A Rose is a Rose is a Rose

My husband teases me that I am like a nervous vicar when I cook, always slightly fearful that something is about to go horribly wrong ("The organist is ill! The vestry roof is leaking!"). He's right. When I take out my mixing bowls, a twinge of dread looms up. "Can I do this? Is it beyond my abilities? Should I just go out and buy dessert instead?"

But this wasn't difficult, I promise.

(Sophie Dahl's Marbled Rose Petal Ice Cream. From HERE. Or HERE.)

Five were coming for dinner on Friday. Piero had planned the main menu days before, done all his food shopping, and was sitting at the kitchen table lazily nursing a double espresso.

Piero: It's Thursday. Any idea what you're going to make for dessert yet?

Me: Could you please just go for a really long bike ride?

He did.

I picked up Very Fond of Food: A Year in Recipes, Sophie's latest cookbook. Just like her first one, it's food and lifestyle porn at its best -- on page after page, she putters around her kitchen in floaty frocks like a Persephone Books heroine and beams out at you with the most reassuring of smiles. When I spotted her making rose petal ice cream, I was determined to add another notch to my wooden spoon.

  

Marbled Rose Petal Ice Cream 

For the rose petal jam:

2 cups sparkling rosé

1/4 cup superfine sugar

3/4 oz. fragrant rose petals, washed

For the ice cream:

1/2 cup superfine sugar

8 egg yolks

2 cups milk

2 cups heavy cream

I did a quick Google search to make sure I could use the ones growing up the side of the house (quick answer: yes) and went out to pick some. 

They really are so pretty, aren't they? As I separated the petals and gently ran them under cool water, I forgot that I was wearing a ratty t-shirt and a pair of old yoga pants. Life felt airily glamorous and devil-may-care ("I am bathing rose petals in my sink and soon I shall be cooking with them. Because I am an insouciant bohemian with long hair and velvet sleeves.")

It really is quite a glamorous recipe -- I've never made an ice cream that called for two cups of sparkling rosé before.

             

Per Sophie's directions:

Pour the sparkling rosé and sugar in a saucepan on a low heat. Add the rose petals and keep on stirring until the sugar has dissolved. Using a slotted spoon, remove 3/4 of the rose petals and set aside. Carry on reducing the sugar syrup on a medium heat until thick and syrupy. Allow the mix to cool. 

Here it is, the magical elixir. I'm a rose petal jam lover and this beats every one I've ever had. It's just so surprisingly lemony and fragrant and sweetish-tartish and eye-opening.

(The rose petal jelly)

Per Sophie's directions:

In a separate mixing bowl, cream the sugar and egg yolks until pale in color, and keep to the side. In a saucepan, heat the milk and cream until they reach boiling point. Remove from the stove. Whisking the whole time, temper the egg mixture and bring it up to the same temperature as the cream by adding the milk and cream mixture slowly. Add the remaining rose petals. Before churning, keep to one side to cool and then remove the petals.

Pour the custard into your ice-cream maker with half of the rose petal jam and churn as per the instructions. Take the ice cream out of the machine and swirl the remaining jam roughly through the ice cream to make a marbled pink surface. Place in the freezer to set.

It was delicious. The ice cream was rich and custardy and smooth and was a perfect foil for the tingly thrill of the jam. 

I served it with fresh raspberries, blueberries and blackberries and Gwyneth's vegan chocolate brownies (they taste just as good as regular ones) because it's Los Angeles and when you serve people ice cream with eight egg yolks and two cups of cream in it, you need to balance it out a little.

(Vegan chocolate brownies. From HERE. Or HERE.)

(All photos by Lisa Borgnes Giramonti)

The Five O'Clock Shadow

Despite the recent heat wave here in Los Angeles, autumn is still creeping in on dark furry haunches and settling over The Kenmore Arms.

No more endless summer. These days, when Luca does his homework after school, I call upon a solicitous halo of light to protect him from the encroaching shadows.

So engrossed is he in his math problems that he doesn't notice me watching him from the living room. He sits on his heel, scratches out answers with his pencil and interrupts the fitful silence with a high-pitched rendition of Lady Gaga's "Telephone." He knows every word.

Hello hello baby you called? I can't hear a thing

I have got no service in the club you see see.

Wha-wha-what did you say? You're breakin' up on me

Sorry I cannot hear you, I'm kinda busy.

K-kinda busy

K-kinda busy

* * * * *

I love this time of year. Houses love it too, I think. In contrast to summer which is all about communing with nature, autumn brings with it a reawakened sense of domesticity. Homes become hives of activity, don't you find? These days, I find myself in the kitchen more often, poring over recipes, tidying shelves, polishing silver and filling the pantry with tasty ingredients so that when the baking mood strikes, I'll have everything at hand.

This past Friday was my turn to host a bi-monthly dinner with four trusted friends that we call "Girls' Night In." It's a much-revered outlet for us; we check in with each other, discuss what's new and usually end up talking late into the night about issues near and dear to us all. All conversation is sub rosa; nothing leaves the table. It's group therapy with people I love; I couldn't live without it.

