Darjeeling in the Afternoon

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In the teabowl

this tranquil moment

dreaming of a little Spring

We had just met, yet I felt like I had known him my entire life. Being with him made me feel like a little girl again, bringing me back to daydreams and lazy afternoons in my grandmother’s garden, when there was nothing else to think about but to observe the way light shifted through the leaves of trees, or notice the many colors of things, like tree bark and stones. I thought of this as we walked together to the tearoom, across the wooden bridge. Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the pond as the orange koi swam drowsily through the water. The way the bamboo stalks and maple trees filtered the warm light of day made everything glow softly like a dream.

We sat at a table out on the tearoom terrace and he ordered a pot of Darjeeling tea, along with ginger scones, jam, lemon curd, cream and strawberries. I leaned against him and put my head on his shoulder, feeling so peaceful, being completely in the moment. My mind drifted in the tranquility, and like discovering a treasure of old letters in a forgotten box, my thoughts went leafing through memories, recalling what it’s like to just be, without doing.

Just sitting quietly together, having tea.

And I could be with him. Tea calms the mind and asks us to take pleasure in the moment.

It was the kind of afternoon I will always remember like a beautiful dream. This memory stands still in time, this one moment, an episode of sensory fulfillment and realization of love.

Love.

Delicate ache in my chest, as if my heart became a flower, each pang of love growing felt like petals quivering, opening from its bud. An acute awareness of surrender overcame me. Around him I become girlish, childlike, happy. Tea leaves float in the water. I open the lid of the teapot and the fragrance brings me to my grandmother’s garden. The beech tree swaying its leaves toward the wild strawberries in the damp soil, the marble patio cool underneath my bare feet, I am young, a little girl, wearing a light sundress, the slide and click of the glass door as I go into the house, and the tea waiting there for me. The cup of tea with the sugar pot and spoon, the ceramic pitcher of cream.

As I was gazing within the tea cup, a reflection of childhood memory emerged, radiating its happiness throughout that day, light showering its halo of beauty everywhere, upon his face, the glimmer in his eyes, the finest illumination highlighting every detail. The reflection through the glass of the tearoom window showed the garden and tables in superimposed layers, outlining his shape, as I was falling deeply, immediately, and intensely in love with him.

He brought me back to myself. I wonder sometimes, since we are both the same age, what he was doing then also, when I think back to my own past memories. Where was he at age seven, somewhere in the same city, when I was stirring my cup of tea, overfilling it with brown sugar, watching the cream swirl into the caramel colored liquid.

His reflection in the glass window, his hand touching mine upon the table, his caress of my thigh underneath the tablecloth. His warm hands awakened me as if I had been inside a dark place for a very long time, until it seemed that the sun was stirring my body from a long sleep, and just as it was when I was a little girl, there was tea. My grandmother always offered me a cup of black tea, half and half, she’d say in her British accent, first thing in the morning, with heaping spoonfuls of sugar swirled into the steaming tea cup.

Recalling the many fragments of childhood, I noticed the day became dappled with brushstrokes of light as if painted by an Impressionist artist, illustrating the way color shone through the trees, shimmering upon China cups and saucers, elongating shadows, melting into light like sugar.

Then the freshly baked ginger scones arrived, a puffed cloud of cream, slices of ripe red strawberries, a little ramekin of apricot jam, and a small white ceramic bowl of lemon curd. The tea was light and infused joy within us.

Darjeeling tea in the afternoon.

The peaceful atmosphere of the garden enchanted us, tucked away from the bustle of the city, just the two of us at our little table underneath a shady umbrella. Although the menu listed white teas such as Chinese Yin Zhen Silver Needle, White Peony, and white tea pearls, Indian whites, the Sri Lankan white teas—- and while all the teas appealed, we wanted Darjeeling tea.

The loose leaf teas, blooming teas, tisanes, herbals, mate, and blends were appealing. And then the green teas of many kinds, from Sri Lanka, India, China and Japan. Japanese Sencha, Houjicha, Mattcha, Bancha, Genmaicha. But none could compare.

Being quiet, sitting next to each other, taking in the afternoon breeze, holding hands. The Darjeeling tea in a flowered teapot. Contemplating the tea cup. Scones with cream, topped with strawberries, lemon curd, and apricot jam.

I hope this inspires you. I think back to this moment fondly. It is one of the most romantic experiences I’ve shared with my darling. In fact, it was our first date. There are days that I long to meet him again at the tearoom, ask him to take a lunch break from work, meet me there. But the days slip by so quickly, and I dream of the two of us, holding hands, leaning against each other, a kiss and a cup of Darjeeling tea.

This kind of romantic daydream involves food, and so here is a recipe for Lemon Ginger Scones. And I cannot resist scones.

This recipe is a slightly healthier version (slightly) using whole wheat pastry flour split with all-purpose flour. If you want to make it even healthier, play around with Greek yogurt in place of butter— perhaps half the amount of butter, then add Greek yogurt.

But you don’t have to. Instead just use all-purpose flour or cake flour and butter. I recommend White Lily brand flour in any case. And real butter. Yes, I know. It’s indulgent. I’m not suggesting you eat these every day. Am I tempting you?

Lemon Ginger Scones

1 cup all-purpose flour

2/3 cup whole wheat pastry flour

1 1/3 cup rolled oats

1/3 cup sugar (raw)

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 tsp salt

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1 stick and a half (10 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cold, cut into pieces or grated with cheese grater  (*1/2 stick extra butter, grated cold for adding while kneading dough recommended for those decadent sensualists like me)

2 generous tablespoons of freshly grated ginger

2 generous tablespoons of freshly zested lemon

2 tablespoons of *candied ginger pieces (recipe)

1 egg

1/2 cup cold buttermilk

1 tsp pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. 

Cover a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large mixing bowl blend all flours, oats, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, nutmeg, salt, lemon zest and ginger.

Add the cold butter by grating it into the flour mixture, or if you don’t have a cheese grater, break small pieces of cold butter and work the butter into the flour mixture quickly. Add the ginger and lemon zest and set aside.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the egg, buttermilk, and vanilla extract. Grate a little extra ginger into the buttermilk and egg mixture if you’d like extra zing to your scones.

Pour the cream mixture all at once to the flour mixture and work loosely with a fork or large wooden spoon. Fold carefully. Don’t overdo. Please be tender with your dough. Set in the refrigerator for about 30 minutes and let the dough rest.

Take dough out and form gently on a floured surface. Make a rough ball of the dough and pat it down with the palm of your hands. Flatten it into a circle, about an inch and a half thick. 

Add the 1/2 stick grated cold butter and candied ginger while kneading dough gently— a few folds over but please don’t overwork the dough.

The traditional method of rolling and cutting scones: form dough into a disc about an inch and a half thick, and cut into wedges.

OR: Using a biscuit cutter, cut each scone portion in large circle (about palm-sized) and bake it as a circle shape if you like.

Place about two inches apart on baking sheet and sprinkle the tops of the scones with brown sugar.

Bake for 20 minutes or until the tops are golden. Remove from the oven and serve warm or at room temperature.  

Lemon Ginger Icing

All you need to do is take a spoonful of confectioners sugar (powdered sugar) in a bowl, add milk or buttermilk slowly, stirring until the sugar melts into a thick icing. Stir well until very smooth. Add lemon extract, and voila! You can also add a little lemon juice to give it a lemony zing.

  • 1 cup confectioners (powdered) sugar
  • 2-7 tablespoons buttermilk or whole milk
  • ½ teaspoon lemon extract and a squeeze of real lemon juice
  • 1 tablespoon (or a little more) ginger syrup made from candied ginger

Measure and pour the sugar into a bowl. Add 2 tablespoons of buttermilk, lemon juice, lemon ginger syrup and the lemon extract. Stir until it turns into a paste. 

Adjust the amounts to make either thin or thick. Try to blend as well as possible, avoiding thick clumps of sugar. ****Only use confectioners powdered sugar, as regular sugars will not work for this icing. 

Make a pot of Darjeeling tea after you have baked your Lemon Ginger Scones. Have some jam that you like available, perhaps put it in a ramekin for serving, and lemon curd if you fancy it, along with some fresh berries and cream. Just plain butter and smidge of honey is delicious too.

Lemon Ginger Scones are best served warm from the oven, but you could make them ahead of time and serve with the jam, berries and cream, or eat them plain. Of course, Darjeeling tea in the afternoon creates a romantic moment to be savored whether or not you have scones and jam. Just being together with a shared pot of tea is heaven enough.

Darling and I shared some of these scones last night after dinner, and they really hit the spot. I put them in the oven after dinner. We had made our own fresh lemon curd (ambitious couple that we are) and used this marvelous strawberry rhubarb jam that he found at the farmers market.

Perhaps you will share a beautiful moment of tea with your Darling?

Enjoy these freshly baked lemon ginger scones with a delicate pot of Darjeeling tea.

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The Beautiful Coconut Crab Rice

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He brought in a few bags from the farmers market and began to prepare our lunch. I heard him rustling around, unloading produce, pans banging down on the stove and utensils clinkety-clanking as he was scuttling around, making something mysteriously good. Suddenly, from the kitchen emerged such wonderful aromas of cumin and coriander, while a sheet pan of coconut flakes toasted in the oven. He handed me a bag of salad greens and a bag of bok choy.

