So You Wanna Buy a Knife, Huh? Part 1

You have decided that it is time to get serious, time to show the world that you have arrived and are ready to cook. You have decided to buy some decent kitchen knives. Buying a good knife or two can be a little like buying your first car. It can be intimidating and expensive. There are a lot of people with very strong opinions about what you want, need, and desire. What no one ever tells you is what not to buy. So let's take a look at some of the common mistakes that people make when they purchase kitchen knives.

Don't Be a Blockhead
You see them in the store. They are beautiful, with their sexy handles all lined up just so. You glance around and then surreptitiously fondle them, damning the safety device that keeps you from sliding the gleaming blade from the block. The salesman sidles up and in a throaty whisper says, "It comes with the sharpening steel and the mango slicer." You swoon. A mango slicer? Who knew there was such a thing? This must be a great set of knives.

Thus, you are seduced. And like all victims of seduction, you know that not all is as it seems, but you don't care. You buy the big block of knives. It's a steal! You got nine knives, some kitchen shears, and a sharpening steel for the same price as just two knives down at the high-rent end of the store display. Thus begins a cycle of frustration and recrimination that will still leave you using just three knives. Three mediocre knives. Three knives that you don't like and that will sit forlornly in the block with their unused siblings when you can't take it anymore and upgrade to better knives. That block of knives looks great to the uninitiated, but it doesn't do anything to address what you--and you alone--really want or need as a cook.

So, what do you really need? With a good chef's knife and a paring knife you can do anything and everything you ever need to do in a kitchen. Throw in a big serrated bread knife and you'll own the world. Anything else is a convenience rather than a necessity. So don't be a blockhead. Don't buy knives you don't need. Buy fewer higher-quality knives and build slowly. Mix and match to suit your tastes and cooking styles. You'll be happier. Get the best you can afford and start slow. Mismatched handles in the knife block or kitchen drawer are a sign of a comfortable and self-assured cook.

The Chef's Knife
The chef's knife is the first knife you pick up in the kitchen and the last one you put down. You can do 90 percent of everything you ever need to do in the kitchen with just a chef's knife. You can do 100 percent if you really have to. This is the Big Kahuna. It is not just the most important knife in your kitchen, it is the most important tool in your kitchen. Buy accordingly. Even if you are brand-new to cooking, very soon you won't be able to imagine trying to prepare a meal without your chef's knife. It is your paintbrush, your means of self expression--and more importantly, your means of getting dinner on the table. Expect to pay somewhere between $85 to $150 for a good one. Some chef's knives go for more than $250 for a standard 8-inch knife, but there are bargains out there too.

The Paring Knife
The next player in the kitchen triumvirate is the paring knife. This is the microsurgery version of the chef's knife. Paring knives are used for all those delicate little tasks--scoring oranges peels, cutting the cores out of apple quarters, removing eyes from potatoes, hulling strawberries. The paring knife is perfect for those chores where a chef's knife would be unwieldy. The blade usually ranges from 2 inches to about 4 inches in length and comes in a variety of shapes.

Slicer or Bread Knife
The greyhounds of the kitchen, slicers are long and lean. Slicers start at 9 inches and are available up to 18 inches. The length of the blade allows you to make a clean slice in a single stroke. This is especially important when carving roasted meats or slicing fish. Excessive sawing back and forth leaves ridges and a rough texture that is unattractive. The narrowness of the blade helps keep moist foods from sticking. A standard bread knife has a serrated edge, which is fine for most breads but absolutely lousy at slicing a roast. A better choice is a scalloped edge. A scalloped edge slicer can do double duty as a good slicing knife and a good bread knife. Scalloped edges are more gentle than serrated edges and generally leave a cleaner cut.

Sounds like heresy, doesn't it? All of your friends have big fancy blocks of knives, so that's what you want too. Relax, you'll get there. But by starting with The Big Three, you'll build a set of knives that suits your cooking style and your budget, knives that you will still be using when your friends dump their big blocks of knives and go looking for new ones.

