You're a Wonder...

I've loved Wonder Woman since I was 6-years-old and watched her inspiring tv show. Though today I reluctantly admit she isn't technically real, I still admire what she stands for and her constructive problem solving skills (if only I could find my own golden Lasso of Truth...).

The last year has involved a lot of upheaval and sadness, and I freely admit one of my biggest comforts has come from this:

The script says, "As lovely as Aphrodite, as wise as Athena," an excellent message to see over and over throughout the day. It's ceramic and feels solid in my hand, and it makes others smile.

A few weeks ago I left it on top of my car, drove off, and it shattered when I turned the corner and my cheery yellow mug smashed into the ground. Losing Wonder Woman pushed my last button; I pulled over and had a complete little kid meltdown. I thought, Really, God? You had to take my Wonder Woman mug too? (It's been a tough year.)

Earlier this week I was driving past Warner Bros. studios in Burbank. I thought, Hey, don't they sell Wonder Woman stuff there? I pulled over, parked, walked through the metal detectors and Holy Diana! There it was! $18.61 later, balance is restored and I am on my way once again.

Latté Love

My friend Eve made me this delectable item today:



Her employer, Square One, uses Intelligentsia coffee and does hardcore training for its staff. I overheard some of it; I believe there were advanced calculus problems involved and I realized~ yet again~ many things I love I actually know very little about. *sigh*

I find very very good espresso doesn't give me the jitters. I don't know why; I'm sure there's the same amount of caffeine in a great or terrible shot, but this latté went down smooth and mellowed me the heck out. Maybe it's because you just can't gulp the good stuff. Like a nibble of exquisite cheese or a chunk of serious chocolate, when there's serious umami a little goes a long way.

Pharewell, Philly

I flew back from Philadelphia the other day. I get crazed before I fly; I find it unbelievable that a many-ton metal tube won't fall out of the sky. It's also hard to say good-bye to my family. But amidst my packing chaos, I had the good sense to holler down to my dad and ask him to call Lee's Hoagie House and order an Italian hoagie packed for travel.
This priceless gift (well, $5.95 for a half, which is huge) comes on an Amoroso roll made by Italians in South Philly sometime the night before, then has peppered ham, Genoa salami, Capocollo and another kind of salami, provolone cheese, shredded lettuce and tomato, oregano, and I like it with thinly sliced onion and oil, plus sweet peppers. Simple, right? Kind of in the 'duh' category, yet behold this magnificence:

Why can no one in L.A. come close to this masterpiece?
I ate half on the plane, and then polished off the rest of it last night at a friend's place. The last bit of hoagie or cheesesteak is always bittersweet: I know I'll have to make do with taco stands again, and it means I won't see anyone I'm related to for a while... at this point in my life, that really is a bummer.

What a Cook Wants, 11

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A Platter with a Purpose

I like trees. They're strong and steady and their silence leads me to believe they're kind. This square recycled glass serving plate is graced with two trees and is made by hand in western Pennsylvania. The company that makes them donates 10% of their profits to CASA, Court Appointed Special Advocates of Allegheny County, which is a volunteer organization of folks who advocate within the legal system for kids who've been neglected or abused.
A pretty platter that serves more than food sounds perfect for any season.
Trees Platter from Plates With Purpose, a 14-inch frosted recycled glass square, $72.

What a Cook Wants, 3

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More Exquisite Cheese

There is a lady named Sally Jackson who lives on a 140-acre farm in the Okanogan Highlands, which are in the eastern part of Washington state. She and her husband Roger have been making cheese from the sheep, goats and a Brown Swiss and two Guernsey cows they raise. American artisanal cheese making has exploded in the last decade, and these days it's a bit of a foodie race to find the newest, loveliest specimens.
At the end of an astonishing meal at Providence, I had the pleasure of a slice of Sally Jackson's chestnut leaf-wrapped raw cow's milk cheese. It was semi-soft, the color of Irish butter and complex with a mere hint of funk. I wanted to cry, but I was too happy. You could serve this to most folks, it's not too intense and really pleasing, and totally wow your foodie-est friends.
Sally Jackson Chestnut Leaf Aged Cow Cheese. They don't make it until you order it, heaven.

