I look Chinese, I speak Chinese, but I’m not really Chinese. Or so it was drummed into my head when I was growing up.

Let me clarify. My family is Indonesian-Chinese, which means our ancestry includes both indigenous Indonesians and ethnic Chinese who were born in or immigrated to Indonesia in the last century. However, my father has always insisted that we’re not Chinese. We don’t have Chinese names (the phonetic translations of our Romanized names don’t count). My parents don’t speak Chinese (I do, only because I learned it at school while growing up in Singapore). And we barely celebrated any Chinese festivals growing up (well, except for Chinese New Year).

This disconnect with my Chinese heritage never bothered me, and I’ve passed the last few decades in blissful ignorance. But this year is different. Our first child is due right on the cusp of Chinese New Year, and as I contemplate whether my son will be an Ox or a Tiger, I also ponder the significance of this holiday for us as a new family.

I don’t want to be one of those mothers who adopt a holiday or tradition just because. When I was a child, every Chinese New Year Eve our family would make the once-a-year visit to my maternal grand-aunt, whom we called Ku-Po, for a reunion dinner of sorts. Ku-Po was perhaps our only relative who actually celebrated the holiday. She spoke no English, only Hakka, a Chinese dialect that my mother could understand but couldn’t speak. The evening was usually awkward, and I sat stiffly in my seat, unable to connect the dots between the ritual, the food, and my heritage. The only thing that kept me going was knowing that red packets bulging with a generous bundle of crisp, new ten-dollar bills were waiting at the end of the visit. I don’t want this for my child. I want our son to grow up with a holiday that’s relevant, one that’s steeped in meaning. But without a set of traditions to root me thus far, what’s a soon-to-be-mother to do?

Research.

In my years spent researching food and culture as a writer and cookbook author, I’ve learned that New Year traditions have evolved with Chinese diaspora. And as an immigrant twice over, I’ve always picked and chosen for myself which cultural values to ascribe to and which to discard. My conclusion? That mixing and mingling and borrowing traditions, food or otherwise, isn’t such a bad thing. So I figured, why not do the same for Chinese New Year? I came up with the following list of potential customs and pondered which I might want to keep—and which I might not.

At this time of celebrating rebirth and new beginnings, the Chinese clean the house (always a good idea), pay off all debts (err…couldn’t even if I tried), and resolve differences with family members, friends, neighbors, and colleagues (a wonderful idea, if only in theory…). Parents buy a new set of clothes and shoes for their children, preferably in red or orange (who doesn’t like to go shopping?). And they also give two red packets of money to each child, a symbolic way of passing good luck to the next generation (definitely).

And then there’s dinner on Chinese New Year Eve. The most important meal of the season, it’s a time when families reunite to give thanks. Convincing my husband that the family needs to gather for one more holiday might be a difficult task, although at least traveling will be cheaper and easier than Thanksgiving or Christmas. The dishes for this event, as well as the guidelines for their preparation, tend to have symbolic meanings or contain ingredients that are homophones for luck or prosperity, and range from the peculiar but passable to the downright impractical, including:

• Round shapes—common to nian gao (sticky rice cakes) and fish balls—portray togetherness and symbolize reunion. Turns out I like these more than I had imagined.
• Certain ingredients are considered auspicious, such as gingko nuts (they resemble silver ingots, which represent good fortune), bamboo shoots (cut in long, slender slices that symbolize long life), and black moss (its Cantonese name, fat choy, sounds like the New Year’s greeting, “Gung hay fat choy”). However, regarding that last ingredient, I don’t think my husband and future children would enjoy eating something that looks like hair, no matter how much luck it may bring.
• A whole fish symbolizes a profitable year ahead. The leftovers allow you to take a reserve,  or surplus, into the new year, ensuring that your family will have an excess of good fortune throughout the year. Keeping the head and tail intact symbolizes a good beginning and a happy ending in all aspects of life. Whole chicken, with menacing eyes, is sometimes served in place of fish. My husband doesn’t like to have his food staring back at him, so….
• Using knives, cleavers, or sharp objects during celebratory days could sever the entire family’s good fortune. Anyone who intends to include chopped ingredients in New Year dishes must prepare them in advance to avoid bad omens. The procrastinator in me protests!

Next, I set out to create a menu.

Perhaps braised duck (see recipe below) would work, it’s still poultry, after all—minus the head and feet. No one at my table would miss the extremities, that’s for sure.

Thit kho, a delicious South Vietnamese pork belly stew with coconut water, fish sauce, and hard-boiled eggs, could also belong on the same table. Pork is a mainstream protein available to everyone, rich or poor, while eggs symbolize longevity and fertility, and I like the idea of a dish for all.

And, just because it’s a lot of fun, we could have yu sheng, a Chinese New Year dish that’s popular in Singapore and Malaysia. It’s made up of sliced raw fish, shredded lettuce, pomelo pulp, ground roasted peanuts, and crispy fried dough, and is dressed with spices and plum sauce. When ready to eat, everyone stands up, chopsticks in hand, and tosses the salad together. The higher you toss the ingredients, the more luck you’ll have. Entertainment for our future children.

Although in the end, whether I even celebrate Chinese New Year this year is a moot point—baby will come when baby wants to come. What matters, and what some might say has always mattered, is that the festival be relevant to me and my family, and that I make it ours for generations to come.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Too anxious and exhausted to cook, Pat Tanumihardja left the Chinese New Year dinner plans entirely up to her mother, who is visiting from Seattle to help with the newborn. The family celebrated with a pseudo-traditional meal of lumpiah (Indonesian spring rolls), steamed whole trout, stir-fried shrimp and vegetables, pork ribs, and salted vegetable soup. Her son Isaac decided to show up on February 20th.
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Teochew Braised Duck | The Asian Grandmother’s Cookbook | Sasquatch Books, 2009 | Serves 4 to 6

This recipe, called Lo Ack,  is a family favorite that’s often served at Chinese New Year but also relied on for everyday meals. While this is essentially a Teochew (also Chow Chiu or Chaozhou) dish, the addition of lemongrass and galangal is very Southeast Asian. The sweetness of the duck contrasts sharply with the tart dipping sauce, resulting in a tingly, sweet-sour sensation.—Pat Tanumihardja

convert Ingredients
2 tablespoons sea or kosher salt
One 4- to 5-pound duck, rinsed and patted dry
2 cups water, plus more as needed
1/2 cup dark soy sauce
2 plump stalks lemongrass, trimmed, bruised, and halved
1-inch piece fresh galangal, smashed
1 tablespoon sugar
4 whole cloves
4 star anise pods
Two 2-inch sticks cinnamon
1 teaspoon black peppercorns
Chili-Lime Dipping Sauce (recipe follows)

Method
1. Rub 1 1/2 tablespoons of the salt evenly all over the duck, including inside the cavity.