“All you have to do is make a salad,” he said, while wielding the blade of the chef’s knife upon the cutting board, ready to chop up leeks, onion, and garlic. He asked me to zest a lime, which I gladly grated for him. I was bubbling with pleasure just to have him in the kitchen, enjoying another Sunday afternoon together. The kids were all busy with activities, so we had this leisurely moment alone to cook. And one of my greatest fantasies has come true: the man I love cooking a beautiful meal for me. I just find this to be so sexy.

I tossed the salad greens into a wooden bowl, added some wild arugula, diced up a juicy ripe pear, sprinkled in blue cheese crumbles, and all the while I was pleased with myself by doing so, feeling very clever, I realized I was tossing salad next to a culinary virtuoso. It made me feel silly for even trying. Darling was cooking up a veritable exotic vacation of coconut, lime, crab, cilantro, cumin and coriander. Basmati rice boiled in a large pot. He diced up luscious red chili peppers and halved a Scotch bonnet habanero chile.

Then he handed me a bunch of baby bok choy. “Figure out what to do with these. I have no idea. I only got them because they looked so beautiful at the farmers’ market,” he mused.

“Oh, yes, so beautiful!” I cooed as I cradled a handful of bok choy in my hands. But what was I to cook with it? Since I had no plan for the bok choy, I simply sautéed it in sesame oil, shoyu (organic “natural” soy sauce), fresh grated ginger (lots of it) and fish sauce. We both love the way bok choy looks, but as for what to do with it? Less is more.

But the salad and bok choy paled in comparison to the marvelous feast-sized bowl of the beautiful Coconut Crab Rice. I set the table outside with batik napkins and decorative towels, not in a hurry, just so relaxed, as though we were on vacation. I was already wearing a bathing suit and sarong from sunning and swimming earlier in the day. The rice emanated an exotic bouquet of spices, coconut milk, toasted coconut, cilantro, cumin, coriander, and lime. Ah, the scent of coconut and lime!

Darling thought out loud that some eggs would go nicely on top of the coconut rice. He asked me to poached two eggs, which I did dutifully. The thrill of the wondrous smells from the kitchen had carried over into the climactic moment of eating. The bamboo screen divided our view from the balcony overlooking the pool. I felt so coconut-laden as I used coconut oil on my skin for sunning by the pool, and thought a piña colada would have been a perfect match for this kind of day. Instead I poured a beer into some glasses, set out some water glasses with lemon, and admired the large bowl of steaming coconut rice. He sat in front of me, looking so debonair and casual, as if it were nothing to make such a thing. I had a private moment of simmering lust for him, because the bountiful pillowy bowl of this ambrosial rice was enchanting my senses. I was noticing how handsome he is, and I can assure you, he seemed even more handsome to me after he made this dish. I don’t need encouragement to lust over my Darling, but I was overwhelmed by his creation, and so romantically influenced by such a meal, I let out a sigh of contentment.

We sprinkled the eggs lightly with pinches of black lava salt from World Flavors, a spice purveyor that Darling found at the farmers market. He also used a little smoked sea salt which smelled delicious out of the bag in came in.

 We had Sunday to cook, to eat, and to make love. Because after he made this exceptional dish, there was nothing else I could do but express my absolute happiness and pleasure. Cooking for each other is delicious foreplay. What else could be sexier?

The salad went untouched. I wrapped it up and put it away. The bok choy was tasty enough, but just a little salty, as I ran out of mirin, which would have sweetened and balanced it just right. He thought next time the rice would be better complimented by substituting or adding shrimp. Coconut, shrimp, cilantro and lime are all beautiful together, and perhaps some lemongrass? Of course, I’m crazy for eggs, and had no complaints about the rice by itself either. it’s so good, you really don’t need to add much of any other ingredient.

Here is the recipe for the Coconut Crab Rice. You can add shrimp, tofu, or fresh crab, however you’d like.

  • 6 cups of basmati rice, cooked as directed (seasoned with butter and some spice is recommended), use less rice if you want a looser rice dish.
  • 1 cup lump crab (or shrimp, tofu)
  • 1 can coconut milk
  • 1 cup of toasted coconut flakes
  • 1 cup of cilantro
  • 1 medium onion
  • 4 cloves of garlic
  • 1 leek (optional)
  • 2 stalks of green onions
  • 1 or 2 limes (for the zest and juice)
  • 2 red chili peppers
  • 1 Scotch bonnet habanero (optional)
  • canola oil (save your EVOO)
  • 1 – 2 tsp (or more) coriander
  • 1 – 2 tsp (or more) cumin
  • chili flakes
  • salt and pepper to taste

All of the above ingredients can be chopped in advance and mise en place’d while the rice is cooking for approximately 20 minutes while the coconut flakes are toasting in the oven. Once the rice is finished set it aside.

Sauté in canola oil, the onions, garlic, and leeks until it starts to have some color. Using a fancy olive oil is unnecessary. Add the spices and chili flakes to the mix and let it cook for about 2 minutes. Important: let the spices cook out the raw flavor and develop layers.

Add in the chili peppers for flavor and color (you can add the habanero for heat at this point or add in the next step— a simple halved habanero with the seeds taken out, You can leave the stem on to make it easier to pluck out!).

Next deglaze the pan with the lime juice and coconut milk. Bring to heat.

Add in the lime zest, coconut flakes, cilantro, and green onions. Reserve enough of each for garnish. Add in the crab/shrimp/tofu and let it come up to temperature. (you can add raw shrimp to the warm milk and let it poach) Add the rice. Mix until the rice absorbs the coconut milk (don’t forget to take out the habanero if that is included).

Season and garnish to taste. Serve with a side of sriracha sauce.  It’s up to you. If you add poached eggs, top your individual rice serving with the egg and enjoy!

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Love Was The Strawberry Cake

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“She had been walking to the table carrying a tray of egg-yolk candies when she first felt his hot gaze burning her skin. She turned her head, and her eyes met Pedro’s. It was then she understood how dough feels when it is plunged into boiling oil. The heat that invaded her body was so real she was afraid she would start to bubble — her face, her stomach, her heart, her breasts — like batter…” ~ Laura Esquivel, Like Water For Chocolate

As I was inspired by springtime… I made two strawberry almond cakes last week. One I discovered from Let Me Eat Cake‘s blog, a post titled Cornmeal Almond Cake with Strawberries and Mascarpone, which I stirred up happily in my kitchen, baked in the oven, and decorated with cream and strawberries. When it was ready, cake cooled and iced, I served the cake to my three children. They gobbled half of it up after dinner. Cornmeal crumbs all over the table, surrounding their plates, all about their chairs, icing on their fingers, faces. The other half of the cake remaining I brought to my grandmother’s for Passover (it was “flourless” in a sense, although not entirely).

The Cornmeal Almond Cake was dense with cornmeal and ground almonds. It was a crumbly cake, one layer. I do like that heavy texture, it evokes backyard barbeques and summery afternoons to me. Maybe it’s just because cornbread and homemade cake equals warm weather and backyard get togethers. Nastassia from the blog Let Me Eat Cake explained that she found the recipe from Food & Wine magazine, and it tempted her to make the cake. In turn, Nastassia tempted me to try baking the cake as well. Like a recipe from an earmarked cookbook, or in this case, from a virtual next-door neighbor.

As much as I do love the crumble of cornbread cake and the wonderful tangy goodness of mascarpone frosting mingled with fresh strawberries, I decided that I’d make this cake again using a basic Génoise recipe rather than the heavier cornbread version. Much to my delight, the cake turned out even better than the first. I added the last of my vanilla beans and a splash of amaretto. I used some restraint, perhaps too much for this springtime cake. You see, to me, spring is all about sensual abandon. And the strawberry symbolizes the fruit of earthly pleasures.

I baked two Génoise cakes to layer the second cake, with mascarpone frosting in the middle. More mascarpone all over the outside, generously slathered with that marvelous texture of heavy cream. It felt good to make a layered cake. It had been years. I pressed the toasted almonds on the outside of the frosted cake with my hand. The frosting was enhanced with a few tablespoons of confectioners sugar and a dash of vanilla extract.

But there just wasn’t enough amaretto in it to justify its addition. I could barely taste it in the cake itself, so next time I’ll add more. Besides, who can resist more amaretto? Darling brought three baskets of strawberries home, and I sliced them to decorate. Toasted slivered almonds sprinkled with decorative gold dust and powdered sugar, crusted along the outside of the cake— almonds sticking to my fingers, falling all over the floor, the table, my hands covered in mascarpone frosting and almonds. The pleasure of making a cake on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I gave my three year old daughter the emptied bowl of whipped mascarpone frosting, along with a spatula to lick. That kept her happy for awhile, tracing the edges of the bowl with her fingers. Almonds scattered all about the table like falling leaves. The slivers of strawberry looked flowery spread out on the plate, so I imagined a large bloom made of them on the top of the cake. It reminded me of another cake I had baked years ago, but a strawberry version rather than a chocolate one. And what delight I took in its blossoming red beauty. It gave me the courage to bake again.

“Tita knew through her own flesh how fire transforms the elements, how a lump of corn flour is changed into a tortilla, how a soul that hasn’t been warmed by the fire of love is lifeless, like a useless ball of corn flour.” ~ Laura Esquivel, Like Water for Chocolate

For many years I didn’t bake, and I had grown distant from ovens and stove tops. I had left my apron lonely and ate out in restaurants most of the time. I wasn’t in the mood to cook, but now I think if I had, I may have found the kind of solace I find in baking now, where by beating eggs and creaming butter, my troubles melt into a big mixing bowl and emerge lighter. Troubles and worry are transformed into delight and happiness. I can sweeten my life with brown sugar, add spices and create wonderful aromas and flavors. I can daydream as I pour in the heavy cream, add the vanilla extract, its exotic fragrance redolent of kitchen memories, birthday parties, cupcakes, the taste of ice cream and the smell of vanilla malts. The therapeutic act of baking, making something delicious out of a refrigerator and pantry, allowing the mind to unravel its contents, gives me a sense of completion.

