We all know that beauty starts with good health. The first signs of disease or imbalance in the body often reveal themselves through our skin. And good health starts in the kitchen, so it’s safe to say, then, that beauty starts in the kitchen. Continue reading “Bone Broth Beauty Elixir” →
A homesick American
On a dim side street that cut through the buildings like a crack in a rock there was a nondescript little candy shop. It wasn’t too far from our apartment on Viale Italia, in Livorno, and I passed it frequently on my way to the market. You could easily have walked right by without noticing but for the aromas that slipped beneath the door – apparitions of caramelized sugar and bittersweet cocoa. Though I didn’t often stop in to buy anything (willpower, you know), just knowing it was there was reassuring. I was quite homesick during that first winter abroad and everyone knows that a little chocolate is the best cure for homesickness. Continue reading “Pots de Crème au Chocolat” →
Food as art
Let’s imagine, for a moment, that the kitchen is a world-class art gallery. The exhibits change with the seasons, but one thing remains the same – each dish is reminiscent of a work from one of history’s most influential artists. We could say that there are dishes that resemble the cubism of Picasso – those meticulously constructed fusions with ingredients whose union seems surprisingly controversial, yet somehow work together perfectly (think Kimchi Tacos). There are the Michelangelos – well thought out Renaissance masterpieces. They don’t overstep the boundaries of artistic license or realism, and their refined elements take time and a steady hand to prepare (Christmas dinner?). There are the Jackson Pollocks – abstract impressionist dishes that evoke all the feels (butternut mac & cheese?). And then there is Risotto. Continue reading “Mushroom Risotto” →
Of monks and melons
The story goes that the tradition of serving Port wine in the hollowed-out cavity of a summer melon was first started by Spanish monks who would fill local piel de sapo melons, likely grown in the monastery garden, with equally local Port from the monastery cellar. The aperitif was likely enjoyed in the cool shade of the garden before the evening meal. Melons were considered a symbol of earthly delights by the monks. And how fitting that something with such a rough and arguably ugly exterior would yield one of earth’s most delicious treats. A geode of the garden – rocky on the outside, a treasure within. Continue reading “Melon au Lillet” →
The kids went back to school last week. To me, it feels a bit like sacrilege to begin in the middle of the sacred month of August. But, over the last few days a cool fog has rolled in off the mountains and I’ve had to put extra blankets on the beds. It’s like nature is saying, “It’s time,” and it truly feels like fall is nearly here, a little earlier than normal, as well, but who am I to argue with Mother Nature. At night I still throw the windows open wide and by morning the house is blissfully cool – almost cold, even – and I wake, finding I’ve been dreaming of damp autumn leaves and the scent of cinnamon dancing through the kitchen air. Continue reading “Harvest Chicken” →
In all the busyness of recipe development, food-styling and creating that perfect, Instagram-worthy pie crust, I forget that the simplest recipes are often the most loved. Take, for instance, a fruit crisp. It’s by far one of the easiest things to prepare, and “comforting” doesn’t even begin to describe the feelings it evokes when I take a bite (with a little vanilla ice cream). Nostalgic, soothing, consoling, loved. This is the kind of dessert my mother would make when there wasn’t time to make anything fancy. Of course, we could have skipped dessert altogether. It’s not a required Continue reading “Peach & Blueberry Crisp” →
I love the trend of returning to our culinary roots. That’s not to say that I don’t respect the innovative chefs creating modern and exciting new adaptations of our old favourites, but the slow living movement, the trend to cook like our grandmothers once did is where my heart lies when I’m in the kitchen. Cooking real food with natural, wholesome ingredients that have names even our grandmothers would recognize. Tried and true recipe that have stood the test of time. However, there is one thing that I absolutely will not cook the way my grandmother did. Pie crust. My grandmother came from the generation of cooks who, in the 40s and 50s, embraced shortening as a better alternative to butter and used it for just about everything from hand cream to pastry dough. Continue reading “Swiss Chard & Potato Galette” →
If you ask me, apricot season is far too short. Here in Colorado if you blink you’ll miss it. So when I find apricots in the market I never pass them up. Of course there are always apricots in the grocery stores, hard and bitter rocks that will never ripen to perfection and will ruin any recipe you use them in. But if I find ripe, local, charmingly bruised apricots in the farmers’ market I buy bags and bags of them. We eat them by the dozens and anything we don’t eat raw is transformed into a number of seasonal treats. Perhaps because of their very short season, recipes that centre around apricots have always seemed rather exotic to me, perfumed with the most enticing and seductive spices in the world. Apricot and Chicken Tagine from Morocco, Apricot Blatjang from South Africa, Indian Apricot Pudding with almonds and cardamom. Continue reading “Apricot Clafoutis” →
I get oddly excited about recipes that require only the egg yolks. It’s similar to the way someone might start looking forward to their birthday cake a few days in advance, or how enticing a Friday evening cocktail becomes when you’re stuck at your desk on Wednesday, because when a recipe requires only the yolks it means there will be leftover egg whites, and one of the very best ways to use leftover egg whites is to make meringue cookies. Continue reading “Cocoa Meringues” →
As evening fell, I stood by the window with a glass of wine in my hand and saw her. Opening the back door – the one that led from the kitchen – she gathered her flowered housedress and white apron in one hand. Slowly she approached the five steps that led to the garden and very carefully, unsteady, she descended. I always watched her, never leaving that window for fear that if her knees buckled and she fell I would have to run out to help. But she never did fall, and once down in the garden she walked among the rows, chatting with someone unseen, perhaps a bird, perhaps a rabbit, or ghost, or maybe she talked only to herself. I never knew. Continue reading “Strawberry Balsamic Hand Pies” →
Rebecca Sherrow