Cheesy!

One should never underestimate the power of cheese. Think about it. Milk is a drink that most of us give up by the time we are 12. But with the assistance of a process that is little more than high-falutin' rot, milk becomes about a million different culinary substances, the most basic of which cause grown humans to slump into their seats and call for momma.  Entire villages in France are defined by their local cheese. It's as if there was a town in Wisconsin called "lactobacilli." I firmly believe that one over-hyped 90's era diner in Los Angeles stays in business because it had the mensa-like idea to make little balls of mac-n-cheese and deep fry them.

Furthermore, cheese is a substance for all seasons. In spring, there are tangy little balls of fresh goats' cheese that you can roll around in herbs and pepper. In summer, take an oozy-good triple cream with you on your picnics and mush it into baguette with slices of perfect tomato. In fall a simple plate of honeycrisp apples and white cheddar is lunch, to me, about half the days of the week. A small round of indecently decadent truffle cheese makes a lovely Christmas gift.

But while cheese, on it's own, inspires devotion - you may have heard that the French describe the smell of some cheeses as "the feet of the gods?" - it is the application of heat to cheese that turns fully functioning humans into grabby little creatures unable to speak but through desirous moans and grunts. Melted cheese can take the possibility of something being, well, inedible off the table. Some say pizza is like sex for young men: no matter how bad it is, it's still pizza and therefore good. Mothers are regularly encouraged to hide otherwise unacceptable vegetables such as broccoli under layers of melted orange cheese in order to placate picky children. "Cheese pulls," - those colorfully lit, somewhat pornographic shots of separating slices of melty pizza/burrito/sandwich - are actually required by contract to take up a large part of any fast food advertisement because franchisees know that nothing sells crap food more than cheese.

I have no idea why melted cheese taps into our primordial desires more than, say, cream of wheat, but I do not deny it, and I certainly don't look down on it. There is, however, a lot of opportunity to sexy up those old childhood stand-bys. With that in mind, I will now share with you my favorite recipe for macaroni and cheese:

Bay Leaf and White Cheddar Mac n' Cheese

A few preliminary notes: this recipe calls for making a "roux". Do not be intimidated. A roux is only bubbly butter and flour with some milk in it. Also, this recipe can be changed to accommodate any cheese/herb combination you desire. As long as the cheese melts and the herb is fresh, you are good to go. Lastly, feel free to freeze this recipe in it's pre-bake form for as much as a month, well wrapped. Some cold night you will be very happy to know that you have delicious mac and cheese waiting for you to pop in the oven.

1 lb. small pasta (anything with good nooks)

3/4 - 1 1/2 lb.s sharp white cheddar cheese, grated*

3 tb. butter

2 tb. flour

2 fresh bay leaves or 1 dried

a few sprigs thyme

3-4 cups whole milk

Sea salt

Pepper

1/8 tsp. nutmeg

A few slices whole wheat bread, crusts removed.

Take out the bread and set it on the counter to dry. Cook the pasta in salted water for 1-2 minutes less than called for on the package.

Put the milk, herbs, nutmeg and a little pepper into a saucepan and heat until steaming, and a few bubbles have gathered at the edges. Remove from the heat and let steep. In a separate saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat, and sprinkle over with the flour (don't worry about lumps, you'll stir them out). Cook the roux, stirring often, until just starting to turn gold (5 minutes or so). While stirring, add the milk slowly. Add only as much milk as gives you the saucy consistency you are looking for. Reserve the rest in case the sauce thickens up on you after you add the cheese. Speaking of which, add most of the cheese and stir into the sauce. Taste the sauce. It probably needs a little salt and maybe a little more pepper. Does it have enough cheese? You can add more. 

Preheat the oven to 350. Mix the pasta with the cheese sauce, adding the pasta to the sauce and stopping when the pasta/sauce ratio pleases you. Pour into a baking dish. Pulse the bread in a food processor to make crumbs (or just go at it with a knife). Sprinkle the bread crumbs and any and all remaining cheese over the dish. Cover with foil and bake for 20 minutes, remove foil and bake for 10 minutes more, or until the bread crumbs are golden and toasted. Serve with a simple butter lettuce salad and be happy. You can also divide the pasta into 1 or 2 person serving sizes, and bake only what you desire, saving the rest for a rainy day.

*You could use a lot more cheese in this, or a little less. As always, taste as you go, and buy more cheese than you need. No one ever minded having a little cheddar around the house.

