TWO ENTREES. TWO DESSERTS. FOUR STORIES.

Here are some favorite posts from my Food52 column Cooking What I Want. I was thinking these recipes might work well for a crowd (if you happen to have one in your house this week). Click on the dish name or the food photo for a recipe.

And if you feel like it, let me know in the comments below what kinds of recipes you'd like me to develop this winter. I tend to make the same things over and over again so I would love some inspiration.

Happy winter solstice. And here's to a hella peaceful new year.

xoxo Phyllis

POMEGRANATE FLANK STEAK

Dash. Look outside. We fell back.

What?

It's 5:20 in the evening. But what time does it look like?

6:20.

And in the spring when it's 5:20 what will it look like?

4:20.

Here's the best part, Dash. On Monday morning, 7 AM will feel like 8 AM. Total. Score. But I'm bummed the weekend is over.

Me too. It was great because my daddy came home. 

That was my favorite part too. 

We carved pumpkins, we had pancakes, we had Halloween. There was candy. You ate my strawberry Starbursts. And then you made shakshuka.

I did?

No. Wait. Mom. You made baba ganoush. I get all these new words mixed up. And then we had plank steak.

Did you like the plank steak?

It was delicious. Sweet but sour. Juicy. It was awesome.

Dash, do you think that dinner tasted better because daddy was here?

Maybe a little. Because I don't like it when it's just three. I like the whole four.

Yes, my love. It was a perfect weekend.

I don’t tell him that nothing makes me happier than cooking for his daddy.

I don’t tell him his daddy doesn’t like flank steak, that I forgot, that I’ve lost touch.

I don’t tell him about the kiss his daddy gave me when he got home on Friday night, the one behind the bedroom door, against the Transformers poster, amongst the Legos and stuffed cats, right before the first trick or treaters arrived.

I don’t tell him how sometimes I hide in the kitchen and cook so that I don’t have to be fully present as a wife or a parent.

I don’t tell him how this was a record, how his daddy and I made it 36 hours before our first fight.

I don’t tell him about the fight, the same one we always have, the you are so controlling, followed by the you have no patience, ending, as always, with me sobbing on the kitchen floor.

I don’t tell him how blissed out it made me to roll over on Saturday morning to find a warm chest for my head, to interlace fingers with fingers and toes with toes, to feel my entire being enveloped by the steady rhythm of someone else’s breath.

I don’t tell him that it’s possible to love someone just as much now as you did 25 years ago.

I don’t tell him that I ate all of his Snickers bars for lunch.

I tell him only one thing.

Dash. It’s flank. Not plank.

SPICED LAMB PIE

When I was 10 years old, I wanted world peace, no capital punishment, and an endless supply of Fun Dip Sticks.

At 44, I want my kids’ homework done, the table set without triple requests, and for all of us to sit down to dinner at the same time with napkins in our laps.

I want my son to take a bath at least once a week.

I want a slow, luxurious husband-kiss delivered to the side of my neck while I chop herbs.

I want my fall filled with warm and cinnamony lamb pies.

I want to sit at the kitchen table—red wine in hand, breathing deeply, staring at the wall, thinking about nothing—while my husband does the dishes.

I want to stop yelling at my children.

I want all of the laundry folded and tucked away, the bills organized and paid, the leak under the kitchen sink fixed.

I want us all to feel safe.

Last Wednesday, at 6 PM, I try for these dreams.

But there are some issues.

My husband is out of town.

The red wine gives me a headache. I google perimenopause and red wine. The news is horrifying.

So I become a yelling machine.

No way. Not on a school night. No. I don’t care how nicely you ask. No screentime. No. No! Nooooooooooo.

No. Please, Dash. Don’t sharpen your pencil with a chef knife!

Pick up your lunchbox your Legos your jacket your dirty socks your homework your cheddar bunnies!!!

I turn away from it all to stir a pungent paste of garlic, anchovies, tomato paste, and spices into the ground lamb. My world fills with cinnamon, paprika, cumin. The juices reduce down and thicken. I turn off the heat and reach for the dough.

I hear a jumble of voices: teacher, mama, recipe writer. Don’t move your body, move the dough. Don’t overhandle it. Add flour. Move quickly. Look at the beautiful marbling of butter. Isn’t dough amazing? Want to make a honey pie with the scraps?

I pour the filling into the pie shell, slide as much cheese as possible underneath the top crust, and bust out a scrappy crimp.

I am no longer yelling.

I snap out of my pie trance and remember that kids need to be fed at a reasonable hour on a school night.

