Eggs (emphasis on the egg part) -cellent holiday weekend

For the first time potentially ever in my life, I opted to not go anywhere at all for the holidays.  I didn't go home (was there for a full week at Thanksgiving...and it's far...), I didn't away anywhere, I simply stayed put right here in SF.  In my mind's eye, it was going to be a glorious four days:  I'd go to yoga each day, I'd take long runs, I'd read the paper, I'd wander obscure neighborhoods on sun-dappled sidewalks, perhaps go see a movie or two by myself.

In reality...I discovered that four days sans social contact is not all that it's cracked up to be.  I'm decent company, reasonably entertaining, but I'm ready to return to a peopled life.  External factors also cropped up to spoil my plans:  on Thursday night the cold from hell hit me out of nowhere.  I managed to spend Fri baking cookies and entertaining a 9 yr-old and a 12 yr-old On Friday, and I looked forward to adult company that evening for dinner.  Alas, I could not smell nor taste nor go a minute without snotting, so I declined and stayed put on my couch.  Saturday, it rained all day long, thus, I hadn't the strength to leave and go anywhere.

So in summary, I had a couple of runs, but no yoga, no paper-reading, no wandering, and no movies.  The one thing I did manage to do was a bit of cooking though.  And that was my savior and sustenance for the soul this long weekend.  The highlight was my Thursday morning welcome to the holidays breakfast, classic eggs benedict:

I didn't have to experience any of that nervousness I always get when I order benedict and go to cut into the egg and worry that it's going to be over-done - I knew the eggs would be perfectly soft and runny.  And they were.  For those of you seeking to make it yourselves, I'll save you the trouble of looking up a recipe and give it to you here.  And with that, I'm going to finish watching yet another movie (Pineapple Express), blow my nose again, and mentally prepare myself for the return to productivity.  Hope you all had a lovely Xmas!!

• Poaching the eggs:  Grease the bottom of a large, deep skillet (so the eggs don't stick).  Fill 1/2 way with water and bring to a boil.  Crack eggs, one at a time, into a measuring cup and then transfer them into the water, getting the lip of the cup as close to the water as possible.  Simmer the eggs 3-4 minutes (I found 3 to work).  You want the whites to set firm but the yolks (duh) to stay good and runny.  
• Making the sauce:  You need 3 egg yolks, a Tblsp of fresh lemon juice, 1 Tblsp of water, a dash of salt and pepper (white if you have it), and 1/2 C butter.  For the butter, cut it into about 5 thick slices, and a double boiler.  Whisk the eggs, lemon, and salt and pepper together, and pour into the top of the double boiler once the water is going.   Add once slice of butter and start whisking.  As it melts, add in the additional slices one at a time.  You need to watch this stuff -- you want to incorporate the butter in but you can't actually cook the sauce -- the eggs will curdle.  If you do see any signs of curdling,  add a tablespoon of hot water and quickly incorporate.   
• Getting it all pulled together:  Get all your ingredients and cooking implements set up first.  Toast the muffin and fry the canadian bacon slices as the eggs cook.  Then transfer the muffin and bacon to a plate, and slip the cooked eggs into a bath of hot water in a large bowl.  THEN do the sauce -- it's fast and you want that to be hot. 

Uva Oops-o-Teca

Uva Enoteca:  A small, dim, warm wine bar within walking distance of my house, a punctuation point of delicacy in my otherwise rough and tumble neighborhood.  Uva offers a lovely list of Italian wines – anything the friendly wait staff has ever recommended has been entirely consumable – and a tidy selection of items that will please your palette (they also tend to drain your wallet more than they fill your belly…but at least it’s enjoyable).  And I paid Uva and its wines and snacks a visit last night.

Let me backtrack here to explain how I ended up at Uva.  On Friday, I had the pleasure (in some form or another) of meeting a Spanish gentleman.  We’ll call him Jon, because that it is his name.  Jon:  Spanish, not tremendously handsome, but off the charts on the charm scale.  I came to speak with him as he was blocking the entrance to a booth that held my purse, which I had gone to retrieve.  I politely asked him to step aside; he agreed, under the condition that I would, in return, select one of three options.  I selected Option 1:  a kiss on either cheek for Jon, and from there, we had several cocktails too many together.  He captured my phone number by the night’s end, and he texted me not once but twice on Sunday morning asking if I’d fancy a date.  He really likes the word fancy. 

