakes truck outside the Boston Public Library on Friday, I started thinking about cupcakes.

Why do I like cupcakes? They're pretty. They're whimsical. And there are so many different elements: you've got the cupcake, and the icing, and then there might be sprinkles or something sweet inside. I don't remember my mom making too many cupcakes (she's a brownie, cookie, lemon tart kind of mom... the best kind of mom!), but I still feel like a little kid when I have a cupcake. 

I woke up Saturday still thinking about cupcakes (this happens pretty often). 

Later that day, I was on the Greenway and I could have looked for the Cupcake Cart. But I’ve read that the cart carries only two flavors – chocolate and vanilla – and, ever since I made the chocolate chip cookie dough cupcakes, I’ve been into filled cupcakes. I guess they’re called filled. Or stuffed? All I know is I really like cupcakes with something at the center.

According to Kickass’ Twitter feed, the truck had moved from Kenmore to Back Bay. I get off the T at Copley and find the truck parked on Clarendon between Newbury and Boylston, just as advertised. (I stop to take a photo of the "Come N Get Em" sign and a big, burly guy goes, "I like it!")

I have a hard time deciding. There’s the cappuccino, and the mochiatto, and the crème brulee…. Or I could just get a side of frosting for $1 (yowza). I stick to my game plan and order the cookie dough cupcake for $3.

It’s cute. So cute. Just look at that blob of icing!

I take a quick bite and it’s like being hit in the face with sugar. I’m trying to walk and eat and carry my bags of produce from Haymarket ($7.25 for a pint of raspberries, a pint of cherry tomatoes, an avocado, a pineapple, one squash, and a half pound of cherries) and it’s not working. I decide I need to sit down and make a serious study of the cupcake.

It’s a vanilla cupcake with vanilla buttercream, glistening in the heat, and a little bit of cookie dough tucked under the frosting. It is unbelievably sugary. And, to be honest, I’m a little disappointed.

For all of the hype, the cupcake tastes like… well… every other vanilla cupcake. I do like the cookie dough, but there’s not that much of it. And the truck staffers looked totally demoralized… maybe it was the heat? Maybe they don’t like cupcakes? Sad. 

There are a few redeeming qualities: The cookie dough cupcake is super cute, it’s from a local business, and it’s from a food truck. Food trucks are so damn cool (and I’m glad Boston now has its own fair share). I love Clover Food Lab, and I’d like to try the Dining Car (best name ever) and Staff Meal.

When a food truck gets it right, it’s exciting and fun and you feel like you spent your money on something interesting and, in many cases, organic. But, in this case, I walked away with a too sweet taste in my mouth, wondering whether I ordered the wrong cupcake... or went to the wrong truck. 

* For more on food trucks in Boston, check out the list of food carts on the Greenway.

* And I have to ask: What are your favorite food trucks in Boston? 

The Summer of the Egg

I’m all for summertime. Everything just seems a little bit easier. What we do, what we eat, how we live… it’s all different.

I spent Thursday on a private farm about forty-five minutes outside Boston. Green, lit up by the golden afternoon sun, stretched out in front of me in every direction and the air… it sounds so dumb to say, but it really was fresh.

The goats were busy chewing grass, but they stopped and nuzzled me when I stretched out my hand.  They weren’t too interested when they realized I didn’t have snacks for them.

I was told I could go into the chicken coop if I wanted.  Absolutely not.  I liked having the wire fence between those pointy beaks and me. The hens roamed free and came a little too close. 

At the very end of our day, I had one soft-boiled farm egg, almost as an afterthought. The 1½ hour egg at Stir had a creamy, viscous yolk. This one was cooked for five minutes on the stovetop and the yolk was just barely firm.  Different, for sure, but so good. There’s no photo. I ate it too fast.

We drove back into Boston late. After a day on the farm, Back Bay at 11pm seemed  wild and noisy and bright. And really, Back Bay is none of those things.

Yesterday, I woke up with huge, swollen mosquito bites all over my body. They should really be called welts. On my ribcage, my calves, the back of my neck. They’re my proof that I wasn’t in Boston for a day.

And, sitting last night at the outdoor bar at Legal Seafoods in Harvard Square, the goateed guy to my left told me about a 70-minute egg he had just had. 

It’s the summer of the egg.  I called it first. 

Close to Home

Can you travel in your own city?

I say yes. Definitely yes.