And 8:30 PM isn’t reasonable. 

I pull out the frozen pizza. 

BROWN BUTTER BLONDIES

Extra chocolate chips. Hella brown sugar. An overflowing tablespoon of vanilla extract.

For my daughter after her pull-ups. For my son as he tries to conjugate the verb dormir. For my husband as he drives away from our Thanksgiving weekend, away from our unit of four, away from our fully-loaded Christmas tree. For my mother because there is nothing better than feeding your mother.

Brown butter with toasted walnuts. No chocolate chips. Less brown sugar.

For me, right before bed, drifting off to sleep with butterscotch on my tongue after defiantly ignoring my toothbrush because I'm 44 and I can do what I want. 

Chocolate stirred in while the dough is still warm. Crinkly on the top, marbley brownie on the inside. 

For my grandmother, accompanied by lukewarm Lipton tea. Eaten with my hand resting on her impossibly fragile arm. In her hospital bed. After she says "I don't like blondies." After I say to the nurse, "did you know that I wanted to be my grandmother when I was little?" Before she actually bites in and smiles and reaches for more.

A heaping teaspoon of salt. Just enough chocolate chips so the butterscotch flavor doesn’t have to compete. Balanced. Nuts optional. 

Brought over by my neighbor: on my birthday or my son’s or just because, at the end of many rough days, after yet another miscarriage. Eaten while sobbing, letting the buttery chocolate squares fill me back up again. Shared with no one.

Versions of all four batches rest in my freezer, cubed and Ziplocked. Up for grabs. For the forgotten second-grade-holiday-party-potluck. For late nights with "The Newsroom" and red wine. For anyone who stops by. For Marianne, Simon, Margi, Sarah, Amy, Yalda, Laurel, Jen, Anya, Anna, my brother, my mom, my dad. I promised you all some blondies. Come over. Let me feed you.  

CARAMEL NUT TART WITH CHOCOLATE

I sit alone in the car, listening to reports about the upcoming hellastorm, a trail of broken windows from the previous night’s protests, how everyone is bringing booty back. I try to find my morning.   

Gather every lonely nut you can find in your pantry, fridge, freezer.

I squeeze my eyes shut, smack my cheeks, and try to kickstart my brain. I don’t know how I jumped out of bed this morning, how I got these clothes on my body, how I showed up in the kitchen. I have no memory of nuzzling one child and then the other awake. 

Roll out your tart dough. Find your favorite square pan.

My arms must have prepared three breakfasts, two lunches, one cup of very strong coffee. My voice must have guided with variations of take a deep breath, I will help you find your homework, yes your socks are clean and in the bin, no you can't get Snapchat.

Think about all of the tarts that have passed through this pan, this kitchen. Testing, re-testing, learning to let go of being perfect. 

My head drops to the steering wheel. I am feeling the side effects: the slow decline of my sacrum, my teeth, my brain. I need to look up. I need to break some rules. 

Caramelize the sugar. Stir in the cream. Watch it rise up like a volcano.

I re-enter the kitchen and the morning floods back. Every last word, struggle, sprint, geometry problem, glass of spilled milk. I hear myself say: first, make the bed. I see myself tucking, folding, scrubbing.

Add some salt. A bit more salt. Some vanilla. A bit more vanilla. 

I pick my kids up from school. As the helicopters start in for the fifth night in a row, I see my son cover his ears from the noise. I feel myself start a stumbling rant: Things must change and we can help and we must not just let things be and we are all equal and there is so much history filled with violence and oppression and we must march and chant and fight. I want to be the right parent. The clear parent. 

Pour the caramel-drenched walnuts, pine nuts, pecans, almonds into the raw pastry shell. Fuck par-baking. 

Dash, sometimes people have to make some noise. 

Stare at your pretty tart. Melt bitter chocolate. Get a spoon. Drizzle. Mess it up.

SLEEP DEPRIVATION PERSIMMON SALAD

Dash and I have been having it out every night about sleep. He just doesn't want to go to bed. Ever again. But during the day we have been cooking together and sharing peaceful lunches. I yawn my way through lunch while Dash looks concerned and asks, "You tired again, momma?" Oh Dash. You have no idea.

Every December people give me persimmons. Most years I place them in a bowl and admire them from a distance. And then they rot and I feel bad. In the past I've only had hachiya persimmons which are very bitter unless completely ripe. Hachiyas are good for puddings, cakes and purées. This year four people have given me fuyus. Fuyus can be eaten crisp like apples.

Dash and I made fuyu persimmon salad over and over again this past week.

