tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48712543232055800972012-02-16T02:19:30.173-05:00“They were always making discoveries, by accident and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.” - Horace WalpoleMaggienoreply@blogger.comBlogger441100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-26528907393419566402008-10-28T22:27:00.000-04:002008-10-29T02:12:39.916-04:00

For the past week, all of my meals have come out of one of two boxes in the pantry (pasta, cereal), the freezer (full-on frozen meals, not just vegetables), a wrapper (since when do I eat 3 Muskateers?) or a plastic take-away bag (sushi, curry, salad, fries). All I can say is: Ugh. My insides just plain hurt. And, thank goodness for roast squash. You see, it's my newfound cure-all, perfect for

Maggienoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-17230550610517874432008-10-21T02:35:00.005-04:002008-10-21T15:39:03.347-04:00

Things that make me happy: 1. Breaking out my green, suede, flat, knee-high boots. 2. Sleeping with a second blanket without waking up thinking I'm drowning in my own sweat. 3. A working oven - finally!4. Pumpkins as far as the eye can see.5. Sweet, nutty pumpkin muffins to munch on while inching through three hours of traffic trying to get to the pumpkins as far as the eye can see.6. Fall. I

Maggienoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-57335803793887957322008-10-15T21:43:00.005-04:002008-10-16T01:57:04.387-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, my farmer's market began to take on a rugged visage. The bright, smooth-skinned fruits and delicate vegetables I'd been munching hand-to-mouth all summer were still around. But next to them the lumpy, bumpy, thick-leafed and just plain ugly had set up shop. My heart was aflutter; finally, it's time to cook again. I wasn't always so welcoming of less than pretty produce. As

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-6692351280684870402008-10-13T02:30:00.009-04:002008-10-13T02:53:16.084-04:00

I really don't know what happened. I'd been on a roll. Then my oven broke, school picked up, the world started to go to hell and poof! - suddenly it's October, the sun is setting at 6pm and my farmer's market is filled to the brim with goodies like bumpy pumpkins and crisp winter greens.Have I mentioned how much I love winter greens? I haven't? Well, it's about time I did something about that. 

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-11862058925027437312008-09-23T01:41:00.004-04:002008-09-23T02:30:13.662-04:00

Sweet plums. Spicy batter. At once summer's last hurrah and an ode to the cooler temperatures already - OMG - setting in, I can't think of a better way to ring in autumn. Even if I am a little sad to see summer go. Oh wait - a better way to say hello to fall would be if my oven were capable of baking these all the way through. Thankfully, while par-baked cake batter looks a little funky, it

Maggienoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-9687943725854878172008-09-09T00:00:00.001-04:002008-09-09T00:37:36.801-04:00

My oven and I are not on speaking terms. Granted, since I moved in with him in July, our conversations have been rather one-sided. A lot of me calmly explaining (yelling) that when I set the temperature to, let's say, 350, he's supposed to heat up to 350, or thereabouts. The grouchy oven, who I have taken to calling Oscar,  generally responds in groans and grumbles, mumbling things I can't

Maggienoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-76472462628434877762008-09-05T23:01:00.003-04:002008-09-06T02:08:42.351-04:00

Anyone who knows me now will find it hard to believe, but when I was little girl I was a terrible eater. From my Iranian aunts to pre-school teachers, I was ready to pick a fight with anyone waiting to "airplane" a spoon full of mush into my mouth. I'd kick, scream, cry; my mom says I was just picky, but, really, I was a menace to the culinary world. Sure, I liked things like really crispy bacon

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-72268354495197773982008-09-02T01:52:00.002-04:002008-09-02T01:55:51.639-04:00

If it really came down to it, I'd say that the two guiding principles in my life are: a) Don't be afraid to try new things, and b) Find solace in baked goods.*It is in that spirit that I present - dum-da-da-duuuum - my very first Tuesdays With Dorie post (new thing!), which is all about Chunky Peanut Butter and Oatmeal Chocolate Chipsters (sweet baked goodness!) from Dorie Greenspan's Baking:

Maggienoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-16803365458450258052008-08-27T08:56:00.000-04:002008-08-27T08:56:00.537-04:00

Last Saturday, tucked amidst stalls inviting patrons of Berkeley's Farmer's Market to taste watermelons! cantaloupes! peaches, plums and nectarines!!! stood an intriguing, if not completely disgusting, invitation. I tried to ignore it, to stay focused on Arctic Queens and Dapple Dandies, but, perhaps inspired by my Travel Channel Super Hero and my self-imposed obligation on this site, my

Maggienoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-91769660832951344922008-08-24T19:33:00.023-04:002008-08-25T00:30:42.829-04:00

What can I say about cauliflower that's worth saying? To most, it's an afterthought, broccoli's bland brother, something moms use to fill the plates of their misbehaved children. It's beige and usually steamed with no seasonings and all too often really, grossly mushy like paste (that, ironically, so many kids that hate cauliflower like to eat) and, well, none of this is news. What can I say?

Maggienoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-34309026962429853482008-08-23T18:18:00.000-04:002008-08-23T20:56:46.240-04:00

I like to think of myself as an adventurous person, one might say a brave soul; at the very least brave in consideration, if not in action. I very seriously considered, for example, a "bungee" jump recently and did not back down when, only three days ago, a very aggressive squirrel tried to get a bite at my feet. (He had me kind of cornered, and I flailed a bit, but it was powerful flailing that

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-73881156663567643312008-08-22T21:26:00.016-04:002008-08-23T20:09:54.244-04:00

Giggling uncontrollably at inappropriate moments. Attracting elderly male fans who regale me with gifts like expired cookies. Doggedly blocking cars that take my reserved parking spot. Writing skills aside, there are a number of things about me that my former co-workers will have a tough time forgetting. But my greatest legacy, perhaps, is Ice Cream Friday. Ice Cream Friday was born on a hot day

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-44710220261646847062008-08-20T14:39:00.018-04:002008-08-22T14:21:24.981-04:00

What with it being Wednesday and my having missed last week after making such a big deal about my new initiative and all, I really, truly should have a wonderfully weird food to share today. Unfortunately, the only thing I have to say is that my eating for the next few days is going to take a turn for the dull: I'm going on a diet. Roll your eyes if you will, but trust me, it's time for a detox.

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-40397597693926526892008-08-09T23:10:00.000-04:002008-08-10T02:13:04.016-04:00

I don't know what's wrong with me. For the past three days, I've been a positive mess. On Thursday it started with weepiness, followed by the feeling of having been hit by a truck-ness on Friday. And today, finally, I found myself standing at the edge of a full-blown panic attack. Possible explanations include: a) exhaustion over entertaining "guests" (my mom and sister hardly qualify as far as

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-81656262868342655882008-08-07T23:27:00.004-04:002008-08-13T23:58:06.442-04:00

Welcome to Weird Food Wednesday! It's not Wednesday, so I suppose it's a bit odd to introduce what I hope will become a weekly Wednesdays-only post about some weird foodie find or other (in an attempt to make myself write more and try new things) but I swear I have a perfectly good reason. Three reasons, actually. Yesterday (a real Wednesday), I was at an amusement park letting the thrill rides

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-26889233572652530082008-07-31T09:52:00.001-04:002008-07-31T15:49:19.903-04:00

I love mornings in Berkeley. This may be a little presumptuous considering I've only been in the area 12 days, but really, mornings are simply blissful here. Even in the middle of the summer, they're gray and chilly and crisp and perfect for cuddling up in a pillowy bed. I have yet to wake up frozen from air conditioning cranked up too high, or sweaty from one of those misleadingly "cool" nights

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-23221634193816791832008-07-30T15:28:00.000-04:002008-07-30T18:28:29.248-04:00

So last week, at my now beloved Ferry Building Farmer's Market, I happened upon a little something that I'd heard a lot about, but had never actually seen/touched/tasted/etc. I found them at a tiny corner stall, little yellow blooms in plastic containers pushed out of the way, all the attention going to the enormous strawberries to their side. But I noticed them. Oh boy, did I notice them. And

