what links us together.

Whenever I'm having a bad day, I cook.

It doesn't even matter if it something simple, like making the vinaigrette for a salad from scratch; sometimes all it really takes is just the mindless act of chopping ingredients on a cutting board, or stirring a pot of something bubbling away at the stove, that makes me smile.

Whatever it is, the kitchen never fails to make me feel better. Growing up with a younger brother who was handicapped, my family had its fair share of heartache. But I've never been one of those people who looks back on their childhood as a bad one. It wasn't all that bad, just unstable; to the point where constant change and adapting became normal to me, like breathing. 

So maybe that's why, from a young age, I fell in love with baking. The precise measuring of ingredients; the smell of something deliciously sweet or savory that permeated from the oven. I loved it all. Mostly, I loved the predictability of it; that I could start off by just reading the instructions for a recipe, and by the time I was whisking ingredients together, or spooning dough into rounds on a cookie sheet, I could transport myself to a different place. A place where, by following a few simple directions, butter, sugar and flour could produce something as consistant and wonderful as strawberry shortcake. 

Today, when I cook in my kitchen, I don't just bake; I boil and roast and fry and saute and blend. I whisk and caramelize and knead and stir. I don't have to follow a recipe's instructions as often as I used to, and sometimes I make up my own. But there's one thing that hasn't changed since I was that little girl, standing in my parent's kitchen, trying to make sense of my life by way of chocolate chip cookies. What hasn't changed is that cooking, no matter what form it takes on, still has the power to transform me, or the people I love, even on the hardest of days. 

I'm not that little girl any longer, and I've become a much better cook than I was then. But that doesn't mean that I've forgotten who I was, or where I've come from. Each time that I sit down to eat on my grandmother's wooden dining table, or churn sorbet in my mother's old Kitchenaid Ice Cream maker, I take my family with me. The memories, good and bad, make up the woman that I am today, like the many layers that make up the dishes I create in my kitchen.

I cook, because it makes me happy, and it makes other people happy. We all have different ways in which we deal with the stress or pain in our daily lives. For some people, it's a glass of whiskey or wine at the end of a long day- or yoga, or running, and that's just fine. For me, I choose to cook in my kitchen. The pots and pans, the wooden spoons and measuring cups- the way it makes not just me, but anyone, smile when they eat something that tastes delicious. 

Like me, both of my brothers share a love for food. My older brother, Steve, was a restaurant chef for many years, and my younger brother, Michael- well he loves anything you put in front of him, especially if it's laced in ketchup. I like to think that it's something we share as siblings, a tiny invisible string that links us together.

They're who I am thinking of today, while I wait for my Roma tomatoes and Italian sausages to finish roasting in their juices with rosemary, thyme and olive oil. I can feel my bad mood begin to lift already. I'll smile when I taste the caramelized onions and garlic, whose flavor has mellowed and sweetened during their time in the oven- the perfect balance to the acidity of the tomatoes and the richness of the meat. And I'll smile because of that little girl in her parent's kitchen, trying to make sense of the world with her mother's cookbook, her grandmother's green pyrex mixing bowl, and an oven.

Roasted Roma Tomatoes and Italian Sausage
Yields enough for two hearty servings (but can be doubled very easily to accommodate more)


A Note:


This is the kind of recipe that will put anyone in a better mood, no matter who they are. It's mindless cooking, but comforting, and the most rewarding dish to to eat. You can serve it with big hunks of toasted bread, or just eat it straight from the refrigerator with a knife and fork, which is exactly what John and I did. It's also fabulous the next day, chopped up and tossed with any kind of pasta. 

Ingredients:

• Four good quality Italian sausages (we used "hot Italian", but any Italian type will do)
• 8 Roma tomatoes
• One large cippolini onion, thinly sliced (or any other kind of yellow variety)
• Five garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
• a sprig or two of rosemary
• a sprig of thyme
• 1-2 bay leaves
•  extra-virgin olive oil
• a few small glugs of good quality balsamic vinegar
• kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper    

Directions: 

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. Layer the sliced onions and garlic on the bottom of a large baking/roasting tray. 
3. Drizzle a decent amount of olive oil into the pan, enough to decently cover the onions and garlic with oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
4. Place pan in the oven, and let the onions and garlic caramelize, about 15 minutes.
5. Remove from oven and add roma tomatoes, herbs and sausage to the pan. Sprinkle with a bit more salt and pepper and drizzle a tiny bit more olive oil, if desired. Toss everything together to coat with oil. 
6. Roast in the oven for 30 minutes. 
7. Turn sausage over on other side, and pour a few glugs of balsamic vinegar over everything. Roast for another 20-40 minutes, depending on how browned you like your sausage. 
8. Check seasoning, and serve on its own- or even better- with big hunks of toasty bread. 

keeping summer around.

Summer came late this year.