We coat the persimmon slices with lemon, salt and olive oil. Then we start sprinkling on the goodies.

Dash and I giggle and eat the salad with our fingers. 

He rolls the thinly sliced persimmon around the pomegranate, goat cheese, pine nuts, and parsley. "Like a burrito," he says.

Dash loves how the pomegranate seeds pop in his mouth. I love how the warm pine nuts melt the goat cheese. And I love that we're sitting still for 20 minutes. No one is climbing out a window. No one is screaming about bedtime. No one is telling me I'm mean. No eyes needed on the back of my head. We scoop up the final scraps with our buttered bread. Lunch is over. And I release Dash from his chair.

PERSIMMON SALAD

These amounts are approximate. The persimmon slices absorb a lot of lemon juice, olive oil, and salt. I like lots of goat cheese. But you might just want a little bit. Or you could do parmesan instead. No matter what use lots of pomegranate and parsley.
printable recipe

Feeds 2.

2 fuyu persimmons

1 lemon

3 tablespoons olive oil

2 big pinches of salt

seeds from 1/2 pomegranate

4 tablespoons crumbled goat cheese

2 big handfuls of warm toasted pine nuts

chopped parsley

Thinly slice the persimmons (as thin as a piece of paper) with a serrated knife or a mandoline. Spread the slices out on a big platter, overlapping them a bit. Squeeze the lemon all over the persimmon slices. Let it absorb. Squeeze a little more. Drizzle over the olive oil.  Season generously with the salt. Sprinkle the pomegranate seeds, warm pine nuts, goat cheese, and parsley all over. Serve with bread.

TRANSFORMATION

"Momma, is it okay if I don't cook with you today?" My girl is burned out. Too much time in the kitchen. I'm going to cook stew, but she would rather make patterns in yogurt with raspberry purée.

If you're a vegetarian you should stop reading now and check back in a few days for my Persimmon Salad recipe. For the rest of you...

Dash is ready for anything. "Momma, you cook? We cook? Meat. Look that meat." Three pounds of chuck. When I was little I thought Chuck was the cow's name. "YUMMY CHUCK," shrieks Dash. Poor Chuck. But this cow had a good life at Prather Ranch. No hormones. No antibiotics. Organic food. And lots of roaming around the hills of Northern Calfornia.

Chuck meat is from the muscular front shoulder of the cow. This cut needs to be cooked in liquid for a long time to soften up but it has lots of flavor. The connective tissue makes it particularly hard to eat raw. But Dash gives it a shot. He grabs a piece and gnaws on it. "Too chewy," he says.

Dash has two modes in the kitchen: speedy helper or crazy troublemaker. Thankfully he kicks into helper mode. I don't even have to tell him what to do. He just grabs a paper towel and starts meticulously drying each piece of meat. He's getting really good at seasoning with salt and pepper.

 When he thinks I'm not looking he fills his oven mitt with cubed meat.

 

I am uninspired by all the stew recipes I find. So I do my own thing. To the base I add lots of onions, anchovies, tomato paste, cumin, paprika, and thinly sliced garlic. I hate mushy coins of overcooked carrots so I cut big old chunks (you could even put the carrots in whole). I end up cooking it for 4 hours. I serve the stew over this wacky pasta called Sa Fregula Sarda. It's a traditional oven-toasted Sardinian durum wheat semolina pasta.  You can boil it like pasta or cook it like risotto by slowly adding chicken stock until it's al dente.

I finish my stew with lots of toppings: pomegranate seeds, creamy yogurt, pomegranate syrup, parsley, olive oil, and crunchy salt. Dash puts his face right down to the edge of the bowl and sighs, "Beautiful stew."

Usually, if my kids cook with me they want to eat what they've made. Not this time with Dash. When I give him a fork he says, "Yucky stew." He finds it nice to look at but not to eat. Funny that he was willing to eat raw cubes of meat but not the stew. Maybe the meat transformed so much in those 4 hours that he didn't even recognize it. He refuses to taste it even once. Bella, on the other hand, can't stop eating it. She even requests it for her school lunch. I put it in her thermos hot and covered with yogurt and extra pomegranate seeds.

I'm no longer going to call it stew. Stew sounds like brown glop. Instead it's our Slow-Cooked Beef and Carrots.

P.S. In my stew research, I learned about Sonofabitch Stew (aka Rascal Stew). It was popular with the cowboys back in the day. To make it you would use my recipe below and then replace the chuck with a cow's heart, brain, liver, thymus gland, and marrow gut. It's a twisted Wizard of Oz in a bowl. Maybe I'll make it in 2010.

