RUN FAST TRAVEL SLOW

You Get What You Need

2012-01-29T08:05:00.000-05:00

It's 5:30, Sunday morning. I shouldn't be awake. I'm wide awake. I try, but can't go back to sleep. You can't always get what you want.

At 6:13, I'm out of bed, pulling on running tights and sneakers. Why not run? I pause at my front door and press play on my shuffle. The first song? Countdown by Beyonce. I'm truly in love with this song. And I love that it came up first. Sometimes you get what you need.

Boston is quiet. I run through Chinatown, past delivery trucks and crates of chickens (feathers still on). There are certain things that you can only see in the very early morning.

In the Financial District, the bars are closed, the streets are mostly empty and the sidewalks are all mine. The arch of Rowes Wharf frames a perfect sunrise... a blue harbor and a blue sky, layered with white clouds and apricot-hued light. Sometimes you get what you need.

Overheard in Back Bay

2012-01-28T18:01:00.000-05:00

At the Burberry store:
"Have an amazing day, ladies!"
"I fully plan on it."

At L'Aroma:
"Excuse me, are you really taking that table? I was walking over here."
"Yes, I was just talking to this man and he said I could have it."
"Are you seriously taking this table?!?"
"Are you coming over here and seriously challenging me?!?"
"Yes. I'm challenging you."

I'm That Girl

2012-01-21T20:03:00.000-05:00

I wear 4-inch heels when there's snow on the ground and the sidewalks are slippery.

(Image from www.endless.com)

I bring biscotti to happy hour at Tico. And lemon squares to an afternoon at the Aquarium. My friends really aren't surprised anymore when I arrive with dessert.

I stop and stare at the copper panels and arched windows of the Puffers Building on Cambridge Street. Don't mind me. I'm just in love with architecture.

From Almond Biscotti to Lemon Squares

2012-01-19T15:48:00.000-05:00

I'm on a mission to make the perfect almond biscotti. I keep tweaking recipes -- a little less baking soda, a little more almond extract -- but I'm still not there yet.

One recipe called for amaretto liqueur. Definitely not something I keep on hand. So, in the middle of day, I went to the liquor store. The guy behind the counter said that Disaronno was my best bet and, since I only needed 2 tablespoons, found a nip for me. And then he looked a little wistful... "You said you were baking a cake?" "Cookies." "Ohhh... cookies..." He doesn't deal with too many bakers. And he'd really like a cookie. Maybe I could barter for champagne?

But, when I couldn't find ground anise at the grocery store, I put biscotti on pause. I sat down with Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies (I read cookbooks the way some women read romance novels...) and I picked out a recipe, purely based on what ingredients I have in my kitchen.

Lemon squares. Bingo.

There's a sweet and tangy lemon filling on top of a buttery, crunchy crust. I can't really elaborate further. They're just... stupid good. Good enough to make me forget all about biscotti.

[Alice Medrich's Very Tangy Lemon Bars 2.0 recipe from Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunch Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies]

A Damn Good Breakfast: Blueberry Pancakes

2012-01-15T22:25:00.000-05:00

Stack 'em up, knock 'em down.

These Are the Things That Make Me Smile

2012-01-14T17:13:00.000-05:00

My new speakers. God help my poor neighbors. Music makes me smile.

Being asked to be a bridesmaid in S's wedding. Love makes me smile.

Brunch plans at my place Sunday morning. The anticipation of blueberry pancakes makes me smile.

Saturday. Saturday always makes me smile.

Very Chocolate Cookies

2012-01-08T21:52:00.000-05:00

In my world, there are pajama brunches. I didn't choose the theme. But, let's be honest, I'm so into themes. I put on my prettiest pair of pajamas, slapped an apron on top, and made pancake batter. So, when the guests arrived and they weren't wearing pajamas... well, about five minutes later, everyone was stripping off their jeans and putting on my extra pajamas. If we're going for a theme, we're going all the way.

In my world, there's always ice cream. Even when it's twenty-five degrees outside. Because a good dinner with a good friend should always be followed with ice cream from Christina's.

In my world, there are a million excuses to bake. Birthdays. Holidays. Celebrations. Or seeing two kinds of Valrohna chocolate at the grocery store.

Hence the birth of Very Chocolate Cookies. They're dense. They're serious. There's milk chocolate... there's white chocolate... all rolled into a dark chocolate cookie.

Doesn't your world need some chocolate cookies?

Very Chocolate Cookies

1 1/2 stick unsalted butter
2/3 cup granulated sugar
3 eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 cup coarsely chopped white chocolate pieces
3/4 cup coarsely chopped milk chocolate pieces

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cream together the butter and sugar with a fork until fluffy. Add the eggs one by one and the vanilla extract, mixing well after each addition.

Sift together the cocoa powder, flour, and baking soda in a separate bowl. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture all at once and mix well. Add the chocolate pieces and stir to combine.

Scoop out two tablespoonfuls of batter at a time and form into a cookie shape. Place each on the baking sheet. Bake the cookies for 10 minutes. Let the cookies cool on the sheet for 3 - 4 minutes then use a spatula to lift them off the sheet. Makes approximately 20 cookies.

First Run of 2012

2012-01-04T19:24:00.000-05:00

I'm running up Beacon Street towards the State House -- tall hill, cold air, tired legs. But suddenly I hit the right cadence and I have a perfect moment of running, of physical effort... or, I should say, effortlessness.

I'm sprinting down on State Street when I nearly collide with a tall man in a heavy, wool overcoat. He says, "Go," I say, "Go," and then he urges me on: "Go, go, go!" So I do.

I run through the Seaport and turn around when I reach Temazcal. And there's Boston, spread out for me and all lit up. This view never fails to impress. Hey there, Boston. How you doin'.

'Tis the Season

2011-12-30T21:05:00.000-05:00

.... to bake my favorite brownies for a holiday party and to add a layer of crushed candy canes. And when the brownies stuck to the pan, I broke them up and bought ice cream, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup. Sundaes for everyone!

.... to stand waiting at the stove Christmas morning as M cooked bacon and to grab it as soon as it came out of the skillet.

.... to run down Boylston Street, past the twinkly lights, breathing in air so cold that it hurt.

.... to stop just for a minute and to watch the crowds skate rhythmically around and around on Frog Pond. And to think maybe there's still a little Christmas left in the air....

Still Running

2011-12-22T21:30:00.000-05:00

We start running -- and we talk and talk and talk. And when I get really enthusiastic, I leap and start flapping my arms like I'm about to take flight. This happens a few times. L just laughs. She's used to it by now.

We run past quiet, dark streets in Southie towards to the brighter, taller lights of Boston, finally turning around at the Convention Center. And when our hips are sore and our noses are running, it's time for music.

We keep running - we realize we've taken the long way - but we keep running... down Broadway, down O Street, around the curved, windy stretch of road by the Old Harbor.

When we finally stop running, it's late, much later than we'd planned.

That's What I Call Breakfast

2011-12-13T00:25:00.000-05:00

11:30 am at Balthazar: Brioche French Toast, served up with bacon and the New York Times.

New York Again

2011-12-11T22:45:00.001-05:00

A year ago, I was in New York.

Six months ago, I was in New York.

I woke up this morning in Boston, packed my bag, took a cab, and boarded the Acela. Before I knew it, I was in New York again.

And when I got off at Penn Station, I couldn't find a cab. I started walking uptown and, when A called, I knew I'd much rather talk and walk than hail a cab. So I went uptown, then crosstown, and talked to A, with cold hands and the excitement that always comes when I arrive here.

Hi New York. It's been a while.

It's Totally Okay

2011-12-04T11:52:00.001-05:00

... to spend Saturday morning hitting the snooze button.

... to have one song on repeat. All weekend long.

.... to be secretly overjoyed when you find Felicity on Netflix Instant Streaming. Oops. I guess it's not a secret anymore.

..... to decide to bake blondies when you're running late, you haven't made your bed or washed the dishes, and you were supposed to be at North Station like five minutes ago to take the commuter train up to the North Shore.

I Just Want to Dance

2011-12-04T10:04:00.001-05:00

I just want to dance.

Whether it's to this...

Or this...

I have music playing non-stop... which means I'm always dancing. You see the girl on the T, tapping out a beat with her foot? That's me. You see the girl on the street, whose shoulders are swaying a little? That's me.

I don't have enough time to dance though. I mentally committed to running a marathon. The next Boston Marathon. So, I've been applying for charity runner entries through a number of organizations. And I'm waiting to hear back. In the meantime, I'm going out for three or four long runs a week and preparing myself for early, chilly runs for the next five months.

But I always have a back-up plan. If I don't get an entry, I'm going to get serious about dancing. It's been a long time since I gave it enough of my time. And I just want to dance.

It's a Winner: Classic Cranberry-Almond Granola

2011-11-25T00:51:00.001-05:00

A few weekends ago, I went all type-A, Martha Stewart, "please leave my kitchen because I'm trying to cook here, you're lovely, I'm so glad you're here, but I'm really trying hard to not burn this bacon and I'm going a little nuts."

In other words, I made brunch for eight. And I loved it -- planning out the menu, shopping for ingredients, waking up early to bake Oatmeal-Raisin Muffins and the blueberry crumble, going into hyper-hostess mode. Even knowing that I can't use a microwave and I've never made brownies from a box, my friends were still a little surprised that I made granola.

It's really not hard. You should try it. Soon.

When I got to my Thanksgiving break destination, I was engaged in a granola bake-off about an hour after arrival. I don't know how these things happen. This is just my life. Spontaneous bake-offs happen.

Luckily, I knew what to make: Classic Cranberry-Almond Granola, a chewy granola full of dried cranberries and sliced almonds. It's sweetened by a little honey and coconut flakes and it's great for breakfast... or by the handful for a snack.

It's not hard at all. Give it a try.

And the bake-off? I won. Of course.

Classic Cranberry-Almond Granola
2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
3 tablespoons honey
5 tablespoons canola oil
1 cup sliced almonds
1 cup dried sweetened cranberries
2/3 cup tightly packed coconut flakes (I use unsweetened)

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees.

Combine all dry ingredients, except for the coconut, in a bowl. Add the honey and canola oil and mix well. Spread the mixture out on a baking sheet.

Stirring every 10 minutes, bake the oats for 30 minutes or until they are golden-brown and just slightly moist.

Let the granola cool for ten minutes. Use a spatula to scoop up the granola and store it in an airtight container, stirring in the coconut flakes.

Slip Away

2011-11-21T22:44:00.001-05:00

It started off so well.

I started packing with all the best intentions. I carefully rolled up my jeans and and folded my t-shirts. I added gym shorts and socks. And then it all went to hell.

I chucked presents -- a bag of coffee, a tin of tea, chocolate bars, and coffee cake -- in my suitcase. I dropped my yoga mat nearby and hoped I'd remember it. After an hour at the gym, I slipped off my sneakers and threw them across the room towards my suitcase... and I don't really have good aim.

When my cab arrived and it was time to leave for the airport, I almost walked out of my apartment without my suitcase.

It doesn't really matter though. Because I've slipped away for a few days. Because I'm somewhere where I can wear a t-shirt and flip flops. Because I'll recharge and relax, just in time for that crazy rush of life that happens between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I'll just work around the fact that I forgot my hair brush.

Truth

2011-11-20T22:00:00.001-05:00

"Whatever satisfies the soul is truth" - Walt Whitman

This is my truth.

Roasting chicken breasts with olive oil and lemon juice and inadvertently falling asleep, only to wake up to the smell of roast chicken. Waking up before the sun rises to go to the gym because the evening is so back-to-back busy that bicep curls and pushups can only happen at 6am. Planning a week in advance to make pecan pies -- one basic, one with coconut flakes and chocolate -- for L's Thanksgiving dinner. Finally learning to cook the perfect steak. Hauling myself out of bed after only a few hours of sleep to run ten miles.. because I couldn't imagine not running. Calling M at 7am to discuss the merits of medium versus dark coffee roasts.

What's your truth?

Brunch Part II

2011-11-18T07:41:00.001-05:00

At 11am, the eggs are in the pan. I turn off the hip hop -- playing at full volume -- and put on the Big Chill soundtrack.

Wait. Let me back up.

I was out of bed at 7:45am, stumbling to the kitchen to pour muffin batter into tins before I turned the lights on or brushed my teeth.

The next three hours and fifteen minutes were busy. The kitchen -- walls covered in notes and to do lists just like a war room -- turned into the nerve center of all activity. I baked oatmeal muffins, topping them with a little cinnamon sugar. I showered, made a coffee run (for myself and for a cardboard carrier of hot coffee), and arranged flowers. Apron tied on tight, I piled apple slices and grapes on a platter, side by side with homemade granola and containers of yogurt. I pulled out Maida Heatter's spectacular recipe for blueberry crumble and I layered blueberries, brown sugar, butter, and oats in a glass dish. I lay strips of bacon and breakfast sausage in my grill plan and poured eggs in the skillet.

At 11:15, the first guest arrived. And for the next four hours, we ate. And chatted. And drank coffee. And ate.