“Remember those raspberry tarts you use to bake?” A former boyfriend asked me, years ago, in my large downtown loft, the sound of his voice full of hope. We had met again, a few many years after we split. He wanted to get back together that night. Uncertain about things, I poured us some tea, tumbled some shortbread cookies out of a box and onto a serving plate. This was a night many years ago, almost eighteen years from now, or is it twenty? He was a musician, a talented one with a record deal. He had been on tour, while I was living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He was going from city to city, airplanes and stages, singing and playing guitar, meeting other girls. I was walking along dirt roads in a sundress and sandals under a big blue sky, thinking about making tamales and posole, painting a still life of oranges and pomegranates, engaged to a chef. Time had passed along a red mesa, down a dusty route from one year to another, and there we were, years later, eating cookies and drinking tea. I had moved back to Los Angeles, found a big loft to paint in. He came back from being on the road. There were many things I liked about him. We always laughed a lot. He’d make up songs and sing to me with his guitar, silly or not so silly, and sometimes I thought we were more than what we really were. He drove a Ford Fairlane convertible, wore cravats, liked 40′s film noir. He had hair the color of gingerbread. And he loved gingerbread cookies.

“Do you still bake?” he asked eagerly. I hesitated to answer and tilted my head to the side. I was immersed in French pastry classes at the time. Raspberry tarts were my favorite thing to make and I always seemed to have one in the refrigerator or another fresh from the oven, ready to decorate with jam and fresh raspberries. Chambord was the addition to the jam, painted on with a pastry brush, and raspberries, one by one, placed carefully in a concentric circle of lustrous, glistening berries. I made so many raspberry tarts that you’d think I was running a bakery. I made panfuls of Tarte Tatins, Charlottes with my own homemade ladyfingers, I tempered chocolate and made flower petals out of them, torched the sugared ramekins of crème brûlée, kept bottles of vanilla beans soaking in rum. Every night after class I’d come home with flour on my clothes and something sweet in my hands.

Then I met a chef in cooking school after that boyfriend. We cooked in his kitchen– he always made dinner, I always made dessert. We were living together, and soon after, engaged. It was in the kitchen during our preparation of a Thanksgiving dinner that he presented me with a ring and asked me to marry him. The ring, shimmering white gold, pearls, garnet, looked like cake icing and berries. He wrapped an apron around my waist, kissed me at the butcher’s block just before our guests arrived, and proposed. I was decorating a big cake at that moment; a four-layered chocolate cake with white chocolate flower petals, chocolate shavings decorating the sides. He brought home big blocks of chocolate so I could temper it, shave it, melt it, bake with it. We announced our engagement to my family and our friends at the Thanksgiving table. Lots of food, wine, champagne, and laughter. Then the cake, the glorious cake, full of rich chocolate and a big white flower of chocolate petals that resembled a chrysanthemum bloom.

The ring like cake icing reminded me of that night, and of that kitchen. That was when we moved to the open skies of Santa Fe during wintertime, years later. It was snowing, candelarias decorating adobe walls, cobalt blue painted window frames, the scent of burning piñon. I will always love the scent of piñon, and the smoky chile flavors of the Southwest. Canela, epazote, chipotle. Roasted ears of corn, blue corn tamales.

The ring. I took it off rarely, except when kneading dough. We never married, and I didn’t bake cakes like that one for Thanksgiving again. I stopped baking. Maybe every once in awhile, cornbread, or cupcakes for my children’s birthday parties out of cake mixes.

Then I moved to New Orleans. It was hot and humid, and baking wasn’t even a fleeting thought. Some iced tea with sliced lemon, Eggs Sardou, or a bowl of gazpacho, maybe a salad of Creole tomatoes and Vidalia onions, but not a moment’s thought entertained baking. I did have a friend, a poet, who worked in a bookstore in the French Quarter, and she loved to make bread. She would knead her dough and let it rise in her steamy kitchen. The yeasty smell filled the apartment, stacks of books in corners and upon tables, next to reading chairs, her writings all in a pile on her desk. She baked every kind of bread and had frozen loaves stashed away in her freezer. Poetry and baking. Writing and waiting for dough to rise. Contemplation. Creation.

And in New Orleans, there are cakes, but also other temptations, like Bananas Foster, beignets, bread pudding.

“The time it took to prepare didn’t matter, because there is no such thing as wasted time in the kitchen–rather that is where we go to recover lost time.” ~ Laura Esquivel, Between Two Fires: Intimate Writings on Life, Love, Food & Flavor

Baking again. Like an expression of contentment, the happiness of flour mixed with eggs, butter, vanilla and spices, creates a sweet new recipe in my life. I am baking again.

Perhaps the strawberry cake represents sweetness returning, like springtime warming the earth, blossoms opening, berries bursting from their green vines. Hope. Renewal. Spring. It’s been a long time since I’ve baked, and nothing seemed to inspire me since, except love.

The raspberry tarts were experimental, perhaps allegory for my searching as a young woman. Like anything, when we create, we are seeking a part of ourselves, to return full circle into wholeness. Whisking eggs, adding sugar, flour, butter, there is a hopefulness in baking. We want to make it sweet, delicious, beautiful. Back in my days of baking, I was a young woman of twenty. I didn’t know what I would be like twenty years from then, as I am now, although nearing forty-two to be exact, I’m not an exact person, which makes me wonder why it was that I loved baking and pastry so much, a precise art. But somehow I did bake well and create sweets that people ate and liked. I was very proud of my raspberry tarts in particular. I did attempt other tarts, such as blueberries with lemon curd, or pear tarts in frangipane.

It was the strawberry that I first loved as a child. My grandmother made me a bowl of sliced strawberries mixed in sour cream with heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar. Mix it all together, and you can’t go wrong. A bowl full of strawberries, sour cream and brown sugar. That was my most favorite dessert next to rice pudding. I’d ask for it before bedtime, and inquire just before dinner if my grandmother would make it for me afterwards.

“Do you have strawberries?” I’d ask.

A staple in the refrigerator was a carton of sour cream, which to me as a young girl was heaven. I didn’t know about crème fraîche, I just knew sour cream. That wondrous sensation of the heaviness of the cream, watching the brown sugar melt and swirling it with my spoon, I’d create whorls of caramel colored cream the more I stirred. The strawberries looked even more appealing in the mixture. Large chunks of brown sugar in a mouthful, the juice of the strawberry, the creamy texture of the sour cream carrying all of it, like a cloud of sweetness. I will never forget bowlfuls of sugar, cream and strawberries. What that meant to me then, what comfort.

And so, with spring arriving, baking gives me that sense of hopefulness. It comes  blossoming with Botticelli flowers, as prettily as Primavera under orange trees, lush fruits of fertility, symbols of love. And the strawberry. Strawberries are an aphrodisiac and typically served to newlyweds to sweeten their love. In Roman myth, when Adonis died, Venus cried so much because she loved Adonis passionately. As her tears fell from the heavens and sank into the earth, they turned into strawberries.

Passionate love has come into my life. And so I’ve rediscovered baking cakes. Strawberries and almonds with mascarpone frosting, as delightful and as fluffy as wedding cake, my expression of love in eggs, butter, flour, sugar, and vanilla.

“Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can’t strike them all by ourselves; just as in the experiment, we need oxygen and a candle to help. In this case, the oxygen, for example, would come from the breath of the person you love; the candle could be any kind of food, music, caress, word, or sound that engenders the explosion that lights one of the matches.” 
~ Laura Esquivel, Like Water For Chocolate

Spring brings new life. Eggs broken open: yellow yolk, new life, hope. Vanilla: intoxicating, pleasure. Sugar: pure sweetness. Cake flour: soft, downy. Butter: melted, warmth, happy. Mascarpone: creamy, luxurious. Strawberries: love.


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Like Carrots for Chocolate

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The days have been bright and blue, winds sweeping through the city, the air still crisp, a little rain, then sunshine. Palms trees bow and sway, birds singing in the early hours of the morning. Suddenly, it’s spring.

I cannot say which is which:
the glowing
plum blossom is
the spring night’s moon.

~ Izumi Shikibu

For a city like Los Angeles, we are never sure what the weather brings. We don’t have true seasons. But we humans crave rhythm, don’t we? We want the comfort of knowing what to expect. Integral to our biological make up, we want spring, summer, winter, and fall. Our produce here in California is generally bountiful year-round, except for some fruits and vegetables, like peas, asparagus, artichokes, dandelion, squash, berries, figs, pomegranates, melons, and various other types of local farm grown produce. Most of the time I can find what I am looking for in the farmers market, and I consider that a very lucky thing.

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. ~ Pablo Neruda

And I’m a lucky lady. For several Sundays now, my Darling has gone shopping at the farmers market and gathered produce to cook for dinner. One recent lazy Sunday he surprised me with a veritable feast for the senses, and such a delightful one at that.

Into the apartment he came with bags of things, including a large roaster pan (for the veggies, because he knew I needed a proper one), wine glasses, and fresh produce from the farmers market. When he began cooking in the kitchen, I was percolating with excitement, giddy from the thrill of him at the stove. The fragrance of spices, pots and pans clanging around, a kitchen towel slung into his belt loop, sound of oil sizzling in the pan and chopping of a knife. The oven door being swung open and shut. Heat. Alchemy. Scent of cinnamon and ginger. Roasting cauliflower. Heirloom carrots simmering in pomegranate juice.