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Chad Ward is the author of An Edge in the Kitchen, available in June from Morrow Cookbooks. He has been a writer and (sometimes professional) cook for more than 20 years. His work has appeared in publications ranging from Best Food Writing to Aviation International News. He lives in North Carolina.

Mushrooms, Mushrooms Everywhere

Around this time of year, I start getting interested in the woods again, because this is when the columbines, wood anemones, and--most significantly--the morels appear. Unfortunately, there has been no rain for weeks and the woods have been bone-dry (in fact, there have been forest fires about ten miles from here). However, yesterday it rained for about 15 hours, a good long soaking, and I knew that mushrooms would be pushing through the leaf litter. I actually woke up dreaming of collecting a big bag full of them.

The weather was cool and gray this morning, but that only made the hunt more challenging: The mushrooms are the same color as the leaves through which they barely peek and, without bright sun, there aren't even any shadows to help in spotting them.

The photo above is of this year's first morel--the first of two dozen that will find their way into a pot of risotto tonight. Spring has now officially arrived.

Get Your Licks: Absinthe and Bacon Lollypops

For those of you still longing for something as good as your Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop, look no further. Lollyphile, a San Francisco-based company, has concocted sophisticated takes on your favorite childhood treat.

It all started last Halloween when owner Jason Lewis, bereft of candy but with a surplus of the recently un-banned liqueur absinthe, whipped up a batch of absinthe lollies, which his friends scarfed down. Emboldened, he fidged and fudged until he came up with a USDA-approved treat that falls within the legal limits of the use of thujone, the supposed psychedelic that caused absinthe's unfair banishment. The neon-green candy has a distinct anise flavor that any licorice lover will adore. Snack on it or use it as a curious end to a terribly decadent meal.

Lewis began brainstorming, and several months later came up with another winner: Maple-Bacon. The candy, which is made with real maple syrup and studded with sustainably farmed bacon bits, is addictive. It had me craving a hunk of lip-smackingly good barbecue.

Lollyphile is such a new company (it's about to celebrate its second-month anniversary) that Lewis and his team of two cooks work out of a rented kitchen. But he's determined to change that. There's a whole line of top-secret new flavors in the pipeline. The only one I could wheedle out of him was the provocative Wasabi-Ginger lollypop. With flavors like these, it's got to be just a matter of time before the daytime talk shows come calling. (Martha and Rachel, are you listening?)

Right now you can purchase both the Absinthe and Maple-Bacon lollypops online. You can also find Lewis's lollies at these retail locations.

Miette Confiserie
449 Octavia Blvd., San Francisco, CA

Big Top Candy Shop
706 S, Congress Ave., Austin, TX

Brown University Bookstore
71 Olive St., Providence, RI

Relish
107 S. Broad St., Thomasville, GA

The Standard Boutique
40 Island Ave., Miami Beach, FL

The City Bakery
3 W. 18th St., New York, NY

Garden Gate Shop
4344 Shaw Blvd., St. Louis, MO

Thomas Schoen Shop
24 Philemon Lake Rd., McLeese Lake, BC

Authors' Answers Series: Lynne Rossetto Kasper and Sally Swift

Lynne Rossetto Kasper, host of The Splendid Table, teamed up with Sally Swift, her producer of many years, to co-author the terrific book The Splendid Table's How to Eat Supper. Part cookbook, part cheat sheet, part teacher--the book includes recipes from Kasper and Swift, as well as from friends and guests from the show.

Interviewing Kasper, one of the best interviewers on the air, was, I'll admit, daunting. Couple that with a wicked cold (you'll hear a little bit of a smoker's rasp in my voice, and I've never taken a drag on a cigarette in my life), and you'll understand why I was sweating in that recording booth. What I like about our chat is it covers a lot of topics--we had no agenda. Some of the things we discussed: food politics, trends in food, how we cook today, the acceptance of "American Cuisine," and synesthetes, a unique group of people who, in this case, feel shapes when they eat food. Interesting listening, if you ask me. Listen here. Requires QuickTime. Free download for Windows and Macintosh.