Sorry, there are no photos. We ate it all.

The menu:
Scrambled eggs, bacon, and Formaggio Kitchen breakfast sausage
Oatmeal Raisin Muffins
Cranberry-Almond Granola [recipe coming soon!] and yogurt
Maida Heatter's Blueberry Crumble
Fruit platter, coffee, orange juice

Brunch Part I

2011-11-12T20:50:00.001-05:00

I'm hosting brunch tomorrow.

There are recipes taped to my kitchen walls. There's a to do list written on the front of my fridge with a dry erase marker, organized by "day before" and "morning of." And, on the counters, there are glass containers stacked up, each with a label ("blueberry crumble topping, add butter," "brown sugar for muffins," "oatmeal, dried cranberries, almonds for granola").

What, you don't write on your fridge with a dry erase marker? Tell me I'm not the only one...

[Recap coming soon.]

Weekend

2011-11-06T22:22:00.000-05:00

Hustling home from work and then out the door for a run, running as far as I could in 15 minutes then turning around.... Baking oatmeal raisin cookies, dried cranberries added on request, with the apron strings wrapped tightly around my waist and tied in the front.... Rolling out pie dough and looking outside at the golden-red leaves... Walking down Newbury Street with a coffee in hand.... Making dinner for E and roasting sweet potatoes with plenty of olive oil and just enough salt and pepper... Putting on my absolute tallest high heels for salsa dancing... Working my way through sets of bicep curls and tricep dips then holding the plank position... Taking an old friend and a new friend around Boston, walking past Quincy Market towards the North End, and pushing my sunglasses up as dusk falls.... and, just because I can, baking chocolate chip cookie bars.

How was your weekend?

How I Wake Up

2011-11-02T18:17:00.000-04:00

The first blast of cold air sends me back to my apartment -- I exchange my fleece vest for a jacket and I start off again. As I run, I can't decide how warm I am. Gloves on. Gloves off. On. Off. I finally tuck them into my pockets. I slide the zipper of my jacket up and down. Up. Down. Hot. Cold. I give up.

I run towards Southie and I cross the Summer Street bridge -- The silhouettes of industrial rigs and beat up boats are dramatic against the last remnants of the night sky. I'm serious about this run. It's everything a run should be. I don't want to turn around, I want to keep running, and I would, except I do have to go to work. I barely feel the cold and, as I double back and weave towards Fan Pier, daylight suddenly arrives. The harbor is lit up.

Two hours later, I'm running for a bus, paper coffee cup in hand. My sore hip flexors are a reminder of how I started the day.

Sunday Afternoon Tea

2011-10-30T21:22:00.000-04:00

We've made a reservation for afternoon tea at the Four Seasons... we have a birthday to celebrate on this sunny, windy Sunday. We each order tea (sencha green for me) and we catch up... I'm impatient waiting for the scones. They're the best part of afternoon tea and I carefully smear proportionate amounts of lemon curd and Devonshire cream on each bite.

The tea sandwiches and petits fours win points for cuteness. We sit for several hours, refilling our tea cups, and we slip our winter coats back on when it's time to leave. The sun is just beginning to fade and Boylston Street is blustery.

The Rain Began

2011-10-28T07:19:00.000-04:00

Wednesday morning, I run laps around the Boston Common, pulling off my fleece jacket as I get warmer. A flock of birds take off, their black silhouettes a startling contrast against the pale October sky. I veer behind Park Plaza and, as I wait to cross the street, a light, chilly rain begins. I raise my face to the rain... and I slip my jacket back on.

Thursday, I'm walking home from the T. The spine of my umbrella is broken and, tossing it in a trashcan, I pull my raincoat around myself more tightly. I'm chilled and wet, but I have "Daylight" by Matt & Kim on repeat and I truly wish everyone around me could hear it as well. I want to take a running start and jump into a puddle. Or dance.

And then there's the remix.

Later that night, rain turns to snow.

Home

2011-10-20T23:02:00.000-04:00

The Red Line is pulling out of the Kendall/MIT stop and rolling over the Longfellow Bridge as I pull out my iPhone and open up Pandora -- because, when I'm underground, I'm just counting down the seconds until I have reception again. I'm facing the river, "Coming Home" comes up, and suddenly I'm treated to a view of downtown Boston at night.

It's one of those moments when there is synergy among every one of my senses. I'm blown away. And I exhale sharply because it's just so overwhelming... in the best possible way.

Sake To Me: Sake Bomb Night at Uni

2011-10-18T23:37:00.000-04:00

Who says Tuesdays can't be delicious?

Sake Bomb Night at Uni ($35 for four courses and a sake bomb) is an upscale take on sake bombing and, at a quiet table just off the elegant Clio dining room, L and I sipped our sake and enjoyed four small plates.

Kicking things off with tuna, seaweed, sesame, sweet onions, and bean sprouts

Scottish salmon with black bean tapenade and ginger

Rock shrimp tempura... a little spicy and totally addictive

Chocolate cremeux, cashew butter, and banana ice cream... sweet, salty, nutty, creamy

TGIF

2011-10-14T07:35:00.000-04:00

I walk out of my apartment and bump into a neighbor -- I ask how she is and she replies, "Life is good. It's a fantastic day."

At 6:30, it's a dark, misty, drizzly morning... puddles and patches of fog. I don't mind at all. It's actually perfect.

.... running into Cambridge, the bridges and sidewalks are empty and there's a moment or two when I feel like the only runner in the world

..... looking back to Boston, the fog is so thick that the Citgo sign is only the faintest glow

..... drops of sweat mixing with the mist, my forehead is damp

..... knowing that breakfast is waiting for me at home, that it's almost the weekend, that there will be celebrations and friends and maybe a little sunshine

.... running in a straight line, my watch hits 22:30 and I call that my destination, turning around

It's Friday. Life is good. It's a fantastic day.

Summer in October

2011-10-11T22:50:00.000-04:00

It was 86 degrees Sunday and 80 on Monday. I put aside my boots and sweaters. I pulled out my bikini, flip flops, my tennis racket, tank tops and shorts....

I hope you went out and played. Because I did.

Running Like I Mean It

2011-10-03T23:31:00.002-04:00

I'm running fast, maybe faster than I should, following streets to their end. I see one neighborhood fade into the next. Actually, I'm running so fast that that the neighborhoods glide together, like the pages of a flip book. There's just the faintest chill, so girls are in trenches and guys are wearing sweaters. And me? I'm warm, so just a tank top and shorts will do. I sprint through clusters of commuters, almost colliding, and I have no patience for stop lights, so I take unexpected turns if I don't have the light. Before I know it, I'm almost outside of Boston. I turn around, but I don't slow down.

What You Should Be Watching, Listening To, & Eating

2011-09-29T21:56:00.000-04:00

Watch

"Look yourself in the mirror and ask yourself, "What do I want to do everyday for the rest of my life?" Do that. I promise, you can monetize that shit. If you love Alf, do an Alf blog. You collect Smurfs, Smurf it up. Whatever you need to do, do it." - Gary Vaynerchuk

Gary Vaynerchuk: Do what you love (no excuses!) | Video on TED.com

Listen

Or maybe a little of this?

Eat

This granola has chewy, sweet dried apricot pieces, almonds, and a little autumn spice... just what you need to upgrade your breakfast (or morning snack... or afternoon snack...).

Apricot-Almond Granola

2 cups old-fashioned oats
3 tablespoons brown sugar
1 cup sliced, blanched almonds
1/2 cup chopped dried apricots
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
6 tablespoons canola oil

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

Combine all dry ingredients in a medium bowl and combine well. Pour the canola oil over the oats mixture and mix thoroughly.

Spread the mixture over a baking sheet evenly. Stirring every ten minutes, bake for thirty minutes, until the oats are fragrant and mostly dry. Let the granola cool on the sheet for ten minutes, then use a spatula to scoop up the granola.

Store in an airtight container. Makes about 3 1/2 cups of granola.

Takeout in East Boston: Rino's Place

2011-09-27T20:43:00.000-04:00

E's been talking up Rino's Place for months. We all have high expectations when we finally gather up a group and go for dinner.

The restaurant is small and intimate... wooden floors and chairs, white tablecloths, and painted murals across one wall. Short, curvy waitresses pick up plates of pasta at the pass and barrel up and down the middle of the room.

The wait for the four of us will be an hour, so we opt for takeout. I order one of the specials, the sauteed chicken with asparagus, wild mushrooms, sundried tomatoes, and Rino's homemade pasta.

Thirty minutes later, our takeout is ready. We have four massive tinfoil containers, and four salads (included with our dinners), and bread and butter... we are overwhelmed by the volume of food. My pasta could easily feed two... maybe three people.

What's impressive about the pasta is the unusual shape (long, twisty pieces), and the pieces of chicken are plump and juicy. But the whole thing is coated in a cream sauce... a sort of bland and very beige cream sauce. I guess I should have known. Or I should have asked. But I don't like being surprised by cream sauces. Giving the takeout menu a second look, I see that it's dominated by cream sauces.

I steal a bite of E's Melanzane Parmiggiano (eggplant parmesan). The marinara sauce is so savory and well seasoned... so I'm not giving up on Rino's yet. But next time, I'm ordering an appetizer.

Foodie

2011-09-26T21:46:00.001-04:00

I'm running through the South End, not really knowing where I am or where I'm going. South of Tremont, my mental map breaks down. I think about turning around, but then I weave together gourmet food shops and restaurants to take me home... South End Formaggio on Shawmut to The Butcher Shop at the corner of Waltham and Tremont to where Icarus used to be located on Appleton. I know where I am when I see food that I know.

I'm walking home and hauling heavy grocery bags, including a gallon of milk, pounds of butternut squash, and a whole chicken. I always underestimate how much my groceries will weigh. But I don't mind (too much). I have a plan for the chicken.

I'm going to East Boston, night after night, because E swears she's found the best Indian (she was right) and then she swears she's found the best Italian (she actually scrunches up her fingers and kisses them to express her total love of Rino's). So I keep on going.

Because, really, it's all about the food.

Verve

2011-09-26T13:45:00.001-04:00

"In all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential." -- Oscar Wilde

Life is best when there are candles on my window sill and champagne in my fridge. When there's a small glass of bright pink flowers perched on my bathroom sink. When there's a silk top on a hanger, waiting to be worn.

All I know is that life can sometimes be not so fun. Sometimes, papers pile up on my desk and I miss my train. There might be dust bunnies under my bed (what is it about old Boston apartment buildings and dust?), or sad news, or just one of those days.

But flowers and candles are the things I can insist on. So I do. Because it's about more than just getting through the day.

Flair is the wrong word. So are panache and style and all those other overused words.

Maybe it's verve.

Since Mad Men was released on instant play on Netflix, I've wanted to watch nothing else. I just finished Episode 1 of Season 4 and I'm still absolutely devastated by the ending. I mean, devastated in the best possible way. The normally reticent Donald Draper sits down with a Wall Street Journal reporter and, in a cloud of cigarette smoke and whiskey, tells the reporter exactly what he did and just how successful he was... and the opening chords of Tobacco Road by the Nashville Teens are playing and Don has that cocky smile and, yeah, he's still got it and he knows it.

We all need a little verve.

So I'll spend my time framing black-and-white photographs and piling fun pillows on my couch. I'll light all of the candles when there's company over... or when there's not. This new place of mine could use a little life.

I'll put Frank Sinatra and Foster the People in the same playlist and I'll quote Charles Eames. I'll make mulled apple cider and open up my new fondue set. I'll go for a walk just to look at architecture, to give some time to the city we live in and to this season. I'll take any excuse to wear high heels, to celebrate, to bake a pie, to wake up early for sunrise yoga....

Because, after all, what's the alternative?

Trying Out a Little Running

2011-09-25T23:51:00.000-04:00

There hasn't been too much running in the last few weeks.

But that's not how I had intended it to be. I had registered for a 5K race. I had my training plan. I was all ready for speedwork and -- with the cooler temperatures of September -- I was looking forward to it.

And then I woke up one morning and my right knee really hurt. Bending it was excruciating. I had no idea why. Just overuse, I guess. Too much running, dancing, and tennis and not enough attention paid to my joints.

I've run through plenty of pain. I've run when I shouldn't have. But knees are different. Thinking about the 5K race, I knew there was no way to care for my knee and to train sufficiently. I decided to run the race just for fun, to stretch, to foam roll, to ice.... The past two weeks have been full of time on the elliptical and yoga classes.

Today, in the middle of interval training, I wanted to try running. I added two five-minute treadmill runs in between sets of weights. It was a little choppy at first and my strides were uneven. But, in the second run, I found that easy, loping cadence, that rhythm that is so hard to find during a run and even harder to find on a treadmill. I lost it for a minute and then slowly fell back into the rhythmic motion of muscles gliding and feet striking the treadmill so lightly that it was more like stroking.

Next weekend, I'll be back out there running. I'll run a race. I'll pin my bib number to my shirt but I won't tie on the timing chip. I'll run because the race is for a worthwhile cause, because it will be a beautiful fall morning, because I'll have great company, because I can run and my knee won't bother me too much any more.

