That aside, some more details leading up to my national debut. In a phone call with Ms. Producer A, I found out that a car will pick up The One, Renee Schettler Rossi, Cindi Kruth (my TV assistant) and me—yes, I have a posse—at 7:30 on Monday morning and drive us to Rockefeller Plaza. That’s all of 30 blocks—I could walk it—but I love the feeling of being important, even if it’s for just 1 1/2 miles. Like I’ve always said: I was born to have staffs and staffs of people to do my every bidding. Apparently, though, God never got the memo.

I was also instructed to show up at the studio on Sunday afternoon at 4:30 p.m. to hand over the ingredients and cataplanas to the prop men and do a walk-through of the demo. This is wicked cool. Whenever I’ve done TV in the past, I’ve showed up, waved to a few people, set up my kitchen, and 30 minutes later a disembodied voice from the control room has said, “Stand by…and…,” which cues the host, usually the marvelous Desiree Fontaine, to GO! But to walk the Today Show set with no cameras rolling will be enormously helpful. For the past two months I’ve watched nearly all of the show’s cooking segments, making diagrams of the set, figuring out how I’ll navigate the two islands, choosing where I’ll place my hand on the counter so I can lean over ever-so-nonchalantly, deciding where I’ll hide my bottle of Xanax. I also gave Ms. Producer A. a long list of demands: 1.) Smear ample Vaseline on the lens of the camera that will focus on me, 2.) Use some sort of special optical thinning contraption that distorts what I look like, making me appear skinny, and 3.) Festoon my dressing room with nothing but white roses—they soothe me. Oh, and 4.) Supply two bodyguards who will escort me from the studio to a waiting town car after the segment. (What? I’ll need some sort of buffer from all my newly acquired fans.)

Then this afternoon, I received a call from Bianca Henry, food stylist extraordinaire on the show, for a little pre-production meeting. We’ve met several times before and in an e-mail earlier today reminded me that we even worked together once. It just goes to show you that even though this business has its share of, well, some less than stellar people—remember Lady Beelzebub?—there are some truly upstanding folks. Bianca and I bumped into each other at the Saveur party last year—me literally swaying from weakness because my arm was being ravaged by a staph-like bacterial infection, thanks to an oral surgeon’s shoddy injection. (But that’s another post for another blog.) And while she probably thought my weaving was due to too much wine, she was warm, asked about the book, me, my family. Now, I mention all of this because not 24 hours later, the Today Show called my publisher asking for my reel. (Ha! What reel?) Although Bianca denies she had anything to do with it, I think it or’leaps coincidence. Alas, nothing happened, until eight months later when Giuliano Hazan intervened with the inimitable Ms. Producer A.

Back to moi. The wardrobe department (AKA The One) has been busy. So far we have two contenders for outfits: a blue shirt and a white shirt. (Jeans are a given—you can’t get me out of them even with a crowbar.) I vetoed the white shirt—not exactly slimming—and am considering the blue. The One is campaigning for a dark cashmere sweater, which remains a possibility. I assumed any kind of patterned or striped shirt was out because it can cause a moiré pattern on TV. But Ms. Producer A. said, “Oh, wear whatever you want. With high definition there’s no problem—it picks up everything.” Curses, you HDTV!

Tomorrow I’m off to the Ironbound, the Portuguese section of Newark, NJ, to pick up some smoked sausages, fabric for set decoration, and other items that may be of visual interest.

Oh, and I’ve lost three pounds since Sunday. Fifty-seven more to go in five days.

I hinted at it. I accidentally blurted it out.  But finally, I’m able to talk about it in all its glorious, fabulous details. On Monday, March 22nd, I’ll be on the “Today Show.”

The interesting thing is I’ve been plotting this for 33 years.

When I was a junior in high school, we were going on a field trip to New York City. At that time I was gaga for anything NYC, partly because I grew up in a town with fewer than 10,000 residents—and that included cows, chicken, cats, dogs, and guinea pigs. And partly because I wanted to be an actor. Although I lived only 3 hours away by train, I had never been to the center of the universe, but I was dying to go. There were two options for the field trip: a tour of the United Nations (how boring) or a tour of the “Today Show” set. I knew where I was going. But on the morning of the trip, while the buses idled in front of the school, we waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually we were told the trip was off. (I think it had something to do with liability.) I went to chemistry class completely and utterly bereft.

I thought the stages of NBC were forever out of my reach.

Then last year I met Giuliano Hazan, teacher, cookbook author, and son of Marcella Hazan. We were at the Epicurean Classic in St. Joseph, MI, and after watching me do two demos, he told me I should be on the “Today Show.” Sure, I told myself. If my publisher couldn’t get me on the show, how can you? He gave me the name and contact information for Ms. Producer A., and I e-mailed her in August. Fast forward to November 17th. I got a message from her, after having given up any hope of being on the show. It took us all of ten minutes to decide what I’d cook: clams in a cataplana (amêijoas na cataplana). It’s flashy, easy, and fast. (I’ll post the recipe on the 22nd.)

