The obvious antidote: cooking up a storm in my compact Kensington Market kitchen.

Much of this culinary cure for whatever ails my troubled soul is inspired by recipes from cookbooks and food magazines, both of which are on-and-off addictions.

So dear readers, as is my wont, I am about to share the fruit of my labours. In this case, it’s two recipes.

First, a superb dish called Roasted Cauliflower “Steaks” with Crunchy Parsley-Pine Nut Bread Crumbs from a big, gorgeous new cookbook called “Roasting” by Molly Stevens. These are so delicious, I wonder where this clever idea has been all my life. I now keep extra amounts of the crumb topping in my fridge to spinkle on all manner of cooked veggies, salad, soup, meat, fish — almost anything except dessert.

Second is the delectably gooey, chewy Macaroni and Cheese with Roasted Butternut Squash that appeared on the cover of the February, 2012, issue of Chatelaine magazine. This is not a low-cal dish by any means but it is a tad healthier than most versions because of the chunks of roasted squash that inundate it.

Here are the recipes, in both cases slightly tweaked by me. You’re welcome!

Roasted Cauliflower “Steaks” with Crunchy Parsley-Pine Nut Bread Crumbs

I make extra bread crumb mixture to scatter on any dish that could use it and use whatever bread I have on hand, whirred in the food processor, to make coarse crumbs. I used fresh coriander instead of parsley and dried cranberries in place of raisins — I find both ingredients add extra zip. I streamlined the method by toasting the crumbs and pine nuts in a skillet instead of in the oven. Adapted from “Roasting” by Molly Stevens.

I medium head cauliflower

¹⁄₄ cup plus 1 tbsp olive oil

¹⁄₂ cup fresh (i.e. home-made) breadcrumbs

3 tbsp pine nuts

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

¹⁄₄ cup chopped fresh parsley or coriander

3 tbsp golden raisins or dried cranberries

1 tsp finely grated lemon zest

Preheat oven to 450F.

Remove leaves from cauliflower. Cut core from base so it is slightly recessed but do not remove. Stand cauliflower upright and cut in slices about 3/4-inch thick. (Pieces will likely crumble off; don’t worry.) Place slices and crumbled bits on baking sheet lined with silicone liner or parchment paper. Drizzle with ¹⁄₄ cup olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Turn to coat.

Roast cauliflower in oven, turning once or twice to brown evenly, about 30 minutes or until tender.

Meanwhile, make crumb mixture. Add remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil to medium or large skillet. Add bread crumbs; cook over medium heat 8 to 10 minutes or until golden brown. Place pine nuts in small skillet; cook over medium-low heat until browned, about 5 minutes. Cool crumbs and pine nuts.

Place pine nuts, parsley, raisins, lemon zest and a pinch of salt in food processor. Pulse until coarsely chopped. Transfer to bowl. Add toasted crumbs; stir to combine.

To serve, transfer cauliflower to warmed serving platter. Just before serving, sprinkle with crumb mixture.

Makes about 4 servings.

Macaroni and Cheese with Roasted Butternut Squash

From February 2012’s issue of Chatelaine magazine. I roasted the squash slightly longer than the recipe prescribed, 30 instead of 18 minutes. You could use any short pasta.

About 3 cups (half a medium) peeled, finely diced butternut squash

1 tsp olive oil

2 cups dry elbow macaroni

2 tbsp butter

¹⁄₄ cup all-purpose flour

2 ¹⁄₂ cups milk

1 tsp Dijon mustard

¹⁄₄ tsp salt

Pinch of cayenne pepper (optional)

1 cup grated white cheddar

1 cup grated mozzarella

¹⁄₂ cup grated gruyere

¹⁄₃ cup panko bread crumbs

Preheat oven to 400F.

Toss squash with oil on baking sheet. Bake in oven about 30 minutes or until tender, stirring halfway through.

Cook macaroni in pot of boiling water until al dente, about 8 minutes. Drain.

Melt butter in medium saucepan over medium heat. Whisk in flour. Gradually whisk in milk, Dijon, salt and cayenne. Stir until mixture comes to boil. Remove from heat; stir in macaroni. cheese and squash. Transfer to baking dish. Sprinkle with panko.

Place under broiler until top is golden brown, about 3 minutes.

Makes about 6 servings.

In mid-December, my wise therapist, inspired spiritual teacher and beloved friend Terry Flynn died. It was sudden and unexpected. Although he had been diagnosed with the dreaded disease called ALS (Lou Gehrig’s), Terry assumed he had months, maybe more, to live. I miss him with all my heart.

Hot on the heels of this came two work-related setbacks. In both cases, I didn’t see them coming. Both triggered strong emotions. Both made me doubt my judgment, something that’s been shaken up since I quit the corporate world in 2007 after 18 years as food editor/columnist for the Toronto Star, Canada’s largest newspaper, and embarked on my intrepid, often lonely, frequently bumpy path as a fledgling freelance food sleuth.

And so I am trying, in middle age (happily, immaturity and hair dye keep me young) to handle these new challenges: financial insecurity (I’m self-employed but haven’t yet given myself a paying job) and what I can only describe as the steep learning curve called Life.

