A Chicken In Every Granny Cart

This may be silly, but autumn and winter, to me, means a return to cooking recipes from The Silver Spoon.

While there are plenty of salads, seafood dishes and soups that are light and healthy and nutritious in the Italian cuisine bible, it’s the heavier, bulkier fare that makes my heart go pitter-pat. Pastas, roasts, stews, risottos, boils and gratins. That’s what I turn to Il Cucchiaio d’Argento for.

What’s also silly is that I’ve only ever done one post about cooking from The Spoon, and it too was about a disappointing recipe (can you see where this is going?), which is just insane. I’m constantly cooking from it, using it as reference book, and I’m generally very happy with the results. But I guess what they say about unpleasant experiences is true, it makes one flap ones lips.

On page 447 is a picture that is simply stunning. Peridot green Brussels sprouts in a snowy porcelain bowl, dusted with golden, breadcrumb-coated almonds. For a couple of people that love sprouts as much as the boy and I do, this recipe has been bookmarked as a “must try” for months. Finally, a few weeks ago we did, and while it wasn’t a culinary disaster, the dish surely wasn’t as dreamy as we had hoped for.

The crumbs didn’t stick to the almonds like the look like they’re clinging in the picture. In fact, the almonds barely cooked at all and the lemon rind didn’t sparkle through nearly as much as I had hoped.

It was a delicious dish, but maybe I had set the bar mentally too high. I was hoping for more, something transcendental, but instead, the dish was, well, meh. It made me feel blue… Thankfully there was some chocolate to snack on. That made me feel better.

Head below the jump for The Spoon’s recipe and my variation on it for Brussels Sprouts With Almonds.

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I’d like to give thanks.

Thank you to my mother, who for the first time in my 30-odd years on earth, suggested I relax and spend Thanksgiving in the City. I’d like to say thank you to Whole Foods for being open until 4pm on Thanksgiving day so I could sleep in and watch the parade. Thank you to NBC for airing a dog show after the parade. And finally, thank you to the boy for making a wicked pomme purée.

And it wasn’t just any old mashed potatoes. It was a purée of beautiful yellow creamers and celeriac with goat’s milk and goat’s butter, a riff on one of the ugliest and yet most delicious comfort foods I’ve ever come across, Chartreuse Mash. Goat’s milk and butter differ from cow’s milk and butter in exactly the same way their cheeses do. There’s a distinct goatiness, that if you love, you love. If you’re a lover, I implore you to run out and get some goat goods and make either of these purées. The silky spuds are the perfect vehicle for the tangy, earthy, herby, goaty aromas and flavors.

What was my contribution to the meal you ask? I had to have stuffing. Straight from the bag, slightly doctored and baked in the oven, stuffing. Absolutely, hands down, no questions asked, unequivocally my favorite holiday side dish ever. My mom starts with some celery and an onion, to that I added some brown clamshell mushrooms, a medley of dried berries (golden raisins, cherries, blueberries and cranberries), sage, the stuffing mix and some chicken stock. Mix, mix, mix and then layer into a baking dish, covered with foil, to bake for as long as need be. The crustier the better!

But of course, no matter how low key a day is, two people cannot live on side dishes alone. What was our entree you ask? Well, it wasn’t turkey. In fact, it wasn’t a fowl at all. No, we had clams & cod. Adapted from the Stonewall Kitchen and baked in the oven with some lemon and bread crumbs, it was simple, clean, and to be honest, probably something closer to what the pilgrims actually ate all those many years ago.

And finally, having thanked family, boyfriend and corporate conglomerates, I’d like to thank you guys, my readers and blog friends, and wish you all very happy holidays to come (and maybe, one year, a Thanksgiving full of relaxation, too).

I love asian noodles. All of them. Pho. Jap chae. Soba. Udon. Ramen. Mai fun. Chow fun. Lo mein. Somen. Bun. Dang myun. Gook soo. I’ll try anything if it’s got noodles in it. But my favorite place to eat noodles in NYC (outside of Chinatown)? Kar Won.