Knowing I have only four minutes to make a dish that takes about a half-hour, I had to choreograph everything, breaking down each step. Clearly one cataplana, the clam-shaped cooking pot the dish is made in (think of a wok with another on top), wasn’t enough. I hard to order three more from Silampos, a company in Portugal.

Last week, The One played director, costume designer, set designer, and personal assistant. I practiced cooking the dish in front of him in real time—meaning the full 30-minute version—making believe I was chatting with Matt, Meredith, Ann, and Al. (Meredith and I had lots to say to each other because she’s also Portuguese,  grew up about 15 miles away from me in New England, and her family is from an Azorean island, just like mine is.) On Wednesday I heard the great news that I’ll appear on the 9 to 10 a.m. hour and was told that Bianca Henry, one of the food stylists on the show who also happens to be half Portuguese, would be working with me.

I have a lot left to accomplish by next Monday. On the top of the list are: 1.) find something flattering to wear, 2.) practice cooking in TV time, in which I jump from cataplana to cataplana and get everything done in less than 4 minutes, 3.) get my hair cut and sideburns dyed (ah, vanity, thy name is David), and 4.) lose 60 pounds. (Anyone know where to get Spanx for men?)

Stay tuned right here, as I countdown the hours to my 33-year plan to get on national TV. Read Part II

It’s the unlikeliest of couples. One thin and popular, the other fat and shunned. Each repelled by the other. But when senselessly beaten into a frenzied submission, oh, how they cave! These two frenemies suddenly give in and embrace one other, creating a more perfect union.

Sound like a bad episode of The Marriage Ref? Not surprising. When these culinary opposites—milk and oil—are thrown together, they act a lot like warring spouses, which makes their participation in the creation of Portuguese maionese de leite (may-o-NEZ duh late), or milk mayonnaise, all the more amazing.

I encountered this ghostly white condiment a few years ago in Portugal while trolling the country for recipes for my cookbook. But on our first date I didn’t see it in its shocking bare-naked form. Instead it played the role of a fiendishly good green olive dip at Restaurante A Bolota, in the Alentejo. It was so good, in fact, The One didn’t stand a chance. I singlehandedly mopped up the entire bowl with hunks of bread while he nattered away with the restaurant owner, Antonieta Cocheirnha Tarouca, and the chef, Ilda Vinagre. When he looked at the bowl then at me, I just shrugged.

After dinner I followed Ilda into the kitchen to watch her whip up silky clouds and clouds of white buttercream-y goodness in her processador (food processor) using nothing but milk, oil, garlic, and a few drops of lemon juice. What? No eggs? How could it be called a “mayonnaise” without eggs? By definition mayo is a sacred emulsification of egg yolks and oil, which makes it, at least to me, the mother of all mother sauces. But Ilda shook her head: “Não ovos.” As she scribbled the recipe on the back of an envelope, she explained she wheedled it out of a chef while visiting Brazil. Then she kissed me goodbye and wished me luck.

And luck was certainly what I needed. My every attempt to make a scaled-down version of her restaurant-size mayo recipe ended in a flood of milk with an oil slick on top. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could keep these two together. Ilda, who found the Internet impertinent and cell phones intrusive, was of no immediate help. Eventually I got through to Antonieta who relayed my frantic pleas to the kitchen. The answer that came back changed everything: Don’t make it in a food processor. It’s far too big for such a small batch. Bingo! Once I switched over to a mini-chop, I had thick, luscious milk mayonnaise and green olive dip oozing from GladWare containers on almost every shelf of my fridge.

Fast forward two years.

After the book came out, I was positive milk mayonnaise would be one of its most interesting, most blogged about recipes.  Milk and oil whipped into an emulsion? It defies all logic. Plus it’s eggless. How many people out there have egg allergies? They’ll beat a path to my door and throw their jewels and Google stock certificates at my feet as thanks for releasing them from their mayo-less prison, I told myself. But nothing. That is until months later, when Kathleen Purvis and Amanda Hesser wrote about the recipe within a day of each other. Kathleen hit it out of the park on the first try. It took Amanda four late-night attempts to get it right. (She had strayed from the recipe by using a hand mixer instead of an immersion blender or small blender.) The next day I had my 15 minutes of social-media fame—but not because of anything I did. (Note to self: In order to boost your Twitter clout, allow yourself to be pimped by Amanda, even when she’s exhausted and misreads your recipes.) Questions poured in. Is it really an emulsion or is it just oil-flavored whipped milk (ack! gross)? Can I use cream instead of milk? Is it stable? Can it be flavored?