Perpetual Non-Motion

Now, I don't want everyone to start thinking that LC or LC {blog} is going all-out healthy. Sure, there have been some dubious posts by our inveterate wholesome writer Adrienne Anderson about such healthful topics as bean stock and flaxseed. But we are, have always been, and will always be a full-fat, full-flavor, full-time cooking site. Call them our founding principles.

However, that being said, I had a bit of a fright yesterday. For the past several days, I've been wearing a pedometer as a way of gauging how much improvement there has been in my ability to walk long distances. My physical therapist insists I build up to five miles a day. I started at less than one mile two weeks ago and on Friday was up past two miles. That's about as far as I can go before I'm limping Igor-style because of THE ACCIDENT. But yesterday, I had a busy day at my desk, working on an article for the New York Times and one for Gourmet, not to mention desperately trying to find a way not to touch my manuscript. Now, in PPD (pre-pedometer days), I'd have shouted you down, insisting that I most certainly walk at least two miles during my regular desk-to-kitchen-to desk-to-basement-to-bathroom-to-desk-to-kitchen-to family-room-to-bedroom routine. But I took a look at the old ball and chain attached to my waistband and discovered I had walked less than two-tenths of a mile in more than eight hours! I walked off a whooping 46 calories. Ants cover more ground than that in a busy afternoon.

Positive that the thing was broken, I paced the backyard, only to see the numbers start spinning with every turn. That means for the past decade I've been sitting on this ever-softening butt of mine thinking I was relatively healthy, relatively active, relatively sane. So it's not all the recipe testing or the medication or middle age, or the fact that those freaking people over at Levi's are making 40-inch-waist jeans a lot smaller these days. The truth is, I'm Jabba the Hut presiding over my oversized desk.

So, desk jockeys, beware: Get thee a pedometer immediately, or risk being found one day greasy-haired, dehydrated, and mumbling incoherently because your ass is fused permanently to your chair.

Gotta run. I've got 1.53 more miles to go today.

Just the Flax, Ma'am

My feelings about "health food" are best summed up by the classic joke:

A young man visits his doctor for a routine checkup. "I've got good news and bad news," the doctor says.

"Give me the bad news first, doc."

"Well, my tests show that you have a heart condition."

"A heart condition?" the man asks, aghast. "But I feel great! What's the prognosis?"

The doctor shakes his head. "Not so good. You also have cancer."

"Cancer?!" The man cries in disbelief.

"Sadly, yes. A brain tumor, too. In short, you have three weeks to live."

Hysterical, the man exclaims, "Three weeks? Quick, give me the good news!"

"Well, I recommend that you switch to a diet of cod liver oil and dehydrated kale."

"Really, doc? And that'll cure me?"

"No, but it will seem like the longest three weeks of your life."

And that's the peril of health food. Don't get me wrong--I like plenty of delicious food that's healthy by coincidence, like fresh, tart currants, sassy kumquats (skin and all), and raw arugula by the fistful; but I like these things because they're packed with flavor, not because of their percentage of this or their milligrams-per-serving of that. To me, people who choose food solely for its nutritional properties seem suspicious; I find them vaguely untrustworthy, or, at least, not much fun to eat with. They lack zest. I firmly subscribe to the popular maxim that one's interest in eating reflects one's interest in life itself: You can't fully embrace one without embracing the other. In other words, I'm an omnivorous glutton.

