The Wednesday Chef

Mark Bittman's Scrambled Eggs with Shrimp

Hmmm. Okay. I think I know what you're thinking. But you try and scramble eggs mixed with soy sauce and see if you don't end up with a plate full of, well, brownish-brackish-looking slop. Thank goodness there are those little bits and pieces of pink shrimp to brighten things a bit, but still, I know this dish won't be winning any beauty contests any time soon.

And that's just fine. I'm used to comfort food looking gorgeous, though that may be my cultural chauvinism talking - after all, I think tomatoes in any form are superstars - but it's about time I settled down and realized that comfort food isn't always pretty. What it can be is, um, comforting and warm and perfectly balanced between salty and plain - a mishmash of elements that make eating dinner feel like being coddled.

I made this after bringing my mother to the airport (an absolute pleasure, if that can be believed, now that I live in Queens) - when I got home again, Ben wasn't there yet and the apartment felt empty - lonely, for the first time. My mother's presence, so tangible just hours before, had vanished with nothing but a faint whisp of her fragrance hanging in the air. There were other signs of her, too, the precise ordering of the detritus on our dresser top, the neat pile of old newspapers in a corner of the office, all the loose buttons on my pants and Ben's tightened once again.

Normally, I would have made spaghetti with tomato sauce to soothe the sting of saying goodbye, but we'd had it for lunch (how's this for weird - making a dish your mother taught you and having her ask you when it's time to throw in the basil). What I wanted and needed was something swift and simple and there's nothing like Chinese (pseudo or not) to cheer you up when things are threatening to look stormy.  So a pot of boiled rice came together easily enough, and sauteeing shrimp with beaten eggs and soy sauce wasn't much harder.

It was a good dinner, nothing spectacular, but it was interesting and warmed our bellies, slipped a comforting arm around my shoulder and squeezed. It was a relief to have Ben home at the table with me finally, filling up the apartment. We ate our little dinner, alone for the first time in a week, and laughed about our mothers and our families. A good night, unexpectedly.

(It's funny how eggs become a conduit for all things - good and bad. The flavors of earthy truffles or delicate chives are amplified in a pile of beaten eggs. So, too, the faintly saline quality of tender little shrimp. Make sure your soy sauce and sesame oil are good and fresh, otherwise you risk eating eggs that have an edge of unpleasantness to them. And don't let your eyes be bigger than your stomach. This dish will serve four and no more - not because of ample portions, but because the richness will fill you up before you know it.)

Scrambled Eggs with Shrimp
Serves 4

3/4 cup raw shrimp, peeled
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 tablespoons peanut oil, corn oil or butter
8 eggs
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1/2 cup chopped scallions
Chopped fresh cilantro leaves for garnish, optional

1. Devein shrimp if you like; if large, cut into bite-size pieces. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

2. Put oil or butter in a large skillet, preferably nonstick or cast iron, and turn heat to medium. When hot, add shrimp. Cook, stirring, until shrimp is somewhat pink. Beat eggs in a bowl with soy sauce and sesame oil.

3. Turn heat to medium high and add eggs and scallions. Cook, scraping pan with a rubber spatula. Fold eggs over themselves, breaking up curds. If mixture clumps, remove it from heat and stir, then return to heat.

4. When eggs are creamy, adjust seasoning, garnish if you like and serve immediately.

Deborah Madison's Pan-Glazed Tofu with Orange Juice and Warm Spices

In the last 62 hours, I have eaten:

1. Six bags of mini pretzels on four different flights.

2. Half a Subway sandwich whilst watching my cousin prepare for her wedding.

3. My very first Quiznos sub, which I hope and pray will be my very last Quiznos sub, at the Denver airport.

4. One steak dinner at the aforementioned wedding, while fielding far too many questions about my marital plans. (When your only female cousin gets married, prepare yourself for the hot seat, apparently).

5. Half of the world's most delicious blueberry scone at Brick and Bell Cafe in La Jolla. (Seriously, World's Most Delicious Scone Ever. I need that recipe. Need need need. And the other half of that scone, too.)

6. A bowlful of week-old cherries at 1:00 am this morning, standing up in the dark kitchen with eyes half-closed in exhaustion.

My first home-cooked meal in a week tonight, then? Plain rice, steamed zucchini, and tofu. I glazed the tofu with an easy, little sauce of orange juice and spices, which was nice, though not as good as this one. We ate in relieved and silent exhaustion and made a vow never to fly to California for less than three days again.