And maybe I'll look ahead to November and the race calendar. Maybe then I'll try again for time.

One Fine Day & An Apple Galette

2011-09-19T20:54:00.000-04:00

Step 1: Pick apples at Belkin Family Lookout Farm, South Natick

Step 2: A few hours later, in a Boston kitchen...

It's okay if it's messy. Apples you pick yourself always taste the best. And this pie crust is a winner.

Apple Galette
(Adapted from the Galette of Rhubarb recipe in The New Basics Cookbook)

1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold and cut into small pieces
1/2 + 1/8 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons cold water
6 tablespoons brown sugar
2 + 1/4 cups apples, peeled, cored, cut into chunks, and tossed with lemon juice (to taste)

Combine the flour, sugar, salt, and 1/2 teaspoon of the cinnamon in a medium bowl and stir well with a fork. Add the butter pieces and cut the butter into the flour mixture, pressing well with your fingers and tossing until the mixture resembles large crumbs.

Sprinkle the water, 1 tablespoon at a time, over the flour mixture and mix it with a fork until it's incorporated and you can easily gather the flour into a ball. Knead briefly, then wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate it for 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Lightly flour a baking sheet and roll out the dough with a lightly floured rolling pin to form an 11 inch circle. Mark off a 9 inch circle in the middle. Sprinkle 3 tablespoons of the brown sugar evenly over the 9 inch circle and add the apple chunks. Sprinkle the remaining 3 tablespoons of brown sugar and 1/8 teaspoon of cinnamon on top of the apples. Fold over the edge of the dough to form a crust.

Bake for 40 minutes. The crust should be a very light golden brown and the apple chunks should be soft. Cool slightly and serve. Serves four people.

The Kind of Morning I Like Best: Oatmeal Raisin Muffins

2011-09-15T11:14:00.000-04:00

Are you a morning person?

I'm not so sure if I am. I do not like waking up. No, I do not.

But I'm a type A first-born. Being in pajamas at 11am -- even on a weekend morning -- makes me panic a little.... Oh no! The day is practically over! Oh no! I should get up at 5am tomorrow! Yes, I'll totally do that!

I'll never actually get up at 5am. Not a chance.

But I do really like good breakfasts. So, in the name of breakfast, I might get up just a little earlier than usual.

I woke up today, knowing it was a muffin kind of morning. There are only a few things that make me jump out of bed. Strong, hot coffee. Christmas. A new running route on a sunny morning... followed by coffee. And excuses to bake breakfast. Cinnamon rolls, challah, or baked eggs... it doesn't really matter.

Five minutes later, I was out the door and stumbling down the street, for coffee and a box of brown sugar.

Was waking up early worth it?

Absolutely.

So when you're lying in bed doing a cost-benefit analysis of hitting the snooze button one more time, these muffins might just give you the motivation to get up. The muffins are fluffy, moist, and packed with oatmeal and raisins... and just a little brown sugar.

After all, Mary Poppins always said a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.... and sometimes we need a little something special to make mornings better.

Oatmeal Raisin Muffins

1 1/3 cup old fashioned oatmeal
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
2/3 cup raisins
1/2 cup plain yogurt (I use nonfat)
1/2 + 1/3 cup milk (I use 2%)
1/3 cup tightly packed brown sugar
1 large egg
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
Butter (to grease the pan)

The night before:

Stir the oatmeal, cinnamon, nutmeg, and raisins together with a fork in a large mixing bowl. Add the yogurt and 1/2 cup of the milk and stir well. Cover and place the bowl in the refrigerator overnight (at least 12 hours).

The day of:

Position an oven rack in the top third of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a muffin pan with liners or grease the pan with butter.

Add the remaining 1/3 cup of the milk to the oatmeal and stir well. Stir in the brown sugar and then the egg, mixing well after each addition.

In a separate bowl, combine the flour and the baking soda and stir together with a fork. Add the flour to the oatmeal all at once and mix well.

Fill the muffin cups about 3/4 full and bake for twenty minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the middle of a muffin comes out clean. Let the muffins cool for ten minutes on a wire rack, then serve. Makes twelve medium muffins.

September Days

2011-09-14T11:24:00.000-04:00

Sunday:

Hanover Street, North End

Monday:

Boston Public Library, Copley Square

Tuesday:

Whole Foods, Central Square, Cambridge

All the Roads are Winding

2011-09-10T18:13:00.001-04:00

The day is clear, the sky is the palest blue in patches and vivid in others, and there's just enough cool in the air to let us know that autumn might be coming soon. The streets are full, with runners, dogs, tourists, baby strollers, shoppers... I'm running along the side of the Common, heading towards the North End, but I know that its tiny streets will be too busy. I take the next right onto School Street. I randomly pick streets and head deeper into the Financial District, for a little space to run.

I run in a trance. I'm barely aware of the mechanics of running, though a little twinge from my left hamstring is a reminder. I ignore the cones blocking off what looks to be a construction site. But, just outside Winthrop Square, I'm stopped. It's a movie set. I'm told that it's the new Jeff Bridges and Ryan Reynolds movie. I jog in place and, eventually, filming stops and I'm let through. The square is quiet, with traffic diverted elsewhere, but, a few blocks away, business proceeds as usual.

When I was last in New York, I found a movie set near Grand Central. Vanderbilt Avenue was blocked off and transformed into New York of long ago.

Extras waiting in line for the craft service table

But back to Boston. I arbitrarily decide that I want to run to the South End. No good reason. I just do. I pass New England Medical Center and I cross the Pike. I have no destination and I unintentionally run in a circle, crossing the Pike again on Arlington Street. The view of Bay Village is not unfamiliar to me but it's still extraordinary -- red brick rowhouses with slate grey mansard roofs against the blue glass of the John Hancock skyscraper. It's as if someone Photoshopped Boston and saturated the color.

I spend a little time in Bay Village, finding my way to Park Plaza. I have no idea how far I've run. I'm not paying much attention to my watch or to stoplights... I run when there's no walk sign and I find myself running in place at a street corner, my mind wandering, when I do have the walk sign.

I run these streets to know them. In a few weeks, when someone mentions Herald Street or Winthrop Lane, I will know it. I run to see one neighborhood fade into the next and to find the connections between them. And I run because Boston is at its best today. There is so much happening, so much being played out on our streets and sidewalks. Outside Cheers, there was a bride in a huge, poufy dress, with white plastic sunglasses. Her bridesmaids, dressed in primary colors, carried sunflowers. In Bay Village, a shopper returned home by bike, with a Brooks Brothers shopping bag stashed in his basket.

I intend to trace Arlington Street to the river. But, looking down St. James, I see the corner of the Boston Public Library peeking out and I want to get closer.

And I'm off again.

A Little More Summer: Sauteed Shrimp with Late Summer Tomatoes, Spinach, & Peas

2011-09-08T23:54:00.000-04:00

It rained again today. To see the rain falling is to know that the seasons have, for the moment, gotten themselves confused... and to hope that they will get themselves unconfused soon.

I made something summery for lunch: sauteed shrimp with late summer tomatoes, spinach, and peas, with a little chopped parsley as a final touch. The shrimp and spinach, sauteed in olive oil, are almost buttery, the peas are sweet, and the tomatoes add color and acidity. It's a simple dish, with about twenty minutes of cooking time.

The rain stopped tonight. There's sun in the five day forecast. So maybe we have a little time before autumn comes. A little more time to eat late summer tomatoes.

Sauteed Shrimp with Late Summer Tomatoes, Spinach, and Peas

1/4 lb shrimp, cleaned, deveined, and tails removed (approx. 9 small shrimp)
1/2 teaspoon minced garlic
2 1/2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil
3/4 cup ripe tomatoes, chopped
2 cups spinach leaves, washed well, dried, stems removed, and torn into smaller pieces
1/2 cup shelled peas
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon chopped Italian parsley
Black pepper to taste

Heat one and a half teaspoons of the oil in a large saute pan over medium low heat. Add the shrimp and the garlic; saute until the shrimp are pink, opaque, and cooked through (3-5 minutes, depending on the size of the shrimp). Turn the heat up to medium and add the tomatoes. Saute until the tomatoes release their liquid and the tomatoes reduce in size by about half (about 3-4 minutes). Set aside the shrimp and tomatoes.

If using fresh peas, bring a saucepan of water to a boil. Add the peas and boil them until bright green and tender (about 1-2 minutes); then scoop them out, run them under cold water, and drain well. If you choose to use frozen peas, follow the instructions on the package to fully thaw them.

Placing the original saute pan over medium heat, add the remaining teaspoon of oil and heat. Add the spinach and saute until the spinach is wilted and dark green (about 2 minutes). Stir in the peas and cook until they are heated through (less than a 1 minute).

Add the shrimp and tomatoes back to the saute pan and combine. Stir in the parsley, salt, and pepper. Serve immediately. Serves one.

Not Quite Autumn

2011-09-07T19:14:00.000-04:00

I slipped away from Boston for a few days, to a place where summer is still in full swing, to a place where September 1st holds absolutely no connotation. And I didn't mind missing that day at all. Even before I left, there were moving boxes piled on sidewalks and U-Hauls getting stuck in narrow Boston streets (Yes, stuck. Yes, I watched. No, I don't know how it happened).

When I got back, suddenly autumn was in full swing. The change that Boston undergoes when we flip our calendars to September is incredible. The college students are back and their classes have started. And we're making plans for apple-picking. I've never been apple-picking; I've never made apple pie or apple butter. I can't wait.

But, really, we're not seeing autumn yet. We've had a few wet, chilly days that remind me more of early April than September. Last night, I walked along Arlington Street, along the side of the Public Garden, and I looked out across the wet pavements and empty benches of the park, shrouded in a smoky, violet dusk, to the twinkly lights of the Financial District.

Did I get a little kick out of wearing my Hunter boots?

Absolutely. I truly love rainboots and walking through puddles as the water splashes up around my legs. But I'm not ready to let go of summer yet.

Soon enough, peaches will be out of season. And we'll be looking out of our windows at falling leaves and, a little later, snow.

Maybe September could slow down a little bit. Because there's a lavender-colored ruffly sundress that I haven't worn yet. Because I didn't have a chance to make white wine sangria. Because I really love late summer tomatoes and those warm days and cooler nights of September in Boston.

Maybe we could have a little more summer. Because the seasons will change soon enough.

Beacon Hill: It's a Sign

2011-08-31T11:12:00.000-04:00

The Hurricane that Wasn't & Cashew-Toffee Clusters

2011-08-30T21:26:00.001-04:00

Sunday was going to be a stormy day, an epic day, the first time any of us had experienced a hurricane in Boston.

It wasn't.

But I stuck to the plan. I woke up, pulled on my Hunter boots, and ran to get coffee down the street. And then I started to bake.

My freezer is where the good stuff always is. Grey Goose vodka, Haagen-Dazs ice cream, and butter. On Sunday, I made sugar cookie dough, wrapped it up well, and tucked it into the freezer, to be baked another day.

But, I'm not really into delayed gratification. So then I made these:

Cashew-Toffee Clusters. They're nutty, sweet, and chewy, with little pieces of crunchy toffee. They're good with a glass of milk, when you want something small and sweet, when it's rainy outside... or when there's a perfectly clear sky. So, basically anytime.

Cashew-Toffee Clusters

1/2 stick unsalted butter
1/4 cup canola oil
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup cashew butter (any nut butter would work)
2 cups old-fashioned oatmeal
Approx. 1/3 pound coarsely chopped toffee (you can use 4 1.4 ounce Heath bars instead)

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a saucepan over moderate heat, combine the butter, oil, and sugar and bring to a boil. Take the saucepan off the heat and stir in 1/2 cup of the cashew butter.

Pour the mixture over the oatmeal and stir well. Add the remaining 1/4 cup of the cashew butter. Stir in the chopped toffee pieces.

Use a tablespoon to scoop out balls of oatmeal and place the clusters on the baking sheet. It is easiest if you firmly pack the oatmeal into the tablespoon and then tap the tablespoon against the sheet to release the oatmeal. Refrigerate for at least one hour. The clusters will last several days if kept refrigerated. Makes approximately 30 clusters.

Let's Get Happy: Double Chocolate Chip Cookies

2011-08-26T10:42:00.000-04:00

I'm meeting friends for lunch in Back Bay. I'm bringing cookies. They just don't know it yet.

And I have dinner plans as well. They're getting cookies too.

Baking makes me happy. Sharing what I make with others makes me happy.

Cookies are happy. And double chocolate chip cookies are irrefutably happy. These are buttery, crumbly, and studded with chocolate chips. There's almost an equal ratio of cocoa powder and flour.

They're for when you're really serious about chocolate and having a good time.

Double Chocolate Chip Cookies

2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
2/3 cup sugar
2 eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
Canola oil (to grease baking sheet)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly grease baking sheet with canola oil and set aside.

Cream together the butter and sugar with a fork until fluffy. Add the eggs one by one and the vanilla extract, mixing well after each addition.