I discovered it on a trip to Bloomies years ago, probably looking for socks or something, and have been going back ever since. What makes it so good? It certainly isn’t the atmosphere, or the service. Simply, its the Dan Dan Noodle Soup and the Shredded Pork With Chinese Pickle Noodle Soup.

So, I ask you NYC foodies… What’s your favorite non-Chinatown, kinda-out-of-the-way noodle joint on Manhattan?

There’s got to be more hidden gems out there like Kar Won, and I’d like to try them!

Kar Won

116 E 60th St btwn Lex & Park Ave

Well, there she is, the best thing ever to come out of my kitchen, and she’s a loaf of bread.

Yes, yes, she may be a bit of a band-wagon-jumping-loaf, every food blogger out there worth his or her salt has made this loaf, the famous Minimalist’s no-knead loaf, but, to me, and to my loaf, it was a massive triumph.

I have left countless comments on countless blogposts about pastries and breads saying, “Oh man, that looks so good! I wish I could make that but, well, I can’t bake!” Now I know that’s a lie.

So, to other bake-o-phobes out there, it’s okay! Jump in! Join the no-knead party! It’s easy, it’s kinda fun and it’s oh so very, very gratifying and best of all, heavenly smelling and possibly the most delicious thing you’ll ever make with your own two hands and then scarf down greedily, leaving crumbs for Mr. Mouseypants. Yes, it’s that good.

I started my loaf on Friday night, using 2 cups all purpose white flour and 1 cup white whole wheat flour. I doubled the salt and added a packet of Sugar In The Raw borrowed from the boy’s office. For those on the hunt for instant yeast, I got mine at Trader Joe’s. It says “Perfect Rise,” but after some pow-wowing with my bread-expert friend Virginia, we concluded it is the same thing as the red Saf-Instant so favored by professional bakers.

I let it rise for exactly 18 hours. It was spongy and full of air holes and smelled pleasantly yeasty and it was sticky, but you know what? Sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty! I tipped it out onto a well floured board, shaped it as well as I could, covered it with saran wrap and let it sit 15 minutes.

Then, just like the directions say I folded it a few times and placed it on a towel I had strewn with cornmeal. Now, here’s where I should have actually read ahead in the directions… I wanted the cornmeal on the bottom and flour on the top, so that’s what I did, cornmeal on the bottom towel, flour on the top. Ah, no Ann, you should have done the exact opposite! You see, when you plop the dough into the pot, you flip it over. Doh! Oh well, next time!

From there everything went exactly as the recipe states. I pulled her gorgeousness out, let her sit, and then dug in. The first slice I ate with butter. The second with ajvar. And the third piece with Eldress Hall’s Tomato Soup. It was heaven. Pure, simple, minimalist culinary heaven.

And where was the boy during all this? Visiting family in Colorado. In fact, I was so blissed out on bread that I started a second loaf that very same evening so he could enjoy it fresh and warm from the oven when he arrived home. And what became of that loaf? Well, that’s kind of a sad tale actually.

Sunday morning our sleepy heroine climbed out of bed, searching desperately for her slippers. It was a cold, gray morning. Slippers on, arms wrapped about her body for warmth, she padded into the kitchen to check her bread dough, which had spent the night silently slumbering on the shelf above her stove. Still groggy she chose not to use the step ladder, confident she could reach that high.

Fortunately, she saved her dough, unfortunately, she dropped her large, heavy cutting board onto her stove. Immediately an odor of gas consumed our heroine, but her nose was so stuffy, she just wasn’t sure. Were the odors real? Were they imaginary? She couldn’t tell.

After a few minutes, she couldn’t stand her paranoia anymore so she went out for a walk. Upon arriving home, she thought the odor was still there, but again, wasn’t sure. So off she set for another Brooklyn amble. This time upon arriving home, she was sure she could smell something, so again she left her humble abode and called the only person that would know what to do, her mom.

