omelette

There's a story in Iran about a poor man who claimed he had eaten squab and someone asked him if that's why he had the squab's white poop in his beard.  The poor man had been too proud to admit he could only afford to eat yogurt for dinner instead.

While most Iranians eat heavy dinners, I suspect we were in the minority when I was growing up with health-conscious parents.  Late lunches were our big meal of the day with a fancy meat stew my mother would start cooking following breakfast until we got home from school.  Dinner on the other hand was a poor-man's meal: either bread and feta cheese with tomatoes, cucumbers, and walnuts, or we would dip bread in a yogurt, cucumber, and dried mint mix. On nights that we were on the hungrier side, we had an "omelette".  Except the omelette was not prepared like the traditional ones we know in the States.

There were two methods for preparing the omelette stovetop:  either with the eggs whole or scrambled.  What both methods had in common was the same simple ingredients: tomatoes, eggs, salt, pepper, and oil.  After heating oil in the pan, you would saute the diced tomatoes with salt and pepper on medium heat.  When the tomatoes were heated and had released their juices, you would add the eggs one at a time into the tomato juices in the pan.  If you chose the scrambled method, as we did in our family, at this point you would loosely break up the eggs and stir with the tomatoes.   Or leave the eggs whole and let them cook until the desired consistency. Serve with a side of flatbread that can be used to wipe all the delicious last bits off the plate.

When I was 8 years old and had a sleepover at my cousin's house, omelette with whole eggs was served for dinner on a tablecloth spread out on the floor over a Persian carpet.  It was a dry hot summer night and the noise of cars on the street from the open windows in their apartment particularly stood out in contrast to our quiet uptown neighborhood.   I had always seen my uncle's family eat heartier dinners than us so when I returned home the next day, my mother had to explain that perhaps they couldn't afford meat unless they had formal company. My casual visit let them treat me like their own family.  Her explanation of the simple meal made sense to me since we ate at a dining table and slept on beds in our individual rooms at home but my uncle's family of four slept on the floor in the only bedroom of their small apartment.  They did not have any furniture in their place.

It was then that I started noticing not everyone can afford everything they need or want.  We lived modest middle-class lives but I now remember stories from my parents about how much they do not like the Persian lentil-rice dish I so loved.  The first few years of their marriage, when my Dad was starting out as a high school teacher and my Mom who had dropped out of school at 16 to get married to a stranger and within three years give birth to my older siblings by 12 and 10 years respectively, they could not afford meat either.  The way they fed their young family of four was through affordable and protein-rich dishes like lentil-rice.  But these were stories I would hear later in my life.  My parents had worked hard and by the time I was 8, my father retired from teaching to follow his passion in exporting Persian carpets.  By that time we could afford meat on a regular basis in our family.

I left Iran when I was 16 and with it, I left behind everyone but my immediate family.  What I took with me were wonderful memories of time with my relatives.  My cousin who was one of my close friends growing up died at a young age in a tragic accident with her husband and toddler son I never met.  Years later my uncle passed away peacefully in his sleep. To this day, whether I have meat to cook to not,  I still make a hearty tomato omelette on a regular basis and remember that hot summer night in Tehran with all its noise and richness of love I felt from my relatives.  The taste brings back a memory I can never afford to lose and warms my heart as I think back to that night I spent with them.

Normally I would provide a recipe but given the dish's simplicity, I recommend you try your hand at it.  There is no right or wrong proportion to any of the ingredients since you can make it to taste.  Come up with your own personal recipe and create a memory to go with it.  Bon appetit or as we say in Iran, "noosh-e-jan" which literally means "may your soul be nourished"!

parisian pleasures

As I'm sitting on the train in Paris behind a poet who is writing about a love lost, I can't help but peek between the seats in front of me.  His words remind me of one of my favorite dark poems by Verlaine, a 19^th century symbolist poet. 

During our recent trip, I spent Sunday like most Parisians do, at the Jardin du Luxembourg, putting my feet up in the sun and people watching. My favorite corner away from the senate building and the marble statues of former queens, is on the quiet side by the statue of Verlaine. He struggled to get to know himself, much like I did and speaks beautifully of that exploratory journey of self-realization, including its darkest melancholic moments in this poem:

“Il pleure dans mon coeur

Comme il pleut sur la ville;

Quelle est cette langueur

Qui pénètre mon coeur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie

Par terre et sur les toits !

Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie,

Ô le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison

Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.

Quoi ! nulle trahison ?...

Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine

De ne savoir pourquoi

Sans amour et sans haine

Mon coeur a tant de peine!”

It weeps in my heart

like it rains on the town.

What is this languor

that penetrates my heart?

Oh the soft sound of the rain

on the ground and on the roofs!

For a heart in pain

oh the song of the rain!

It weeps without reason

in this disheartened heart.

What! No betrayal?

This grief has no cause.

And nothing is worse pain

than not knowing why,

without love or hatred,

my heart has so much pain.

Our visit to the jardin last Sunday was neither painful nor rainy. The sun inspired us to stop at the marché bio (organic farmer's market) on blvd. Raspail and pick up some cheese and fruit to head to the park. Sadly we had forgotten to get wine and the shops were not open. Quelle horreur! So we made the most of it and gleefully spread out the baguette, artisanal foie gras, Brie de Meaux, Crottin d'affiné, Tomme de Brebis, and Roquefort cheeses next to the gorgeous sweet small fraises (strawberries) and fragrant myrtilles (blueberries). The charentais melon looked beautiful but would have to wait until after the impomptu picnic when we would have a knife. It didn't take long before we were greeted by the park police with “la pelouse est interdite”. 

I have to admit while I had not forgotten the incident with the same message years ago when my sister and nephews sat on the lawn with me, I feigned innocence and quickly apologized before taking to our chairs near the Verlaine statue for the rest of the picnic. In the southern most corner of the park, there is permission to use one long patch of lawn.  The rest, including the large circle around Verlaine’s statue, is forbidden.  I might have to make the same “mistake” again next time I visit the park but won't forget the wine to go with the picnic!

My weekend in Paris always has a juxtaposition of simple pleasures one day followed by decadently rich culinary meals the next. Steps away from our rented apartment on rue du Dragon in Saint-Germain-de-Prés, opposite the direction of touristy hot spots of Café Floré and Aux Deux Magots, where the literary greats and poets used to hang out and drink the infamous green halucinatory absinthe, is my favorite last stop in Paris.  In a little square with no corners called La Place Recamier, Chef Gerard Idoux makes the most decadent fluffy soufflés at La Cigale Recamier. Some favorite savory (salés) and sweet (sucrés) dishes include:

- Soufflé farine de blé noir et champignons des bois (buckwheat with wild mushrooms)
- Soufflé foie gras figues (foie gras with figs)
- Soufflé chèvre au thym (goat cheese and thyme)
- Soufflé fromage (cheese)
- Soufflé aux figues fraiches (fresh figues)
- Soufflé caramel à la fleur de sel (caramel with salt)
- Soufflé Grand Marnier [Note: A bottle of Grand Marnier is served alongside this delicate flavored soufflé sucré. Don't try to take the cork out of the bottle... the cork has holes like a fine salt shaker for drizzling just the right amount without flooding the dessert.]

Suffice it to say the salade verte served with the soufflé is obligatory. On many other occasions I've had the caviar d'aubergine with the dorade or agneau dishes and you can tell that the soufflés are only one of the specialties that draw older local regulars such as politicians to the restaurant.  Order from the regular menu or the daily specials on the blackboard presented tableside and you can’t go wrong with any of your choices.  Recamier has a chef who knows how to prepare great food without pretense.

Suddenly as I take a spoonful of the delicate soufflé on this rainy final eve in Paris, I find myself forgetting Verlaine's heartfelt pain and hear songs of joy inside my head with every melting bite.  The only weeping in my heart is from the thought that I need to wait until my next trip to savor these flavors again.

an ode to foie

Foie gras has yet to be banned in California.  That means as of today it's not.  And it also means chefs are preparing more dishes with it to make a statement.  Many chefs are willing to stand up for what they believe.  And so are the people supporting them. 

Yesterday I woke up to a facebook post by my favorite ice cream shop about their fresh batch of foie gras ice cream sandwiches.  I had a busy day and by the time I got around to thinking about going, a new post about chocolate covered ice cream pies came out, leading me to think they had ran out.  When I called the phone rang and rang and no-one answered but that only made me think they were swamped by foie-hungry customers.  I made a mad dash to the store, all along thinking most likely I could come home empty handed.  The two girls in line in front of me took their time tasting practically every flavor before buying one scoop to share.  I was trying to be patient so I kept on a smile but could tell my weight was shifting from leg to leg which meant the guy behind the counter could see my shoulders shift.  Smile, I told myself.  Worse comes to worse just buy a pint of another favorite flavor, like chocolate sea salt.  But that wasn't consoling enough.  No other flavor would have the same meaning.

