The best thought was that I need to write more about the world, and less about me. (But if I write it as I see it, aren’t I still writing about me?) Either way, I need to write, so you see the conundrum. When I’m not writing, I am not at my best. But I find myself a rather dull subject after a while. I’m working on it.

But anyway, I’ll share some opinions. I love leeks, and I love my drive to school: this is Beaver Meadow Road. You see how beautiful it is–and how one might want to spend 1,000 words describing it. But I won’t.

I won’t spend 1,000 words on this, either. But it’s just a few feet up. Can you imagine?

Nor will I spend so much on leeks. But I will say this: you will never be dissatisfied if you keep a few leeks and a carton of eggs on hand. And some parsley, garlic and parmesan. This works well on the days (weeks) when you can’t drive to the grocery store. I had a day like that recently and was grateful for my leeks. They are better to eat than canned beans. But I must say, the leeks pictured came from a market in the fall… I’ve eaten many since and would’t advise storing them for quite that long.

I love the circles that leeks make when you cut them, and the colors fading from dark green to pale white. I love the way they get brown in a pan and the way they smell with butter. They go soft and sweet, and are more delicate than their onion cousins.

Leek Frittata

2 leeks, sliced thinly cross-wise and well rinsed (whites and light greens only, please!)

1 T butter

6 eggs

White wine (1/2 c, maybe)

1/2 c grated parmesan cheese or parrano, sliced thin

2 T chopped parsley

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Preheat oven to 350.

Wash them leeks! Really. You’ll ruin the whole thing if there’s sand in a leek, and leeks love to be sandy.

Heat your butter until brown and delicious-smelling, then saute leeks until beautifully golden (this should take time–do it slowly).

Add some white wine if you can and saute some more.

In a separate bowl, beat your eggs with salt and pepper. Add parsley.

If you prefer, you can put the cheese in now, or gently lay it over the eggs before baking.

Place leeks in a a round, oven-proof dish big enough for this sort of thing. (You can also use your skillet.)

Pour eggs over leeks and cover with cheese.

Bake about 20 minutes, though you may need more.

I usually eat this with some toast or little baked potatoes and a green salad. (And I like the dressing from this salad.)

I have done this for many days, in many forms. I’m addicted to the zip zing of crystalized ginger, the crunch of a toasted nut, and the richness of oats crisped up in almond butter. I eat it with almond milk, with yogurt, sometimes sprinkled over oatmeal…or over ice cream. I ate it while flipping note cards and textbook pages, and now I eat it over the paper, or in a Ball Jar with milk in my cubicle at the DA’s office. I am always careful to put on my suit coat after I take the last spoonful, so that there’s no dribble of milk on my buttons. And then, I head up to Court 10 for the fugitive docket.

Can you imagine a better way of reminding yourself… “Hey! Life could be worse?” Sometimes I shudder at the memory of eating breakfast while trying to understand the Rule Against Perpetuities. But then I remind myself…there could be a warrant out for me somewhere.

But seriously, this stuff is so good, it should be criminal.

Almond Ginger Granola

2 c oats

1 c canola oil

1/2 c honey

1 c almond butter

1/2 c almond slivers, toasted

1/2 c dried cranberries (optional)

1/3 c crystalized ginger, chopped

2 t cinnamon (optional)

1 t salt (& more to taste)

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Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine honey, oil and almond milk in a small sauce pan on very low heat.

Stir constantly until mixture is just warm enough to be thinned out.

Pour almond butter mixture over oats, add salt and cinnamon and stir until combined.

Bake 10 minutes, then rotate pan and stir oats.

Bake 5 more minutes, and if mixture looks golden, add nuts. (If not, bake a bit more.)

Toss and bake a final 5 minutes.

Stir in ginger and cranberries and cool: do not transfer to a jar or container until mixture is cool, or granola will get soggy.

Store in a Ball Jar for up to 2 weeks.

Sometimes the only ambition you need is a heap of browning bananas.

Both Christopher and I recently both bought bunches, and the next thing I knew, our kitchen was overcome with the smell of very ripe fruit. I came home one afternoon and realized I had to put away (or put up) five bananas before the morning, or I might not get any at all. Another neglected foodstuff came quickly to mind. And so breakfast for the week was born.

And then breakfast for another week. And snacks. I made my latest batch into muffins, so they could be toted around or easily frozen. I haven’t had to save any yet, though. I think I’ll probably just make a batch of muffins every Sunday, and finish them off by Friday. Aside for the time this loaf is in the oven, it takes longer to wash the two bowls than to use them for mixing. And there’s not a single, regrettable item in the batter.  Unless you don’t like bananas or buckwheat.