Gluttony is not my only sin. In the kitchen, I'm also a thief--sneaking through old cookbooks and magazines like a cat burglar, pocketing my favorite ideas. I made my most recent score while voraciously perusing a back issue of Cook's Illustrated, which tipped me off to a cornbread recipe written by an 11-year-old named Dana Sly. According to the headnote, it won her a blue ribbon at the Iowa State Fair. In the grip of hunger, I was hooked. However, there was a catch: The recipe was vegan, and, as a substitute for eggs, it called for ground flaxseed, dissolved in water, to moisten and bind the bread. To me, this sounded suspiciously like health food gimmickry, despite the alleged first-place finish. I wondered if it would turn out as some grayish mush-cake, only considered palatable by the lowest of standards. Could young Sly be trusted?

Her method piqued my interest, however, because ingenious substitutions, when they work, are exactly the sort of thing I like to purloin for my own culinary arsenal. Still, even to such a wide-ranging omnivore as myself, ground flaxseed didn't sound particularly appetizing, and I found while preparing it that the texture of the precooked, reconstituted seeds was...unusual, to put it charitably (gluey and mucus-like, in more realistic terms). However, when I bit into the finished product, the tender cornbread, I knew the kid was on to something. Stealthy and sated, I slipped her idea into my bag of tricks.

Not much later, to my surprise, a lazy afternoon's Internet research revealed that my find wasn't quite so precious. From numerous Web sites, I learned that the flaxseed substitution is actually commonplace in the realm of vegan baking. A few experiments later, my curiosity about these seeds had blossomed into infatuation--and not for their usefulness or their nutritional value but, rather, (skeptics, are you sitting down?) for the boost of flavor they impart.

When I set aside the pre-ground flax meal and instead ground my own seeds fresh in a coffee grinder, I discovered their light, woody aroma, like the smell of fresh-cut grain. I tried them out in a couple of standby recipes, full-flavored items like spice-flecked carrot cake and dense, dark zucchini bread. In robust baked goods like these, the seeds added a nice layer of nutty complexity. Incorporated as an egg substitute, they added a touch of extra moistness, too--which turned out to be just the thing to complement a healthy layer of luscious cream-cheese frosting or a generous swipe of sweet butter.

The formula is simple: Dissolve 1 tablespoon of ground flaxseed in 3 tablespoons of boiling water for every egg you're replacing. Keep in mind a few guidelines: This substitution works best in recipes where assertive nuttiness makes sense. (Pecan pancakes, anyone?) It doesn't jibe in recipes that have a delicate or incompatible flavor--lavender madeleines, for example--and it plain won't work when something depends on eggs for structural reasons, like angel food cake. Don't even think about creme brulee or quiche. The quickest way to tell if a recipe is a candidate for the flaxseed substitution is to skim the ingredient list for chemical leaveners--i.e., baking powder or baking soda. Many cakes, quickbreads, and cookies call for these, and they're a good indication that egg isn't strictly necessary for the batter or dough to rise and set. There's certainly a limit to the number of eggs you can replace, but I haven't discovered it yet.

Like most of what goes on in the kitchen, experimenting with flaxseed is an adventure. You never know when you'll be surprised. I just pulled a batch of chocolate chip cookies made with flax out of the oven, and the meat-loving, soy-shunning, sweet-toothed Texan I live with declared them better than "the real thing"--thereby astounding both of us. Try it out and see what you think. You can even congratulate yourself on your slightly-more-healthful ways, if you absolutely must.

Guest Post: White Barbecue Sauce

The color spectrum of barbecue sauce is rich and diverse--one reason why sampling different styles from all over the South is so much fun, and so delicious. Ask the average person the color of their favorite sauce and you'll probably get answers such as brick red, mahogany, or caramel. Shoot, ask somebody from Columbia, South Carolina, where mustard-based sauces are king, and you might even get, well, mustard-color.