2. In a large wok, Dutch oven, or other vessel large enough to contain the duck, combine the water, soy sauce, lemongrass, galangal, sugar, cloves, star anise, cinnamon, peppercorns, and remaining salt. Bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low. Gently lower the duck into the wok. The liquid should reach halfway up the duck. (If necessary, top off the soy mixture with additional water.) Cook the duck, basting it every 5 minutes or so, until it colors evenly, about 20 minutes.

3. Cover the pan and gently simmer the duck gently until the meat is fall-off-the-bone tender, another 40 to 60 minutes, flipping the duck halfway through cooking. If the sauce looks like it’s reducing to the point of drying out, add a little water (no more than 1/4 cup at a time). To check for doneness, poke the duck in the thigh with a chopstick. If the juices run clear, the duck is done. Or use a meat thermometer to check if the internal temperature has reached 165 degrees F. If desired, turn off the heat and leave the duck immersed in the sauce for another hour.

4. Cut the duck into serving pieces and arrange on a serving platter. Skim the fat from the surface of the sauce and discard. Drizzle the sauce over the duck and serve with freshly steamed rice and the Chili-Lime Dipping Sauce.

Variations:
~ Add fried tofu or hard-boiled eggs to the sauce about 20 minutes before it’s done, or jazz up the dish with a medley of intestines, duck liver, and gizzards.

Chili-Lime Dipping Sauce
Makes about 1/2 cup

Ingredients
4 cloves garlic
2 long, fresh red chilies or 2 tablespoons prepared chili paste
8 tablespoons key lime juice (from 8 small key limes; may substitute regular limes)
Salt

Method
1. Pound the garlic and chilies in a mortar and pestle or whirl in a small food processor until a coarse paste forms. Add the lime juice and salt and mix well.

Article © 2010 Patricia Tanumihardja. All rights reserved.
© 2010 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

It’s a funny thing, kitchen love. Unlike gastronomic lust, with its blatant and all-consuming covetousness for, say, a six-burner stove or a window seat with a view, kitchen love tends to sneak up on a cook. It often begins with a crush, a fleeting fondness for that new tool with the ruggedly handsome good looks. Then, slowly and often imperceptibly, it matures into something far more profound. Whether the underlying reason relates to an utter practicality or an ability to evoke a chortlingly uproarious memory, sure enough, it usually entails something that satisfies the most simple, quietest needs while one stands facing the stove.

Curious about what makes other home cooks’ hearts skip a beat? We asked a handful of our favorite food bloggers and ever-reliable Leite’s Culinaria recipe testers for their love letters, their odes to the kitchen essentials for which they thank ye gods above. How do they love them? Let us count the ways.

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I love my Microplane zester. In all seriousness, don’t you think it’s time someone made a key chain model?
—Ramona Hamblin, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

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Most beloved kitchen tool? No question. My Mexican molcajete (mohl-kah-HEH-tay), the traditional mortar for grinding spices and herbs, and companion to the tejolote (tay hoh LOH tay), or pestle. Both are carved from dark gray volcanic basalt stone, usually in the state of Jalisco. It’s not that I never use a food processor, or that I use my molcajete every day. But I do use it a lot. And it’s a terrific story as to how it found us. My wife, Lane, and I had the molcajete on our must-purchase list during a trip to Mexico several years ago. We looked for one everywhere we went, from stores in Mexico City to open-air markets in towns like Patzcuaro, Morelia, and Guanajuato. The search became our personal trail of tears as we left each market empty-handed. It’s not that we couldn’t find a molcajete. It’s that we couldn’t settle on the right molcajete. By the time we landed at our final destination—touristville, Puerto Vallarta—we despaired of ever finding one…when there we saw it, a gorgeous specimen at a taco stand outside the Walmart. In our limited Spanish, and with much flailing of arms and other forms of gesticulation, we got rough directions to a hardware store in a neighborhood where I don’t think many tourists normally go. And there, in the back of this strangely fascinating hardware-saddlery-pet store, I found my molcajete, covered in dust as if it had been sitting there, waiting for me, for a century. When I approached the owner of the store to pay, she said to me in perfect English, “You know, most people these days use an electric blender.”
—Ed Bruske, The Slow Cook

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Tongs, you are the height of chivalry. In my earlier years, I earned the nickname Asbestos Hands for my willingness to tackle all things scalding with bare fingers. Older and wiser, I now defer to you. Whenever there’s something hot to be turned in a pan of jumping oil or a pot of boiling water, you throw yourself between my poorer judgment and second-degree burns. I know a better life now, one in which your elegant metal arms have restored feeling to my once-numb fingertips.

You never miss, you hold on tight, you clean up easy. You remind me that cooking is often best when it’s approached simply, with no programming required, no extra parts to replace or misplace. And you’re just as helpful outside the kitchen. Remember that sock that had fallen behind the washer you once retrieved? And when that curtain pull shot out of my hand and got stuck up on the picture rail, you oh-so-gallantly retrieved it.