Buckwheat Banana Bread

Makes 8 slices or 12 muffins

1/2 cup buckwheat flour
1/4 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup oats (toast lightly in a dry skillet until golden)
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 c toasted, chopped walnuts or pecans (plus extra for garnish) 
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 c birch sugar (or 1 c regular sugar)
5 ripe bananas, 4 mashed + 1 sliced for garnish
2 large eggs, whisked
1 c plain yogurt

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Pre-heat the oven to 350.

Mix the flours, oats, salt and spices in a medium-sized bowl.

Mix the mashed banana, sugar and yogurt in a large bowl.

Add the flour to the wet ingredients and stir gently to combine.

Pour the batter into a greased and floured bread pan.

Garnish with sliced bananas and nuts, and bake for 35-45 minutes.

(If you do these as muffins, bake only 20-25 minutes.)

Thank you, citrus, for gleaming through these gray winter months. I’ve got an appointment to have my teeth cleaned soon, and I’m sure my dentist will admonish me for my very much eroded enamel, but what can I say? A grapefruit a day keeps the blues away. It certainly has for me. Scurvy will wreak no havoc on this body—I’ve eaten at least two citrus fruits each day since Christmas, without fail. And when I’m working my way through a box of Clementines, that number jumps to at least four.

I love the way my hands smell after a meal punctuated by citrus: I feel instantly awake, clean, refreshed. Mostly I eat it plain, peeled and pulled apart, segment by segment. But sometimes, when I’m in the mood to light candles, buy flowers and treat myself right, I’ll prepare myself a proper platter, presented with care and perhaps a few herbs.

This dish was inspired once again by Mark Bittman, who I am coming to like, more and more, despite the absence of a carrot cake recipe in his tome, “How to Cook EVERYTHING.” (I’m sorry Mark, but a carrot cake is definitely SOMETHING. Note to self: Never write a cookbook that sets such high expectations.)  He wrote about a citrus salad a few weeks ago in the Times, and I thought it was a nice idea: a good start to a lunch that might include some fine Greek yogurt drizzled with honey and cinnamon—which is often how I take my grapefruit, actually. It also makes a fine dessert, finished with a hunk of gingered dark chocolate. But then again, doesn’t everything end well with gingered dark chocolate?

On a recent Saturday afternoon after the farmer’s market, I decided to try my own rendition of Bittman’s sweet salad, putting to use some beautiful Texas-grown grapefruits and oranges. I had dill lying about and some walnuts and honey, so I candied the nuts and sprinkled some fine sprigs across the top of the sliced salad for garnish. A bit of green really adds to the look and the sweet, salty crunch of the walnuts is well worth the effort it takes to dress them up a little.

There is something to be said for eating with the eyes: other than the occasional grapefruit and avocado salad, I’ve rarely taken the time ‘present’ a grapefruit to myself, but oh did its careful slices look lovely when pricked with the tines of a silver fork. The little ritual made my Saturday afternoon something special: farm-to-table at its prettiest and most diginified. Get it while winter lasts…

Citrus Salad with Candied Walnuts and Dill

Serves 1

1 grapefruit
1 orange (try this with clementines, blood oranges or tangerines, also)
¼ c chopped walnuts (hazelnuts could be good…)
2 T honey, divided
2 T olive oil, divided
1 t white or red wine vinegar
½ tsp salt
dill for garnish (mint would work well also)

Prepare the dressing:

Mix honey and vinegar in a small bowl. Whisk in olive oil in a slow stream, until emulsified. Set aside.

Prepare the walnuts:

Place 1 T olive oil and 1 T honey in a sauté pan until hot.

Add walnuts and stir to coat.

Cook until brown, (this happens quickly) then remove from heat and set aside.

Prepare the salad:

Gently slice the rinds from the citrus fruits, and carefully slice into ¼” segments.

Arrange on a plate and drizzle with dressing.

Sprinkle with herbs and nuts and serve immediately.

This recipe is the one I make when I need to make an impression. Since carrot cake seems relatively innocuous, nobody thinks you’re being a show-off. Plus, it’s so easy, you literally can’t ruin it. I’ll explain…

I once made this cake for a faux-Thanksgiving and accidentally used flour in lieu of half of the confectioner’s sugar called for in the recipe, (never mix-up your Mason jars) but even so, people ate it up. Not just to be polite, although I think it went down a little easier since so much wine had been imbibed.

