Reader Ann Drak recently wrote us with the following request: “I’m looking for foods of England from the early 1900s, particularly the foods of the Virginia Woolf set.”

In reading the diaries and letters of author Virginia Woolf and her Bloomsbury friends, it’s pretty apparent that meals were little more than an excuse for interesting people to gather. Comestibles were beneath consideration and played a secondary role. Woolf was curious about the actual food and understood its importance to her work, yet she was also keenly aware that in the writing of her day, too much attention to such seemingly mundane topics would be regarded as de classé. Bear in mind the context in which Woolf lived. She and her social friends were of the educated class and had servants who did the cooking. She and her literary friends were products of British universities, where the classics—whose epic authors rarely mentioned the preparation of meals—were regarded as the foundation of literature.

Woolf, clearly torn between what she knew to be significant and what she knew to be literary decorum, lamented this conundrum in A Room of One’s Own: “It is part of the novelist’s convention not to mention soup and salmon and ducklings, as if soup and salmon and ducklings were of no importance.” Still, when food was mentioned in her novels, it was only in passing or in tandem with female characters, who were naturally involved in things of the table. There are, however, three notable exceptions:

In Orlando, she writes about the time that Orlando spends with gypsies in Greece and how he discovers that the Greek language had no word for beautiful. To describe a sunset, Orlando instead exclaims the closest approximate: “How good to eat!”

In A Room of One’s Own, Woolf famously compares the dinner fare served at male and female colleges. While the men eat sumptuously, the women must make do with bland, dreary foods. “A good dinner is of great importance to good talk,” she complains. “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”

In To the Lighthouse, the reader encounters countless small domestic scenes including coffee cups and ordinary meals. We also see a sharp departure from this restraint when Woolf passionately serves up two pages of a rapturous description of boeuf en daube, contrasting its succulence with the abomination that “passes for cookery in England.”

It’s tempting to think that Woolf’s appreciation for French food came from writers like Elizabeth David, but Woolf’s suicide occurred a decade too early. Nonetheless, David’s books can provide an outline of what was considered to be good cooking at that time, at least in the south of France and Italy, places that people of Woolf’s class would have known well. Here are two of David’s recipes over which Woolf may very well have swooned.

Boeuf en Daube a la Niçoise
Elizabeth David, from whose files this recipe comes, suggested accompanying this meal with a hearty red wine from the Rhone region, such as a Gigondas or Châteauneuf-du-Pape. She consented that a Vin de Pays from  Mt. Ventoux or the Ardeche may work well should a budget be in place.

For the marinade
Olive oil, 1/2 cup
Onion, 1 sliced
Carrot, 1 chopped
Celery, 1/2 stalk chopped into small pieces
Shallots, 4 chopped
Red wine, 2/3 cup
Garlic, 3 cloves
Parsley, 2 sprigs
Peppercorns, to taste
Herbs*, to taste
Salt, to taste

For the daube
Round of beef, approximately 3 pounds
Carrots, 1/2 pound cut in 1-inch rounds
Garlic, 3 cloves
Herbs*
Slab bacon, 1/2 pound
Black olives, pitted, 1/2 pound
Tomatoes, 3 peeled and chopped

Method
1. Heat the oil in a small pan, then add the onion, carrot, celery, and shallots. Sweat them for a minute or two.

2. Add the remaining marinade ingredients and simmer for 15 to 20 minutes. Cool, then strain the marinade before using.

3. Choose an earthenware or other flameproof casserole with a lid that is just large enough to contain the beef. Arrange the beef in the casserole and the carrots, garlic, and herbs around the beef.

4. Pour the cooled marinade into the casserole, then top with the slab bacon.

5. Cover the casserole with oiled paper and the lid.

6. Cook in a slow oven (300°F/150°C) for 2 1/2 hours.

7. Remove the lid, add the olives and tomatoes, and cook for an additional 1/2 hour.

8. Remove from the oven. Slice the beef thickly. Cut the bacon into cubes and serve atop the beef, which should be served moistened with a bit of the cooking liquid.

*Note: David suggests bay leaves and the typical blend of herbs de Provence (thyme, marjoram, and rosemary). She says they may be fresh or dried; consequently, the measurements are “to taste.” Note that all temperatures and measurements have been adapted for use in American kitchens.

.