I suggested Tues night, and Uva as the destination.  As we waited for our table, I sat perched on a stool at the bar while he did something that resembled pacing in place around my chair.  Nervous energy?
The first topic of conversation involved him remarking something about living with his parents when he’s back in Spain, which no matter how charming it sounds in an accent is still a red flag.  But I shrugged it off to cultural discrepancies.  He mentioned a brother – and when prompted he indicated that the brother was older – 27.  Which clearly begged the follow-up question of Jon’s age.  23.  23.  23.  Pacing explained.   

Do not roll your eyes here and mutter that age does not matter, because when I’m 30 and you’re 23, it in fact does matter.  And I found this all out before we’d even sat down.  I grew more hopeful when he seemed knowledgeable on wines and made appropriately observant facial expressions and gestures when tasting the bottle of red (delicious, soft-bodied, intensely fruit-forward Italian wine with a name that I regrettably forget).
He also let me select the few small bites that we ordered without opposition:  the country-style pate (spiked with bits of mushroom – nice, firm, varied texture, but lacking in flavor), chicken terrine (delicious – soft, creamy bits interrupted by small segments of richly smoked meat and nuggets of crisp asparagus), and mushrooms (chanterelles served cold, sprinkled through with fresh herbs and just perfect). 

Our conversation was enjoyable enough but reflecting, I think it was more flash than substance.  It consisted mostly of flirtatious banter spiked with small exchanges of typical first-date information.  He was Western European male to a t in his mannerisms, with extended bouts of flattery and a constant desire for tactile connection.  Overall, it was a fairly unremarkable date.

And then the bill came.  It sat there for a moment until I flipped it over to doodle some things on the back in an effort to illustrate a conversation we were having about punctuation (British v. American English…), and when we flipped it back over, he asked, “do you have cash or a credit card?”

Which should obviously be irrelevant as I should never be putting either in on a first date.  I’m by no means an advocate of the male always paying, but on a first date, it is a requirement.  I will always remember a date I went on w/ a certain Steve C in high school.  We split that bill.  That was our only date.  

And so it goes: Jon ended his chances for date #2 right then and there.  To boot, it was clear that Jon thought there was a possibility that I’d end the night by accompanying him back to what I can only interpret as a boarding house for foreign kids (yes, because, he’s 23).  That is funny on multiple levels, but most of all because it was so far from actually happening.  

Well, c’est la vie.  Or, however you say that in Spanish.  I’m now left to figure out how to respond to the text message that I literally just received while typing this entry.  I think I will select the no response avenue but am open to any suggestions.  

Cooking for One on a Tuesday

I have exactly five days left working in the valley.  Here, I'm supposed to jab your ribs and wink and tell you, "not that I'm counting down or anything!"  I'm totally counting down.  But when you can count the days on one hand, it's really not that difficult.

These are lovely days, filled with late arrivals, minimal amounts of actual work that needs accomplishment, extended lunches, multiple beverage breaks, and early departures.  I left at 4pm today and headed over to the pool for a swim.  I would've followed my workout with a leisurely nap in the steam room but it's closed for repairs until tomorrow afternoon. I hope that date is accurate as I plan to repeat my afternoon tomorrow and would like the steam to happen this time.

As working out has become somewhat of a rarity for me lately (I swear that is due for a change), I was starving when I got home and craving the nourishment that is needed to make it through two episodes of Gossip Girl.  Cooked up one of my favorite weekday meals.  It covers all the food groups, is low in fat, can be prepared in under 20 minutes, and most importantly, it's delicious.  It needs to be shared.  Before I do that, I will warn you though, it contains canned tuna, tuna in olive oil at that, which I know might cause some a bit of fear.  You have to trust me on this one and know that I wouldn't put it out there if I didn't fully back it up.  So:  Tuesday Tuna Pasta.  Try it -- you'll like it.

