Be it ever so humble...

Life in Chicago has been rather exciting. So far I've successfully navigated an Irish couple to the Sears Tower, caught up on the latest issues of CS, visited a green river and had Guinness poured in my eye on Saint Patrick's Day, not to mention I've eaten WAY too many Fox and Obel cupcakes. All and all it's been a delightful move, if a little harried.

I might still be living out of a suitcase, but that hasn’t stopped me from fantasizing about my yet to be found new apartment. After flipping through the latest issue of Domino, I can’t wait to decorate! I’m curious about grey painted walls (are they everywhere now?) and am ready to embrace pattern and reupholster vintage furniture. So before I go all Kelly Wearstler on you, are there any great Chicago home stores that I need to check out?

I know normally I come here with recommendations, but today I figure I'll shake things up a bit. If you know of anything fabulous and preferably fabu-less (remember I'm a writer) please let me know.

If I were your significant other, there would have been fights, wine induced phone calls and screaming matches by now. I bypassed them all and went straight to silence. I am sorry. I've been absent. I've been neglectful. But in my defense, I do have exciting news. In my long time away from biscottiandblahniks, I've been out of the country, accepted a new job, officially moved across state lines, and have been dealing with an extremely temperamental internet connection. Ok, so that last one isn't exactly exciting, but it seemed a key factor in my lack of posting. With that, I'm sorry. Let's get back on track.

On the Radar

What I'm reading this February...

Book
Around this time of the year, it’s easy to suffer from sugar shock. Chocolate in heart shaped boxes crowd window displays, Hallmark cards beckon, and Meg Ryan’s greatest hits seem to take over my television. I’m not saying down with romance; in fact, I love romance, I just tend to like mine with a grain of salt. Hear me out. Salt, in food terms, serves to intensify flavors. It brings out all the nuances and makes you appreciate the food more. Ok before this thought gets out from under me, I’d like to address a collection of love stories written for those who like their romance with a little salt. My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead: Great Love Stories, from Chekov to Munro is a collection of 27 short stories edited by Jeffrey Eugenides. I think it can best be described in the editor’s own words:

When it comes to love, there are a million theories to explain it. But when it comes to love stories, things are simpler. A love story can never be about full possession. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births, feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name… It is perhaps only in reading a love story (or in writing one) that we can simultaneously partake of the ecstasy and agony of being in love without paying a crippling emotion price.

Included in this anthology are works by Joyce, Faulkner, Kundera, Chekhov and many others. It is the literary equivalent of dark chocolate or straight espresso—bittersweet and satisfyingly good. But for those that like their romance sweet and their chocolate sweeter, you can feel good about purchasing this collection because all proceeds go directly to fund nationwide free youth writing programs offered by 826 Chicago.

A Mascara Snob No More

I admit it. I've been a snob. From the moment I tried my first Clinique mascara in high school there was no turning back. It's only been onward and upward since then. YSL, Lancôme, Chanel, I have been content to spend $26.50 on mascara. So when Cover Girl's Lash Blast mascara appeared on the market I was skeptical. How could this mascara possibly compare to my current Chanel Inimitable obsession? Determined to break through all the hype and forge my own conclusion, I ventured into my local Walgreens and came out brandishing a bright orange tube of mascara. Every day for the past month or so, I pull out the pleasantly plump wand and coat my lashes in Very Black. The formula is light and never clumpy or flaky and the secret, I believe, is in the brush. It's many bristles pull my lashes up and out, resulting in both gloriously full lashes and a change of heart. I have finally seen the light and it's plump and orange and available at the drugstore.

"I'm in love! I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!"

I apologize for quoting Elf, but it was the first phrase that popped into my head after seeing Marion Cotillard at the SAG Awards. I love how understated and elegant her dress is and how she exudes European charm while shying away from typical American excess. The color is unique and the fit is incredible. If La Vie En Rose made me want to run off to Paris and sing in the streets, then Marion Cotillard's Nina Ricci dress makes me want to swirl down a red carpet.