The ongoing lessons are many, most of them learned the hard way. But enough about me.

In the litany of mishaps from recent weeks are some that befell others.

My boyfriend Ross’s mother Betty fell down the stairs on Christmas Day eve and broke her femur. Thanks to some nifty surgery, she is on the mend.

Then the cruise ship Costa Concordia hit rocks off the Italian island of Giglio. On it were Ross’s sister Laurie and her husband Alan, celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary. Thankfully, they survived; others were not so lucky.

Meanwhile, as I am wont to do in difficult times, I recalled the upbeat words of my dear late friend and mentor, Julia Child: “Don’t look back. Look forward.”  

Then I took to the kitchen and cooked up a storm - the best way I know to soothe my troubled soul and one highly recommended by the inimitable Ms. Child who famously said: “Cooking is the best work there is. You get to eat the results.” (Read to the end of this blog for the fruits of this labour.)

Also comforting in troubled times is breaking bread with those I love. One recent, rainy Sunday eve, this pursuit took me to Little India accompanied by my daughter Ruthie and her girlfriend Usha.

Usha, whose heritage is Sri Lankan, suggested dinner at Moti Mahal, a casual cafe-style eatery that’s been a popular haunt in that ‘nabe for many moons. For some reason, I overrode her idea in favour of the nearby Udupi Palace, home to the dosa: a giant thin and crispy curry-filled crepe I was craving on that particular night.

For once, my restaurant radar was off. I should have known things might go wrong after noting bulbs for the word “Palace” were defunct on the Udupi emporium’s outside sign. Lukewarm, underwhelming dosas with too little, underspiced filling followed. Oy vey!

In an effort to save the evening — nothing puts me in a bad mood like inferior food — I suggested we move on to Moti Mahal where Usha had mentioned the desserts are terrific, especially something called Ras Malai.

Wow, the noisy diners dipping into oversized thali plates while enjoying lively conversation crowded into the utilatarian booths couldn’t have been having more fun. When Usha came to our table bearing a bevy of desserts, nor could we.

Ras Malai is a sweet, creamy “patty” made from milk swimming in a sweet, creamy sauce with little chunks of chopped pistachio floating therein. I hate the term “comfort food’ but this delectable confection could give it a good name.

The following week, I informed Ross that Moti Mahal was calling my name at dinner time. Alas, it was Tuesday night and the place was closed.

En route home along Queen Street East, I saw the sign “Edward Levesque” and remembered eating at that resto almost 10 years ago. Home to clever chef/owner with the above name, its food, I recalled, was refined downhome cooking — just darn good, real food. The room is pretty and tranquil.

After a short chat with the chatty Mr. Levesque, who recognized me after all this time, we sat down to eat. Ross’s creamy Chicken Pot Pie was old-fashioned, crowned with perfect pastry and resplendent with juicy chicken and green peas in a creamy sauce. A side of skinny, crunchy fries was simple, salty and superb; my Duck Confit was above average.

But dessert was the crowning glory: a rich, moist wedge of Orange Almond Cake topped with luscious Lemon Confit and a dollop of whipped cream.

I am a food sleuth and sleuthing is my game. So I asked chef Levesque about this dish. Yes, you guessed — I wanted the recipe.

He was discreet at first, saying a pastry chef makes his desserts. Then he offered up a few clues. “I think it’s an old recipe that originally called for clementines.” Then the name “Nigella” came up and some key info: that the oranges/clementines are cooked whole before being incorporated.

Back home, I took to the Internet. It quickly served up a trademark recipe from Nigella Lawson for Clementine Cake. I made it the next day and served it with Lemon Confit: a recipe shared with me on this sleuthing trail by my pastry chef buddy Joanne Yolles. It and a scoop of Loblaws divine Crackle ice cream were the crowning glory.

By the way, a week later Ross and I returned for dinner to Moti Mahal where we each dug into a thali platter — mine with goat curry, his with curried chicken but both including cinnamon-infused basmati rice, delicious and not-at-all-slimy, spicy okra, cauliflower potato curry, top-notch naan and chile-laced raw onion pickle. Delish — and we’ll be back.

So here’s that cake from Edward Levesque followed by the Lemon Confit that I plan to make regularly and use to garnish all kinds of desserts.

Clementine Cake

I used organic sugar, which is light brown rather than white, and whole unblanched almonds (skins on) which I ground in the food processor to resemble coarse crumbs.

5 or 6 clementines, preferably seedless (about 1 lb/500g)

6 eggs

1 cup plus 2 tbsp sugar

2 ¹⁄₃ cups ground almonds

1 heaping tsp baking powder

Place clementines in medium saucepan with enough cold water to cover. Bring to boil; reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, for 2 hours. Drain and cool. Remove stem ends, halve and remove any stray seeds. Chop coarsely, skin and all.

Butter and line 8-inch/2L springform pan with parchment paper. (If you don’t have the paper, butter and dust with flour.)

Preheat oven to 375F.

