Some days, you just want a salad. And sometimes, those some days are every day, especially when they fall near the end of June, and when the thermometer outside is stuck at the “hot and sticky” mark, and when you’ve been in the process of moving into a new apartment for, oh, the past ten of them. Around here, those are the kinds of days that we’ve been having. Salad days, or sort of. Regular readers will know by this point that Brandon and I eat a lot of salad. Between the two of us, we could keep a small farm in business. The first meal that we ever shared was a salad—of shredded baby bok choy, ramp leaves, and…

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There is only one thing that I need to say to convey the state of myself and my kitchen, and that is this: Brandon is boarding a plane to Seattle tomorrow with a one-way ticket. Oh, baby. It was not quite a year ago today—about 51 weeks ago, to be precise—that I first introduced him here, served up with a side of nutmeg muffins. Sometimes I forget how improbable our story is, and how uncertain it could have felt—because it didn’t, and because we made it possible. I remember telling someone, shortly after I met him, that Brandon was like magic, that he could make things happen. He does, every day. He reminds me of something that my mother once…

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The most depressing meal of my life was white and yellow. That’s all I remember. As someone who spends her free waking hours trying to capture in words the look, taste, and texture of her food, I find this a little embarrassing. It tasted pale, and that’s the most I can say. Maybe it involved sticky rice and a crookneck squash, or a pallid filet of plain, white-fleshed fish. Maybe it was a stir-fry constructed on the color palette of a daisy. Evidently, its details were not memorable, nor delicious. It was nearly nine years ago, a dinner in the dining hall of my freshman dormitory, and I guess that alone should tell me something. But still, all I remember…

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I’ve been mum lately, I know, on the whole marriage thing. I stirred up a ruckus, and then I went silent. But you should know that I haven’t changed my mind, and that most of the time, my feet aren’t cold. I won’t be picking up my petticoat and fleeing for the hills with my maiden name still intact. What’s been keeping me quiet is something much more predictable: I’ve been planning. Since the afternoon of our engagement, when we strolled Brooklyn in the late sun, squinting at the strange new ray of light from my ring finger, we’ve been planning what I call a big party with a ceremony on the side. We knew that we wanted a summertime…

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If there’s one flavor that I hate, it’s the aftertaste of failure. Call me a perfectionist or a spoiled little snot: either is an apt description. When something doesn’t go my way, I sulk. I’m a master of the silent treatment. I can pout so hard that my lower lip sticks out a full inch. Worst of all, when said failure involves a chocolate malted cupcake, I’ve been known to air my dirty disappointment in the most public of places: on the Internet, sneakily disguised as a bowl of lima beans. Maybe it would be smarter to take up yoga or meditation, or to sign myself up for anger management classes, and maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll just bake…

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I know, I know. I keep you waiting for a whole week, and then I arrive with nothing to show for myself but a bowl of lima beans and a mouthful of garlic breath. As my mother would say, “Hmph! She’s got a lot of nerve.” Well, yeah, I guess I do. But if it makes you feel any better about our relationship, dear reader, know that I had planned to bring you cupcakes instead—and awfully good ones, at that. I was aiming to recreate in cake form the chocolate malted milkshakes of my childhood, the kind that I slurped through pink-and-white striped straws at Braum’s Ice Cream and Dairy Stores throughout the state of Oklahoma. Sadly, though, the cupcakes…

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I’m not sure how to feel about brunch. In my book, it’s really sort of a tease. It’s the meal that I most salivate for, a holy union of sweets and savories, a weekly wonder spot where pancakes, crêpes, toast, eggs, hash browns, sausages, scones, waffles, and maple syrup converge. I entertain grand fantasies of Sunday mornings out somewhere, with plates of pancakes and Brandon nearby, whiling away our bleary eyes over freshly squeezed orange juice. But more often than not, brunch just leaves me sorry, with a heavy stomach and the sour aftertaste of regret. It’s the one-night stand of meals, you could say—the sort of one-night stand that you might experience on a weekend morning, of course, and…