Aigrossade Toulonnaise
This simple garlicky aiöli was commonly served in the South of France, often with vegetables and chickpeas. It is intended to be served as a side dish with the daube.

For the aiöli
Egg yolks, 2
Garlic, 2 or 3 cloves crushed to a paste
Dry English mustard, 1 teaspoon
Salt and pepper, to taste
Olive oil, about 1 cup
Tarragon vinegar, a few drops
Lemon juice, 1/2 teaspoon

For the aigrossade
Mixed vegetables, approximately 3 pounds steamed or boiled, such as artichokes and green beans, dried beans, or chickpeas

Method
1. In a heavy bowl or mortar, combine the yolks, garlic, mustard, salt, and pepper. Stir until uniformly combined.

2. Slowly add a few drops of the oil and stir until all the oil is absorbed. Slowly add a little more oil, a few drops at a time, stirring all the time. Continue to add the remaining oil in this fashion. From time to time add tiny amounts of tarragon vinegar, and then — when almost done adding the oil — add the lemon juice. Ms David says you should “Stir steadily but not like a maniac.”

3. Strain the cooked vegetables, coat with the aiöli, and serve in a warmed dish. Do not attempt to reheat.

References
David, Elizabeth. A Book of Mediterranean Food. London: John Lehman, 1950. (reissued in Elizabeth David

Drummond, Jack Cecil, Sir, and Anne Wilbraham. The Englishman’s Food: A History of Five Centuries of English Diet. London: Tralfalgar Square, 1993.

Flandrin, Jean-Louis and Massimo Montanari. Food: A Culinary History from Antiquity to the Present. New York: Penguin, 2000.

Hartley, Dorothy. Food in England. London: Warner, 1999.

Mennell, Stephen. All Manners of Food: Eating and Taste in England and France from the Middle Ages to the Present. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1996.

Tannahill, Reay. Food in History. (rev. ed.) New York: Crown, 1995.

Toussaint-Samat, Maguelonne. History of Food. Anthea Bell, trans. Cambridge: Blackwell Publishers, 1994.

Wilson, C. Anne. Food and Drink in Britain: From the Stone Age to Recent Times. London: Constable, 1973.

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

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

He says: Come into our kitchen and you’ll find cookbooks gracing it. About three dozen of them tucked away on two shelves along one side of the cooking island, their bindings perfectly even (thanks to a ruler I frequently nudge up against them). But they’re cooking eunuchs, nothing more than decoration, as if we were selling the house and wanted to subtly convey to potential buyers the domestic pleasures awaiting them in those pages. The motherlode of books are found far away from the UXBZ (unexploded bomb zone) of the kitchen: In CT, that would be in my writing studio, and in NYC, the dining room. Plainly put: No sauces, tomato stains, or grease smudges will deface my books.

So it’s curious that my laptop, which cost me three times my monthly mortgage, is what I bring into the kitchen when I cook.

For me, comprehensiveness trumps logic. I know I should keep the computer miles away from the stove and my preternatural clumsiness. (I won’t even eat near my computer during the day.) But I just can’t stay away from everything the Internet has to offer while cooking. It’s like having my own personal Schlesinger Library’s Culinary Collection in my kitchen.

Whether you like it or not, just about any recipe you want to make from just about any cookbook is online, somewhere. (Me, I like it.) And I like having Portable Leite Brain—what I call my laptop—handy because I rarely cook from just one recipe. I pull from three or four at once, and the last thing I want is piles of books on the counter. Plus I oftentimes cook from this site but am curious how other sites and blogs whip up, say, gougères or bavette, so I browse. And soon enough, I’m lost in that great, wonderful, frustrating worm hole of cyberspace. Along the way I pick up a few tips from Michael Ruhlman here, a video from Mark Bittman there, and sometimes even a new idea for tomorrow’s dinner.

Then comes the ritual of the printing of the recipes and the taping to the cabinets (something The One hates, because I once pulled off paint when ripping them down after a particularly frustrating dinner). After the kitchen is kitted out, the computer isn’t out of reach—I never know when I might need more info, want to catch up on the latest episode of “Desperate Housewives” while onions sauté, or reply to Momma Leite, who likes to e-mail during the early evening.

What can I say, I have cooking ADD.