Travel happens the minute you go somewhere you've never been. Travel happens the minute you go somewhere you've never seen. Travel is opening your eyes.

I plan on sneaking in a lot of this kind of travel.

I've written before about my mental map of Boston, made up of roads, alleys, corners, buildings, and spectacular views. I've strung them all together like a tangled line of Christmas lights and they anchor me; they allow me to move through this city. I bounce off them, each one propelling me onwards.

Everyone has a different map. And I want to fill in some of the spots that are not so clear on mine.

Like the Fens. I know where Longwood is. I know where Fenway is. And I've used the flat stretches along Huntington to clock some fast sprints. I like racing up and down Huntington, scaring sleepy interns stumbling out of Brigham & Women's.

But how does it all fit together? How do so many different places just happen to connect to the misshapen, swampy piece of land known to us as the Fens?

And Southie. We all love a good Southie accent. E says I do a great Southie accent. When Whitey Bulgur was arrested, I had no idea who he was. I had to Wikipedia him (Wikipedia is not just a noun, but a verb too). And I sat in a cab, stuck in traffic on Storrow, listening to interviews with Southie residents ("Would you publicly criticize Whitey Bulgur?" "I wouldn't deeeeeah.").

I've been to Southie once. On the way to the ICA, I accidentally took a detour. It was St. Patrick's Day. What a day to get lost in Southie. It was... very green.

What else?  I've never walked the Freedom Trail and I really think I should take a water taxi to the airport at least once. Never been to Jamaica Plains, unless you count one run where I accidentally wound up at Jamaica Pond. There's Charlestown, with all of its contrasts and history and confused identity. And I've never had really good dim sum in Chinatown (I've only had really bad dim sum). While we're talking about food, I just found out there's rooftop dining in the North End. And there are all of those taquerias in East Boston....

There's a lot of traveling (and eating, and running, and living) to be done here.

A Walk, a Snack, Dinner, and a Movie

I find A on a bench in front of City Hall. Right away, I ask if we can check out the fruit and vegetable stands at Haymarket.

The prices are always good. But it’s about 4:30, near the end of the day, so the prices are dropping even more. The vendors are yelling and the shoppers are shoving. I keep turning to A – “It’s one dollar! One dollar! Do you know how much it is at Shaw’s? Three dollars!”

I buy three bags of baby carrots for $1, a pint of blueberries for $1, and a pint of cherry tomatoes for – you guessed it – $1. I sling the heavy plastic bag over my shoulder and we walk towards the North End.

We’ve had this day planned for weeks: an afternoon walk through the North End followed by dinner.

We head up busy Hanover Street and we use a smaller side street – I don’t remember the name – to move away from the crowds. The line outside Mike's Pastry is already epic.

Our walk is circuitous: a few stops in little boutiques, a few minutes in the Old North Church. I get hungry and I realize I’ve got snacks. I rip open a 33 cent bag of carrots and, eating carrots, we lope around the perimeter of Copp’s Hill Burying Ground and move towards the water.

  

Do you ever forget that Boston is on the water? I don’t mean the Charles. Or the Mystic. I mean the sea. The expanse of blue water reminds me that we’re not so far from the ocean.

But it’s hot along the water, with little shade, so we cut back across the North End. At times, we’re on Commercial Street; at others, we’re on Prince, Salem, Hanover, in alleys and tiny streets. I can’t tell you our route. Because I can't possibly remember it. 

It’s time for dinner. We split a spinach salad, gnocchi with tomato sauce, and saltimbocca di pollo at Antico Forno. 

We forgo dessert because we’ve got other plans. Mike’s. Of course. The line is still long and we decide to make things more complicated: We give ourselves a deadline. There’s a 8:15 showing of Bad Teacher at the Lowes near the Common. We’ve got to get two chocolate-chip cannoli and be on the T by 8.

We do it. We get inside, we push our way to the counter, and A, like a good New Yorker, flags down a woman behind the counter. 

With the cannoli and my plastic bag of produce (the corners of the plastic blueberry box are now cutting through the bag and stabbing me), we hustle across the Greenway to the T, stand impatiently on the Green Line until the train pulls into the Boylston stop, and then sprint across Tremont to the movie theater.

We don’t relax until we’re sitting in the movie theater and I’ve opened the box of cannoli.

A Dinner Party with Strangers & the Best Egg Ever

L and I take Dartmouth Street to the South End and then walk along Tremont, until we find Barbara Lynch’s enclave at the corner of Tremont and Waltham. Tonight, we’re eating at the Chef’s Table at Stir.