Real Damn Pizza

Dear reader, I know it's been months. I'm sorry. I moved and got married, lost clients in this recession-- in short, I've been distracted. But last week I spent some time with my uber-achieving friends in Brooklyn, and while I was there I ate real pizza.
I'd forgotten. In L.A., unless you're traipsing through Pizzeria Mozza (heaven in the mouth, but a bit snooty to actually go there), you're eating triangles of doughy, bland crap. Oh sure I've been to Damiano's where it's so dark you can't see your slice but it tastes alright (especially if you've been drinking), but mostly I'd stopped. In the land of fab tacos, why bother seeking puffy pizza?
But my friend Amy took me to Grimaldi's, and this is what we ate:

I forgot that good pizza makes your toes curl. I forgot how nice it was to see hot Italian guys working in an actual Italian restaurant. I forgot that a proper slice makes that crackling sound when you fold it in half.
I'm back, friends. And damn am I hungry.

What a Cook Wants, 7

Serious Salami
This salami makes me want to cry. In a wonderful way~ kind of a watered-down version of how I felt the first time I kissed my husband-to-be. The first taste wiped out all memories of salamis past; in that transcendent moment I was tasting salami for the very first time.
Armandino Batali (yup, Mario's dad) has been turning out the Lord's salami in Seattle for the last 6 years with delightful results. And though perhaps his initial splash was fueled by the name, the success is because of the old world love and luscious umami in each succulent slice.
I love the lardo for its decadence, the smoked paprika for its gentle heat and the mole for its exuberance, but any of them will astonish your palate.
Salumi Artisan Cured Meats, 1 12-inch, 1.25-1.4 lb. gorgeous salami in a variety of styles, $15/lb. They also sell other cured meats.

What a Cook Wants, 5

The Newest Toy for Espresso Fiends
You've heard by now about my little coffee, uh, problem. Not that it's really a problem because I can stop any time. I can... I just don't feel like it right now. Whatevs. You're not my mom. Back off.
*cough* Anyway, you don't have to be espresso-obsessed to enjoy the ingenuity of this electricity-free press. The guy who invented the aerobie frisbee is also a fan of the dark bean, and he designed the acrylic tube system that uses simple physics to brew the espresso in less than a minute, thus avoiding a lot of the harsh tannins and bitterness. And satisfying your serious coffee jones, pronto.
Heck, you could even take it camping.
The Aeropress Coffee & Espresso Maker, $30 and worth every cracked-out nickel.

Beans of Love

Dear reader, I have discovered a true love potion. It was not what I imagined, not at all my vision of oil of rose and powder of dove with a pinch of mystery mixed under the light of the full moon.

Turns out it's Baked Beans.

I know, I felt the same way. If you told me Boston Baked Beans paved the road to true love, I would've refused to date you. But hear me out: on 4th of July, my boyfriend and I went to his mom's house to celebrate the holiday with the fam. My contribution was homemade Boston Baked Beans, prepared in my slowcooker from scratch. It's a dish I feel all native Californians could learn more about; I was doing my part. They were a hit; I made them with turkey bacon because his family is 'healthy'~ they can't help it, they're from here~ and the beans turned out nicely balanced between sweet and savory with a teensy kick from the cider vinegar to keep it interesting.

