The word Burrito translated to “Little Donkey,” and comes from the shape the burrito takes which resembles the ear of a donkey. Something as cool as a burrito naturally has a history that’s just as cool and that’s what makes this little love in a pouch more than just a serious addiction for me. Naturally my obsession with Burritos lead to a little bit of research and according to accounts by Spanish missionaries “Burrito” like foods were eaten by the Aztecs who would often wrap their food with tortillas. The first actual burrito originated in the Belle Vista neighborhood in the city of Cuidad Juárez in Chihuahua where during the Mexican Revolution (1910-1921), a taco salesmen named Juan Mendez in an attempt to keep his tacos warm wrapped them in a large tortilla giving birth to the burrito. I’m curious to know if the timing had anything to do with the Revolución? Maybe the revolutionaries needed food that would be filling yet easy to eat giving them more time to fluidly execute the Revolución, who knows?  If I close my eyes I can almost see Zapata and Villa holding their guns in one hand and burritos in the other preaching to their compañeros that Diaz should be ousted.

Judging from the dozens of Taquería’s and taco trucks I’ve frequented throughout the years burritos have definitely taken on a life of their own. Of course I’m being biased when I say that L.A. and San Francisco have the best burritos outside of Mexico. In San Francisco the “little donkey” became famous due to its cultural attributes and larger size. Its history goes back to the Central Valley Farm Workers Movement and the city’s Mission district where during the Seventies it became an important symbol of the Chicano movement. Who would have thought that a wrapped up tortilla filled with meat, beans and rice would be something of cultural pride? When I moved to S.F. I made it my mission to eat my way through the Mission District searching for the best burritos. And there were so many of them that the wonderful aromas permeating through the streets of the Mission are forever imprinted in my mind. One place in particular, El Farolito in was ridiculously addictive, between the good quality of the meat and the perfectly spicy roasted salsas, it was my usual place to be. They were always open late so all that greasy goodness would hit the spot perfectly after late nights of drinking or battling it out in a hot kitchen.

Growing up in L.A. it’s impossible to avoid the influence of Latin food and culture, it practically runs through MY veins. It’s that inexplicable warm feeling I get when I drive down the streets of L.A. and the pleasant sounds of Ranchera music thumping out of someone’s car fills my ears or the sight of a happy, young Latino couple and their 11 kids walking down the street that brings a smile to my face, but mostly I feel at home when I read a lovely, inviting sign in front of a random Hollywood house that reads “Asada, Pollo, Carnitas, Lengua… tacos $.99″ as barbecue smoke fills the front yard and spills into the street. This is the L.A. that I love and at the center of all of it is food, Latino food to be exact. I remember the first time I visited Armenia eleven years ago, I was gone for six weeks and realized at the end of my trip that I was having serious Chicano-burrito withdrawals. Even though six weeks isn’t a long time until then I never realized how large a role Latino food and culture actually played in my life. I was in the middle of getting my B.A. in history at the time and my focus was Latin America and thanks to Yuca’s which was right down the street from my apartment, my appreciation for burritos and revolutions blossomed. My ex boyfriend asked me once why I had a framed photo of Zapata hanging on my bedroom wall and my silly answer was that he was a daily reminder that “the Revolución is never really over plus Zapata came from the land of the burrito.”

The photo of Zapata is no longer on my wall although as a reminder it does make an occasional appearance on my desktop. However, you can imagine the panic that I was stricken with recently when I decided to move to Armenia. Aside from the conveniences that I’ve been spoiled with living in the U.S. my main concern for the move was food and at the top of that list were burritos. I had heard of a couple of Mexican restaurants in Yerevan the capital, but I couldn’t imagine how good they would be compared to the ones in Los Angeles. Burritos were more than just a weekly habit, they signified a comfort zone that pacified my mental and physical state, it’s a comfort zone that had taken years to build and all of sudden would possibly be stripped away with just one plane ride. At the center of those fears was moving to a country where I felt I would simultaneously gain and lose parts of my identity, my culinary identity to be exact.

On my second day in Yerevan, when asked by my cabdriver where I want to go I uttered the words “Taco Maco” and off I went to get my fix. Taco Maco is owned by Mexicano chef Oscar De Loza. Oscar moved to Armenia from L.A. a few years ago and opened Armenia’s first Taquería. The décor and feel of the place is typically Los Angeles/Mexico except it’s in the middle of Yerevan. As soon as I walked into the restaurant without even looking at the menu I immediately ordered a couple of Asada taco’s, a Corona and an Asada burrito. I sat outside accompanied by a rogue street cat with a bottle of Tapatío ready to get a taste of my fist burrito in Yerevan.

The taco was good, the tomatillo salsa was delicious and overall it tasted as close to an L.A. taco as one would get in Yerevan, but sadly the burrito tasted different. It didn’t taste like the burritos I’m used to. The rice was over spiced, something about the Pico De Gallo and beans were off and to top it all off it was wrapped loosely with no heart put into its making. After I was done I went back inside to throw my trash away and I couldn’t help but give the Armenian cook a disappointed look due his nonchalant way of wrapping a burrito. I left a bit disappointed but knew I was unrealistic in my expectations that it would be the same as back home. That’s the boat I’ve been floating on since arriving in Armenia, that “I’m out of my comfort zone” that takes a while to get over.

Sacrificing a good burrito is just one of the “culinary” sacrifices I’ve made since arriving in Armenia. Burritos are definitely not the same here but neither are a lot of vegetables, fruits and protein that I’m used to. The positive side of it all is that I’m sacrificing burritos, sushi and good Thai food for organic food and not just organic by U.S. standards but food that is truly organic by nature’s standards. The fruit and vegetables here actually taste like fruits and vegetables. The meat is delicious and has very little fat due to the cow actually eating grass instead of processed cow meat  and being pumped with hormones and drugs. Even so I’ll admit that the lack of culinary diversity with regards to ingredients that I’m used to is weighing a bit heavily on me. My poor palate is in constant search for familiar things. But this lack of comfort is also a good thing. It’s kicking my creativity in the butt and pushing me into the kitchen with a whole new playing field. I’m finding inspiration in things I wouldn’t have paid nearly as much attention to back home because there’s such an abundance of ingredients to choose from. I’ve realized that I have to take advantage of the fact that I have a blank gastronomical slate in front of me and all I have to worry about is making sure my culinary worlds collide cohesively. In the meantime I’ve gone back to Taco Maco several times and luckily the burritos have gotten better mostly because Oscar has been the one wrapping them with his own hands while he and I yap about L.A. and our love for cooking and Ranchera music. But mostly we talk about our new life in Yerevan and how different the Third World is from the First World and the irony of how much Armenian culture is now running through HIS Chicano veins. The world is a lot smaller and connected than before. At the heart of it for me is food, it’s the connective tissue that makes my life delicious so on that note Viva Burritos, Viva Armenia and Mexico but mostly Viva the new culinary Revolución of my kitchen and of my homeland!

A week ago I went to the Italian deli for some Burrata cheese and picked up the latest issue of La Cucina Italia to see what summer recipes were flowing in its pages. A whole section dedicated to melon recipes caught my eye. Melons are definitely not one of my favorite fruits, I only eat them to cool down from the heat. I can’t even count the amount of melons I had to carve in culinary school. Mastering the proper ways to work around the curves was intricate in creating cohesive and beautiful fruit trays. All that carving helped me with my knife skills and getting the “A” I needed for Garde Manger class, aside from that I had no use for them.

The recipes in the magazine reconfirmed for me that melons worked best when paired with something wonderful like prosciutto, and in the case of this particular recipe, pistachios and blackberries with a blackberry sauce. The recipe caught my eye because the striking colors of the fruits immediately popped out of the magazine, and as they say, “You eat with your eyes first.” It’s a simple dessert consisting of melons and blackberries with a blackberry-pistachio sauce. Summer is nothing without ice cream and since pistachios are synonymous with Persian Saffron-Rosewater ice cream an a la mode dessert was unavoidable.