When I grab you and snatch at the air with your tips as a warm-up, the resulting click, click, click is like opening music, a signal that the cooking is about to begin. And during those in-between cooking moments, you stave off boredom by doubling as kitchen castanets, invoking Spanish flair no matter what I’m making. Fusion cooking at its finest.
—Christine Sarkis, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

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My favored kitchen item has to be the tattered, stained page that fell out of an old Moosewood cookbook that I’ve toted all over the world. It’s the holy grail of birthday-cake recipes, which is why it fell out of the cookbook in the first place. As basic chocolate cakes go, this one is a true winner. Much as I’d hate to divulge that recipe—making it public will unmask me, as it’s the easiest cake ever—I’ve already had to share it with a few friends so as not to look completely selfish, and they love it, too. Deep in birthday season here, we’re all still clamoring for that cake.
—Fran Brennan, Editor, Food News Journal, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

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It’s a guilty secret that I’m sharing with you. My most cherished cooking tool, my daily cooking partner, my pampered darling of the kitchen, sits in my cupboard as an act of petty larceny. Sort of. I did ask the restaurant if I could have it—albeit after it had taken up residency in my home by about two months. But technically, I did ask, and I was given permission to keep the perfectly seasoned cast-iron fajita pan. Although, honestly, I’ve never made fajitas on it. Instead I rely on it for grilled cheese sandwiches, pancakes, toasted nuts, French toast, and other such kind and gentle items. Nothing is allowed near it that could mar it’s deep, shiny surface, the result of hours of curing. I do not share it. It’s MINE! My Precious.
—Jodi Calhoun, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

EDITOR’S NOTE: It is possible to purchase this low-sided, oval griddle from just about anyplace that sells cast-iron cookware for just a few bucks, although, of course, you’ll also need to invest a little time and effort in seasoning it following the instructions that always accompany anything cast iron.

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My engagement ring was a bright orange KitchenAid mixer. When I swapped countries for a blossoming romance, I was willing to give up, among countless other things, three previously essential items: Yankee season tickets, my cat, and my workhorse mixer. These were decisions I labored over, the final proof—at least to this skittish commitaphobe—that this really was love.

Before moving, I stowed most of my belongings for safekeeping in a miscellany of cardboard boxes that were then dispersed and crammed into the attics and closets of my accommodating family. I had several last jaunts to Yankee Stadium to cheer on my pinstriped boys. The cat got a round of rabies shots, a kitty passport, and the promise of Europe after the quarantine period had passed—yet in the end I had to leave her behind. And my beloved KitchenAid was driven over to the only cook I really trusted.

That plain white mixer had long been an emblem of my independence. The first real appliance I had bought for myself, it had dwelled on the living room table of my tiny Manhattan brownstone apartment, churning out double batches of brioche. Nestled gently into a car (along with the cat) and brought across the country, it helped keep me from starving when I lived in Memphis. And when I moved back to New York, it made easy work of dinner parties and birthday cakes. It was my trusty—and, often, my only reliable—companion.

Then, a year after I’d left everything I owned behind, my man presented me with a shiny new KitchenAid mixer in a sunny orange, knowing that it would mean more to me than diamonds. We’ve lived a lot of places together since then, and my new mixer has always stood out on the kitchen counter in a place of pride, my symbol of independence, now colored by love. Sometimes sprawled next to it is a new cat, named after my favorite Yankee screwball pitcher.
—Mary Stephens, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

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As two adult males living in a one-bedroom apartment for eleven years, DPaul and I became kings of optimization. Even though we had what could only optimistically be called an eat-in kitchen, we didn’t let our diminutive digs diminish our urge to entertain. Fortuitously, a complete and utter lack of counters afforded us room—extremely finite room—for a table and a couple chairs.

We were especially attracted to mid-century dinette sets, with their gleaming chrome and funky Formica, although endless thrift shopping netted not a single table that both fit the space and wasn’t hopelessly marred. Finally, we found a company that created retro-styled furniture to order—they even sent Formica chips and pleather swatches on request. Six to eight weeks later, we had our own “vintage” set, with bent chrome legs, a black Formica top riddled with Space-Age boomerang motif, and black and grey pleather seats. The table was sized to our spec, and if positioned at exactly the right angle, we could just seat four, so long as someone didn’t mind sitting right next to the stove.

Eventually, we decided we needed more space. As we cruised each open home, we analyzed what pieces of furniture would or wouldn’t make the transition. In almost every hypothetical case, the kitchen table was a goner. Then we landed a flat that had a large but unusually shaped kitchen, an L configuration with a niche that jutted out where the two legs of the room intersected. The dinette set fit with uncanny precision, as if it had once again been cut to spec. We now seat four comfortably, with a view over our neighborhood and the East Bay. And no one has to sit next to the stove.
—Sean Timberlake, Hedonia (Photo: DPaul Brown)

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I think I can safely and honestly say that I have one item in my kitchen that I totally love. It’s a hand-held cheese grater, and although I’ve had it for years and use it daily, I’ve never grated cheese on it. I use it for ginger instead. I love the convenience of it, as it allows me to grate small amounts without a mess. I just slide a small bowl under the grater so that it captures not only the grated fiber but also the super juice that flows out of the ginger. The grated root I use to cook with, whether in curries, rice, or stews. And the juice? Ah, the juice. Perfect for making bellinis.
—Monica Bhide, A Life of Spice

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I cannot imagine cooking without Grandma Marion looking on. To invoke her presence, I keep a framed letter on the wall that my mother, Allene, wrote as a child to her mother, my Grandma Marion. It has the place of honor, next to my nursery-school diploma (tuition courtesy of Grandma) and near a giant Victorian ironstone tureen that she really loved. She has been gone since I was a teen, but she was the one who taught me to bake—puff pastry first (we made cream puffs, though mine were more blob than puff) and then meringues (filled with dark chocolate bits or mashed dates laced with crumbled nuts). Now, she is always watching, and I can hear her admonishing me as I lick my fingers clean between steps, “That’s not Emily Post-ish!”
—Margaret Roach, A Way To Garden