Before he had finished serving the two girls, the guy nods at me with a "How are you doing?" comment.  Perhaps it was his way of saying that he's been watching my shoulder shifting and I should be more patient.  I smiled again and said, "Do you have any of those sandwiches you posted on FB about?"  I had to be careful what I say for several reasons.  Fearing the girls could overhear me and buy the last ice cream sandwich before I could get to it would make me feel stupid to let them in on the secret.  Saying the word foie gras could raise many ears.  I felt safe about the people behind me.  After all, it was my turn after the girls would leave and I had first dibs in whatever I could buy.  But those words that bring so much instant pleasure to my mind are to be used carefully in public these days.

When I hear the word foie gras there are so many memories imprinted in my taste buds that come up.  There's the foie gras soufflés I eat in Paris every time, melting in my mouth.  Then I think of the salade gourmandise with a huge piece of foie gras on top of the haricots verts.  How about the Tournedos Rossini we made a few years ago with the perfectly seared filet mignon placed on top of a grilled buttery brioche, topped with truffles, foie gras, and bordelaise sauce?  Many trips to Paris farmers markets and even stops in Pays Landais at a corner butcher store to pick up jars of the delectable creamy mad tasting liver, cross my mind as I go through my memories.  Yes, the rich creamy delicate flavor of pure delicious goose liver, drives me mad. The one preparation that stands out the most is the perfectly seared piece served at a tapas bar in San Sebastian where they simply refer to foie gras as "foie".

But I'm not in Spain nor France right now and I've read about protests outside places in California serving foie gras. Last month a special multi-course foie gras dinner I attended was only announced to regular customers through Facebook and the door read "restaurant closed for private event tonight."   So I say the words "those sandwiches" as a code between me and the guy at the ice cream shop to let him know that I am in the know about the proper protocol.  His busy face changed to one with a mischievous wide grin of kinship and he matched my smile, "Yes, we do."  Finally,  I could truly be patient.  The anxiety of not knowing whether I would return home empty handed was over.  When the girls were done he asked how many I wanted and his face quickly shifted to a frown when I said "Six."  Oh no, I thought!  I was too greedy.  I should have only asked for two.  He's thinking I should be fair to all the people calling in and asking him to put some aside for them which he can't.  I should just take what I need.  How do I tell him about my need to have as much foie gras ice cream sandwiches as possible?  Do I start by telling him about how my love affair with foie started one gras at a time?  Do I beg?  Do I demand?  Or do I just take what he gives me and learn to be content, although just like my lack of patience, I knew contentment was another virtue I lacked.

I should have been patient because the frown followed with "Let me check the freezer.  We might not have that many left."  He quickly came back with "I only have five" to which I said, "I'll take them please."  Phew!  One short of the six sandwiches I needed but I now held what I had been craving.  It was a bittersweet victory as I drove home all along feeling guilty that I deprived another person in my shoes from tasting any.  But it was more sweet that anything else when I took my first bite of the ice cream nestled in its gingery cookie.  I could taste all my previous memorable experiences in one bite.

Bravo to foie gras ice cream.  Hopefully this will not be the dernière fois that chefs and artisans make their best foie.

my meyer

When we moved into our house a couple of years ago, all the trees and hedges in the backyard were trimmed to a perfect round shape. One small round tree with dark shiny leaves caught my eye. Weeding the flower bed underneath, I saw perfectly ripe lemons hanging down on the inside of the dome shape. It was a secret tree with my favorite fruit: meyer lemons. This was in fact the quintessential California house, complete with the meyer lemon tree.

I have always been fascinated by the tangy acidic flavor of limes and lemons. Some dishes outright call for limes and for that I use the small Mexican limes. They resemble most in flavor the limes I grew up with in Iran called Limoo Amani. One notable difference is that in Iran we consume those limes dry. A big ditch is created around the base of the tree and soon after the lime takes the right shape and color, the ditch is filled with water. The plant is not watered again until all the limes on the tree are dried out, or so legend has it. The resulting flavor is concentrated earthy musky sour with a hint of sweetness. The dried limes, crushed or whole pierced with a knife, are put in hearty lamb stews so the acidity can balance out the richness of the dish and help tenderize the meat.