And if we do, we're bringing snacks. Vegetables and snacks.

Pan-Glazed Tofu with Orange Juice and Warm Spices
Serves 2

1 one-pound package firm or extra-firm tofu
1/3 cup orange juice
1/3 cup chicken stock
1 teaspoon brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Cayenne pepper to taste
Salt to taste
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
Minced parsley or cilantro for garnish

1. Cut tofu widthwise into eight 1/2-inch-thick slices. Blot tofu dry between layers of paper towels. Combine juice, stock, sugar, spices and salt in a small bowl and set aside.

2. Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet until shimmering. Add tofu and cook over medium heat until golden brown, 6 to 7 minutes. Turn, and cook about 5 minutes more.

3. Add orange juice mixture to pan and simmer, turning tofu once, until liquid reduces to a thick syrup, about 2 minutes. Transfer tofu to platter, and scrape pan glaze over tofu. Garnish and serve immediately.

Amanda Hesser's Revueltos con Chorizo

This is the only thing I've cooked since Thursday (not including Ben's birthday cake, but more on that later). It's been a busy couple of days around here! Surprise out-of-town birthday guests, a dinner for 24 people, the advent (at last!) of spring so glorious that I felt like a puppy when we went outside, just itching to rub my body up against the sunshine.

But back to the eggs. I feel like this hardly counts as a recipe. And furthermore, improbably, I cannot find the actual clipped recipe (from the NY Times Magazine a few years ago, when Amanda also wrote about Fluffy Orange Shortcake, remember?) I had luckily committed to memory and then stashed away somewhere. It's driving me a little nuts. I keep telling myself you won't mind if I wing it for you. And you won't, will you? It tasted awfully good when I winged it (wung it?) on Thursday, so here goes nothing.

You take some of your dried Spanish chorizo lying in your fridge. (Doesn't everyone have a link of Palacios chorizo hanging out in there? If not, you should. Don't make the mistake I made once of letting my chorizo sit in the cupboard for a week or two or three only to find it then entirely covered in an even white layer of fuzzy mold. Right as I was about to start cooking.) You slice 9 or 10 small discs of the stuff. You put these in a pan (nonstick or stainless steel, whatever your poison), turn the heat on low and let the fragrant, orange fat render out for a bit. In the meantime, you very lightly beat together two or three eggs (depending on your age, height and sex, I suppose). Let there still be some nicely separated globs of yolk and white. When there looks to be enough fat in the pan, pour in the eggs. Using a rubber spatula, turn the eggs and the chorizo together a few times. Let the curds develop on the larger side, then turn off the heat when the eggs still look moist. The whole process shouldn't take more than a minute or two.

The scrambled eggs will be plump and streaked with orange. The dark red chorizo discs will peek out from the billowy folds of egg. You'll pile the lot on a plate (For me, it goes without saying that this is a single-girl's or guy's dinner, but I'm sure there are many of you out there with partners who would happily eat this for dinner, too.), settle down on the couch with a glass of wine (or a heel of crusty bread), and dig into the creamy, salty, porky eggs that have soft pockets and crispy edges and satisfy your hunger entirely.

Delicious.

And that birthday cake? Comes courtesy of Martha Stewart, and fulfills many people's expectations of the quintessential chocolate birthday cake (three layers, glossy frosting, crazy chocolate flavor). The first time I made this, I brought it to Central Park for my friend Emily's birthday. The Met was performing in the park and the place was crammed with people. Near where my friends and I had set up camp, a few couples sat and entertained a toddler. After I pulled out the candle-bedecked cake, we realized that the little toddler had waddled over to us and was standing behind our circle, transfixed by the towering cake. Mesmerized.  Couldn't take her eyes off the thing. We asked her parents if we could give her a piece of the cake, and they said it was fine as long as they got to have some as well.

Before long, the cake was being eaten by a far larger crowd than I had originally expected. My head got fat with everyone's compliments while opera singers warbled in the background and New York felt like a little village filled with happy people. It was Emily's birthday, but I felt like I had won the lottery. It was July 2001.

Melissa Clark's Fake Baked Beans

It's no secret that I have a penchant for canned baked beans. On certain days, those squidgy beans oozing all over my dinner plate are the only thing that will do. Paired with steamed broccoli, they're a soothing time machine to my youth and something like soul medicine. I've done baked beans from scratch the James Beard way, and while the challenge was fun, I realized that that fancy version would never be able to live up to my beloved stuff in a can.