I had already decided on making butternut squash soup as an appetizer and wasn't going to let the heat deter me from making it. (Besides, it always cools down at night here.)

Originally taken from one of my favorite cookbooks "Great Food Fast", I've modified the recipe slightly (it stipulates 4 cups of water, but I use chicken stock; also, I omit the 1/4 cup of fresh orange juice) to give it a more satisfying depth of flavor. I serve it with a dollop of créme fraiche and a sprinkling of roasted pumpkin seeds.

Timesaver Tip: You do NOT have to peel the squash (quite a tricky task and one which makes some people avoid butternut squash entirely). Just wash the skin well and chop into pieces (see below). It completely dissolves into nothing when you purée it. Thanks to my husband for discovering this.

Pureed Butternut Squash Soup (adapted from Great Food Fast)

Serves 4; Prep Time: 25 minutes; Total time: 45 minutes

2 tablespoons butter

1 small onion, chopped

1 piece (2 inches) peeled fresh ginger, chopped

2 garlic cloves, chopped

2 3/4 pounds butternut squash, seeds removed, and flesh cut into 3/4-inch cubes

Coarse salt and pepper

Creme fraiche (optional)

Spicy Pumpkin Seeds (optional; recipe below)

1. Melt the butter in a large sauce pan over medium heat. Cook the onion until fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add the ginger, garlic, and squash; cook, stirring occasionally, until fragrant, 6 to 8 minutes. Stir in 4 cups chicken stock. Bring to a boil; reduce the heat. Simmer until the squash is tender, about 20 minutes.

2. Puree the soup in batches. Stir in 1 1/2 teaspoons salt. Serve hot, with creme fraiche, pepper and pumpkin seeds, if desired.

Spicy Pumpkin Seeds

1 cup raw green pumpkin seeds

1 teaspoon chili powder

1/8 to 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon coarse salt

2 teaspoons fresh lime juice

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. In a medium bowl, combine all the ingredients and toss to coat. Spread on a rimmed baking sheet; bake until puffed and browned, about 10 minutes.

I'm telling you, it is beyond delicious.

We sat around the table until almost 1am and then I cleaned up everything in a herculean burst of energy so I wouldn't have to face a pile of dirty dishes in the morning. Needless to say, Saturday was spent in a more slothful fashion. I draped myself upon every chair or sofa within striking distance and spent the day with a thick book and a cup of tea within reach at all times. Dusk couldn't arrive too soon for me. I was asleep by 8pm.

* * * * *

On Sunday, I finished "Wolf Hall", Hilary Mantel's spellbinding (and Booker Prize-winning) masterpiece about Thomas Cromwell and it was a bittersweet moment when I finally relinquished my grip on it. It's a compulsive read -- which may account for the lack of a post last week; blame Ms. Mantel, not me -- and my brain is now craving another hit of Tudor England and its brutal splendor. (Fortunately, there's a sequel in the works.)

"Wolf Hall" is the perfect novel to read as the days contract and the nights grow colder, packed as it is with images of frigid castles, late night feasts, sweating sickness, fog, terror and of course the ever-lurking evil of life under Henry VIII.

Each copy should come with a stipulation:

For an optimum experience, read this book at dusk when darkness begins to tarnish the horizon and a five o'clock shadow slowly seeps across your floors. Should you choose to read under different conditions (i.e. while suntanning and sipping a fruity cocktail), results may vary.

Remains of the Day

Have you ever noticed that if you enter your dining room after a party has just ended, the mood is still there? For a few enchanted moments, the room quivers with displaced energy. The seats are still warm, the wine stains on the tablecloth are still fresh and the chairs still lean into one another in a visual echo of recent conversations.

(After the meal, Scotland, August 2010)

As you clear the plates, brush away the crumbs and smooth out the creases on the linen, ghostly traces of laughter and conversation linger in the air. Let them seep into your soul as the last delicious aftertaste of a day well lived and gone too soon.

Don't you think sharing a meal with friends is one of life's great pleasures? And don't you think "now" becomes "then" way too quickly these days?

Strangers At My Table

Saturday

The plan was simple. Dinner for six at our house on Saturday. The menu was set, the flowers were in full bloom and the fridge was stocked with ingredients. Then, that day, an unexpected illness created two empty seats at the table. We were down to four.

I called my neighbor two doors down to invite her and her husband over last-minute, but as fate would have it, they were throwing a dinner party as well.

Suddenly, an impulsive notion hit me. What if we combined our friends and our food and had a spontaneous communal dinner party at our house? They and their guests could dine here and then afterwards, we could repair to their home for al fresco dessert in their sumptuous garden.

My neighbors, being good-natured and fun-loving souls, agreed. Plan B was a go. In three hours, eight people -- four of them total strangers -- would be at our doorstep. As I hung up the phone, a brief twinge of panic coursed through me. Would this really work?

The Divine Italian was galvanized into action. From the kitchen, I heard the opening strains of a culinary orchestra. A lush cacophony of chopping, slicing, dicing, blending, pulsing and grinding filled the air.