Compared to the tiny green limes, lemons taste somewhat sweet to me. I can eat a lemon just like an orange although the funny faces I make are notably different. Make it a meyer lemon and the floral sweetness is further enhanced. My first taste of a meyer lemon was in the 90's at Chez Panisse Cafe. Lucky me for having tasted it first at such an institution that believes in letting the fresh natural flavor of ingredients shine. The little gem salad with the light fresh crispy leaves was served with a meyer lemon vinaigrette.


Almost three years after moving to our house, the yard has a more organic look and the trees and hedges look more natural. We still trim the Camellia tree to somewhat of an oval shape but the lemon tree boasts the fruit they're bearing proudly in whatever direction the branches want to go. The fruit is plentiful and my meyer lemons are as ripe as can be. I'll pick a bunch of them to make preserved lemons that I can use in a tagine. And the limoncello is always on hand in the freezer. The rest I've been using regularly in my salads. Adding the meyer lemon zest to a salad after tossing it with a vinaigrette gives it a flavor which reminds me of what I experienced at Chez Panisse over a decade ago.

Little Gem Salad with Meyer Lemon Vinaigrette

ingredients:

Sweet batard bread loaf

2 Tablespoons olive oil for croutons

Little Gem lettuces

One meyer lemon, preferably from your own backyard

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil for dressing

Parmesan cheese (whole piece)

Black pepper

method:

Cut bread into even-sized small crouton pieces, spread on baking sheet, lightly drizzle with olive oil, and bake at 400 degrees for 10-15 minutes until crunchy. Watch it carefully as crouton sizes and oven temperatures can vary.

In a bowl, juice the meyer lemon using a lemon juicer and mix with the dijon. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil while whisking. Whisk until the dressing has emulsified.

Gently toss the little gem lettuces and plate them. Top with croutons.

Using a microplane zester top the salad with meyer lemon zest and parmesan cheese. Lightly grind pepper on top.

Note: Store the leftover croutons in an airtight container and the dressing in a jar for future salads.

suggestions:

The secret to making a good vinaigrette in one word is to "emulsify". Adding Dijon mustard to the lemon then whisking in the oil results in a creamy texture as the oil emulsifies the dressing. In France, a simple green salad (la salade verte) is tossed with the dressing and is always served after dinner. Tossing a salad is called "fatiguer la salade" as in fat-ea-geh, which literally translates to tiring the salad. But such tossing should be done lightly so as not to bruise the leaves. You may never get tired of this simple refreshing salad.

birthdays and anniversaries

Today is memorable morsels’ first birthday. It’s the anniversary of my first blog post. It’s a one year milestone of my decision to share my stories, adventures, and food memories.

We tend to like extremes and superlatives: the most, the longest, the best. I do too. Yet at times what is important to me are the small things that appear insignificant to others. A smile from a stranger on a sad day, a thank you from a child, the sound of silence in nature, or the taste and texture of a fresh ripe piece of fruit at its peak. I savor a bite, letting the myriad of flavors hit all the right spots in my mouth and create a memory in my cells. These delightful morsels are memorable and the experiences that go with them make them even more so.

A couple of years ago Hayes Valley’s Absinthe Restaurant celebrated its 10th anniversary by putting back 1998 prices on their menu for a while. It was such a treat and a great way to remember how it felt to go back in time. The restaurant wanted to celebrate its success and reward its patrons and I still remember how good that steak and hamburger with 1998 prices tasted.

I spent last weekend with my “American Parents” who have been a huge part of my life since I met them when I was ten years old. We went to Bethlehem, PA for a visit and were treated to plenty of great food from fluffy omelettes of breakfast sausage and green apples to the most traditional “Philly” cheesesteaks. Artisanal mango vodka on the rocks and homemade hamburgers coupled with the love of family sitting around the table sharing stories have never tasted so good. I remembered sitting at the very same table at their daughter's house many years ago for Thanksgiving, playing games with their grandchildren who had nicknamed me “Mary-Mom”. I felt part of the family then as I do now.