That might have been liberating knowledge, but something else nagged at me. After all, reading the ingredient label on those cans was never a good time. The amount of sugar sort of alarmed me. Besides, somewhere out there people were doctoring their cans of beans and that totally intrigued me. (Is this an official low point? Admitting that doctoring beans is intriguing to me? I have to hope I'm not alone.) Could there be a middle ground - somewhere between totally-from-scratch beans and the sugar-dredged canned ones?

There could be and there was.

Melissa Clark, in her new column at the New York Times, wrote about her version of homemade baked beans last week. But since I'd already gone the dried bean route, I decided to make the more streamlined version of her recipe. I dumped a few cans of pinto beans (I like them better than white beans) with their liquid (shudder) into a pot along with a pungent slurry of ketchup, vinegar, dried mustard, Tabasco sauce and pepper. And since I've always been used to vegetarian baked beans, I eschewed the bacon in Melissa's beans for a knife-tip of smoked pimenton de la vera. I brought the mixture to a simmer and let the whole thing cook gently until the liquid reduced.

I put a sticky ladleful of beans into a bowl and dug in. Somewhat skeptically, I might add. How could such a simple process result in anything as good as factory-produced baked beans? Just to be on the safe side, I also made a bowlful of Molly's escarole salad. Vitamins and a back-up dinner (awfully tasty, I might add), should the need arise.

Oh, I can be such a fool.

Because - spicy, smoky, sweet and complex - these were some seriously good canned beans. Fast, cheap, easy, wholesome and entirely homemade. So I didn't soak those pellet-y little beans for endless hours and then cook them into oblivion! Big deal. I can't believe I might never buy canned baked beans again.

Fake Baked Beans
Serves 4

3 15-ounce cans of pinto beans
1/4 cup ketchup
1/4 cup molasses
3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
1 1/2 teaspoons dry mustard powder
1/4 teaspoon Tabasco sauce, or to taste
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
A pinch of smoked Spanish paprika

1. Put the beans, with their liquid, in a pot. In a small bowl, mix together ketchup, molasses, vinegar, mustard powder, Tabasco and pepper. Pour mixture into beans and stir well.

2. Bring everything to a simmer. Let simmer over low heat until beans are thickened, about 30 to 45 minutes. Season with salt if needed.

Deborah Madison's Pan-Glazed Tofu with Thai Red Curry Sauce

There's nothing like going to see an Almodovar movie by yourself on a Sunday night. Resplendant actresses with perpetually tear-filled eyes and glorious bosoms, foul-mouthed declarations of love, music that makes your throat swell, gallows humor - it's all so beautiful that one can get downright melancholy.

I walked out of the movie theater late last night, my eyes still sort of wet, holding my little plastic shopping bag that contained one packet of tofu, one can of coconut milk, a sackful of green beans, and a lime. I'd done my grocery shopping before the movie, not remembering that after an Almodovar movie, the only thing you really feel like eating is a spicy bowl of gazpacho and a ham sandwich (Serrano, of course). Or, if someone else is cooking, a huge paella crammed with briny clams and tender octopus and savory chorizo and green flashes of peas, I suppose.

But a new-fangled, single-girl meal of Asian-inflected tofu? Dios mio. I can't see Raimunda eating that stuff for dinner.

Still, I couldn't very well go shopping all over again, and where was I going to find Serrano ham on a Sunday night, anyway? Tofu it'd have to be. But, oh, it felt awfully unromantic to be blotting tofu slices with paper towels when all I wanted to do was chop vegetables and weep into my cutting board (of course, it would have helped things if I'd been wearing a pencil skirt and Wonderbra, instead of my Sunday uniform of jeans and a lumpy sweater).

I'd had this recipe from the New York Times clipped for years, but since Ben refuses to knowingly eat anything with fish sauce in it, I'd had to save it for a night when I'd be eating alone. Brandishing my knife as sexily (and safely!) as possible, I sliced my block of extra-firm tofu into equal pieces and blotted them dry, before whisking together coconut milk, the fish sauce, lime juice, some sugar, a spoonful of Thai red curry paste and hot chicken broth.

I browned the tofu gently in the pan, then added the pale orange sauce (which bubbled up alarmingly) and reduced it to a syrupy glaze (this actually took more than 2 minutes, as Madison directs you, but no more than 4 minutes, because then you're left with very little sauce and as anyone who eats tofu knows, not enough sauce can be a Very Bad Thing Indeed).