Ingredients

• 1 can tuna in olive oil (you can get pricier cans at the grocery, but the Trader Joe's version is like $1.50/can and tastes lovely) 
• 1 red bell pepper, chopped in coarse pieces
• A generous handful of fresh broccoli, chopped into small pieces
• Extra olive oil 
• Fresh parm cheese
• To season:  salt and pepper and then either some red pepper flakes or about 1 Tblsp of dijon mustard  

So -- put enough olive oil in the pan to coat it thinly.  If you like the idea of mustard, whisk that into the oil.  Bring to medium heat.  Toss in the red pepper and broccoli; when it's been going for about 5 minutes, bring your pasta water to a boil.  When the veggies are getting tender, add in the salt and pepper, the red pepper (if you're doing that instead of the mustard) and the tuna (add the oil, too).  Use a wooden spoon to break up the tuna.  You're pasta water should be ready -- add in your pasta (I use cappelini) -- and while it's cooking turn the heat down on your toppings to low to keep it hot while your pasta finishes.  Strain it, add the veggies/tuna, and top w/ some parm.

Too Much Goodness for One Meal

Tuesday afternoon, 3:43pm.  Laying in the sun in the Panhandle, sipping a fountain Diet Coke (vastly superior to the canned variety and not even comparable to the bottled option, which I actually refuse to drink), letting my hair air dry from this morning’s outdoor swim, and generally killing time until 6:15 yoga.  It’s not a bad day.  It’s also the type of Tuesday I can kiss goodbye in a matter of weeks provided that some paperwork gets wrapped up in the next day or two, putting me on a new career path that is hopefully closer to what I think I want to do with myself. 

If that fails, perhaps I will break things off with Max and seek out a wealthy old man to be my mate that can support a lifestyle that enables me to dine at Spruce at least once per week.  

I am newly obsessed with this dining destination, tucked onto sleepy Sacramento Street up in the very tony Laurel Heights Hood, after this past Saturday.  Max received a Spruce gift certificate over the holidays which meant that once we were able to secure a reservation (over 1.5 months in advance…) we could sit down and order to our heart’s content without dreading the check’s arrival.  Three appetizers?  Priciest entrée on the menu for me?  Bottle of wine we’d otherwise never order while dining out?  Check, check, and check.  No pun intended. 

We started off with a glass of celebratory Prosecco (well actually we started off with martinis down the street but that was a separate event), and then dug into appetizer number one:  foie gras done two ways -- 1)  a delicate pan-seared chunk, and 2)  a creamy pate served with a dollop of pureed pineapple (it worked).  At the end of the day, foie gras is really not much more than fat.  If you’ve ever cooked it before, it’s a quick process that you need to oversee closely, else you’re liable to watch this seriously high-priced organ meat liquefy right before your eyes.  That said, it is much tastier than eating a hunk of fat that you’ve peeled, say, from the crisped skin of a turkey or edges of a prime rib.  It’s all in the texture, as it begins to melt into umami-goodness as soon as it lands on your tongue. 

We should’ve ended the pate experience at that, but we were charmed by the charcuterie menu and didn’t want it to feel neglected, so we tried just one item, the duck pate.  I guess we didn’t want the duck to feel that we are discriminatory, only open to geese – we are indeed equal opportunists.

Thus covered on the meaty side of things, we switched gears to appetizer number three, a small portion of fresh pasta tossed simply in copious amounts of butter and topped off with a generous shaving of black truffle.  I love it when you order truffles and they assure you that the little lump of pasta lightly garnished is worth it by giving you the weight of your truffle topping in ounces.  Or fragments of an ounce, rather.  Perhaps someday I shall try to make my fortune by moving to France, purchasing a truffle pig, and unearthing a few multi-pound mushrooms…

Is it too much to read about all this food?  I almost feel like a glutton just rehashing the memories of the meal on paper.  At the same time, the next time I’m eating a casual weekday meal of (canned) tuna (in olive oil) with broccoli over pasta, I can read this and make believe that the bite of pasta is covered in truffles, or that the bite of tuna is actually a chunk of roasted sea bass, combined on my fork with a piece of a lobster, smothered in a rich and lemony beurre blanc.  And I can recall what it was like moving onto dessert, and nibbling at the rich chocolate concoction with hints of citrus and passion fruit.  I can remember washing it down with my final sips of sancerre and savoring the last moments at the table, tucked away in a quiet corner with the candle light flickering, before heading out and stepping eyes half shut out of decadence-induced sleepyness into a cab. 

Perhaps I won’t actually try to remember the meal when I’m eating tuna and pasta given that I’m pretty sure my imigination isn’t strong enough to trick my palette to that degree, but having the details of a really great meal captured on paper is a permanent reminder of how great food can be. 