Beat eggs in medium bowl. Add sugar, almonds and baking powder; mix well. Add chopped clementines; stir until combined. Transfer mixture to prepared springform pan.

Bake in oven about 1 hour or until tester inserted in centre of cake comes out clean. Cool in pan placed on wire rack. Remove rim from pan.

Serve thin wedges of cake with a little Lemon Confit (recipe below) spooned on to each wedge and a scoop of ice cream, whipped cream or thickened yogurt. (This cake tastes better the day after it is made and keeps well stored covered in a cool place.

Makes about 12 to 16 servings.

Lemon Confit

I definitely recommend Meyer lemons for this — their robust sweet/sour taste is ideal. I used a mandoline to slice the lemons.

3 or 4 Meyer lemons, very thinly sliced

1 cup sugar

1 ¹⁄₄ cups water

Preheat oven to 300F.

Arrange lemons in small baking dish.  Combie sugar and water in small bowl. Pour over lemons. Cover with foil; cut small slits in foil.

Bake in oven about 2 hours.

If you’ve read the previous blog — my tragic tale of the missing cookbooks — you’ll understand why the tomes in question are dear to my heart.

Especially treasured are those 100 or so that I keep close at hand on shelves I had built for this purpose in the important room where it all happens: my compact, cozy kitchen.

Breaking open a cookbook I haven’t used before is lots of fun. In this case, it was Friday Night Dinners, the latest offering of many by my long-time friend and esteemed colleague Bonnie Stern.

As is my wont, being a food sleuth and all, I asked Bonnie shortly after the book came out (oy vey, that was three years ago) to name her favourite recipe from it. She didn’t miss a beat: “The brisket,” was her reply.

Yesterday, I took the large thawed brisket bought some weeks ago at my trusty Kensington Market butcher Sanagan’s and, Bonnie’s book in front of me, proceeded to assemble ingredients. They were few, sweet and simple. Everything was on hand in my pantry including an almost untouched bottle of Port.

Almost four hours later, when Ross and I came home from a neighbourhood meeting to the beautiful aroma of braising beef, the brisket was ready. Accompanied by mashed potatoes and peas, it was delicious — lashings of rich, wine-infused sauce and tender, juicy meat.

We now have dinner for several days including fodder to fill luscious sandwiches. This would also be a great dish to serve at Chranukah (aka Chrismukah), the minimalist fusion festive feast I favour!

Thank you Bonnie. I’ll be in touch for more recipe tips!

Friday Night Brisket

6-lb/3 kg double brisket
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
1 tbsp kosher salt
1 tbsp pepper
1 tbsp paprika
1 head garlic, separated into cloves, peeled
3 large onions, sliced
1 cup Port
2 cups dry red wine
1 cup beef or chicken stock, or water

Spread brisket with mustard; sprinkle with salt, pepper and paprika.

Place garlic and most of onions in bottom of large Dutch oven. Place brisket on top. Top with remaining onions. Add Port, wine and stock. Bring to boil. Place parchment paper directly on top of brisket. Cover tightly with lid or foil.

Bake in preheated 350F oven at least 3 to 4 hours or until meat is fork-tender. Remove lid and paper; return to oven and cook 30 minutes more or until brisket is browned.

Remove fat from sauce. Serve brisket sliced with sauce and onions.

Makes about 8 to 10 servings.

And now for something completely different — but equally good.

Mairlyn Smith is among my best buddies in the Toronto food world. She’s a generous colleague, a great cook, terrific recipe creator — but, best of all, she’s funny!

An alumnus of the Second City comedy troupe, she gets my jokes and is quick to respond hilariously with her own. We’ve shared many a laugh together, often over the phone when we catch up on what’s cooking in both our lives.

Here’s a fantastic recipe from her latest book Healthy Starts Here! Again, the recommendation came from the horse’s mouth, namely the brilliant author herself.

Breakfast Grab-and-Gos

Once you’ve got the ingredients which I found, believe it or not, at my local supermarket, these are a cinch to make. I often keep one in my car or purse for emergency noshing, any time of day. I did most of this in no time in my standing mixer.

1 ¹⁄₂ cups oat bran
1 ¹⁄₂ cups large flake rolled oats
1 cup whole wheat flour
³⁄₄ cup ground flaxseed
¹⁄₂ cup steel-cut oats
2 tbsp wheat germ
2 tbsp cinnamon
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup dried cranberries or blueberries
¹⁄₄ cup chocolate chips (at least 60% cocoa mass)
¹⁄₂ cup coarsely chopped walnuts
¹⁄₄ cup packed dark brown sugar
2 eggs (preferably omega-3)
4.5-oz/128-mL jar strained prunes baby food
¹⁄₄ cup canola oil
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract

Position rack in middle of oven. Preheat oven to 375F. Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper.

Mix together oat bran, large-flake oats, flour, flaxseed, steel-cut oats, wheat germ, cinnamon and baking soda in large bowl. Stir in cranberries, chocolate chips and walnuts.

Whisk together brown sugar, eggs, prunes, oil and vanilla in medium bowl until well blended.

Add sugar mixture to oat bran mixture; stir until really well combined.