He sautéed a rainbow of sweet, colorful heirloom carrots in a large saute pan, roasted cauliflower and garlic in a large roasting pan in the oven, and two filets of black cod marinated in miso, a glaze of golden emulsion, ready for another pan. What magic.

Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher would have approved of this sort of meal, and perhaps she would have deemed it “seductive.” I could imagine her saying, with a wry smile and a whisper: “Girl, this man knows his way to your heart by pot and pan, and by golly, he’s got you simmering like a fine sauce over an open flame.”

A menu with seafood and spice is a classic combination that emphasizes aphrodisiac powers. That clever man of mine, he’s already got me under his spell, and with further charm he cooks up a dinner like this. A seduction supper. A love feast. What ambrosia.

he poured pomegranate juice all over the naked carrots…

And oh, those carrots. The carrots were so lovely left rustic in their skins, not peeled or cut, just left as they were pulled from the ground. A gentle rinse and tossed in olive oil, then sautéed, sprinkled with cinnamon, sliced fresh ginger root in slivers, doused with pomegranate juice. I could barely manage watching him cook without swooning like a teenage girl. What a sly combination of flavors for carrots. Like a pretty farm girl dressed in lingerie, the carrots showed off their natural beauty in a seductive ruby-colored sauce.

lacy ribbons of parmesan upon the cauliflower…

The cauliflower, roasted in olive oil and garlic cloves, a dash of balsamic, blossomed in its white and charred magnificence. He topped it with parmesan and tossed it lovingly into a serving bowl.

The black cod was succulent, plump, melting upon my tongue. Better than any restaurant version. Marinated in miso which added a savory taste of salt, the flesh of the fish melted in my mouth. The flavor of the cod, the umami of the miso sauce: mirin, shoyu, sake, and miso. I rolled the bite around in my mouth, feeling the flesh disappear like butter, with only its magic lingering. I had experienced several dishes of black cod in the past year, and both shared with my Darling, but none compared to this. Perhaps it was his doing, but I felt a tingling sensation, the kind that one has when in the throes of extreme pleasure. Full of trembling and awe from the dinner, I continued to taste the flesh of the fish, daintly almost, as if each bite would cure me; a panacea for everything I worry about and every trouble. My belly was quite sure that I’d be transformed in a wondrous way.

Here is the recipe for the carrots. Everything was equally as delicious, but the carrots really sparkled in my mouth. They were truly special and made the dinner magical. The rainbow carrots. They were sultry. Sexy. Lusty. Those sexy, lusty carrots were juicy. Cinnamon-y. Gingery. Pomegranate juice reduction like an ambrosial elixir.

RAINBOW CARROTS in CINNAMON, GINGER & POMEGRANATE

  • farm fresh heirloom carrots (1 to 2 lbs roughly)
  • olive oil
  • sliced (or grated) ginger root
  • pomegranate juice, about 1/2 cup
  • cinnamon, generous sprinkles
  • orange zest (or peel)
  • sea salt/pepper
  • butter
  • honey (optional)
Wash the whole carrots in a colander. Do not peel them, just rub them clean with your hands or scrub lightly with a vegetable brush. Toss them in a casserole dish with olive oil. Add cinnamon, and the slices of ginger root. Add in the orange zest or even slices of orange peel. Don’t be shy. The cinnamon and ginger add a special magic to these carrots. Saute in a large pan (don’t crowd the carrots, they need space especially when reducing the pomegranate sauce) for a few minutes on medium heat. Pour in the pomegranate juice, about half a cup or more. It does not have to cover the carrots, as you are not braising them. Let it simmer for about 5-10 minutes on medium-high heat uncovered. Go with your instincts. Allow the spice, zest and ginger to mellow into the carrots, reducing the sauce. When you feel that the carrots are ready, looking ruby-red in the sauce, dash in a little sea salt and let it simmer a bit more. Stir and toss occasionally. You can also finish the carrots in the oven at 375F degrees, for the remaining 20 to 30 minutes, but pan roasting them on the stove top is just as lovely. During the last 5 minutes, add in a few pats of butter to give the sauce extra body and a beautiful glisten. The sweetness of the pomegranate juice will enhance the carrots in a marvelous way. Serve with a sparkle in your eye. It’s pure seduction.

Then he mentioned dessert with a twinkle in his eye…

“I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.”  ~ Pablo Neruda

We left the dishes for later and went off to Churros Calientes in West Los Angeles. I hadn’t any idea what I was in for. Chocolate… churros… together in one moment of bliss. After the heavenly meal, this was an experience that made it extra special.

Hot, fresh churros served fresh in a wax paper lined basket, with a demitasse cupful of the sexiest hot chocolate made from cacao beans. The hot chocolate is for dipping your churro. A tiny spoonful of it sent me into an eye rolling meltdown of pleasure.

Bittersweet dark cacao, hot and melted, fragrant with its luxurious essence in a demitasse cup.

Imagine, a quaint little brick-walled café, your lover next to you, a basket of hot churros and syrupy, velvety-rich chocolate sauce. I had chai tea with steamed milk, Darling had Marroncito, a Venezuelan espresso with steamed milk, or con leche. The large samovar of hot chocolate was positioned in the center of the counter, the spigot of it, a tempting lever of desire. As we sat there together, savoring the moment of chocolate and churros, flamenco music swirled its syncopated measures from the video screen above the kitchen door. I’m not sure who it was that was singing with such Andalucían passion, but the room was filled with his warm voice and flamenco guitar. A mysterious sensuality enveloped the little room, reminding of humid evenings, lovers at bistro tables, hands linked, kisses, romance. Me and Darling, a hot basket of churros, and a demitasse of chocolate. The menu mentioned that “you might as well be in Madrid.”

We were in a romantic reverie for that moment.

If chocolate and churros didn’t satisfy enough, we also tried the guava and cream cheese churros. Because Darling knows how much I love guava and cream cheese together. Guava and Cream Cheese Pie. Now in churros version, I can have that taste fix to soothe my craving when I can’t get over to Echo Park for that guava and cream cheese pie.

It was beyond indulgence. And we loved every mouthful.

I kept imagining bringing home a small cup of chocolate, eyeing the large samovar full like it was some endless fountain of glory. No wonder Aztecs valued chocolate as “food of the gods” and drank gourds full of the stuff. Historically, chocolate, as we know it, was once “xocoatl”, and its aphrodisiac qualities trace back three or four millennia to pre-Columbian cultures.

Darling couldn’t resist. The glutton in him wanted to order another basket of churros. He rationalized that we still had some chocolate left in the cup. We just couldn’t let that go to waste. I feigned a little resistance and murmured something about weight and butt. He laughed knowing we both wanted another basket. In a moment of pure indulgence, he ordered some more churros. Our server grinned as he overheard our debate. He put in the order, only to return with a new full cup of chocolate for us.

And then more hot sugary churros came fresh from the kitchen. You might as well be in Madrid, I thought to myself. Or Barcelona. I had mentioned the idea to Darling in the beginning of our romance. “Let’s go to Barcelona,” I suggested playfully. Little did I know, Madrid existed in a café on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Los Angeles.


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Recipes For Love: Confessions of a Sensual Foodie

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“Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.”

~ Harriet Van Horne

Once Upon a Time

Last year I began this food blog. It was something to write about among other writings, such as personal essays, fiction, and poetry. Writing about one of my greatest pleasures, food, soon became my passion. So I followed my heart. I had forgotten all about the few years that I spent in culinary school, learning French classic cooking and pastry. That was when I was in my early twenties and single. I did it to learn how to cook, not to become a chef. I learned basic knife skills, and the marvels of butter. But in rediscovering this pleasure of mine, I began to cook more often, until it boiled over into an obsession.

When my children were babies, I made their baby food. Avocados are plentiful in California and make a perfect baby meal. Bananas, of course, are easy to mash. But how about blending up a ripe mango with Greek yogurt? If I had the chance make their food fresh, I did. In some cases it’s not easy to do, when you are busy. Soon my local farmers market became a regular visit for fresh produce.

Grocery shopping on Sundays was just the kind of simple pleasure I enjoyed. More than spending the day in a bookstore, which I also found relaxing, I loved wandering through the market, lingering over the farmers’ tables full of rotund and happy tomatoes, fragrant red strawberries, dewy lettuces, feathery green herbs, feeling the heat of the sunlight on my skin, walking through the crowd of people, eating from the food stalls, delicious things like roasted corn on the cob, baked yams, tamales, empanadas — all the smells, sensations and colors, it encouraged impromptu menus and the inspiration to cook to my heart’s content. I must have seemed a mad woman to my children, carting them along in the morning, coming home with the overflowing bags of farm fresh produce after the market, chopping away in the kitchen for many hours of the afternoon, putting together a feast for dinner. Sunday was my only day to really, truly cook.

Or un-cook. For a brief period of that time, right after giving birth to my third child, I had the grand idea of going raw and vegan. I was already vegetarian. So going raw and vegan wasn’t that much of a leap. I was eating lots of nuts, seeds, avocados, collard leaves and kale. Almond milk was fun to make, but… I’m a grumpy gal when on a strict or restrictive sort of diet. I need eggs. And I don’t think I can live without butter. Cream and dairy are delicious. And oh, the grand glory of really good cheese. Soon I fell off the raw food wagon.