But, before we go in, we have to change our shoes. I’m in flip flops and L is wearing sneakers. We’re right outside Stir, leaning against the building, and we change back to our high heels (red patent leather peep-toe heels for me, classy nude pumps for L). Shoes matter. 

What I notice first: the huge wall of books and all of the stainless steel. Stir is small and intimate – but modern and sleek at the same time – and I wish my kitchen looked just like it. And our “hosts” for the evening, Stir manager Elle and Chef Kristen, tell us that it’s almost an exact replica of Barbara Lynch’s kitchen. Lucky, lucky Barbara.

The Chef’s Table is not a traditional class. The ten of us around the square table are forgoing the Friday night rush at every other Boston restaurant and, for $145, we have the opportunity to watch dinner be prepared, to talk with Kristen and Elle, and to ask them every question we can dream up. And to eat some really good food.

Our first course is summery: wedges of chilled cantaloupe, orange segments pickled in white balsamic vinegar (a great pairing of sweetness and acidity), and baby beets. Elle and Kristen are very into fresh, local produce and it shows. My favorite part is the sear on the cantaloupe, which, from a distance, looks like grilled sweet potato. Grilled fruit should really happen more often.

For me, the seared Day Boat scallops are a page right out of the B&G Oysters book. What’s most interesting is Kristen’s attention to technique. The sous-vide carrots are razor thin and add a delicate touch to the dish.

Everyone’s enjoying their food and the wine pairings. But we all get real jazzed when the entrée is served: a small beef tenderloin served with a potato puree (equal parts potato and butter, flavored with a little white truffle oil and vanilla bean) and the eagerly-anticipated 1 ½ hour egg.  I'll call the egg the best soft-boiled egg ever. 

Steak, meet egg. Egg, meet steak. 

I puncture the egg with my fork tines and my plate is flooded with creamy, yellow yolk. I make sure that each bite of steak gets dredged in egg. 

And the wine pairing, a 2007 Qupe Syrah "BobCat Cuvee," is so smooth, so drinkable. It’s a hugely successful course.

L and I are thinking we should try to re-create this dish. It’s a simple concept: As the incredibly articulate Kristen points out, it’s steak, eggs, and potatoes. And we all love steak. When a gentleman to our left asks where tenderloin comes from, Elle has Kristen be the cow, drawing a line down Kristen's back to identify the source of the tenderloin.

Dessert is a chocolate mousse tablet, with mascarpone replacing the usual cream. I'm not thrilled with the passion fruit gelee (a matter of personal taste, that's all), but the hazelnut-butter crumble is a winner – it'd be the ultimate ice cream topping. The pairing, the 2010 Marenco Brachetto d’Acqui, is a sparkling, red dessert wine. It’s sweet (obviously) and I smell strawberries. I do like it, but my taste buds are absolutely overwhelmed with the sugar. 

The mousse, with hazelnut-butter crumble... butter is always a good idea. 

When we finish our dessert, we all look a little confused. There’s no bill to pay, no official end to the evening. And, though the atmosphere is friendly and intimate, we’re not at a friend’s dinner party. So what do we do?

There are a few more questions asked, a little debate about dark chocolate versus milk chocolate, a little talk about food bloggers in Boston. And then we begin to drift out.

After this lovely dinner, it’s hard to complain. But, if I have one criticism, it’s that the experience is anti-climatic. One delicious dish after another... and then you leave.  I think Stir has the opportunity to wrap up the evening with something small and witty – like a printed recipe for the 1 ½ hour egg and one egg from a local producer.  A dinner at Craft in New York last December ended with strudel-topped muffins (“For tomorrow!” the hostess told me). I ate my muffin the next morning in bed (my sheets were totally covered in strudel, but that’s okay).

Elle and Kristen tell anecdotes about Barbara Lynch throughout the evening and they tempt us with a run-through of Stir’s upcoming classes. All good marketing. But one little touch at the end of the evening would, for sure, bring us all into the fold.

We leave the perfect foodie bubble that is Stir. Back to the real world. L and I head back the way we came (changing shoes, of course – we're practical city girls).

We’re at The Met Back Bay, sipping martinis, when Papi charges Baltimore Orioles reliever Kevin Gregg like a bull. He throws the first punch; the field at Fenway explodes into a fistfight. Everyone at the bar swivels and watches the pile-up (and the five or six instant replays).