Pose the same question to a resident of North Alabama, though, and you're sure to get only one answer: white. "It's the only sauce we know here, because it's what everyone grows up on," says world barbecue champion Chris Lilly, who's also a chef at Big Bob Gibson Bar-B-Q in Decatur, Alabama. For his part, Bob Gibson is credited with concocting "white sauce" back in 1925. Today, this tangy, mayonnaise-based condiment, traditionally used to dress chicken, is as synonymous with the state of Alabama as legendary football coach Paul "Bear" Bryant. "We marinate with it, use it to baste, plus we use it as an all-purpose table sauce," adds Lilly.

Yet, because white barbecue sauce is such a regional anomaly, and since grocery shelves are dominated by the myriad incarnations of tomato-based sauces, many Southerners have never tried it. Well, I'm here to tell you that it's time to get out the chicken and fire up your smoker or grill. Like its tomato-and-mustard-based cousins, white barbecue sauce comes in shades ranging from porcelain to putty. There are also differences in consistency. Some sauces flow like fat-free milk, while others are more reminiscent of a creamy dressing. As for the ingredients, well, purists such as Myra Grissom, owner of Miss Myra's Pit Bar-B-Q in Birmingham, Alabama, insists there are only four: mayonnaise, vinegar, salt, and coarsely ground pepper.

"Everyone says they have a special recipe, but there's really no secret. You start with the basics and you can't go wrong," recommends Grissom, whose family tree leads back to Decatur. She's been serving up her version of white barbecue sauce in Birmingham for more than 19 years. "I love it as a dip for pretzels," she says with a smile, "but we also use it to perk up salads, and to top pulled pork sandwiches and grilled fish."

Lilly and Grissom both admit, however, that it's not uncommon to find all sorts of additional ingredients, such as lemon juice, onion powder, and cayenne pepper, in some sauces. The recipe below begins with a traditional base, then calls on the flavor-boosting power of fresh garlic, prepared horseradish, Creole mustard, and a touch of sugar. The result is an eye-opening sauce with lip-smacking acidity and just the right amount of creaminess. One taste and you'll understand why Grissom says, "No Southern home should be without it."

White Barbecue Sauce
Makes 2 cups

If you prefer a thicker sauce, omit the water. You'll still get the same great flavor.

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups mayonnaise
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon coarsely ground pepper
1 tablespoon Creole mustard
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons prepared horseradish

Method
1. Whisk together all ingredients until blended.

For more white barbecue sauce recipes, check out MyRecipes.com. Do you have a recipe for white barbecue sauce you'd care to share? Know of a barbecue joint or shack making a great white barbecue sauce? Don't forget to subscribe to Eating My Words--it's free and delicious.

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Southern Living Executive Food Editor Scott Jones is a graduate of The Culinary Institute of America. Jones has received awards from the International Association of Culinary Professionals and the James Beard Foundation. In addition, he holds a degree in magazine publishing and journalism from the University of Mississippi and is the author of the Southern Living Wine Guide and Journal.

The Golden Nugget's Gold Nuggets

The connection between haute cuisine and high-stakes gambling goes back centuries, according to Petronius, the Roman author who satirized the decadent (and debauched) lives of the Roman upper class. Feasts held by the wealthy were so over-the-top that they might even include a lottery held between courses, after which the ceiling of the dining room would begin rattling violently, opening up and raining down money and gifts upon the guests.

In 21st-century Las Vegas, celebrity chefs haven't quite resorted to such tactics--yet. But in the race to open the newest, hottest, most glamorous restaurants, such displays may not be far off. Gone are the days of a likeably sleaze-ridden Sin City, stocked with dirt-cheap buffets, comped rooms, and round-the-clock free booze. Today, the price of admission can run staggeringly high along the Strip, the famous section of Las Vegas Boulevard that's home to neon-wrapped mega-resorts and Michelin-starred toques.

All well and good, if glitz is your thing. But what about those of us--generally of the young or poor persuasion--who don't mind a seedy underbelly? Happily, there's a welcome and often underrated alternative: downtown. This area is home to the faded casinos of a bygone era and offers a taste of the style, and even the grit, of mythic, old-school Vegas.