Another time, I made this for a real Thanksgiving dinner at my in-laws house. Needless to say, I neglected to flour the greased pan, and ended up removing the cake in chunks. Even so, it was incredible: nothing like a thick cream cheese frosting to layer into your dough and glue things right up.

What I’m saying is that this cake simply can’t be ruined, even if you commit the most egregious of cooking errors. And when you do it right, it’s mind-blowing.

I recently had a Sunday afternoon to spend with my friend Katelyn, and we decided to make this in a more diminutive form–the kind that’s easily shared and wins you lots of friends and fans. Every crumb of our cupcakes seemed suspended in air, or perhaps a lattice-work of carrot and coconut shreds. There was the occasional walnut to add texture and the slight tartness of the cream cheese did wonders for off-setting the sweetness of the caramelized batter.

The recipe below is copied almost exactly from Saveur, although I like to add 1/4 c of maple syrup to the batter and sprinkle toasted coconut on top of the finished product (usually 1/2 cup will do). When I do this as a full-sized cake, I bake 2 rounds, double the frosting and make a layer cake with walnuts along the sides and coconut on top.

Carrot Cake (Cupcakes)

Makes 24

BATTER:

Nonstick cooking spray
2 cups sugar
1 1⁄2 cups canola oil
3 eggs
2 cups flour
2 tsp. ground cinnamon
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. fine salt
1  8-oz. can crushed pineapple, undrained
1  7-oz. bag shredded sweetened coconut
1 cup finely chopped walnuts
2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 large carrots, trimmed and finely shredded (about 2 cups)

ICING:

3 cups confectioners’ sugar
3⁄4 lb. cream cheese, softened
8 tbsp. salted butter, softened
1⁄2 tsp. vanilla extract

CAKE: Preheat oven to 350°.

Fill 12 cupcake tins with liners. (You’ll do this twice.)

Put sugar, oil, and eggs into a large bowl and whisk until well combined.

Add flour, cinnamon, baking soda, and salt and stir with a wooden spoon until just mixed together into a batter.

Add pineapple with juice, coconut, walnuts, vanilla, and carrots and gently fold together until combined.

Transfer batter to prepared pan, smooth top with a rubber spatula, and bake until deep golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the middle of the cake comes out clean, 50–55 minutes. Set cake aside to let cool completely.

ICING: Put sugar, cream cheese, butter, and vanilla into a large bowl and beat with an electric mixer until fluffy, 4–5 minutes.

Generously frost each cupcake (once cooled) and sprinkle the top with toasted coconut.

The first time my mother made it this year (it’s most satisfying in the cold), Christopher and I were en route from a late flight for Thanksgiving. We debated grabbing something from the new–very culinary–Kennedy Jet Blue terminal, but were convinced to hold off. When we finally arrived at home, it was 10:30 and we were numb with hunger. I didn’t tell Christopher what was waiting: he doesn’t like sweet vegetables and I was sure he’d envision some purée of maple syrup, apples and cinnamon, which seem to be prominent ingredients in most squash soups. Fortunately, the deep curry and herbs disguise the sugar and starch typical of so many root vegetables. This soup is subtly spiced, rich from a ham-hock and fit for those with a hankering for savory food. In fact, if it weren’t so orange, you might not even recognize its main ingredient.

On another note, Christopher and I are going to Paris tomorrow. Last night I started reading Paris Was Ours and woke myself up with excitement at 3:30am. Fortunately, I had a generous nap, but I haven’t been so excited for a trip in as long as I can remember. I will be heading to E. Dehillerin, on the recommendation of Christopher’s grandmother. Her suggestion reminded me of a quote I recently read  by Florence King: “A house without a grandmother is like an egg without salt.” I can’t wait to eat hardboiled eggs in little french cups with little french spoons. Copper pots aren’t bad either… neither are croissantes, the Musée d’Orsay, Shakespeare and Company or the smell of wooden cathedral pews, smoothed through years of use.

Curried Squash Soup

Adapted (by memory) from Green on Greens

1 medium-sized butter nut squash, cubed

2 T butter

5 scallions, thinly sliced

1 green pepper, diced

1 red pepper, diced

2-3 garlic cloves, chopped (depending on their size and your taste)

1 ham-hock (1/4 lb of salt pork could also work–add it at the beginning with less butter)

2 qts chicken broth

1/2 c chopped basil

1/4 c chopped parsley

–

Melt the butter in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet until brown and bubbling.

Add the scallions and peppers and sauté until soft, about 7 minutes.

Add garlic and squash and sauté a few minutes more, just until garlic begins to brown.