Of course, Portable Leite Brain’s being in the line of fire (sometimes literally) has prompted me to jury-rig it for safety. First, I never have it next to the stove, anymore. We won’t go there, but suffice it say that I have a new laptop. I also cover the keyboard and screen with plastic wrap—kind of a giant computer condom, protecting it from all kinds of nasties.

Now, the one place I never hesitate to bring my beloved books is the bedroom. There I luxuriate in their words and pictures and sometimes even fall asleep with a pile at my feet. I don’t know what that says about me or my relationship, but we’re not going there, either.—David Leite

She says: If you could see the state of my cookbooks, you’d understand why I don’t take my laptop into the kitchen.

It’s not that I’m intentionally careless or that my cookbook collection  is mistreated terribly. It’s that I’m simply not the type of cook who can maintain the books in just-off-the-shelf condition. As my husband says, I really get into my cooking. I’m prone to what he describes as Seussian stacks of teetering pots and pans everywhere, And that’s not all. Chopping boards balance over the kitchen sink. All four burners blast aflame. The narrow ledge outside our window doubles as a makeshift cooling rack. Guests have been known to duck and dive, but for me, there’s a rhythm, albeit an occasionally discordant one. In the midst of this juggling act, there just isn’t a lot of time to be prissy about things like splashes and drips and splotches. If there’s a lull in the cooking, fine. Otherwise, it’s just too distracting.

Even when I try, really try, to be careful, I just can’t seem to pull it off. Just ask David. The last time—and I do mean the last time—he loaned me a cookbook, I set it safely outside the kitchen. One stray, damp thumbprint was all it took to give my habits away.¹

I wouldn’t dare take my electronics into that fray. Nor would I want to, practicality aside. You know how they say to use your bedroom only for sleep and, um, other bed-centric pursuits? I feel the same about my kitchen. I don’t want to read emails that other people feel are urgent while my eggs perfectly sunnyside up—soft, please—slip tragically into mediocrity. And I don’t want to interrupt everything to tweet 137 self-deprecating characters about the incident. Laptop as resource? Without a doubt. But not when I’m in the throes of cooking. I already did my homework, sussing out an ingredient substitution or summoning  a technique online before I decide to stand facing the stove. If something comes up, I’ll deal with it on my own. When I’m in the kitchen, it’s time to cook. Anything else just messes up my mojo.

So the closest my delicate, Meyer-lemon-averse Mac gets to the mess—and I to its distracting charms—is the wee wooden schoolhouse chair in the foyer, just outside our galley kitchen. With my laptop’s volume cranked, I can ponder deep thoughts from “All Things Considered” or croon off-key to Ella while otherwise considering things cooking-related.

As far as I’m concerned, perhaps the best use of technology in the kitchen is to photocopy a recipe in order to keep a book out of harm’s way. Yet I’m a sucker for the sentient pleasures related to cooking from a book, which explains why my cookbooks are a mess in the first place. I need the soothing white space around the edge of the page in order to dance a duet with the ingredients in my imagination. I spend those idle moments waiting for a stock to burble lost in the lyrical headnotes of Judy Rodgers. And I learn every time my husband leans over my shoulder to eye an open cookbook to make pithy comments about the writing style, urge me to take more liberties with the ingredients, or muse over recipes that may be more to his liking.

They’re not just cookbooks. They’re scrapbooks of sorts. Telltale translucent stains from melted butter both grease and grace my mom’s binder of go-to recipes. I continue her legacy with a blemish here (a smear of cilantro that escaped my maiden molcajete run with a Peppercorn-Coriander Root Flavor Paste) and a batter-splattered page there (the incomparable Laurie Colwin channeling Katherine Hepburn’s brownies in a decades-old issue of Gourmet). Though the perfectionist in me sometimes cringes, I don’t mind the splotches that shout out those memories, moments that probably wouldn’t exist had the recipes blinkered onscreen. I don’t mind them at all.—Renee Schettler

¹Okay, let’s be real. A single watery fingerprint would be fine. But I could tell which recipe she tested by looking at the side of the book. The page was so wavy, it looked like an EKG readout.—David

Tell us: Do you bring your computer or cookbooks into the kitchen? And why?

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

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to find much in the way of side dishes. I was, however, sufficiently intrigued by this curiously named Beefsteak Stanley to procure a recipe for it. But first, a little background information on its purportedly healthful precursor, the Salisbury steak.