When the festivities ended, he and I headed to the LBC (Long Beach, that is) to see if we could catch the fireworks down by the water. Snoop Dogg blaring, wheels bouncing, we finally made it off the 710 to discover the cops were blocking all roads into the LBC. I guess the party reached capacity.
"Why don't we drive up the coast and try to find another spot by the water where we can watch fireworks," he suggested. He's not usually a 'let's go to the ocean' kind of guy, but I love to be by the water and it wasn't that late. Why not? As we drove the cars thinned out and the surroundings became increasingly suburban. We ended up somewhere in Palos Verdes, and I thought, 'We're lost. He has no idea where he's going. It's getting late, the fireworks are done for tonight.' I looked at the clock and decided I'd go another ten minutes before saying, 'Baby, I'm tired. Can we go home?'
30 seconds later we pulled off the side of the road onto a bluff overlooking the ocean. There were no streetlights. In the moonlight the ocean was vast and black, and when we looked up the stars shone brilliantly where the water began. We pointed out the few constellations we knew, "Is that w-shaped one the crab?" and then fell into silence.
He turned to me after a few moments and said, "Tory, I'm so glad we're best friends," and I answered, "I know, this last year has been wonderful with you Adam. I'm so glad we found each other."
Pop! About 50 yards away there was a hiss and crack as a wily teenager set off two elaborate (and illegal) glorious purple fireworks. We both were stunned and still for a few seconds as the lavender lights faded. As I turned I said, "Wow, I guess we got fireworks after all," and there he was on one knee, ring in hand.
"Tory Davis, will you marry me?" Before I could respond he jumped up and said, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you!" My hand shook as I said, "Nothing would make me happier."
We spent the rest of the evening tearing up and making out. I feel like we said our vows that night, in between weeping and kissing.


So here is my favorite photo of us, and the recipe for slow-cooked Boston Baked Beans. They taste best the day after you make them. I can't guarantee they'll bring you love, but it worked for me!

Beans of Love
serves 6 as a side dish

2 cups dried great Northern beans (they're white in the bag)

2 strips thick-cut bacon, sliced into thin strips (I like Niman Ranch)
1 small white or yellow onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
5 1/2 cups water
1/2 cup dark molasses
1/2 cup maple syrup, ideally B grade
1 bay leaf
1 tbs. dry mustard
1 tsp. fresh minced ginger
pinch ground cloves

1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
2 1/2 tsp. salt

Rinse and sort beans. Soak overnight in enough water to cover, or pour boiling water to cover and let sit for an hour. (Or do neither and just let them cook longer at the end.) Drain.
Saute bacon, onion and garlic in slow-cooker until bacon is crisp and onion is soft. Add beans, water, molasses, maple syrup, bay leaf, dry mustard, ginger and ground cloves. Cover; cook 6 to 8 hours on medium until beans are tender.
Stir in cider vinegar and salt; cook at least a half hour more, until beans are tender and tasty.
Serve immediately, or the next day when they'll taste much better.

What a Cook Wants, III

Popcorn That Tastes As Good As That Scratch 'n Sniff Sticker Smelled
In the 5th grade my favorite scratch 'n sniff sticker was the "Poppin' Good"~ it smelled fresh like toasty corn with a subtle buttery note. At the time I didn't understand the scent was high-tech food chemistry at its (frightening) finest, I just wanted MY popcorn to smell and taste as good. This was at the peak of microwave popcorn madness; it smelled tempting, but ultimately any corn taste was drowned out with those heart attack-oils that weren't very buttery. sigh We also had an air popper, which produced popcorn about as flavorful as stale cardboard. It took nearly a stick of melted butter to properly coat one big bowl's worth, which today in my healthy-wellness LA lifestyle is not generally a viable option. double sigh

But fear not, dear reader! I bring you glad tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people who have $25. For unto you this day, from the wise folks at Wabash Valley Farms, a Whirley Pop popcorn popper is now available in red!
My sister Jen sent me one of these years ago and it enjoys primo shelf space in my postage stamp kitchen. A spoonful of oil and couple handfuls of kernels makes a big bowl of crisp, fragrant popcorn. Turning the crank on the stovetop as the corn explodes is undeniably fun and goes pretty quick. There's enough oil evenly distributed that the salt sticks quite well, and you can even skip the butter without having that dreadful cardboard experience.
When I was quite small and my family lived on a limited budget we made garlands of popcorn and cranberries with a needle and thread to decorate our Christmas tree, which I would surreptitiosly nibble whenever I needed a snack. I would dance around the twinkly-lit living room with my doll Samantha to the Alvin and the Chipmunks 45 record, chewing tough dry popcorn. And I was happy.
Which is a long way of saying, Who doesn't want popcorn for Christmas?
$25 for a red, 6-qt. popper that comes with a wooden handle and crank, plus a 25 year warranty.