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My favored kitchen item is a vintage cocotte, an enameled cast-iron pot designed by Raymond Loewy for Le Creuset in the late fifties as part of a retro-futuristic line named Coquelle. It’s pale yellow, like the down of a chick, and the inside coating, which used to be white, is now well-seasoned by decades of use. As a happy consequence, no absentmindedness of mine has ever caused anything to stick to it. I found the cocotte on a popular auction website a few years ago and snatched it for a handful of euros. It has served me dutifully since then, and it is the pot I reach for whenever I’m making apple compote, rice pudding, winter soups, stews—all those grandmotherly types of dishes that seem to fare so well under its care. I wish my cocotte had come with some sort of family tree, telling me whom it belonged to before me, but failing that, I am left to imagine a different owner every time, as well as the sort of things that he or she might have cooked with the dish when it was theirs.
—Clotilde Dusoulier, Chocolate & Zucchini

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I had to pare down everything in my life when I moved to a small rooftop apartment in Paris, so I became quite selective about what got valuable real estate in my kitchen. One thing that I’ve actually added—and which will never leave—is my Le Creuset casserole, referred to as coquelle in French. It’s bright orange, and given the aerodynamic shape it’s obviously from a decidedly mid-century modern era. I picked mine up at a flea market and use it not just for making rustic French dishes like coq au vin but for batches of Mexican carnitas. I’ve even made bread in it. It’s pretty heavy, being made of cast iron, and although the line of cookware was reissued briefly a few years ago, it’s no longer made, so I hope I never drop it. I’m holding on to mine…tightly!
—David Lebovitz, Living the Sweet Life In Paris

EDITOR’S NOTE: Yup, that’s two. It seems the French know something that those of us stateside have been missing out on.

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Our coupling in the kitchen was never meant to be. He, a Frenchman with a love of his mother’s metric-system recipes. I, an American raised to recite the number of ounces in a pound, married already to a set of dry-measure cups. We wanted to feed each other aphrodisiac-laced meals cooked in collaboration. We’d pour champagne and preheat the oven. But metrics are from Mars, measuring cups from Venus. We’d get only so far before the mood would sour with the need for conversion formulas, and inevitably someone would leave the kitchen in disgust. It seemed hopeless.

Until the Salter Electronic Scale Model 5002.

A scale that swings both ways, the Salter made everything seem possible again. Touch a padded orange button and switch from “kg” to “lb” in an instant. Alluring, with sleek curves, an easy-to-read digital display, and a “reset to zero” function, it has merits beyond the mediation of my marriage. Yes, with it, I can make my husband’s favorite cake without scratch paper and swearing. But I can also bake my own recipes with greater accuracy. No more fickle scooping, leveling, spilling of excess flour. No more wondering if I got all the honey out of the cup. And in the end, less dirty dishes to wash. It’s become the kitchen mistress I just can’t quit. So I avert my gaze from the drawer where my measuring cups reside, nested sweetly one inside the other. I’ll never abandon them—we understand each other too well—but sometimes a little infidelity can save a marriage.

There’s a theory that the soul weighs 21 grams. Maybe it’s the same for love; maybe not. But with the Salter, I know this: that’s equal to nearly three-fourths of an ounce, a tablespoon of sugar in my loved one’s coffee, served with breakfast in bed.
—Allison Parker, Feeding the Saints, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

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The favored item on my kitchen counter is my mortar and pestle—all six of them, each with its own history and purpose. The heavy hunk of Thai granite gets the most use; it builds muscles as well as it smashes lemongrass, galangal, chiles, and herbs. I lug that beast to the back stoop and sit to work, as would any respectable Asian cook, tok tok toking my way to the smoothest of curries. Smaller batches of seeds and dry spices require the lightweight aluminum mortar and pestle purchased in Nagaland, high in the hills where farmers grow the world’s hottest chiles. The wooden duo has but one purpose: mixing, mashing, and smashing the ingredients for Thai-style green papaya salad. (One day I will add a clay mortar with wooden pestle to my collection, too, for the Lao-style version of that dish). The gentlest jobs go to my British instruments, a ceramic pair as pretty and white as the others are rugged. Santa was good to me this past Christmas, bringing two more devices I’ve yet to try: a Mexican lava stone molcajete, and a smooth green Taiwanese marble mortar with a pestle that fits snugly inside. I’ve yet to test these latest acquisitions, as just a few days after the holidays my husband and I set off for Southeast Asia, serenaded everywhere by the soothing tok tok tok that signals a fragrant dinner to come—from someone else’s kitchen.
—Karen Coates, Rambling Spoon

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As our family’s sole cook, I sometimes feel a sharp loneliness preparing our meals in a kitchen that lacks the bond that comes from cooking together. I can’t help but think that if only my family joined me in the kitchen, all would be right with the world. I tried Tom Sawyer’s fence-painting technique, enthusiastically whipping up meals with such zeal that I figured my kids couldn’t bear to miss out. And it worked. Sort of. My ten-year-old daughter fell naturally into kitchen life. But my teenage son was less certain. He’d stir or chop when asked, then slink away at the slightest break in the action. Then one night after watching an explosive episode of MythBusters—and noticing my son’s rapt attention—I realized he needed more than just a perk. He needed pyrotechnics. Pyrotechnics and sugar, maybe. Crème brûlée time. I bought a torch, and as we unpacked it he grabbed the instructions like I wished he’d grab his textbooks. While the custard baked he tested the flame size and the distance from his theoretical target in both inches and centimeters, repeatedly asking the question, “Is it time yet?” When the moment finally arrived, he was fully pro. Insanely focused, he hovered intently over each ramekin, caramelizing the sugar in a crystal sea of bubbles until perfectly golden brown and crackly. That simple torch sparked a passion that has finally ignited our kitchen. There’s more joy here now, more warmth. It’s a little closer to that love-inducing center of the house I’d always hoped it would be. When I see my son at the helm of that flame, I think perhaps Cupid’s arrow was never so effective as a simple kitchen tool could be.
—Shelly Peppel, Editor, Food News Journal, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester
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I love my little light blue Portmeirion juicer, a beautifully crafted, ceramic bowl-cum-strainer, with the reamer in the center. Whenever I use it, I feel as though I belong in a ramshackle house in the English countryside, wearing a muslin apron with large blowsy roses perfuming the air.
—Jennifer Vu, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