So I did as I always do when faced with the perplexing conundrums of food science. I called Shirley Corriher, the doyenne of kitchen wizardry and the award-winning author of CookWise and BakeWise.

“Your mayonnaise is a 100-percent, true emulsion,” she assured me over the phone. “It’s not any kind of a flavored aerated milk.” She went on to explain that for any emulsion—mine included—to take hold, one liquid, in this case the milk,  has to break down into finer and finer droplets until it gets “juicy,” or looser, allowing the oil to get all up in there between the droplets to thicken it.

“You also have two other things going for you,” she added. “Milk has natural emulsifiers, making it easier to blend. And the garlic helps to make a sturdier base before adding the oil.” What’s the role of the lemon juice? “It helps coagulate the milk, but there’s not enough to make it curdle,” she said.

Shirley also mentioned that adding a touch of cream would make a better emulsion. Figuring if a little cream is better then a lot must be fantastic, I substituted it for all of the milk and ended up with butter before I even poured in the oil. And for stability? I’ve had my mayos last up to a week with no ill effect (longer, actually, but my publisher’s lawyers would have killed me if I said that in the book).

Last, there’s that pesky question of whether the mayonnaise can be flavored. Clearly, not enough of you are buying the book because in it I offer four variations: cilantro and ginger, anchovy, curry, and sun-dried tomato—which, in my magnanimousness, I’m including below.

The case of the milk mayonnaise that may or may not really be a mayonnaise is closed.

May I have the mayo variations, please? Clockwise from top right: cilantro-ginger, curry, anchovy, sun-dried tomato.

Milk Mayonnaise
Maionese de Leite
Makes about 1 cup

Since I was given the recipe, I haven’t stopped finding ways to cook with it. The master recipe is only a canvas for additions. Besides the uses in this book, I’ve smeared the variations on grilled meats and fish, used them as dips and in dressings, spread them on sandwiches, and stirred them into potato salads, much as I do with actual mayonnaise.

Atenção: Like all emulsions, this recipe can be a bit finicky. But adding the oil in a thin stream and stopping when the right consistency is reached is the key. For almost foolproof results, a handheld blender is best, but a small canister blender with a narrow base will do.

convert Ingredients
1/3 cup very cold whole milk
3/4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1 small garlic clove, peeled
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground white pepper
About 3/4 cup vegetable oil, or 1/2 cup vegetable oil plus 1/4 cup olive oil
Kosher salt

Method
1. Combine the milk, lemon juice, garlic, and pepper in a 2-cup glass measuring cup. Using a handheld blender (or a blender), buzz on high for 30 seconds until frothy. With the motor running on high, slowly pour in the oil a few drops at a time, and gradually increase this to a fine thread, moving the blender up and down, until the mixture thickens lusciously and resembles a soft mayonnaise. You may need more or less oil. Season with salt to taste. The mayonnaise will last up to 1 week in the fridge.

Variations
Cilantro and Ginger Mayonnaise
Maionese de Leite com Coentros e Gengibre
Add 1 loosely packed cup of well-dried fresh cilantro leaves and tendril-soft stems and a 1 1/2-inch peeled and grated thumb of fresh ginger to the cup along with the milk, 1 3/4 teaspoons of lemon juice, and the pepper. Omit the garlic. Whir in the oil as directed above. Stir in 1 scallion cut into thin slices on the diagonal.

Anchovy Mayonnaise
Maionese de Leite com Anchovas
Add 6 anchovy fillets (generous 1 tablespoon) packed in oil to the cup along with the milk, lemon juice, garlic, and pepper. Whir in the oil as directed above. Omit the salt.

Curry Mayonnaise
Maionese de Leite com Caril
Add 2 teaspoons of your favorite curry powder to the cup along with the milk, lemon juice, garlic, and pepper. Whir in the oil as directed above. Before using, let this sit for an hour or so in the fridge to bloom.

Tomato Mayonnaise
Maionese de Leite com Tomate
Add 1 1/2 tablespoons of double-concentrate tomato paste to the cup along with the milk, garlic, and pepper. Omit the lemon juice. Whir in the oil as directed above. Stir in 1 tablespoon minced oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes.

This Sunday, at my own exclusive petite soirée attended by just The One, our very in-the-know entertainment publicist friend, Ellen, and moi, I want to sidestep the usual lineup of smarmy suspects for Academy Awards party fare. We have a close friend who’s a Hollywood event planner, so I’ve seen and heard it all, from the divine to the ridiculous. And I’ve devoured just about every permutation of show chow at glammed-up (or, worse, funked-down) NYC parties, including Oscar-shaped grilled cheese-and-bacon-sandwiches, glittery gold-leaf desserts, and black-tie nibbles (read: nothing but black-and-white food, such as caviar and sour cream on squid ink blini). And, of course, anything served on silver plates so guests could admire themselves almost as much as their favorite egomaniacal nominees.