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-35064378968581698162008-07-29T23:56:00.004-04:002008-07-30T00:36:46.577-04:00

All summer, I've been craving cherries. One could say it all started with bon appetit's June issue, whose cover featured a slice of what could presumably be this pie. But, while bon appetit didn't hurt, cherry cravings have marked my summers since childhood, as if the fruit, like edible good luck rubies, are somehow mythical balls without which the season can't start. Or, umm, maybe I just really

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-25493817989145807082008-07-28T23:57:00.009-04:002008-07-29T23:56:26.411-04:00

I'm aching to write a vacation roundup right now; have been for days. Except, I'm not on vacation.At some point, between then and now, I came to the conclusion that moving to California was right for me. There was big excitement and a whole lotta hubbub, but in all honesty, I didn't think it would happen. Sure I had a plane ticket to Oakland and an apartment in Berkeley and a Cali-appropriate

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-62847382958531415252008-07-17T15:06:00.005-04:002008-07-17T16:16:00.561-04:00

I'm staring down the barrel of the last day and a half of my pre-Berkeley life, and this might be goodbye, well, for a while. Or not. Being out of work for the past week has left me dazed and confused, and a little poorer (summer sales be damned) and chubbier (inspirational midday Food Network broadcasts... buttermilk fried onion rings a la Guy Fieri, anyone?). I don't really have any sweet

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-32009911889741140942008-07-15T20:15:00.005-04:002008-07-15T22:10:13.403-04:00

Oh my god, I can't believe it either - not only is posting two days in a row unheard of around these parts, this is the second non-sweet, non-baked good post ... ever? Oh, the shame. So, Persian food is known for two things: it tastes amazing, but it's also way ugly. (Yea, I'm kind of not even trying with the segues anymore, but look on the bright side, my laziness gets us to the main attraction

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-27323903765373313812008-07-14T23:01:00.006-04:002008-07-15T09:06:04.533-04:00

Be very, very quiet... I'm supposed to be packing. I have 102 hours to give some semblance of order to the piles of clothes and books that have claimed my room as their own for the past 14 years. But before I get started, I wanted to share a recipe that just screams of East Coast summers. It's a simple salad of cold crisp lettuce, explosive little red tomatoes, and warm, caramel-y peaches that

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-18715116514208895372008-07-10T07:56:00.003-04:002008-07-10T08:22:58.828-04:00

I woke up this morning to find the sun shining, the humidity gone, and myself feeling incredibly lost. Yesterday was my last day of work. I cleaned out my desk, ate delicious "goodbye" lemon meringue pie, listened to a poem about myself, finished my last article and even got the kick ass-est going away party ever! And still, today I'm kind of sad. So kind of sad that I woke up early because I

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-5581614380854459462008-07-07T22:35:00.010-04:002008-07-07T23:31:54.199-04:00

My reconciliation with the Fourth of July has been a long time coming. Childish as it may sound, most of my childhood memories of the nation's birthday involve the Fourth stealing my thunder. The "cool girl" in third grade couldn't come to my somewhat belated birthday party because her actual birthday was on July 4. Fireworks always upstaged even the sparkliest, un-blow-out-able candles. My mom

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-77336859801847997162008-07-01T18:15:00.006-04:002008-07-01T18:27:32.840-04:00

... all I wanted was a cupcake. I didn't know when, or from where, or what kind, and, as expected, my cupcake found me unexpectedly. In Philadelphia. Two days early.It was delicious, filled with lemon curd, and adorable, capped off with the first of many flowers that would come my birthday's way.And best of all, it was perfect for sharing. Just like birthdays.***Sour Cream Lemon CupcakeBrown

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-11755574891145306672008-06-30T18:29:00.008-04:002008-07-01T18:13:30.386-04:00

Every little girl has a particular archetypal image of her dad. It might be a powerful king, or a brave, armored knight. There's usually something shiny, be it a crown or shield for dad, and hopefully many shiny things for daughter. And a sword. Yes, there's almost always a sword, probably to help dad look like he can fight daughter's request for said shiny things.But in my mind, my dad was no