With a small pile of patna rice and some steamed green beans drizzled with toasted sesame oil, it was a fine dinner and one I'll certainly make again. The tofu was appealingly creamy and tender on the inside, while the outside crust had a nice chew to it. The sauce was spicy and exotic, and nicely balanced with the whole sweet, sour, salty, hot thing. It wasn't the most authentic meal I'll ever cook, but for a Sunday night by myself (and as leftovers today), it was quite good.

Would I rather have been eating morcilla? Perhaps. But then again, I'd also like to look like Penelope Cruz. With the morcilla thing, I'll just have to be patient (we're going to Spain for a few days this summer). With the Penelope thing, I'll just have to be happy that Ben doesn't like Almodovar. Because who could compete with a woman like that?

Pan-Glazed Tofu with Thai Red Curry Sauce
Serves 2 to 4

1 one-pound package firm or extra-firm tofu
1/4 cup coconut milk
1/4 cup chicken stock
1 tablespoon fish sauce
1 tablespoon lime juice
1 teaspoon Thai red curry paste
1 teaspoon sugar
1 tablespoon peanut oil
Minced cilantro for garnish

1. Cut tofu widthwise into eight 1/2-inch-thick slices. Blot tofu dry between layers of paper towels.

2. Combine coconut milk, stock, fish sauce, lime juice, curry paste and sugar in small bowl, and set aside.

3. Heat oil in large nonstick skillet until shimmering. Add tofu, and cook over medium heat until golden brown, 6 to 7 minutes. Turn and cook about 5 minutes more.

4. Add coconut milk mixture to pan and simmer, turning tofu once, until liquid reduces to thick syrup and tofu is glazed, about 2 minutes. Transfer tofu to serving platter, and scrape the glaze left in pan over tofu. Garnish with minced cilantro and serve immediately.

Michel Richard's Collard Greens and Lentils

Welcome to 2007! It's not that bad so far, is it? Well, it's oddly warm here, which is mildly terrifying, and I'm currently nursing the combination of both a hangover and a small case of jetlag, which actually manages to be even worse than it sounds, but on the whole I'd have to say that I'm looking forward to this new year of ours.

In the grand tradition of Italians, Southerners and apparently the Irish, we prepared for the end-of-year festivities yesterday by eating a lunch of stewed greens and lentils. I thought the tradition was just in the lentils (legumes equal money, didn't you know), but it turns out that leafy greens carry the same significance in other cultures. And do you know who I learned this from? Mark Bittman! On the Today Show this morning! Yes, this is what waking up drunk and jetlagged on New Year's Day will do to you: you will find yourself watching Ann, Al and Meredith stuffing cabbage with the Minimalist as you sit bleary-eyed at home on your couch, marveling at their composure (and ability to walk a straight line), while wishing you'd had the wherewithal to have an actual dinner before, or even after, consuming those numerous glasses of Champagne the night before.

As that last sentence might indicate, I'm not sure I've entirely recovered.

But anyway, our lunch. The recipe came from an impressive article in the LA Times a couple years ago about a fantasy Thanksgiving feast that would be made up of contributions from famous chefs (Judy Rodgers' bread salad, Sherry Yard's pumpkin torte, Thomas Keller's shrimp appetizer, and so on, you get the picture). Michel Richard, the famous man behind Citronelle in Washington DC and the author of Happy In The Kitchen, contributed a recipe for long-cooked collard greens and chewy lentils that to me seemed far better suited for a simple weekend lunch than as a side player on the Thanksgiving table.

A plateful of this stewy stuff with a piece of cracklingly fresh bread - why would you want anything else? On some days, that's all you need. It was just so good. So simple and earthy and good. There's just enough prep work to make you feel happily industrious, but then the bulk of the cooking is done in the oven while you are free to contemplate a pedicure or finish that book you started two weeks ago, or draw up a list of thank you cards to write or just sit and gaze at your boyfriend because for a week you couldn't and now you can again. Then you pull out the pot, stir in the balsamic vinegar (which really makes this dish) and think that while the lentils and greens might bring you fortune, you're already quite happy with all that you've got.

So, isn't that extra nice? A good meal and some deep thoughts? I think this recipe's a keeper. (My only caution to you all is that the original recipes says this will serve 6 as a side course, but Ben and I polished it off for lunch alone and - er - sort of battled each other for the last spoonfuls. Those greens really cook down.)