The recipe asked for the pistachios to be roughly chopped but feeling a bit adventurous, I decided to make pistachio dust instead.  Prior to this little experiment I had neither eaten nor made pistachio dust. I absolutely love the concept of pollen and dust for culinary uses. Powders mesh beautifully with whatever they’re usually sprinkled on allowing them to capture the essence of flavors with ease. I add beet powder to salads and often cook with fennel pollen, especially with seafood dishes. Homemade rosemary–thyme dust regularly makes an appearance in my savory dishes and it also tastes divine when you sprinkle it on ice cream and fruit. Out of curiosity I Googled “pistachio pollen” to see if such a culinary toy existed, but surprisingly I found nothing. Instead, I got lost for half an hour reading a heap of articles discussing the effects of pollination on pistachio cultivation.

I eventually found my way back to the pages of La Cucina Italia and headed to the Middle Eastern market for the fruit, pistachios and ice cream. I give thanks for Middle Eastern markets, they keep my wallet fatter with their great produce and mom & pop prices. Melons remind me of two things, Garde Manger (my favorite class in culinary school) and director Peter Bogdonovich. A few years ago Mr. Bogdonovich happened to be living in a certain West Hollywood hotel that I had been working at and for one year I cooked his dinner a few nights a week. He had been living in and out of the hotel for years and had just returned at the time that I’d been hired. He always ordered the same thing — salmon with bok choy, a Cobb salad with no eggs or blue cheese and for “dessert” he only ordered thinly sliced melons. One night he sent back the salmon that had been cooked by my coworker Mildre, nicknamed El Tigre for his prowess with the ladies. The waiter brought the food back yelling at El Tigre telling him the man upstairs was a famous director named Bogdonovich and now he was worried he would lose a good tip. He claimed the salmon was too soggy. El Tigre gave the waiter a careless shrug so I grabbed another salmon filet, dusted it with flour, seared it to a crisp and sent it back upstairs.

Later that evening a request was sent from upstairs that from now on Mr. Bogdonovich’s salmon was to be cooked by whoever sent up the second salmon.  At the moment I thought, “Wow how cool, from now on I get to cook Peter Bogdonovich’s salmon,” but then came the neurosis of the melons.  From that moment on his melons also became my responsibility.  They had to be of a certain texture and carved no more than a ¼ inch thick. If there was even a slight bit of mushiness to the melons, he would send them back immediately with the waiter yelling at me about his tip. At least three nights a week I would sharpen the hell out of my knife, gently run the blade down those curves as smoothly as possible and attempt to carve perfectly moon shaped melons. Before slicing them, I would taste them first to make sure they were the right texture while  my coworkers stood around laughing and calling the man upstairs Loco. However being someone who has neurotic tendencies myself, I completely understood the man’s affinity for perfectly sliced and textured melons and for that one year I took great pride in carving them to his liking.

This recipe on the other hand is easy with no neurosis attached and can be done in less than half an hour. I used a melon baller to scoop out the melons. The pistachio dust was easy as well, I roasted whole pistachios and tossed them into a mini chopper and chopped them until they came as close to dust as possible. La Cucina Italia’s recipe for the blackberry sauce asked for the blackberries to be sautéed with sugar only, but I wanted to add some more flavor to the dessert so I replaced the sugar with honey, added Grand Marnier and butter to the sauce and finished it off with the powdered pistachio. It’s a simple, colorful dish and the floral Saffron-Rosewater ice cream takes it to a whole other level.  Melons have now officially moved up my list of favorite summer fruits. My memories of melons that this recipe helped resurrect were actually far from boring and it hit me that melons had in fact been very useful to me throughout the years. I realized that sometimes it’s okay to be a little boring and safe, I liked how their mild flavor gave my palate a break from the tart blackberry sauce and fragrant ice cream.  Plus the contrasting colors looked beautiful on the plate and the pistachio dust added texture to the fruit and fortified that lovely pistachio taste. Mostly though I’m grateful to melons for being the vehicle that indirectly introducing me to Peter Bogdonovich, who not only helped boost my confidence in the kitchen but also directed one of my favorite films The Last Picture Show and introduced the world to that mellow and gorgeous man who simply goes by the name “The Dude.”

Persian Saffron-rosewater ice cream called Akbar Mashti can be found in Middle Eastern stores, Whole Foods (on the West Coast) and Mashti Malone’s, the best Akbar Mashti makers outside of Iran who ship nationwide. Adapted from La Cucina Italia’s recipe: Melone a Palline con Salsa di More e Pistacchi

Wine Pairing – Dry Moscato

Melons and Blackberries with Blackberry-Pistachio Sauce and Saffron-Rosewater Ice Cream

Yield 4 servings

¼ cup shelled unsalted pistachios

2 tbsp unsalted butter

1 cup blackberries

1 tbsp honey

1 tbsp lime juice

2 tbsp Grand Marnier or Cointreau

1 (3 ¼ to 3 ½ -pound) cantaloupe, halved crosswise, seeded

1. Heat oven to 350°. Spread pistachios on a baking pan and toast until fragrant, about 4 minutes. Let cool, then using a mini chopper or food processor until finely grated.

2. Cut ¼ cup blackberries in half; set aside.

3. In a sauté’ pan, melt butter and add the remaining 3/4 cup blackberries, honey, Grand Marnier and lime juice and cook for 2-4 minutes and remove from heat. Sprinkle 1-2 tbsp of the pistachio dust and mix into the sauce.

4. Using a hand held blender or regular blender purée the blackberry sauce. Divide the blackberry sauce among 4 serving bowls.

5. Scoop out melon with a melon baller. Arrange balls and sliced blackberries in the serving bowls and lightly sprinkle with the pistachio dust.

Last night another showdown occurred. It was between the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 and a Man in Black trying to free his soul. Last night we lost LOST, which by far without sounding dramatic, is the most phenomenal thing I have ever seen on the T.V.  I was not ready to part with the Island. My infamous vegetable stuffing friend Lalig wasn’t either. We glanced at each other consistently while we watched the last episode anticipating and avoiding the end. I can’t lie, it hurt but doesn’t losing always hurt. In moments like this my void is often filled with a single poem, “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop. I was 20 years old when I first read the poem and its been a constant in my life ever since.

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster…”

As the poem expresses, loss is a natural part of life. We gain, we lose and we move on.  The city of Los Angeles, and all the appreciative palates within its vicinity recently lost one of the best restaurants in the city, Sona. I summoned Lalig and we made our way over there on the evening of May 7^th, a week before the restaurant’s closing. On our way there I described to her the two grueling nights that I staged in Sona’s kitchen. The things I saw in that intense, seasonally driven kitchen were glorious. A few thousand dollars worth of black truffles at the Garde Manger station, a sexy chef-owner by the name of David Meyers, and a waif thin Japanese Sous Chef who moved so swiftly and smoothly I named her Neo. Yes, it is this Sona, the Michelin starred restaurant whose clean and elegant French cuisine will no longer grace La Cienega Boulevard.

The softly lit Zen dining room with empty concrete walls kept our eyes focused on the food that evening. The minimal plates resembling pieces of art hit our table in perfectly paced waves. Unfortunately, the dim lights were not so good for my camera and being a novice photographer I have yet to learn to get around these moments. The photos came out underexposed but describing food with a lack of visuals is no bueno, so bare with me.

In order to gain the optimal taste that the kitchen had to offer, the Pre Fixe menu was the only road to take. We chose a splendid bottle of Pinot Noir to compliment our dinner.

First to arrive was the amuse bouche, a palate cleansing pineapple gelée with a soy sorbet.  It was followed by a divine piece of toro with Tokyo Negi, a Ponzu zaballone and nori, which was so thinly shaved it disappeared in your mouth like rice paper.