Mom said call the FDNY. Our heroine balked. What if the firemen forced everyone to evacuate the building? All her neighbors would hate her! In her infinite mom wisdom her mother replied “They’ll hate you more if you blow up their apartments!” Ah, logic…

So call the FDNY she did, and they came. One nice man ventured up to the 4th floor with our heroine. Upon entering the apartment his estimable sniffer went into overdrive, “Yes ma’am, you’ve got a leak in here, you did the right thing.” He called down to the truck, three more men made the four-floor ascent, one carrying a thingy that looked and sounded like something from Ghostbusters.

Areeeeeeeeeearoooooooooooareeeeeeeeeeeem! It went.

What does that mean our heroine asked? Mr. Mustache said, “That there’s gas in here ma’am, you’ll have to step outside.” And so into her tiny, tiny kitchen four rather large men with tanks on their backs wedged themselves in, breaking many things along the way. But they turned off the gas and all was safe again.

The firemen told our heroine she was going to have to get a new stove. This made her very, very sad as she knows how slow to act her landlord can be. Visions of eating out every night for weeks on end brought the shimmer of a tear to the corner of our heronie’s limpid hazel eyes.

But an hour later the ConEd guy showed up and determined that the leak had probably been fixed when the firemen clamped the valve shut. He ran tests, lit matches and declared emphatically that all was, yet again, well, and that our heroine could continue to bake and cook to her heart’s content.

The only problem? In her deep sadness our heroine had thrown away her bread dough.

So the moral of the story? Even in real life tales of woe, sometimes, all’s well that ends well. So don’t be too hasty in throwing away that slow-rise dough!

Hmmm… It seems I should re-name heirloom·modern. Maybe, Heirloom Tomato Modern? Of the now five entries in this occasional editorial feature, three are for tomato soup. Why? I have no idea. Perhaps in the past tomato soups were more flexible, more interesting, more varied. Or, maybe I just really like tomato soup!

heirloom·modern: Eldress Hall’s 1907 Shaker Tomato Bisque

What was the occasion that called for yet another tomato soup? I had just pulled “the best thing ever to come out of my kitchen” from the oven, and while it was cooling I realised I needed a simple foil for this “best thing.”

I didn’t feel like running to the market, my brain felt wibbly from hunger and exertion, I wanted something quick and easy. I poked my head in the fridge. Aha! A carton of Pomis! I poked my nose in The Best Of Shaker Cooking. Aha! A simple tomato bisque! (The Shakers are so reliable for simple, quick recipes). Et voila! Dinner was decided.

There are three recipes for tomato soup in this amazing book, but this one from Frances Hall intrigued me with its inclusion of baking soda.

Although she is not noted as being a member of the faithful at Hancock Village, this reference leads me to believe that Frances Hall was actually the last eldress of this beautiful village that is now a working museum (and definitely worth a visit if you’re in the area, A. because it didn’t bore me as a 7th grader on a field trip and B. There’s an amazing restaurant there).

And what of the baking soda? As near as I can figure it added a delicate lightness to this soup which would be very, very necessary if you followed the original recipe which calls for 1 quart of milk (most likely whole and with cream back then) and 1/2 cup of heavy cream! I did not follow those measurements and, after tasting the soup sans dairy and realising it tasted just like Campbell’s, embarked on some very necessary modernising.

I cut down on the dairy, added some garlic and tossed in some slightly spicy, seductively smoky Spanish pimenton de la vera. The pepper added such a lovely, almost bacon-y flavor. Utterly delicious!

And what is “the best thing ever to come out of my kitchen?” You’ll just have to stay tuned til tomorrow (or snoop around on my flickr page, should be pretty obvious from there).

Head below the jump for my adaptation of Eldress Hall’s Tomato Bisque.

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Last week sucked. So, on the advice of blog friends Sher and Julie, I took a walk. From Windsor Terrace to Williamsburg. Of course the boy came along, too. It just wouldn’t be a long walk without him!