Scoop batter into rounds a bit bigger than a golf ball (a 1/4-cup/60-mL ice cream scoop works well). Place on baking sheets about 2 inches/5 cm apart. Flatten with hand or back of damp spoon until about ³⁄₄ inch/2 cm thick. (Batter will be sticky).

Bake in oven 13 to 15 minutes or until medium-brown. Cool slightly on cookie sheets before transferring to wire racks to cool completely.

Store in airtight container up to 2 weeks or freeze up to 3 months.

Makes about 20.

All went well for several months during which time I would visit the place occasionally to pick up mail and move items to my new place — mostly clothes, work-related stuff and some important papers.

The pride and joy of my former abode was its cookbook library: a room I had specifically designed to hold the 1,200 or so cookbooks I had accumulated during my almost 40 years as a member of Canada’s food media. Many of those — 18, to be exact — were spent as food editor/columnist for this country’s largest newspaper the Toronto Star where I received review copies of cookbooks on a regular basis.

With a yen to emulate that bodacious British TV cook Nigella Lawson, who often flips through books languidly searching for recipes in her elegant room assigned specifically for this, I relished the way I’d meticulously organized my library in sections: by country, region, ethnicity, vegetarian, single subjects, Jewish, vintage (an early edition of Mrs. Beeton, four editions of the Joy of Cooking etc.), grilling, TV chefs — and on it goes.

Let me explain how important cookbooks are to me.

You know that question: If your house was on fire, what would you run back, braving the life-threatening hazards that accompany such an event, to retrieve?

My answer is clear and requires no thought: My family photos, many of which include pictures of my mother’s relatives murdered in Eastern Europe during the holocaust; as many of my vintage coats and dresses as I could carry; the slim file folder containing her favourite recipes given to me by my mother on my 21st birthday, and treasured tomes like the two Julia Child cookbooks signed for me by my dear late friend and mentor.

Luckily, I keep those two cherished books close to my side at all times along with 100 or so other “go-to” cookbooks that reside in my kitchen.

Those few shelves also hold the three books I’ve penned: Best Recipes Under the Sun (from my stint as food editor for the Toronto Sun during the ‘80s); The Best of Food (a collection of favorite dishes from my years at the Toronto Star published in 1995), and Dish, a collection of my most popular Toronto Star columns and their accompanying recipes. Only the latter is still in print — see the home page of this site for details.

Also in my kitchen are books by local food maven Bonnie Stern; the huge volume of multi-tested recipes from Cook’s Illustrated magazine called The New Best Recipe; books by Ina Garten (Barefoot Contessa); The Bon Appetit Cookbook; Julia Child’s The Way to Cook; books by Giada de Laurentiis, Nigella Lawson, the folks at Chez Panisse, Mario Batali and the unstoppable Jamie Oliver, among others.

‘Twas thanks to that gorgeous, Mockney-talking British TV chef and prolific producer of cookbooks that I eventually twigged to the fact that something was amiss with my cookbook library. Looking for an early Naked Chef book from his early days, I noticed it was missing. And so the story of intrigue, suspense and betrayal began to unfold.

Moving my library from one house to another was one mean feat as box upon box was brought to my new home. Unpacked on to shelves built by my man-friend Ross, the books had definitely diminished. In a nutshell, many of them were not there — absent, gone, missing in action.

Among them: Jane Brody’s books on healthy eating; Sheila Lukins’s books penned after her Silver Palate days; baking books by Rose Levey Beranbaum and Alice Medrich; Canadian books by the likes of Rose Murray, Elizabeth Baird, Anne Lindsay and Michael Smith.

My initial reaction to this was confusion. When what had happened sank in, that quickly morphed into rage. I soon discovered that items of houseware were also nowhere to be found — a stockpot, food mill etc. etc.

I’ve calmed down now and am busy replacing key books with the help of Alison Fryer, my buddy and longtime manager of Toronto’s trusty Cookbook Store.

Making lemonade from lemons, I’ve learned a few valuable lessons. Think before you commit what seems like a generous act. Be careful whom you trust. Be business-like in dealings that involve your possessions, especially prized ones.

As for cookbooks, I am in the process of stamping my name in them. And there’s been a discovery, that although even seemingly obscure books have come in handy for reference during my long career as a food writer/broadcaster and still do, I may not need as many. In other words, this experience has made me assess how many and which books I really need.

For more on this, watch for an upcoming blog on my chat with Alison Fryer about all this.

Meanwhile, here’s a recipe from an author whose books I was forced to replace and who appealed to someone’s sweet tooth!

Rose Levy Beranbaum’s Flaky Cream Cheese Pie Crust

New York ace baker and prolific cookbook author Rose Levy Beranbaum is a guru to those in her field. Popular with professional chefs and home bakers alike, she is a stickler for detail. Baking is one area of cooking where this is crucial — a tablespoon more of less of baking powder can mean success or failure. Talking of which, she specifies “non-aluminium” baking powder in her recipes (available at some health food store) as she claims the regular stuff gives a bitter taste. I used the standard stuff for this, with fine results.

Ms. Beranbaum specifies that the butter be frozen. Mine was chilled (straight from the fridge) and worked well.