And now I've got to go figure out my dinner plans and take about seven Advil. It's a good thing New Year's Eve comes but once a year.

Collard Greens and Lentils
Serves 2 as a main course

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 onion, diced
1/4 pound bacon, cut in thin strips
1 pound collard greens or mixed collard and mustard greens, ribs removed, chopped
2 cups chicken stock
3/4 cup green Le Puy lentils or other lentils
Salt and pepper
Balsamic vinegar

1. Heat the oven to 250 degrees. Heat the olive oil in a large Dutch oven or ovenproof pot and saute the onion over medium heat until it becomes translucent and begins to soften, about 3 minutes. Add the bacon and cook until it softens, about 5 minutes. Remove the pot from the heat and remove any excess oil by patting the bacon with a paper towel.

2. Return the pot to the heat and add half the greens. This will fill the pot, but as you cook, stirring frequently, the leaves will wilt and shrink. When there is enough room, add the remaining greens and the chicken stock. Stir to mix evenly.

3. Cover the pot and place it in the oven to cook until the greens are well stewed and deeply fragrant, about 1 and 1/2 hours.

4. Add the lentils, stir, cover and return the pot to the oven until the lentils are tender but still a little chewy, about 40 to 45 minutes.

5. Season to taste with salt and pepper and stir in 1 tablespoon of balsamic vinegar. Taste and add a little more vinegar if necessary. Serve immediately.

Paula Wolfert's Hummus

I may never buy hummus again. And after reading this, you may join me. Because once I (and thereby you) figured out how easy, cheap, and ridiculously delicious homemade hummus is, I decided to turn my back on the prefabricated stuff and am never looking back. That's it! I'm done.

This summer, the LA Times ran a story about the best hummus in Los Angeles just weeks after a similar story ran in the New York Times. But what made the LA Times article stand out was its inclusion of Paula Wolfert's recipe for the homemade stuff at the end. Wolfert, one of the goddesses of Middle Eastern cooking, is another kitchen heroine of mine, but it took me a while to actually make her recipe. It's seriously high-yield, producing 4 whole cups worth of hummus. Even if it would prove to be the best version in the world, how would I ever polish off that much?

Well, it turns out that a birthday party is a pretty good place to answer this question, as you'll have at least 20 people avidly digging in to the hummus plate and yet you'll find, after they've all gone home and you are dejectedly cleaning up and thinking that this year's birthday was even better than the last, that you still have some left over. Which, actually, is just fine as these kinds of leftovers are the good kind and after all, how better to end a birthday week than with a smear of hummus on a second loaf of the No-Knead bread? Which, by the way, I baked in my 4-quart oval Le Creuset, thereby discovering that it's the perfect size and shape for this loaf.

You soak a bunch of dried chickpeas overnight (I bought a bag of roasted, dried chickpeas at BuonItalia, just because they looked...nuttier than the regular ones, but who knows if that made a difference), then simmer them in salted water until they're soft. In the meantime, you make a paste out of salt and garlic, then whizz that in a food processor along with sesame seed paste and what seems like an inordinate amount of lemon juice. Trust the recipe, though! Wolfert says the mixture should look "contracted", which meant nothing to me, but I stopped when it looked like this and that turned out to be fine.

Then you add the drained chickpeas and process the mixture until an improbably creamy mass starts to form. Depending on how loose you like your hummus, you can add cooking liquid and lemon juice. It keeps in the fridge for a few days, though you'll have to add some more water and lemon juice to loosen it up a bit (and let it come to room temperature, because the flavors totally bloom then). I sprinkled mine with paprika and drizzled it with one of the delicious oils in my Alejandro & Martin sampler.

A more appetizing plate of hummus I never did see. And the taste! Fresh and creamy, with a nutty flavor and grassy notes from the oil. The hummus had heft, but was also airy from all the processing. I'm telling you - after you make it, you'll never want storebought hummus again. I'm so glad I tried this recipe. It's like a birthday present from Paula herself. Thanks, Paula!

Hummus
Makes 4 cups

1 1/2 cups dried chickpeas, soaked overnight
1 teaspoon kosher salt, divided
3 garlic cloves, peeled
3/4 cup sesame seed paste
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice, and more to taste
Cayenne or hot Hungarian paprika
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
2 teaspoons olive oil

1. Rinse the soaked chickpeas well and drain them before putting them in a saucepan and covering them with plenty of fresh water. Bring to a boil; skim, add one-half teaspoon salt, cover and cook over medium heat, about 1 1/2 hours, until the chickpeas are very soft (you might need to add more water).

