Image: Amy Loeffler

By now you’ve come down from the Valentine’s shakes; caffeine-induced jitters from o.d.ing on the wide array of confections as diverse as  salt caramel and cardamom ginger, and varying degrees thereof depending on the quality of the selection that came boxed in holiday wrapping.*  Whatever flavors remain by Easter are only the weird lonely ones left in the cocoa repository, like that unnatural chartreuse-filled confection that no one ever eats til around March 14th. If it ever gets eaten at all.

Whether or not you dutifully devoured that box of chocolate on February 14th, there’s little time left before the next choco-loaded holiday gorge-fest descends upon us in the form of bunnies and chicks birthed from cocoa pods and chocolate molds; creations cloned to simulacraic perfection down to each fur-inspired groove in every shiny, snappy rabbit ear and artful etching of egg shell. No schmaltzy celebrating of Valentine’s individuality here. Easter chocolate is all about replicating DNA.

I find the the uniformity of Easter chocolate pleasing in its abundant familiarity. In fact, human beings are programmed to recognize the familiar. And also the famous. It’s in our genetic construction. The ability to perform facial recognition was an evolutionary necessity in forming relationships and memories. Now instead of using recognition skills for grand things like fleeing flesh-eating mammals, we use them to network at cocktail parties.  But what evolution made as a survival mechanism, post-modernism has fashioned into a ridiculous obsession with celebrity.

Image: HH Gregg

I personally am reminded of our propensity to fete the famous constantly. And I owe my almost-famous experience to the starlet Sandra Bullock. Why? Because I am without fail accosted by strangers, co-workers, acquaintances and well-wishers alike who are compelled to tell me that I resemble the Academy Award-winning actress at every turn.

I wish I actually DID possess some of the DNA of the petite, almond-eyed and dark chocolate-tressed actress. But I don’t. So, it’s bittersweet to have strangers compliment you on looking like someone else.  It’s at once an affirmation of some sort of superficial aesthetic to which I secretly aspire, and also a denial of oneself.  I don’t look like Sandra Bullock at all in my opinion. We have similar almond-shaped eyes, but mine are more like a rich suede, caramel brown and hers are mocha java. Don’t misunderstand. I don’t think I’m unattractive, but Sandy (that’s what her friends call her) is an exquisite rendering of the human form with a meticulously chiseled  T-zone, punctuated by the most perfectly button-shaped nose thanks to genetics. It’s as if God made that nose out of play-doh and slow-cooked kilned it himself over several days to get the right shape and symmetry. Just like a chocolate Easter bunny’s meticulously made ears.

My doppelganger, Sandra Bullock Image: Celebslife.net

Though, I’m not gonna lie. I have actually fantasized during spells of under/unemployment about sending my head shot to the former Mrs. Jesse James’ agent at United Artists with a friendly, hand-scribbled note saying,  “If you need someone to play Sandy’s sister/cousin, I could be the Stephen to her Alec Baldwin.”

Me, the author. Image: Amy Loeffler

Some time ago I conceded that these unending compliments/remarks from strangers (mostly) come from a place of genuine good-heartedness, but after the millionth time a passerby in the mall has sped-walked by and forced eye-lock with me to say, “Hey, you know who you look like?” it really didn’t feel like a nicety. I began to feel like the Sandra Bullock comments were a real intrusion. Kinda late for real life stuff and I don’t need the equivalent of a face-to-face sales call taking up precious miliseconds. Do you really need to take the time to tell me this, Mr. Random Mall Shopper?

Video:Youtube

I imagine the internal chemical reaction that occurs when a stranger sees me (or anyone else who has a famous person doppelganger); the recognition response stimulating the brain to release endorphins that in turn cause the affected person to become possessed and speak as if my eternal salvation depends on me knowing that I resemble a famous actress.

I know this complaining might sound like unfeeling bitchiness. Who cares if someone wants to say something nice to you, right? And it’s not like I can’t relate to the rush of endorphins that a brush with fame can spark. I was reduced to becoming a stammering thirteen-year-old girl myself when I was an intern at Northern Virginia Magazine and had the opportunity to interview real culinary rock stars. It happened during an interview with cookbook author Lucinda Scala Quinn. I spoke to LSQ about her tome, Mad Hungry: Feeding Men and Boys, but it wasn’t the interview itself I remember so much as the little piece of conversation that happened before the interview.

AL: Hi, I’m calling for my interview with Lucinda?

LSQ: “Oh, hi, yes. Can I call you back in five minutes? Martha’s on the other line.”