Bad gnocchi is like (fill in the blank)

According to my boyfriend, bad gnocchi is like Play Doh at the bottom of a pool. I don't even know what that means, but it certainly sounds disgusting, slippery and heavy. And yet it is an apt description of the gnocchi I had the other night at a restaurant that shall remain nameless. Venturing off the regular menu, I took a chance and ordered the special; never before have I been so deceived by a chalkboard! Expecting a pillowy plate of potato dumplings in a light sauce of wine and mushrooms, I was presented with a plate drenched in chunky tomato sauce. Ignoring my initial reaction, I thought perhaps this was one of those dishes that made up in flavor what it lacked in looks. Sigh. Sadly the presentation spoke volumes about the dish. The gnocchi themselves were large and perfectly formed, yet glutinous and chewy on the tongue. The sauce was way too heavy and seemed to be the kitchen's admonition, "Yes this dish sucks, but we hope you won't be able to tell." Adding to the general heaviness, was a large portobello cap placed lackadaisically on top of the meal.

One bite of this sad large gnocchi had me instantly wishing for a certain Italian kitchen and a bowl of its chef's pillowy soft gnocchi. Claudio's gnocchi was the stuff of dreams; supple potato-ey and tiny. He wasn't focused on size or aesthetics so much as taste. There would be no drowning of his dumplings in red sauce, no sirree. Melting a stick of butter infused with sage, Claudio served up a delicious and delicate sauce. After coating the gnocchi in the sage butter, the Italian chef then added a generous helping of Parmesan and announced with childlike wonder, "No cream!" Smiling, Claudio handed out the finished gnocchi to his eager pupils. It was easily dispatched.

Back in the States, staring at the offensive red gnocchi plate, I longed for Claudio and his potato dumplings. Then and there I decided if revenge is a dish best served cold, well then gnocchi is a dish best served with butter. And serve it I shall in all its buttery sage glory.

gnocchi with butter sage sauce
Adapted from Claudio's Figline Valdarno Kitchen

Boil 9 small potatoes in their skins for 45 minutes or until soft. (You can use golden or white but do not mix; white takes longer to cook.) Peel off skins and place potatoes in bowl. Mash with fork until smooth. Add 150 grams (3/4 cup) flour, 2 egg yolks and a pinch of salt. Incorporate with fork. Continue to mix dough by hand. Flour a hard surface as well as your hands. Roll dough into log & chop into gnocchi. Boil in salted water for 30 seconds. Remove and place on oiled surface.

Butter-Sage Sauce
Add ½ stick butter, ½ c. water and a few sage leaves to pot. Add gnocchi and cook until butter melts. Boil down until creamy and add a big helping of Parmesan cheese at the end.

An Ode to Roommates and House Dinner

Walking up the creaking front steps of 719 Arbor, it was a certainty I would run into a roommate the moment I turned the handle. My senior year of college, I had the great fortune to live with some of the most wonderful girls I've ever met. Edie was elusive, funny, and could usually be found listening to rap. Watching her drunkenly drag a desk chair up three flights of stairs after a late night at the bar remains one of the most entertaining visuals of the year. Sahar, a slave to the architecture building, had impeccable taste in literature and could, on rare occasions, be found counteracting said architecture serfdom by having a glass of wine around 1pm. Molly had a penchant for Entourage and ketchup. Nothing was better than a dose of her no-nonsense sweetness while curled up on her ridiculously soft jersey sheets. I got to relive my adolescence with Megha over a bottle of Little Penguin Chardonnay and a hookah she brought back from India. Together we managed to lock ourselves out of the house while making prank calls on the second floor balcony. Samantha was always up for a good time, not to mention the "Hungry Man" breakfast and a chocolate milkshake. We'd share hot chocolate and gossip about our good friend H. Pot and the "will they or won't they" Ron and Hermione love triangle. Renee, the constant roommate, was the "soaring eagle" to my "sitting duck" of grill stealing, and the Jasmine to my Aladdin. There was always a jean to be borrowed, a jazzercise move to be invented, and a "you thinking what I'm thinking?" late night back rub to be carried out.

Seven girls under one roof could at times be trying, but for the most part, there was always someone to critique an outfit, edit a paper, lend a straightener, or share a glass of wine and a cry with. Friday nights were spent at Ann Arbor bars and Saturday mornings at Benny's brunches. But perhaps one of my favorite things about my roommates was the fact that they indulged my "house mother" cooking tendencies. On many a Sunday I could be found cooking feverishly while singing along to musicals; basically it was the Ashley variety hour with a side of Mediterranean chicken. If anyone ever grudged me an Avenue Q sing-along or had a problem with Jane Monheit, it was forgotten the moment the wine corks were removed and steaming plates brought to the table.