2. Meanwhile, crush the garlic and one-half teaspoon salt in a mortar until pureed. Transfer the puree to the work bowl of a food processor, add the sesame seed paste and lemon juice and process until white and contracted. Add one-half cup water and process until completely smooth.

3. Drain the chickpeas, reserving their cooking liquid. Add the chickpeas to the sesame paste mixture and process until well-blended. For a smoother texture, press the mixture through the fine blade of a food mill. Thin to desired consistency with reserved chickpea liquid. Adjust the seasoning with salt and lemon juice. The hummus can be kept in an airtight container in the fridge for up to a week.) Serve, sprinkled with paprika and parsley and drizzled with oil.

Russ Parsons' Bean and Winter Squash Gratin

Tap tap tap. Anybody here? No? Brining turkeys and peeling chestnuts and pureeing pumpkins? Very good. So, while most of you are working on your own family's meal and while Ben's family is downstairs starting the day's work (I'm coming!), I'll just quickly tell those of you who couldn't give a hoot about Thanksgiving about the delicious bean casserole I made last weekend that is still sitting in my fridge and speaking of which, if you're not doing anything for Thanksgiving, would you mind coming over and liberating me of some of the four pounds of leftovers I couldn't eat, before it goes bad?

Thanks.

Both the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times have writers who cover the greenmarket beat, but I think the LA Times might be winning: how about this article to whet your appetite? I want to make every single thing (except the walnut-cilantro pesto - shudder) Russ writes about. Last weekend, I started with the bean gratin.

I had almost all the ingredients for his bean-butternut gratin in my kitchen, so after a jaunt to the Greenmarket (though it was less of a cheery jaunt and more of a chilly hustle because apparently it's winter now, thanks a lot, Chris Cimino*), I was ready to get cooking. The first step has you boil beans (I used a mix of dried flageolets and dried Great Northern beans) with aromatics and diced bacon. Of course, boiling bacon now always makes me think of Julie and Julia, so I had to suppress a giggle at the memory of Julie's righteous indignation, but that mirth soon turned into something akin to disgust, because have you ever boiled bacon? It is not a pretty smell. In fact, I'd say it's downright barnyardy.

But who am I to question Russ Parsons? No one, that's who.

The beans and bacon boiled away while I did my best to distract myself from the sensation that a pig farm might have cropped up somewhere in the near vicinity of my kitchen (and lest you think I'm exaggerating, I'd like to point out here that I have actually been to a pig farm, in Minnesota no less, and because I became so enamored of a baby piglet that I clutched it to my breast for the duration of our pig-farm excursion, the stench stayed with me for days, so I know what I'm talking about).

Meanwhile, I peeled and cubed a three-pound butternut squash and steamed it. After I complained a few weeks ago about the texture of sauteed squash, I was apprehensive about the textural component in this recipe, but steaming the squash transforms the little cubes into sweet, smooth, melt-in-your-mouth squares, so I needn't have worried.

The rest of the prep was pretty straightforward. I dumped a can of diced tomatoes, sans juice, into the drained, soft beans, crushed the mixture a bit with a wooden spoon, then layered the squash and the beans into a casserole dish before topping them with a "blizzard of garlicky breadcrumbs" (yum). I baked the dish until the apartment filled with the rich scent of meaty beans and the breadcrumbs had crisped to an appetizing golden-brown.

A plateful of this for dinner hit the spot on that cold, blustery night. The beans were tender and melting, the squash was sweet as could be and the tomatoes and bacon added a layer of savory flavor and brightness. The crunchy, garlicky breadcrumbs were evenly distributed with each bite, and I couldn't help but take seconds. And eat more for lunch the next day. And make Ben eat some. And then have more for dinner. After all of this? There was still more than half of the gratin left.

So take my advice on two counts here: first, only make this if you really have a big party to feed. Second, if you like barnyardy pork flavors, then ignore this second point. But if they kind of gross you out, then don't boil the bacon with the beans, just dice and render it until crisp and add the bits to the gratin before it goes in the oven. There you have it.

And now I have to go. Three pies, a turkey, five side dishes and I don't even know what else are needing to be made and the clock is ticking. Happy Thanksgiving!

*Just kidding, Chris. I think you're the bee's knees. Really. So cute! And so accurate. Mostly.

