Orzo Salad with Scallions, Hazelnuts, and Golden Raisins

On Sunday, the Frenchman and I organized a picnic and barbecue in Brooklyn Bridge Park. We met friends, and friends of friends, on a grassy knoll tipping toward the water, an open view of Lower Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty off to the left. We sat together on a massive tapestry, played cards, and drank gin, basil, and grapefruit punch.

That afternoon, the first warm one in eons, reminded me of many picnics past, first in El Retiro in Madrid, where we ate potato chips cooked in olive oil and sipped cheap Spanish beer, watching the rowboats pass across the pond, and then later in Paris, on the Pont des Arts or in Parc Monceau, with a bottle of rosé and a game of tarot to celebrate early summer.

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Scallion Green + Pea Shoot Pestos

The spring night is bitterly cold, but still I insist we bike across three neighborhoods, to that new restaurant I want to try, because it is fortifying to leave the house at least once on a Sunday. I have spent all day barefoot and messy in the kitchen, laboring over new recipes, and it feels wonderful to put the responsibility of dinner in someone else’s capable hands.

In the dining room, the wavering light of tiny votives ghost the brick walls and spare wooden tables. We order drinks and sip them and watch the cooks as they pass in front of the wood burning fire, slinging tarte flambée across the hot oven floor, pulling casseroles piled high with gruyere and raclette-laced potato purée.

Across the table, we hold hands and bicker, bicker and then hold hands. We are half joking tonight, half pushing, to find the edges of what is possible to say. We share a whole roast chicken, its heat wilting a nest of watercress and fennel, and a pot of creamy white beans rich with duck confit. We talk about the wedding, and about the week ahead.

At home, we take turns brushing our teeth and filling water glasses. Our evening has been both supremely ordinary and tinged with newness–the promise of a fresh season, the hatching of future plans. I rest my head against the Frenchman’s chest, on the spot where I have rested my head uncountable times before, and tuck my icy feet between his warm ones. I am asleep before he switches off the light.

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Tortilla Primavera

Today I’ve tasked myself with organizing a Fourth of July party–in France. I’m not normally the most patriotic person in the room, but my status as the (presumably) only American for many miles has suddenly given me the irrepressible impetus to represent my country, to explain the holiday to any and all Frenchies who’ve crossed my path over the past several days.

Of course, my interest in the 4th is mostly food-and-pool related (is that bad? ah well), although I’m never one to snub my nose at fireworks, either. (Fortunately, I got to watch a spectacular show on the beach just a few days ago, as Châtelaillon was celebrating the start of summer with some feu d’artifice of their own.)

Anyway, here’s what I’m making: Read more »

Spring Hash

Yesterday evening, after twenty hours of travel, the Frenchman and I arrived in La Rochelle. The trip, maddeningly, took longer than expected: a delayed flight resulted in a missed train, resulted in an extra four hours of airport loitering..you get the picture. When our (second) train at last pulled into the station, I was feeling decidedly sleep deprived.

But then the Frenchman’s family appeared. They peppered us with kisses, and their sheer enthusiasm was a tonic more efficacious than coffee.

And so we waltzed to the old port, to a café table facing the ancient towers. We ordered a round of frosty beers, and shared a plate of brine-bright oysters from Île d’Oléron. The evening was sunny and breezy. Read more »

A Birthday Sundae, A Birthday Surprise

To my darling Frenchman, on his 28th birthday,

As you read this, you are fresh off a fourteen hour flight from Argentina: The tail end of a double business trip that took you far away for the better part of two weeks. But now you are home, perhaps puttering to the coffee machine, or scolding me for not watering the succulents, or racing a line of kisses across my collarbone, razzing “Pepé Le Pew!” into my ear—-or any one of a thousand, small deeds that constitute our life together.

I am grateful for the nearly five years I have known you. I am grateful for what we have together, for what we’ve built, unhurriedly, imperfectly, one day at a time. We’ve fashioned a partnership with firm foundations, you and I, and that simple, essential, stupendous knowledge gives me courage every day, and makes all things seem possible.

I love you so very, very much, sweet chéri. I love you so much, in fact, that I have been lying to you for the better part of five months. Can you forgive me? (Since you are still quibbling about that itty-bitty non-event wherein I told you I was buying two small shelves from Ikea to “organize” our apartment, already filled to the brim with (my) (kitchen) things, but then actually went ahead and bought three, not-exactly-minuscule shelves and then asked you to construct them for me, this remains to be seen.) Read more »

Snap Pea and Radicchio-Basil Pizza

I love making pizza at home. The topping options are vast and limitless, and my creations are often more interesting than the standard choices available at most pizza parlors. Pizza-making at home is also a great way to take advantage of seasonal ingredients: Currently, my crisper is full of sugar snap peas, spring onions, and plush bunches of basil, and so all three made their way onto this spring version.

Also, pizza parties. They’re a thing. You can prepare all these toppings ahead of time (as well as many others, whatever you can think of), so that guests can assemble their own. Each pizza only spends a few minutes in the oven. If you prefer to be outside, cook your pizzas on the grill.

Some general advice: fight the urge to overload each pizza with toppings. Fight it! Trust me, I learned the hard way, and I still have to remind myself every time. Too many toppings, and the dough will become laden and impossible to slide onto the pizza stone. Too many toppings, and the dough will be a soggy, unruly mess. Remember, you want the dough to crisp up on the bottom! Read more »

Cornmeal Cake with Mascarpone Cream and Strawberry Glaze

I created my dream cake! (And then found excuses to bake it twice in one week, naturally.) It’s perfect for the season, and also perfect in general–did I mention that this is my dream cake?

It’s strawberry season in New York. Like some bizarre fruit addict, I’ve been hitting up the farmers market at least three times a week for these small beauties. (Yeah, yeah, I’m strange, don’t worry about it.) In-season strawberries are typically tinier than the supermarket variety, also, a lot sweeter and more flavorful. They are maddeningly, delightfully fragrant from a distance, and bright red all the way through.

Also, they taste really very good stirred into mascarpone cream. In fact, you could simply offer guests a bowl of strawberries with a generous dollop of cool, whipped mascarpone cream and be well on your way.

But since you already went to the trouble of buying great strawberries, you might as well go ahead and make the cake, too. Why not? It’s low maintenance, as cakes go, and also very delicious. The crumb is tender, almost-dense, and not overly sweet–the cornmeal helps keep the sugar in check. Read more »

Roasted Broccoli Pesto Spaghetti with Veal-Ricotta Meatballs

This recipe came together the way many of my recipes do: After filling my bike basket to the brim with farmers market loot, I had to figure out how to tie all those ingredients together into something, you know, halfway cohesive.

Some ladies lust after designer heels, while I prefer the first first broccoli of the year. A shopping problem is still a shopping problem.

This weekend, I came home with: fresh ricotta, ground veal, purple spring onions, parsley, garlic, as well as the aforementioned broccoli. I laid it all out on the kitchen table, and got to thinking.

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