Sift together the cocoa powder, flour, and baking soda in a separate bowl. Add the flour mixture to the butter and egg mixture all at once and mix well. Add the chocolate chips and stir to combine.

Scoop out two tablespoonfuls of batter at a time and form into a cookie shape. Place each on the baking sheet. Bake the cookies for 10 minutes. Let the cookies cool on the sheet for 3 - 4 minutes then use a spatula to lift them off the sheet. Makes approximately 20 cookies.... just enough to share.

Downtown Crossing: The Mingling of Past & Present

2011-08-24T22:02:00.000-04:00

"Nature and man have combined to divide Boston into eight distinct and sharply defined districts, each with its own personality, its own flavor, and its own romantic history. Each district has its colorful past, its vivid present, and its promising future." -- George V. Weston, Jr. in Boston Ways (Beacon Press, 1957)

Downtown Crossing is a funny place. It is betwixt and between -- it is neither the Financial District nor Chinatown nor the Common. The jewelry stores and the fine Italianate details of the Filene's building remind us of Downtown Crossing's glory days -- when it was the place to shop and be seen -- but the massive hole in the ground nearby reminds us of its economically depressed reality.

I move down Washington Street and across the invisible boundary between Downtown Crossing and the Financial District. Right in front of the soon-to-close Borders, a dance crew has set up. They energize the crowd ("Showtime! Showtime!") with flips and turns. And they're clever too: "Obama wants change... we want dollars!"

I retrace my steps and I cut over to Tremont Street. At Thinking Cup, I don't hesitate. I haven't had coffee yet today and I need an iced latte. I'm thrilled to see that Thinking Cup brews Stumptown -- it is the first cafe in downtown Boston to carry Stumptown. I know where I'll be buying my beans from now on. The barista looks up, calls out my name, and knocks two shots of espresso into the waiting cup of milk, ice, and foam. It's a strong latte. Oh yes.

The cafe -- glass topped tables, brown leather banquettes, and black chalkboards -- is a welcome addition to the area, where there are few independent coffee options. It's a mix of college students -- with Converse sneakers and spiral notebooks -- and businessmen. There's a hum of chatter with an overlay of jazz and the music moves effortlessly from Thievery Corporation to Ella Fitzgerald. I'm sold on the cafe and I can't wait to come back to have the French Hot Chocolate.

I come back the way I came. And, surprisingly, there's lots to stop and look at.

At Sabella Couture

On West Street, I stop short when I see the carts and bookshelves of books that have taken over a small parking lot. Totally retro psychology and sociology textbooks, political texts, classics and books of poetry in metal carts, against brick walls and a true blue sky.

I find a 1957 book entitled Boston Ways, a history of this city with black and white photographs.

The book has that old, musty smell and, when I go into Brattle Book Shop to pay the $5 price, the air is thick with the same smell. And, a few pages into the book, there's a photo of Brattle Book Shop in the 50's. I compare: Downtown Crossing then, Downtown Crossing now.

What is its future?

Running the Waterfront

2011-08-23T15:31:00.001-04:00

I jog from South Station to meet E and fifty others for a 5K fun run in the Seaport. It's a spectacular Boston evening, one of those evenings that makes me fall more in love with this city. The perfect golden afternoon meets the blue dusk, lighting up the waterfront.

E is fast. She sets the pace and I stay with her, as we cross the metal Northern Avenue bridge and move down Atlantic Avenue. This is my second workout of the day -- I spent sixty minutes with a barbell this morning and muscle fatigue is already setting in. But the speed feels good. It hurts so good.

We pass the Aquarium and whip around the end of Long Wharf. The waterfront is busy and fifty runners attract attention as we blast down the sidewalks. There's some clapping and cheering and I just barely hear a woman cry out, "Keep running!" I plan on it. I always will.

The halfway point comes at 11 minutes and some odd seconds. We go back the way we came and E's pace never falters. When we pass the Chart House and look up at the Custom House, I say, "Pretty!" and E agrees. Our feet pounding the concrete, we talk a little and breathe hard.

We reach Strega Waterfront at 22:28. Frank Sinatra pours out of Strega and it's lovely. I've never ended a run with jazz.

Baked Love: Walnut-Honey Granola Cookies

2011-08-21T22:27:00.000-04:00

The last few days have been hazy. The air is hot and thick outside and the sky is threatening.

And I'm hazy too. The rush-rush-rush of moving is over and life is a little slower now.

So I'm getting back to what I love.

I'm reading a book so good that I'm doing what I did when I was ten years old: I'm walking down the street and reading. This is dangerous. Especially in Boston, where so many sidewalks are made up of uneven bricks. But, even when I stub my toe, I keep on reading.

I'm dancing. Yesterday, in a dance studio high above street level, with air so heavy that the fans didn't make a difference, I counted out eight counts and moved across the wooden floor. Chainé and soutenu turns are so amazing paired with hip hop music.

I'm baking. I made walnut granola with a little cinnamon and honey and, when I didn't really feel like a bowl of cereal, I turned the granola into cookies. Buttery, nutty cookies.

And then I did the clichéd thing you can do when you live alone. Between bites of cookies, I grabbed the milk out of the fridge and drank right from the pint.

Walnut-Honey Granola Cookies

For the granola:
2 cups old-fashioned oats
2 tablespoons honey
4 tablespoons canola oil
1 1/2 cup walnut pieces
1/8 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees.

Combine the oats, walnuts, and cinnamon. Add the honey and canola oil and mix well.

Spread the oats evenly on a baking sheet and bake for 30 minutes, stirring frequently (at a minimum, every 10 minutes). Use a spatula to scrape the granola off the sheet and let cool for 10 minutes.

For the cookie dough:
2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs
2 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 2/3 cup all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
Canola oil (to grease baking sheet)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Mix the butter and sugar well. Add the eggs one by one, beating well with a fork after each addition. Add the vanilla extract and honey and stir well after each addition.

Sift the flour, baking soda, and cinnamon together. Add to the butter mixture and stir well. Add all of the cooled granola and stir well.

Drop 2 - 3 rounded tablespoons of dough onto a baking sheet lightly greased with canola oil. Bake for 10 minutes. Makes approximately 20 cookies.

Casualties

2011-08-19T00:01:00.000-04:00

My hands. They are raw from ripping open boxes and using a screwdriver.

A bottle of Grey Goose. It's tragic, really. The cork popped out en route to my new apartment and the entire bottle leaked. But L brought over a new bottle as a gift. Sometimes, L is psychic.

My coffee press. It was sitting on the edge of the sink. And then it leapt to its death. And broke in a million pieces. This was not okay, because being highly caffeinated is not a choice but a necessity when you're staying up until 2am assembling furniture. Three nights in a row. Ow.

But the casualties are worth it. I look up from my coffee table -- champagne flutes and cupcakes split four ways -- and at the three people sitting around the table. And I wonder how I got here and why I'm so lucky. And I realize this is how it was always meant to be. I just didn't know it for a really long time.

My Cross-Town Move

2011-08-17T23:15:00.000-04:00

1 -- Dunkin Donuts iced coffee
104 -- minutes spent moving
50 -- feet I drove the U-Haul
9 -- feet of clearance needed for the U-Haul
10 -- feet of clearance on Storrow Drive
2 -- Starbucks iced lattes
9 -- boxes unpacked
3 -- times I listened to "Boogie Shoes" by KC and the Sunshine Band
16 -- episodes of Melrose Place watched during the unpacking
4 -- champagne flutes found that I didn't remember I owned
48 -- hours and counting of decorating
3 -- bags of groceries
1 -- piece of furniture left to be assembled

Gratitude

2011-08-13T14:30:00.000-04:00

I'm walking across the Beacon Street overpass near Fenway. There's absolutely nothing attractive about this overpass. The barrier walls are cement topped with wire; the Mass Pike is below.

I ran across this overpass during the Boston Marathon a few years ago. I remember looking up at the Citgo sign and feeling --- not knowing, but feeling --- that the finish line was near. I had never seen the Citgo sign before that day. There were strong winds and few crowds on the overpass. I ran through the tunnel of wind and then descended into a tunnel of noise as the crowds got bigger and bigger close to Copley Square. I picked up a little speed, as much as I possibly could.

I ran that day with a pinched nerve and I finished. I've liked the overpass ever since. And I've crossed it many times in late night runs.

Today, I'm walking quickly. And I stop. I stop and I stand there. Because I'm grateful. I'm grateful for finishing that Marathon. I'm grateful for all my body does and for all that I put it through. On Monday, I'll start training again for a 10K. And I've never had to give it a second thought. I know I can run.

I'm grateful to this piece of concrete that always reminds me of the power of my body and the sheer force of my will.

And I'm grateful to Boston for giving me this moment.

Champagne on the Common

2011-08-11T23:19:00.001-04:00

At 6:20, I walk into Mitchell Gold + Bob Williams.

At 6:45, I walk out, having custom-ordered a new sofa. That's what I call getting things done.

I chose a slate grey abstract print. It's going to look phenomenal. I can't wait.

And by 8, L, E, and I are sprawled out on Boston Common. We have three blankets and burritos. E brought a bottle of champagne and the rest of her frozen fudge birthday cake. We're here to see All's Well That Ends Well at Shakespeare on the Common.

But Shakespeare doesn't have a chance. Because we eat the cake and E opens up the champagne (as discreetly as possible of course, because we don't really want to get arrested). And we lie on our stomachs in a circle and catch up. It's like a slumber party. With champagne. Under the stars. We plan out the rest of our summer -- tennis games and rooftop cocktail parties -- and Shakespeare provides a little ambiance.

100 Minutes in Ikea and a Visit to City Hall

2011-08-09T21:39:00.000-04:00

I'm moving to a new apartment soon. I'm not very good at moving. But I couldn't be more excited. When I go to bed every night, I think about color swatches and framed prints. And then I can't go to sleep, so I find myself playing Solitaire on my iPhone at 1am.

I went to the IKEA store in Stoughton yesterday. I was prepared. I brought a list -- with item names, serial numbers, and prices. I brought snacks -- an apple, a bottle of water, a Larabar, and an iced coffee. And I had a time limit. I power-walked the whole time. I power-walked through the showroom, head whipping side to side. When the arrows led me through the children's section, I walked even faster.

I took measurements in my new apartment. I took photos (they're labeled "future site of my bed" and "future site of sofa"). And then I realized I need a moving permit from the City of Boston.

So I went to City Hall. I paid my $8 for the signs and $55 for the permit. It was my first time in City Hall. Hard to believe, right? I thought I'd be focused on the heavy brutalist architecture. But I was distracted. Someone at City Hall likes to decorate.

L and I have been texting about sofas. Actually, we've been texting about several different topics. Our conversations overlap. We text back and forth fast like gunfire. Sofas. Blue or grey. Blue. Sofa or loveseat. Loveseat. And we cope with the iPhone auto-correction. Because sometimes "Pilates" becomes "oilseed" and "work-a-holic" becomes "work-a-holocaust."

I swear I'll get back to cooking and running and writing soon. I swear. But my mixing bowls and my tennis racket are already packed. And right now I need to go find a new sofa.

Breakfast, Brunch or Lunch?: Saturday Morning at South Street Diner

2011-08-06T20:38:00.000-04:00

At South Street Diner, A and I can't decide what to order. I came with the intention of ordering blueberry pancakes and coffee. A is thinking about eggs.

But there are sweet potato fries. And there's a grilled cheese sandwich. We go back and forth and our waitress, who has fantastic dyed red hair, gives us all the time we need ("I'm here until 6!"). I like the place already. I can see why it has loyal fans and why it'll be the subject of an upcoming documentary.

A asks if I want to split a frappe. I do. Absolutely. Then A looks straight at me: "Wait, what flavor?" The choices are vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate. I vote for chocolate and A is relieved. We start dead-panning. This is what A and I do. A says any other choice would have called our friendship into question and I agree ("We would have had to call off brunch.").

We place our order: a grilled cheese sandwich with onion rings for A, a grilled chicken salad with balsamic vinaigrette plus a side of sweet potato fries for me. And the frappe obviously. We don't bother ordering it extra thick, because our waitress promises that her regular frappes are plenty thick. And she's right. It's a great frappe and it's hard to find good frappes in Boston. And I'm really into frappes (even though, where I'm from, they're called milkshakes).

My half of the frappe

My salad is huge and much better than I expected. I tear off pieces of pita bread and roll up the mixed greens and chicken. We pile all of our fries onto one plate and graze. A isn't wild about the onion rings, but I like my sweet potato fries (though I don't know why they're listed under "Healthy Choices" on the menu).

The diner is a little retro and a lot of fun. I beg A to get in the photo booth with me. We try to plan out our three shots, but we're not so good at synchronization. The photos turn out cute though. And when we're leaving, we see the mechanical horse out on the patio, mixed in among lounge chairs. I make a beeline for it. Obviously.

My Week, in Desserts

2011-08-05T22:01:00.000-04:00

Tuesday: I had a few hours before yoga class. So I made apple-raisin-oatmeal bars.