I added four more place settings to the table and sent out an urgent bulletin to every chair in the house that I was calling them in for immediate conscription.

Extra champagne glasses were set out, a doppelganger hors d'oeuvres tray was assembled and the house was subjected to an intense primping session.

I had just applied a last lashing of lipstick when, suddenly, the brass bird knocker announced our guests had arrived.

As soon as I opened the door and saw the smiling faces on my doorstep, I knew that this would be a night to remember. The spontaneous nature of the evening had us all in a state of heightened excitement. We ate, we drank, we chattered, we laughed and we toasted to strangers becoming fabulous new friends.

Our menu:

Starter:

Sweet pea soup with mint and creme fraiche

Main courses:

Filet of halibut with salsa verde

Beef tenderloin with carmelized onions

Sides:

Microgreen salad

Sauteed stringbeans

Roasted acorn squash and new potatoes

Toward the end of the meal, I finally remembered to take a photo for posterity.

Afterwards, we hiked one hundred feet to the next house, sat outside in a sexy Shangri-La of a garden, feasted on an extravaganza of marzipan cake with raspberries and a whipped cream and fresh fruit tart straight from heaven, and lost ourselves in wee hour conviviality.

Sunday

Oddly enough, feeling slightly on the delicate side this morning. I'm chalking it up to lack of sleep (because it couldn't possibly have been the Prosecco. Or the wine. Or my neighbor's legendary pomegranate martini.) I'm craving something fresh and straight-from-the-fields and check the fridge for some of the pea soup from last night, but it's all gone. In a massively kind act, Piero whips me up a fresh batch from scratch.

That, coupled with "Widow Barnaby" by Mrs. Fanny Trollope (funny! divine! j'adore!), comprises my recipe for a night and a day well-lived.

Danish For Beginners

One of my good friends and neighbors, Nicole Hirsch Whitaker, is a director of photography and just finished a six-week long Nokia campaign that shot in Portugal, England, Iceland and Denmark. Whilst at her house on Sunday, I was so taken with her photos of a dinner party she attended in Copenhagen last week that I asked her if I could post them. She kindly agreed.

They serve as a personal reminder to me that creating a magical evening doesn't need to involve fancy table settings and a time-consuming elaborate menu. The nights I remember most are the ones in which the dining table became a private repository for laughter, recollections and sharing future plans. I departed feeling that my soul had been nourished, not just my stomach. 

Let's look and learn, shall we?

1. Less fuss = less stress.

The unadorned wooden table, the casual relaxed atmosphere, the rustic pleasures of sharing an informal alfresco meal with friends  -- it's enough. It's more than enough.

2. Food-wise, keep it simple. 

Stick with fresh and seasonal. Here, freshly-baked bread, lettuce from the garden and homemade chili followed by gigantic bowls of caught-that-day crayfish did the trick and more.

3. Never underestimate the power of fading light.

Dusk is a dinner party's golden hour. People lean in closer, secrets are shared, friendships are forged. Everything becomes more intimate. These unselfconscious moments are what your guests will remember the next day, even more than the dessert.

4. Let the dishes be.

Conversations over the remains of a meal are always the most memorable. I don't know exactly why this is, but it is. Once the plates are cleared away, so is the mood.  

5. Candles, always.

(All photographs by Nicole Hirsch Whitaker)

Dinner at home

We had the French contingent of the Patch over for dinner last week.  The divine Piero whipped up a glorious beef bourgignon a la "Normandaise" in honor of our vacation there in July.  There is nothing like the smell of something delicious cooking in the kitchen to make a house really feel alive and lift my spirits instantly.
Only problem is that Piero always gives me so many little "taste tests" that I forget to leave room for the actual meal and have to change outfits at the last minute, replacing my slim-cut jeans for something more forgiving, like a vintage Moroccan djellaba.

For our dinner parties, Piero takes care of all the savories, and I am in charge of decor and dessert.  For this occasion, I baked a rustic fig tart with marzipan filling.  It was my first one ever and was incredibly simple (I found the recipe in the October issue of "Everyday Food".) Unlike Piero who can turn on some jazz music and improvise his way through a five course meal, I require explicit directions when I cook.  I don't have the chef gene, I have the sous-chef gene.  I need the recipe firmly propped up in front of me and my measuring cups and spoons within reach.  But I love those "Everyday Food" recipes because they are for beginner cooks like me and pretty much fool-proof.  I added some bougainvillea flowers from the back garden for a bit of styling color, slid it onto my mother's vintage Sascha Brastoff "Roman Coin" platter and voila.

The dining room is coming together, despite the lack of curtains and my (so far) fruitless hunt for new dining chairs.  But the new "Genuine Fake Bookcase" wallpaper from Deb Bowness added so much warmth to the room.  And I am still loving my upholstered "Gosford Park" kitchen door (it looks like leather, but it's actually faux, in deference to our sticky-fingered six-year old and his equally sticky-fingered friends).  Thanks again to Doug, my wallpaper guy extraordinaire, who padded the door with batting fabric and then pounded in about 800 gold nailheads around the edges of the fabric.  As he said to me, "It's not going anywhere now."