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My introduction to the Microplane came not as a kitchen dweller, but as an editorial assistant working in the beauty department of a magazine. The PR office for Microplane had sent us a note that told the story of a customer who’d taken the zester, intended for culinary purposes, into the bathroom to scrub her feet. Reader, I, too, cringed at this…yet, when ordered to try it by my boss, I found the tactic very effective. Years later when I went to pastry school, I found the classic zester in my new tool bag, and because of the brand’s track record elsewhere in my household, I wasn’t surprised at the ease with which I could zest oranges, grate cheeses, and grind a whole nutmeg. It was such a sigh of relief in zester design and function: No longer would I have to wrestle to pulverize a citrus, then ruin a perfectly good piece of sponge washing the practically useless grater. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Nor, however, would I take it out of the kitchen.
—Baking While Depressed

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I grew up in Spain, and every Christmas Eve my entire extended family would meet at my grandparents’ home in Madrid for dinner. It was tradition that everybody brought a special treat from their respective corner of the country. One year my eldest cousin made a pork paté that everybody raved about. She replied, quite simply, “Oh, it was so easy, I just made it with the Thermomix.” There were numerous conversations about the wonders of the Thermomix during the rest of that holiday. To my ten-year-old brain, it sounded like a machine from the future, straight out of The Jetsons. According to the descriptions, you just added the ingredients, pushed the proper button, and the machine did everything else. It was state-of-the-art, expensive, and exclusive, and I wanted one.

It’s not just that my recollection is embellished by time. I recently spent a year living with a family in Seville whose kitchen was equipped with one of these beauties. Antonia, my Spanish-mother-I-never-had (my real mother is American), made impossibly silken vegetable soups, decadent arroz con leche, and flaky pastry for empanada. Although I really wasn’t allowed to do any cooking, I did get to watch the ease with which she weighed the ingredients, pushed a couple buttons, and went off to watch the mid-day soap until the Thermomix called “Beep-beep, I’m done!” And Raymond Sokolov of The Wall Street Journal proclaims that “this $1,400 German widget will do everything a blender, a processor, an electric mixer, a steamer, a Crock-Pot, a timer, and a kitchen scale can do, but better, and all in one small spot.”

True, I may just be trying to fulfill my fantasy of the super-mod Jetson-esque lifestyle, but Thermomix TM31, I still lust for you.
—Megan Salazar-Walsh, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

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I love much about my kitchen. But the tools that never fail to make me sigh with satisfaction are my microplanes. I have them in every shape and configuration, although as a citrus junkie, I started with the simple citrus zester, which was where they started, too. This incredibly well designed tool practically brought me to tears. I know that sounds extreme, but after a lifetime of sacrificing the skin off my top knuckle and, often, the ends of my manicure to get lemon zest into batter or grapefruit rind into a margarita, it was a balm. This tool let me quit wincing like a bad dog that can’t help but chase the cat even though it knows the result will be a whack with the paper.
—Nicole Aloni, A Conscious Feast

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I don’t mind sharing things. Just don’t make a move towards my lefty spatula. That’s because I’m the only one who can use it. Of course, when I told my adorable husband that he couldn’t use it, he tried. And. He. Failed. Jeremy is right handed. For him, no gadget is off-limits. Opening cans is a breeze, scooping ice cream is easy, and using a butter knife is mindless. Ask a lefty to do any of those things and watch the contortions begin. But this spatula? I don’t look like a fool using it.

My mother, the queen of giving gifts I didn’t know I needed, gave me my perfectly angled spatula for Christmas a few years ago. Because I use it nearly every day, it’s looking a little worse for the wear. The varnish is slowly wearing off and its factory-contoured angle has relaxed a bit. Made from bamboo, the spatula is lightweight, doesn’t scratch my favorite non-stick skillet, and makes me feel virtuous since it’s fashioned from a renewable resource. It really is the perfect kitchen tool. And it might be the only thing in my house that’s all mine.
—Susan Bingaman, Leite’s Culinaria recipe tester

Have an ode of your own to share? Declare your kitchen love by leaving a comment below.

© 2010 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

He comes out of the bedroom to find her sitting at the table in the kitchen, leafing through the day’s mail. In the center, piled into a small white bowl adorned with ceramic flowers, sits her latest acquisition, a small number of plums, no more than seven or eight. He has never been particularly fond of plums, unable to reconcile the sweet fruit with the surrounding bitter skin that he found so displeasing. But these are the perfect shade of plum, a purple-blue-black with little patches of gold-green near the top that break into speckles and then disappear within a centimeter or two. They are like bruises—perfect, juicy, stone fruit-shaped bruises—and he holds a perverse shame in his desire to eat one. He knows she would readily share this little bowl of loot with him, although he also knows she bought them thinking that only she would eat them. His strength, he believes—and, he assumes, she believes—lies in his constancy.

“Just buy those?” he asks.

“Yup.”

One syllable, nothing more, nothing less, not even a glance in his direction. She finishes leafing through the mail, creating three piles—bills, things of interest, things to throw out—and then pauses to contemplate which pile she wants to devour first. Stepping closer, he can see that the plums have been washed. The late afternoon sun, just beginning to turn orange, slants in through the westward window of the kitchen and turns each lingering droplet of water into a diamond of sorts.

“I shaved today.”

“That’s nice,” she says, her hand reaching tentatively for one pile, pulling back, then reaching for another. He is just as tentative, edging forward, looking at the plums. One of them is showing a sliver of itself through the downward sloping edge of two petals. This is undiscovered country, this plum whose perfection is partially hidden, obscured in parts by the other plums around it and by the bowl that contains it.

Below the lip of the bowl, below the plum that demands his attention, the pile of mail that he assumes to be bills is as large as ever, and now, just recently, there is only one income to pay them. There has already been cutting back. And there is more yet to be. The newspaper is a luxury about to be given up. So is watching television or other wastes of electricity. He spends much of his time following the sun around the house during the long, solitary days, finding whatever corner seems to be catching it best so he might curl up in its warmth and, until now, read the paper. Even the food budget is strained, the solution more potatoes and less meat. Plums are not in the budget.