We began with breakfast. It seemed a logical starting point, and the sanest thing to do given our goal of walking several miles. My favorite place to break my fast in the Five Boroughs has got to be Café Steinhof on 7th Avenue in Park Slope. It’s a quaint, sunny Austrian joint with really good un-breakfasty food because in all honesty, I’m not a huge fan of breakfast.

I hate waffles and pancakes and, to be honest, don’t really care for eggs all that much either. But when the eggs surround light-as-air dumplings and pan-fried mushrooms and are served with a peppery cress salad, yeah, I’ll eat the eggs, and I’ll love every minute of it!

Unfortunately they were down to one working burner and were serving only the simplest eggs (sunny-side up or over-easy only) and sausages, as well as salads and sandwiches. This was a near tragedy. They were forcing me to break out of a rut!

But as with most happy accidents this one had a happy ending. I cannot implore you enough if you go, to try the Steinhof Salad Platter. I don’t know how they can call them salads, they’re more like pickles, really, really good pickles. That platter very nearly eclipses the one served at Momofuku, and that’s lofty praise! There’s pickled red cabbage that sits perfectly on the fence between sweet and sour, vividly vinegary chilled potatoes, paper thin cucumbers, and my favorite, savory rosemary tomatoes. Sorry there are no pictures, but we absolutely inhaled this dish. Utterly delicious.

Fully sated, we headed due north, down the Slope. Saturday was a perfect fall day, so I’ll stop my babbling and let the pictures tell the story.

The brownstone-lined streets of Boerum Hill, are to me, much finer than those of Park Slope.

The ginkgos in Ft. Greene Park were in full flame.

As were the elms (and there’s that guy that always walks through my photos).

The neighborhood surrounding the park has some absolutely stunning architecture.

And some fairly pedestrian buildings as well. But I love old carriage houses, I love imagining what New York was like when it was a city that ran only on real horsepower.

Somewhere past Pratt we turned left, heading for Williamsburg. I have no idea what neighborhood this was, but there was a guy schooling his pigeons. It was lovely. I love how so many individuals move as a whole.

We walked along the edge of the Navy Yard. The neighborhood we skirted is populated mostly by Hasidic Jews and for some reason I felt bad taking photos. It was the shabbos, families were out strolling about, visiting with friends, it just felt tacky. So you’ll have to trust me that the balconies on all the buildings that we can only infer are used for making sukkahs for the celebration of Sukkot, give the area a very Old World feel.

We finally made it to the water. Just over there on the other side of the bridge is where we live.

Our ultimate goal was a sample sale which turned out to be a total bust, but the walk wasn’t. I love this fire escape on the side of an old shrine.

The neighborhood really is changing, but there will always be hipsters in Williamsburg, and their ironic conveyances.

Finally, it was time to head home. We were pooped. We tried to stop by Marlow & Sons to say hi to Grocery Guy, but he didn’t seem to be there.

We briefly toyed with the idea of walking home over the bridge, but our feet were just too tired. Instead we tromped up Broadway, past the Williamsburgh Bank and the famous Peter Luger Steakhouse to the elevated J-line.

Back on the other island, we popped into the Essex Street Market to visit Max, because, what long walk doesn’t deserve a little cheese at its end?

The human being is a curious beast, always asking questions, looking for answers, trying to explain the strange things that occur in the world. WordPress is a free service with lots of great features, but hands down my favorite feature is the ability to see the search terms people used to find my site.

Sometimes they’re legit. I love seeing people get here because their chili is too spicy. They’ve come to the right place, I’ve got that. But the numerous people getting here because their goats have bloating. Well, no, you’ve come to the wrong place… And to the person that knows where to find the tiny bunnies that don’t grow, I’m still waiting. Please contact me asap!

And now, without further ado, I present to you the weird and wonderful world of search queries, food only for once, chez Granny Cart.

Culinary Curiosities.