I wasn’t doing much of anything in the kitchen during the week as I was working a job I didn’t want to do anymore. Well, I’m still doing that, but I’m in transition, a life change, seeking a new direction, following my heart. I have to work to support my family, all with my one income, so there is little time for pleasure. Frazzled, worn out, exhausted, worried about paying the overdue bills.

But indulge me for a moment and let me talk about this in past tense. Because soon, very soon, The Sensual Foodie will be my full-time passionate career. It may seem like a dream, but I dare to follow my bliss.

You see, last year when I started this blog, cooking and dining for pleasure was almost fantasy. After the long workday, I’d come home to my three children and piece together some semblance of dinner. Most of the time it was a cobbled together casserole or quiche. I didn’t have time to make a homemade quiche crust so I’d buy a pre-made one (which I had on hand in the freezer). I’d whip together the filling with eggs and hope the thing came out edible. It was hardly sensual and not quite how I’d imagined my life to be at that point. I waited out the week for my marketing Sunday to cook and eat a leisurely meal. What I craved was a positive change. So the blog was created. I wanted food adventures, explorations, pleasures.

I Dream of a Garden with Chickens and Eggs

I imagined a garden outside my kitchen window, a few chickens roaming free in the backyard for fresh eggs. Eggs for omelettes, frittatas, quiches and cakes, or just a simple poached egg and toast. In this beautiful imaginary life, there would be a lovely place to put a table outside, maybe under a shady tree, and have friends join us for home cooked meals. I had visions of the kids digging in the garden, planting vegetables and herbs. I imagined the joy and wonder on their faces when the plants sprouted from the soil, and the pride they might have in eating what they grew. That source of enjoyment in nature just might replace video games and cartoons. Possibly. Well, I might be dreaming wildly there, but I want to teach them how to bake a cake, how to grow things, and how to enjoy the pleasures of food.

But reality can be as cold as a frozen TV dinner. I’ve been living in a cramped two-bedroom apartment in this big city of Los Angeles. I sleep in the living room so the kids can have their own bedrooms. I have a tiny balcony that doesn’t get much sunlight, if at all. Even worse, I make due with an electric stove and range top. My clay pots have ugly rings on their bottoms from the coil of the burners and the oven under bakes everything. The kitchen is the size of a ship galley, only fitting one person comfortably. And I’m rarely home to do much cooking and baking. But somehow, I figure out a way to cook when the chance presents itself. By writing the blog, I had pushed myself into making time to cook, eat, enjoy. I roasted vegetables and made clay pots full of delicious soup.

“I want a little sugar in my bowl / I want a little sweetness down in my soul…” ~ Bessie Smith

I wanted someone to cook with me. But how could a couple cook together in such a tiny kitchen? My (former) relationship (at this time last year) wasn’t going well and we weren’t cooking together. I urged him to try to cook with me on Sundays, but we didn’t, and that was recipe for an argument. He said he didn’t know how to cook for me. I picked at what he did make, suspiciously poking at the overcooked vegetables. He’d then mope about and slam the oven shut. Pots and pans clanged as he washed them. I was snarly. He was sullen. It all went sour from there. It was clear that the broth of our relationship wasn’t good enough to make the soup. The proof was in the pudding, as the saying goes. Because of this, I wasn’t in the best of spirits, and the kitchen reflected all of our woes. I was ignoring my state of unhappiness and pretending that all was well, just like adding salt to a dish to make it taste better. And I wanted a little sugar in my bowl.

To add to the stew, I had also begun an early menopause at the ripe age of forty-one years old. Hot flashes, night sweats, insomnia. I couldn’t tolerate red wine anymore, particularly Chianti. It gave me heart palpitations. Hormonal changes kept me from enjoying a glass of wine! Believe me, this is true suffering. My one comfort: a big jammy, juicy glass of red.

“How beautiful life is when it gives us riches.” ~ Frida Kahlo

My acupuncturist, Dr. Maoshing Ni, gave me medicinal herbs in a tea blend. He also gave me a list of “yin nourishing” foods to eat. I made the connection of aphrodisiacs and healing Chinese herbs and thought there must be something to it. In fact, my acupuncturist suggested that I eat oysters. Oysters! Aphrodisiacs could also be for wellness and vitality, not just for inspiring romance.

Some Day My Darling Will Come

So I’ll tell you about how I met my Darling. I didn’t use an aphrodisiac or love elixir to charm him. No, love happened at a time in my life when I wasn’t expecting it to find me.

In the midst of all the difficulty, I found solace in writing, cooking and eating. I started exploring recipes and writing about food. But what I didn’t realize was that by posting my thoughts online via my food blog, with the saucy title The Sensual Foodie, I was conjuring up a cyber font love spell to seduce the man of my dreams.

Darling read my blog and admired my writing. He wrote. I responded. We direct messaged, then we emailed. I called him. We talked for hours. I forgot to run errands that day and I cancelled work appointments.

I didn’t know it then, but I had found the love of my life.

Thanks to my acupuncturist (Dr. Mao, my cupid) and his list of foods to nourish my “yin essence,” namely oysters, I was exploring aphrodisiacs, herbs, spices, and became immensely curious about many foods I had avoided out of sheer vegetarian stubbornness. At the top of my list of things to eat were: (yes) oysters, shellfish, and a variety of herbs and spices that were beneficial to a woman’s health.

There were also other things bubbling in my mind. I could not stop my milk from foaming over about this man who admired my writing. I was intrigued by his photo with a chicken foot in his mouth. Who could imagine that I’d fall for a man with a chicken foot in between his lips? Now he’s the honey in my tea, sweetening everything.

True Love’s Kiss

“I never knew it could be like this. Nobody ever kissed me the way you do.” ~ From Here to Eternity

It was a sunny Friday afternoon when Darling and I met. It was also National Oyster Day. The “aphrodisiac oyster” was a playful foodie innuendo we teased about through emails and phone calls, here and there, about the oyster and its supposed powers for lovemaking, and maybe it was the reason we chose to finally meet. Well, I’m making it out to be a theme, but it wasn’t really. It was just a little flirtatious joke. As you may know, the oyster is considered the main aphrodisiac that most imagine for seduction. Of course we talked about many things, not just aphrodisiacs.

 And I had never tried an oyster in my life.

So after many hours of writing messages to each other that day, he decided, spontaneously, to just finally come meet me in my work studio. My stomach fluttered with anticipation! It was three in the afternoon and he was on his way over. My heart thumping away as I hurried to make myself look pretty despite the fact that I was caught in my sweaty gym clothes with an empty office fridge. What kind of foodie was I with an empty refrigerator? So I rushed off quickly to the market and bought some good cheese, apples, a baguette, fleur de sel chocolate, and champagne.

He knocked on the door, and I opened it to see this tall, handsome man standing there. Without a moment’s pause he swept me into his arms and kissed me. It was a kiss I will never forget so long as I live. A storybook kiss, sudden and passionate, a soul satisfying true love’s kiss, the kind of kiss that awakened Sleeping Beauty and the very sort of kiss that consummates all romantic films.

And so we began with a fairytale kiss. It was then that I realized what true love is and you might say it was love at first sight (or kiss) for me. As nervous as a schoolgirl, I offered him my fancy French chocolate and champagne, of which he had a tiny morsel of the fleur de sel chocolate and a sip or two of the bubbly. But it was just that kiss that worked its magic, without herbs, spices, or any other aphrodisiac, except love.

Before that kiss, I wasn’t sure if I’d find love. I’d had hints and ideas, many romances, a marriage, a divorce, and another long relationship after that which wasn’t working out. I also had three children. My life was scattered between pick up and drop off times, baseball practices, school plays, and other motherly events. I began to think that romantic love wasn’t meant to be. What was real honest-to-goodness true love? Did it really exist? Or was it some fictitious concept made grand by all the novelists and storytellers of historical past? Poets could not write romantic words without it. And I was a hopeless romantic at one time— a poet, a writer. I even considered writing romance novels! But disappointments had dulled the sparkle in my eye. I didn’t want to admit that I was becoming cynical, scoffing at love quotes and syrupy greeting cards. I thought perhaps I was becoming more of a realist, not thinking about the idea of true love or whatever I thought it was. I had become used to “almost” and as a result, I gave up on the notion that I’d ever meet that special someone that made my heart rise like a glorious soufflé.

“They call me oven, say that I’m red hot / They say I’ve got somethin’ the other gals ain’t got / I can strut my pudding, spread my grease with ease /  ‘Cause I know my onions, that’s why I always please.”  

~ Nellie Florence, “Jacksonville Blues”

But there isn’t a single recipe to make someone fall in love with you. No magical potion, aphrodisiac, elixir or tincture exists. There is a way, however, to live passionately. I truly believe that following one’s heart is the way and being a passionate person brings us unexpected gifts. It can also attract that special someone to you. When we are inspired, we are open, receptive to wonderful things, alive. And that is how I felt, awakened by my own true love’s kiss. Darling made me feel alive and inspired.

I was so inspired by my Darling that I decided to write a cookbook about being a sensual foodie. It’s about passion, for love, life, and aphrodisiacs to inspire. Not just for love, but for our vitality.

“You so sweet you whet my appetite / You make me hungry I just want to get a bite / You resist me baby but I’ll get you yet / There’s one thing I know: sugar melts when it’s wet / Oh, baby, you make my sweet tooth ache.” ~ Albert Collins, “Sugar Melts When it’s Wet”

A Little of What You Fancy Does You Good

Aphrodisiacs are good for you. There are many Chinese herbs that support sexual health and increase “qi” or “life force energy” which is essential for our overall well-being. In Eastern medicine, our sexual energy is our good health. There is no separation between sexuality, health and life. Good chi is sexy.