“Any replies to my resumé?” he asks, getting close enough so that he could leap forward, if he chose, to snatch the one plum and run back to the bedroom to consume it, alone with his private glee.

She leafs through one of the piles and then puts it down. “No.”

Finally she has decided to eat a plum, and proceeds to do so as if it is the most commonplace possession in the house, and not something special to be savored after dinner. Instead it is consumed here and now. She reaches forward, then pauses and glances at him. In the quick turn of his head to meet her gaze, he wonders if she caught him looking at the plums. She smiles, so sweetly, as if to reassure him that a reply will come, that she knows he is trying very hard to find work. He smiles back, trying to convey confidence.

“Oh, would you like a plum?” she asks.

“No,” he says, shrugging the offer away, “you know I don’t like plums.”

In earlier times she would have teased him, telling him how good the plums look, how juicy and sweet they must be. She would have played with him, inviting him to join her in the enjoyment that he didn’t share but that she wanted to share with him. Instead, this time she simply reaches for a plum, the one on the side of the bowl closest to her, his plum, the one he wants more than anything else he could imagine at this moment, leaving one less. He holds himself quiet, refusing to protest as the plum is drawn to her mouth and bitten. He watches and attempts to smile as she consumes the delicacy, not so slow as if she is savoring it and not so quickly as if she is ravenous for it. It is just a casual eating of a plum, consumed in regular, moderately paced bites, until there is nothing left but the pit. She turns in her seat, looks over to the trash can, and gives the pit a toss, lobbing it swiftly and perfectly into the shallow depths. There isn’t even the sound of it hitting one of the sides, the contents from earlier in day cradle it.

He remains silent, watching, trying to hold his smile, as she turns back to the table and contemplates her piles as she licks her fingers.

This, he knows, is the beginning of the end.

Article © 2010 Greg Bulmash. All rights reserved.
© 2010 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

It’s perhaps the greatest of all paradoxes, French or otherwise, that wine produced in one of the bleakest, most punishing regions of that great Gallic country is drunk the world over to celebrate love. In an act of seeming rebellion, champagne endures harsh winters, alternating wet and frost-filled springs, and countless other insults to become a sensuous elixir capable of turning the most moribund and lovelorn soul into a jovial chap. Even its name seems to burst into a thousand bubbles when spoken. What better way to celebrate love, in all its maddening, hypnotic, peripatetic, and enduring forms, from first glance through decades-long endearment?

Before you rush out to christen a new love or toast this weekend, I implore you, don’t be hoodwinked by the expansive and expensive advertising that has saturated the market. Hundreds of little-known champagnes are equal to, if not better than, the mass-produced, mass-distributed champagnes lining so many wine-store shelves. Among them, you’ll find a few slightly different, perhaps even unusual, bottles that I find pair particularly well with the various shades of that crazy little thing called love.

Blush of romance
First, a champagne worthy of first romance. Legend has it that Valentine’s Day is a remembrance of the death of St. Valentine, a priest-cum-martyr who defied the Roman emperor Claudius II by marrying young couples in secret after it was decreed that single men made better soldiers. (Because of the emperor’s decree, countless men went off to war without the benefit of, well, send-off sex.) Perhaps nothing befits chaste love better than a bottle of unbelievable 1996 Krug Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blanc ($1500). Krug has long been considered the Roi of Champagnes, the Titan. The Clos du Mesnil was the rarest of champagnes from this venerable house until recently, with the release a few years ago of the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, which costs nearly $3,500 (yes, per bottle). But the Clos is still a classic, filled with the luscious flavors of pure chardonnay fruit. (The blanc de blancs designation indicates that it’s made from 100% chardonnay grapes rather than the typical blend of pinot noir, pinot meunier, and chardonnay.) It promises an unmistakable, nutty taste  from its rich, yeasty bubbles.

Yet how many would-be lovers can pony up that much cash? If you lack the means, try the R. H Coutier Brut Tradition NV ($45). A beautiful blend of 75% dark, brooding pinot noir and 25% honeyed chardonnay, this champagne will do quite, quite nicely. It’s made from grapes grown entirely on Grand Cru sites—with pinot noir from the famed village of Ambonnay—yet it costs a fraction of the Krug version. Coutier calls to mind ripe pear, baked apple, even butter-soaked layers of a proper French croissant, and evokes all the heat and shyness of yet-to-be consummated love. It’s perfect for passion that carries the risk of limited time yet also bears the potential to evolve into something far more rewarding and nuanced. It’s a secret that’s best kept between you and your hush-hush love.

Passion with potential
Young, brash love has inspired everything from heart-stopping prose (think Shakespeare) to atrocious lyrics (think Britney Spears). And it deserves something that says more than a bouquet of wilted red roses bought in haste late Valentine’s Day at the grocery store for twice the regular price. With a little sleuthing (but not a lot of money), you can probably find a bottle of Besserat de Bellafon ($53). It’s an aggressive little champagne that’s still playful in its exuberance—just the thing to wrestle with those powerful emotions. It relies on a blend of all three champagne-sactioned grapes, with a little pinot noir, a bit more chardonnay, and a surprising 40% pinot meunier. Made by the same family that began la Maison Besserat in 1843, it’s an excellent example of why small champagne houses should command greater respect. Each pour is filled with intense overtones of honey and baked apples, the scent of dry flowers, and the unmistakable flavor of white peach. It casts quite a spell, so consider buying two bottles: one for Valentine’s Day, one to celebrate your first anniversary—or your 25th, as this champagne possesses all the requisite elements to age, like you, with grace.

Steady goes it
For love that’s found its rhythm but still surprises, treat yourselves to a “Big Boy”: a magnum of Bollinger Special Cuvée ($199.00). A truly special champagne house, Bollinger delivers superb wine without fanfare. It doesn’t really advertise and it doesn’t go for grabbing medals at trade shows, it just quietly produces awesome champagne. The Special Cuvée is made primarily from pinot noir and offers up those robust bubbles that break into notes of spicy buttered toast. This is for the couple that have seen it all, survived it all, and are quite content to invite a few friends over to celebrate it all.