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Alright, people. I know what you’re thinking. Man, Molly’s sure been sucking down the butter these days. How about those fritters? Did Orangette get sponsored by a cardiologist or something? By all appearances, it’s been a regular fat fest at my place lately, with lipids on parade and Dessert Day everyday. But at the risk of silencing the ole Brown Butter Marching Band, I just want you to know—lest you should worry—that I have also been eating other things. In fact, just like Mom taught me, I can’t have dessert until I finish my dinner. My palate and I are very well trained. And lucky for us, it’s May. The farmers’ markets are returning like so many migrating birds, staking…

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Try as I might to steel myself, I am a total sucker for celebrity gossip. It started early, with those candylike copies of People that my mother and I would sneak home from the grocery store. It was only every now and then, but it must have been too much, because today I am nearly helpless before each new display of Us Weekly. I’m the one holding up your checkout line while I eyeball Angelina’s belly or the slow train wreck that is Britney Spears. When I have an appointment with the doctor or dentist, I almost always go early, just so I can have a few moments alone with the office copy of Star. I once found an abandoned…

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Some recipes should come with warning labels. Take, for example, my great-grandfather’s egg nog, which should come with a built-in breathalyzer test. Or a certain salad that, in all fairness, should be branded with the label “May Be Habit-Forming.” For the average single-occupant household like mine, a recipe for macaroni and cheese should come with a warning from the Surgeon General, and a batch of chocolate-covered coconut macaroons with the caution “May Steal Your Soul.” When it comes to the threat of danger, cigarettes, radiation, and other documented hazards have nothing on the output of one home cook and her kitchen. Especially when said cook is contemplating fritters, doughnuts, and other things deep-fried: a category of recipe that rubs seductively…

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My name may not be Dr. Ruth, Ann Landers, or Dr. Phil, but where love and marriage are concerned, I do have this advice: sometimes self-deception is a future spouse’s best friend. Especially at the dinner table. Take, say, Brandon, my own handy example. Though a vegetarian, born and raised, he has developed a rather sneaky strategy where certain fleshly foods are concerned. His solution is a close cousin of the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, something best described as “Ask, But Don’t Hear the Answer.” When served a given food item, he tries in earnest to ensure that it is vegetarian-friendly, but should he learn otherwise, in certain cases, he will—very consciously, and quite conveniently—forget. It’s quite simple, and…

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I try to keep things exciting for you. Really, I do. So far, in the lifespan of a single food blog, I’ve baked savory flans à la Dr. Seuss and had night sweats. I’ve declared a national emergency in the name of Brussels sprouts. I’ve made—and consumed—an heirloom egg nog containing five pints of ½-and-½ and four types of alcohol. Hell, I even went and got engaged. It’s a lot of work, frankly, and after so much excitement, sometimes a girl just wants to sit on the floor, shout Jeopardy! answers at the television screen, and eat the same dinner, seven nights in a row, straight from the serving bowl. Lucky for both of us, dear reader, said serving bowl…

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You, dear readers, have outdone yourselves. Brandon and I are awestruck, humbled, and deeply touched by this rush of cheers and soggy Kleenexes. I thought that you came to Orangette because you love food, but the truth is out: what you really love is a love story. Me too. Wow. Thank you, and thank you.

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I am not a magician. I have no magic wand, no card stashed up my sleeve, no giant quarter to pull from your ear. But last June, when I offered the online equivalent of a rabbit pulled from a hat – a man named Brandon, seemingly pulled from the ether – you kindly accepted my sleight of hand. You cheered. You sent congratulations. And you were respectfully restrained in your questions. You, dear reader, have been very patient. For all the stories that I have spun into the fabric of Orangette, this was the spottiest and the most sparse. It was the most significant, but also the scariest to tell, because Brandon came into my life just as you have,…

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I have a problem, and it’s sitting in my kitchen cabinet. It crouches in the corner like a jack-in-the-box. It’s packed like gunpowder ready to explode. It’s a many-headed monster, cold and heavy, lying in wait. It, dear reader, is eleven jars of jam. So much sugared, syrupy fruit should have me ecstatic, I know, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to a certain amount of excitement each time I open the cabinet door. There they are: nearly a dozen jewel-toned jars, shimmering with promise and ready to spread. I reach for one. I turn it over in my hand, admiring its heft and viscosity. I test the lid, making sure that the seal is secure. And then,…