Beranbaum says this is her favourite pastry recipe. I feel the need to add a warning: It works like a charm and is wondrously easy to handle, then roll out. However, when baked, it is delicate — almost cakey — and will leak if a liquid filling or raw fruit is used in the pie or tart. I have the burnt pan to prove it after using raw apples!

However, this recipe is great for a free-form tart filled with roasted apples and a custard layer between it and the fruit.

4 oz/125 g (¹⁄₂ cup) cold unsalted butter, cut in chunks
1 ¹⁄₃ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
¹⁄₈ tsp sea salt
¹⁄₈ tsp baking powder
3 oz/85 g (¹⁄₃ cup) cream cheese
2 tbsp whipping (35%) cream
2 tsp cider vinegar

In food processor, blend together flour, salt adn baking powder. Add cream cheese; process until it resembles coarse crumbs. Add butter; pulse until peanut size. Add cream and vinegar; pulse until mixture clumps to form dough.

Scrape dough on to lightly floured work surface; shape with hands into flat disc. Cover in plastic wrap; chill about 45 minutes before using.

Makes enough for 1 large one-crust, deep-dish or free-form pie.

She reminds me (and others) of the cute little old lady in the original “Ladykillers” starring Alec Guinness and a young, dashing Peter Sellers. White-haired and blue-eyed, that sweet, seemingly innocent, slightly scatter-brained octogenarian is far more savvy than she looks. ‘Nuff said.

Mum lives in Primrose Hill between Hampstead and Camden Town in north-west London (U.K., of course) and is a busy bee.

A former high-school biology teacher, she volunteers at the local primary school helping young ‘uns learn to read. She attends a group of “egg-head” (my words, not hers) seniors who take turns giving dissertations to each other on topics relating to history, politics etc. An example: my mother’s presentation on the Dreyfus case.

She takes classes in Italian once a week, something she’s been doing for about 20 years together with her friend of 50+ years, Angie. When asked recently by me if she is fluent in that language by now, her response came with a shy smile: “Well yes dear, but I enjoy it — and we always go for a nice lunch afterwards.” Lunch that usually includes a glass or two of wine.

Interspersed with all this is the occasional coaching she gives assorted young people in German and Russian, just two of the other five languages she reads, writes and speaks fluently.

A scientist with a master’s degree, she once explained cloning to my son-in-law Nathaniel Richman.

And wouldn’t you know it? My dear mum is also a fantastic cook, one of the reasons, I’m sure, that I became a food writer/broadcaster who has a passion for all things culinary.

So naturally, my mother and I share recipes, discuss food and enjoy eating out on my annual visits to the U.K.

In between, we have a tradition that I treasure. Even though I could likely read it electronically, mum sends me the Observer Food Monthly by snail mail every time it appears.

Reading it is something I relish for both its educational and entertainment value. The OFM’s food writer-in-cheif Nigel Slater is one of my heroes. (If you haven’t read his beautiful memoir “Toast,” please do.) Photography in this glossy, info-packed mag is daring, innovative and gorgeous. The stories and columns are clever beyond belief. And there’s always a recipe or two that I make, usually with great success.

This year’s October issue was the annual round-up of awards for chefs, restaurants and innovation in food. As usual, it’s a keeper. As usual, the winner in the reader’s recipe category is superb. Here it is:

Chicken Pistachio Curry

This recipe from Maria Kuehn produces a delicate, delectable dish great served with mashed potatoes or, more traditionally, basmati rice. I streamlined and, in my opinion, improved the original by tweaking it slightly. To peel tomatoes, drop into boiling water briefly until skin loosens. The combo of chicken, pistachios, chiles, tomatoes and cream is divine. Yer welcome!

¹⁄₄ cup shelled pistachios
2 or 3 small fresh chiles (bird’s eye, Thai), seeded, chopped
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
2 tbsp chopped fresh ginger root
¹⁄₂ tsp turmeric
1 tsp fennel seeds
4 tomatoes, peeled, seeded, finely chopped
1 ¹⁄₄ cups chicken stock
3 tbsp whipping (35%) cream
¹⁄₂ tsp ground cardamom
8 chicken thighs, skinned, boned and cut in chunks
Salt to taste
Juice of half a lemon
¹⁄₂ tsp garam masala
Half a bunch fresh coriander, chopped

Pour 1 cup of water into small saucepan; add pistachios. Bring to boil; boil 6 minutes. Drain. Rub to remove any skin. Add to mortar with chiles; pound with pestle until mixture forms paste.

In large skillet or saucepan, heat oil over medium heat. Add onion; cook for 2 or 3 minutes. Add garlic, ginger, turmeric and fennel seeds; cook about 3 minutes. Add pistachio mixture; cook about 2 minutes. Add tomatoes, stock, cream, cardamom and chicken; reduce heat to low and simmer 16 to 18 minutes. Add salt, lemon juice and garam masala. Transfer to warmed platter or large bowl; sprinkle with coriander.
Serve with mashed potaatoes or basmati rice.

Makes 4 to 6 servings.