This Is One Cheap Hors D'Oeuvre

This past weekend we celebrated my roommate Eliz's boyfriend Matt's birthday.  In between saving lives and not sleeping, Dr. Eliz prepared dinner for 20 at our house on Saturday night.  It was an affair to remember, from the spinach cannelloni to the pasta bolognese to the satisfyingly salty dill bread.  I heard that the mini-cheesecakes and hand-decorated cake supplied by our friend Dylan were also to die for, but after consuming multiple pounds of cheese and carbs, I was ok with skimping on the dessert options.  The array of solid consumables was complemented by copious amounts of wine and champagne in addition to hand-crafted French 75s and dirty vodka martinis supplied by bar-tending friends, as well as no less than about five bottles of scotch brought for the birthday boy.  

How I love the dinner party hosted at my own home.  It's no secret that I prefer to be the chef as this means I have control over the menu and the kitchen, but second best is having a roommate man the helm so I can simply enjoy the champagne and not stress over timing the food, keeping everything hot, organizing the courses, and of course, being ultimately responsible for the clean-up phases.  Meanwhile, I can still enjoy the dinner party benefits:  the food never stops flowing, the drinks are easily accessible, the company is familiar, and there is no check served at the night's conclusion.  And I can enjoy the benefits of being in my own home:  I can control the music (although, must admit, it was stressful given Saturday night's company, which is given to eclectic -- and more importantly strong -- tastes in music), and when the night is over, I have to walk only as far as my bedroom.  Oh - and I can wear weather-inappropriate outfits including sleeveless tops and open-toed shoes even if it's 40 degrees outside, because I don't ever have to go outdoors.  Fantastic. 

A big part of a successful dinner party, in my personal opinion, is having the right things out on the table for when guests first arrive.  Growing up, we had Friday night Shabbat dinners at my Nana's house.  Please don't expect that my fondness for food is something that has developed over time -- when I was little I'd race into Nana's door and head straight for the little silver tray of Pigs in a Blanket.  Yes, that humble appetizer that consists of mini hotdogs swaddled in dainty segments of Pilsbury crescent dough (I'm referring to the classic Midwest version; no chorizo in artisan cornmeal crust here).  Please, no commentary on the fact that we were eating traif on the Sabbath. 

I could also expound on the many delightful bites my mother always has ready and waiting any time she entertains, the simple pleasures of Muenster and artichoke dip or bacon spread on mini-ryes, but the list would be too long and deserving of its own entry. 

Instead I'll bring things back around to this past Saturday night, which found guests munching on peppery sweet marinated olives, caprese bruschetta, and chicken liver spread -- this last guest being the owner of this entry's title.  For less than $4, you can purchase a pound of chicken livers and prepare a poor man's pate that I'll eat alongside a foie gras spread anytime.  Of course, you need to be ok with eating the livers of chickens, but if you're able to get past that, your mouth will be richly rewarded.  20 recent guests can testify.  Without further ado, a small present -- a great recipe from a fall 2009 Saveur issue for chicken liver spread.  Enjoy, and keep the dinner party spirit alive. 

Chicken Liver Crostini 

• 1 lb. chicken livers, trimmed
• 4 anchovy filets in oil, drained and finely chopped
• 1 medium onion, finely chopped
• 1 medium carrot, finely chopped
• 1 rib celery, finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, finely chopped
• 2 tbsp. vin santo or sherry
• 1⁄4 cup chicken broth
• 1⁄4 cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
• 2 tbsp. salted capers, rinsed and chopped
• 2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice plus 1 tbsp. lemon zest
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
• 1 baguette, cut into 36 slices

Heat 3 tbsp. oil in a 12" skillet over medium-high heat. Rinse chicken livers and pat dry with paper towels. Add to skillet and cook, flipping once, until browned and slightly pink on the inside, about 4 minutes. Remove skillet from heat, transfer livers to a cutting board using a slotted spoon (so oil is left behind), and finely chop them. Transfer to a plate and set aside.

Return skillet to medium-high heat. Add anchovies and cook, stirring frequently, until they dissolve in the oil, 2–3 minutes. Add onions, carrots, celery, and garlic; cook, stirring, until soft, 10 minutes. Add vin santo and cook, stirring, until evaporated, about 30 seconds. Add chicken broth and cook until liquid is mostly evaporated, about 2 minutes. Add livers and their juices, along with parsley, capers, lemon juice, and zest; season mixture with salt and pepper and cook until hot, about 2 minutes. Remove skillet from heat; let cool slightly. Transfer liver mixture to bowl of a food processor and pulse until chunky (or, if you prefer, purée until smooth). Refrigerate.