This year, I’m going for something a little easier, a little less forced. To come up with possible dishes I played a game of word association, or rather, nomination association. It went like this: Renee and I faced each other, and she shot the name of a nominee at me. I said the first recipe that popped into my head, based upon my vast, deep, and preternatural understanding of every recipe and every last piece of minutiae on this site.

So, here’s a warped look into my head for what I’m considering as possible dishes to wrap a menu around for our 82nd Academy Awards dinner.

Crazy Heart
A has-been alcohol-soaked country singer who loves whiskey contends with a dysfunctional relationship. Easy. A Manhattan. (Or do as Jeff Bridges does and ditch the vermouth, bitters, and cherry.)

Food, Inc.
What horrible things big business does to our food. My first thought: pure spring water drunk leaning over an outcropping and slurping it up with my hands. Since we don’t have that on the site, I opted for a Lyonnaise Salad. You can still have your lettuce, your lardons, and your eggs—and eat them, too. Just buy organic, organic, organic—locally, natch.

A Single Man
A British professor in Southern California is still mourning the death of his lover eight months after the fact. The film depicts the day he chose to kill himself. Colin Firth’s orderly and dispassionate approach to his own death is perfectly suited to…Crumpets. Pip, pip, and stiff upper lip, old chum.

Inglourious Basterds
A band of ruggedly handsome men go for nothing less than bringing down Hitler—Quentin Tarantino-style. That means lots of perversely compelling blood and guts. The obvious choice would have been blood-drenched rare steaks, but my mind went for the more sanguine choice of Blood Oranges, Dates, Parmesan, and Almonds. Even the Bloody T-man himself might get a kick out of that.

The Cove
A documentary about the shocking and chilled abuse heaped upon dolphins for the benefit of the aquatic entertainment industry. Utterly shocking. Another no brainer: Something entirely ocean-safe, Tapenade Trio.

The Lovely Bones
A young girl is murdered. From beyond the grave she helps lead her father to her killer. There’s no bone lovelier than the one running through these Slow-Cooked Lamb Shanks in Pinot Noir.

Julie & Julia
If you don’t know the movie, you shouldn’t be reading this blog. My first thought: coq au vin…which we featured two weeks ago. So that was out. Then, anything French with “buh-terrrr,” as Meryl Streep purred in the film. But one of Child’s own dishes, Steak au Poivre, popped into my head.

Rabbit à la Berlin
The story of the colonies of rabbits that lived between the two Berlin Walls (east and west) and how they survived and thrived once the wall fell. Cruel, I know: Portuguese Rabbit Hunter Style. (What can I say? It’s how I think.)

The Blind Side
A white family, led by a cojones-busting momma, takes in a young black man who goes on to shine as a football player. With all that testosterone Sandra Bullock exudes, I immediately thought of Tony Bourdain, but in a tutu. So I picked his Floating Islands with Black Currant Sauce.

Up
An animated feature about, well, a house that lifts off because of all the balloons attached to it. (Sorry, didn’t see it.) But you gotta love my association: Double Chocolate Soufflé, with all of its glorious egg-white rise.

When you look at the nomination list, what do you think of immediately? Tell us, and if we have it, we’ll add it.

Nature may abhor a vacuum, but, apparently, it adores symmetry. On February 16, 1992, one of the people who indelibly shaped my life—my maternal grandmother—died. Feelings of security and optimism and a sense of self, now so resolute that they seem hardwired into my DNA, got their toehold in quiet afternoons cooking with her at her ancient white stove, a triple layer of cardboard wedged under one shapely leg—the stove’s, not hers.

This February 16th, someone else who had an impact on my life died. It’s not, mercifully, The One, a family member, or a friend. But still, my life got a little dimmer—by about 100 watts. The person: Ronald Howes, Sr.

In the early ‘60s, Mr. Howes invented the toy that, powered by two low-watt light bulbs, came to delight battalions of little girls—and me: Kenner’s Easy-Bake Oven. Just as my grandmother found ways of shunting my breathtaking lack of athletic prowess into hours of cooking, Mr. Howes gave me an out. And an outlet. Whenever my three cousins—Barry, TJ, and Jeff—would ask me to go out and play some form of ball (whether base, foot, or basket), I had an excuse. “I’m baking cakes with Claire,” I’d shout through the window. Claire, another cousin, was the official owner of a harvest gold Easy-Bake Oven. And when the inevitable and expected ridicule was heaped on me, I would bake with a fury.

I remember pushing the low, flat tin of batter in one side of the oven with a plastic tool and waiting those impossibly long minutes—how many? Three, four, eight, twelve?—until I could retrieve it from the other side, the cake now domed, warm, and screaming, “Eat me, David! Eat me now!” So enamored of the oven was I that I actually stole one from a neighbor on Lindsey Street in Fall River, MA. Yes, I committed a felony in the name of American baked goods. How I snuck out of her third-floor tenement with the oven under my coat, slid it into my parents’ old blue Buick with a front grill that looked like an encyclopedia salesman’s glinty smile, and set it up in the basement is beyond me. But the compulsion for coconut cake knows no bounds.