On our last morning we went to Pipersville Inn for a birthday lunch. Driving through country roads we passed Springtown, PA where I spent my first year in the US. The general store and dairy where I paid a quarter for a cone of fresh creamy ice cream were gone but the small little post office and old gas station were still there. I still remember how unique my first coca cola out of a can tasted there. Growing up we drank soda that was sold in glass bottles. I had never seen a coke can, let alone a coin-operated vending machine at a gas station. It was at this gas station in Springtown that we pulled over and cracked open an ice cold can on a super hot summer day. Ahhh!

On Sunday, the country roads led us from one small quaint town to another. In the old days these inns with restaurants popped at every major town entrance to provide lodging and food for the passengers traveling by coach. Our fancy Betsy from the 21st century with air conditioning was a much more comfortable ride for the lunchtime road trip on this hot day. Last year Pipersville Inn had brought back their 75-cent martinis on the menu to celebrate their anniversary, much like the Absinthe anniversary back home. The promotion was so successful that the drink special was still on the menu. We toasted with our 75-cent martinis to celebrate a family birthday and get together, and drove back home down a winding country road along the Delaware River. Needless to say, this was the most memorable martini I've ever tasted.

I had the most amazing and precious weekend. Every little detail was significant to me. Having the love of such a wonderful family who has embraced and welcomed me into their hearts and homes for the last 30 years is the biggest most special gift ever. There aren’t enough superlatives for me to express my gratitude and love for the wonderful memories we have shared over the years.

that salty cheese and sweet wine

Convincing my Dutch husband who grew up next to Holland's famous Alkmaar Kaasmarkt (cheese market) to go to a cheese school with me was like having to twist my arm to take a wine tasting class. We found the perfect marriage in the Cheese & Wine Pairing class at the Cheese School of San Francisco. Eight delicious cheeses were paired with five wines in an interactive class led by a cheese expert. We went there early and sipped champagne before class to break down our cheesy inhibitions. Hands down my favorite cheese from the class was La Tur, a pasteurized cow/goat/sheep creamy cheese from Alta Lagna, Piedmont, Italy. Yet, the freshest and most pure tasting of all the cheeses we tasted was a goat's milk cheese from Harley Farms in Pescadero, California. Since goat cheese does not go with red wine, we paired it with a fruity glass of bubbly.

After a beautiful coastal drive down Highway 1 from San Francisco past Half Moon Bay, on a summer Sunday we had brunch at Duarte's Tavern (which sells delicious strawberry rhubarb and ollaliberry jams) and then headed down the street to find Harley Farms. The wooden sign of a girl and goat on the corner of Stage & North Roads was re-assuring to know which turn to make. Not far down the road past the sunflower fields, we found the farm with a llama, a couple of what seemed like Scottish Highlanders, and a herd of Alpine goats all fighting to get on top of the highest point on the little structure on the field.

It was hard to stop tasting the cheeses in the shop. We bought some fresh goat ricotta, chèvre in oil, fromage blanc, apricot pistachio torte, and the most beautiful Monet torte. The chevre in oil comes in a glass jar filled with plain mini buttons of cheese marinated in extra virgin olive oil & lemon juice, with sundried tomato, rosemary & peppercorns.

Shopping for artisanal cheeses in gourmet markets you might recognize the Monet Torte. It is a round of goat cheese with herbes de provences layered in the center, and the recognizable purple and orange edible flower decoration. Monet would be proud to know this soft fresh goat cheese which leaves your tongue tingling with herbacious notes, was named after him. With that work of art and a fresh baguette who needs dinner?

Afterwards try a Carles Roquefort raw sheep blue cheese from Midi-Pyrenées, France which pairs beautifully with a sweet gewürtzramier. With that salty cheese and sweet wine who needs dessert?

where to find:

The Cheese School of San Francisco

address: 2155 Powell Street, San Francisco, CA 94133

phone: (415) 346-7530

www.cheeseschoolsf.com

Harley Farms

address: 205 North Street, Pescadero, CA 94060

phone: (650) 879-0480

www.harleyfarms.com

Duarte's Tavern

address: 202 Stage Road, Pescadero, CA 94060

phone: (650) 879-0460

www.duartestavern.com

coming to america

I came to America via Austria & Germany many years ago. Somehow everyone’s major move in life is a memory they hold dear perhaps due to nostalgia over the home they lost or excitement over the new life to be explored. My experience was different in that I was equally excited about our intermediary stops in the two countries as well as a permanent move to the US. I was pysched to leave a war-torn country!