Long before Dr. Atkins and even Dr. Kellogg became household names, people looked to famous physicians to help them lose weight and, presumably, attain spiritual purity through their diets. Dr. James H. Salisbury was one of these early diet gurus. Dr. Salisbury believed that a corrective diet could cure everything from anemia to tuberculosis. His approach included the avoidance of almost all vegetables and starches in favor of—you guessed it—minced meat. Lots of minced meat. One pound, three times a day, to be exact. It’s hard to imagine that a hearty, meaty staple of middle-class dining rooms has its origins in a strict dietary regimen, but it’s true.

The recipe for what came to be known as Salisbury Steak appears in his book, The Relation of Alimentation and Disease:

“Eat the muscle pulp of lean beef made into cakes and broiled. This pulp should be as free as possible from connective or glue tissue, fat and cartilage. The ‘American Chopper’ answers very well for separating the connective tissue…The muscle should be scraped off with a spoon at intervals during chopping. Simply press it sufficiently to hold together. Make the cakes from half an inch to an inch thick. Broil slowly and moderately well over a fire free from blaze and smoke. When cooked, put it on a hot plate and season to taste with butter, pepper and salt; also use either Worcestershire or Halford sauce, mustard, horseradish or lemon juice on the meat if desired.”

And the doctor’s beverage of choice? A somewhat less suspect dose of three quarts of plain hot water a day.

Over time, Americans grew bored with Salisbury’s bland, monotonous diet and, it appears, were anxious to move on to newer, more ridiculous diets—such as those requiring adherents to restrict themselves to grapefruit or sauerkraut. But the Salisbury Steak lived on, gradually acquiring homier sauces and garnishes such as flour-thickened gravies and mushrooms—indulgences our good doctor would never have countenanced. Eventually, Salisbury Steak acquired a garnish, and a new name, that must have been beyond the doctor’s wildest dreams: sauteed bananas.

No one seems to know the origins of the name “Beefsteak Stanley” anymore. One story says it was invented by Sir Henry Morton Stanley (of “Dr. Livingston, I presume” fame). I have my doubts about that. Stanley was pretty famous when he died in 1904—famous enough to have things named after him—but other than the bananas, there’s nothing to suggest that an African explorer had anything to do with the dish. I suppose we could make up our own story. If so, I’m going with the Stanley Steamer connection, as a harbinger of the culinary weirdnesses published in Manifold Destiny.

I found this Beefsteak Stanley recipe in Cooking Instructions for the Preparation of Dishes Served in Dining Cars Throughout the System, a dated guidebook for cooks on the Pennsylvania Railroad. Books like this typically dated to the 1940s, but this one includes no date at all. My guess is that it comes from the 1920s or 1930s, by which time Salisbury Steak had long ago become an American staple.

Beefsteak Stanley
Make 4 portions

Ingredients
2 cups of finely ground beef
1/2 cup of fresh bread crumbs
1/2 cup of cream
1 egg
1 small onion minced, washed and sauteed
Salt and pepper

Preparation
1. Mix ingredients well together and form into oblong steaks, fry in pan on both sides nice and brown for about 10 minutes.

2. Cover the bottom of dish with Horseradish sauce, set steak in sauce, top garnished with 2 halves of glaced banana (see Note). A little tomato sauce poured around.

Horseradish Sauce: Make a roux with 1/2 cup of flour, 1 kitchenspoon of butter. Let cook 10 minutes, then add 1 quart of boiling strained broth, stirring constantly, and 1/2 cup of cream. Cook 20 minutes, strain in jar, then add 1 kitchenspoon of grated horseradish (if bottled horseradish is used, squeeze dry).

LC Note: To make “glaced banana,” slice a banana lengthwise (as for a banana split), then saute it in a little butter. A “kitchenspoon” is what we call a teaspoon nowadays.

References
Cooking Instructions for the Preparation of Dishes Served in Dining Cars Throughout the System. n.p.: Pennsylvania Railroad, Dining Car Department, n.d.

Salisbury, James H. The Relation of Alimentation and Disease. New York: J. H. Vail and Company, 1888.

Schwartz, Hillel. Never Satisfied: A Cultural History of Diets, Fantasies & Fat. New York: Anchor Books, 1990.

Article © 2009 Gary Allen. All rights reserved. Photo © 2008 skinnyde | Creative Commons License.
© 2009 Leite’s Culinaria, Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of use.

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.