As I grew, that primary need to be close to my grandmother and all her kitchenry had to be replaced by more appropriate things (“Otherwise, how will the boy get along?” I heard muttered from my parents’ bedroom at night). So, in the name of Little League and Cub Scouts, I began to lose the connection to the two most important stoves in my life: I stepped off the chair my grandmother had always dragged to the counter so I could cook at her side, and I lost track of my pilfered Easy-Bake Oven.

Childhood rushes headlong into adolescence, which beats a hasty path to adulthood, which only reluctantly agrees to middle age. At the half-century mark, I’ve forgotten the name of that little girl, the poor victim of my crime. Gone are my cousins’ words that cut. Vanished, even, is my grandmother’s house, which was ripped down in favor of a highway. What remains? The memory of that stove. Squat, plastic, and perfect. Perhaps Mr. Howes understood the true secret of toys (he was, after all, part of the team that created the amazing Spirograph). It’s not so much the fleeting joy of playing as a child, but rather the enduring pleasure as an adult of remembering we once played.

Editor’s Note: How did Mr. Howes’ Easy-Bake Oven sweeten your childhood? Share your memories, your pre-teen baking disasters, or the launch of your pastry-chef career here by leaving a comment.

As you know, I’m a thoroughbred Portagee (a nickname given unto my people, derogatory for sure). But I’ve embraced my inner pork chop—another needling dig—and have no qualms about who I am, what I’m called, and what I like. And one of the things I adore are bolinhos de bacalhau, or salt cod fritters. It would be considered cultural treason if I didn’t love these little fried nuggets of salt cod and potato goldenness. What’s not to love? We Portuguese have been marrying the two ingredients for centuries: Bacalhau à Gomes de Sá (casserole of cod, sliced potatoes, onions, hard-boiled eggs, and olives), Bacalhau à Brás (scrambled eggs encasing shoestring potatoes and flakes of cod), Bacalhau Cozido com Todos (basically, boiled cod, potatoes, and vegetables), and—well, you get the idea.

So when The One and I recently went to Allium in Great Barrington, MA, and I took a look at the menu, for a moment everything around me went pleasantly fuzzy. Kind of like looking at the world through the wrong end of a smudgy telescope. There, at the top of the appetizer list, was bolinhos de bacalhau with harrisa aïoli. My countrymen were relying upon me, I told myself. So what if harrisa was a North African condiment? The real balls of the dish (pun intended) were the fritters. It was my national duty, being a citizen of Portugal, to order them.

When the waitress, a jejune little thing who was utterly clueless as to the fritters’ provenance, put down the plate, I knew something was off-kilter. These were clearly different than the ones I grew up eating. The tidy, carefully shaped golf balls and quenelles of my formative years were replaced here with irregularly shaped, asteroid-like fritters with spiky ends and, on some, little beards of shredded cod, fried crisp. I’m sure if I looked close enough I could probably see the face of Christ, or, at the very least, Mrs. Sullivan, my unkempt high-school librarian. (Okay, so the photo above shows well-coiffed bolinhos. Old habits die hard. I shaped these with a spoon. So sue me.) I popped one of Allium’s fritters in my mouth, and those fuzzy ends shattered. They were nothing like the soft bites I’ve snacked on for decades. Besides being frittery, they were light—so light you couldn’t eat just one. Or seven. Confession: The One got less than his fair share, as I took advantage of his need to wash his hands before dining to get a head start. But what intrigued me most was the potato didn’t act like Spackle, filling in gaps and holding together these boca bites. Instead, the potato balanced the dish. These were, in short, some of the best fritters I’d ever had.

After massaging the recipe out of the chef, Michael Pancheri, I instantly knew why these golden nuggets of deep-fried love were different. They weren’t Portuguese at all. They were, of all things, Spanish. Ack! Besides potato, this fritter called for a batter made from flour, water, and oil. Small distinction, I know, but it’s a colossal difference to a Portuguese. As I tried not to like them (I really, really did, but it was an utterly impossible task), I could feel a whole nation turning its collective shawl-covered back on me. Nothing comes between the Portuguese and their salt cod fritters. Especially anything espanhol. (The Portuguese have had an uneasy détente with Spain after centuries of Spanish one-upsmanship and better PR.) But I truly, madly, deeply loved these fritters. What’s a Portagee boy to do? What else? Master them.