( hungry ) lessons learned on the journey from fat to thin

I just polished off this delightul morsel by Allen Zadoff. Dear reader, it kicks ass. This is my first book review here, what a great one to start!
Full disclosure: the author, Allen, is what I would consider a Friendly Acquaintance. We haven't been out for coffee, but we've been to many of the same gatherings and chatted at length. I respected him before I read his book. Make of it what you will!
I haven't written about eating disorders before either, because I (luckily) don't have one. However, I think it's hard to be a person in America~ let alone a lady in Los Angeles!~ and not struggle with some body image issues. I have difficulty accepting my juicy thighs, for example (see below) and know many friends who hate their breasts, or are ashamed not to have six-pack abs.

Zadoff's book is the best sort of memoir: he gives up the juicy stuff most people don't divulge, is brutally honest and bitingly funny at the same time. We never drown in a puddle of pity or despair because he doesn't either. He's shockingly compassionate as he reflects on his lowest moments (an example I appreciate!), and explains complex emotional processes and motivations in simple, clear ways that helped me identify my own.
He takes an unflinching survey of his relationship to food and overeating: from his delicious discovery of Devil Dogs at age six through teenage loneliness compensated by large pizzas and Doritos, his frantic run through a zillion failed diets and a mid-twenties full of misery and isolation (with its steady companion, fantasy), until his scale tipped way over 300 pounds. At 28 he finally surrendered and reached out for help; the meatiest cuts of the book follow. His words are best here,
Over the course of a year, more than 100 pounds fell from my body, and my thin life, the one I'd been waiting nearly 30 years for, finally began. It was nothing like I expected. For starters, Calvin Klein did not call with a modeling offer. The gifts of the thin life, which I'd always assumed included a beautiful wife, gorgeous house, and handsome Labrador retriever, did not materialize. My life was not suddenly perfect. It was a lot more interesting than that. It turned out that losing weight was only the first step in a much larger and more amazing journey.
I've read a lot of literature on eating disorders; Zadoff doesn't offer elaborate food plans, "tricks" for cutting calories, or grand theories as to why so many over (or under!) indulge. He does something far more shocking: he gives us a spiritual perspective on the journey "from fat to thin," with humilty and humor. And he admits his slim tome is not a self-help book, "because I cannot help myself." What a delight to hear from someone who admits he needs the wisdom and guidance of others, whether it be the community of overeaters he discovers or his "personal connection to a power greater than myself." His lack of ego and gentle tone actually made me listen a little closer.
I picked it up last night and couldn't put it down until I finished it this afternoon. Please check it out if you're so inclined, what a thrilling ride through a tempestuous Devil Dog sea!