And then Friday night continues.

Let's Go Red Sox!

Thursday night at Fenway Stadium, Boston Red Sox versus Baltimore Orioles. 

"Walking on, Walking on Broken Glass"

I'm leaving work when I get an email on my iPhone from the B.A.A. Registration for its half marathon starts in a week. And my first thought is, "But my legs hurt!"

Not from running, though. From muscle conditioning. Since the B.A.A. 10K, I've been taking a little hiatus from running.

I felt like superwoman when I woke up the day after the 10K with no sore muscles. I went for a long walk and then (this is where I got stupid) hopped on the treadmill for an easy thirty minutes.

For the next four days, I had a stabbing pain in my heel. A sharp, deep pain. I totally thought I had plantar fasciitis. I stretched my calves, used my foam roller, and propped my heel up on a bag of cocktail ice.

It went away. Not plantar fasciitis. Just overuse and overtraining, from two 10K races two weeks apart and too many speed workouts.

Even though the pain is gone, I'm taking a few weeks off running. It's my chance to heal up and to do all the things I neglected in the final weeks of training.

Like muscle conditioning class. The instructor invented a whole new way to make lunges even worse. Eight full lunges, eight lunges from the halfway point to the ground, eight lunges from the top to the halfway point. And then repeat this madness. And then again.

I knew I'd be sore. I didn't know how sore. I'm very sore. So when that B.A.A. email came in, I grimaced.

Good thing the half marathon is in October.

Fourth of July Cheesecake Brownies

I'm meeting E and others on the Esplanade for the fireworks. They're bringing iced tea and snacks.

And just like that, I've got an excuse to bake.

I want a really specific kind of brownie. I want Katharine Hepburn's Brownies. But with a cheesecake layer. I'm inspired and I don't have to think too hard. I make the brownies as usual and smooth a layer of cheesecake over the top. The result?  Dense, dark brownies with a light layer of tangy cheesecake.

I wrap them up in tinfoil and I get on the T. The game has just let out and the T is full of Sox fans... all dark blue and red. And pink too -- everyone is sunburned. I've got the brownies propped on my lap and they jiggle as the train jerks through the tunnels in starts and stops.

I walk through the Common, up Park Street, along the side of the State House, down Bowdoin, to the intersection of Charles and Cambridge. It's 6:30, but the sun is still hot and I've got plenty to carry.

By 7, we've got a spot staked out on the Esplanade -- three blankets spread out side to side, dotted by bags of pretzels and kettlecorn, a thermos of iced tea, our flip flops, cookies, and, oh yeah, the brownies. The others teach me to play Spades (I have no strategy and I'm the most erratic card player ever... which makes me dangerous) and we Google Martina McBride when she takes the stage.

It's 10:30. We stand up and watch the fireworks through the lacy silhouette of the trees along the riverbank.

There are 800, 000 people on the Esplanade. That makes for some traffic jams. We wait to cross a bridge to Back Bay and people-watch... drunks rehashing a fight, cranky grandparents and babies up past their bedtimes. Most of the crowd has to work tomorrow but there's still a few hours of the holiday left.  

And then, at midnight, we ring in E's birthday.

Fourth of July Cheesecake Brownies
(Adapted from Katharine Hepburn's Brownies and Philadelphia Cream Cheese Classic Cheesecake)

Brownie Layer:

1 stick unsalted butter, softened
2 eggs, at room temperature
2 squares unsweetened baking chocolate (each is 1 ounce; I use Baker's Best)
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour

Butter and flour a square baking pan and set aside. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Melt the butter and chocolate in a saucepan over moderate heat, being careful to not let it burn. Mix the two together and take the saucepan off the heat.

Stir in the eggs and sugar, mixing well after each addition. Add the flour and stir well.

Turn the brownie batter into the prepared pan and set aside.

Cheesecake Layer:

12 ounces cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg, at room temperature

Beat the cream cheese, sugar, and vanilla in a medium bowl with a hand mixer. Add the egg and beat well. All ingredients should be well incorporated and the mixture should be creamy. Carefully spread the mixture on top of the brownie batter.

Bake the brownies at 325 degrees for an hour and forty-five minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean.

Let the brownies cool in the pan until they reach room temperature and then chill the brownies in the freezer for one hour. Run a knife around the edges and then cut the brownies.