To prepare the seder plate for the recent Passover festival, I opened the fridge to retrieve the bottle of horseradish — red, as J prefers. Unfortunately, it had spoiled. There was no time to run to the supermarket and, frankly, I was too nervous to have done so in the current climate.
Of course I vented on Facebook. A couple of days after posting, our doorbell rang. Upon opening the front door, we found the dearest, sweetest Sara Jacobson standing ten feet away, having dropped a baggie of horseradis
h roots onto our front porch. We used one of them on the seder plate.
After Passover, I planted the root that we had used during the seder in the hope that we would have an annual supply of the root veggie. A previous attempt had rotted in the ground after too much rainfall.
But I had forgotten that the really big root was still in its bag in the back hall. Not wanting to waste it, I thought why not prepare our own horseradish? So, wearing my trusty swim goggles and gloves, I peeled and grated until I had a nice pile of white shreds. With a little salt and white vinegar, we were good to go.
The result? I should probably get a grater with smaller holes, as it was a bit too coarse. But, the flavor was exactly what one would expect — and want — to spread on a sandwich or over your gefilte fish or as an ingredient in cocktail sauce.
If you plan to do this, be forewarned: When you remove said goggles, the fumes will assault you in ways that make you think “riot squad.”
I love Indian food, and when given the choice as to what kind of restaurant I’d like to visit, it is more often than not an Indian one — except with certain friends who shall remain nameless. They won’t go near the stuff.
A few years ago, J and I went to dinner at a little place in the Berkshires. We had decent salad and entrees that were meh. But, since we had eaten said salad and fish (so healthy, right?), we decided to order one dessert to split between us. A lover of all things British, I voted for the sticky toffee pudding that I had read about in many English novels. It came in a little ramekin and was so delicious that we could have eaten another three of four of them. Each. No kidding. It was that good.
I’ve never been to the Florida Keys, but my family and I have loved key lime pie since the first time we tasted it, and we can certainly understand why it is the official pie of the state of Florida. So, one day I decided that it would be fun to try to make one. But, in what can only be described as a temporary break from reality, I decided to grow my own key limes. What began as two little saplings have grown tall in my sunroom, and every year they produce a crop of about a dozen limes each. And every year I harvest the fruits, squeeze them, and freeze the resulting juice.
Back in the day, I subscribed to the late, great Gourmet magazine. Every month I swooned over gorgeous photos of exotic places, dreamt of touring France in a hot air balloon, and of course tried many recipes. One dish in particular I resurrected this year: a rum-glazed sweet potato, apple and chestnut gratin.
I find nothing quite as satisfying as preparing — and eating — a meal with vegetables from my own garden. An eggplant caponata, zucchini latkes, even just a simple sun-warmed tomato with a sprinkle of salt – all scrumptious.
Jello, and its jiggly cousin Royal, have long been derided by people who consider themselves epicures. Perhaps their bad rep is due to the association with school cafeterias and hospital stays. Or colonoscopy prep. So, I feel it’s time to come out and admit that I like the stuff, particularly when it’s combined with other ingredients, and even more when it is fashioned into a beautiful shape by virtue of a mold.
In an effort to become healthier, I, like so many other consumers, have been reading labels. Hydrogenated oils, high fructose corn syrup, and saturated fats are all ingredients that I try to avoid. One of the biggest challenges as been with one of my favorite foods: peanut butter. I have it on toast every morning, so I want it to be the best it can be, and we have gone through many brands and styles, from creamy to chunky. My mother always bought Skippy, but when I grew up and became a mom myself, I experimented with Jif (because I’m a choosy mother), then Peter Pan (because I’m one of the picky people). But soon, I realized that added sugars, hydrogenated oils, and salt, although tasty, were not landmarks on the road to healthy.