Bean and Winter Squash Gratin
Serves 8

4 slices thick-sliced bacon (about 1/3 pound)
1 cup minced onion
2 cloves garlic, crushed, divided
1 pound pinto or other dried beans
5 cups water
1 teaspoon salt
1 (28-ounce) can tomatoes, drained and chopped
1 tablespoon chopped sage
3 pounds butternut or other winter squash
1/2 stale baguette (to make 2 cups bread crumbs)
1/4 cup plus 2 teaspoons olive oil, divided

1. Chop the bacon into rough squares. Combine with the onion, 1 crushed garlic clove, the beans, water and salt in a heavy pan. Bring to a simmer, then cook, tightly covered, over low heat until the beans are tender, 2 to 2 1/2 hours. Check occasionally; if the beans begin to go dry, add a little more water.

2. When the beans are quite tender, remove from the heat, add the tomatoes and sage and stir very roughly to crush some of the beans (their starch will thicken the liquid).

3. While the beans are cooking, peel the squash, cut it in half and scoop out the seeds. Cut the flesh into one-half-inch dice. Steam the squash over rapidly boiling water until tender, about 7 to 10 minutes. Remove from the steamer and cool slightly before stirring (so cubes retain their shape).

4. Remove the crust from the baguette and coarsely chop the bread. Place it in a blender or food processor with the remaining garlic clove and grind to coarse crumbs.

5. Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Generously brush a 3- to 3 1/2 -quart gratin dish with 2 teaspoons olive oil. Spoon the squash cubes into the dish, being careful not to crush them. Using a slotted spoon, ladle the cooked beans over the top. Add just enough of the bean liquid to cover the bottom of the dish. Stir lightly to combine.

6. Spoon the garlicky bread crumbs over the top, covering the dish in a thick mound. Drizzle with olive oil. Bake until the bread crumbs are deep brown (you will notice the fragrance turning from overtly garlicky to something more complex and beany), about 40 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven and let stand 5 minutes before serving.

Regina Schrambling's Lentil and Duck Salad with Hazelnut Dressing

I don't know if you noticed, but there hasn't been much balance in terms of cooking from both coasts here lately. Although it wasn't done on purpose, it's been all NY Times all the time, and my LA Times recipes have begun to nurse a distinct grudge against me in their little corner. No more! I promise. It's back to fair and balanced.

One of my favorite things about the LA Times food section is their round-up of the year's Top Ten recipes in December each year. You can rest assured that the list is foolproof (remember this cake? and these eggs? Both on the 2005 list) and it's fun to read about what the editors loved the most. It humanizes the section, and the writers, which is something I find often lacking in the pages of the NY Times.

Regina Schrambling wrote an article about different lentil varieties last year and included this dish that features classic French combinations of frisee, duck confit, little green lentils and a mustard vinaigrette. It's an elegant main-course salad that's also quite satisfying and hearty. I love salads that have warm and cool components, varying textures and a whole layer of flavors, and this salad has all of those things.

There's a lightly dressed tangle of barely bitter frisee topped with a warm mound of delicate, herbed lentils and shredded duck confit (broiled for a bit so that you have tender meat and crispy skin and a few unctuous bits of duck fat mixed in there) that's been dressed with the same mustard vinaigrette. The whole thing is topped off with a shower of browned, chopped hazelnuts that provide crunch and a warm, toasty flavor (underlined if you're using hazelnut oil in the dressing).

Despite all the separate components, everything comes together so quickly and easily that you have no excuse for not making this (well, duck confit can be rather expensive, so that's a hinderance, but I suppose you could always go all Paula Wolfert and make your own to cut costs). And despite the hearty pieces of duck, this is actually a relatively light meal. And pretty. And so French. What's not to love?

Lentil and Duck Salad with Hazelnut Dressing
Serves 4

1 cup French green lentils
1 leek, white part only, cleaned well and diced
4 cloves garlic, peeled
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon salt, plus additional to taste
1 carrot, peeled
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons Champagne vinegar or white wine vinegar
1/4 cup hazelnut oil (I used olive oil)
2 confit duck legs
1/4 cup chopped chives
1 tablespoon chopped tarragon
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
1 small head frisée, washed, dried well and torn into 1-inch pieces
1/4 cup toasted, skinned and coarsely chopped hazelnuts

1. Pick over the lentils to remove any stones. Rinse well in a fine sieve under cold running water. Place in a medium saucepan. Add the leek, garlic, bay leaves and 1 teaspoon salt.