Martha?! As in Martha Stewart?! THE Martha Stewart? I thought she only existed in dreams on highly sought after real estate, like a puff of cumulus clouds above the the long stretch of 5th Avenue that borders Central Park. Or on a sprawling estate in Connecticut with the Madonna privacy package of blast walls on the grounds to obscure the view from passersby. In any case, far away from mere mortals.

I imagined LSQ in her bustling office in Manhattan on W. 26th Street, silently mouthing the need for an errand to be run to an editorial assistant while she was on the phone with me, and gesturing to editorial assistant #2 about photos for a looming deadline.

I was just a telephone line, and a one-degree of separation from the Queen of Domesticity herself. Or so it seemed.

LSQ was gracious and thoughtful, and I actually ended up buying her book for my nephew, who was a one-time aspiring chef. But what I stuck with me afterwards was, what was this affliction people have for seeking out fame in any incarnation? And by people, I meant me too.

So, I’ll continue to be polite when acquaintances I’ve just barely met after 2.5 seconds or the cashier at Target starts to say, “Hey, you know who you look like?” because I know what’s coming.  It’s flattering. But, God, is this what it’s like to be famous? Unless cookie dough becomes legal tender, I would much rather be wealthy.

Image: Amy Loeffler

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As a tribute to my sometimes doppelganger, Sandy Bullock, here is a palate cleanser between cocoa-centric holidays. This crumbly shortbread cookie recipe for Pecan “Sandies” exhibits burnt-caramel notes and is a nice segue between the Valentine holiday and the impending assault of sweets that Peter Cottontail is sure to unleash on us in April (See Martha Stewart’s recipe below, with one addition from me.)

Cook’s Note

For best results, line cookie sheets with parchment prior to baking.

*(Side note on chocolate: Hopefully your S.O./husband/wife/paramour was thoughtful enough to purchase REAL chocolate for you that did not come pre-packaged in a red cellophane-wrapped heart-shaped box. Especially on a day devoted to amor, no one should mess around with Hershey’s. Go for the good stuff. And by “good stuff” I’m talking at least 72% cocoa liquor; single-origin Venezuelan; no less than $7 per bar, baby.  Anything other than high-quality cocoa is not going to hold up to the antics of the boudoir on el Dia de San Valentin, or any other day, like say, your anniversary. ‘Cause when you’re exchanging spittle at lightning speed, the cheap stuff does not hold up; too waxy and saccharine for all that body heat.)

**The chocolate is my addition. In case you fear slipping into chocolate withdrawal before Easter.

Image: Lindsay Nixon/BenBella Books

I’ve been wrestling a lot with career path decisions lately, so when I finally caught up with cookbook author and deliberate life-liver, Lindsay Nixon (aka the Happy Herbivore), I found her recipes, and unapologetic nonconformity, intriguing.

She speaks as matter-of-factly on her blog about the importance of nurturing the most minuscule, seedling-sized dream on the path to acheiving self-fulfillment as she does about her job as a vegan chef.

But sometimes overcoming the barriers to a plant-based, meatless meal are as elusive as the search for eternal happiness itself. For example, just for kicks, let’s see a show of hands. How many carnivores out there find themselves uninspired and reticent to set foot in the kitchen even after they’ve committed to dipping their toes in the vegan pool to tackle a recipe? Funny how little things pop up on the “to-do” list like eight loads of laundry when “make banana flower skillet” is tops. Do we even know what banana flowers are supposed to taste like?
Somehow cooking becomes more of an obligation instead of an escape when the familiarity is gone.  Given the ambiguity would-be vegan chefs face in the kitchen, it’s not shocking that the ability to cook hearty, and throaty “mmm”-inducing dishes that ignite your pleasure centers like a vintage Lite-Brite board seems out of reach for the uninitiated, vegan or not.

According to Nixon, however, cooking vegan meals can be a simple, and, yes, pleasurable, affair.

Said Nixon via email,”I find most vegan cookbooks call for weird, obscure ingredients and involve complex methods that take hours to prepare. I think meat-eaters, and even vegheads, can be easily put off by that.”

Lindsay Nixon, aka The Happy Herbivore. Image: Lindsay Nixon/BenBella Books

Plant-based eating does not have to be a vision quest for esoteric ingredients or a frustrating exercise in preparing enigmatic proteins that attempt to stand in for meat in stilted ways. (I recall some tofu tacos I whipped up in high school that looked like they could have been the main course from a low-end Mexican take-out restaurant. If that restaurant were on Mars.  And that restaurant served space colonists. Space colonists who thought an anemic plate of pasty, white mush covered in a mysterious sauce the color of the burnt orange Martian landscape looked satisfying after that interminable light-speed journey from Earth.)