Add chicken stock and ham hock and bring to a boil.

Lower the heat and cook until squash softens, 45 minutes.

Add herbs and cook another 5 minutes.

Blends, or pass through a food mill, being careful not to cause any explosions.

Serve with a small spoonful of crème fraîche or additional herbs.

This soup is nothing to mess with. It is loaded with vitamins, antioxidants, immune-enhancers and most importantly, tons of flavor. If I were a germ, I’d scoot right out of my host body and prey upon someone else. So make sure your friends have batches on hand.

This particular carrot ginger soup came to me from the pages of Candle Café Cookbook, one of my favorite vegetarian cooking resources from one of my favorite vegetarian eating resources, the Candle Café in New York. I used to live around the corner and went there whenever I felt the urged to be elixed.

Have you ever felt so energized by a meal that it literally feels as though all of the nutrition you just ate went straight into your bloodstream? That is how I feel when I eat a great, vegetarian meal. That is how I feel when I eat at Candle Café… and now, that I how I feel when I make their recipes at home.

Imagine my excitement when I found that I could buy the Candle Café cookbook and get that fix whenever I pleased? Elated, that’s how… as though some wonderful adrenal force was coursing through my veins. Some people take drugs; I take carrot soup.

I could go on and on about the recipes in that cookbook. Unlike so many restaurants, which seem to have trouble paring their industrial sized recipes down to the scale of a domestic kitchen, the folks at Candle Café make it possible for you to actually recreate their meals. Hold on, I feel a rush coming on.

I garnished this soup with another recipe (adapted slightly) from the book—a miso tahini dipping sauce with shaved carrots and ginger. It balanced the sweetness of the carrot puree with its rich, salty sesame flavor. I added a cold dollop of it onto the warm soup, and I must say, the temperature contrast was really dynamic and heightened the complementary flavors. If you don’t want to get sick, but you do want to get high… make this soup.

Velvety Carrot and Ginger Soup

From Candle Café Cookbook

Serves 4-6

1 Tbsp olive oil
3 medium onions, peeled and chopped
5 cups of vegetable broth
6 large carrots, peeled and chopped
3 tablespoons finely grated fresh ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground coriander
pinch of cayenne
sea sat and freshly ground pepper, to taste

In a large, heavy bottomed stockpot, heat olive oil. Add onions and sauté for about 7 minutes, or until golden.

Add the broth, a cup of water, the carrots and 2 tbsp of ginger. Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, for about 20 minutes, or until carrots are tender.

Remove pot from heat and cool for about an hour (if you don’t have an hour, be sure to pure the soup in small batches to prevent heat-related blender accidents…)

Pure the soup in a food processor or blender. Add the remaining ginger, cinnamon and coriander and blend again until very smooth. Serve warm or cold with a dollop of miso tahini dipping sauce and chopped scallions or chives.

Miso Tahini Dipping Sauce

1 c sweet, white miso
1 c water
1 c grated carrot
1 tbsp grated fresh ginger
3 tbsp tahini

Pure miso and water in a blender or food processor. Whisk in tahini until incorporated. Mix in carrots and ginger. Store refrigerated up to 1 week.

There were always sounds, inside and out. Either the floorboards creaked and settled, or the wind moved through the trees and made their branches scratch together like eerie, quiet chimes. The house is inhabited by at least one ghost, though some report that there are several. Barefoot Charlie is there for sure. He owned the house just before my grandmother bought it and died without shoes, apparently. I saw him a few times when I was young, but he stopped appearing as I got older. He never makes any sounds.

Dayspring is the kind of place where an alert ear triggers an even more sensitive imagination and can keep a person up until daylight. As a kid, I often lost sleep when the pitches of the house carried me through unexpected pathways of my own invention. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive than on the nights when every shadow and every sound was endowed with its own spirit.

When we were young, my parents took Lily and me out to a nearby graveyard on autumn evenings leading up to Halloween. We sat on blankets surrounded by graves, some dating to the 17th century. My father invented stories about their inhabitants, his face lit strangely by a kerosene lamp. Those weekend nights were the most fun a kid could have, second only to their crowning event. To this day, Halloween is the only time of year I feel justified in stuffing myself with pure sugar. Tonight, it’s fudge.

Happy Halloween.

Dark Chocolate Fudge with Walnuts

Makes 12 pieces

2 c Semi-sweet chocolate chips

2oz unsweetened chocolate, chopped

140z of sweetened, condensed milk

2 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 c walnuts, toasted and chopped

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Line an 8″ pan with waxed paper.