2. Cut the carrot in half crosswise, then lengthwise and add to the pot. Add cold water to cover by 2 inches.

3. Bring to a boil, stirring often. Reduce the heat to very low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the lentils are just tender but still firm, 17 to 20 minutes. Do not overcook. Remove from heat and drain well.

4. While the lentils cook, heat the oven to 500 degrees. Whisk together the mustard and vinegar in a small bowl. Whisk in the oil to emulsify.

5. Discard the bay leaves, garlic and carrot from the lentils. Combine the lentils and all but 1 tablespoon of the vinaigrette in a shallow bowl, mixing well. Set aside in a warm spot.

6. Lay the duck legs on a foil-lined broiler pan. Broil them 6 inches from the heat source, turning once, until the skin is well crisped and the meat is warmed through, about 10 to 15 minutes. Using a fork and knife, shred or chop the meat and skin into rough pieces, trimming excess fat.

7. Add the meat to the lentils and mix well. Add the chives and tarragon and salt and pepper to taste.

8. To serve, toss the frisée with the remaining 1 tablespoon vinaigrette and distribute it among 4 salad plates. Top with the lentil mixture. Sprinkle with hazelnuts.

Daniel Patterson's Poached Scrambled Eggs

I hope you aren't too disappointed that I chose to break two weeks of silence by featuring the lowly scrambled egg. It's anti-climactic, I know. But after such a long absence from my kitchen, I had to ease my way back into it. Well, that, and the fact that I had no fresh milk (or soy) for breakfast this morning, so eggs it had to be.

In January, Daniel Patterson wrote an article in the New York Times Magazine about his new version for scrambling eggs in an attempt to skirt the usual trouble that eggs present when scrambled in stainless steel pans (mess), and the inevitable health issues that come up when you think about scrambling eggs in nonstick pans (death by deformity, or something).

I clipped this article, though the technique and the reasons for its creation did seem a bit ridiculous (since when has a chef balked at the mess a measly egg or two makes when scrambled in a regular pan?). And it took me 10 months to get around to trying the recipe out, which probably says something, too. This morning, though, it finally seemed like the right time. I needed breakfast and I had nothing else in the house.

So, I cracked two eggs (hardly fresh) into a fine sieve, let the "thin" albumen drain out, then transfered the thick albumen and yolks into a bowl, at which point I was instructed to beat them for 20 seconds. After bringing four inches of water to a boil, and lightly salting the water, I created a whirpool with a spoon, poured in the beaten eggs, put the top on, and counted another 20 seconds. I turned off the heat, removed the top, and voila! A stormcloud of scrambled eggs.

I gently drained the eggs, and then slid them onto a plate. Clean-up was swift and easy, yes, but the eggs? They had a delicate, trembly texture, which was lovely (and which you can sort of see in the picture above), but very little taste. Although I had drained the eggs and pressed on them to get more water out of them, they tasted much like hot, salty water. Oh, and olive oil. A disappointing breakfast (though I remedied that with the last of the frozen corn pancakes from the summer), to say the least.

The verdict is that I'd much rather deal with that irritating film that cooked eggs leave behind in a stainless steel pan (but have a pile of flavorful, creamy eggs to savor) than to have an antiseptically clean kitchen (post-cooking, no less!) and insipid eggs on my plate. And in other news? I'm so glad to be home again! I missed my bloggy blog and my dear readers. Hope you've all been well!

Poached Scrambled Eggs
Serves 2

4 large eggs
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil (optional)
Fine sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper.

1. Crack each egg into a medium-mesh sieve (or narrow-slotted spoon), letting the thin white drain away. Transfer the remaining yolk and white to a small bowl. Beat the eggs vigorously with a fork for 20 seconds.

2. Set a medium saucepan filled with 4 inches of water over moderate heat. Put a strainer in the sink. When the water is at a low boil, add a few large pinches of salt, then stir in a clockwise direction to create a whirlpool. Pour the eggs into the moving water, cover the pot and count to 20.

3. Turn off the heat and uncover the pot. The eggs should be floating on the surface in ribbons. While holding back the eggs with a spoon, pour off most of the water over the strainer. Gently slide the eggs into the strainer and press them lightly to expel any excess liquid.

4. Scoop the eggs into bowls, drizzle with olive oil if desired and season with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Variations: Serve with butter; smoked paprika; piment d'Espelette; or a spoonful of crème fraîche and a dollop of caviar.