A sous vide Ocean trout with Fiddlhead fern, fava beans, caviar and coriander leaves soon followed. I love Fiddlehead ferns, their bitter taste was a perfect contrast to the sweet coriander and salty caviar.

The Poussin (young chicken) Roulade was next. You could feel the youth of the bird with each tender bite. It was delicious and creepy at the same time. The spicy chorizo marmalade that lay on top of that poor baby bird added a nice smokiness to it.

If enjoying the baby bird wasn’t bad enough, the veal loin and succulent braised veal cheeks gave me a frightening glimpse into my karmic future. This was my second time eating veal and I definitely resisted at first but dove in anyway. Guilt aside, it turned out to be my favorite dish of the night. It was accompanied by a ridiculously mouthwatering Green curry pomme de terre pavé with mustard greens and carrots.

Lastly we had the Alaskan halibut with Pilipino mushrooms and Pea shoots, it was a little bland but the mushrooms made the dish.

Relieved that we weren’t overwhelmed by the savory courses, Lalig and I blissfully welcomed the desserts and petite fours. The first dessert was a sweet and tart, hard-shelled Meyer lemon tube filled with lemon crème, and served with a Muscato gelée, Buddha fruit and ginger ice cream.  The second was a great example that something savory can be sweetened with success. It was a charred eggplant with toasted marshmallow, coco nib ice cream and topped with a Chocolate tuile.

At the center of the petite four’s plate was a cherry-raspberry with a vanilla bean stem. As Lalig said, “it starting off a cherry and ending up a raspberry.” The other mini, sweet bites were a dehydrated chocolate mousse, Pistachio nougat, a Chocolate macaron and an aromatic fennel cake.

David Meyers is a testament that less is more. I’m genuinely saddened by Sona’s closing. Meyers plans to re-open at a different location in 2011, but naturally it won’t be the same. As Lalig and I were finishing our dessert Chef Meyers appeared to our left and graciously introduced himself to us. Lalig and I both got what she described as “that look on your face when a really good- looking man comes up to you.” I told the chef that I was honored to have staged in his kitchen and that we looked foreword to his next venture. He smiled and I took the opportunity to slip him my card. He said he liked the card and I blushed looking down bashfully like a rosy-cheeked culinary groupie.

Reflecting on this past month, life has once again reconfirmed that the “art of losing” is instantaneous and continuous. I lost one of my favorite restaurants as well as a beloved T.V. show that had generated incredibly deep dialogue between my friends and I. On top of everything else, and to my dislike the Magic fought their way back and ended up beating the Celtics in the playoff game. It’s ironic that I hoped the Celtics would win tonight only so I can have the pleasure of watching them loose to the Lakers in the weeks to follow. After all these years I think I finally get Elizabeth Bishop’s point. Loosing is easy. Gaining is thee bona fide challenge of life. We lose sight of that more often than we should. Luckily a simple poem is there to remind us that our lives should be measured by how much we strive to gain in the midst of loosing so lavishly.

I always liked the concept of a middle name, it was just one more word, one more way of distinguishing my identity. Since that didn’t happen, the natural occurrence of acquiring names began. I’ve been referred to as many things throughout my life, sweet, stubborn, passionate etc. Those are the names I’m okay with but there are a few that I’m not okay with. At the top of that list is a word I heard for the first time in the fourth grade from my homeroom teacher, Ms. Rose.  I remember Ms. Rose for a few things; her Miss Piggy nose, high cheekbones, her numerous rose patterned Pencil skirts, and her first cousin, baseball player Pete Rose. However, mostly I remember her because she was one of the first people to point out my flaws.  One evening on a parent-teacher conference night, she told my mother that I was a bright young girl but I tended to procrastinate. When my mother got home that night she calmly relayed her conversation with Ms. Rose to me. I was shocked and a little embarrassed. The nerve of this Ms. Rose, a woman who had permanent pen mark stains on the back of her ears from tucking her leaky pens behind her ears. I couldn’t believe she was calling me out like that. Naturally I liked her a lot less after that day, mostly because that little-big word “procrastinator,” has stuck with me ever since.

Throughout the years I’ve honestly made serious attempts to remove this word attached to my name, but somehow it keeps creeping back. Throughout my school years it almost became the middle name that I didn’t want. I’m ashamed to say that I’ve recently been reunited with it. I have been foolishly negligent of my newly found outlet, my blog Honey. In short, I have failed to meet my own demands of myself. I started this blog for many reasons the most important being that it would force me to write. It would provide the perfect excuse to not procrastinate. Yet, here I am again. I’m not giving in though. Spring has sprung and I have sprung with it. Nature has brought change to the earth and I too shall change with it. No more excuses, from this day foreword I will do my best to permanently shake off the “middle” name I never wanted. Most importantly the stubborn woman in me wants to prove Ms. Rose wrong once and for all.

Spring has brought me out of my hibernation and has taken me to a place that is constantly sprouting with inspiration, the farmers market. Between Venice and Pasadena I’ve come across three different kinds of kale, beautiful bulbs of fennel and perfectly sweet and tart Meyer lemons. A nice piece of fish is the first thing that came to mind to pair with all these floral and light ingredients. I made my way over to my favorite fish mongers in Los Angeles, Fish King and was sold immediately on the words “Fresh, Wild North Pacific Halibut.”

The Buddhists say that life is suffering because human beings naturally fight change, yet change is the only constant in life. In essence we are fighting ourselves. Well, I for one have been riding a constant wave of procrastination since the day that word echoed in my ears. However change is here ladies and gentlemen, and I am catching that wave and riding it for as long as life allows me to. I also want to take this moment and apologize to my blog for being such an awful and negligent parent. After all, Honey is my baby and I promise never to abandon her for this long again!

Kale and fennel are two of my loveliest obsessions. Their aromatic characters and versatility allow me to play with them as much as possible. I could write pages on the nutritional value of kale and how much I love this member of the Brassica family just like my beloved Brussels sprouts. The more bitter the kale the happier my palate is. Those of who don’t enjoy bitter greens, try to look for Kale with smaller leaves, which tend to have a milder flavor. For this recipe I used three kinds; Lacinato, (long, large, green leaves) Russian (purple stems and leaves) and Russian Red kale with hues of red, yellow and orange, resembling perfect fall leaves.

Meyer lemons, darker in color and sweeter than regular lemons, can be found at the farmers market, as well as Whole Foods and Bristol Farms. If you can’t find the lemons, orange is a great substitute; orange and fennel pair together beautifully. The key to searing fish properly is to get the oil really hot and make sure the fish is dry. Let the fish cook (high-medium heat) 2/3 of the way when you initially put it in the skillet. Flipping it over prematurely will not give it that nice golden crust. Using the juice and zest of the lemons/oranges while cooking the fish really adds to the flavor and aromatics.

Wine Pairing: Pouilly Fumé (my personal favorite), Chablis, Sauvignon Blanc (New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc’s are light and zesty), Chardonnay, Sancerre and Reisling.

This recipe also calls for one of the greatest culinary inventions, the Microplane zester/grater. You can find it at Sur La Table, William Sonoma or here.

The recipe also calls for the segmenting of the lemons, those of you unfamiliar with how to segment a citrus fruit, here is a video of Iron Chef Mike Symon demonstrating how to segment a citrus fruit.

Seared Halibut with Kale, Fennel & Meyer Lemon

Yield 4 servings

4  7 ounce (approx. 2 pounds) skinless halibut filets

2-3 bunch (1 ½ – 2 pounds) kale (different varietals), stems removed, coarsely chopped

1 ½ fennel bulbs, cored, sliced ¼ inch lengthwise

2-3 Meyer lemons or oranges (approx. ½ pound), zested and segmented.