At its center is the Golden Nugget, by far the classiest of the old dames on downtown's main drag, Fremont Street. Back in 1971, it was one the first projects that casino tycoon Steve Wynn laid hands on. Today, it's undergone a renaissance. One thing remains the same though, and, if you ask me, it's one of the most important parts of the resort's continuing success: the famous Golden Nugget Bread Pudding. This dreamy concoction is luxury defined: the dish, bathing in the flavor of fresh, rich cream and eggs, with the texture of pure velvet, never disappoints. Whether you're pulling up to a marble table in the gilded dining room for a game of keno, or enjoying it poolside among the private cabanas, the bread pudding alone is worth a stay--and at $69 per night, a room at the Golden Nugget runs about the same as an appetizer in other parts of town.

Luckily, for those who can't make it to the source, what happens in Vegas doesn't always have to stay in Vegas. Try this recipe, straight from the casino.

The Golden Nugget's Bread Pudding
Makes 9 Las Vegas-size servings

Ingredients
FOR THE PUDDING
16 ounces half-and-half
8 ounces whipping cream
8 eggs
1 1/4 cups sugar
1/4 teaspoon vanilla
Enough 1-inch-thick slices of white bread, such as a boule or rustic sandwich loaf, to cover a 9-by-13-inch ovenproof casserole dish

FOR THE TOPPING
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons raisins

Store-bought caramel sauce, warmed (optional)

Method
1. In a medium bowl, whisk the half-and-half, cream, eggs, sugar, and vanilla until smooth.

2. Arrange the bread in a single layer that covers the casserole dish.

3. Pour the egg mixture evenly over the bread. Wrap with plastic and place the dish in the fridge until the liquid soaks the bread completely, at least 30 minutes.

4. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C). Mix the sugar and cinnamon together in a small bowl. When the bread is finished soaking, dust the mixture over the bread and sprinkle with the raisins.

5. Cover the casserole dish with foil and place it in a larger baking pan. Slide the baking pan into the oven, fill it three-quarters of the way up the side of the casserole dish with boiling water from a tea kettle, and bake the pudding until the egg mixture has set, about 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours. Let the pudding cool before cutting. Serve with the warm caramel drizzled on top.

Taking Stock of Stock

The power of beans is legendary, whether immortalized in Jack's fairy-tale climb or the off-color schoolyard rhyme ("Beans, beans, the magical fruit"--you know the unfortunate rest). But beans work magic on the serious side of life, too. Eaten together with cereal grains or corn, they provide the full complement of amino acids necessary for a complete protein. Black beans and maize, hummus and pita, and rajma chawal (Indian spiced kidney beans eaten with basmati)--combinations like these have been the culinary cornerstones of great civilizations, in large part because they're such efficient nutrition: a way to deliver protein to a great number of people without the logistical trouble of raising livestock on a grand scale.

However, despite the historical importance of beans, cooks often overlook their full potential. Now that we're experiencing a resurgence of nose-to-tail eating, which advocates wasting as little as possible of the animals we eat, why not apply the same principle to our appreciation of humbler edibles? Bean stock does just that, and though it's long been used by resourceful home cooks, there's scant discussion online or in print of the many reasons to love it.

Here's one: It's delicious in its own right, and it practically makes itself. Sure, you can spend days preparing top-notch stocks from organic grass-fed Angus bones and the happy remains of free-range fowl, but who has the time or money? Simply reserve the cooking liquid from your next pot of beans, throw in a few herbs to steep, and the result can be used as a replacement for beef, chicken, or any other stock. It won't be as rich as its long-simmered veal- or beef-based counterparts, but what it lacks in depth, it makes up for in ease of preparation and variety.