Wednesday: L and I made a two-layer yellow cake, with milk chocolate icing. I hope the birthday boy liked it.

Thursday: I got home from work and made something up. Sugar cookie batter balls, dipped in chocolate. You should make them. Soon.

Friday: S came home with a strawberry shortcake cupcake from Sweet for me. S is the best.

Chocolate-Dipped Sugar Cookie Batter Balls

1 stick butter, softened
1 cup and 2 tablespoons flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 tablespoons plain yogurt (I use non-fat)
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup chocolate chips

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

Sift together the flour and the baking soda Add it all at once to the butter and sugar mixture and beat until incorporated.

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 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 batter balls will last for several days if you refrigerate them.

Plates to Share: 303 Cafe & The Gallows

2011-07-31T16:34:00.001-04:00

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

2011-07-30T17:34:00.001-04:00

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 updated each other when we were on hold... and then 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?

2011-07-30T15:07:00.000-04:00

"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

2011-07-26T21:55:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-25T21:47:00.001-04:00

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

2011-07-24T17:44:00.000-04:00

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

2011-07-23T21:31:00.000-04:00

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

2011-07-22T19:54:00.000-04:00

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 warm. 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, something I learned a long time ago. Most parents teach their children how to throw a football or to use an iron. Mine taught me how to order well. So I ordered appetizers for dinner. With the air hot and heavy outside, the smaller dishes held the only appeal for me: 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

2011-07-19T23:23:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-18T22:12:00.000-04:00

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

2011-07-18T14:21:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-17T14:15:00.001-04:00

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

2011-07-16T20:47:00.001-04:00

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

2011-07-13T21:46:00.000-04:00

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

2011-07-11T16:08:00.001-04:00

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

2011-07-10T22:19:00.000-04:00

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 Kristin, 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 Kristin 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 Kristin 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 Kristin’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 Kristin 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 Kristin be the cow, drawing a line down Kristin'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 streudel-topped muffins (“For tomorrow!” the hostess told me). I ate my muffin the next morning in bed (my sheets were totally covered in streudel, but that’s okay).

Elle and Kristin 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!

2011-07-09T23:46:00.000-04:00

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

"Walking on, Walking on Broken Glass"

2011-07-06T22:15:00.001-04:00

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

2011-07-05T22:01:00.003-04:00

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.

Lunch in Rockport

2011-07-04T18:09:00.000-04:00

In the Grocery Store

2011-07-04T10:41:00.000-04:00

Last night, I'm in my tiny neighborhood grocery store and I'm working my way through my list (apricots, apples, eggs, butter....). I go up and down every aisle (multiple times) and I can't find the spices. I really can't.

I'm really good at missing things that are right in front of me, so I go up one aisle, wheel my cart around, and down the next. Over and over. I pay special attention to the baking aisle and the ethnic foods aisle and I even check out the gluten-free section. Nope. All I find is salt. And meat tenderizer.

I give up and go to the cash register. I've unloaded maybe half of my groceries when I think to ask the cashier. He says, oh sure, the spices are in Aisle 1. Another cashier is nice enough to go get me a bottle of cumin.

He brings me -- I swear to God -- a bottle about the size of a quart of milk. He's found the cheapest cumin, which is considerate, but I am not bulk buying cumin. That is not an option. I will never, ever use the whole thing.

We powerwalk to Aisle 1 and he shows me the full display of spices, stacked above the frozen chicken (I maintain that this is a strange place to store spices). I pick out a small bottle and then I realize, oh, I never found the baking yeast either. We go to the baking aisle and we're both pacing up and down and going in circles. And we can't find the baking yeast.

So we head back to the cash register, where my ever-patient cashier is still waiting, and he swears the yeast is in the baking aisle. It's not. It's really, really not.

Five minutes later, after management is consulted, the baking yeast is located. In the dairy aisle.

Cupcake-Palooza

2011-07-03T09:13:00.000-04:00

I woke up excited (again) to make cupcakes (again), this time for E’s birthday.

I found the recipe for Joy the Baker’s Chocolate - Peanut Butter Cookie Dough – Toasted Marshmallow Cupcakes a month or two ago and I’ve had it bookmarked since then for E.

The chocolate cupcakes are easy, by far the quickest part of the recipe. Really, they’re practically an afterthought: The important part is the topping.

I hollow out the tops of the baked cupcakes and fit each one with a small cookie dough ball (eggless, of course, so as not to incur salmonella poisoning). After a lunch break, it was time to cook the meringue.

I didn't expect the meringue to be so sticky and hard to work with. I should have. But I didn't. I try to pipe the meringue out of the corner of a Ziploc bag (my pastry tips are MIA), but I can’t form the swirls I want and I give up. I cover each meringue with a thick coating of meringue and push them in the oven under the broiler.

The meringue toasts quickly and the kitchen smells like fire-roasted marshmallows. I tackle a cupcake with a spoon and scoop out just the top – toasted, crisp, sweet meringue and chocolate chip cookie dough, warm and almost melting.

But I’m worried: the meringue is still slightly sticky in places. The recipe calls for only a minute under the broiler. I gave it two and a half and it's not enough.

Who am I going to call? M. Definitely M.

I think part of being a successful human being is knowing who to call. Evaluate the situation and use a lifeline. Last night, with a painful ankle and heel, I called K. K is an athlete and, in a year, will be a practicing physical therapist… a very good friend to have. Over the phone, K put me through a series of diagnostic stretches (flexing, pointing, extending…) and, half an hour later, decided that it’s an old injury flaring up from overuse and overtraining (Last weekend’s 10K definitely didn’t help).

K is good at all things athletic. K has also advised the swimming portion of my sprint triathlons and has actually jumped in the pool with me to tweak my stroke.

M is good at all things food. She promises to leaf through a few cookbooks and to call me right back.

With M on speakerphone, I put the cupcakes back in the oven at 350 degrees and set the stopwatch on my iPhone. Two minutes makes all the difference… the cupcakes are saved!

I'm relieved. I realize, though, that I’ve been in the kitchen for over five hours and that I had promised S I would buy beer for the Fourth. I emerge into the afternoon and it seems really bright and warm outside.

I don’t blame the liquor store for carding me. Right now, I look about twelve years old. I’m covered in meringue and chocolate cupcake batter.

I call M back. We talk cupcakes. I think this batch of cupcakes will be a crowd-pleaser. But, next time, I want to make a really dark chocolate cupcake, with bittersweet chocolate. And I’m committed. I’m going to make cupcakes until I have the perfect cupcake.

Expect to see a lot more cupcakes around here.

Muesli Makes Mornings Better

2011-07-01T11:35:00.000-04:00

I've been playing around with oatmeal. Late Tuesday night, I stood at the stove, yawned, and stirred for twenty minutes as a huge batch of oatmeal slowly cooked. And, when it was done, it went straight into the fridge.

The next morning, I tucked blueberries in the oatmeal and added cinnamon and milk. 2:30 in the microwave later, and breakfast was ready.

I didn't grow up with a microwave. Microwaves are a mystery to me (kind of like cake mix -- I literally don't know what to do with it).

You know that scene in Zoolander where Zoolander and Hansel go all ape?

Yea. I'm pretty much like that. I punch the buttons randomly until the microwave starts. I don't know how long to microwave food. I burn popcorn and I can't defrost chicken. I was amazed when my blueberry oatmeal turned out so well -- a bowl of creamy oatmeal with blueberries so warm and sweet that they were almost syrupy. I had a "Look what I made!" moment.

But breakfast -- especially when you're making a sandwich for lunch and blow-drying your hair (and re-setting the circuit breaker when you blow a fuse) -- should be a no brainer.

Muesli is so good. It's simple. And the refrigerator does all of the work.

Muesli

1 1/4 cup old fashioned oats
1 cup milk (I use 2%)
2/3 cup yogurt (I use non-fat plain)
1/2 cup raisins
1 cup walnuts

Combine all ingredients in a large bowl and stir well. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator for a minimum of 12 hours.

The muesli, if refrigerated, will keep for several days. Serves two to three people.

There are so many possible variations on this basic recipe. You can substitute 1/2 cup of sliced almonds for 1/2 cup of the walnuts. You can use flavored yogurt or a different kind of dried fruit.

Or get a little indulgent. You know that pint of heavy cream in your refrigerator? The one leftover from making cupcake frosting? Yeah. That one. Go for it. Add a splash.

A Boston Classic: Making Boston Cream Pie at Flour Bakery

2011-06-27T21:40:00.001-04:00

Fact: The official Massachusetts State dessert is the Boston Cream Pie.

That can’t be a surprise, really. I mean, look at the name of the pie.

Boston can’t make too many claims to original desserts. New York Style Cheesecake is out. So is Mississippi Mud Pie.

But the Boston Cream Pie, invented at the Parker House Hotel (now the Omni Parker House Hotel) in the 19th century, is all ours.

Another fun fact: You can learn to make Boston Cream Pie at Flour Bakery.

After the B.A.A 10K and blueberry pancakes yesterday, I showered, chugged a liter of water, and made the walk from South Station to Fort Point. This is completely normal, right? To set a personal best in a 10K and then take a baking class?

I don’t do anything half-hearted when it comes to running or food. Or note-taking. Because, as Executive Pastry Chef Nicole Rhode and Pastry Chef Sarah Powers walk us through the steps in a demo-only class, I’m taking notes like there’s going to be a quiz.

In my 6th grade European history class, we had our first test about two weeks into the school year. I panicked and asked my teacher if we were really going to be tested on all the material. I showed him my twenty (double-sided) pages of notes. Here’s another fun fact: most 6th graders don’t take forty pages of notes. At the end of the school year, my teacher asked if he could keep my notebook.

Yesterday was no different. My copy of the recipes is covered with exclamation marks, notes, underlining, and arrows. I was highly motivated. I really love Boston Cream Pie: I bake it, I eat it, and I want to master it. And Flour set out some of its excellent coffee for the class and I plowed through two cups scary-fast. So I was excited and buzzing and all ready to tackle some pie.

There are four components to Flour’s Boston Cream Pie – sponge cake, cream filling, coffee syrup, and chocolate ganache, all made with simple, high quality ingredients. I’m delighted to see no cornstarch and Sarah actually makes a point of saying that Flour uses cornstarch very infrequently.

Sarah and Nicole are pastry professionals, so, of course, the recipe looks easy. But I really think that it is straightforward. The pastry cream (milk, egg yolks, sugar, salt, cake flour, and vanilla extract) takes less than fifteen minutes to make. I’m used to Maida Heatter’s recipe, which calls for lots of stirring and watchful waiting, and Flour’s version seems much faster, but, hey, that’s never a bad thing.

Our instructors mention that the pastry cream is the same one used in Flour’s tiramisu and they brainstorm – maybe we’d want to stuff brioche or doughnuts with the leftover cream? And, as it happens, Sarah actually offers us doughnuts between recipe steps. Mine is gorgeous, dipped in granulated sugar, and bursting with raspberry jelly. I’m totally distracted.

They pull out a golden brown sponge cake baked earlier in the day and show us how to assemble the three layer cake: brushing coffee syrup and pastry cream over each layer of cake, and then finally pouring dark, shiny chocolate ganache over the whole thing.

It’s so good. Really. It’s really, really good. But I’m conflicted. So conflicted. Why?

Because it most reminds me of tiramisu. Between the multiple layers, the coffee syrup, and a filling that tastes more like whipped cream than a standard pastry cream, we’re definitely headed into tiramisu territory. (This is not to detract from the fact that it’s sweet and creamy and I would happily take another piece.)

So what’s the line between a Boston Cream Pie and tiramisu? When I ask Nicole, she says that a tiramisu usually relies on ladyfingers and a mascarpone cream laced with rum. True. But the Boston Cream Pie (traditionally a sponge cake cut in half, stuffed with vanilla pastry cream so thick that it’s practically pudding, and doused with a chocolate glaze) has been re-interpreted many times. And tiramisu has been re-interpreted too. And now we’ve got some overlap in taste.

I’m thinking that I need to go to the Omni Parker House Hotel to have the classic. I need to establish a baseline for my research. (This is a high class problem to have.)

Moving on, Sarah and Nicole also teach us the recipe for Strawberry Cream Cake, another spongecake dessert. The filling – sweet strawberries, a tart lemon syrup, and cream cheese whipped with vanilla and heavy cream – is tightly rolled up in a single layer of sponge cake. I’m sold. I think it’d absolutely be a terrific dessert to make for a party: It’s simple and it tastes like summer. And the cream is practically turning pink from the strawberry juice. I love it.

The instructors send us home with little white boxes of cake. Mine has a big, blue Flour Bakery sticker and attracts some attention (“I see you went to Flour!”) as I make my way home.

So what’s on tap for tonight? I’m eating the rest of my strawberry cream cake, obviously. And looking for an excuse to make a sponge cake.