Here is a recipe from Isabel Allende’s wonderful book, Aphrodite: Memoir of the Senses, a little excerpt discovered on page 123:

APHRODISIAC SOUP OF ACUPUNCTURE MASTER

For two, you place in a beautiful clay flameproof casserole, with due ceremony:

  • 4 pieces of red Korean ginseng
  • 1/4 of a chicken, in pieces
  • 2 chives, minced
  • 4 slices fresh ginger
  • 2 tablespoons red or white miso

Cook over a slow fire until the chicken is tender, meanwhile, reading an erotic text, and at the end add 1/2 cup of sake and 6 raw prawns, shelled and deveined, which, in order to preserve their potency, should not be allowed to boil any longer than 5 minutes.

So my sugar bowl overfloweth.

I have someone to cook with, to eat with, to love. And so, The Sensual Foodie is full of passion! Love, pleasure and cooking together. Dining, drinking wine, and kissing until we simmer, froth, boil, and melt into one another in a pot full of love.

He’s the cream in my tea, the jelly in my roll. He’s the sparkle in my champagne and the sugar in my bowl. He’s my joy, my love, my darling love. And I’m so happy.

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” ~ Virginia Woolf

All the stories on this blog have developed from my dinners out with my Darling. We’ve also been cooking together, and sometimes he surprises me with dinner he’s made, or a pink pastry box full of guava and cream cheese pie, or a container full of mango sticky rice. It’s a wonderful dream come true. He’s made my life a big bowl full of cherries, refilling it when I eat them, and tossing away the pits. I’m so lucky. I’ve found the love of my life. I’m following my passion, and I am writing about food and pleasure. It’s a bon appétit recipe for love!

The Sensual Foodie is an adventure in the pleasures of food, love and life.

Aphrodisiacs for Love, Wellness and Vitality. 

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Aphrodisiacs, Spicy Thai BBQ, and the Ginger Pork Curry

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It was hidden away in a strip mall just East of the 101 freeway in a neighborhood that is a melting pot of Little Armenia and East Hollywood Thai Town. An area of Los Angeles that I’d otherwise drive through and never think to stop for anything. But if I had passed by without so much as a glance, I’d never experience the magical influence of the ginger pork curry.

Disguised by its drab exterior and other gritty surrounds, this tiny place was concealed from the urban grime, a shining jewel within the corner mini mall. Like a secret garden, once through the door of Spicy BBQ, you are enveloped by its charm. You feel at home. It sparkles.

Bright and cheery Kay, with her kind face and mothering instinct, will invite you inside. There are only a few tables to choose from. Its dollhouse size makes the place more enchanting. It reminds of gingerbread houses and folktales. Once you are seated, you will continue to look around and marvel at the sweetness of the interior. It shines with love.

Burgundy curtains swag in a valance above the one window facing out towards the parking lot. Signage written at the top of the windowpane simply reads, “Spicy.” Underneath the description is “BBQ” but from inside one can only read “Spicy” backwards. The glass door shimmers and a jingle bell tinkles. Thai scrolled writing upon a decorative wooden placard says “Welcome” hanging along the entry wall, and the wainscoting is adorned with a strip of wood carved ornament.

The menu has many dishes; laminated photos illustrating the noodles, fish, meats, curries, soups, rice. Kay will tell you what dishes are better than the ones you’ve chosen, and she will stand right before you, grinning with her friendly smile that both welcomes and implies that she knows better.

We ordered the ginger pork curry for the first time. Kay suggested that it went best with sticky rice, so we agreed. We had also ordered the papaya salad (Som Tam) and Tom Kha soup, both rich with Thai chili.

Our Thai teas were classically tamarind orange, slushy with ice, condensed milk swirling into it, served in tall Coca Cola glasses, straws adorned with small roses sculpted by hand out of the white wrapping paper.

When lovers are meeting in a café and taking a moment away from the rest of the world, for that one instant, there is nothing but their face, their presence. You want to hold on to that moment always. For that is everything, to be seated side by side, as we were, in this quaint Thai café, our bodies pressed so close together, my head leaning upon his shoulder. Tenderly I noticed the shape of his ear, the masculine lines of his face, and with my eyes I traced each curve of his cheek, his eyes, nose, lips. The scent of his skin draws me, I nuzzle my head into the curve of him like a little girl seeking comfort. I can never get close enough, leaning into him, kissing the side of his neck, inhaling near his cheek, a kiss there. Our hands linked, tips of his fingers caressing mine.

Kay brought each dish to the table. The festive papaya salad, the aromatic hot pot full of Tom Kha soup. Sticky rice wrapped in plastic, placed inside cup-sized baskets. The rice package is hot in the palm of my hand. I want to scoop it out, spoon it on my plate, but I wait for the curry.

He opens his, takes the rice from its basket, eats a little of it by itself. Mouthful of soup, I savor the Tom Kha with shrimp and some white fleshy fish, spoon plunking into the creamy bowl, straw mushrooms bobbing happily in the coconut milk soup, eating fat slices of tomato, hot and steaming in my mouth. I taste lemongrass and galangal root, chili and kaffir lime. Tom Kha nourishes me when I’m in need of something comforting, and I resort to it when I am not feeling well. No other soup makes me feel better. But even when my health is good, I crave a big bowl of it.

Then the aphrodisiac dish arrives: kaeng hangleh (ginger pork curry) with large slices of ginger, a dazzle of peanuts, the stew of the curry so sensuous and velvety, its sultry gravy saturating the sticky rice with a hearty glaze. Cilantro, fragrant and green, feathered on top of the surface. Peanuts dappled among the large pieces of pork meat, and the curry itself thick with a wondrous color mélange of turmeric-orange, massaman paste chili-red. A curry that has depth, a healing pot of stew. This curry made me forget vegetarianism, and all of my meatless days, finding something nurturing in the flesh of a pig.

When I think of that first bite of the ginger pork curry, how it was ladled so lovingly on top of the pillow of sticky rice by my Darling, as he served me each amount without the meat of the pork, just slowly dousing the hillock of my white portion of rice with the wonderfully unctuous gravy, making sure I got my share of the wide slivers of ginger… when I think of that taste and soul satisfying texture, how it seeped into my blood and bones, I realized that ginger, glorious and zesty, a mischievous rhizome root, made my body soften and zing with desire. It wasn’t long after that dinner that I felt my veins buzz and our kiss came alive, potent with eroticism, fueled by the spicy passion of ginger, as if some cherubic angel or devilish pixie lit tiny fires of lust inside of us.

This Northern Thai-Chinese cuisine isn’t tempered for Western palates. Its shining balance of spice and exotic flavors doesn’t compromise for those who can’t handle it, and you won’t ask for Pad Thai noodles here or expect deep fried spring rolls to be served on the side. This jewel box of a restaurant is nothing like most Americanized Thai establishments. It is unexpected authenticity, and like anything truly special, it seems to exist in another dimension parallel to the streets outside. You may forget all about the city entirely. I did, as the sauce of the curry dripped down my chin, quickly dabbed with my napkin, held within the bowl of my mouth for a slow burn. The fiery chili and ginger slices warmed through me, my teeth enjoyed sinking into the rind of the ginger, chewing its fibrous root, feeling its expansive quality radiate. I couldn’t stop marveling at the glistening fat that glittered in the curry, and how the rice carried it so perfectly. The ginger was the essence of this splendid dish.

Galangal, the “Siamese ginger,” sister to ginger itself, is also aphrodisiac, and in fact considered so by Thai herbalists. Musky hot and sour, the slices of the galangal root are pungent, deliciously flavoring the soups of most Thai varieties. I had once bitten into a slice of the galangal root and thought it was awfully medicinal tasting; bitter and inedible. I could not remove that taste memory from my mind. Even so, it changes the entire flavor of the soup in a transformative way. Suddenly, galangal root is intoxicatingly good. Tom Kha asks for this rhizome and just wouldn’t be the same without it. We enjoyed a Tom Kha with fish on another visit, and it was sublime.

After the first time eating at Spicy BBQ, we went for a drive into the hills of Los Feliz, and I directed my Darling to drive farther into the winding roads where I grew up. I showed him the street, steep and veined with black-tarred cracks in the asphalt, the street that stretched around and down into my childhood memory, the street where I skinned my knees and ran and laughed and played hopscotch on the sidewalk, outlined in colored chalk. The car swerved along the hilly roads until we reached the bottom of the hill. We turned down a road, one where I wasn’t allowed to go, because it was a dead end and too far from my house. There were hiking trails, houses on one side, other houses hidden by trees and brush, and it was farther away from my house than my mother and grandmother would let me wander. The ginger was still making my blood fizzy with its spice. We parked on the dark street and kissed.

In the dark, headlights off, streetlights buzzing in their orange glow. I clasp his face lightly with my hands. The natural scent of him, his warm mouth melting against mine. I’m intoxicated by his kiss. His tongue tastes of ginger, he smells like cardamom and turmeric, his lips, to me, are a garam masala of heavenly flavor. He leans across the center and unbuckles his seatbelt. I unbuckle my heeled sandals. I undo the seatbelt. His hands tuck up underneath my hair. He pulls my face deeper into our kiss.

His mouth and mine, his mouth, mine. It must be the ginger.