There’s something about the buzz, hubbub and hum that permeates it both night and day — not to mention the food aromas emanating from food carts and eateries at every corner — that make that place feel like home.

No doubt the feeling is made even stronger by the fact that much of its population seems decidedly Jewish — and, of course, many of its lively citizens are, as am I.

So Ross and I recently decided to make the trip — his first time, my umpteenth — before the bone-chilling weather that is New York winter closed in.

We travelled by car to Ithaca, another of my most beloved spots south of the border, then took the Cornell campus bus to mid-Manhattan. (On the way home a few days later, we stayed overnight at the super Statler hotel in Ithaca and re-visited the excellent restaurant in that burg called Fine Line bistro where the goat cheese/spinach crostini are alone worth the trip.)

Anyhoo, eschewing the more well-known, trendy dining haunts of NYC — Momofuku, Locanda Verde, Jean-Georges and their ilk, all of which I’ve frequented on other occasions — we found ourselves at Le Relais de Venise located near our hotel on Lexington near 51st St.

This was serendipitous for several reasons: I adore steak frites, the restaurant’s specialty; the price is right ($26 a person for that delicious dish), and the ambience is unassuming, welcoming and comfortable with excellent service.

But best of all, the concept is sweet, simple and truly brilliant. The Relais (its odd name comes from the original, still-existing sister restaurant in Paris by that name where the former inhabitant of the establishment had this name) has no menu. They serve steak frites and that’s it. (Read on for an exception to this rule: a dessert selection that is decidedly memorable).

The only decision here is how rare or well-done you’d like your steak: a good-sized piece of sirloin bathed in a delectable creamy, mustardy, herb-laced sauce accompanied by those mandatory frites. The latter are skinny, perfectly cooked and downright divine. The steak and frites are served in two portions so that, explained our lovely server, “they don’t get cold.”

As I wondered where this place has been all my life, we were handed the dessert menu. “I recommend the “tower of power” advised the aforementioned server referring to a dessert officially listed as Le Vacherin de Relais.

Wow, what a thing of beauty and a taste sensation! Rounds of home-made meringue piled high between chocolate and vanilla ice cream and chunks of hazelnut, all doused in a dark, velvety, bittersweet chocolate sauce.

When we returned to Toronto, I suggested to a couple of chef friends that someone open a restaurant with this streamlined steak-frites theme here. So far, no takers.

A few days later, still nostalgic for New York, I encouraged Ross to watch one of my favourite movies with me in our cozy TV room: The Sweet Smell of Success starring Tony Curtis and Burt Lancaster. This magnificently dark and edgy film evokes NYC, albeit several decades ago, like nothing else.

Not bad until I can savour the real thing. Come spring, it’ll be “Big Apple, here I come!”

Alison is plugged into all things culinary happening in our city (Toronto, by the way) and asked if I was going to George Brown College that night to hear a talk on food blogging by Clotilde Dusoulier.

I already knew about this up-and-coming young French woman from her popular little book “Chocolate & Zucchini: Daily Adventures in a Parisian Kitchen.” I had also heard that she was currently at the chefs’ school in Stratford — the small Ontario town that has long been home to the famous theatre festival and was briefly home to me (more of that some other time) — as writer-in-residence.

What I didn’t know but soon realized as I sat listening to her that night in the small George Brown amphitheatre among a large group of avid bloggers, chefs and foodies was that the 30-something Ms. Dusoulier is one brilliant woman with charisma, charm and, in spite of her rising fame, a good dose of humility.

She told how this all happened. Born and raised in Paris, she went with her boyfriend to work in California as a software engineer. During two years there, she discovered her latent passion for food and cooking.

In 2003, she began her blog called Chocolate & Zucchini — incidentally but not surprisingly, two of her favourite foods. She describes blogging as a “little sandbox that feels like home.” She loves the interaction with others who become engaged by what she has to say.

Back living in Paris, Dusoulier, who is accent-free and fluent in both French and English, has obviously found her calling. In addition to blogging and writing books about food (she has penned a food guide to Paris), she also works as a consulting editor, contributes to various publications and does recipe development.

In her talk, she offered 10 rules of food blogging. Among them: Choose your focus: be genuine; set yourself apart; focus on great content; keep learning, and have fun!

Of all her pursuits, blogging about food takes the cake. “You can share stuff with readers to inspire, educate and entertain,” she said breathlessly. “Food bloggers are a great community. It’s important to foster relationships with those you admire,” she continued. And last, “It’s all about passion and sharing it.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself!

The next day, I grabbed my copy of “Chocolate & Zucchini” and turned to the recipe for Yogurt Cake mentioned a couple of times during her talk as a staple of her blog, cookbook and recipe repertoire. (Next, I plan to try her Tomato Tatin, My Grandmother’s Apple Cake and Lamb Tagine with Pears, all of which she recommended when I chatted with her briefly after her talk. Watch this space for more on them.)