Kosher salt & fresh ground pepper

6 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

2 tbsp. unsalted butter

4 tbsp Meyer lemon juice

1. Using a Microplane or zester, remove zest from the lemons and reserve on a paper towel allowing zest to dry. Zest should be thin and finely chopped when using a zester.

2. Segment 2 of the lemons and reserve in a bowl.  Squeeze 4 tbsp. of juice from the remainder of the lemons and reserve.

3. In a medium skillet heat 1 ½ tbsp. of extra virgin olive oil on high heat and add fennel. Cook fennel at medium heat for 2-4 minutes and allowing it to caramelize slowly, add salt and pepper to taste. Remove and transfer to a bowl.

4. Heat 2 tbsp of olive oil in the same skillet and add kale and cook for 3-5 minutes on medium-low heat. Add the fennel to the kale and turn off the heat.

5. In a large, heavy non-stick skillet heat remainder of the oil. Make sure the oil is really hot but not smoking . Salt and pepper both sides of each halibut filet (make sure the halibut is dry) and sauté filet’s on medium-high heat. Allow for filet to form a golden crust before turning them. Cook for 4-6 minutes and add lemon juice and butter. At the same time reheat the fennel and kale.

6. Place fennel/kale mixture on a plate surrounded with segmented lemons and lay the halibut with the golden crust side facing up on top of the kale. Sprinkle lemon zest on top of halibut filets and serve with a chilled wine of your choice.

Growing up there was a couple of queens that I was mesmerized by. The first was Farah Diba, the wife of the Shah of Iran, who truly epitomized all that is fabulous in a queen. The second went by the name Latifah, who spit rhymes in a flow that truly epitomized my love for Hip Hop. Time has brought with it new queens whose style and contribution to the world continue to intrigue me. The beautifully modern Queen Rania of Jordan is my new Farah Diba. She’s elegant, sharp and effective, so much so that I follow her on twitter.

The other new queen that has captured my attention for the past 12 years is the one and only Ms. Erykah Badu. How and where do I begin to express how much this woman has fed my soul? I can’t think of any other singer of my generation except for Sade who moves me as deeply as she does.  Sometimes while I’m listening to her it hits me that if I could be any singer, without a doubt I would be Badu.

With her honey colored eyes, raspy voice and a head wrapped with skills, the woman is more than a singer. Ms. Badu is the definition of a true artist and poet. Between the jazz notes, her talking about her cipher and that Southern charm, her songs have been spinning on rotation for a long, long time.

These photos of Ms. Badu were taken by my friend Shanon Mc Collum. Shannon is a tall, sweet and talented Atlanta based Photo Journalist and is often referred to as the “Gordon Parks” of Hip Hop. If you don’t know who Gordon Parks is, Google him.

Sometimes when I’m in the kitchen working away and daydreaming, I imagine that if I had a choice of a famous dinner guest, who would it be and what would I cook? I’ve given quite a bit of thought to this and many people have made the list. For my fist guest I decided to start with a woman who has become the queen of my soul.  It only seems appropriate that I pair this queen with a king. The king of my palate is Indian cuisine. There is no food that I’ve experienced yet that plays with my senses the way Indian food does. There is no food that I enjoy eating as much as Indian food. I truly feel changes in my body and its chemistry when I eat it. I get high with each bite and fall into a sensory overload. The crunchy and soft textures paired with sweet and spicy flavors sing and dance endlessly on my tongue. As my imagination runs wild, I can see myself sitting across her on the grass in my front yard. Dividing us would be my wooden table adorned with flowers, candles and a cornucopia of vegetarian Indian dishes. What would I ask her, where would I begin? The music, the poetry, our love for Dilla, home birth, astronomy, or the future of Hip Hop a.k.a. Jay Electronica? The food would have to compliment her personality and showcase my own, quirky, spicy and full of soul. In an ideal setting the stars would be perfectly aligned in a harmonious meshing of our two worlds through food and song. Knowing me, I would probably feed her into a food coma in an attempt to thank her for blessing the universe with her voice.

Badu is who she is because of her uncanny swagger. Talent is not enough to get me. She got me because her words weave a blanket for my soul. She sings the way I feel.  Methodically metaphorical, she doesn’t just write about love or life, she leaves you content with it. They say it’s not what you say but how you say it. Her flow is ethereal, free and dangerous and she can sing the hell out of a Chaka Khan and Roy Ayers song. I’ve spent countless evenings throughout the years by myself or with friends cooking, drinking wine and blasting Badu through the walls. To feed my hunger, I make sure to see her live every couple of years. However this evening, and in my imagination, she’s coming over for dinner.

So what will the dinner table look like? For starters, we will have vegetarian Samosa’s with a South Indian cilantro, lime Chutney, followed by a spiced Sweet potato and coconut Soup. The main course will be Basmati rice with a spicy eggplant and lentil Curry served with Garam Masala laced Cornbread.  For dessert, I hope to sweeten her soul with Cardomom tea and a Saffron-Rosewater, almond Tapioca.

In my crazy head the evening will be nothing short of an ethereal experience. Most importantly Ms. Badu will love, love, love my Indian feast and will take the leftovers home for her kids. If I’m really lucky, she’ll play the guitar and sing a song as wisdom bounces off those pillow lips and into the sky. So with this story dear reader, please try not to question my sanity as I have on many occasions. I only ask that you simply entertain my imagination. Send me some positive energy so that maybe one day this queen might actually get a chance to read this little piece. In doing so, I hope she will find a little bit of inspiration in my silly Samosa’s as I have in her soulful songs.

This recipe is for the Vegetarian Samosa’s and the South Indian cilantro, lime Chutney. The dough recipe is a simple one, but you can also use wonton wrappers as a substitute. The chutney can be spicy so those with sensitive tongues, deseed the jalapeños. When using spices like coriander, cumin, curry etc. I always prefer to use the seeds or leaves rather than the powder. When you toast the seeds, this incredible aroma takes over the house, imagine what it does to the food? Links are provided for the seeds in case Indian stores are not readily available.

Cilantro-Lime Chutney

Yield 2 cups

½ tsp. cumin seeds or cumin powder

1 tsp. Chaat Masala

1 jalapeño chopped

4 quarter-size slices peeled fresh ginger

1 green bell pepper, coarsely chopped

1 bunch green onions, green parts only

3 cups firmly packed fresh cilantro, including soft stems

½ cup fresh mint leaves

3 tbsp. lime juice

1 tbsp. olive oil

1 tsp. honey

1 tsp. kosher salt

1. Toast the cumin seeds.
2. In a food processor, blend together jalapeños, ginger, green onions and bell pepper until minced. Add the cilantro, mint process and scrape the sides with a spatula.
3. Add the lime juice and olive oil through the feeder tube then add the cumin seeds or powder, Chaat masala, honey and salt and process.
4. Transfer to a bowl and serve.

Vegetarian Samosa’s

Yield 6 servings

Pastry Dough

1 cup flour

3 tbsp Ghee (clarified butter) or vegetable oil

6-8 tbsp ice water

Kosher salt to taste

Stuffing

3 large potatoes, cubed, small dice

1 cup shelled green peas or frozen (thawed)

1 cup corn, fresh or canned

¼ tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp cumin seeds or ground

½ tsp coriander seeds or ground

½ tsp brown mustard seeds

½ tsp spicy Garam masala

1 tsp fresh ginger, minced

1 tbsp cilantro finely chopped

2 green chillies deseeded, chopped fine

kosher salt to taste

3 tbsp oil and oil for deep frying

1. For the dough, sift flour and salt into a large bowl. Mix in the ghee / oil. Add water little by little while mixing with fingers to make a stiff dough. Set the dough aside and keep it covered with a damp cloth for 15-20 minutes.

2. Cook the peas in boiling salted water for about 10 minute(s) or till soft. Drain refresh in cold water and drain well.

3. In a large skillet heat 3 tbsp of oil. Toss in the cumin, coriander and mustard seeds and let them crackle. Add the green chillies and ginger. Fry briefly.