Equipped with our luggage (one of which was stolen on day one in Vienna’s train station) and my knowledge of English, my parents, brother and I left home. My very crazy cool uncle who never finished high school, never moved out of his parents’ house, and was the most amazing person I knew at the time due to his knowledge of all things related to Bruce Lee, UFOs, and card games, had once spent a summer in Germany as a teenager. With his help, I learned how to count to 20 and order half a rotisserie chicken in German. “Eine halbes henschen, bitte” (a half a chicken, please) was all I could order which is what we mostly ate there. My parents' English was very weak back then and their German non-existent. We survived on my language skills for a while. And while most Austrians and Germans speak English, they are also proud of their heritage, telling me in response to “Excuse me, do you speak English?”, “I do, but I don’t.” So I stopped asking.

In Vienna we went to the famous Schloss Schönbrunn, visited Mozart’s statue at the Burggarten park, rode the city trams and got our US visas. I quickly learned how warm and friendly Austrians were when the owner of the B&B where we were staying would take my brother and I to her room every morning after breakfast and give us a Toblerone bar. Next was Frankfurt where we stayed with friends, I ate turkey for the second time in my life, and was amazed at how green and un-desert-like Germany was. Little did I know that my next home in the little tiny town of Springtown with only a general store, fire station, dairy farm, post office, gas station, and real estate office (what more could a person want in a town with a population of 150 people?) outside of Bethlehem, PA was surrounded by acres and acres of green corn fields with deer in our own backyard.

We were all relieved to land at JFK and go straight to McDonalds for my first meal in America back in the 80’s. While as a novelty the Big Macs were tasty, nothing came close to the lovely rotisserie flavor of the chicken we had been eating. Over the last two decades, every German-speaking person I have met has heard me count to 20 after I explained why I just ordered half a chicken from them, followed by the above story. Its an obsession of mine because it reminds me of the exciting moment of coming to America.

Twenty three years later, all grown up and now married, my husband and I went to other side of the world to Australia to explore and experience yet another group of warm friendly people. In search of unique and traditional Australian cuisine, we were delighted to find out that our trip dates coincided with the Sydney International Food Festival. The food festival hosted Night Noodle Market in Hyde Park with a variety of vendors selling Asian street food. We also tried many pricey “award-winning” restaurants only to find out back in San Francisco we have higher criteria for giving awards. Meat pies at Harry’s Café de Wheels were consistently good and a nice treat but are meat pies uniquely Australian or British? And if kangaroo or crocodile was on the menu, we avoided the restaurant all together as those dishes are prepared for tourists only. One day we ran across a TV program hosted by Huey who showed us how to cook his mother’s Cock-a-Leekie (chicken, leeks and prunes soup) recipe. Was that a traditional Australian dish or Scottish? I gave up. We left Sydney for Cairns where by day we snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef and by night ate the most delicious fresh seafood: bay bugs (Australian lobster), barramundi (Australian seabass), and Tasmanian salmon.

On the last leg of our trip we toured the Hunter Valley wine region outside Sydney known for their Semillon whites and softer styled Shiraz (unlike the heavy Shiraz styles from the Barossa Valley we are familiar with). Besides the kangaroo families residing on the grounds of Tidaki Lodge, the highlight of the stay were our B&B hosts, a lovely couple from Germany & Austria respectively. Manfred & Suzie (short for Siglund) greeted us with glee and joy in a way I don’t believe other guests at their home have seen. Manfred loved having a Dutchman, my husband, as a guest. And Suzie would stare at me in joy, telling me how beautiful I was, treating me as I imagined like her own daughter. Instead of wine tasting, we spent the afternoons talking to them about Persian carpets and roofing materials, my father's and Manfred’s specialties, respectively. We felt warm and cared for in their home and to us that was more precious than anything else. For breakfast Suzie made us fresh fruit salad and served it along with bacon, scrambled eggs, and an Austrian recipe of roasted tomato with fresh parsley from her garden. In the morning, while we swam in their salt water pool, Suzie watered the garden while Manfred had received his one-day license to burn wood on the property and was busy managing the fire. After a fun filled relaxing day of wine tasting, tired of eating out at restaurants in Sydney, and longing for a homey meal, we ran across the Smelly Cheese Shop and picked up a rotisserie chicken to have with our bottle of Semillon at the B&B on the patio that night. Of all the meals during the trip, this eines halbe henschen was the most memorable dish we had in Australia. Was it a uniquely Australian dish? Who cares! It was a lovely roasted chicken universal to all cuisines and as tasty as the ones I had on my way to America as a teenager. I was once again on my way back to America leaving not Germany and Austria but a German and an Austrian in Australia.