Lasting tenderness
Undying love that has not only endured the test of time but compels you to hold hands in public after all these years deserves Bertrand Delespierre 2000 ($50). Unlike some wines that are officially designated “vintage,” champagne can be labeled that way any year the producer fancies. Most houses adhere to a strict taste test before declaring a vintage, and some, like Delespierre, only make vintage champagne in truly exceptional years, those in which it surpasses the senses. After an initial explosion of crisp fruit, the champagne evolves into classic comfort foods, with hints of toast, spices, yeast, and baked pears. Both delicious and evocative, it’s made rarely, made with passion, and made to be drunk by true lovers of champagne.

Champagne for one
And if you’re single, what then? Find a sexy little boîte, request a flute of whichever bottle pleases you, and hum a few bars of Harold Arlen’s “Down with Love.” You’ll soon find that on this holiest of high holy love days, no one can resist a self-satisfied, unencumbered cynic—especially one with excellent taste in champagne.

Article © 2010 Cai Palmer. All rights reserved.
© 2010 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

When it comes to the homely potato, we’re really thoughtless creatures, if you, well, think about it. I don’t know about you, but I’ve plowed my way through a whole bag of Cape Cod Sea Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips (wicked good) without ever really taking the time to consider our Idahoan friends. We’re growing ever so mindful of where our beef, pork, lamb, and even chicken come from, making sure to buy meats from animals that have been humanely treated and kindly…well, you know. But why does the potato—and the Bonnie to its Clyde, the dip—deserve any less?

So before you slide into The Lost Weekend, a 48-hour bash of divine excess (and guys with ridiculous makeup on their faces, although they’re so massively burly, who am I to judge?), won’t you take a moment to ponder the gentle spud and its many dips? If they deserve our respect and admiration any day of the year, it’s Super Bowl Sunday.

Food history editor Gary Allen guides you through the Ricky and Lucy-like  history of the dip and chip liaison in the article Dipping into the History of a Super Bowl Favorite. And one of our favorite cookbook authors, Domenica Marchetti, has a twist on the plain ole, plain ole with her recipe for homemade Sea Salt and Rosemary Sweet Potato Chips. Domenica usually sticks with the eponymous seasonings. But on occasion—like, say, Super Bowl Sunday—she tosses the chips with something a little racier. Look at the bottom of the recipe for some of her—and our—favorite variations.

Tarted-Up Store-Bought Potato Chips
Of course, you may not be in the mood to slice and fry your own chips, but that doesn’t mean you can’t play a little Dress Up and serve hot, sizzling spuds straight from the oven. Even the momma of them all, bet-you-can’t-eat-just-one classic Lay’s, can benefit from a cooking buff and fluff. We stumbled upon this brilliant beer-friendly trick in Party Food by Lorna Wing (SOMA, 1998). Think of it as sliced spuds in high heels and fishnets. Sassy, party-loving, and with just the right attitude. But deep down, they’re nothing but a bunch of chippies with a heart.

Even if you’re a thick-cut, kettle-cooked, olive-oil type of muncher, these will win you over. But f you’d rather not douse your chips in butter (but why wouldn’t you—at least for the biggest football game of the year?), you can still improvise toppings. A sprinkling of freshly chopped parsley. A handful of cilantro and some lime zest. Even, maybe, a spritz of finely grated Parmesan cheese and a quick 360 under the broiler? There’s no end to your options.

So here goes: Melt 4 tablespoons of your favorite garlic butter (see below if you’re bereft of a recipe) and drizzle it over 10 ounces of potato chips (preferably thick-cut). Bake them in a 350°F (175°C) oven until fragrant and golden, 4 to 7 minutes. The chips can be tossed with butter several hours ahead of time, then heated at the last minute.

Quick Garlic Butter
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
4 to 7 teaspoons minced garlic
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Melt 1 tablespoon of the butter in a small, heavy skillet over medium heat. Add the garlic and sauté until the garlic has softened but not browned, about 5 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, scrape the garlic into a small bowl, and let sit until it cools to room temperature.

2. Add the remaining butter to the bowl and whisk until it’s light and fluffy. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Boom, you’re done.

© 2010 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

While the New Orleans Saints and Indianapolis Colts battle it out this Sunday for Super Bowl supremacy, there’s going to be another face-off, right there in your living room: food vs. football. On the couch is Team Beer, Buds, and Ball—pumped and destined to win. But there are going to be times when you’ll be blindsided by that platter of just-off-the-griddle burgers or the steamy plate of superb, old-fashioned buffalo wings as they whisper, “Hey, dude, over here. Look at me, pay attention to me. You can TiVo the game or set the DVR, but there will never be a time when I am more succulent, more seductive, more sexy than I am right now.” And you know your fanatical, football-loving soul will force you to pause and look, tempted by the aroma, pulled by the anticipation of the pure flavors of just-cooked food. And even as you reach out to take a handful of chile peanuts, never taking your gaze from the TV, they’ll whisper so close to your ear you’ll feel their spice-filled breath, “We won. We’re the true victor today.”

Recipes
Deviled Eggs by Ellie Krieger
Red-Eye Chili by Rick Rodgers
Southwest Chile Cheese Fondue by Peggy Fallon
Mini-Cheeseburgers With Waffled White Bread by by Rebecca Bent
Chile Peanuts by by Roberto Santibañez
Classic Buffalo Wings by by Christopher B. O’Harafrom

Sabrina squints at herself in the mirror, dread in her eyes. She hears snipping, sweeping, Smash Mouth, Shakira. Her eyeglasses are off, and she’s having trouble focusing. This is making her nervous. She’s paying $200, and should be eating lunch. The stylist lifts the scissors. Inches she’s known since high school fall to the floor. She starts to stammer. He puts a hand to her shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong. Use words.”