4. Add the potato cubes, salt and Garam masala powder. Sprinkle with some water, cover and cook on low-medium heat for about 10 minutes. Mix in the cooked green peas and corn and let cool. down for 5-7 minutes. Mix in the coriander leaves.

5. Divide the dough into 16 equal balls. Apply a little dry flour to each ball and on a flat, lightly floured surface roll each ball into a 5” circle diameter. Cut each circle into two and lightly dampen the edges of each semicircle with water. Place a spoonful of the potato-pea filling into the cone and seal the edges well (apply some water on the edges if they do not seal well).

6. Deep fry samosa’s in medium-hot oil until crisp and golden brown. Remove onto a paper towel. Serve immediately with the Cilantro Lime Chutney.

Philadelphia Sandwiches was an accidental discovery while driving on Magnolia Blvd in North Hollywood one day. Upon returning for the fourth or fifth time, while standing in line waiting to order, I overheard the owners arguing in what I was sure was Russian. Behind the counter, a petite, red headed woman with alabaster skin and bright blue eyes went back and forth with her husband. I couldn’t help but stare, the husband, just a little taller than his wife, raised his thick man hands in the air as he tried to make his point. I placed my order, got my number, and went to the corner still staring as I flipped through pages of the L.A. Weekly. For some reason it was odd to me that an older Russian couple owned a Philly cheesesteak joint. Ten minutes later Mama Philadelphia-Russia called my number and as I picked up my to go sandwich, I looked at her, smiled and said, “Spasiba.”

“Oh, spasiba to you,” she replied as her eyes widened, and ever since then that has been our polite exchange. After some time instead of getting my sandwiches to go I started eating them there instead. Every couple of weeks, I make my way over to NOHO (North Hollywood), say hello and spasiba to the Russians and eat a Philly Cheesesteak. I order the same thing each time, a small Philly with everything, extra cheese and a side of hot peppers. I then pick up my sandwich as well as that week’s issue of the L.A. Weekly, and go to the back room where I sit in my seat, eat and read. Yes, I have my own seat, booth to be exact.

The mom and pop feel of this place brings not only sandwiches to mind but Jonathan Gold as well. For those of you unfamiliar with the illustrious Mr. Gold, he is the first and only food writer to receive a Pulitzer Prize and is the granddaddy of L.A. food writers. Unlike most food critics, like the feared   S. Irene Virbilla of the Los Angeles Times, Mr. Gold of the L.A. Weekly, is pragmatic and down with the people. This is not to say that Ms. Virbilla lacks those qualities but she’s just a little more bourgie, if you will. His niche on the other hand is to push the mom and pop restaurants that I love so much, particularly the ethnic ones. Every Wednesday as I open the food section of the Times, the same sentence plays in my head “lets see who Irene is going to discreetly rip into this week?” If S. Irene Virbilla is the Roadrunner plowing through Los Angeles leaving a culinary dust trail, Jonathan Gold is a tamer Bugs Bunny, hopping from neighborhood to neighborhood nibbling on the good stuff while leaving behind pebbles for us to follow. I like to think of Ms. Virbilla as a food critic and Mr. Gold as a food informant. He knows the crevices of Los Angeles and is finely in tune with all the hole in the wall places that so many of us love to frequent.

My cheesesteak sandwich habit has been going on for quite a few years and has no geographical boundaries. In Los Angeles it is Mr. Gold’s weekly reviews and the Russians. While living up north it was Jay’s Cheesesteak, mostly on Sunday afternoons with the church folks. I liked Sundays because a lot of people would come straight after church. The place would get packed with ladies in colorful hats and men looking dapper in their suits while standing in the long line waiting to splurge.

After all these years of eating these filling sandwiches, I recently realized that it never once occurred to me to make them myself. So a few days ago I made my first Philly cheesesteak sandwich. I made it with Rib Eye steak, bell peppers, onions, mushrooms, paprika, Provolone cheese and layered it between the delicious rolls I got at the Italian deli.

I did some needed research to find out a little more about the history of this sandwich and its origins in Philadelphia. Unfortunately I’ve never been to Philly and the only things that come to mind when I think of Philly are The Declaration of Independence, The Roots and cheesesteak sandwiches. The story goes, that 1930, in south Philly, brothers Pat and Henry Olivieri made the first Steak sandwich and sold it for a nickel each. Thirty years later, cheese was added to the sandwich, Cheez Wiz to be exact and the Philly Cheesesteak was born.

Cheesesteak aficionados insist that the most important part of a good cheesesteak is the meat and the bread. According to most recipes the best meat is Rib Eye, shaved very thin. Rib Eye has good marbling without too much fat. Either have your butcher slice it thin or freeze it a bit to make it easier to thinly slice at home. As far as the bread, a good roll is required, usually a Hoagie roll is used, but I also like the extra crunch from a French baguette. For seasoning I added a little bit of garlic powder and paprika without overpowering the taste of the meat. I was definitely pleased with the outcome it was fast, easy and oh so juicy. So there it is, with just 30 minutes of effort in the kitchen, you can be transported to south Philly not by a plane but by a sandwich. Most importantly if you’re cool like me you will bop your head to Illadelph Halflife when you do.

Taking time to eat by myself is so essential to my week, it’s my time to chill, read a magazine and eat in peace. Sometimes it’s not so peaceful though, last Friday I had to control myself from spitting my food out from laughter. The guy sitting behind me kept going on and on about how his ex wife was a bad mother and a whore, and after divorcing her he had finally found Jesus. He said he felt “blessed” for having been “saved,” but was scared he might die anyway if his new, non-whore, Christian wife found out he was eating a Philly Cheesesteak. When eating and reading, I usually have a pretty good ability to block everything out. However, being a curious cat I also enjoy eavesdropping, it’s amazing some of the things you “accidently” overhear. Since discovering this place, I truly look foreword to my rendezvous with Mr. Gold’s words, the Russians and the juices from the cheesesteak sandwiches that drip down my fingers and onto the pages of inspiration.

This recipe is derived from several different recipes. Aside from the addition of paprika and garlic powder the ingredients are basic and stay true to a true Philly cheesesteak sandwich.

Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich

Yield 4 servings

1 lb. Rib Eye beef, thinly sliced

1 onion, cut lengthwise

2-3 red bell peppers, julienned

1 ½ lbs mushrooms, white or Cremini

½ jalapeño

3 tbsp  vegetable oil

½ tsp  kosher salt

¼ tsp  black pepper

½ tsp garlic powder

½ tsp paprika

1 lb  Provolone cheese, thinly sliced

4 French, Italian or Hoagie rolls

1. Place the beef in a large bowl and sprinkle with ½ of the salt, pepper, garlic powder and paprika and mix.
2. Heat half of the oil in a skillet over medium-high heat and caramelize the onions. Add the jalapeño, bell peppers, mushrooms and the rest of the spice mixture, sauté for 3 min. and transfer to a bowl.
3. Using the same sauté pan, heat the rest of the oil over medium-high heat and sauté Rib Eye strips for 1 ½ min. on each side. Remove from the heat and on a cutting board chop into a small-medium dice.
4. Cut bread rolls in ½ lengthwise, add Provolone slices and put in the toaster. Meanwhile combine sautéed vegetables and meat and return to skillet, sauté for 1 minute and divide meat into the rolls and serve.

On my 30th birthday, I woke up at 5 a.m. to be in class by 7 a.m. I was in culinary school and it was the first day of my last class “Production,” with the very sweet and patient, Chef Mike Weller. The cold San Francisco wind slapped my face into adulthood as I left my apartment that morning. I spent the rest of that day in class and the rest of the evening in a glutinous, food and wine haze. That year signified more than a number for me, it was when I inherited a lifestyle that makes me grin from ear to ear. It was when I realized that for the rest of my adult life, my hands were going to be very, very busy. Ever since then, my birthday has turned into a night dedicated to multiple foodgasms.

