Summertime tomato and herb bruschetta.

I love this bruschetta.  The flavors are so brightly delicious and, this time of year, many of the ingredients can be sourced from even the smallest fire escape garden.  It's one of my favorite choices for a summer cocktail party starter, but be forewarned: This is an appetizer to be eaten among friends.  There is almost no way that you are eating this and getting away without at least a moment where you've got something big and green staring out at the world from a tooth or two.  But don't let your vanity talk you out of giving this a try.  There is something almost magical about the way that the light tomato mint mixture tastes atop the herbed olive oil spread and when you bite in, oh, there's that crispy give of the bread.  Whatever the drawbacks, they are more than worth it. 

Herbed Bruschetta
From Great Good Food by Julee Rosso

1/2 cup finely chopped Italian parsley
1/2 cup drained capers, chopped
1 tablespoon finely minced fresh tarragon
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 large, very ripe tomatoes
3 tablespoons finely minced fresh mint
24 1/4-inch-thick slices peasant bread or French baguette
1 small log goat cheese

Combine the parsley, capers, tarragon, and salt and pepper to taste in a medium-sized bowl.  Add the oil and toss well.

Dice the tomatoes very fine, but do not peel or seed them.  Put the tomatoes in another bowl, season with salt and pepper to taste, and add the mint.

Let everything stand at room temperature for at least 1 hour.

Toast or grill the bread.  Spread it with goat cheese, then the herb mixture.  Top with the tomato mixture. 

Enjoy, preferably with a cocktail in hand.

Experiments in breakfast.

We're drowning in turnips over here.  I am not complaining.  I am merely stating a fact.  And having now exhausted all of my turnip recipes, even recycled them several times over, I decided this morning that it was time to swing for the fences and do something wacky but potentially revolutionary in the arena of breakfast.  Okay, maybe it was all of the turnips making me a little bit loopy (there are so many of them and they are always there, always staring at me--or maybe not--with their little blank faces, it can be hard to tell), but still, I thought I had a terrifically radical idea: what about hash browns, but made from turnips instead of potatoes?

It took me about five seconds on the Internet to discover that I was far from the first intrepid soul with this idea.  In fact, much to my deep disappointment, I discovered that low-carbers the world over think that turnip hash browns are the best thing maybe since the rejection of all breads, whether sliced or in happy healthy loaves.  But, because I fundamentally reject the low-carb lifestyle, I decided it wouldn't be morally consistent to crib one of their recipes.

So, I went it alone.  And although the result was definitely tasty, it was still a reminder why I like recipes so darn much.  My hash browns turned out all soft and smooshy, not crisp and crunchy.  The husband suggested more oil and a lower heat for a longer period of time.  I think he is probably right, but I also think that something was wrong with my batter.  It was only after I finished happily grating the turnips and a bit of onion,* beating in an egg and seasoning the whole mess with salt and pepper, that I realized what I had made was not so much hash browns as a riff on turnip latkes.  So now I have a new Hanukkah recipe, but my revolutionary turnip hash remains a work in progress.  I will spare you the letdown of a mediocre recipe until we get it right.

* Did you know that some low-carb fanatics reject onions as food or flavor, deeming them to be too high in carbs?  This is only one of the disturbing discoveries I made while innocently trolling for a little assist with my too-many-turnips woes. 

Room service.

I love everything about it.  The silver hats that keep the food steamy.  The tiny salt and pepper shakers.  The molded butter.  The mini condiments that I almost always slip into my purse instead of eat because it seems like such a tragedy to break open their seals and devour them right then and there without ruminating for a little while, without treasuring them and celebrating their existence in miniature.  I love room service so much that I almost don't care what the food actually tastes like.  I have had bad room service, but rarely.  My scale of what is good and what is bad is weighted heavily on the side of good for any meal carried or rolled into a hotel room, which I am almost sure to consume (no matter what the accommodations and much to my husband's distinct displeasure) while sitting on the bed.  And it is simply not possible to recreate a satisfying room service experience at home.  Like airplane food, it is an experience that, once separated from its context, becomes something else entirely (this recent post on Grub Street New York aside).

This morning I got to eat room service in a wonderful historic hotel in Washington, D.C.  Can we just appreciate together, for one poignant moment, the wonder of these Art Deco butter balls?  They are almost too pretty to smear on toast.  (I did it, but only after bowing my head in a reverent thanks to whoever first developed the wonderful rituals of my beloved room service.)