This past Saturday in CT, as I was stealing yet another treasonous bite of my perfected Spanish booty before serving it to The One and Brazilian cookbook author Leticia Moreinos Schwartz, a friend e-mailed me a link to a post about Portuguese salt cod fritters penned by the talented food writer Francis Lam. Then I saw his Tweet: “COD FRITTERS good enough to make even the Portuguese happy.” Oh, poor Francis. Poor, misguided Francis. There has been a four-decade-long kitchen war in the Leite clan over a fritter that can make just us happy, let alone an entire nation of citizens certain each of their mothers makes the world’s best bolinhos. Such sweeping generalities can get a man in trouble, my dear Francis. And, I don’t know about you, but I have feeling there’s a fritter a throwdown in our future. You, me, salt cod, and lots and lots of oil.

Spanish Salt Cod Fritters
Adapted from Michael Pancheri of Allium
Makes about 24 irregular (or perfectly shaped) fritters

Honestly, I made a killer harissa aïoli as well as a smoked paprika aïoli to serve alongside these beauties, but they don’t need no stinking dipping sauce. They’re fine just the way they are.

convert Ingredients
10 ounces salt cod
1 small onion, peeled and quartered
1 bay leaf
1 medium Yukon Gold potato (about 8 ounces), diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley leaves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
3/4 cup water
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs

Vegetable oil, for frying

Method
Soak the salt cod
1. Rinse the cod well under running water to remove surface salt. Place the fish in a large bowl and cover with cold water by two inches. Stretch plastic wrap over the top, and refrigerate, changing the water several times until the cod is sufficiently desalted for you. Take a nibble—it’s perfectly safe to eat. If it’s too salty, change the water again, and let it sit for a few more hours. The process can take anywhere from 12 to 48 hours, depending on the type and size of the fillet. Above all, bear this in mind: You can always add back salt, but you can’t remove it from a finished dish.

Prepare the filling
1. Transfer the cod to a medium saucepan, add the onion and bay leaf, cover with fresh water by 2 inches, and bring to a gentle simmer over medium-low heat. Cook the salt cod until it flakes easily when poked with a fork, 10 to 12 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the cod to a plate, leaving the onion and bay leaf in the pan, and set aside until the fish is cool enough to handle.

2. Bring the water the salt cod was simmered in to a boil, drop in the potato, and cook until tender, about 10 minutes. Drain in a colander. Toss the bay leaf, keep the onion.

3. Dump the potato and onion into a bowl and mash them well. If the onion refuses to submit, really have at it, cutting it with a knife, if needed.

4. Remove any skin, bones, and miscellaneous bits and bobs from the cooled cod, then shred it. My grandmother vovó Costa used to dump the cod on one half of a tea towel, fold over the other half, and massage it, rubbing the towel back and forth with the heel of her hand until it left nothing but little clouds of finely shredded fish. The food processor does the same thing in 10 seconds. Sorry, vovó. Stir the cod shreds, garlic, and parsley into the potato mixture. Season with salt and pepper to taste. It’s not a bad idea to over-season a bit here, as the batter will tame the flavor some. Set aside.

Make the batter
1. Rinse the saucepan you’ve been using (a real one-pot meal), pour in the water and oil, and bring to a boil over medium heat. Shake in the flour slowly and stir with a wooden spoon to make a batter. It’ll be lumpy, but press on. A few more minutes and it’ll all work itself out.

2. Remove the pan from the heat and continue beating the batter for 2 to 3 minutes to cool it. Add the eggs one at a time, incorporating completely after each addition.

3. Add the cod mixture to the pan and stir to combine. It should be the consistency of a nice thick-enough-to-stand-your-spoon-up-in-it oatmeal. Let the batter cool to room temperature. This is the best part: If you wish, you can keep it for several hours and fry off the fritters whenever guests arrive, or when you’re in a white-hot state of hunger.

Fry the fritters
1. Heat 3 inches of the oil in a high-sided saucepan over medium-high heat until it reaches 350°F (175°C).  Spoon out a rounded tablespoon or so of the batter, scrape it into the oil using another spoon—remember, irregular is better—and fry until golden brown and cooked through, 2 to 3 minutes. Drain on a brown paper bag (vovó always said paper towels make fried foods soft) and serve hot, hot, hot. Don’t give these puppies time to cool down and lose their crunch.

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

I feel like johnny-come-lately. This post was meant to go up on Dec. 19th, 2009—the eve of the big nor’easter that was supposed to punish New England, dumping more snow on us than we’ve seen in a long time. The One and I are snow freaks. We love being stranded in the middle of a blizzard, with snow falling for hours while we spend time in the kitchen cooking. The windows all steamed up. The cats curled up the on the rug. But before you sigh and think it’s all “Christmas in Connecticut,” more often than not, one of us is tripping over Raja, our Himalayan, or dancing around Chloe, our Persian, while juggling scalding casserole dishes or Dutch ovens. Not exactly Currier and Ives.