This year, in continuing this new tradition, I went to dinner with my two lovely ladies Ani and Talin. Ani and Talin are what I refer to as my “Ying and Yang,” Talin is my mind and Ani is my soul. Our destination of choice was The Bazaar, chef José Andrés’ venture into Lala a.k.a. Los Angeles. Chef Andrés is a culinary gift from Spain by way of Washington D.C. He comes from the school of the great culinary god, Ferran Adria of El Bulli. El Bulli and Mr. Adria will be discussed on another occasion, although finding the right words to talk about him might prove difficult. No, today dear reader, we will take a subtle walk through the colorful pathways of The Bazaar.

I say subtle because this was my first trip to The Bazaar, therefore I think its only fair that I reserve passing full judgment on the experience until I’ve gone back at least one more time. So lets think of this as Part 1 of exploring L.A.’s new trip down Molecular Gastronomy lane. We arrived that Sunday evening at the SLS in Beverly Hills, the sleek, butter smooth, Philippe Starck designed hotel that houses The Bazaar. Starck’s design begins from the driveway of the hotel and runs all the down to the depths of the stunning  women’s bathroom. It’s detailed, clean, and has a cold warmth to it.

We were seated in the middle of the Rojo room where waiters and waitresses with electronic devices strapped to their arms ran around like robots. The open kitchen was to the right as a bar laden with charcuterie stared at us from the left. Divided into sections, the menu showcases both old (Blanca) and new (Roja) world Tapas. The choices were abundant, sounded heavenly, and although a bit overwhelmed, this is what we chose…

Our wine of choice was the very delectable Roja Sangria made with a fabulous Tempranillo. We all hummed with wide eyes as we toasted our glasses, the wine was truly wonderful. Plus, Talin is pregnant and there is nothing more beautiful than the site of a pregnant woman with a great glass of wine in her hands. It was a proud moment, our little niece currently tucked safely in her mommy’s tummy, got her first taste of Molecular Gastronomy. The parallel being that both she and this movement in food signify the future.

The Seared Piquillo Peppers stuffed with Goat Cheese were first to arrive and a good start. The warm and silky pepper was a perfect backdrop for my favorite cheese.

The second to arrive were the Ottoman Carrot Fritters with Pistachio sauce. Seemingly a dabbling in Turkish food, these deep fried fritters were crispy yet textural and tasted like a carrot donut. The pistachio sauce gave a creamy and almost bitter contrast that worked well.

The creamy Egg & Cauliflower Custard with its minimal presentation, had a soothing taste & texture.

The parpadelle resembling Apple and Fennel salad with Manchego cheese, walnuts, and Cave vinegar was a good palate cleanser.

Next, the Cotton Candy Foie Gras floated onto our table. One of the restaurants most popular dishes, the lollipops consisted of foie gras, coated with chili, and wrapped in corn chip cotton candy. The taste of the liver reminded me of a creamy terrine as the taste of the corn from the cotton candy slowly faded to the back of my mouth. It was just as good as I imagined it to be.

Yummy Sweet Potato chips with a dip made from Greek yogurt foam, tamarind reduction, and star anise. Chips and Dip in a Four Star restaurant couldn’t have been better.

Tuna Toro Nigiri with watermelon, wasabi, jalapeño, and a Soy foam, I loved the idea of it but the fish could have been fresher that day.

The achingly tender Braised Veal Cheeks were cooked sous vide and served with California orange segments. The Philly, which melted in our mouths was a reinterpretation of the classic sandwich. The “Air bread” was filled with molten white cheddar and topped with seared Wagyu beef and a shower of scallions and sea salt.

For dessert we were taken to the open spaced Patisserie, which is adjacent to the lobby. After reading all the decadent dessert choices, we chose the Nitro Coconut Floating Island. The coconut cream takes on the texture of a meringue sans the egg whites with the help of Liquid Nitrogen. The banana’s on bottom were coated with caramel and chocolate, the meringue was nice, I like the way it dissolved at first bite, leaving a strong taste of coconut behind.

Talin, Ani and I had a beautiful and much needed night of reminiscing, bonding and laughing. We’re of the age now where marriage and children have given way to the crazy nights of debauchery we experienced throughout our 17 years together.

The restaurant has been open for over a year, and for some odd reason I held back from going there for a long time. My foodie friends were always baffled as to why of all people I had not yet allowed my palate to absorb Chef Andrés’ creations. I have no answer except maybe subconsciously I was scared that it would disappoint me.  Since having moved back to L.A. it’s been somewhat of a challenge readjusting to this city’s food trends, San Francisco spoiled me greatly. I look foreword to coming back and walking down the paths of The Bazaar. I’m happy to say that I was not disappointed and that my palate did experience a beautiful waltz that night. Yet another beautiful culinary memory has danced its way to the corners of my mind.

Yeah… not so much.  The first words out of his mouth were, “You know what you’re doing is very pathological right?”

“How so?” I asked, “Have you ever heard the expression, you are what you eat?” he replied.

I frowned at him and asked, “So you’re telling me that by eating bone marrow, I’m eating myself?”

He said, “Yes,” to which I condescendingly replied, “Well, at least I taste good.”

Oh, the irony of my attempts for ten minutes to try to explain to this “Pathologist” that bone marrow was highly nutritious and good for the brain. I kept repeating the sentence “It’s a wonderful source of protein and high in monounsaturated fats – the good fats- and it tastes so good.” He shook his head continuously.  To him, even as a scientist, eating bone marrow was an act of food extremism, one that he found hard to swallow.  I told him he lacked an imagination and had no idea what he was missing out on. My Persian-Armenian girlfriends and I laughed about it later.  We concluded that homeboy was clueless and accusing someone of being “pathological” for eating Abgoosht was merely a reflection of his own pathology.

Bone marrow is the perk that comes with eating Abgoosht, a Persian stew whose recipe my mother has conquered. The shanks and the bone marrow marinate slowly for hours enriching the broth while the addition of dried limes, chickpeas, tomatoes, potatoes and savory leaves, brings together a great stew. It’s a flavorful and aromatic stew that’s a perfect way to warm you on a cold winter night.

My mamma’s broth is so damn good it should be patented. She mostly makes it in the winter.  She always makes enough to last a couple of days, and in that time it is devoured with delight. There are a few dishes for which my mom’s hands have a magical touch. Her Dolma, her Vindaloo, Coffee cake and Macaron are my favorites, but her Abgoosht is out of control. She was 22 when this photo was taken.  She had just gotten engaged to my father. She has that soft, content look on her face and she probably hadn’t learned to make Abgoosht just yet.

There is no doubt that bone marrow has a very distinct taste and texture, you either love it or hate it. I love it so much that I almost fainted from bliss when I saw this photo of my imaginary husband Anthony Bourdain with only a bone in his hand. The photo is from the book My Last Supper and is his homage to bone marrow, for which I graciously thank him for it every time I bite down on a piece of one. Bone marrow is usually cooked by braising it, such as with Osso Bucco (Italian), roasting it like Os a Moelle (French), or slow cooking it like Abgoosht (Persian). Ab in Farsi means water, in this case stew, and Ghoosht is in reference to the type of stew, in this case beef.