Sunday Funday

2011-06-26T21:21:00.000-04:00

It’s race day, the inaugural running of the B.A.A. 10K. I only slept three hours but I’m feeling spunky -- I decide to get wild and crazy and I pass on my usual race-day black shorts. Blue shorts instead. And then I swap out my white Nike shirt. I'm living dangerously and wearing a tangerine shirt.

I get on the T and the train is full of runners -- some with their numbers proudly displayed, others in hoodies to protect against any early morning chill still lingering.

The train empties at the Arlington station, as we all walk up to the Public Garden and cut down Charles Street. The sidewalks are wet and plastered with leaves -- I’m not so thrilled at the prospect of rolling an ankle on the slime -- but the roads are fairly dry.

I move quickly, finding the Port-A-Potties, picking up my race T shirt, and checking my bag. Volunteers are handing out sturdy plastic bags at the luggage drop -- red ones leftover from the last Boston Marathon and yellow ones designed for today. One volunteer holds up a yellow bag and asks, “Who wants some sunshine?” I do. I absolutely do.

I jog for ten minutes down the paths crisscrossing the Common. I’m already writing this recap in my mind, but I don’t know how the story ends yet. I’m hopeful though, as I line up in the race start corral. I've just realized that I unintentionally ran almost the exact race course last weekend... I know the measure of each Back Bay block and I'm anticipating the long stretch of Commonwealth Avenue.

In the race corral, I’m not losing my cool. I’m losing my warm. So I’m bouncing and jumping and running in place and trying to stay warm, because I need to move right into a fast pace once the gun goes off.

At the start, the first song that comes on my iPod Shuffle is the Thin White Duke remix of Seal’s Amazing. I’m a little superstitious. I love this song -- just downloaded it yesterday -- and I paired it with a bagel at 6am for my pre-race prep. I decide it means that this will be a good race.

Mile 1, as I’m always wont to do, is too fast at 6:48. I slow up a bit and I spend the next few miles tweaking my pace, head down and legs churning. We work our way down Comm Ave, past the Algonquin Club, through Kenmore Square, and out to BU. My baseball cap keeps slipping down over my eyes and it’s so damn frustrating, but I don’t want to carry the cap. I turn it around backwards. Totally stylin’.

The 5K mark comes at Babcock Street and we make the U-Turn around tall orange cones. I spend the next mile scanning the crowd of runners headed the opposite direction, looking for familiar faces. But I don’t find the faces I’m looking for, so I focus and run. Counting off the blocks of Back Bay: Dartmouth, Clarendon, Berkeley. Fast. A right on Arlington. Faster. A left on Boylston, a left on Charles. Fastest. Finish line. A slow walk… very slow.

My finish time is a full minute faster than my New York time two weeks ago and 48 seconds faster than my personal best. Excuse me, I meant my old personal best. Because I just set a new one. A backwards baseball cap definitely works for me.

It takes a little time, but I find those familiar faces I was looking for -- L, E, J, and D, plus a few new friends. And we're on to part two of the morning’s events: Brunch. There’s no chance of getting a table in a tiny Beacon Hill brunch place with such a large group, so we head for Panificio with the intent of ordering takeout.

Armed with plastic boxes of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, we sprawl out on the grass of the Common. The sun comes out and the post-race entertainment continues in the distance -- a live band with no audience, except for us and our breakfast.

I’m almost catatonic after a fast race, blueberry pancakes, and sunshine. But, after a shower and a nap, I’m ready. Ready for my Boston Cream Pie class at Flour Bakery in Fort Point.

It's Cupcake Time

2011-06-24T23:20:00.002-04:00

I woke up excited today. Could anything be better than a new hand mixer? Only the knowledge that I'd be baking soon.

Even before I bought the hand mixer, I knew what I would make first: Cupcakes.

But I didn’t have a chance to use the mixer right away. There were some of the usual reasons why: a few evenings working late, a totally alarming amount of laundry, and a pint of cookies n’ cream ice cream.

And then there were unusual reasons: three hours learning how to use knives, a showdown with Comcast, and a five-mile training run for the B.A.A. 10K race on Sunday.

Waiting to open the hand mixer box was like putting off Christmas morning.

Friday afternoon rolled around (finally!). I signed off email and headed for the kitchen. As far as the outside world was concerned, I was gone. Gone cupcake-ing.

Parties need cupcakes, and H’s farewell party tomorrow is no different.

The recipe I adapted from 101 Cookbooks was originally for coconut cupcakes. I usually don’t make changes when I make a recipe for the first time. But I did this time.

I wanted something sweet, but not too sweet. And rich, but not too rich. I’m the Goldilocks of the baking world.

Tasting the batter and the frosting often, I poured in more vanilla extract, lessened the amount of confectioners’ sugar, increased the sour cream and the cream cheese, and generously piled on the coconut. The sour cream cupcakes taste like vanilla cake but are much denser; the sweet cream cheese frosting is a little tangy and flecked with coconut.

Once the baking was all done, I realized I hadn’t thought out the logistics. How am I going to transport twenty cupcakes to Cambridge tomorrow?

In an aluminum Thanksgiving-turkey-sized roasting pan, of course.

Sour Cream Cupcakes with Coconut-Cream Cheese Frosting

(Adapted from 101 Cookbooks)

For the cupcakes:

2½ cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon baking soda

¾ teaspoon salt

12 tablespoons butter, softened

1 ½ cup sugar

3 eggs

3½ teaspoons vanilla extract

1 cup sour cream

1½ cup tightly packed flaked coconut (I use unsweetened)

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Line two 12-cup cupcake pans with liners.

Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl.

Cream the butter in a large bowl with a hand mixer on moderate speed for 3 minutes. Add ½ of the sugar and beat for 1 minute. Add the remainder of the sugar and beat for 2 minutes. Beat in the eggs one at a time, beating for 45 seconds after each addition. Blend in the vanilla extract.

On low speed, alternately add the sifted flour mixture in three additions with the sour cream in two additions (beginning and ending with the flour).

Fill the cups with batter, not filling them all the way to the top. Bake for 25 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the middle of a cupcake comes out clean.

Cool for 15 minutes in the pans, then remove the cupcakes and let them cool completely before frosting.

For the frosting:

5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

13 ounces cream cheese, softened

4½ teaspoons vanilla extract

3 tablespoons heavy cream

4¼ cups confectioners’ sugar

1¼ cup tightly packed flaked coconut (I use unsweetened)

Plus an additional 1½ cup packed flaked coconut to top

Beat the cream cheese and the butter in a large bowl with a hand mixer on moderate speed for 1 minute. Blend in the vanilla extract and the heavy cream.

On low speed, blend in sugar in three additions. Blend in the 1¼ cup of coconut.

Frost the cupcakes (I use a dinner knife). Sprinkle the 1½ cup of coconut over the cupcakes. Keep cupcakes refrigerated.

Makes approximately 20 regular-sized cupcakes.

This recipe makes a lot of frosting. You can go wild and really load on the frosting. But, if you’re transporting cupcakes in a roasting pan by subway, you might want to frost a little more lightly.

Knives, Raspberries, and Cooking in the Dark

2011-06-22T23:44:00.002-04:00

It's been the most interesting week so far.

Monday, I was back and forth across the city and then across the river too. Over in Cambridge, I almost did a victory dance in Shaw's when I found cupcake liners. Because I haven't been able to find cupcake liners in any Boston grocery store. Do Bostonians not make cupcakes? And then I spent three hours learning to cut in a Knife Skills class at the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts. Some of the class participants had truly gruesome stories about kitchen accidents -- one girl had almost sliced off a grape-sized portion of her palm with a mandoline -- and were motivated to avoid further injuries. Me? I just want to be comfortable with large, sharp knives. I want to chop vegetables quickly, efficiently, and uniformly. And I now know the absolute best way to cut a red pepper -- and it's so cool. It's so cool that it's practically a party trick.

Tuesday, I was up to my elbows in raspberry puree. It's a long story why and where, so I'll save the details for another time. But as I blended an ice cream base and the raspberry puree, I accidentally (and thoroughly) soaked myself in puree. The reaction from those around me? "You look like you killed somebody!" Awesome. Later, as I headed to meet A for a cocktail, I looked down at my forearms, saw red splotches, and thought I'd broken out in hives. Nope. Just raspberry. Everywhere.

That brings us to today. The kitchen light blew out and the Internet and cable went down. Picture this: I'm quickly dicing celery (using my newfound appreciation for knives!) and cooking chicken on the stove I hate, in the dark, with Comcast on the phone. A dangerous combination.

But, a lightbulb was located, I went up on a kitchen chair, the kitchen light (covered by one of those huge glass bulbs with nails holding the whole thing together... you know the type) was replaced, and there was light. A few tense discussions with Comcast later, the Internet and TV reappeared.

And then I made chicken salad.

All-American Chicken Salad

2 whole chicken breasts (approx. 1.75 lb.), cooked and shredded
6 medium stalks of celery, diced
1/2 cup light mayonnaise
1 cup raisins
Salt and fresh lemon juice to taste

Combine all ingredients (except for the salt and lemon juice) and mix well. Season to taste.

Serves 2-3 people.

Brunch There and Here

2011-06-19T13:59:00.001-04:00

Last Sunday, M and I were brunching.

It took three tries to get a table at Balthazar. I called the day before – no reservations available. I walked into Balthazar and the hostess suggested using the house phone to ring the main reservation desk – no availability. I called the morning of – we were rewarded with a 12pm table.

New York is a city that brunches.

Coffee was a no-brainer. M lived large with oysters. I stuck to breakfast food: sour cream and hazelnut waffles with warm berries and crème fraiche. Kudos to Balthazar for pairing crème fraiche, rather than whipped cream, with the sweet, syrupy berries.

And I’ve been thinking about brunch ever since. E and I texted back and forth all week and pooled the resources of our two kitchens. What can we make?

Baked eggs. And pancakes too.

This morning, E arrived with four eggs and two ramekins in her purse. I educated myself on pancake recipes and, inspired by the pancakes at the Friendly Toast, stirred coconut flakes and chocolate chips into the batter. And, don't worry, I didn't forget the bananas. Standing guard over the stove, we pressed banana slices into the batter and watched as the pancakes developed the golden-brown color that means they're ready.

Time to brunch... in my kitchen.

Boston in Heels

2011-06-17T23:23:00.000-04:00

At Cafe Vittoria, H and I have split the tiramisu and paid the bill. I stand up and wait in line for the restroom -- A woman opens the door and looks absolutely stricken. I can't figure out what she's asking me, and she repeats herself. She wants me to fasten the hook on her teeny, tiny sequined miniskirt. It takes a few tries and we're in an incredibly awkward position -- she's standing with her back to me and I'm bent over, with my fingers on the waistline of her skirt. I finally fit the hook to the eye and she is grateful ("Thanks so much sweetie!"). H sees this scene unfold and is trying to hide a smile.

We walk out of the cafe, past the accordion players and firefighters sitting out on the sidewalk in lawn chairs. H leads the way and takes me on a walk through the North End and down Commercial Street, threading the way along the wharves, across gravel paths, wooden docks, and grass, past the crowds spilling out of waterfront bars, and below the vine-lined arches on the Greenway. I'm wearing heels -- tall heels, three inch heels, black patent leather heels -- but I don't mind.

Best of Boston... or Not

2011-06-17T11:38:00.001-04:00

Looking over the results of the 2011 Zagat survey for best restaurants in Boston, I feel a little conflicted.

Because it's so many of the usual suspects. O Ya? Sorellina? Really? Again?

And maybe it was an off-night or the entree I ordered, but Craigie on Main and Oleana were both, well, unmemorable -- A radical statement, I know. I'm now a heretic in the eyes of all Cambridge foodies.

Granted, I do really want to go to Menton. As far as I'm concerned, Barbara Lynch can do no wrong. And Neptune Oyster deserves to be on the Zagat list without a doubt -- the North End Cioppino is one of the best things I've ever eaten in Boston and that's why I keep going back for more.

But, you know what, overall there's nothing really fun about the Zagat list.

On the other hand, when Anthony Bourdain visits Boston for a recent episode of his show No Reservations, he says right upfront, "This is not the best of Boston, or what you need to know about Boston." Instead, he and his friend Mike dig into massive lobster rolls and go drinking in Southie (At one point he sort of slurs, "Drinking in Boston is fun!" Yes, it is.).

I'm tired of the "best." So here's the question -- where do you go that has good food and is just fun?

Just Your Average Night in Boston

2011-06-16T00:06:00.002-04:00

It's a beautiful day in Beantown, and I know it will be a beautiful evening. I text L: "Maybe we should go somewhere on the harbor?"

We agree on Temazcal and, after work, we take the Red Line to South Station. Looking back at the shiny glass of the Financial District, we walk along Fort Point Channel and then Fan Pier. We guessed all sports bars would be incredibly packed as tonight is Game Seven, but we didn't figure on the two hour wait for a table at Temazcal. We vote for the bar instead.

The bar at Temazcal is crowded, the doors are flung open to the harbor and the warm air, and the sky is so blue. I turn to L: "It doesn't feel like we're in Boston. It feels like we're in...." She says, "On vacation!" I was going to say California, but, yeah, she's got it right. Two chivalrous gentleman have given us their seats and we've got two potent cocktails. This is as close to vacation as we're getting on a weeknight.