Rest in Peet's

When I was 22, I moved across the country to San Francisco.
I'd just finished college and had no idea what to do; without structure I was totally lost. I wanted to be like my other clueless friends: go to Europe or Asia in Tevas, (that's not me, my feet are adorable!) carry everything on my back and stay in youth hostels for $11 a night, stand in front of the great art I'd only seen in pictures and let it guide me. I also wanted to eat pierogis in Poland, risotto in Italy, paella in Spain, and muffins in merry old England.
Alas, dear reader, I was broke. Books, winter coats, graduation robes and late night pizza left me with a great degree and many happy memories, but no coin for fancy travelin'. What was I to do?
And then the voice came to me, Go west, young woman. And I said, Seriously? And it said, Why not? You've never been to San Francisco, and hippies are nice. Move and have your adventure that way.
Even at the tender age of 22, I'd learned that when the still, small voice spoke I had to follow. So I packed my clothes, shoes and computer and took a train across the country. It didn't seem right to wake up in Philadelphia and go to sleep in San Francisco to begin my new life; I wanted to feel the expanse, the vastness of space between where I started out and where I hoped to land. I needed to experience the distance.
I had a sublet lined up in Berkeley, one room in an apartment for two. My first morning there the kind woman in the other bedroom drew me a map of the hills so I could find my way into town. I walked down the hill, past exploding rosebushes and gigantic Birds of Paradise that peeked over fences, and panicked.
Each time I take a brave step into the unknown there is a scared and angry voice in my head that talks nonstop if I let it. It's the source of my procrastination, why I eat too many chips late at night, and the impetus behind my obsessive need to pick at my legs. That morning the voice was shrieking and I was powerless to stop its rant, You don't have a job! You don't know anybody here! Everyone you're related to lives within 20 minutes of where they went to high school, what the hell are you doing??? Who do you think you are?
It was a beautiful morning with clear sunlight and bees buzzing around leafy old trees, and I was terrified.
But then I smelled it. A half block before I found it, the most magnificent scent meandered up my nose and into my crazy twitching brain. It was dark and deep with whispers of chocolate and a high note of blackberries. I looked down: my legs were moving and I was still present, but the air was otherworldly. I moved a bit quicker and finally saw the source: a modest picture-book-perfect California bungalow, cheery and unassuming, with a sign that mispelled "Pete's." Silly Californians. To my delight the door was open, and inside I bought a small cup of inky black promise from a real aging hippie (who was friendly, just as I suspected). There was chilled half-and-half on the counter.
I stepped back outside for my first sip. As the (now) caramel-colored elixer glided over my tongue and slipped down my throat, the shouting in my head cut off. Silence. In that moment I knew I'd made the right choice, that the Universe would take care of me. The panic subsided; I clearly belonged in a land that made coffee like this. Exhale.


I found out today that Alfred H. Peet, the founder of Peet's Coffee & Tea, passed away at the end of August. He was 87. Paul McCartney was singing "Blackbird" on the radio when I got the news and my eyes filled up with gratitude for the guy who, with one exquisite cup of coffee, validated my bold and scary step. Thank you, sir. I'm sure you're smiling down at us from that big cafe in the sky.

A Smokin' Summer Breakfast

L.A. is mid-heat wave right now, yuck, though it's not as bad as last summer when we had the blackouts. Small favors, sigh. Since I became my own boss and now have the best commute in L.A. (I shamble from my bedroom to living room. Yay, no traffic!) I try to use the saved time to make breakfast everyday. I read years ago that people who eat breakfast end up consuming less calories over the course of the day... probably because they're not starving by lunchtime, so are less inclined to eat a magically delicious Double-Double (proof #427 that God loves us):


When I get hungry my brain shuts off completely, well, except to pick fights with those nearby, and all I want is fat and grease. Mmmm. There's a place in my world for the joys of fat and grease, but I like to choose them for the right reasons (they're delicious! I'm on a road trip! PMS!) versus the wrong reasons (Must-not-faint-gimme-fat-gimme-fat-you-bastard!).
In the summer I find it harder to eat, the heat shuts off my stomach, but this tasty treat is always appealing:

A crusty slice of rye, toasted medium, a pleasant schmear of cream cheese, and wild-caught Alaskan smoked salmon. Wild-caught costs a little more, but it tastes better and is apparently less likely to kill you than farmed salmon. Yikes! Sometimes I top it with my fancy Italian salt-packed capers, but today I was too lazy to rinse them off and picked the Pretty Parsley Option instead.
Best part? The brief time my toaster toasts doesn't make my apt. any hotter, which is good because it's 96° in L.A. right now. Ack! What I wouldn't give to be a kid again, with nothing to do but swim and read all day. What else can you do in this heat? I mean, apart from eating popsicles... but we're not up to lunch yet :)

I'd like to teach the world to eat...