Put bread slices on a baking sheet and brush lightly with oil; bake until golden, about 10 minutes. Let cool slightly and serve with liver mixture.  

To Barbacco, and Quality Dining Companions

Perbacco is one of my favorite feasting destinations in the city.  Max introduced me to this spot one one (rare) warm summer evening, after a lengthy walk through the Nob Hill and Financial District neighborhoods in search of a suitable restaurant.  It's Italian -- and particularly memorable are the tagliatelle in a pork sugo and the pappardelle with braised rabbit.  It's been too long since I've eaten there -- last fall I believe -- and so my palette-memory won't allow me to recall the details for you.

That is not actually my purpose, anyway.  Recently, Perbacco opened a sister restaurant, just next door: Barbacco.  Italian small plate options seem to have become a dime a dozen in the city, but this one is worth taking note of and being sure to check out (if you live here) or ensuring that I help you check it out (if you come visit -- and please do).  I went last week with a friend for a glass of wine, but as we are both perpetually hungry we had to do a bit of dabbling in the culinary offerings.  My favorite -- the fresh sardines.  Served simply, with a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of lemon.  The texture is tender yet firm and they had not a hint of the fishiness that I think keeps so many people away from being willing to try this poor man's fish.  We also enjoyed the ribollita - which my friend describes as "baked minestrone soup.  It's a very apt description.  The version served here (unique as I believe that ribollita is traditionally a soup) is like a moist cake, slightly crisped golden brown on the outside.  It has a creamy texture thanks to the cannellini beans and a wonderfully rich flavor owed not only to the rich mix of vegetables but also the seasoning mix, rich in garlic.  And, don't forget the bruschette with lardo.  Yes, essentially, they carved the white portion of your bacon out and spread it in a thick layer across a gently grilled slice of baguette (nicely oiled), and then sprinkled it gently with truffle salt.  I also had two glasses of Barbera, just a hint of spice and pepper.

I returned last night for a full-fledged dinner with my girl friends. After a week of eating in, conservatively, I think I deserved the slight splurge, including the three glasses of wine that accompanied my meal.  To that effect -- try the Scarbolo Friulano that they have by the glass.  After drinking some dismal riesling blend that was served at an overly-warm temperature and offered slightly oaky and certainly not any bright or mineral notes as I'd requested -- recommended by the waiter that I'm fairly sure knows not much about suggesting wines (umm, and I think he knows of my sentiments as he may have overheard me running my mouth...) -- I switched to something of my own selection and then turned one of my friends onto my choice, as well.  In the way of food, given that there were four of us and we were starving following our extended wait, there were many dishes that landed at our "communal table (all the tables are actually communal, meaning that if you're a six-top you'll share with a couple - no sweat).  New favorites include the polpette, Silcian-style meatballs that absolutely melt in your mouth and are crammed with flavor, and the burrata, which is heaven when spread in a thick, creamy layer across a toast point.  My roommate Eliz is right -- fresh mozzarella is lovely, but it can't compare to its formless sister, which in recent times has truly stolen the spotlight from her sibling.  Yes, cheeses are female.

Enjoying the culinary spoils of a new restaurant is certainly one of life's great pleasures, but dining with good company might actually be more sustaining.  While it may seem to you that I focus at least 70% of my time and energy on food, this is incorrect.  It certainly can be no more than 50%.  That leaves an entire other half to my life, and right now a large portion of that half is taken up with determining my ideal job and strategizing how to get it.  It's simply not as much fun to write about what exciting postings I have discovered or the networking emails I've sent or the cover letters  I've written that likely go largely unread as it is to describe what last went into my mouth.  That said, the majority of comes OUT of my mouth these days IS related to such topics.  And here is where I reconnect to my initial statement re: the value of outstanding company, as I owe much to my recent Barbacco dining compatriots -- both from last week and last night.    

 I may not have discovered my dream job out in Oakland, but I did discover a remarkable female support group that allows me to complain at length about my struggle to nail down how shall I continue sustaining myself in life (this from a financial perspective) once I move on from salad dressing.  And while some of them might not embody my particular style of eating -- highly carnivorous, often calorie-laden -- they are always up for eating with me and making the experience a pleasure.