Nixon’s first cookbook, The Happy Herbivore, is in fact less like a “vegan” cookbook, and more like a tome for everyday cooking that just happens to be populated with plant-based recipes. And whether you’re a militant herbivore, or a just trying on vegetarianism for size at snack time, this book is a handy reference guide for go-to entrees, side dishes, and desserts.

“The Happy Herbivore Cookbook, tells the story of my life through recipes and food. The food of my family’s roots, my husband’s, the places I’ve been, it all comes alive in my recipes,” said Nixon. (No doubt Nixon’s cornbread recipe (below) is a product of serious time spent below the Mason-Dixon Line).

Thanksgiving is just around the corner and certainly a spigot of traditional holiday recipes will gush forth in print and on the Web to reach riot control force in the next week (I actually just received the Thanksgiving issue of Bon Appetit). Even just a few vegan side dishes are a no-fuss and de riguer way to make up for the cutesy blob of can-shaped cranberry sauce that might be present at your table (we know, it’s purely for nostalgia’s sake, right?). Also, take a gander at Lindsay’s pumpkin and sage pasta dish that was recently featured in the New York Times, or spare the bird and ponder an entire vegan Thanksgiving with the HH’s recommendations.

Even better, whip up a batch of cornbread and red lentil dal right now while you ponder living a life fulfilled (recipes below).

Go on now, time’s a wasting. Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think. (Seriously, self-actualization aside, it is almost lunchtime).

Cornbread (serves 6) - This is my favorite cornbread recipe. It’s quick and simple — the kind of recipe you can whip up at any time because you always have the ingredients on hand.-L. Nixon

1 c cornmeal
1 c whole wheat pastry flour
1 tbsp baking powder
1/2 tsp fine salt
1 cup non-dairy milk (such as fat-free soymilk)
1/4 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 cup pure maple syrup
2 tbsp raw sugar (optional)

Preheat oven to 400F. Whisk cornmeal, flour, baking powder and salt together in a large bowl. Add non-dairy milk, applesauce, maple syrup and sugar, if using, on top. Using a spatula, stir until just combined. Pour batter into a nonstick shallow 9″ pie dish, or other oven-safe dish. Bake for approximately 20 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Red Lentil Dal (serves 4) - Dals are essentially thick stews made with lentils and traditional Indian spices. This dal is easy, delicious and cheap. Make it once and it will never leave your regular rotation, I promise.-L. Nixon

1 small onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp paprika
1 tbsp ground ginger
1/2 c dried red lentils
2 c vegetable broth
1 tomato, chopped (save juices)
3 ounces tomato paste (5 tbsp)
1 tbsp ground coriander
2 tsp garam masala
salt, pepper, cayenne to taste

Line a medium pot with 1/4 cup of water and cook onions and garlic until translucent. Add turmeric, cumin, paprika, and ginger, and cook for another for another 2 minutes, adding water if necessary to prevent sticking and burning. Add lentils, broth, tomato, tomato paste, and coriander, stirring to combine. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and simmer for 15 minutes or until lentils are cooked and orange-ish. Add garam masala, stirring to combine, and let rest for 5 minutes. Add salt, pepper and cayenne to taste.

Note: if tomatoes are out of season, use 1/4 cup tomato sauce or two peeled canned tomatoes.

Houston, we have basil! Image: Amy Loeffler

There’s nothing like a global warming-induced extreme weather event such as the torrential downpour we had last night in the nation’s capital to mark the end of a season (or the world for that matter).

Despite the hellish commuting, I am actually glad that I live in the metropolitan-D.C. area. Sure, it’s questionable what they call “air” here in the summer time; it’s difficult to breathe D.C. air without donning a reverse still suit of the kind popularized in “Dune” and they might wear on Arrakis, but growing up and living in a gentrified swamp has been excellent training for handling the vagaries of an impending post-global warming meltdown. I for one am prepared for seismic events like hitting the sales at Nordstrom by traversing 3-95 to Pentagon City from Del Ray in a motorboat when either  1) torrential rains cause apocalyptic flooding and/or 2) the glaciers have all melted.

But I digress.

Seriously, it is in fact noticeably cooler today, and summer is about to be engulfed by frosty fall nights, which means bidding adieu to a few of my favorite summer things, basil and peaches.