A shrink would have a field day with me, I’m sure, because there’s no time I feel safer than when tucked away in the house during a blizzard. Womb envy? A desire to regress? A need to temporarily severe a social umbilical cord? Who knows, but when snow starts to fall, I start to beam.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=n80VHgp-js8

And it was hard not to get excited with weather forecasts becoming fantastically more ominous as the hours progressed. Snowfall predictions mounted from several inches to a whopping foot and a half. And while normal people were canceling plans, filling their cars with gas, and buying shovels, we were making menus. Lots and lots of menus. By noon the day of the avalanche, we had four days worth of meals drawn up, shopped for, and prepped. To usher in what Channel 8 called “the snowstorm of the decade,” we celebrated by making what I dubbed Blizzard Beef—and filmed it so I could try out my new Kodak Zi8. As the beef braised, we kept running from the increasingly hysterical weatherman on TV to the front door to peer out at the post light through cupped hands. But there was nothing. As we ate, we glanced out the French doors. Nothing. Bedtime, four hours later. Nothing. The next morning at 8 a.m., which was supposed to be the pulsing, punishing, twisted heart of the storm, all there was was a meager four inches of white stuff. Even the guy who plows our driveway asked if he should even bother.

Deflated, we did what any sane person would do to combat such disappointment: we cooked. More.

I was going to give up on ever posting this, because what good is Blizzard Beef without a blizzard? But maybe somewhere, someday, someone will get caught in a blizzard with only beef chuck steaks, Worcestershire sauce, and water and will need to do some kind of MacGyver cooking. If so, here’s your dish. It’s so simple, there’s not even a recipe. We accompanied it with over-the-top mashed potatoes and roasted Brussels sprouts.

P.S. It’s 6:23 p.m. and I just heard the weather forecast: They say that a big storm is headed our way next weekend. All I can say is, I’ve got my chuck, so let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

© 2009 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

The One’s birthday extravaganza went off without a hitch. And I take back everything I said in my last post. The One overcame his Luddite ways and actually picked up the remote to fiddle with his new stereo, the crowds along Fifth Avenue were thinner than usual, the night wasn’t terribly cold, and the decorations were better than usual. (The ten-ton Norway spruce at Rockefeller Center was sparkling with predominantly green lights to symbolize its energy-saving feature: 30,000 LED bulbs, which were partially powered by solar panels atop of the Rock.)

The one thing I’m happy not to take back is our dinner at Marco Canora’s Hearth. It was a slam-dunk. (Holy cow, my first-ever sports metaphor.) When the hostess snaked us through the room and sat us at a four top, I was instantly plumped with self-importance. I was sure they knew who I was: David Leite, food writer. I expected the staff to bow and scrape in my exalted presence, but, instead, what to my wondering eyes did appear? A waiter who treated me (as well) as he did the other guests. No more, no less. My face began to set in that “Oh, no you din’t” expression—eyebrows arched, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled until bracketed by two deeply etched commas.

“I’m sure they’re secretly thrilled,” said The One, “and don’t want to make a fuss over you in public.” I knew it was a lie, but it was just the emotional grease I needed to slide me into the evening without pouting and to unfurl my face like a window shade.

After perusing the menu, I told the waiter (henceforward named “Michael,” because when I was a waiter, it seemed any time a customer forgot my name, he called me Michael) that I wanted to order only dishes that are in Marco’s cookbook, Salt to Taste.

“You pick for me,” I said. Off Michael went to confer with Marco.

“Okay, it’ll be grilled quail with farro, leeks, tomato, and a quail egg,” he said on his return, “followed by braised veal breast with sweetbreads, cauliflower, and Romanesco sauce and a side of gnocchi.”

Superb. For a first course, The One ordered grilled calamari with smoked chickpeas and frisée, and for an entrée, roasted venison (which he was craving and why we picked Hearth), quince, autumn vegetables, and venison sausage.

The quail was beautifully grilled, moist, and tender. The knife Michael slid into my place setting seemed almost a nod to tabletop protocol rather than to fulfill any real function. My fingers were tool enough for me. The meat had a slightly charred tang that didn’t overwhelm the quail. The One and I actually shared from each other’s plate (a habit of mine he absolutely hates—something to do with never having enough to eat when he was a kid). His squid, like my quail, was tender, and the chickpeas picked up the smokiness where the quail left off, but—again—not overpowering his plate.

(Confession: Somewhere in my meal were these amazing little gems of smoked lentils—I think, with the quail—but by then, the 2001 Bosquet des Papes Châteauneuf-du-Pape à la Gloire de Mon Grand-Père had its grenache grip on me.)