The cake worked first time and is delicious. Here’s the recipe:

Yogurt Cake

The perfect moist, not-too-sweet, plain cake to serve guests — or yourself — with a cup of tea or coffee, it’s also yummy with a scoop of ice cream or a spoonful of your favourite yogurt. Dusoulier writes in her intro that it’s great any time of day: “Breakfast, tea, dessert — any time at all, trust me.” I’ll add this bonus: it’s so easy to make, a child could do it.

¹⁄₃ cup vegetable oil, plus 1 tsp to grease pan
1 cup plain yogurt, preferably whole milk
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tbsp rum (optional)
1 ²⁄₃ cups all-purpose flour
1 ¹⁄₂ tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
Good pinch of fine sea salt

Preheat oven to 350F.

Grease bottom and sides of 10-inch springform pan with oil. (Use parchment paper to line bottom of pan if not springform.)

In large bowl, whisk together yogurt and sugar. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add vanilla, oil and rum; whisk again.

In another bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Add to yogurt mixture; stir until just combined.

Pour batter into prepared pan. Bake in oven about 35 minutes or until top is golden brown and cake tester inserted in centre comes out clean. Transfer to rack; cool about 10 minutes. Run knife around edge of cake to loosen. Unclip sides of springform pan. Serve slightly warm or at room temperature.

Makes 8 to 10 servings.

Some time in the 1990s, when I was food editor for the Toronto Star, I penned a piece on “underdog foods” in which I named those that have a bad rep, some of them for no apparent or justifiable reason.

The list included these items: Liver, prunes, turnips, tofu, tapioca — and Brussels sprouts.

Ever one to support the misfit and maligned (something that dates back to my childhood as a secular Jew growing up in a white-bread, white-collar suburb of North London, England), I immediately came to the rescue of these culinary underdogs.

I sang their praises and offered a recipe that would endear each of these foods to anyone with a palate.

Liver has traditionally suffered from over-cooking (except by the French, bless their hearts) rendering it grainy, dry and akin to a leather sole in texture. I endeavoured to save its reputation by offering a recipe for chicken livers (my favourite) done with tomatoes and a little red wine vinegar.

As for prunes, I cannot bear to hear them criticized and can see no reason they bring a smirk to many a face other than their laxative properties — not a bad thing in my mind. In that article, I served up the dessert my mother used to make for my birthday when I was a child (okay, I was always a tad eccentric): the prune souffle from the Joy of Cooking.

Which brings me back to Brussels sprouts.

This cute little veg is basically a baby cabbage but with more taste. Maybe it’s the abuse they’ve long suffered, especially at the hands of old-school British cooks, in the shape of over-cooking. Admittedly, an overcooked brussels sprouts is a nasty thing. But one cooked properly is a beautiful thing indeed.

I recently raved about the blanched and quartered sprouts in the magnificent salad I ate at chef Lynn Crawford’s lovely Toronto eatery: Ruby Watchco. Since then, I’ve been adding them to mine.

I’ve also noticed Brussels sprouts popping up on other menus and generally — dare I hope? — coming into vogue.

So when I saw a recipe for them from David Chang, he of New York restaurant Momofuku fame, in the latest issue of “O” (Oprah’s) magazine, I bought a copy and took to the stove. Chang says this is the dish he brings to his family’s annual Thanksgiving dinner. It’s a hit there — and it was a hit with me. Enjoy!

Brussels Sprouts with Asian Vinaigrette

I used Kikkoman ponzu sauce instead of fish sauce, with good results.

3 tbsp canola oil
2½ lb/1 kilo Brussels sprouts, preferably small, tough outer leaves removed, halved
¼ cup Asian fish sauce
2 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp lime or lemon juice
1 tbsp rice wine vinegar
1 to 3 small fresh chiles, such as bird’s eye, thinly sliced
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
¼ cup finely chopped cilantro stems, plus 1 cup leaves (from about ½ bunch)
⅓ cup chopped fresh mint
½ cup puffed rice cereal, such as Rice Krispies (optional)

Preheat oven to 400F.

In large, oven-safe skillet over medium-high heat, heat oil. Add Brussels sprouts; cook, stirring occasionally until sprouts start to turn golden and are barely tender, about 10 minutes. Transfer skillet to oven; roast until all are deep golden brown and tender, about 15 minutes more.

Meanwhile, in large heatproof bowl, whisk together 2 Tbsp. water, fish sauce, sugar, lime juice, vinegar, chiles, and garlic to make a vinaigrette. Stir in cilantro stems and mint; set aside.

Add hot Brussels sprouts to vinaigrette, toss well, and transfer to a large serving platter. Toss with cilantro leaves and puffed rice, if using, and serve.

Makes about 8 servings.

My nifty new office — not as big as it looks — at CSI

With a talent for languages, I obtained a degree in Russian and French straight out of high school. Realizing that being an interpreter at the U.N. was not going to happen, I explored various other job options: social worker with the Province of Alberta; assistant director of a teen centre in downtown Edmonton; owner of a clothing store in North Bay; baker of apple pies in Toronto; being a waitress (okay, a server to be politically correct) in various restaurants, and teacher of ESL to adult New Canadians in the Jane-Finch area — and yes, I obtained the B.Ed required.