With the stellar array of dried beans available for order on the Internet--Sunset Runner, Black Calypso, Lazy Wife, Rattlesnake, Ojo de Cabra--there's no end to the experiments you can try. Customize your stock's flavor and body by combining different varieties, depending on the dish. Certain beans, like cannellini, yield a clear, slightly sweet, and just-a-touch-gelatinous stock akin to its poultry-based cousin--great for soups and stews where subtlety is key. Others, like any number of black bean varieties, produce an ebony brew that makes for knockout homemade pasta, in place of the usual squid ink.

Whatever your taste, Rancho Gordo, a California farm dedicated to native New World specialty crops, is a great place to do your legume legwork. Entry-level stock artists can read up on heirloom varieties, and RG's samplers offer a range of options, once you're ready to jump in. Take, for instance, the Desert Island Sampler: It includes, among other favorites, a variety known as Good Mother Stallard, which produces "the most perfect pot liquor of any bean," according to Rancho Gordo founder Steve Sando.

Such treasures, though not cheap, cost only a fraction of the price you'd pay for meat of similar quality. And with the sudden leaps in cost we're seeing in everything from wheat to eggs, you probably ought to stock up.


Basic Cannellini Stock
This light, delicate stock is a fine substitute for chicken, vegetable, or even fish stock. The rules aren't hard and fast: Improvise with other vegetables (fennel, for example) or different herbs (such as tarragon or marjoram).

Ingredients
1 pound highest-quality dried cannellini beans
3 quarts water
1 medium yellow onion, peeled
1 stalk celery
1 medium carrot, peeled
2 to 3 sprigs fresh thyme
2 to 3 sprigs fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 bay leaf
6 to 8 black peppercorns
1 tablespoon kosher salt

Method
1. Rinse the beans under running water, discarding any pebbles. Heat the beans and the 3 quarts of cold water over high heat.

2. Chop the onion, celery, and carrot and add them to the beans, along with the thyme, parsley, bay leaf, and peppercorns.

3. When the pot reaches a boil, reduce the heat to low and allow the beans to simmer for approximately 3 hours, periodically adding water to maintain the original level. The beans are done when they are tender, but not mushy. Because crops vary, some beans will take longer, and others will cook faster. Test them as they cook.

4. When the beans are cooked through, add the salt and stir to dissolve. Set a colander over a clean, empty pot and tip the beans into it. Remove the herbs and peppercorns and reserve the beans for another recipe. Taste the stock and correct for seasoning; if it needs a little oomph, add a dash of white-wine vinegar.

Tongues Are Wagging

Fine, whip me, beat me, even call me a David Archuleta fan, but, jeesh, get the story straight.

As most of you no doubt know, there has been no action on the blog lately and only moderate changes on the site. I take full and unwavering responsibility for it. It's due to no one other than me, myself, and I. But it's amazing what gossipy flotsam and jetsam a little inactivity can wash up. My spies out there have been the benefactors of some unsolicited recon and found the rumoristas have been working overtime in response to our recent spate of Zen-like stillness. Let's parse each rumor, shall we?

The biggest one is that I'm curled into a fetal position at the bottom of a Lexapro bottle because Leite's Culinaria wasn't nominated for a James Beard Award and that has kept me from looking at my digital failure in the homepage. Sure, we were disappointed, but, hey, we've won twice in a row, which is a major feat in itself. The odds were certainly against us last year, and we beat them, and we knew chances were slim we'd be nominated again. Plus, our buddies over at epicurious.com and chow.com, as well as the folks at starchefs.com, are worthy contenders all. So, no, I'm not crying over my keyboard. Plus I was fortunate to snag a Beard nod for the feature I wrote for The New York Times, "In a '67 T-Bird, Chasing a Date with a Clam."

Then there's this nonsense about LC shutting its doors, and how I'm moving on to greener pastures. How much greener can life get than waking up in the morning--whenever you want--slipping into sweats so you don't notice that recent weight gain, taking a swig from the milk carton, and facing a grueling 40-foot commute to sit at your computer doing what you love? To top it off, I finally got my long-desired-for writing studio in Connecticut, which looks out onto 3 1/2 acres of green. So, okay, maybe this one's half-true: I have moved onto greener pastures, at least when I'm working up here.