Find voluptuous veggies (hmmm)

hot dog grilling gizmo (you mean this?)

garlic magical elixir (I concur)

snob salad (sounds like my alumni association cocktail parties)

amazing vending machine (where? WHERE?)

what is chicken lobster (I don’t know, why don’t you tell us…)

potato flecks making machine (I bet if 3-2-1 Contact was still around they’d know where to find one)

recipes that require LOTS of blueberries (I guess we know who the thieves are now!)

I put curry on my curry (now that does sound like a predicament!)

can you eat air potoatoes? (shouldn’t the question have been, what are air potatoes?)

And finally my two favorites.

mens primal instincts cooking dinner (they have those?! just kidding)

And.

They’ve come for the cheese sandwiches. (OH GOD NO!!!!)

It’s been one of those weeks. No, not one of those. One of those.

You know, the kind of week that by Monday night, you wish there was a “re-set” button. And then by Tuesday night, you wish there was a gym coach you could turn to and ask for a “re-do.” By Wednesday night you don’t know how you’re going to get through the week, but at least it’s half over now. And then on Thursday night you’ve just slammed your head into your keyboard so hard that you’ve given yourself a minor concussion, fallen off your chair and had to call the IT guy to replace the “G” key on your keyboard. Yeah. It’s been that week.

Of course on Monday evening I had no idea it was going to be like this. I had an inkling; that sick sort of sinking feeling that hovers around the pit of your stomach, but no concrete idea, yet. So when the boy called me at work and told me he’d already cleaned and trimmed the broccoli rabe for dinner, it made me smile. I gave him blanching instructions, wrapped up my work and had a nice walk home.

On Sunday we had gone cruciform crazy at the Tompkins Square Greenmarket. We bought purple Russian kale, purple mustard greens, tiny yellow cauliflower, romanesco and a trove of Brussles sprouts. The kale and mustard were consumed that day, the cauliflower, romanesco and sprouts are still languishing in the fridge. I hope they’re okay (I really ought to check on them).

Back to the rabe. I love the stuff. I love its pungent, clean, antiseptic bite and its hidden soft sweetness. It has always surprised me that my lover-of-all-things-cruciferous boyfriend insists that he doesn’t like the stuff. Now I know why.

When I walked in he said to me, “You know, I was getting worried because the rabe didn’t look how I’ve always remembered it, but now that it’s cooked, it looks right to me.” So I sauntered over to the sink and looked in the colander at the sad, wet mass huddling at it’s bottom and without thinking turned to the boy and said, “Where’s the rest of it?”

What do you mean the rest of it? The rest of it. Huh? The stalks, the florets, the rest of it. In the garbage. What? In the garbage. Well what’s it doing there? I threw it away. I thought you only ate the leaves, that’s all I’ve ever been served. Oh. Well, no wonder you say you don’t like the stuff.

So there we were, standing in the kitchen, me frustrated, him feeling bad, neither of us knowing what to do. My first impulse was to bin the soggy stuff and go out for dinner, but I was tired. Even though Monday was probably the best day I had all week, I didn’t know it at the time. I was cranky and crabby and hungry.

So I picked up a few leaves and squeezed the liquid out and tasted it. Happily, they were imminently salvageable. So I turned to the one thing that can rescue any evening and turn it from tense and testy into something special, lobster ravioli.

I set a pot of water to boil, heated a sautée pan with oil, popped in a few cloves of garlic (squeezed through my garlic press, natch) and added the well-drained rabe leaves. I doused them liberally with lemon juice, chile flakes, porcini powder and salt and pepper. When the ravioli were cooked we scooped the glistening leaves over top and dug in. It was delicious. The night was saved.

But it wasn’t.

After washing up and some making up (I’m sorry I was cranky. I’m sorry I don’t know how to clean rabe) I sat down at the computer to finish the work I hadn’t been able to while I was still in the office. No dice. Apparently someone had forgotten to feed the hamsters and gerbils again because there was a dead server somewhere blocking all my attempts to log-in. I called a friend that lives nearby hoping hers was working, but again, no dice.