Sage Advice

There is something about lawyers. 

The lawyer 'class' is blessed with more than its fair share of overtly striving, overly opinionated douchebags. We are the source material for a million hokey jokes for a reason: law school attracts people who are simply, monotonously ambitious, but who lack anything in  particular they wish to do. Some of the larger law firms would be perfect places to hide if one were, say, a highly functioning psychopath.

However, in at least one aspect - our easily given opinions - we can be forgiven. It's not our fault, we were trained that way. Lawyers are counselors. We are trained to listen to your woes and dreams and translate them into easily digestible legal clauses and arguments. Deeply felt grievances become cool and convincing "complaints." Lifelong ambitions become profit participation clauses. The trick is, if one is to take on other people's deepest grievances and life long dreams, one had better have a pretty hefty ego on one's shoulders. Thus the overly opinionated advice - we must believe our own opinionated bull in order to do our job.

The best advice, of course, comes from a counselor who really listens: An ear that can distinguish the most important elements from the human muddle, an advisor who can call on the wisdom of the ages. This is "sage advice."

But why sage? How has this word come to represent an ageless wisdom, as well as a pungent herb? Why does sage, dried and smoking into the ether, speak to the spirits more than thyme or, perhaps, parsley? Like many herbs, sage has been recommended for any and all ailments at one time or another. Even in modern times, there is some evidence to suggest that sage has antifungal, antibiotic, hypoglycemic, estrogenic and "tonic" qualities - although I'm somewhat at a loss as to why anything in modern times might be called a tonic, other than what goes in my gin. Perhaps most interestingly, sage contains Thujone, a chemical which allows neurons to fire more easily - and is the oft-maligned substance which supposedly gives Absinthe it's psycho-active kick. One study suggests sage may inhibit the progress of early stage Alzheimer's. 

But the sage of wisdom and the sage of your garden are not the same: A sage, the person, is traditionally a "wise man." The sage of your garden is salvia, as in a salve, which according to English folklore, grows best in a home where the wife is dominant. Thus, technically, I cannot be sage about sage, but I can grow it easily (and I do).

Luckily I no longer can, and don't particularly want to give you sage advice about grievances and dreams. I will, however, share with you some very lovely, tasty advice as to what to do with sage.

First, with sage more than with other herbs, a little goes a long way. Sage is an evergreen plant, and a tough bugger to boot. In order to withstand the cold of winter, and the arid conditions it calls home, sage has a high proportion of oils and a relatively low water content. Furthermore, these oils have a pungent, medicinal quality that can be unpleasant in large quantities, but in small doses have an ethereal essence that calls to mind everything one has ever heard about the healing powers of the desert. So start small - look for mystery, and add more as you need it. Other fats will subdue sage's oils by spread them around and mellow them out, which is the role of butter (yay!) in these wonderful, simple cookies

Sage Scented Shortbread

I love sage shortbread because it falls in the mystery land between savory and sweet. These cookies are wonderful dipped in a little chocolate and served with coffee, however they are also lovely served with a strong blue cheese and a glass of deep red wine. 

• 2 cups all purpose flour
• 1/2 cup powdered sugar
• 2 tablespoons thinly sliced fresh sage leaves (or more, if you want)
• 1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt
• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch-thick pieces, room temperature

Mix together the first four ingredients. Add the butter and thoroughly combine by mashing and stirring with a fork. Roll the dough into a long log, cut in half and store in the fridge (wrapped in plastic) until thoroughly chilled and hard, at least half an hour. 

Preheat the oven to 350. Once chilled, slice the logs into rounds, about 1/3" thick (you don't have to be too precise about it). Sprinkle with sugar, the regular kind, if you so choose and lay out on two baking sheets lined with parchment. Bake for 20 minutes, rotating the pans half way through. 

Sage Salsa Verde

Not to be confused with the green salsa at your local taco stand, Salsa Verde is a classic southern French herb pesto that is as versatile as you want it to be. Simply change the primary herb and you can change the entire sauce. Sage salsa verde is my go-to sauce for putting the finishing touch on any slow-cooked meat dish - a burst of bright fresh flavor enhances a slow cooked meal in just the right way. This sauce is also wonderful on sweet roasted root vegetables.

1 bunch parsley

1 bunch sage

a few sprigs: rosemary, thyme, marjoram.