My favorite place to get bone marrow in Los Angeles outside of my mom’s kitchen is at Mario Batalli and Nancy Silverton’s, Pizzeria Mozza. Every few months my friend James and I have “Bone Marrow Dates.” We get together on a Sunday afternoon, get toasted on Perseco and eat bone after bone, topped with sea salt, roasted garlic and parsley leaves. James is fabulous.  He’s an accomplished celebrity photographer I met a couple years ago while eating bone marrow at Mozza. We bonded over the marrow, and when we get together he tells me his juicy celeb stories, as we both drool over the juicy bone marrows on our table. I just made Abgousht for the first time a few days ago.  My mom, Arax instructed me step by step and I followed. The smell of the broth slowly crept into the kitchen and I couldn’t help but peek in over and over again and get an Abgousht facial as the steam rose to my face. In the process of learning to make this stew, I also decided to properly learn to make roasted bone marrow. For inspiration I drew from Mr. Batalli, with his jolly belly and orange Crocs. I bought a couple of shanks, roasted them in the oven, and then I carefully slid them onto a toasted baguette and topped it with parsley, Fleur de Sel and lemon juice. It provided the perfect excuse to bust out the white truffle oil.  Yes, I topped my fatty bone marrow with the truffle oil, and it was superb and worth every drop.

Being referred to as pathological that evening tickled my own bones a bit.  It got me thinking that there is a very primal aspect to sucking marrow out of a bone. It is something many of us have done since childhood without giving it a second thought.  In the chapter “What I Lived For,” in “Walden”, Thoreau explains his decision to move to Walden Woods. In the book he says, “I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life . . . to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”  I can’t think of a more perfect way to describe not just the importance of living life to the fullest, but living life in a truly conscious fashion. For me this includes eating all the bone marrow that life has to offer and maybe even looking within when I do eat it. Looking back, in retrospect maybe the scientist was right; eating bone marrow is like taking in parts of our own selves.  But I prefer Thoreau’s take on it.  In case you’re wondering what happened with Mr. Pathologist and I, we eventually went our separate ways. Besides, I couldn’t see myself dating a man who dated a woman that he thought was a pathological eater.

Dried limes can be found in most Middle Eastern stores or here. Dried savory leaves can be found in the spice section of most supermarkets or here.

Arax’s Abgoosht

Yield 4-6 servings

2 – 3 beef shanks with bone marrow attached

6 – 8 cups of water

1 cup garbanzo & white beans (mixed)

3 – 4 Limoo Amani (Dried Limes)

3 tomatoes skin removed, chopped small dice

1 onion, chopped medium dice

3 garlic cloves, chopped small dice

2 ½ tsp savory leaves (Dried)

5 cardamom pods

5 bay leaves

2 tsp turmeric

2 tsp curry powder

2 tsp hot pepper paste

2 tsp kosher salt

2 potatoes chopped medium dice

1 lemon

1 Lavash or Pita bread

1. Place shanks in a large pot with 6 cups of with water and bring to boil. Skim the froth as it forms.
2. Add the next 12 items, cover and cook on medium heat for 2-2 ½ hours until meat is tender. Add more water if you would like to have more broth.
3. Add the potatoes and lemon juice, cook on medium heat for 20 minutes.

Serve with lavash, break lavash or pita into small pieces, add to the stew and enjoy.

Roasted Bone Marrow

Yield 4 servings

4 Beef shanks with Bone Marrow

3 tsp parsley, whole leaves

Fleur De Sel or course Sea salt

1 lemon, juiced

1 baguette French, sliced, toasted

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees, cover a large sheet pan with foil and cook marrow for 12-15 minutes, until marrow bubbles but not spilled over.
2. With a thin knife, slowly carve out marrow from the bone and slide onto toasted bread, top with salt, parsley leaves and lemon juice.

“Honey you so sweet,

Sugar got a long way to get you…”     Erykah Badu

According to Greek mythology Zeus was born in a cave and raised by bees, where each day a nymph by the name of Makris fed him honey, making it a “food of the Gods.” The word Honey has many applications, it’s a term of endearment, a way to describe something sweet, and has given a whole new meaning to the existence of bees. Honey has graced the earth longer than we have and simply put, it is something that gives me an ecstatic sensory experience.

Somehow bees have this mystical power and knowledge of the earth, resulting in their laborious creation of such an incredibly useful and raw substance. A few years ago I went through a phase where I gulped down a tablespoon of honey every morning and ate a bowl of yogurt every night. This lasted for almost two years, I wasn’t disciplined enough to do it everyday, but this little ritual took place at least 5 days a week.

The yogurt idea came from a T.V. interview I had seen years ago with my friend Damon’s great grandfather Setrak. Setrak Boyajian, a.k.a. the “Yogurt Man,” was born in 1884 and immigrated to the U.S. from Hajen, Turkey in 1906 and lived to be 107 years old. One of the local news channels interviewed him a couple of years prior to his death during which Mr. Boyajian attributed his long and healthy life to his commitment to a daily bowl of yogurt, and specifically the particular culture that he used to make the yogurt. He swore that yogurt prolonged his life and helped keep his brain intact. After seeing this interview and talking about it with Damon, I took this piece of wisdom from this Armenian elder and began to believe in the power of yogurt and eventually made it a part of my regular diet.

The inclusion of a tablespoon of honey came from the voice of my childhood, Julie Andrews. Life sometimes can create a sour taste in your mouth so the silly girl in me thought “if I have a spoon full of sugar every morning, it will make my day just a little sweeter.” I tried the sugar and it was way too much. I didn’t like it, so honey came to mind. After a practice run I decided that a tablespoon of honey was much better than a teaspoon of sugar.  Even though the honey was much sweeter, its appeal also had a lot to do with acknowledging the hard work of many, many busy bees. One twelfth of a teaspoon of honey equals the entire life’s work of a single bee.

Everything about honey excites me, its history and cultivation, the distinct smell, varietals, its sticky texture, and those beautiful light and dark shades of glistening gold. For those couple of years, its sweet nectar coated my throat and heart almost every morning, and in my mind it truly brought an extra sense of sweetness to my life. The yogurt ritual continues nightly but the honey has adopted new ways to make its way to my stomach. Nowadays when I’m cooking, I use honey more often as a substitute for sugar, and sometimes when I need a substitute for honey I use Agave Syrup.

Since the blog is called Honey, I felt a little pressured to have to drum up some spectacular Honey recipe for you. Instead, I decided to use honey in the simplest form by pairing it with cheese. I’m always being asked by friends “so what do you think I should serve with this and that?” Food pairing is such an imperative part of what I do daily that I have become a sponge, learning all that I can about flavor profiles. I’m lucky that I lived in the Bay Area and had easy access to wander between Napa and Sonoma and soak in all the fresh produce, wine and cheese that I could.

This non -recipe is a simple cheese plate that’s a great starter for a dinner party or just an excuse to taste the wonderful things that happen in your mouth when cheese, wine and honey come together. I chose a few cheeses that lean on the French side, my favorite, Goat cheese being among them. Just a drizzle of honey on top, paired with a chilled glass of wine smoothly brings out the flavor of each of these fromages. Both red and white wines are easily paired with cheese but when adding honey to the mix, white somehow works better. Chardonnay, Chenin, Pinot and Sauvignon Blanc and Viognier are what I usually like to pair with cheese and honey. You can also include reds like Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir and Zinfandel.  There are no finite rules when it comes to pairing, for me it is all about the chemistry. I also love pairing honey and cheese with a good Belgian Ale, the ale acts as a great medium for honey.

The power of Honey has been immortalized by history, mythology and human consumption. The famous Armenian writer Hovhannes Tumanyan wrote the story “A Drop of Honey,” as a reaction to the troubling issues of the 20^th Century. The fable is based on an Armenian tale from the Middle Ages about how one spilled drop of honey caused bloodshed between two people who lived in neighboring villages, and then between those two villages, and then between states. I remember reading that story as a child and learning that life can become very complicated even by the smallest of things. I’m happy to say though, as an adult, honey has become a reminder and an inspiration for the simple and sweeter things that life has to offer.