We eat our flautas, guacamole, and tacos de pescado and, at right at 8pm, management turns the Bruins game on. I like hockey. I do. But it's incredibly loud. It's so loud that the bartenders are wincing.

We get the check. We think over our options: Drink. Or Rumba at the Intercontinental. We could waltz into O Ya and have a drink at the bar.

We settle on Les Zygomates. It's all jazz music and atmospheric votive candles. The last time we were here, we ordered a 1/2 bottle of champagne. Don't fix it if it ain't broke. The champagne arrives and we clink our glasses. There's a TV screen behind the bar, but the volume's off. It's pretty quiet until a cheer goes up: The Bruins score their third goal of the night, then their fourth.

With only a few minutes to go in the game, we settle up our bill and walk to South Station. I arrive at Park Station without incident, but the Green Line is dysfunctional -- the seats are dripping with beer and there's a vague announcement about delays due to crowds at North Station. I hedge my bets on a cab and head up the steps to the Common.

It's nuts -- crowds yelling ("Stanley Cup right here, baby!"), car horns beeping, cops standing guard on every corner. I'm lucky to get a cab. And, you know what, it's fun to roll through town with the windows down. I think of an October, not too many years ago, when the Red Sox were down three games to the Yankees and came back from the dead to win the ALCS. That was my first October in Boston -- a hell of an introduction.

Boston loves when the underdog wins. And that's when you realize when Boston is not so big of a city.

Tonight, the city is united.

A Downtown Kind of Day, Part II

2011-06-14T22:11:00.008-04:00

The rain has let up and cool, fresh evening air is here. Trying to avoid puddles, I walk down Spring Street and hang a right on Lafayette.

M arrives in a cab to find me seated near the host stand at Osteria Morini. The host won’t seat me until my party is complete, so I’m flipping through my new book.

After a false start (the hostess tries to pawn a lousy table off on us; we ask to be moved), we're seated. M is drawn to the fried zucchini blossoms; I order two antipasti. The first is the Ventresca, tuna belly poached in olive oil and layered with pickled onions, barely cooked asparagus, zucchini, fava beans, and borlotti beans. It’s light and summery and my first thought is – Can I recreate this at home? Because I want to.

And then – the Polpettine. They’re gorgeous, if you can call meatballs gorgeous. The septuagenarian sitting next to me on the banquette leans over and, eyes wide, asks, “What are those?"

The meatballs are luscious – prosciutto, mortadella, and egg – and served in a tomato sauce. Our waiter tells me that the buttery bread on the side is brioche. Nope. Sorry. There’s nothing remotely brioche-like on my plate. But I mop up the tomato sauce with the bread and I don’t mind too much.

I’m taking notes and photos and the septuagenarian leans over again: “Are you involved with food?”

Am I involved with food? Yes. It’s a passionate love affair. I eat, I read about food, I write about food, I cook, I plan shopping lists and absolutely epic menus for meals that might never happen.

But, to make it easy, I smile and say yes. I say, “I like to write about food.” My new friend is delighted – one of her dinner companions is a writer as well – and she asks for my business card. I hand over two.

M’s Brodetto (seafood soup) and my Stracci – pasta rags with braised mushrooms and rosemary oil – arrive. The kitchen has also included chopped tomatoes and a little Parmesan. I don’t taste rosemary. And are the mushrooms braised? Or just sautéed? Don't get me wrong, it’s good. But I think I’ve had this dish before, though I can’t remember where.

That’s the concept here: familiar tastes. It’s Italian. It’s not re-interpreted. It’s hearty, tasty, and best accompanied by red wine (the cocktails are a little off and M’s second drink smells like cough syrup). The ceilings are low and the walls are hung with copper pans.

It could be clichéd, but we’re in SoHo, so it has to be cool. The soundtrack is U2, the Police, and Florence and the Machine and our scruffy waiter tells us a story about going to the Strand with his dad when he was little. And the restaurant is really, really popular. The next available seating for two is at 10pm. It's a little noisy and everyone's enjoying themselves. After all, it's New York, it's SoHo, and it's time to dig into a platter of meatballs.

We’re not so tempted by dessert, so we skip it. Cocktails at Salon de Ning are next.

A Downtown Kind of Day, Part I

2011-06-14T21:25:00.002-04:00

Between the rain and a street parade, my cab gets caught in traffic and I rush into Ceci Cela fifteen minutes late. Past the glass cases of pastries, J is waiting at a table in the café.

The small café is precious – brick walls, a few Art Nouveau metal signs, and chairs and tables carefully chosen, I’m sure, for their rustic finish – and I’m so glad to be here, with a good friend, as the rain falls heavily outside.

We take a minute to look over the menu. J decides on a chai. What do I want? A fruit tart? A madeleine? Tiramisu?

I want a sugar hit. An éclair. I order a chocolate one, but the café is all out – so vanilla it is. It’s not very vanilla-y (is that a word? It’s totally a word now). But I do love a good pastry cream. And the glaze is sweet and smooth on the tip of my tongue.

And I'm satisfied.

We catch up on work, and apartment-hunting, and future-planning. At 5pm, J, with her Blackberry and briefcase in hand, has to rush off to a meeting. I am confident that she is going to run the world one day. She is Superwoman.

The rain has stopped. I look to my left and my right. And then I choose neither. I go down the subway steps and take the 6 to Union Square. I know exactly where I'm going.

A few blocks away is The Strand. Screw Disney World. This is the happiest place on Earth.

I head for Mystery and then double back to Food. This is where I always get into trouble. I keep picking up books and I quickly have a pile in the crook of my arm.

There’s a couple looking at cookbooks. The boyfriend is rhapsodizing about the photos in Hot Sour Salty Sweet. The girlfriend is not impressed. Guess we know who cooks in the relationship.

On the second floor, two teenage girls are shopping for diaries. One asks, “Moleskines… Do they have to kill animals for these?” I actually wince.

It's almost dinnertime. I pick one book, pay, and swap my flats for heels. Back to the subway.

Brushstroke: A Dinner of Delicate Touches

2011-06-13T22:29:00.001-04:00

It's M's pick for dinner tonight. I know nothing about Brushstroke, but, as always, I'm happy to go along for the ride.

When given the choice between a table or the counter at Brushstroke, we pick the counter so we can have a clear view of the open kitchen -- the sushi chefs directly behind the counter and, in the background, the line chefs. There are flashes of black and white as the waiters and cooks move efficiently and quickly through the stainless steel kitchen.

The dining room is minimalist too -- The walls are rough-hewn planks, the tables and chairs are a more refined light wood, and the accent is granite.

We both opt for the eight-course tasting menu (It's that, or the twelve-course). Dinner begins with four small plates of lightly cooked fish. I enjoy the delicacy of the dishes and the careful presentation, but I find myself wondering what's next. I haven't been won over yet.

Then the duck arrives.

Here's the irony of Brushstroke. It's widely considered to be a sushi restaurant. But it's the meat that's spectacular. Oh my god, the meat.

The grilled slices of duck are paired with Japanese eggplant, a miso-mustard sauce, and micro-greens. And, for the first time during the dinner, I want an entree-sized portion.

Next up is the stewed pork cheek, with green apple puree and apple cider sauce. You've heard of fork tender, right? Well the pork is chopstick tender. It's rich and it falls apart when I take a bite. The sweetness of the apples makes the dish balanced.

We're a little giddy after two delicious courses, but then we're disappointed by the rice dishes. M's steamed lobster is unappealing and my lightly seasoned raw tuna is good but unmemorable.

Dessert is a high note -- soymilk pannacotta with matcha green tea sauce. It is so creamy and sweet. Either the chef added heavy cream or he's making magic with soymilk. And at the bottom of my bowl are sweetened red beans. I immediately think of "fruit at the bottom" yogurt.

Would I go back and order the tasting menu again? Probably not. But the aesthetic is refined, the presentation is flawless, and the technique is creative. And, when I peek at the bar after dinner, I want to come back soon. The walls of the bar are made up of thousands of paperbacks. Incredible.

I'd like to have an evening in the bar -- I'd order sushi a la carte and talk cocktails with the friendly bartenders.

And I'd really like more of that pannacotta.

Afternoon Treats at Bouchon Bakery

2011-06-12T20:55:00.002-04:00

It's a sunny day in New York and the reflected heat off the pavements is unbelievable.

I walk into Bouchon Bakery at Rockefeller Center. There's air-conditioning. I like it already.

The bakery is airy, with tall ceilings, cream and yellow walls, and marble countertops. And, despite its proximity to one of the most over-touristed sites in New York, the staff could not be nicer.

M meets me, and we scan the glass cases of pastries and viennoiserie. We have a hard time choosing, but she orders gazpacho, a chocolate bouchon, and two macarons (one raspberry, one caramel). Picking a chocolate macaron is easy for me, but then I spot something gorgeous -- a craquelin. One of the girls behind the counter explains that it's brioche with candied orange zest and tiny sugar pearls on top. She had me at brioche.

Because I woke up too early and I need more caffeine, I ask for an iced latte. When the barista misunderstands and pours me an iced coffee, he apologizes and quickly makes the latte.

We sit at a tall counter near the front windows and look out on Rockefeller Plaza. M swears by the bouchon, but I don't steal a bite in time and it's all gone. The craquelin is lovely -- buttery as brioche should be, but lightened by the citrus taste.

We're confused by the raspberry and caramel macarons -- What is buttercream doing in a macaron? It's too heavy and buttery and it doesn't work. And, to be blunt, the raspberry doesn't taste like real fruit. But the filling in the chocolate macaron is dark chocolate and has the texture of ganache. It's good. Very good.

And, when it's time to go and to make our way through Midtown, I'm loathe to leave the bakery. This is a place where the afternoon is calm and wonderful things happen with flour, sugar, and butter.

Salt and Sweat

2011-06-11T14:43:00.002-04:00

When I pick up my race packet at the NYRR headquarters on the Upper East Side, a registration staffer hands me a sheet with tips for running in hot weather. One tip suggests eating salty food during the week prior to the race. The idea is to keep your electrolytes in balance and to prevent hyponatremia.

I walk out of the NYRR and see a vendor selling hot dogs and pretzels. Bingo. $2 for a pretzel is completely justified. I mean, come on. It's balancing my electrolytes.

This morning, I ran the 10K race in Central Park. I set a fast pace for myself -- my lungs cooperate (I'd like to thank speedwork), but my legs are still tired from the past week and I lose time on Miles 3 and 4. I push it on the last two miles, because there's absolutely no reason not to. This is it. I'm telling myself to take quality breaths, but I'm not. I'm just running. I see M at Mile 6 and she shouts one word: "Go!" So I go. Fast. And then a woman yells out my bib number -- I look down to check; yes it's my bib number. She's cheering me on.

It's only 70 degrees and thankfully there's a cloud cover, but I'm dripping sweat as I cross under the pink race finish banner. My official time is 12 seconds slower than my personal best. And that's okay. Breathing hard, I snag paper cups of Gatorade and water and a volunteer drapes a medal around my neck. The medal hangs from a polka-dot ribbon. I dig it.

M and I leave the race finish and cut through crowds of race participants still running to get to Central Park South. A cyclist has pulled over and is cheering the women on: "One last mile! One last mile! You look hot! Red hot!" Yeah, we're red hot. Literally. We're all flushed and sweaty.

And I start to think about a 10K race in two weeks. Plenty of time to recuperate.

There should be a warning posted: Do not make important decisions while under the influence of a runner's high. So let's see how I feel tomorrow. And then I'll decide.

Boston to New York

2011-06-11T12:58:00.000-04:00

On the train to New York:
"Does anyone have a broom? Does anyone have a broom? I understand the Red Sox swept the Yankees again!" -- Amtrak conductor

Yesterday morning, I was in Boston, boarding a train with the biggest cup of coffee ever (it was like the Big Gulp of coffee).

Since arriving in New York, I've eaten one pretzel, one chocolate macaron from Bouchon Bakery, and $80 worth of sushi. I made a frantic visit to the Apple store when I realized I forgot my iPhone charger. I ran the NYRR Mini 10K race.

New York never disappoints. Weekend recap coming soon.

On the Rocks

2011-06-09T21:48:00.003-04:00

I'm achy and my knees feel wonky and the bones of my feet hurt. So I'm officially in "hurry up and get better" mode before Saturday's race.

My piriformis muscles are tight too, so I ate breakfast today while sitting on a baggie of ice. It was sort of like sitting in a booster seat. A really cold booster seat.

And, after work, I walked in a liquor store, saw big bags of ice, and thought, "Ooh! I should ice my knees!" A normal reaction would have been "Ooh! Frozen margaritas tonight!"

Running is never too far from my mind.

I've actually sat in airports and iced sports injuries. One time, faced with a two hour delay, I convinced a Starbucks barista to fill up a massive shopping bag with ice. I waited out the delay by icing my ankle (a painful spinning class injury), eating M&M's, and reading Dennis Lehane. An excellent use of two hours.