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Like any good magician, favorite uncle, or birthday-party clown, every cook has a trademark parlor trick: a sleight-of-hand something, a secret weapon guaranteed to amuse and delight even the most discerning of audiences. Take, for example, my friend Nicho, who slips a glug of Newman’s Own salad dressing into nearly everything vegetal that lands on his stovetop. Each time he sautés or stir-fries, he is met with murmurs of pleasure and full-mouthed praise, while his secret weapon sits in plain sight next to the stove, with no one the wiser. Then there’s Kate, number one spokeswoman for the School of Whipped Cream, able to convince even the most careful of dessert eaters to throw caution to the wind with a…

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Flan. There, I said it: four little letters, a word that once furrowed my brow and spelled a long, sharp shiver down my spine. Most kids love to try a new four-letter word, but in this mouth, f-l-a-n was far too foul.It was, as most important things are, a textural issue. For the better part of my childhood and adolescence, I lived by a simple mandate: nothing that jiggles shall cross the threshold of my jaw. Yogurt would be smooth and well stirred. Aspics, custards, and crèmes brûlée and caramel would be kept well out of sight. Jell-O would forever remain boxed and safe, in a powdery, potential state. There would be no squirting or squelching between the teeth; no…

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I am a creature of habit. Each morning finds me hunched over the same homely but delicious breakfast; each noontime finds me eating a variation on the same formulaic lunch; and each evening brings a cold glass of milk, a couple of graham crackers, and at least a few squares of chocolate. These tidy details are already well documented, but there’s one more that’s long past due for its day in the sun. Nearly every Sunday morning, I climb in the car and trek twenty minutes south to Columbia City Bakery, and to the same loaf of bread: walnut levain, a crisp, craggy-crusted thing boasting more than a handful of big, buttery nuts. It’s the sort of thing I could…

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Early March: it’s an in-between time, not really winter and not quite spring. The leaves are still gone, but the birds are trickling back. Parkas and gloves wend their way into the closet, and out come jackets, sweaters, and soon, short sleeves. Away goes the butternut squash; in come artichokes and asparagus. And I follow a post about Brandon and Indian cookery with one about an ex-boyfriend and Americana. It’s an in-between time, but in the midst of so much juxtaposition, there’s bound to be something interesting. If there is one thing to know about Nicho, it is this: the man loves a good pie. Weaned on his mother Martha’s lovingly made baked goods—breads and pastries alike—he knows a worthy…

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Dry mouth. Clammy hands. Profuse sweating. This unholy trinity of symptoms can mean only one thing: I was on live radio! Yesterday afternoon I sat down with Christopher Lydon, host of the public radio show Open Source, and several fellow Seattlites* to talk about our fair northwesterly city, or, more precisely, to try to tease apart the question, “What makes a city great?” If you’d like to hear me gush about salmon and doughnuts, lament the state of the local real estate market, and mull over Seattle’s love for the “missed connections” section of craigslist, hop over to Open Source for an mp3 of the show. My segment comes in the final third of the show, so please, be patient.…

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Sometimes the best hidden treasures are the ones that I hide from myself. While it might be fun, in theory, to stumble upon a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow or, say, a wooden chest with a pirate’s cache of jewels and coins, there is a special satisfaction reserved for the finds that are familiar—the old, forgotten-about something that resurfaces, resplendent, when I least expect it. Take, for example, that tube of Chanel “Vamp” lipstick, ten years old but barely used, unearthed last week from an early grave beside my bathroom sink. A color somewhere between blood and black, it made me feel daring and dangerous at seventeen, and at twenty-seven, dangerously nostalgic. Then there’s The Mysteries…

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By the standards of only a few decades ago, I am woefully unfit for marriage. I do not know how to cook a pot roast, or a pork roast, crown roast, standing rib roast, prime rib, slab of ribs, leg of lamb, brisket, beef tenderloin, or, really, most portions of meat larger than a single serving. Not long ago, I would have been laughed out of the kitchen, shooed away by potential mothers-in-law, and shunted off to spinsterdom with my steak knives still unused. Thank goodness I fell in love with a vegetarian. But nonetheless, there comes a time in every young woman’s life when she must learn how to handle large pieces of meat. I am ready to rest…