Food Fixes All

They say love conquers all. I am not too sure I believe in that because I sure have met an awful lot of very cranky people who I'm guessing love has never conquered, given their generally gloomy dispositions in life.

But if anyone amended the maxim to read "food fixes all" -- that is something with which I would heartily agree. Many things can happen to you. You could, for instance, fall down in heaps of fresh powder on a mountain in Tahoe when you're not actually even in motion and twist your knee all the way around, causing you an unGodly amount of pain. But then, hours later, you could be feeling just fine as you much on some perfectly cured bresaola followed up with all-day braised short ribs atop a creamy bed of polenta. Washed down by champagne. This, of course, is only a for instance, but I think it's a delightful illustrative of how a dose of good food can wipe your mental slate clean of negativity and introduce contentment and calm.

This is why it only makes sense to think about all that you must deal with in life (now, careful here, this is a grade-A run-on sentence approaching) -- 98 straight days of rain: enough to create at least 7 floods of the type that launched Noah's little Ark expedition; trying to figure out what it is you want to do in life and then when you think you find the right stepping-stones spending painstaking hours crafting witty cover letter that no one will ever read; riding public transportation to/from Haight-Ashbury twice daily -- and then reflect on how you manage through by finding solace in food.

This, friends, was my introductory statement.

And this, is the first instance I shall like to put forth. In early Feb, Max and I traveled to Barbados, the land of sea turtles, green monkeys, the Soup Bowl surf spot, and colorful locals known as the Bajans. We befriended Sea Cat (by the way, Bajans call baby octopi sea cats), who served us fresh coconut water. We met Hog Head, a once legendary but perhaps now washed-up (according to some sources) surfer. We chatted with Chicken, so-called because of his enviously skinny legs. And one morning, while going to check out the surf, Max met some guy whose name we never caught, so we'll just call him Papayas. I call him this because when Max came home 10 minutes later, he brought with him three papayas that he "purchased" (once Papayas had shoved the fruit into Max's arms he for the most part refused return of the fruit and suggested payment instead) from this fellow, who claimed he was the only organic fruit farmer in Barbados. I will here point out that picking fruit off indigenous trees does not classify as organic farming. But I digress.

Hours later, we were back at this surf spot once again (it still sucked I guess) and what do you know, Papayas is still there. Upon discovering that we were heading to a beach "near his house," he asked for a ride. Max graciously obliged and off we went. He repeatedly said he just wanted to go up to the "top of the hill." We went up one hill, another, and Papayas was still yammering in the back seat, "Little Sister" this, "Brother mon" that, "we're so close," etc. etc.. I fixed my jaw as I had made it non-verbally clear to Max from the get-go that I had no trust in Papayas. About 35 minutes later, Papayas at last jumped out. I could tell we were nowhere near our destination of Bottom Bay, but pulled out our map to see just how far off-course we were.

As you can see by the map, Papayas lived absolutely in the opposite direction of our end destination and is an utter scam artist. After threatening some very nasty things that he would do to Papayas should he ever see him again, Max drove us back on-course, and we arrived at Bottom Bay...where within 40 minutes the sun was setting.

We drove back, defeated and tricked, to Bathsheba and our quiet hotel, comforted somewhat by knowing dinner was in sight (and, I guess, any day vacationing on a tropical island really isn't that bad...). Soon, all worries were forgotten and the bad taste of Papaya had left our mouths, replaced by the sweet, malty flavor of icy-cold Banks Beers. As we sipped, we told fellow diners the tale of getting outwitted by the relatively dimwitted Papayas. Anger turned to laughter and good spirits as we munched on savory fish cakes, deep fried to a golden crisp and accompanied by the piquante, sweat-inducing Bajan hot sauce (a golden-yellow, perfectly balanced sauce of bonnet peppers). By the time the main dish came out -- freshly caught, mild steaks of mahi-mahi seared lightly in a delicate rum-butter sauce -- I was only thinking of the story potential Papayas had delivered. I savored every bite of that meal, that meal that fixed the day's trials, right down to the final bite of my frozen lime pie (the tang offset by the airy creaminess of the pie filling).

It is moments like this -- and given teh way I prefer to cook and eat -- they happen at least several times per week -- that fix all that could ail you.