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-67325633706708832982008-06-19T17:32:00.029-04:002008-06-30T18:29:12.198-04:00

I love my dad. He loves me, too, but I figured Father's Day was the perfect chance to clinch his paternal adoration. And to make up for recent bouts of early morning exercise-induced grumpiness. And help him forget that I'm leaving home for California of all places (is this every father's nightmare?) in a month.My dad isn't really one for ties, and I've run out of identifiable tools and

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-47078668379576821052008-06-14T09:20:00.032-04:002008-08-08T01:22:18.202-04:00

When I travel, I let my appetite lead the way. It's been like this for at least my entire adult life, and probably from way back when I was a little, hungry thing. On road trips from New Jersey to Virginia, my little sister and I would insist on hitting up our favorite rest stops for fried chicken and cinnamon buns, often adding a couple of hours to the typical 4 to 5 hour drive. Even short

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-64234695725361307942008-05-16T22:21:00.008-04:002008-05-16T23:12:40.939-04:00

I never meant to be away so long. I've had so much to say, so much to write about! A tea tasting and rum chocolates and lotus root beignets - need I say more? And yet I just couldn't seem to find my way to the computer and as each day passed I found myself more and more hesitant to get back here.I write all this as an introduction to another goodbye, this one somewhat more formal. Tomorrow, I'm

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-58527443243023055522008-04-30T22:26:00.000-04:002008-05-08T08:56:34.302-04:00

Today, two months and one day shy of 25, I finally became an adult. Or so I thought about eight hours ago.The day started well: my shiny, brand-new American passport came in the mail. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but oh boy, it is a symbol of so much growing up. For one, I am a one-week-old American. I was naturalized last Tuesday and I'm sure something has changed inside of me

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-51096838328163466172008-04-20T22:11:00.009-04:002008-04-27T19:23:34.810-04:00

I stink at writing headlines. At work I rely on the obvious ("Council approves budget") and not so obvious ("MICU comes home") for pathetic, usually last minute, inspiration. It is with the hope that you'll keep this in mind that I apologize for the title of this post, which is, all things considered, quite creative, don't you think? Bah, fine. George Michael, forgive me.Another thing I just

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-90327848557276710192008-04-18T15:27:00.026-04:002008-07-30T00:41:35.540-04:00

The week before last was a whirlwind, a whirlwind of the very best kind. In a matter of six days, I soaked in the warm sunshine of northern California and endured one of Chicago's brutal spring storms. I indulged with an exotic cocktail of gin (always a good start) with honey and lavendar, and countless (just two actually) glasses of warming red wine. I ate rich squab and juicy steak, fresh

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-12725851536437102982008-03-27T22:14:00.017-04:002008-08-23T03:27:42.314-04:00

Just a little over two weeks ago, the calendar made a promise - March 21, the first day of spring, the beginning of warmth and color and yummy freshness. But that promise was broken. Instead, northern New Jersey has seen rain and tornado warnings and a chill that only a puffy black winter parka and countless variations of stew can fix, and just barely fix at that.And so, I suppose I've been on an

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-23519363888071715002008-03-09T20:31:00.007-04:002008-03-27T22:14:34.950-04:00

It's not everyday I eat a meal that leaves me wobbly at the knees. I try, I swear I do. And the food I do eat (almost) always makes me happy. But I can't remember the last time I ate something that was knee-wobblingly good. And then, last Wednesday, came along Del Posto's Enoteca and everything as I knew it changed. At least as far as wobbly knees go. Despite a fear of Mario Batalli and a

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-86661000245216023462008-03-06T14:39:00.015-05:002008-03-07T09:02:56.407-05:00

Hello? Anybody there? I know it's been a while. I could come up with excuses, but instead let me offer a gift of sorts. Ready? Come close.This, like all good stories, starts with a stomach bug. I came down with a little something a few weeks back that left me functional but threw my appetite for a loop. Long gone was any desire for that which is cold and creamy - a near disaster for one who