SLOW-COOKED BEEF AND CARROTS TOPPED WITH POMEGRANATE SEEDS, POMEGRANATE SYRUP, YOGURT, AND PARSLEY
printable recipe

Feeds 6-8

3 pounds beef chuck stew meat, cubed and preferably organic and/or local

salt

pepper

vegetable oil for searing meat

2 onions. peeled and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons flour

4 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced

1 tablespoon tomato paste

2 anchovy fillets packed in oil (if in salt rinse off excess)

1 teaspoon cumin

2 teaspoons paprika

1 bottle of red wine (I used a $9.99 zinfandel)

1 cup water
2 sprigs of thyme

1 bay leaf

4 sprigs of parsley

14 ounce can of tomatoes (whole or diced)

10 large carrots, trimmed and sliced into 3 inch chunks (or leave them whole if carrots are small)

toppings (any or all of the following):

yogurt, sour cream or creme fraiche

pomegranate seeds
pomegranate syrup
chopped parsley

fleur de sel
toasted pine nuts
chopped cilantro
olive oil

serve over:
pasta, couscous, polenta, or rice

Spread cubes of meat out on a sheet pan, dry them very well, and season all over with lots of salt and pepper. Put a dutch oven or heavy-bottomed pot on the stove. Crank the heat as high as it goes.  Add just enough oil to thinly coat the bottom of the pot. Add enough of the meat chunks so that they're not overlapping and sear them until brown and caramelized on all sides. Don't overcrowd the meat or it will steam and not brown. Remove meat with a slotted spoon and put it back on the sheet pan and continue the same way until all the meat is seared. Add more oil to the pot if you need to. Set meat aside.

Turn heat down to medium and add the onions. Scrape up all the fat and goodies left over in the pan with a wooden spoon. Cook until onions are soft and nicely browned. Add flour and cook for a minute, stirring the whole time. Add garlic, tomato paste, anchovy, cumin and paprika. Continue cooking for a few more minutes, stirring the whole time. Add the whole bottle of wine plus one cup water. Throw in all the herbs and the canned tomatoes. Add the seared meat and the carrots. Bring up to a boil. Turn down heat to low and cover the pot. Stir it every 20 minutes or so. It's done when the meat is falling apart. This can take anywhere from 2-4 hours. If the stew is too soupy when the meat it done, reduce it down at the end with the lid off. Also make sure to check the seasoning. I needed to add a bit more salt and pepper. Remove remaining sprigs of thyme and parsley and the bay leaf. Serve over pasta, couscous, polenta, or rice. Have bowls of selected toppings at the table.

LUNCHTIME MINUS DASH AND BELLA

Today I'm starting a new set of posts called LUNCHTIME MINUS DASH AND BELLA.

I love the challenge of throwing something together in 15 minutes or so that's JUST FOR ME. It's often a combination of odds and ends from my fridge. I thought these posts might be a nice counterbalance to the (wonderful) CHAOS of cooking with Dash and Bella. I'm feeling the need to tell some shorter stories AND to create my own recipes. See quick meals or twitter in the right navigation bar for previous entries. Here's what I ate for lunch today (actually, inhaled for lunch) while Dash redecorated his room instead of napping.

ENDIVE, POMEGRANATE, BLUE CHEESE, AND WALNUT SALAD WITH WALNUT AND ANCHOVY DRESSING (serves 1)


I have a huge jar of anchovies in my fridge. I put them in everything. As long as you keep them covered with olive oil they last forever.  In this recipe they just bring a nice saltiness to the dressing. It doesn't taste fishy at all. I'm now down to the very end of parsley and basil on my porch but I keep throwing those final sad leaves into my salads. I keep walnut oil in my fridge. But olive or hazelnut oil would work for this recipe. Leftover lamb or pork would also work nicely in this salad.

Dressing:
1 teaspoon grainy dijon mustard
1/4 anchovy filet
2 teaspoons red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons walnut oil

Salad Components:
Big handful of endive, arugula or mixed greens
Leftover cooked white meat chicken, cut up
Seeds from 1/2 a pomegranate
Chunk of blue cheese, crumbled
Parsley and basil, coarsely chopped
Pepper

Chop or mash anchovy and place in a bowl. Whisk in mustard and vinegar. Slowly whisk in walnut oil. Set aside.

Put greens, chicken, pomegranate, blue cheese and herbs into a bowl. Toss with dressing. Add pepper to taste. No salt necessary because of the anchovy.

Serve with crackers to scoop up the goodies on the bottom of the bowl.