Chicken and rice are good staple foods, some might even say delicious.  But what dear readers can take these foods so common and make them transcend mere sustenance?  Spices?  No.  An Excellent cook?  No.  A delicious meal requires a companion.  A companion to compliment the subtle flavors and really bring them out so they can truly be experienced.  My goal is to provide the spark that causes something click inside your head and allows you to truly understand what it is you are tasting.

My esteemed colleagues tend to spend too much time talking about the background to their food escapades and less about the flavors, textures, and over all experience of the meal.  My aim is to cut through the clutter and provide you, dear readers, with the essence of the gastronomic experience.

Recently I had the opportunity to visit the Bay Area, my breakfast the first day was, as my fellow writers might say, delicious.  But it was truly more than that.  Imagine, if you will, a plate half covered with lavish slices of smoked salmon.  The other half containing only the freshest slices of red tomatoes and red onions.  In the center a generous serving of dill cream cheese, and on the side a bagel to keep it company.  Each of these stand well on their own, but when they are served together, well, it is something to experience for yourself.  The creaminess of the smoked salmon was cut perfectly by the spiciness of the red onion.  The bagel was the perfect combination of crispy and chewy.  The dill in the cream cheese so perfectly tied all of these flavors together into exquisite ecstasy.  This combined with the perfect glass of fresh squeezed jus d’orange, just enough pulp to coat your mouth as you sip it and just naturally sweet enough to peak the interest of your palate.

Few meals have left as lasting of an impression on me as this.  I hope that the next time you sit down to a beautifully prepared meal you can truly appreciate the thought and effort that a good chef puts into each one of their creations.

The euphemistic word for my family is “blended”. This is of course polite code for “assembled from the bleeding wreckage of several other families”, which turns out to be really a wonderful thing — we now stick together so hard that my little sister’s boyfriend is even more intimidated than you would expect, much to her chagrin and our amusement. But if you think it’s hard to schedule events for conventional families, try triple the average number of kids, and that’s just on my mom’s side.

This Thanksgiving, we were juggling schedules in an effort to schedule a birthday dinner for my stepbrother, who’s come back into town from his current home in Washington DC for the holiday. Saturday evening? No, my siblings and I have to go to our other sister’s baby shower. Friday night? Brother and sister both have events with their significant others. Sunday lunchtime? Nephew’s baptism. And so on — every lunch or dinner was scheduled solid from Wednesday to Sunday.

Finally I suggested we give up on lunch and dinner and try breakfast on Saturday instead. The idea met with a statistically improbable consensus, leaving only the question of the cake — a mandatory ritual here. While as a family we routinely consume several pies for breakfast, planning to have cake first thing in the morning (here defined as “11 am”) seemed a step too far even for us. So I made this:

Mmm, coffeecake. Pardon the built-in-webcam-kwality photo -- turns out I didn't bring the camera transfer cord home.

It is a somewhat bastardized version of this Martha Stewart recipe (turns out that post-turkeyfest we are out of many things), it is so tantalizingly crumbly that I can’t actually remove it from the angel food cake pan it was baked in, and it smells so amazing that I’m honestly worried that someone will give in to temptation and it won’t survive to be consumed tomorrow morning instead of tonight. Go improvisation, and happy belated Thanksgiving to all!

When I was young, I wanted to be a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. I’m sure that I was not alone in this fantasy, as many of you may have shared in my adoration of our reptilian protectors. Really, what was not to love? True to their name, they were the synthesis of the cool California teenage surfer, a bucketful of mutagen-filled  super power awesome, and capped off with rat-trained elegant ninja grace, plus they ate pizza all the time, never went to school, and saved the world from Shredder while spouting what we could only assume to be hip catch-phrases and clever shell-related one-liners–so many of the characteristics which a six year old aspires to.

Friends, as I became older, I realized that I could not be a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. When I was eight, I had to face the fact that I was indeed human.  When I was thirteen, I discovered a lack of ninja gracefulness. At twenty, I realized I was no longer a teenager, and though my mutantness had not been dispelled, as of yet it has not provided me any form of super strength. But the pivotal moment occurred last week–a day when fate did force a confrontation between what I had hoped to be, and what I had become.

My hands sweated as the waiter approached, bowl in hand. And as each step stretched for miles, I pondered all the memories I had shared with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  Every time Shredder had declared “Tonight, I dine on turtle soup,” the turtles would be there, time and again, to thwart his plans and teach him a lesson he would not forget until the next episode aired, and each time, it felt that I was fighting right beside them. Could I give up that emotional investment? Was this what growing up was really about? If I were a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, would this be considered cannibalism? These questioned weighed upon my conscience till at last I was presented with the slow-boiled delicacy, its smell enticing and tempting as only vice could exude.

When I was young, I wanted to be a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.  I’m sure that deep down, part of me still does, but the other part thinks that turtle soup is delicious, and some night, I may dine on it once again.