June and July passed quickly, and so did my two week trip to Europe; and by the time August rolled around, the sun had still managed to stay hidden behind thick, grey clouds on more days than I could count. Summer isn't exceptionally warm when you live in a Northern California beach town, and you get used to the fog and the colder winds that blow in from the ocean. But this felt different. It felt like Spring would never leave, permanently stuck between seasons, repeating itself like a broken record. And it was starting to get personal. The cold weather had been bullying my garden for so long that it began to take a toll on our fruits and vegetables, leaving them sad and stagnant. Even my neighbors and friends agreed that the weather was affecting everyone, leaving us to sulk around inside, hoping that the never-ending fog outside would somehow dissipate. I felt it too, in the cool breeze that blew through my window at night, forcing me deeper underneath the covers.

But then the end of August came, and things began to change. My garden perked up, and so did I, and all of my favorite seasonal produce finally began to pop up at the farmer's market, which was just starting to come alive again. Watermelon, heirloom tomatoes, green beans, basil, sweet bell peppers and spicy hot peppers. John and I took back with us as much as we could, including a bouquet or two of bright yellow sunflowers that had beckoned to me earlier.

It's not that summer had done it on purpose, making us wait all that time. Maybe she had just forgotten for awhile, or overslept. Either way, we forgave her, asking only in return that she might stay around, for just a little while longer.

It's mid-September now and the sun is still shining, but soon enough it will be gone. Eventually the summer produce will be gone too, so there's really only one thing we can do. We'll stuff all of that delicious food into jars and can it. Jars filled with all kinds of jams and preserves, of green beans and carrots and peppers pickled in their own spicy brine, of homemade ketchup and heirloom tomatoes floating in their own juices. W'ell pickle and preserve and can until we can't stand it any longer- and when winter finally comes back around, and the cold air leaves it's mark on our cheeks, we'll stay inside where it's warm and open a jar of something that tastes like summer. Something to look forward to.

This is just the start. We've canned a lot, and we plan to can a lot more. And lets not forget that fall harvest will be upon us soon enough; so there will be lots of tasty additions to our growing canned collection. Already, the bartlett pears have appeared by the box load, golden and plump and ripe with sweetness. Which is exactly why, last weekend, we mashed them and forced them into submission with a little bit of lemon juice and sugar and vanilla bean. We appropriately titled our creation "Vanilla Bean Pear Jam", and we're proud of it. I really hope that you make it, not just because it's my recipe, but because it's that good. In my opinion, it puts the "J" in Jam- and somehow I think you'll agree.

Vanilla Bean Pear Jam
Yields about 5 half-pint jars 


A must read side note: 


The first time I tasted pear jam with vanilla bean was this summer, while I was staying at my friend Virginie's apartment in Paris, France. The first breakfast that we had together, Virginie broke apart a fresh baguette that she had picked up from her favorite neighborhood "boulangerie" (every Parisian has their personal favorite boulangerie, in which they swear that all other boulangerie's come second). To spread on our bread, she offered me the jam, which was a coveted old family recipe. In fact, the opened jar at the table had been made by Virginie herself, on a recent trip to her parent's house in the country. It was, as I'm sure you can imagine, delicious; and I promised myself I would try to recreate it once I had made it back home to the States. I'm not sure what Virginie's family uses for sweetness, or if they add lemon juice or pectin to theirs, but this combination works for me and tastes good enough that each time I take a spoonful of it, it brings me back to Virginie's kitchen. I hope she approves.

Ingredients:

• 4 cups of bartlett pears, peeled, cored and mashed
• 1/4 cup of lemon juice
• one fresh vanilla bean pod
• 3/4 cup unrefined granulated sugar
• all-fruit natural pectin, amount varies (amount required depends on the pectin brand you choose; it's not a problem, just make sure you use the amount that your brand suggests for the amount of fruit and sugar that is stated in my recipe)
• five half-pint jam jars and their lids
• very large pot, or canning pot, for boiling 

Directions:

1. Wash your jars and lids with hot, soapy water; rinse well. Leave the lids to dry on a clean kitchen towel. Place the jars in a canning pot and fill with warm water, until the water reaches at least 2 inches above the jars. 
2. Bring to a rolling boil, and then turn down the heat; let stand in hot water.
3. Place mashed pears and lemon juice into a large saucepan. 
4. Add proper amount of calcium water (if using- refer to your brand of pectin's directions).
5. Mix sugar and proper amount of pectin in a separate bowl, until thoroughly combined.
6. Scrape the grains out of the vanilla bean pod, and place them (along with the pod) in with the pear mixture. Bring to a boil on medium heat.
7. Once the mixture is boiling, add pectin-sugar mix to the pan; stirring vigorously for 1-2 minutes, until it has properly dissolved.
8. Return to boil, and then remove from heat. Remove the vanilla bean pod.
9. Remove jars from hot water. Ladle the jars with the jam to 1/4" from the top of the jar. This is very important if you want a proper seal; don't mess around too much with how much space you leave.
10. Screw on lids, and place jars back in the pot of hot water, and bring back to a rolling boil. Boil the jars for 10 minutes, from when the water immediately begins to boil.
11. Remove jars from water. Let jars cool. (You may even hear a "ping" or two come from the jars while they cool; don't worry, this just means they are sealing correctly)
12. Check seals for proper seal- lids should be sucked down. Lasts about three weeks once opened.