The second time he brought a large container of ginger pork curry over to my apartment, we had the same dinner as the first: Tom Kha soup, papaya salad, and ginger pork curry. That night, perhaps coincidentally, we had a spicy reaction of lustful kissing and lovemaking that might have lit the fireplace and electrified all of the lights in our building. It evoked the final scene in Like Water For Chocolate, when Tita and Pedro finally make love. Candles, burning matches, explosions, and fire, combusting into fireworks bursting high in the sky as their passionate love for one another consumes them in an infernal blaze. Nothing was left of the lovers but the cookbook containing all of Tita’s recipes. But we didn’t combust into flames poetically. We did live to have more of that ginger pork curry.

So, the third time we went to dinner at Spicy BBQ, we pondered the menu, thinking of trying something different.

But we both knew we wanted the ginger pork curry.

“It’s the ginger,” I mused. He looked at me with his almond eyes shaping in curves of flirtation, and we knew what would happen after eating it. He doesn’t believe that ginger is the sole reason for our extreme passionate episodes, yet there is something marvelous about the ginger pork curry. We both find it folly to think that an edible root can induce such lusty moments in love; the kind that fog up car windows and make us kiss furtively like teenagers. Ginger was proving itself to be a powerful aphrodisiac.

It may have been the ginger pork curry that caused our love to flame brightly with passion, as it certainly caused us to notice that something had aroused our uncontrollable desire for each other. Perhaps the ginger may have had some effect, like turning the heat up on the stove of an already hot pan. After the third time, we were almost sure that eating the ginger pork curry was an aphrodisiac.

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Rainy Day in Venice à la Française : Le Café au Zinque

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“The fragrance & adventure of poetry endlessly pervades each cup of tea”~ Henri Mariage

This morning, gray drizzle. I am wearing a knit scarf, yoga pants, a long sleeve cotton top, and a cozy sweater. But I am not wearing boots on this rainy day. In true Venetian style, I am wearing flip flops in hopes that I’ll make it over to the beach on my cruiser bicycle. Perhaps it will clear up, and I can stroll along the sand. I haven’t had leisurely time these days. I am not accustomed to it either. But the soul requires slow. I am a dreamy sort, trying to keep up with the quick moving city bustle. I think to myself, we can’t possibly be made for rushing about in the fray, driving in traffic, spending hours upon hours in the car, wondering what to make for dinner, when and where to buy groceries, and then worrying about things that we don’t want to think about but do, because sitting in traffic trying to get to places on time will trigger that sort of thinking. And so, in defiance of all the hurry scurry that usually fills my days, I am having a lovely cup of tea, an egg sandwich with tomato, basil and Swiss cheese, and a bowl of granola with berries and yogurt. The bowl of granola with its yogurt, plain and unassuming, lightly covered in granola with fresh raspberries, blueberries, and halved grapes.

This newly opened coffee house/wine bar in Venice is just near the intersection of Abbot Kinney and Venice Boulevard, and it’s très français. Warm, fresh from the oven le pain au chocolat, croissants that taste like croissants, tartines, café, thé, vin et le champagne… oysters every Monday night with a master ecailler, wine tastings, and other temptations that are just irresistable.

How can one resist? Comment pouvez-vous?

Le Zinque, a coffee and wine bar, is just the place for me. The first time I came to Le Zinque was with Darling for a cozy evening nibble of cheese, some tartines, and a carafe of wine for two.

French cafés are zincs, and its interior is as simple as its name— a long wood counter, concrete floor, rustic beams, nothing fancy. It’s Abbot Kinney location lends even more of a hip and yet relaxed feel, an easygoing nonchalance, where writers like me can enjoy a moment of contemplation and feel the creativity flow through our veins with a little chocolat et thé.

Writers and artists have always flocked to cafés, throughout history. Paris had its Montparnasse brimming with les artistes, and Café du Dôme was where all the intellectuals, sculptors, writers, poets, painters, and penniless bohemians had their fill of sausage (Saucisse de Toulouse) and mashed potatoes for cheap or perhaps a drawing or poem on a napkin. Which I wish still worked as currency, because I’d have to paint a grand painting for my pain au chocolat et thé at Le Zinque for my petit morning of leisure. My egg sandwich is superb, however. They bake the eggs in muffin tins so the egg comes out plump and round, with the swiss cheese melted lusciously all over it, peppered, the tomato juicy and tasting of fresh tomato, not mealy textured or watery, basil leaf dripping with moist delicacy, the English muffin crisp and warm.

And how I love a good egg sandwich. The tea is Mariage Frères, Rouge Bourbon Vanillè. It is a vanilla black tea, creamy, exotic, marvelously sensual. Frothy steamed milk served in a large bowl-like cup. The egg sandwich, satisfying my need for comfort.

It is my new bohemian habit to come to this café, and have tea, or if later in the day, a glass of wine, a tartine. One morning I arrived early, just as the pain au chocolat came out of the oven. The flaky and tender pain au chocolat paired with a Marco Polo tea filled my belly as I read through a cookbook, planning my next cooking adventure. Ah, the Marco Polo tea blend is a marvelous flavor. According to the tea maker, Marco Polo tea is “Mariage Frères’ most famous secret is this mysterious blend that takes you to distant lands and strange countries.” Chinese and Tibetan flowers are blended with fruit, giving a uniquely deep and floral bouquet. Its aroma lingered as I sipped from my cup, and then a bite of the buttery pain au chocolat. I will be like the artistes of Montparnasse, and frequent Zinque as often as I can write, paint and create, for the love of food and sensuality.

 

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Aphrodisiac Recipe for Love : Passionata Pesto

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The beauty of fresh bouquets of basil always attracts me when I’m produce shopping at my local farmers market. The wide green leaves not only look lovely, they smell wonderful as well.

There are more than 50 varieties of basil, and for many centuries it has been known as an aphrodisiac. The plant is native to India and has been grown in the Asian continent for over 5,000 years. Basil inspires desire and helps with fertility issues. It gives a sense of wellness and calm, relieving anxiety. In Roman times, the fragrant scent of basil also was thought to inspire men to passionate heights when their lover’s breasts were dusted with dried and  powdered basil. No insignificant herb, basil has been popular for stirring up passion in pots and pans, especially in Italy, Thailand, and Vietnam. South Asian cuisines use the Thai Basil variety for many different dishes. Thai Basil, Lemon Basil, and Holy Basil are the main types of basil used all over Asia. Italians use Sweet Basil for their pesto sauces and other recipes.

Chinese cooks like to use basil in their soups. Thai basil is a fragrant addition to the Vietnamese soup, phở. In Taiwan, fresh basil leaves are added to soups and deep fried with their fried chicken recipes.

Of course, pesto is what I love to use basil for the most. It is fun to create different kinds of pesto, such as arugula pesto, but the traditional basil pesto is my favorite.

Here I’ve used the basic recipe but added pistachios in with the pine nuts as well as a hint of black truffles. Even though basil is a powerful aphrodisiac on its very own, pine nuts add another seductive dimension to your pesto. Pine Nuts, or Pignolias, are zinc-rich and tasty little things that flavor pesto with a creamy and luxurious flavor. And pine nuts are, you guessed it, an aphrodisiac known to bring couples together and fire up their mating instincts as well as their matrimonial dreams. Seriously. Pine nuts are magical things that make wedding bell wishes come true. To add this into an already sensuous recipe with gloriously green basil leaves, well. Not only will your pesto look deliciously green from the basil, but its texture will be voluptuous with this powerful little nut from the pine tree, known as the pignolia. And if you aren’t married yet and wish to make your lover hear wedding bells… make passionate pesto. If you are married and want to bring back the passionata, make a little mangia mangia and you’ll see. It works.

Passionata Pesto

I made this pesto the other night before Darling came home for dinner. Penne was all this pesto needed to transport his senses to the euphoric states of passionate love. I had grand designs to satisfy his hunger for food and l’amour. Just after I blended up this pesto recipe, he came into the kitchen and began nibbling the back of my neck, kissing here and there. From that point on, what amorous mischief evolved while the penne was boiling is my secret and most passionate ingredient. Wasn’t it mentioned somewhere that the fragrance of basil inspires the passion of men? 

  • olive oil, 2 generous cups
  • bouquet of basil, plucked leaves
  • lemon juice, 1/2 cup freshly squeezed
  • parmesan, 1/2 cup and some
  • garlic, 3 cloves, blanched to remove bitterness
  • pine nuts, 1/2 cup and some
  • pistachios, 1/4 cup
  • sea salt, to taste
  • Urbani Truffle Thrills “Pesto & Truffles” 1 tablespoon
Pour a generous amount of olive oil into your blender. Blanche the garlic quickly in boiling water for about two minutes. Add the garlic, lemon juice, basil leaves, parmesan, pine nuts, pistachios, and your tiny amount of (optional) black truffle (not too much) into the blender and combine until the pesto is smooth and green. Just a hint of truffle. Don’t go wild. It’s potent stuff. Yes, if you really want to seal the deal and go extreme with aphrodisiac passion, add the black truffles. I found this adorable little tin full of real black truffle, not the cloying truffle oil stuff. Urbani is the brand name of the magical truffle products. If you are lucky enough to get your hands on real fresh truffles, shave some into this passionately! Keep adding parmesan, basil leaves, and pine nuts until you have created a nice consistency, either rough or smooth, to your liking. Sea salt and pepper to taste.

You can also slather it on foccacia, add some ricotta and basil leaves chiffonade, and it’s simply decadent. Use pesto in the morning with a poached egg and drizzle of balsamic crème.