I managed to squeeze this eclectic career path into a space of a dozen or so years. This includes having my first child, Esther, at the age of 24. At that tender age, I was as clueless at being a mother as I was about finding my vocation.

And then it happened. In the mid-70s, a friend was leaving her position at Toronto Life magazine where she was a contributing editor for what was then called The Gourmet Guide. I had been writing restaurant reviews for her on an infrequent basis when I got her job. A budding foodie who loved to cook, I also began writing freelance pieces for various publications including travel stories for the Toronto Star about food-focused trips to Russia, Ireland and the south of France.

In 1983, a friend called to say they needed a food writer at the Toronto Sun. Pat McCormick, a lanky fellow with curly hair and a good sense of humour who was the Lifestyle editor at that time, recommended they hire me. Although I had never used a computer (the Sun newsroom had huge, clunky word processors in those days), I took the job, mostly because of the dental plan.

In 1989, I moved to the Toronto Star as food editor after they wooed me for several months. I stayed there for 18 years. I had found my passion, my talent — and, career-wise, I was growing up.

I became friends with Julia Child (see the rest of my web site and my book “Dish”), I interviewed Joe “Dogs” Iannuzzi, author of “The Mafia Cookbook,” by phone from parts unknown while he was under the witness protection plan, I discovered and penned a feature piece on a fledgling Jamie Oliver when he first appeared in Canada on TVO, and joined firefighters in their downtown firehall to cook dinner. I also made it my mission to write about the politics of food, hunger and poverty. In other words, to share with my roughly 1 million readers stories about those who don’t have enough food.

I have been freelancing for a few years now after resigning from the Star in 2007. That has included a stint as resident food sleuth on CBC radio’s flagship show Q, a cookbook called “A Pinch of This” produced with residents of the downtown Toronto community Alexandra Park, much travel always with a culinary mission, regular food blogging and my most recent pursuit: creating audio podcasts about food with my wonderful producer Meagan Perry. A state-of-the-art FlashMic is my new indispensable tool.

After five years living in the rural Ontario city of Stratford during which time I found out that small town life is not for me, I returned my favourite, feisty and former Toronto neighbourhood: Kensington Market. Here, I live in a compact house with my soul-mate and man-friend Ross Whitney.

Which brings me to the theme of this blog: my new office.

I get cabin fever when I’m at home during the day for more than a few hours. I’m used to the hustle, bustle and collegial spirit of a newsroom (okay, so it wasn’t always that collegial but never mind). So after trying to work at home for several months, I’ve rented a space at the amazing Centre for Social Innovation on Spadina Ave. near Queen not far from my home.

The name is self-explanatory and there are all kinds of interesting projects germinating and flourishing in this amazing space. I’m part of a network of people working at creative solutions to make our world a better place.

My office is small — not nearly as big as it looks in the photo above — but cozily furnished with the mandatory burgundy and leopard.

Keep in touch with my blog for more food sleuthing news!

I have long been grateful to her for that soup, especially her tip about adding the mandatory parsnip. It gives delicate sweetness that elevates that winter mainstay from good to simply sublime.

That young male reader of my blog, after discussing the merits of adding chicken feet to the actual chicken (feet give thickness and a luscious, glutinous texture along with extra flavour), told me he was about to make a delicious dessert from The Joanne Kates Cookbook (my source for the soup and a vintage tome published in 1984) called Ginger Pear Pie.

Well, it’s fall, pear season and time to try that recipe. Yesterday I did and it’s a winner. My boyfriend Ross, as he was polishing off a second slice, said it reminds him of a Christmas cookie. That would be the ginger. For me, it has shades of lemon meringue. That would be the lemon. Both of these, combined with juicy sweet-and-sour pears (I used Bartlett), make for a divine dessert. I added an extra pear and halved instead of slicing them.
Ginger Pear Pie

Crust:

1 ¹⁄₂ cups all-purpose flour

¹⁄₂ cup cold butter. cubed

Pinch of salt

¹⁄₃ cup iced water

Filling:

¹⁄₂ cup sugar

2 tbsp all-purpose flour

2 tbsp finely grated fresh ginger root

¹⁄₄ tsp salt

3 or 4 ripe pears, peeled, sliced or halved

3 tbsp soft butter

2 large eggs, separated

1 tsp grated lemon peel

3 tbsp fresh lemon juice

³⁄₄ cup milk

Add flour, butter and salt to large bowl. With wire pastry cutter, cut butter into flour until it’s the size of peas. Add water; mix until dough holds together. Gather into ball. Refrigerate, wrapped in plastic, about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 425F.

Roll out dough; use it to line 9-inch/23-cm pie plate.

In small bowl, combine ¹⁄₄ cup of the sugar, 1 tbsp of the flour, ginger root and salt. Sprinkle evenly over pie shell. Arrange pears on top.

In medium bowl, cream butter with remaining sugar and flour until light and smooth. Add egg yolks, lemon peel and juice, and milk. Mix to combine.

Beat egg whites until stiff. Fold into butter mixture. Pour over pears.

Place in oven; bake 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350F; bake 20 to 30 minutes more or until crust and top of pie are golden brown.

Makes about 8 servings.