I spend a lot of time on foam rolling, icing, and physical therapy. You've heard of high maintenance women. Well, I'm a high maintenance runner.

So, I now have a $1.75 plastic bag of ice from the liquor store in my freezer. Everyone will be disappointed when I tell them what it's for. Hint: there's no tequila involved.

The only one enjoying the cocktail ice will be my knees.

I've Got My Reasons

2011-06-08T09:37:00.000-04:00

It's a little too early and it's a little too sunny. I'm already sweating off my sunscreen. But I'm running. I ran to the track and now I'm pushing myself: 2 x 800 meters in 3:16 each, with 400 meter jogs to recover. As a group of surly girls run up and down the stadium steps, I run my first 800 meter repeat in 3:06 and my second in 3:11.

What am I running for?

I'm running for iced coffee. I've got $5 tucked in my shoe and a mental map of the nearest Dunkin' Donuts.

I'm running for breakfast. There's homemade muesli in the refrigerator at home.

I'm running for Saturday. Because today is the last training run. Because, in a few days, I'm getting on a train and heading to New York. And then I'm going to wake up and go for a run in Central Park. This run will be timed. And there will be, oh I don't know, about seven thousand other women running.

And you know what -- it's been about four years since I ran in a 10K race. I got distracted by half marathons and by just how good it felt to train for distance. And then I got distracted by Buenos Aires, and London, and Lisbon.

The last few years have been revealing: I'm strong. I've got endurance. I like discipline... and adventure too.

But my personal best is four years old. So that's what I'm running for: to prove I'm still just as fast. Who am I proving it to? Nobody but myself.

And I'm running for that iced coffee I was talking about. I really want iced coffee.

Bananas Mean It's Healthy... Right?

2011-06-06T17:20:00.002-04:00

The stove and I have reached détente. Things are tense. But we’re working on our issues.

The oven, on the other hand, is winning me over. And I’m not easy to win over. I’m testing our relationship. First up, banana-oat-walnut bars. (And, for dinner this evening, homemade pizza.)

The bars are kind of like cake. Healthy cake. They’re moist and nutty, sweetened with coconut flakes and just a little brown sugar.

You could go wild. You could add raisins or chocolate chips. Or both. That’d be pretty fun. I didn’t add chocolate though, because then I couldn’t call it healthy cake.

I’d like to claim that these bars are for breakfast. But then I’d be lying. Because I just ate two.

So really, they’re anytime bars.

Banana-Oat-Walnut Bars

2 cups old-fashioned oats

2 teaspoons cinnamon

¼ cup brown sugar

½ teaspoon baking powder

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

¼ cup milk (I use 2%)

2 ripe medium bananas, mashed

¾ cup coconut flakes

¾ cup chopped walnuts

1 tablespoon melted butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix the oats, cinnamon, brown sugar, baking powder, coconut, and walnuts in a bowl.

Mix the egg, vanilla, milk, bananas, and melted butter in a separate bowl. Add the oat mixture and mix well.

Press the mixture into a greased square baking pan. Bake for 30 minutes until firm to the touch. The coconut flakes should be golden to light brown around the edges. Let the bars cool briefly (5-10 minutes) before cutting them into squares. Be sure to eat (at least) one when they're still warm.

Enjoy the bars with a glass of cold milk or crumbled over yogurt.

Boston is Made of Glass, Brick, and Pie

2011-06-05T13:04:00.000-04:00

A rule to live by: Saturday afternoon walks should end with dessert.

Boston Cream Pie petit four at Cafe Vanille, Beacon Hill. The pastry cream is flavored with rum -- a Boston Cream Pie all grown up. And I love the perfect dots, though I think I prefer a super chocolate-y Boston Cream Pie....

My Stove Has Done Me Wrong

2011-06-03T13:05:00.001-04:00

I’m in a fight. With my stove.

With a new apartment comes a new kitchen. And, last night, I set off the smoke detector. The last time I set off a smoke detector was… actually I’ve never set off a smoke detector. You see what this stove makes me do?

What I need when I go apartment-hunting is a test run. I need, say, fifteen minutes. Enough time to mince some garlic, heat oil in a skillet, and sear a chicken breast. I want to see how that stove is going to treat me. If all goes well, then I can commit. You think I could get that written into a lease?

But, I haven't found a realtor who will let me try out the kitchen. So here I am, with some very hostile feelings. The stove and I are not speaking. We’ve had a fight and we haven’t made up yet. I’m hoping the relationship can still be saved.

But what about the oven? Will the oven do me wrong too? See, now I’m developing trust issues.

There’s only one thing to do: Throw caution to the wind and take the plunge (cue all of those other clichés)… all in the name of ~~love~~ food.

The Last Three Hours Have Been Mayhem

2011-06-01T16:48:00.029-04:00

The Red Sox are playing, the streets are jammed, there's a tornado watch all over the Northeast, and I'm moving into a new apartment.

Oh yes. True story.

There was also a 45 minute wait for a U-Haul. And then trying all the keys to my storage unit and forking over $10 to have the lock cut off when none of the keys worked.

And now I can't find the screws to bolt the headboard to the bed frame. On the other hand, I've successfully located a lifetime supply of Swiffer cloths and a lot of pennies.

Oh yes. Also a true story.

Did I ever tell you I'm psychic? I see.... dark chocolate in my future. Specifically, that $12 bar of Mast Brothers chocolate. Oh yes.

Summer in the City

2011-05-31T10:04:00.000-04:00

Summer's here.

Spring sort of went in and out of my consciousness this year. There were days in Buenos Aires -- warm days, a string of perfect days. I walked around with bare shoulders and sunglasses, while the portenos layered on light sweaters and shopped for leather boots. Fall was beginning there. But it was my spring.

There were also trips to the Northeast -- days spent wrapped up in a trenchcoat, wishing I had worn a wool sweater. There was rain, and inadequate footwear, and cold, wet feet.

My spring was a confusing back-and-forth, to-and-fro, are-you-or-aren't-you.

Summer, on the other hand, is unambiguous. With summer comes a totally different way of living, thinking, breathing.

In June, there will be new adventures, surrounded by some of the things and people I love best. There will be a weekend trip to New York, a 10K in which to set a new personal best (fingers crossed), and seventy-two hours in which to do "everything with that great mad joy you get when you return to New York" (Kerouac). I have big plans for those seventy-two hours. And then there might even be another 10K race a few weeks later, and there will certainly be lots of food -- cooking, baking, tasting, and shopping.

In July, there will be all-American celebrations for the Fourth, birthdays, and cocktails once the heat of the day has gone. There'll be an evening spent at a chef's table... I'll be the one with camera. There might be a film festival and there'll be escapes for a few hours or a few days to places where life is slower.

In August... well I haven't gotten that far yet. But as the heat sets in, I'll install my window unit and look for ways to step away from the stove. Sushi takeout, here I come. And I'll be choosing races and planning trips for the fall. Where to go next? Where to run next? I'll be packing my calender full of runs and sprints in anticipation of longer distances and races. And maybe I'll be packing my suitcase too.

It's going to be a great summer. Stay tuned.

National Holidays Mean Cake

2011-05-30T14:30:00.000-04:00

Here's to the start of summer... Happy Memorial Day!

[Boston Cream Pie recipe from Maida Heatter's Book of Great American Desserts]

Saturday Morning Baked Oatmeal

2011-05-28T16:34:00.000-04:00

Some mornings, you just need something special for breakfast.

I love the idea of baked oatmeal and, after several tries, I've come up with a recipe that will make Saturday morning even better.

When you take a bite, the oatmeal is crisp and caramelized on top and nutty and moist in the middle. Your spoonful will finish with the sweet pears.

It's really, really good.

Baked Oatmeal with Pear and Toasted Hazelnuts

3/4 cup old-fashioned oats
1/3 cup milk (I use 2%)
2 ripe medium-sized pears, peeled and sliced
1/4 cup blanched and skinned hazelnuts, coarsely chopped
1 egg
2 tablespoons and 1 teaspoon brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Toast hazelnuts on a baking sheet for 10 minutes (hazelnuts should be golden brown and fragrant).

Mix the oats, hazelnuts, baking soda, cinnamon, and 2 tablespoons of the brown sugar in a medium bowl. Set aside.

Melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in a skillet over medium high heat. Gently saute the pear slices until they release their liquid and shrink in size (approximately 5-6 minutes). Drain off the liquid. Split the pears between two small ramekins or ceramic baking dishes. Set aside.

Lightly beat the egg with a whisk in a medium bowl. Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter in a saucepan over low heat and add the melted butter, milk, and vanilla to the egg. Whisk together.

Pour the wet ingredients into the oat mixture and mix well. Divide the mixture between the two ramekins and pour it on top of the pears.

Bake for 35 minutes at 350 degrees. The oatmeal should be firm to the touch; the top should be crispy and slightly caramelized. (Bake for additional 5 minutes if you prefer a firmer consistency.)

Sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon of brown sugar over the top of each oatmeal. Broil for 1-2 minutes.

Serves two generously. A little bit of heavy cream is a terrific topping.

A Story and A Breakfast Bowl

2011-05-28T15:36:00.005-04:00

This beautiful bowl of baked oatmeal was meant to happen yesterday.

But, yesterday morning, I walked in the kitchen and I saw something out of the corner of my eye – Is that a really big bug? Oh. No.

It’s not a plane. It’s not Superman. It’s a bird.

I have a teensy tiny fear of birds. And this bird is fast – it's on the countertop, then the stove, then a baking sheet (note to self: wash baking sheet immediately). And I’m stumbling around and I’m trying to figure out how the bird got in and the dog’s looking at me with those big, brown eyes ("What’s all this noise?") and I'm looking back at the dog ("You're no help!").

I open all of the doors in the hope that the bird might fly on out. But it doesn't. It swoops fast and heads to the guest room.

Oh. No.

I know I'm in trouble. I close the door to the guest room and call animal control.

I like to think I’m pretty good in a crisis. But I don't do wildlife.

Animal control arrives 30 minutes later; I point them towards the guest room and stay out of the way. I hear cursing and loud thumps. Finally, the bird is escorted out in a net and released.

And I spend the next 30 minutes with a roll of paper towels and Chlorox, wiping up bird poo. Fun morning.

This morning was much, much better.

What can I say? Some mornings, I get to chase a bird around my kitchen. Other days, I listen to jazz and make baked oatmeal.

* See the next post Saturday Morning Baked Oatmeal for more photos and the recipe.

Leaving Sweet Behind for Savoury

2011-05-26T22:31:00.007-04:00

As you know, there’s been a lot of baking around here recently.

I started to crave something savoury and I declared last night, “I’m making dinner tomorrow!” (No one put up a fight.)

Come lunchtime and face-to-face with a full CSA box, I decided to start cooking. Lunch was a fresh and simple salad for one; dinner for three was a rich Spanish tortilla, with flavors of early summer.

Chinese Chicken and Cabbage Salad
1 cup diced roasted chicken
1 cup diced cabbage
1 cup cooked white rice
3 tablespoons rice vinegar
¾ teaspoon hoisin sauce
¼ teaspoon sesame oil

Whisk the rice vinegar, hoisin sauce, and sesame oil in a bowl. Combine the chicken, cabbage, and dressing and toss well (One method is to combine ingredients in a Tupperware container, put the lid on, and shake.) Arrange the salad on top of the rice.

Serves one.

Spanish-Style Tortilla with Prosciutto, Asparagus, and Potato

(Adapted from Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef)

5 eggs

Black pepper
8 slices prosciutto, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

6 stalks asparagus, stems removed and stalks cut into small pieces
1 medium shallot, peeled and thinly sliced
1 russet potato, scrubbed
1 teaspoon fresh basil, finely chopped

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Whisk the eggs and black pepper in a medium bowl; set aside.

Cover the russet potato with water in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Boil the potato until it is fork tender (approximately 3-4 minutes). Cut the potato into thin, half-moon pieces.

Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a medium cast-iron skillet over medium high heat. Cook both sides of the potato slices until golden-brown (approximately 2 minutes per side). Set aside and turn heat to medium.

Add the prosciutto slices and cook until they are slightly crispy (approximately 3 minutes). Set aside.

Add 2 teaspoons of olive oil and heat. Add the asparagus and cook them until green and tender (approximately 1-2 minutes depending on thickness of stalks). Set aside.

Turn heat to medium low and add the shallot. Cook, stirring, until the shallot begins to brown (approximately 3-4 minutes).

Stir the prosciutto, asparagus, potato, and shallot into the eggs.

Add 1 teaspoon of olive oil to the skillet and heat until the oil moves around easily. Pour in the egg mixture and cook for 2-3 minutes until it is set. Lift up the tortilla with a spatula and shake the pan back and forth to allow runny eggs to run to the bottom.

Slide the skillet into the oven and cook until the top is firm (approximately 5 minutes).

Take the tortilla out of the oven and sprinkle the basil on top.

Serves 2-3 people. Best accompanied by red wine.