Sandwiches and wraps are also good ways to eat this pesto with passion. But I just love it on focaccia with an egg. Serve it up sexy with ratatouille or a soup and you have yourself a tantalizing lunch for two, passionata style.

 

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Aphrodisiac Elixirs for Radiance : The Chai Bliss Smoothie

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I’ve been conjuring up some recipes for radiance. Aphrodisiacs, as we commonly know them, are meant for inspiring love. But what about our vitality? Yes, the same herbs, spices, fruits and foods can also benefit our health. Sexy is healthy. When we feel good, vibrant and alive we create good energy and positive thoughts. So pour on the sexy and get your mojo groove on with an aphrodisiac elixir smoothie.

Because I’m a lover of chai tea and I just can’t get enough of that spice blend, I created my version of a chai smoothie to give me an extra boost — The Chai Bliss Smoothie.

Chai Bliss

This smoothie is a spicy blend of vanilla, cardamom and cinnamon, all aphrodisiacs for love, wellness and vitality.

  • 2 cups almond milk (homemade & fresh if you can)
  • coconut water from 1 whole coconut, ice cold preferably
  • 2 bananas
  • 9 dates, pitted
  • cinnamon
  • cardamom
  • vanilla, pod or extract
  • maca powder (improves mood & balances hormones)
  • horny goat weed (look out libido)
  • flaxseed oil (get flaxy)

The dates make this smoothie sweet, but if you want, add a little honey. Honey is one of my favorite things in life. Just call me honey. You are what you eat! You can also add herbal tinctures and other ingredients to make your smoothie aphrodisiac more magical. I suggest horny goat weed, or a dash of flax seed oil. Maca root is also a fabulous energy booster for vitality.

Maca Root is considered the “Superfood of the Andes” and is a true adaptogen. It has phyto-chemicals that benefit our health. Its magical properties are beneficial for women of perimenopausal and menopausal age, but guys, don’t turn away! Maca root can also boost your libido and help you feel good. It doesn’t act upon the hormones directly, but has positive effects on energy and mood. It can help alleviate anxiety and improve sexual desire. Maca may also improve sperm production and semen volume. You can relax a little and love more! 

I’ve been taking Femmenessence capsules that contain concentrated levels of maca root, but you can find maca powder in health food stores to add directly to your smoothie.

Horny Goat Weed, or Epimedium, is a plant that contains chemical compounds similar to the drug Viagra. Many species of Epimedium have aphrodisiac qualities and can be considered nature’s Viagra. Why? Icariin. Icariin is the primary active component of Epimedium extracts, possessing similar compounds used to help impotence and improve sexual function. It increases sexual desire in both men and women. Its Chinese names are Xing Ling Pi, and Yin Yang Huo. You can find herbal tinctures of this super aphrodisiac and add some mojo to your smoothie for a libido and mood booster you are sure to remember as Horny Goat Weed!

Flax Seed Oil is another recommended addition to this smoothie. Especially for women, flaxseed oil contains rich amounts of lignans, phytoestrogens that improve hormonal levels. This is ideal for menopausal women because it increases levels of good estrogen like estriadol, which is necessary for all of those feminine reasons, keeping us ladies juicy and radiant. Potent antioxidants, balancing cholesterol and hormones, dash a little flaxseed oil in, or, if you want extra lignan benefits, grind up some flax seeds and add that dose into your blender. Ancient Babylonian beauties used flaxseeds for their vitality, and so should you!

Cardamom is an aphrodisiac that you can use in cooking both savory, sweet and in smoothie treats. Improves energy, increases circulation, gives a spicy sense of well being, and revitalizes sexual desire. It is also a good antacid and helps digestion. It detoxifies, cleanses the system, and some practitioners of Ayurveda also use it for treating infection of the urinary tract. In Indian Ayurvedic medicine, cardamom balances all three “doshas” of the body — kapha, vata, and pitta.  Chewing on cardamom pods freshens breath.

Did you know? SEXY FACT: Cinnamon is a deliciously intoxicating smell that triggers sexual desire in most men. Studies have found that the scent of pumpkin pie and cinnamon buns are the top aphrodisiac scents for men. But did you know that cinnamon is also good for purifying the blood, detoxifying your system, and regulating blood sugar? The bark of the cinnamon tree has been used for centuries to “perfume the lovers’ bed.”

In Chinese medicine, Cassia cinnamon is used for colds, digestive issues, and menstrual relief. Cinnamon improves energy and vitality.

Vanilla is an aphrodisiac. Its sensual scent, its luscious flavor, vanilla and all of its types: Bourbon, Tahitian, Mexican, are sure to awaken your love life and your love for life!

Vanilla reduces anxiety and has a euphoric quality. Relaxing, sensual, delicious vanilla. No wonder we love it in cakes, ice cream, and other sweets.

I had already made fresh almond milk the day before and had it ready in the fridge. It’s very easy to make, especially if you have professional grade blender like Vitamix.

I highly recommend adding the fresh coconut to this smoothie for additional health and beauty benefits, as well as better flavor. The natural sweetness enhances the dates and banana. Also, coconut water is high in potassium. It has about the same amount of potassium as a banana, low in sodium, and contains calcium, magnesium and phosphorus. Electrolyte rich, your body and skin will thank you. Also, when you are well hydrated, it improves orgasms. But that’s my own personal theory. I’m still researching that hypothesis until I’ve proven it as a fact.

You could make this elixir smoothie an ultra-aphrodisiac and add some ginseng to it as well. Consult your Chinese medicine herbalist for quality ginseng and usage of herbal tinctures.

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Surprise Romantic Dinner: Chipotle Quinoa & Salmon En Papillote

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“If he delicately tastes a piece of fish to test whether it’s done, we tremble, anticipating a similarly knowing nibble on the neck. We cannot resist men who know how to cook. Epicures who lovingly choose the freshest and most arousing ingredients, prepare them with art, and offer them as a gift to the senses and the soul, men who uncork a bottle with style, breathe in its aroma… while we watch him clean, spice, and cook the shrimp, we imagine that patience and dexterity applied to an erotic massage.” ~ Isabel Allende, Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses

After a long day, I hadn’t heard a word. Not one text message since the night before. So I sent Darling a little hello text message just after 6pm.

He wrote back, “Do you have a can opener?”

He was in my kitchen. As if I weren’t already completely, madly in love with him. He secretly made this dinner for me while I was at work. I came home to a bouquet of beautiful blue irises on the table, parchment baked salmon (en papillote), and a wooden bowl full of quinoa with black beans, corn, red pepper, chipotle and cilantro. The kitchen was a creative mess. I could see by the dishes, pots, pans, knife with cutting board, the counter scattered with the evidence that he spent some time putting this beautiful meal together.

It was nearly sunset. We decided dining outdoors would be lovely, so we brought our two plates full of this magical dinner, a bottle of wine, a big cozy blanket, and sat overlooking the marina channel waters. The boats went by, seagulls, pelicans, egrets flew along the pink horizon. There we enjoyed our dinner on the deck, sitting on lounges, glasses of wine, mouthfuls of quinoa and the buttery, delicate salmon. I felt myself simmering with pleasure and delight, not only for the food, but the moment.

Darling’s Recipe for Parchment Baked Salmon & Chipotle Quinoa:

Darling: ”This dinner idea started from a lunch I had at a diner near my office. Surprisingly, despite all the enticing burgers, I ended up eating their healthier selections. I actually love the Tofu Scramble, but it wasn’t on the menu that day. Just like the Mojito Shrimp, it was a dish that inspired me to try and make my own version.

Knowing I would never replicate that lunch perfectly, I searched for recipes that would be similar to the dish. I did a general search on Google for “Quinoa Corn Bean Salad” Surprisingly, I found many different variations. So I looked through a bunch and found the commonalities.

If I could do it all over again, I would use this recipe.”

Darling’s Chipotle Quinoa

  • 3/4 cup to 1 cup red quinoa (the amount I used was 1.5 cups, which was too much in proportion to the rest of ingredients)
  • 2 ears of corn (raw or grilled. the grilled looked so good)
  • 1 cup of cooked beans. Canned is fine, drained and rinsed (Black or Pinto. I chose black because of the color of quinoa, but pinto would look just as delicious with red quinoa)
  • 1/2 Red Pepper
  • 3 Chipotle peppers, seeded.
  • Cilantro, fresh
 Dressing
  • 1/3 cup of olive oil
  • 5 tbls of fresh lime juice
  • Red Wine Vinegar (To taste. I used Sherry Vinegar, about 3 tbl to compensate for the extra quinoa)
  • Cumin
  • Salt and Pepper to taste

Parchment Baked Salmon

  • 1 filet of fresh salmon, skin on. (I used a 1 lb filet) Season with salt and pepper generously on both sides.
  • Chives
  • Lemongrass
  • Olive oil

Place in prepared parchment paper.

Lay the herbs on top of the fish. I wanted to use dill, but I used what was available in the spice cabinet.

I had dried chives, dried lemongrass seasoning.

Drizzle with olive oil. Place the lemon slices (or other citrus like oranges or limes) on top and fold tight the parchment paper.

Cook at 450 for 12 to 15 minutes.

Remove the filet from the skin onto prepared plate.

The recipe can be eaten warm or cold. Allow it to rest at room temperature to allow the flavors to set.

Afterglow Recipe:

The next morning, with the leftover quinoa, I made a poached egg. Warmed the quinoa, set the egg on top, sprinkled on some cayenne, plucked a few leaves of cilantro, and enjoyed a lovely breakfast on on the patio, remembering fondly my Darling making such a romantic dinner.

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