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-22740679018838894942008-02-16T09:10:00.003-05:002008-02-16T22:24:47.222-05:00

Thursday started much like any other day, and I found myself groggily bending headfirst into the refrigerator, wondering what I would be eating for lunch in six hours time. The pickings, as they say, were slim.Inside the fridge, I found a couple of half frozen chicken breasts, cream cheese, a bag of two-week old plum tomatoes, a half-bottle of Lactaid, several partially used sticks of butter, an

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-53482079825451652952008-02-10T20:44:00.008-05:002008-02-16T09:30:15.385-05:00

My mom is really something special. This may not be news to those who know her, but she is. Just. Brilliant. All my life, I've learned from her. She's imparted some very important lessons. For as long as I can remember, she's stressed the importance of wearing clean underwear, keeping $20 in cash in your wallet at all times and using lemon, lime or other citrus to make almost any food or drink

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-41838274734185646842008-02-02T17:59:00.000-05:002008-02-02T20:02:41.872-05:00

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?Growing up, I made it my serious business to not just memorize that troublesome tongue twister, but to show up the older girls on the playground by clicking my tongue around those words faster and more precisely than they ever could. You could say I had a bit of a competitive streak. Had. As in, when I was younger. Anyway...

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-44078090691091689582008-01-24T22:15:00.001-05:002008-08-23T03:35:01.047-04:00

Yesterday was one of those days. I started it sleepy and cold and in the dark, and when I got home from work I was still sleepy and cold and, sigh, it was dark. Ah, winter doldrums, you've settled in again. Yes, yesterday was one of those days that only a little baking could fix. When cookie season began back in November, I was confident that trying out a recipe or two would be just the fix I

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-30780399324167595772008-01-09T16:50:00.000-05:002008-01-09T21:11:05.769-05:00

Okay, I'll admit it: I'm a sweater. No, not in the "lovely black woven v-neck adorning me right now" sense. More like the "goodness, have I been drooling or did the wet mark on my desk drip off my forehead even though it is January in northern NJ" sense.Starting to feel a bit squeamish, and overwhelmed by the intoxicating effect of high heat on musty newsprint, I discovered one of my new favorite

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-66322030276643024242008-01-08T18:11:00.000-05:002008-01-09T21:05:10.913-05:00

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl called "Em." Em loved sweets, loved them more than anything, and indulged daily on everything that she could get her ravenous mitts on: chocolatey truffles, tart gummies, treacly licorice, chewy caramels, buttery cookies. Em's sweet tooth knew no bounds, and it drove her mother mad.Em's mother, as mothers are wont to do, implored her child to widen her

Maggienoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-80959212690034448652008-01-05T19:52:00.000-05:002008-01-06T17:54:13.395-05:00

On Friday, I had dinner with Darius, my best friend and perhaps the most charming person I know. He posseses not the treacliness associated with "charm" these days, but rather casts a spell upon everyone he meets without thinking twice. It is an incredible gift of which I'm sure he is completely oblivious, and I would be lying if I said I didn't hold out hope that this super power of his would

Maggienoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-61733430063083953222008-01-04T17:34:00.000-05:002008-01-05T23:22:24.655-05:00

Now, who would go so far, do something so brash, as to post for the very first time without so much as introducing herself then wait more than one week before posting again?I would, and did, and I apologize. In a not-so-fabulous but wholly Maggie move, I tried to make breakfast before getting out of bed and ended up with burned feet.Yet, here we are. Or should I say here I am, as I am surely

Maggienoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4871254323205580097.post-82313236997272483202007-12-27T15:53:00.000-05:002008-01-09T17:27:05.584-05:00

Most people, when they have a day off and the entire house to themselves, choose to laze around in their underwear and gorge themselves on leftover buche courtesy of the loveliest neighbor on the planet.I, lucky as I am, had the opportunity to do both today, yet, dimwitted as I am, eschewed the near-nudity route in favor of equally comfy but nonetheless unrevealing clothes and yielded to the

Maggienoreply@blogger.com1