Sadly senior year is long gone and the girls are spread between coasts. Trying now to coordinate a "House Dinner" is not as simple as juggling class schedules and social commitments. So with a hint of nostalgia, I've tried to assemble the centerfolds of the perfect dinner, the dinner I would make in honor of the lovely ladies of 719.

zesty braised chicken with lemon and capers
Adapted from Food and Wine, April 2007

8 bone-in mixed chicken breasts and thighs with skin (6 oz each)
Salt and freshly ground pepper
All-purpose flour, for dusting
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
4 large peeled garlic cloves (I usually add closer to 7)
1 1/2 cups Sauvignon Blanc (also delicious with a Bouzeron)
1 1/2 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade
Four 1-inch strips of lemon zest
4 thyme sprigs
1 tablespoon capers, drained
1 bay leaf

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Season the chicken with salt and pepper and dust with flour. In a large ovenproof skillet, melt the butter in the oil. Add the chicken, skin side down, and cook over high heat, turning once, until browned, 12-14 minutes. Transfer the chicken to a large plate and pour off all but 1 tablespoon of the fat.
2. Add the garlic to the skillet and cook over low heat until softened, about 5 minutes. Deglaze with the wine and then add the stock, lemon zest, thyme, capers and bay leaf and bring to a boil. Return the chicken to the pan, skin side up. Transfer the skillet to the oven and braise for about 45 minutes, until the meat is tender.
3. Return the skillet to the stove and boil until the sauce is slightly reduced, about 5 minutes. Discard the thyme, bay leaf and lemon zest, if desired, before serving.

old fashioned apple pie
Adapted from Williams-Sonoma Seasonal Celebration Series, Autumn, by Joanne Weir (Time-Life Books, 1997).

For the pastry:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
2 Tbs. sugar
10 Tbs. (1 1/4 sticks) cold unsalted butter,
cut into pieces
10 Tbs. cold vegetable shortening, cut into
pieces
7 Tbs. ice water
1 tsp. distilled white vinegar

For the filling:
2 1/2 lb. baking apples, peeled, cored,
quartered and cut lengthwise into slices 1/2
inch thick (I like to mix Northern Spy, Granny Smith and Jonagold apples)
1/2 cup sugar, plus more as needed ( I also mixed white sugar with light brown sugar)
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
2 Tbs. apple cider (my addition)
2 Tbs. unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 egg yolk
1 Tbs. heavy cream

To make the pastry, in a large bowl, stir together the flour, salt and sugar. Make a well in the center, add the butter and shortening and, using your fingertips, rub them into the flour mixture until small, flat pieces form. In a cup or small bowl, combine the water and vinegar. Using a fork, gently mix just enough of the liquid into the flour mixture so it comes together in a rough ball; do not overwork. Discard the remaining liquid. Divide the dough in half and wrap each half in plastic wrap. Refrigerate for 2 hours.

To make the filling, in a bowl, toss together the apples, the 1/2 cup sugar (adding more to taste if the apples are tart), cinnamon, nutmeg and apple cider.

Preheat an oven to 400°F.

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out half of the dough (leave the other half refrigerated) into a 12-inch round about 1/8 inch thick. Fold the dough in half and then into quarters and transfer it to a 9-inch pie dish. Unfold and gently press into the bottom and sides of the dish. Trim the edges even with the rim. Roll out the remaining dough into a 10-inch round about 1/8 inch thick.

Turn the apples into the pastry-lined pan, mounding them slightly in the center. Dot evenly with the butter. Brush the edges of the dough with water. Fold the dough round into quarters and unfold over the apples. Press together the top and bottom crusts to seal, then trim the edges flush with the rim of the dish and crimp to form an attractive edge. In a small bowl, beat together the egg yolk and cream and brush over the pastry. Make a few slits near the center to allow steam to escape.

Bake for 25 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 350°F and continue to bake until the apples are tender (insert a knife blade through a slit) and the top is golden brown, 15 to 20 minutes more. Transfer the dish to a wire rack and let the pie cool for at least 20 minutes before serving with good vanilla bean ice cream. Makes one 9-inch pie; serves 8.

Lost in the Luberon

On our trip to France, my boyfriend and I spent a fair amount of time exploring Provence. We discovered a fantastic cheese shop in Arles, as well as a great restaurant entitled Le Cilantro, drank a lot of wine, and realized that despite name recognition, Orange is a town best skipped. But perhaps our most interesting story involves the day we decided to let Peter Mayle dictate our activities. What can I say? We didn't have a year, but the Luberon sounded like a great area to explore.