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Like any half-hearted confession, mine begins with a defense: I am not a shopper. I love pointy shoes, of course, and pencil skirts, shrugs, frilly things, and half-off items from the Marc Jacobs 2005 holiday collection, but I’m not so into shopping, straight up. Though I have wildly expensive taste—which, I might add, I cannot afford—I have never been wild about exercising it. I go in pursuit of purchases only once every few months or so, and then with a specific item in mind and a single-minded purpose. But within the wide world of shopping malls, boutiques, and bazaars, there is one type of store that cuts straight to the heart of this non-shopper. One step into the Bermuda Triangle…

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Like many things of unassuming appearance and surprising worth, I first found tamarind in a strip mall. I was nineteen, a newly minted college freshman and a recent arrival to California, when a friend proposed dinner at Amber India, a well-regarded restaurant in nearby Mountain View. My palate was then untested by tandoors, chutneys, vindaloos, and the slow rumble of Indian spices, and needless to say, I did not expect to make their exotic acquaintance under a neon sign in a slab of shopping center on El Camino Real. You can well imagine my surprise when, at that table on the old King’s Highway, I lifted to my lips a forkful of aloo chat, cold cubes of cooked potato folded…

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With the possible exceptions of war, loss, loneliness, homelessness, natural disasters, incurable diseases, hunger, heartbreak, income taxes, yeast infections, and the horrifyingly botched haircut I got last October, there is nothing worse than a bad recipe. Nothing. That’s a strong statement, I know, but test it for yourself—or sit back and wait, because a bad one is bound to find you—and you’ll no doubt agree. There is nothing worse than a recipe that goes all wrong, or that never quite makes it to right. Disappointment, dear reader, is a total dud of a dinner companion. For the most part, I try to forget about the flops, the bummers, and the busts. They’re pretty few and far between, anyway, and often…

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Well, wow. I hope you’ll agree that eloquence is overrated, or at times like these, anyway. Wow. So, all that business about blushing? That, I now know, was nothing. As of today, my complexion is set to four-alarm fire, but I don’t half mind: Orangette has been chosen as the Best Overall Food Blog in the 2005 Food Blog Awards! No one could be more surprised than me. My little blog that could turns out to be a little blog that does. Please accept, dear readers, my enormous, unwieldy gratitude for all that you have brought to Orangette: your tireless enthusiasm, your throaty cheers, your comments, your questions, your forks, your knives, your hunger, and your vote. There is really…

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Formal education is useful, I guess, and so is a good upbringing, but all I really need to know I learned in France. Let others write odes to kindergarten; I owe it all—or a lot of it, at least—to Paris, plain and simple. It was there that I had my first taste of love, sweet, delicious, and doomed. It was there that I learned how to live with a family of strangers and, later, how to live alone. It was there that I learned how to love a city, its cement, its splendors, and its subway. And it was in France, dear reader, that I learned to swallow the bitter pill best known as endive—not a life lesson, perhaps, in…

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When it comes to Seattle’s infamously rainy weather, I’m usually pretty nonchalant. Sure, it may be gray for roughly eight months of the year, but the clouds make a nice, fleecy blanket, insulating us from the frigid winter air that haunts our sunnier brethren at similar latitudes. And anyway, what Seattle calls “rain” is actually more of a mist—just a spittle of sorts, really, and hardly worth the price of an umbrella. But today, dear reader, marks the twenty-fifth consecutive day of rain in our very Emerald City, and, says National Weather Service meteorologist Gary Schneider, “There are no dry days in the foreseeable future.” Yesterday, when a ray of sunlight briefly lit upon my desk, it took every ounce…

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I love the holidays as much as the next guy, but truth be told, I also love that they only come once a year. So much flitting around, feasting, and fun can leave a girl a little fatigued, both of spirit and of palate. Maybe I’m getting old, or Grinchly, or maybe just wise, but after Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve, this Saturday eve all I wanted was a quiet apartment, a hot oven, and a homely head of cabbage. Even more than the holidays, I love the limbo period that follows them, the calm after the proverbial storm, the moment of hesitation—of taking stock, of gathering my bearings—after stepping over the threshold of a new year. I find…

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