Of course, I've heard about the mutiny of the staff for their own brighter futures. Sorry to disappoint. I now have to make an appointment to speak with Linda, she's so busy working on LC and co-chairing several committees. Plus, if anything, every time we open the door to more recipe testers, we have to close it in less than a day because the response is overwhelming. And every week we have new writers, interns, and bloggers approaching us to work together.

The real reason--are all you wags listening?--that the site has been quiet is that I've been playing catch-up with my Portuguese cookbook. It's been an 18-hour-a-day, three-week workfest of writing and rewriting, testing and retesting recipes to meet an April 1 deadline. I've been so entrenched researching the book that I was writing and speaking half-Portuguese/half-English as I muttered away in the gloomy hours of the morning. But yesterday at 1:09:41 p.m., I hit the SEND button and off went the 305-page document. Funny, that was when a little Lexapro would have been kicky; I suddenly felt so down, with nothing to worry about. Well, there is the election and the state of our economy; that's enough to stave off a prescription for a long time.

So with that first deadline met (there are two more), I can get back to work. But the site isn't at the top of the list. There's a little matter of the piles of dishes strewn around the kitchen, dining room, and my studio; the mountain of laundry moldering in the basement; tax information my accountant has been screaming about for the past month; books, magazines, and folders littering the floor around my desk; and this six-day beard that is coming off right after I post this entry. Only then, with my life back in order, will the site start churning things out again. Oh, and guys, and you can quote me on that.

Lucinda Burritos + Tacos

Imagine this: You're in a truck kitchen. You've got a line of people waiting for you to feed them and 16 feet of space in which to do it. You're grilling up fish tacos, are up to your ears in lime crema, and there's a steady stream of orders pouring in and no break in sight. You need to think fast, move fast, remember people's names, rattle off their likes and dislikes, figure out the inevitable generator/diesel/propane hiccups, and on top of it all, you have to call the meat supplier and make sure the delivery will be on time.

It's the kind of scenario guaranteed to scare most people back to their office cubicle and make them give up fantasies of running their own show. But for 29-year-old Joanna Garnett Raeppold, this is a dream and she's living it. The brains and brawn behind a mango-yellow Mexican food truck called Lucinda, Raeppold grew up in San Francisco and found herself pining for its tradition of street food when she moved to New Jersey.

She knew what her ideal eatery would have -- fresh, delicious fare served by friendly people -- and realized if she wanted a place like that, she'd have to set it up herself. So she took the leap, abandoning her office job to drive around Jersey City in a six-ton kitchen on wheels. Raeppold loves her career switch, and her "Lucinda Loyalists" love her marinated skirt steak burritos, washed down with a cinnamon dulce de leche iced coffee. The yellow truck has become such a fixture in town that alarmed customers made frantic phone calls asking, "Where are you? What happened?" when she went on holiday.


What's her secret formula? Simply going back to basics: fresh, locally sourced ingredients, familiar flavors, and a flexible menu that allows people to customize their lunch. "We get great ideas from customers. Some people know exactly what they want: black or pinto beans, lime or green-chile crema, hot sauces. Others like to have me make suggestions," she says.

Her favorite item on the menu? "Lately, breakfast has been a soft-cooked scrambled egg, black beans, salsa fresca, and lime crema. Sometimes, if I'm feeling indulgent, I'll add guacamole and hot sauce. It's a favorite with our morning regulars. In fact, we were five minutes late one day last week and had a customer waiting on the corner for this very burrito."

For those of us envious of Raeppold's escape from corporate life, she adds laughingly, "We always have internships available."

Lucinda Burritos + Tacos can be found parked at the corner of Hudson and York streets in downtown Jersey City, Mondays to Fridays, from 8:15 a.m. to 2:15 p.m. Visit their site for menu updates and delivery information.