We decided to venture to Bonnieux, the capital of the Luberon, and so on what would turn out to be a very warm day, we boarded a train from Arles to Avignon. Once in Avignon, we learned that we could take a bus to Bonnieux. After waiting forty-five minutes in a dirty bus station more reminiscent of New York than Provence, we boarded the bus that would eventually take us to our destination. We passed through beautiful countryside and one town that was having a lovely Sunday market, but as we continued on, town activity seemed to stall. We'd drop a passenger off into a quiet town and move on. When the bus driver announced Bonnieux and we were the only ones exiting, I should have realized what was in store. Sadly there was no Sunday market awaiting us, only a desolate little covered bench on the side of a French highway, no town in sight.

Scanning our surroundings, we decided the actual town couldn't be too far, so we did the only thing we could- we started walking. The first few minutes were fine; cars seemed to be heading in the same direction and things hadn't yet turned uphill. However, after walking five kilometers on the side of an empty road in blaring sunlight with no town in sight, things had started to look bleak… until we saw a sign for Bonnieux! Although when it informed us that the actual town was still eight kilometers away, things weren't exactly looking up. We mustered our tourist’s enthusiasm and the promise of a good meal, and continued walking. While trudging along, I focused on the delightfully satisfying crunch I made as I walked through the roadside white flowers. Well that is, it was satisfying until I realized I was crushing thousands of tiny white snails attached to blades of grass. After that, I took to walking in the road with my shirt off, avoiding passing cars while Mark and I discussed how amazing it would be if some French villa/vineyard owner decided to give us his home-- unlikely, I know, but we may have been suffering from heatstroke at that point.

The final uphill push into the town was sweaty and brutal, but led us into a beautiful hill town. Starving, we explored the winding streets looking for a place to eat. A sunny, flowering vine enclosed restaurant patio beckoned us in. Just as I was salivating over the rabbit preparation, a server informed us that if we didn't have a reservation he couldn't accommodate us. Sadly this reaction met us at every other restaurant we tried to wander into. Rejection had forced our hands. If we couldn't eat, well then, damn it we would drink! Just as we were about to purchase a bottle of warm wine, a beam of light must have fallen upon us because we passed an emptier outdoor restaurant. Mark asked if they had an open table and cue the Hallelujah chorus, they did.

Finally seated and enjoying a pitcher of cold white wine and lunch, we took to people watching. There was the child who ordered a plate of snails (only in France) and "le petit gourmand," the little dog that would beg for food, but refuse to eat anything other than steak (again, only in France). Sated, we ordered another pitcher of wine determined to enjoy the fruits of our walking. However it eventually dawned on us that we had no idea how we were going to get back to our hotel in Arles. Did the bus pick up at the same highway bench it dropped us off? Were there more pickups? Would we be stuck in this town for the night? Conveniently at this time we noticed a couple clutching a Rick Steves book like the bible. They had to be American! We asked to borrow their book and got a little more out of the deal. It turned out the couple was from our college town and had a car. They offered at first to drive us back to the bus stop (?) but then said they could drop us off at the train station in Aix-en-Provence if we didn't mind making a small detour to Buoux. Score.

On the way to our new friends' car, we passed a parade of bikers tossing hard candy into the streets. I was nearly clocked in the eye by a piece of rogue candy and decide candy tossing is better in theory than practice. Yet it was no matter because we had a ride! Distracted by passing vineyards and blue sky, we realized that we'd been driving twenty minutes in the wrong direction. I didn't care because I was full and buzzed and avoiding snail roads; it was all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows to me.

After a mutual group decision, we bypassed Buoux and were dropped off at the Aix train station. There we learned that we had to take a bus to Marseilles and from there we could take a train back to Arles. Sold the tickets at 5:14pm, we walked out to the bus platform only to see a bus pulling away. Cue the dust clouds. Ok, perhaps a little dramatic, but you get the picture. Mark and I looked at each other and then down at our tickets for the 5:15 bus. Luckily the station told us to just jump on the next bus.

We waited an hour for the bus to Marseilles and were greeted by the world's most aggressive bus driver. Thankfully his road rage was not directed at us. Although when he pulled out his finger gun and started shooting at other drivers and yelling at them in French, I didn't know whether to laugh or worry. I was just happy we weren't in Detroit. While slightly erratic, our bus driver did get us to Marseilles safely. From there we stocked up on "Hit mini" cookies and caught the train back to Arles.

Exhausted and trailing crumbs of cookies, we finally made it back to our hotel and the only thing I could manage to do was laugh.