Place chocolate and condensed milk in a double boiler and stir until melted.

Remove from heat, stir in vanilla extract, and then walnuts.

Spread fudge into pan and refrigerate at least 2 hours.

Store, uncovered at room temperature.

I’ve spent too many years in the adolescent doldrums, where caring for myself was an afterthought, or worse, an admission of weakness. Not only did I regularly ignore feeling sick, I regularly made myself sick. My body was a thing to be used and worn-down—not a thing to be loved.

When I was little, my grandmother gave me chicken soup and grapefruits with brown sugar and honey-lemon cough drops whenever I was sick. My mother rubbed my tummy and sang me lullabies. And I started, bit by bit to remember that, when I felt too tired to walk out the door last weekend. I decided it was time to do right by me: so I bought lots of citrus, cooked up some soup and stuffed my pockets with Halls.

I wouldn’t have strayed from grandma’s triumvirate, except that by the third day of my cold, I was bored out of my mind and my soup supplies were low. I wanted something sweet, salty, filling and warm all at once—a manna served to me in a single, beautiful bowl. But all I seemed to have was a carton of crusty white rice and a half a gallon of soy milk. It turned out to be the best combination of limiting factors I could have asked for.

After the rice had reconstituted into a soft, gentle pudding, I sprinkled it with spices, doused it in honey and threw in some nuts for texture. I set the table with my wedding china and a silver spoon, lit some candles and got well again.

Maybe it was the fact that I ate nearly 3 cups of warm, milky rice in a single sitting. Maybe it was the fact that I put myself to sleep by rubbing my bulbous tummy and humming Tchaikovsky’s Peter and the Wolf. Or maybe it was the thought I had of the women who have cared for me, and the happy thought that I can be one of them. Either way, this bowl of rice was a way home.

Rice Pudding with Honey and Spices

Makes 4 servings

2 c cooked white rice

4 c soy milk (or cow’s milk, if you prefer)

1 T butter (optional)

½ c honey

1 t cinnamon (plus more for garnish)

½ t cardamom (plus more for garnish)

½ t salt

½ c raisins

½ c chopped walnuts

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Place rice and milk in a saucepan and bring to a boil.

Decrease the heat and simmer about 10 to 15 minutes, until mixture thickens.

Add honey, spices (and butter) and stir to combine then turn off the heat.

Add raisins and continue stirring for a few minutes, until raisins plump.

Sprinkle with walnuts and additional spices just before serving.

When I ate mine, (the rest were sent to Christopher’s office) I paired it with Earl Grey in the afternoon. It was dignified and much more elegant than the bowl of oats I eat every morning. That said, the humble gruel sustains me for hours: this snack had me drooling for more in minutes. These bars are heaven on earth. Have I mentioned how much I like the saying, “The kingdom of God is within” ? When I ate my jammy-nutty-buttery tea-time dessert, I was filled with something holy.

It’s not just the flavor that makes these remarkable, it’s the way they react to the teeth. As you bite, this is what you feel: a crunch from the walnuts, followed by the enduring chewiness of baked jam. As you chew, your mouth is filled with the commingling of melting butter crust and dissolving fruit. It’s a tactile paradise. Something worth getting up for, or the perfect way to punctuate the doldrums between lunch and dinner. Just make sure to give most of them away, or you’ll end up eating every last crumb, and nobody wants a stomach ache in the morning. Or in the afternoon.

Borrowed from Gourmet, may it rest in peace.

Makes 12 bars.

• 1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
• 2/3 cup sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/2 sticks (3/4 cup) cold unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon pieces
• 2 large egg yolks
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1/2 cup berry jam or preserves, such as Bonne Maman Four Fruits Preserve
• 3/4 cup chopped walnuts (3 oz)

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Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 425°F. Butter a 9-inch square baking pan and line with 1 sheet of foil, leaving a 2-inch overhang on 2 opposite sides, then butter foil.

Blend flour, sugar, cinnamon, and salt in a food processor.

Add butter and pulse until mixture crumbles and has pearl-sized lumps.

Add yolks and vanilla and pulse quickly, just until dough clumps, about 30 seconds.

Press 3/4 of dough evenly onto bottom of pan, then spread with jam.

Crumble remaining dough over preserves and press down so dough is evenly distributed. Sprinkle with walnuts.

Bake until top is golden brown and jam bubbles up the sides, about 20 to 25 minutes.

Place pan on a rack to cool. Lift from pan by grasping both ends of foil.

Cut into 12 bars and lift bars off foil with a spatula.