I spent a *delightful* Saturday morning with my friends Nina and Grace, pals from the magazine, eating dim sum until our bellies were about to burst.
Ben Franklin (Patron Saint of Philadelphia) said, "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." He was almost right. I'd argue dim sum is much better proof: it lasts longer on the palate, and I don't think anyone ever started a fight after dim sum. You're too sleepy. Plus it's freakin' delicious.
A quick primer for the uninitiated: dim sum is a traditional Chinese brunch usually eaten with several generations of family around a big table. Or if you're me, a motley crew of hearty foodies. It's the original tapas, the OG small plate. Many brusque, often pushy ladies wheel shiny metal carts to each table and lift the lids off little steamers to reveal every imaginable delight. You point to what you want and she plunks it on the table, then stamps your check (all the stamps are tallied when you're done to determine the bill). Then the cart zooms off with a zeal that makes NY taxi drivers seem like drugged turtles.
These ethereal morsels have every sort of wrapper and filling. If there were a poster dumpling for dim sum, it would be siu mai (pronounced shoo-my), which has a thin wonton wrapper filled with a mixture of ground pork and shrimp, and is open on top. There are also crispy fried delicacies, steamed buns, crunchy Chinese broccoli (like a non-bitter broccoli rabe), little pork spareribs... I'd estimate there are easily 50 or 60 different options floating around in different carts at any one moment. Each dish contains 2-4 items and everybody shares. It's easy to try something new; if you're only committing to half a little football-shaped rice puff stuffed with beef (an excellent choice, yum), why not be brave?
There are sometimes language barriers in this process. One cart has many choices; I only know the (Cantonese) Chinese name for a few of my favorites, and the ladies driving the carts speak very fast when describing each dish. They're tough cookies with little time for round eyes who don't speak Chinese.
This Saturday was different. I'd brought a little book with me, aptly titled Dim Sum: A Pocket Guide by Kit Shan Li. It's ideal: each page has a yummy photo of a dish, and underneath are the Chinese characters, a phonetic pronounciation, the English name and the ingredients. A picture book for hungry grown-ups.
Now Nina, Grace and I are consummate dim sum eaters. Heck, even Graciela's frijole-in-the-oven had been before. (A blessed child already.) But Nina started flipping through the book as our chopsticks slowed down, and a curious thing happened. One of the ladies with carts actually stopped. She pointed to the photo of the sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf and the characters written underneath it, and gave a smile. I, because I am fearless or foolish (depends on the day) made an attempt at the pronounciation. She glanced at me a little wide eyed and said it back. I grinned.
She motioned some other ladies over, and soon we had several carts parked at our table. The ladies waited while Nina turned the pages, occasionally pointing at the photos while murmuring to each other. They looked pleased, and I continued here and there with my best attempts at saying the names (I've been listening carefully for many years, it wasn't too bad). The first lady smiled and corrected me a couple times, and we all glanced at each other and laughed a little. Then the carts zipped away and we set the book down to finish eating. Grace, Nina and I went back to talking about writing and babies and my colorful love life.
It was a quick exchange, but I believe this is part of how we make the world a peaceful place, a little nudge of the scale towards the 'stop killing each other' end. In that moment we were all just people delighted by the same book, who giggled at my attempts to get the words right and the wise lady's corrections. We paused to look each other in the eye.
This is why I love food. We all eat, but when you're willing to do something as intimate as take another person's history and culture into your own body, it's also a political act. It's better than "tolerance" because it's literal acceptance. My parents have these neighbors who say rotten racist things about Mexicans; I can't picture them at an Oaxacan restaurant eating nuanced, earthy mole, even though it's so delicious it (also) proves God loves us. But I like to think if someone dragged them there, if they took a bite, maybe in their hearts they'd suspect they'd been horribly wrong.
I have this fantasy of opening a kosher, halal falafel stand in the Gaza Strip. I know fried chickpea patties alone can't fix things, but I want to keep nudging that scale towards the peaceful, loving end. Besides, we have to eat every day. How cool is it to use a basic need to connect with the rest of humanity? We can all sit down at that table.