Cheese

Blue (Stilton or Castello)                             Goat (Humbolt Fog, herbed)

Brie                                                                  Gruyere

Camembert                                                    Parmegiano- Reggiano

Comte

I buy most of my cheeses from Nicole’s Gourmet in South Pasadena. She has an incredible array of amazing cheeses and products. If you live in L.A. head over to Nicole’s, she’s very sweet and informative. Serve the cheeses with Black Mission figs (if they out of season, Trader Joe’s carries dry figs), a French baguette or crackers, honey and your favorite wine. It’s an exercise in simplicity that is a weekly ritual I gladly partake in and as the Armenian fable goes, a little drop of honey goes a long way.

What I love most about her is her diversity and ability to go into any situation and truly bring the best out of herself, but most importantly, Fung knows better than anyone how to be a team player. Most of the time she’s been cast in the supporting role rather than the lead. It’s her adaptability and lack of being an attention whore that makes her so balanced, her talent speaks for itself, it is not forced.

The truth is Fung has a lot to of offer, and I’ve come across many people in my life who don’t like her, I always give them the side eye when they talk about how much they hate her earthiness. What they fail to realize is that the earthiness she so strongly encompasses is exactly why I can’t stay away from her. The only downside to it is that she does tend to get a little dirty, and due to her dainty nature she often has to be delicately brushed. So whenever she comes over we always hang out in the kitchen and I take my wooden brush and gently brush the dirt off her shoulders and then she’s ready to shine.

Fung and I have played around a lot throughout the years, she’s become somewhat of a muse; the narcissist in me believes she’s been put on this earth solely for my pleasure.  It is for this reason that I decided to dedicate this story to my love for Fung, and how much I appreciate our years of adventure, experiments and absolute harmony. According to hieroglyphics, the Egyptians use to see her as a symbol of immortality; the Pharaohs were so fascinated by her that no commoner was allowed to mingle with her. She’s so special that her mere presence is vital to the rehabilitation of forests, even though she could be very toxic at times.

Ok, so by now you can see my slight obsession with mushrooms has gotten to the point where I’m humanizing a fungus and pretending like she’s my friend, but I just can’t help it. Every time I eat mushrooms I feel like I’m eating the earth and getting one step closer to nature. One type in particular, Truffles, are inexplicably my favorite fungi put on this earth. If I were given one last meal it would be a big plate of fatty bone marrow with white and black truffles shaved on top. Affording them is another story, so as an alternative I always keep a stash of really good white truffle oil in the kitchen. I find different excuses for putting it on top of everything from grilled cheese sandwiches, soups, popcorn and especially eggs, Truffles and eggs have an incredible marriage of flavors.

This Mushroom Ménage à trois consists of  three recipes that allow Fung to shine. All three help bring her flavor out as much as possible.  The first one is a Truffled Wild Mushroom  Cream soup followed by the Goat Cheese, Phyllo, Mushroom Cups and lastly the Pomegranate Shitake Mushrooms. I hope that I do her justice with these recipes, I felt compelled to pay homage to her and give her back some of that love she’s bestowed upon me for so long.

Notes: Mushrooms should never be washed because their spongy texture retains water easily and when cooked it greatly affects the texture, so they should be brushed gently with very little water on the brush. I also like my mushrooms al dente like pasta to help avoid a mushy texture, Pomegranate Molasses can be found in most Middle Eastern stores or here.

Wild Mushroom Cream Soup

Yield 4 servings

4 tbsp butter

2 tbsp olive oil

1 large shallot, finely diced

3 small garlic cloves, minced

3 tbsp white wine vinegar

1 ½ – 2  lb. mushrooms such as shitake, cremini, portabella, oyster and white button, cleaned, stems removed and sliced 1/8 inch thick

4 -6 c. low sodium chicken stock

4 fresh sage leaves, 3 whole, 2 chopped

1 tbsp thyme, chopped

1 ½ tsp chives, chopped

1 c. heavy cream

1/3 c. dry vermouth or white wine

2 tbsp cornstarch

2 tbsp cold water

2 tbsp truffle oil

salt and pepper to taste

1. In a medium (3-5 quart) saucepan heat butter and olive oil, add shallots and sauté until opaque, add vinegar and let shallots caramelize for 1 minute and add garlic and sauté for 2 minutes.
2. Add the mushrooms, salt and pepper and sauté for 8-10 minutes, then add chopped sage and thyme.
3. Add vermouth, cook for 1 minute and add chicken stock, cover pot reduce heat to medium and cook for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. (can be made one day ahead)
4. Lower temperature to a simmer and with an immersion blender, blend soup mixture in pulses to completely chop up mushrooms (this will also thicken the soup). (note – if you are using regular blender instead be EXTRA careful! Only add a couple of cups of soup mixture to blender at a time because the high heat of the mixture will form steam and make the blender “explode” with hot soup).
5. Once blended well, add heavy cream and two whole sage leaves, stir to combine well and bring back up to temperature slowly
6. Meanwhile, combine cornstarch and cold water in a small bowl and stir to make a slurry. Add to soup and stir to combine completely add salt and pepper to taste, cook for 5-7 minutes on low and serve immediately.

To serve garnish each soup with chopped chives and add 1 tsp of truffle oil to each serving.

Mushroom and Goat Cheese Phyllo Cups

Yield 6 servings

1 box Phyllo dough

1 Muffin pan

2 lbs mushrooms such as shitake, cremini, portabella, white button, brushed, stems removed chopped to a medium to small dice.

4 tbsp butter

2 tbsp olive oil

2 medium garlic cloves minced

2 ½ tbsp Marscapone cheese (chilled)

2 ½ tbsp Goat cheese (chilled)

1 ½  tbsp fresh thyme, chopped or whole leaves

1 ½ tbsp parsley chopped

Filo:

Preheat oven to 420 degrees.

1. Thaw Phyllo dough for 45 minutes to an hour, roll out slowly making sure not to break the sheets. Phyllo can dry quickly so cover remaining sheets with a damp towel while cutting strips.

2. Line sheets on a flat surface and taking 5 sheets (stuck) together cut 4 inch wide strips.

3. Depending on the size of your muffin pan, cut strips 4 inches in length, making sheets 4 x 4.

4. Melt 1-2 tbsp butter, lightly brush the insides of muffin pan and place Phyllo sheets in each pan hole gently pressing down and turning you hand counterclockwise at the same time, to shape sheets into each mold.

5. Lightly brush the inside of each Phyllo cup (the butter helps bind the sheets together). Place in the oven on the third rack and bake to a light golden brown for 3-4 minutes, watch carefully as Phyllo tends to burn very quickly. Set aside and cool.

Mushroom Filling:

1. In a medium sauté pan melt 2 tbsp butter and 3 tbsp of olive oil, add mushrooms, season with salt and pepper and cook on medium heat for 3-5 minutes, add garlic and cook for 1 minute.
2. Turn off the heat and allow to cool for 1 minute, add the marscapone and goat cheese, mix until filling becomes creamy.
3. Spoon filling into each Phyllo cup, sprinkle with parsley and thyme and serve.

Pomegranate Shitake Mushrooms

Yield 4 servings

2 lbs Shitake mushrooms, brushed, stems taken off and chopped into 1/3 inch.

2 stalks leek, washed, green stems removed, cut lengthwise and chopped thin.

1 ½ tbsp butter

4 tbsp olive oil

1 tsp brown sugar

2 tsp white wine vinegar

¼ tsp cayenne pepper

2 tbsp Pomegranate molasses

2 tbsp Pomegranate seeds

salt to taste

1. In a medium sauté pan melt ½ tsp butter and 1 tbsp olive oil, add leeks and sauté on medium heat until opaque, add vinegar and cook for 1-2 minutes.
2. Lower heat, add the brown sugar and mix well allowing leeks to caramelize, remove from heat and transfer leeks to a bowl.
3. In the same sauté pan, melt 1 tbsp butter, 3 tbsp of olive oil and sauté mushrooms al dente about 2-4 minutes add salt and cayenne pepper and cook for 1 minute.
4. Add leeks and pomegranate  molasses to the mushrooms and stir well. Garnish with pomegranate seeds and serve.

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