What a Cook Wants, 17

A Serious Pepper Mill for All that Pepper!
I realized today that a million fancy peppercorns are no good without a way to crush them! Though a mortar and pestle are great when I feel angry, most days I'm pretty happy and don't need that outlet. You probably don't either... right, dear reader?
A good mill makes a difference. A few years ago the awesome electric one with a light (for all your midnight peppering needs) my sister Jen gave me finally up and died. I was feeling broke at the time and bought a manual one at Crate & Barrel for around $17. Well, you get what you pay for: my mill blows. The pepper doesn't want to come out no matter how full it is, and I can't adjust the grind so there are enormous chunks of pepper in my scrambled eggs. Gross.
So be smarter than I was, and get this excellent model from our friends at Penzeys. I wish I had one!
$34 for an 8-inch tall peppermill with the crucial adjustable grind from Penzeys. And they send it full of Tellicherry peppercorns. Nice.

Pepper Kapow!

Pepper is not something I grew up thinking about, even though it was the co-starring spice in my mother's cooking (Salt & Pepper, that was it. No wonder The Man is so intent on invading spicier countries). Our pepper appeared in a little round canister, like our Parmesan cheese, and had about as much flavor. As a kid I eschewed it mostly for the color-- it looked like dirt sprinkled on my food, yuck.

Fast-forward a lifetime: I'm at the magazine and in charge of bringing in new products, testing them, and writing up the ones that make our mouths sing. My buddy Janet, a genius in the Test Kitchen, pushes a package of stuff from Nirmala's Kitchen into my hands. Their tagline, Bring Home the Exotic, seemed a little stank to me; I've yet to find a friend who likes to have their food (or self) called exotic.

But then I opened a tin of the whole Tazmanian Pepperberry, and all political thought stopped. The fragrance was from deep in a magical pine forest, spicy without being harsh, with a whisper of dried green bayleaf and a citrusy brightness. For tasting, the Test Kitchen simply cracked them and pressed them into a steak. The result was magnificent: the peppercorns were the color of black velvet and the kicky, floral flavor developed slowly in the mouth, like a good pinot noir.

I was thinking about good gifts for cooks for the coming holidays, and though the price is a bit gasp-worthy at $13 a tin, this one's a winner. Also as a gift for oneself...

Disclaimer: if you go to the Press portion of Nirmala's website, they quote a snippet of my review in Bon Appétit. I'm not a slacker! They're just so excellent I wanted to mention them again.

Tomato Glory

Tonight was wonderful. I swear, I am my own best date. The other day I bought a pound and a half of beautiful organic heirloom tomatoes at Whole Paychec- uh, Foods. They were only 2.99 a pound, a minor miracle right there, and oh the smell. I buy all my tomatoes by scent. Try it next time you're shopping: pick one up, hold it to your nose, and inhale deeply. Sure you look weird, but you'll know immediately whether it's a tomato worth eating. Most grocery store tomatoes smell like nothing, it's like sniffing a photograph. But these heirlooms, oh my Goddess. They smelled flush with tomatoness and green leaves-- I knew they had to be mine.
Tonight I invited several people over, all of whom had plans. I carried on anyway. On my way home I picked up a ball of luscious fresh mozzarella and let the games begin.
I blanched three garlic cloves in the water I boiled for the perciatelli (a thick spaghetti with a skinny hole in the middle), then minced them up. I sliced the tomatoes into chunks: dark purple Brandywines, a heavy golden one running with juices, a small firm Green Zebra, and what I suspect was a Supermarmande because it was bright red, oddly shaped, and tasted more nuanced than most wine.
I plucked some basil from the plant I'm slowly killing (I murder one each summer, it's terrible), slivered it and tossed it in the bowl. I drizzled a fantastic Greek olive oil over all of it, sprinkled on some flakey Welsh seasalt, and cracked some of my floral Tazmanian peppercorns into the mix. Then I cut hunks of the fresh mozzarel (as they call it in my hometown) and stirred them into the tomato madness.
Using tongs, I swirled some hot pasta into a pretty white rimmed soup bowl, and then spooned some tomato-mozzarella mixture over top. I swirled it into the pasta, added a sprinkling of salt and pepper, drizzled a bit more olive oil, and voila!
Tomato Glory.
I lit a candle, opened a bottle of Syrah even though I'd only have a glass or two, turned on some music from Mali (so beautiful, and great with tomatoes), and sat down to the best date I've had in a while.
You've got to try this before the tomatoes are all gone. There's only a week or two left when they'll be good enough for an uncooked sauce... and really, why not have a sexy tomato date with yourself?
Even if you share them.