1 lemon, juice and zest.

2 cloves garlic

1 cup extra virgin olive oil, at least.

Sea salt

Pepper

Remove all of the herbs' leaves from the stems, rinse and pat dry. Throw all of the garlic, parsley, rosemary, thyme, and marjoram and half of the sage into a food processor. Pulse to chop. Add all of the lemon zest, and half the juice, a few turns of pepper, a few large pinches of salt. Pulse to combine. In a slow stream, with the motor running, add the olive oil. Only add enough oil to turn the herb mixture into a lightly runny paste. Taste. If the salsa is not obviously delicious, add more salt/sage/lemon until it is. 

Milk Braised Pork Shoulder with Sage

Don't even get me started. This recipe is based on just one of the amazing meals I've had at Chez Pannise in Berkeley. I didn't get the recipe from them, I just had this meal, and have tried, about a million times, to make something even close. Done right, you should end up with falling-apart tender, sage infused pork that has lovely, crispy good bits on top. DO NOT FORGET to make sage salsa verde when you make this pork - they are two recipes in love with each other.

2 lbs. boneless pork shoulder

Sea salt

Pepper

2 tb. butter

2 bunches sage

1 bay leaf

1 large shallot, peeled and quartered

6-8 cloves garlic, peeled

2-3 whole cloves

2 cups dry white wine

1/2 to 3/4 gallon whole milk

As far ahead as you can manage to - 24 hours at most, 4 hours at minimum - pre-season the pork: rinse, pat dry, and season generously with salt, fresh ground pepper, a few finely minced sage leaves and 2 chopped loves of garlic. When ready to cook, remove pork from any accumulated juices, and sear over medium-high heat until browned all over. Do not cut the meat into small cubes - you want one large hunk that will fall apart in it's own way. 

Preheat the oven to 275. When the meat is browned, deglaze the pan by tossing in the white wine and scraping up all of the tasty brown bits while the wine bubbles away. When the wine has reduced by at least half, turn off the heat. In a large dutch oven or stock pot, melt the butter and saute the remaining garlic, the shallot, 1 bunch sage leaves, bay leave and cloves until just fragrant. Add the reduced wine and add enough milk to just cover the pork, season with salt, and bring to a simmer. Do not worry if the milk curdles, curdling is inevitable in this recipe.

Lower the pork into the warm milk mixture, there should be enough liquid to almost cover the meat, cover tightly with a lid or foil and transfer to the oven. Cook for at least 2 hours. At 1 1/2 hours, remove the lid or foil, and add 1/2 of the remaining sage leaves to the cooking liquid and taste for salt. When the meat is fork-tender, switch the oven to a low broil and brown the meat for at least 10 minutes. 

When the meat is crisped above the liquid line, remove the pot from the oven (careful, it's HOT). Using tongs or two wooden spoons, gently lift the meat from the cooking liquid and set on a warm plattter. Strain the cooking liquid, which by now is a strange, curdled, caramel brew, through a fine mesh strainer. Simmer a cup or so of the clearest strained liquid with the remaining sage leaves, thicken with a bit of butter, and pour over the meat. Drizzle with sage salsa verde and serve.

Cookbooks and the locavore

There is a group of girls next to me at my usual cafe, discussing city zoning. They are clearly taking a class on the subject, and are quite intellectually involved with it. They're discussing Houston's non-governmental organization, and the reactions of "citizens as taxpayers" to various schemes and regulations, and the movement of populations into the suburbs in the 1960's. All in all, they have the earnest mindset of a group of young people who don't pay much taxes, don't own property, and don't have any real idea of what they are talking about.

Not that I do, mind you. I don't own a home or a business. I can't really explain why it is that Houston looks like a city on steroids but with no one on the street, other than it's hot and Texans like things big. But there is something important about seeing the land, and understanding what can and can't be done with it. The rolling scrub desert of southern Idaho isn't good for much but cows and potatoes. Nebraska seems to be made for corn and wheat. The wooded dells and glades, the charming apple orchards and rolling berry fields, the tidy little plots of vegetables that are so very Oregonian simply can't exist everywhere.

This is why it makes so little sense to try to export city planning, and why it often makes no sense to bother with famous restaurant cookbooks from far away cities.