The hit of the evening for me were the braised veal breast and gnocchi. I could have stripped down and rubbed that little glistening tournedo of veal goodness all over my body. It was so silky and unctuous, so tender and rich with meaty flavor. Then there were the gnocchi. Now, I’ve had what I believe to be the best gnocchi ever while dining at Felidia, Lidia Bastianich’s Upper East Side restaurant. They were little puffs of air—what Cheetos secretly aspire to be. And since then, whenever I’ve seen them on a menu, I’ve ordered them, hoping to relive that gastronomic equivalent of a bosom-smoothing grandmother moment with Lidia. But, alas, I’ve had nothing but a string of belly bombs, potato bullets, and chewy corks. So I was delighted, and relieved, to discover Marco’s were a very, very close second to Lidia’s. And while eating them, a memory  bobbed up to the surface of my conscience: I had had these before, hadn’t I? Yes, yes. I vaguely remembered dining here with a magazine editor and eating these pillows of potato-y loveliness. (I think that night was muddied by several bottles of wine, too. Note to self: Read the 12 Steps.)

The One loved his medium-rare venison, but it was too gamey for me. No matter. I was content with my veal and gnocchi, and when The One asked to have a few, it was I who felt the need to wrap my arms around my plate and scream, “No, they’re mine! All mine!” But it was his birthday. I smiled and let him have his fill. Hey, I’m just that kind of guy.

Click for Marco’s gnocchi recipe.

Braised Veal Breast
by Marco Canora
from Salt to Taste
(Rodale, 2009)
Serves 6

There are two things that make all the difference in this recipe: the right liquid and the right pan. You want a broth or stock with a certain amount of gelatin. If you have veal stock, that’s great. If not, add 1/2 cup demiglace (reduced veal stock) to homemade or commercial chicken broth. The demiglace will provide the viscosity necessary to glaze the veal properly at the end of cooking. As far as the pan goes, you want one just big enough to hold the meat and aromatic vegetables snugly so the broth surrounds but doesn’t swamp the meat. This is true whenever you braise, but it’s particularly important here. Using a pan that’s too big will force you to use too much broth, which will in turn reduce the concentration of flavor and leave you with a weak-tasting, thin sauce. As long as the meat and vegetables fit with room to add broth to cover, the pan is fine.

Note: There are several advantages to making the veal a day in advance. 1) Breaking the cooking into two parts makes for short easy work just before serving. 2) The veal can be sliced neatly only when chilled. 3) It is easier to defat the chilled braising liquid—just spoon the fat off before you reduce the liquid. In a pinch, you can forgo these advantages and start and finish the veal in the same day. But in that case, I would advise you to skip slicing it and serve it whole—a dramatic if slightly more rustic way to go.

1/2 boneless veal breast (about 2 1/2 pounds)
2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced, plus 1 head cut in half crosswise
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh rosemary, plus 3 sprigs tied together
About 7 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 large carrot, peeled and chopped
1 onion, peeled and chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
1 cup dry white wine
About 2 quarts chicken broth
2 garlic cloves
2 rosemary sprigs

1. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).

2. Lay the meat flat on a clean work surface. Mix the minced garlic, chopped rosemary, and 2 tablespoons oil in a small bowl. Spread evenly over the meat, then season liberally with salt and pepper. Roll the meat into a tight, thick roll, securing it every few inches with butcher’s string. Season the outside of the meat with salt and pepper.

3. Heat a deep pan just big enough to hold the meat over medium-high heat and add enough oil to generously coat the bottom, about 5 tablespoons. Add the veal and brown it on all sides, about 10 minutes. Remove the veal from the pan and reserve.

4. Add the carrot, onion, celery, and garlic head. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables brown and soften, about 5 minutes. Return the meat to the pan. Add the rosemary sprigs and wine. Let the wine boil and reduce until the pan is almost dry, then add enough broth to surround and just barely cover the meat. Bring to a boil on top of the stove, turn the veal over, and put the pan in the oven.

5. Braise the veal, turning it every 20 to 30 minutes, until it is tender and a knife can be easily inserted and removed (always check the thickest part closest to the center), about 2 hours.

6. Remove the pan from the oven and allow the veal to cool in the braising liquid. Take the meat out of the pan and put it into another container. Strain the braising liquid over the meat (discard the vegetables). Cover and refrigerate the veal in the braising liquid overnight.

7. To glaze the veal, preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Remove the meat from the pan and cut it into slices about 1/2 inch thick. Skim the fat from the braising liquid. Put the liquid into a saucepan and bring it to a boil over high heat. Skim frequently and reduce until the liquid is slightly viscous (the amount of time this takes will depend on your broth).

8. Arrange the veal slices in a roasting pan big enough to hold them in a snug single layer. Pour enough of the reduced braising sauce around the veal so it comes about two-thirds of the way up the meat. Crush the garlic with the flat of a knife and add it along with the rosemary. Baste the veal with sauce and place it in the oven. Glaze the veal, basting it with the sauce every 5 minutes, until it is browned and heated through, about 40 minutes. Serve.

Recipe © 2009 Marco Canora. Photos © 2009 John Kernick. All rights reserved.
© 2009 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.