So, a glass of wine down, I hopped in a cab at 8.30pm and went back to work. By the time I was done and in another cab on my way home I had decided I wanted, no I deserved, a dirty vodka martini when I got home.

Now let me say this to you friends… Should this occasion ever happen to you, when you’re sitting in a cab justifying the consumption of a pretty healthy dose of hard liquor later in the evening after a sucky day at work, remember this tale. I’m not by any means blaming the booze, that would be heresy. But I have to wonder, would this week have been quite so loathsome if I hadn’t woken up with a splitting headache on Tuesday morning? I have no idea. But I do know one thing.

Thank frickin’ god it’s Friday.

Have I ever mentioned that I love pickles?

I’m going to go with, yes.

So when Chris from Apartment Therapy: The Kitchen and Electric Stove asked me if I’d be interested in helping him organize a food blogger Pickle Party, I nearly jumped out of my chair. Oh hell yeah I was interested!

I guess in doing this story, Chris had met Jon, the genius behind Wheelhouse Pickles. He was our pickle pusher on Saturday night. I’ve never met a dealer I liked so much, but there was one unpleasant side-effect to Jon’s pickles.

They made me feel guilty. Guilty? Yes, guilty. Why? Were they Catholic pickles? Jewish grandmother pickles? Close. Jon’s pickles are better than my mom’s.

I always thought hers were best. Her Dilly Beans are legendary, as are her pickled red beet eggs. But Jon’s? Yeah, they’re better. More nuanced, more modern, and highly, highly addictive.

I stood by the pickle platter, picking and noshing for hours, like I was one of the Queen’s guard. The only muscles that moved were in my arm and my jaw. I reached for a Sour Barrel. Munch, munch, munch. Just one more bean. Chomp, chomp, chomp. No one will see me grab those insane pears. Nibble, nibble, nibble. I was a woman possessed.

Apparently Jon is, too (pickle possessed that is). He spent half the evening in the kitchen cooking up delicious pickle-friendly fare, like celeriac soup, garnished with pickled beets. There was a potato and cheese galette which was perfect with those redonkulous pickled pears. A beef stew with some kind of cucumber based pickle in it and a red beet and goat cheese salad. Oh and there were cocktails too. Jesus, I want to live in his world, surrounded constantly by delicious brined things!

But lest my pickle preoccupation give you the impression that it was just me rolling around like a pig in a pickle patch, there were other people there too!

The amazing husband and wife team behind Stinky Brooklyn and Smith & Vine brought pickle-friendly cheeses and meats (hie thee there and grab the tres leches jobbie from Portugal rubbed in paprika, trust me).

I finally got to meet the Grocery Guy and Gal, the wine obsessed half of Cravings, and a very cool contributer to Gothamist Food. There was one normal sized member of the Tiny Banquet Committee, one-not-so-poor-looking-half of The Paupered Chef and the not-so-pickle smitten Smitten Kitchen accompanied by her pickle-smitten husband (say that five times fast). NYC food bloggers mailing list creator and party doyenne Habeas Brulee was there, as were the Curd Nerds and a few Apartment Therapists.

Due to the size of the hosts’ apartment we had to limit the guest list, but hopefully not so the next time, because, oh yes, there will be a next time! So if you’re an NYC-area food blogger, yummy food maker or purveyor or a gourmet with the inside track on a space that could host a lot of funny, friendly foodies, please drop me a line at chickeninacart AT gmail DOT com.

To everyone I finally got to meet on Saturday, nice to meet ya! To Jon, thanks so much for ruining my mother’s pickles forever for me! To Stinky Brooklyn thanks for the protein! And to Chris, a million thank yous for being such a gracious host and having such great ideas!

To everyone else in Manhattan salivating at the thought of these pickles; Meet me in line at the Real Foods market on Houston and Sixth Ave on Saturday morning. It’s the only place to buy these puppies on the island. Apparently they’re available lotsa places in Brooklyn (including Marlow & Son). For once Brooklyn you’ve won one, but only this one time!