I thought I would honor the end of summer with a simple little tip of the hat to basil in a recipe that uses up the remnants of this backyard herb in a walnut pesto mixture. Let me be clear. I am not a recipe writer, but pesto is about as easy to make as boiling water, so here goes. (I dare say recipes are for people who don’t really know how to cook. Ha! just kidding, all my recipe writer friends!).

For the record, I am not such an accomplished cook that I don’t need recipes, and in anticipation of what I am about to say next, please fasten yourselves to something fixed like a concrete light pole because the Earth may stop spinning, and it’s possible you will be flung across the room.  Yes, (gasp) it’s true, recipes are not “the gospel.”  Good recipes are guides, and good cooks know how to navigate them much like combining Rachel Ray’s “just eyeball it” attitude and the intellectual creativity of Michael Ruhlman’s Ratio concept. So, yes, even though Anthony Bourdain is in an exotic locale chomping on the innards of an endangered species right now and would hurl at the thought of Rach and Ruhlie being mentioned in the same sentence,  I will go so far as to invoke them together to demonstrate that really great cooks possess and need both of these abilities to intuit recipes. This recipe is simple enough that you can play with at as you like thus feeding your inner Rach or your inner Ruhlie.

End-of-the-World Walnut-Basil Pesto

• 1 cup basil leaves from the backyard (washed)
• 2 large cloves of garlic
• 1/2 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano
• 1/3 walnuts
• 1/2 cup olive oil
• salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

1) Place basil and walnuts together in a food processor. Pulse together ingredients in a few short bursts.

2) Add the garlic and pulse a few more times. Slowly add the olive oil in a continuous stream into the food processor until the mixture starts to congeal and looks less chunky.  Add grated cheese and pulse until just mixed. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Voila! This makes enough pesto for about two people. Approximately. As Rach would say, just eyeball it.

Now about those peaches. Canning is a great way to preserve the succulent flesh of a perfectly ripe peach.

And I can’t think of any instance more deserving of the term comfort food than stooping over a nice jar of peach preserves in a post-nuclear winter bunker in a pair of Seven jeans. Mmmm…that’ll bring back the memories of some damn good summers.

Video: Youtube

Make dinner a little more elegant with a beet salad. Image: Amy Loeffler

Snowpocalypse has recently generated a lot of watching of José Andrés’ tapas-touting Made in Spain on WETA in our house, and consequently I was inspired to make my own crazy-simple salad out of beets and bleu cheese.

Recipe

Four beets (boiled in water for about an hour until tender)

1/3 lb. of bleu cheese

splash of Olive oil

Thinly slice beets crosswise so as to make them stackable. Sprinkle beets with bleu cheese, and a couple of dashes of olive oil.

–Amy

Caipirinha cupcakes so yummy you'll want to samba!

I actually made these cupcakes LAST Monday and wanted to post this a week ago. I thought I had lost my editorial opportunity to celebrate balmy breezes but Mother Nature has given me another reason to post this recipe since the weather is going to be so freaking awesome AGAIN all week. (Also I just realized my last post was yet another missive about querido Brasil). Yes, I will go ahead and say it: It’s so temperate you may actually feel like you’re wintering in Rio de Janeiro. I can hear them sambaing outside my window now.

For the uninitiated caipirinhas are basically the national liquor drink of Brazil and are made with cachaça, a liquor  distilled from sugar cane. I’m not quite sure why, but in the United States it is categorized as Brazilian Rum, which is a misnomer because rum is actually made from molasses. (Apparently in the states anything made from sugar cane is classified as rum). I am  chalking this up to the same reason that in American we pronounce foreign words however the hell we want. Seriously it’s pretty obvious that Bret Favre’s name is not pronounced /farve/ people. There’s NO ‘r’ where you’re putting an ‘r.’

Back to the cupcakes. In general the recipe worked well, and tasted limey, but not very much of liquor. I am wondering if someone can help me out with this. I used Leblon cachaça (I would probably go with a cheaper brand next time since I was not drinking it) and perhaps it was too refined.

So here is the recipe I adapted from other tinkering:

For the batter:

• 2 sticks (12 ounces) butter, softened
• 2 cups granulated sugar
• 4 large eggs, at room temperature, plus 1 large egg white
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 2 3/4 cups flour
• 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• Wet Ingredients (prep these before you start mixing the dry ingredients )




• 3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons whole milk
• Grated peel of 4 limes, plus 1/4 cup lime juice
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• For the icing
• 1 stick butter

• 2 1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla
• 2 tablespoons cachaça to start.
• I kind of fiddled with the icing ’cause liquor can be really tricky to work with. I would start with two tablespoons and see what happens from there.
• Remaining lime zest

Image: Cocktailatlas.com