A good example is Craft. Tom Collichio is a justly famous restaurateur, he started with a small New York restaurant, Craft, and in that New York/L.A. way, slowly expanded his empire to the point where it now includes an immense, incredibly expensive Las Vegas steak emporium called, natch, CraftSteak. Other than clearly having opened in that late 90's/early 00's period when mid-century modern and dark woods ruled the earth, CraftSteak is excellent. The very best in delicious, overpriced beef, as well as some very interesting extras. Craftsteak was the first place I had Jerusalem artichokes (wonderful), as well as the first place I had butter-braised lobster (ridiculous).

But Tom Collichio's cookbooks, while inspiring, have never felt like something I could really work with. Mostly this has to do with the fact that he lives in New York and I live on the west coast. Fundamentally, it just isn't the same. For example, ramps. Tom Collichio loves ramps. Ramps are a leek/green onion thing that grows wild along the tributaries to the Hudson river. I've never had a ramp, or even seen one. On the other hand, Meyer lemons grow in every other backyard in Berkeley, where I grew up. I threw them to my dog when I couldn't find a ball for a game of fetch. My mother sends me a box of them every time the tree gets full.

Really aside from a few very basic vegetables and land animals, nothing is the same. Red Snapper does not exist in the pacific - our "snapper" is actually a rockfish. Dungenness crab solely live in the north of Santa Barbara. There is no such thing as a local catfish this far west, nor the aforementioned and much lamented ramps. And a New Yorker is never going to know the pleasure of eating salmon berries fresh from a wild vine one a hike to the Sandy river. 

This limits the utility of all cookbooks, even "everything" cookbooks - The Minimalist, I'm looking at you, and your lack of west coast fish substitutions - but is particularly frustrating with glossy, inspiring restaurant cookbooks. Oh, Tom! I want to make red snapper braised with butter and ramps! Look at that beautiful farm-to-table Mexican meal, too bad I can't find Epazote to save my life! Totally in love with Susan Goin, my Vermont friend? Good luck finding those Chilles de Arbol!

There is no real solution to this dilemma, for either the home cook or the cookbook writer. The thing that makes a restaurant great is the chef's ability to make beauty from the rough products of the earth. The ability to look around at the same berries, fruits and vegetables that were at the market last week and come up with something inspiring and new, fragrant and delicious. If every recipe had to be universally applicable, the chef's inspiration and personality would disappear. That, or each cookbook would die under the weight of so many notes on substitution. For the home cook, such substitutions are hardly helpful. There is no substitute for Epazote. Canned Jalapenos are awful, and nothing like fresh. Pacific halibut is not a good substitute for Swordfish, and not even a good substitute for Alaskan. And, no, I'm sure regular leeks don't taste like ramps. Falling in love with a food celebrity, no matter how deserving of fame, is simply frustrating. Their crayon box simply has different colors in it, and there's often no clear way to mimic Dark Sienna when you've only got brown and red. 

The only way around these problems? Fall in love with a local chef! Find people who see the same items at the store that you do and turn that into the sublime. I certainly can't afford to go to Le Pigeon or Lucques or Chez Pannise very often, if at all. But I can afford the cookbooks (speaking of which, hey Le Pidg, why no cookbook?). And buying those cookbooks is good for both me, the inspired and happily unfrustrated cook, and for them, as cookbooks are one of the only ways for a talented chef to make money without spending another 12 hours on his/her feet in front of a hot stove. Also, isn't it lovely to contemplate the possibility of going to a restaurant someday that has been so inspiring to you without also having to contemplate airfare, hotel rooms and lost luggage? It is to me.

With that in mind, I find these cookbooks to be indispensable for inspiring the West Coast Cook:

Chez Panisse Vegetables: vegetables can be the least inspiring ingredients, but are actually the backbone of everything we eat and love. Alice Waters gets you thinking creatively about the kitchen workhorse.

Sunday Suppers at Lucques: Slightly complicated but universally delicious dishes that add a little kick to the Cal-Med repertoire.

The Zuni Cafe Cookbook: A huge gourmet tome, in which you will find something to do with everything you've got, from dried beans to days old bread. 

West Coast Seafood: The Complete Cookbook: A wonderful guide to the most local and wild of our foods, the fish. Good to have on hand if you are going to attempt to find a substitute for some fish called for in an east coast cookbook.

The Herbfarm Cookbook: Intimately tied to a garden near Seattle, this book can't help but deal with the limitations of a short, cool summer. It does so with grace and ease.