Back home we unpacked our bottle of Peterson Semillon and served it with our San Francisco local version of eines halbe henschen, a half rotisserie chicken from RoliRoti as we toasted and counted our way from 1 to 20 in German: “Ein, zwei, drei. vier, fünf,…. zwanzig”.

where to buy:

RoliRoti can be found at various farmers markets in the SF Bay Area. Click on shop for more information on where to find the rotisserie chicken trucks.

nothing fishy about vichyssoise

Nothing except for its name of course. Pronounced vishy(as in fishy)-sue-az, this soup is named after its creator's hometown, Vichy, a town in the central French Auvergne region. Vichy was invaded by the Germans in 1942 and occupied by the Nazis until 1944. Today it is a spa and resort town and locals are referred to as Vichyssois, much like the soup. The town's claim to fame is their thermal baths with healing properties, not the Vichyssoise soup which actually originated in New York's Ritz Carlton in the early 1900's.

We are always in search of healing. From the cure to cancer, AIDS, and MS to simpler ailments such as the common daily aches of an aging body, and trauma from psychological events, we look for comfort and freedom from pain in one form or another. In addition to traditional medicine, I use yoga, accupuncture, homeopathic treatments, and physical therapy for my pains. A more integrated healing approach can help the source of the problem and expedite healing. We also often use food as medicine to help with healing.

Aloe vera can help hydrate burnt skin, mint and ginger calm upset tummies, lemon has a cleansing effect on the kidneys, and the list goes on and on. We eat chicken soup when we're sick and there is great debate on whether it has physical healing properties to help with the common cold. But at a minimum we know it warms the soul, brings comfort with memories of our Moms feeding it to us when we were sick, and fills us with something more nutritious when our bodies need rejuventation. In Chinese medicine and coincidentally in my Persian family, foods are known to have hot and cold healing properties, similar to India's ayurvedic medicine. We use foods to stay in balance from both a physical and mental perspective. Overconsuming either type of food will bring digestive discomfort and lack of clarity in thoughts, perhaps even disease.

After years of listening to my body and personal trial and errors, I felt this recent change in season called for eating soup. But the sun is still strong and while the days are ever so gradually getting shorter, the seasons are only in transition. The idea of a cold soup came to mind. Vichyssoise, a puréed soup of leeks and potatoes (leeks are "warm" and potatoes are "cool", resulting in a balanced neutral meal), is traditionally served cold which is the perfect hybrid solution to having soup on a warm fall day. In my imagination, perhaps a cold puréed soup was what the aristocrats traveling to the Vichy thermal baths needed. Instead of puréed, I chose to eat my soup chunky, adding extra zucchini to the soup for its cooling effects ... a perfect complement to an early October sunny day.

Until I can plan a trip to Auvergne to use the Vichy thermal baths and steal a few bites of Bleu d'Auvergne cheese, I will savor tastes of my cold October soup. For dessert, I have fresh black mission figs poached in port that I serve on a piece of baguette with a Point Reyes Original Blue Cheese. I can almost feel the steam from the thermal baths. I think I'm healed.

ingredients:

2 leeks, white and green parts sliced thin

5 small zucchinis, sliced in rounds

3 medium new potatoes, peeled and cut in rough 1/2-inch squares

1 Tablespoon salt

1/2 Tablespoon cracked pepper

1 Tablespoon butter

1 Tablespoon olive oil

4 cups vegetable broth (I use one 32 oz. box of Trader Joe's Organic Hearty Vegetable Broth)

dollop of crème fraîche

basil florettes

method:

Sautée the leek, zucchini, and potatoes in the butter and olive oil for five minutes. Add salt & pepper, stir, and cover with lid over the heat for another five minutes until the leeks have caramelized. Add the vegetable broth and simmer the vegetables covered until the potatoes are tender but still have their shape, about 30 minutes. Serve cold with a dollop of creme fraiche and basil florettes.

suggestion:

As in the traditional recipe, you can purée the soup in a food processor and add 2 tablespoons cream to the cold soup prior to serving. Or serve the soup hot. Whichever is more healing to you.

where to buy:

For more information on Point Reyes Blue Cheese and to buy it online, visit www.pointreyescheese.com