A few weekends ago we decided to partake of our favorite, only in New York, activity. Real estate porn. The best way to indulge in this guilty pleasure is to make up a list of unique and pretty, yet slightly-out-of-your-price-range apartments that are for sale and plot them out so that you’ll get in a nice walk going from open house to open house.

What’s the goal of this game? To be honest, I don’t know, but it’s somehow edifying. I don’t know if it’s the schadenfreude of seeing that some people live in smaller, darker, noisier, staler, whiter apartments, or the jealousy of seeing that some people live in gigantic floor-thru townhouses with period detailing that hasn’t been touched since 1920, but, it’s a cheap thrill, free in fact, and harms no one.

You get to paw through people’s drug cabinets, poke their towels, pass judgment on their book and magazine collections, caress their marble counter-tops, poopoo their wine selections and laugh at their decorating schemes. And since you can’t afford any of these places, there’s no temptation.

So, a few weekends ago we went to see the most laughable “studio” apartment on the Gold Coast. Seriously, my senior year dorm room in college was bigger and nicer. There was no real kitchen (just a dorm fridge and a hot plate) and barely room for a bed bigger than a twin, all yours for $400,000! Eep! But, I’d always wanted to know what was inside those grand old behemoths on lower Fifth Avenue, and now I know.

Our next destination was in the far West Village. As we walked my stomach started rumbling. We passed Gray’s Papaya where I briefly considered stopping for the breakfast of champions, but did not. (Maybe it was the guilt of having consumed a lot of kielbasa the night before)? We walked some more, I pondered… And then I saw it.

A shiny silver cart off in the distance. Could it be? Oh yes, it could, and it was. The Dogmatic Hot Dog Cart! I got a turkey dog with spicy ketchup. It was delicious. They take a half-baguette and spike it on this toaster thingy that toasts the inside of the bread! Then they squirt the condiment in and pop the sausage in (that’s why it’s in the middle of the bun).

Doesn’t that picture kinda remind you of this one or this one? I think I need a name for that shot, like the “Up The Skirt” photo nomenclature at Slice. Anyway, sausage in hand we headed off to our next rendezvous, a sweet little one bedroom a mere block and a half from the Hudson.

The problem with this apartment was that the porn got real. This one was brilliant. It was amazing. It was perfect. And it was virtually affordable. We floated out of the courtyard (with a garden! That I could garden in!) and stumbled to our next destination, another featureless white box across from a beautiful park. But we couldn’t get that apartment out of our minds. We needed coffee. Stat. Or cheese. Or both. We went for both.

I suppose in reality the last thing a fevered mind reeling with possibilities needs is an incredibly good (and strong) large cappuccino from Tarallucci e Vino (which just happens to be next-door to my favorite place to slurp noodles in the whole world), but well, the soul needed it. The soul also needed cheese, and not just any cheese but fresh mozzarella, and the soul needed to cook too.

We grabbed the mozza from Russo’s on 11th rather than hoofing it all the way back down to DiPalo’s and decided that rather than eating it with some bread, we’d make Pillows Of Love again, and this time, rather than covering them in too much sauce, we’d use nothing more than olive oil and truffle salt.

The last time we made these sexy little packets of mozza love, we debated as to whether or not it would be possible to flavor the cheese, and if so, would it be advisable. So, before wrapping the cheese in the wonton wrappers I dusted the chunks with some herbes de provence and some finely grated aged Parmesan.

And the outcome? The Pillows Of Love were delicious, but I must warn you. If you make these, do not make too many. They are rich. Be judicious. Force yourself to eat just a few. I think they’d make a wicked hors-d’oeuvres for a dinner party, or better yet, serve a few of them floating on top of a Velouté de Tomates à la Provençal. It’s one of the recipes I’m most proud of. So simple, so delicious and dead sexy.

And the apartment? That still remains to be seen. Probably nothing, but, hey, you never know!