She leaves the salon. She stops at the Greek diner on Madison to grab something to eat at her desk. She chooses the club sandwich. When she opens the bag, it’s four inches thick, an architectural creation with bacon dangling, mayo oozing, turkey sprawling, tomato slices glistening beneath the fluorescent light. She could dismantle it, but do you take apart a Gaudí, or Renzo Piano? She looks at it pensively, and then uses a napkin to wipe off her lipstick.

There is a meeting at three. Eight of them sitting around the conference table, with the whiteboard on one wall and the color markers that smell like banana and papaya. Nothing gets done, because they all start to laugh. She takes a deep breath. “I just hope no one here is laughing at my haircut,” she pouts. She’s gratified that her hair is still long enough to twirl on her tongue.

It’s true her afternoon vice is frozen yogurt. When she answers the phone, the cord sweeps across her desk, dripping creamy raspberry across the fourth drafts of contracts, and she knows the best way to solve the problem is by licking it off. As long as no one is looking. And even if someone is looking.

At six o’clock, on the way home, she listens to her iPod on the subway and starts to sing. Put it in my mouth. She said put it in her mouth… She looks around nervously, and then lowers her voice.

In the kitchen, before dinner, she reaches into the refrigerator and opens a bottle of wine. Then she pours the Riesling into two glasses. Just a hint of honey and spice.

We clink them together and bring them to our mouths, drinking. Maybe there’s some peach and pear in there, too. If you devour the breast, you can floss with the bra strap. I kiss her. I love her.

I’m going to be a dentist.

Article © 2010 James Sturz. Photo © 2009 nyki_m. All rights reserved.
© 2010 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

Early January has always been a time for rethinking and reinvention. New destinations get mapped out, new partnerships are sealed over lunch. Seed catalogs arrive while the garden is buried under snow. New projects are often dreamed up during the fallow week between Christmas and New Year’s. When nobody is doing business, everyone is planning.

New ventures seem like an especially good topic for this January, with its dramatic sea changes ushered  in a year ago. January 2009 saw a new president, a new Congress, a harsh economic winter, and radically shifting circumstances. Our empty larder required all new ingredients. But there’s reason for hope in 2010: As a Chinese philosopher pointed out, crises also present opportunities.

Such opportunities can unfold swiftly, especially when we’re young. On a Christmas ski trip from Paris to Switzerland, Ernest Hemingway lost a suitcase containing all of his early stories; the ones he rewrote (often at tables in Paris cafés) are the ones that made him famous. A lost purse aboard a New York bus changed Carson McCullers’s career plans from concert pianist to author; she was 17. When he was 17, Aristotle Onassis was working as a dishwasher in a restaurant in Argentina. But not for long. James Beard failed at acting before he turned to cooking for a living. He was 32 when he opened a small catering business in New York in 1935.

Youth is open to new possibilities because everything is possible and nothing is certain. There is so much that has not yet been tried. Robert M. Parker was 20 and spending Christmas in France when he tasted his first glass of wine. Did it make a crucial difference that Alice Waters, when she was 19, transferred from the University of California in Santa Barbara to Berkeley? It was in Berkeley where she opened Chez Panisse in 1971, when she was 27. Often it’s a matter of being at the right place at the right time. When he was 19, film director David Lean had a job serving tea and pastries. The job just happened to be at London’s Gaumont film studio.

New beginnings can happen at any age. Julia McWilliams was well into her thirties before she learned to cook. In 1942 she was living in Washington D.C., in a two-room apartment in the Brighton Hotel, working for the Office of Strategic Services, the wartime forerunner of the CIA. What cooking she did was managed on a hotplate she kept atop the refrigerator in her living room; being 6′2” made this a bit easier. She met fellow spy Paul Child on the veranda of a tea plantation in Ceylon (a perfect place for spies to meet.) Paul introduced her to some of the better things in life, including proper, interesting food. They married, and in November 1948, Mr. and Mrs. Child arrived in France. Her first visit. Somewhere on the road between Le Havre and Paris she had her first French meal: oysters, sole meunière, salad, cheese, and coffee. France changed her life. Her experience of France changed ours.

Necessity and boredom often provide the spur that launches us in new directions. Martha Stewart quit the modeling business when she became a mother at 24. Home and kitchen were a new field, with a new skill-set, a new area of competence. But it would be another eleven years before she became a food maven at 35. Irma Rombauer was 52, a widow, with grown children, when she took a sheaf of old mimeographed recipes to an inn in Charlevoix, Michigan, and began writing a cookbook. In 1930 there were millions of American women who suddenly needed to cook for themselves, by themselves. (One of Rombauer’s helpful instructions: “Stand facing the stove.”) The Joy of Cooking made Rombauer a household name. Alice B. Toklas published her famous cookbook in 1954, when she was 77. She too had been collecting its recipes all her life. Anna Mary Robinson Moses spent many years raising children, putting up preserves and selling homemade butter and potato chips before she took up painting and became famous at age 78. Her first paintings were shown at the county fair in upstate New York; her raspberry jam won a ribbon, but her art did not.

Food is a key ingredient in many creative endeavors. Proust begins A la recherche de temps perdu with a bite of a madeleine, which unleashes the subsequent thousands of pages. Dickens’s first novel also begins around a table. Truman Capote’s most famous story is about breakfast in a place that doesn’t serve breakfast; his best-loved story is about fruitcake. It is significant that Hemingway titled his last book, A Moveable Feast. One of the most important stories in the Bible involves a bite from an apple. Cezanne’s most sublime paintings are of apples and pears, but apples and pears like no apples and pears we’ve ever eaten, as if the artist needed to reinvent the fruit before setting brush to canvas. You could say that cooking was humankind’s first invention, our first improvement on nature, taking raw ingredients and circumstances and making the best we could of them, something enjoyable and worth living for.

Perhaps it’s a good idea to begin the New Year in the kitchen, trying something new. Experimenting, discussing, tasting, attempting, sharing. It will be interesting to see what happens next.

Article and illustration © 2009 Eric Hanson. All rights reserved.
© 2009 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.