So, when friends decided to order Blood Pudding at the annual Whole Hog dinner at Oliveto's I put on a brave face and said," Of course!" I mean, how bad could it really be? One of the few things I've never had the, er…guts, to order, fellow gourmands have been telling me for years what an amazing delicacy things like blood sausage and blood pudding could be. High in iron, it has long been a staple of ethnic cuisine throughout the world. But, I wondered, wasn't it somehow dangerous, or dirty, or just plain wrong to eat blood?

In many religions, eating blood is, in fact, sacrilegious, as is eating pork—having something to do with separating ourselves from animals. I've never been all that worried about being confused with a tiger, however, so I went straight to the chef, Paul Canales to find out what exactly was making me feel so squeamish.

He looked at me like I had two heads for being so silly. "No. It's perfectly fine to eat. It's delicious. I mean, I probably wouldn't eat it raw, though," he said. Uh, good to know.

Canales explained that the blood comes to the restaurant in buckets, partially congealed, a by-product of the slaughter. You probably couldn't buy it for home use (though Canales says you can sometimes find it in Chinatown), but restaurants can get it fairly easily. The good news is that at Oliveto's they're careful about which pigs they use, opting for free-range, humanely raised pigs from Paul Willis' hog farm in Thornton, Iowa. The animals are raised freely under the strict supervision of the Animal Welfare Institute, which outlines humane practices from birth to slaughter. The animals aren't pumped full of hormones or other icky stuff. Okay, that part was good. At least the pigs were happy and healthy; and ostensibly their blood would be too.

At the restaurant, the semi-congealed blood is mixed with bits of meat and fat and other tasty bits and both cooked and steamed. It becomes a dark brown, really almost black color. The texture of Canale's blood pudding is almost like a fine, thick pulled pork. Small chunks of the meat mix with the thickened blood, and a prune plum relish is added for sweetness. It tastes nothing like blood—not metallic or, well, bloody at all. In fact, the taste is rich and a bit sweet, very meaty and dark. In fact, pretty darned good.

Once you get past the strangeness that we've come to associate in modern society with offal (the often unused portions of the animal), it’s a pretty good feeling to know that almost no part of the animal (at least at this dinner) are unused. Legs, feet, innards and everything are beautifully prepared in ways that make us wonder why the heck we've gotten so squeamish about eating anything but carefully pre-packaged breasts and loins that aren't where the real flavor lies. Plus, there's so much less waste in consuming and using the many useful parts of a pig—often called the most generous animal—for its ability to be consumed almost entirely.

In fact, at Oliveto's Whole Hog dinner, we purposefully steered clear of common cuts, opting instead for rich pates, delicate pasta with slow-cooked shoulder, a gigantic pork bacon chop (the fatty belly and "bacon" section of the pig) and even tried bacon ice cream for dessert. Spicy and smoky, it was delicious; as well as gelee's of blood orange and prosecco made with rendered bone marrow.

Even the ears, which were pressed into a terrine were…okay, they were kind of unpleasant, I have to admit. But chewing (and chewing and chewing) them slowly, carefully, I felt my nervousness leaving, replaced by a sense of accomplishment in honoring the entire pig: ears, feet, blood and all. Leaving behind nothing but the squeal—which maybe I'll try next time.

Oliveto's (5655 College Ave., Oakland, www.oliveto.com) offers a number of special dinners throughout the year. See their website for details.

Turns out, it was exactly what we were both craving. It’s getting to be fall so we wanted something warm and tasty but not too heavy. The brown-bread topping is soft and chewy and soaks up the moisture from the vegetables. I’ve been really into leeks lately because they’re slightly sour (the fall flavor) and carrots and parsnips because they have such a beautiful bouquet. Root vegetables are good for fall; they deepen and concentrate energy downward in the body, preparing for winter and providing the focus that characterizes many people’s autumn habits. In the summer, you might want to try corn and green beans, in the spring, peas and artichokes.

There’s a bunch of tricks with this dish. The first is that your cobbler is scented and flavored with the vegetable stock you use. So do yourself a favor and make a nice aromatic broth. I also recommend adding 1/2c cooked beans, pureed, to the vegetables and broth that make the bottom part. Not only does it make a more complete protein, but it binds the vegetables in a sauce. Finally, there is virtually no fat in this recipe, but if you want to do it up a little fancier, sauté the vegetables in butter before adding them to the pan, and make the batter with some melted butter and oat flour instead of corn.

One final note: Baking powder is not a whole food, it’s a chemical (well, a couple of them). Next time I make this, I’m going to try replacing the leavening with 1/4 cup of sourdough starter, and raising the batter for a little while before baking it. You could also separate the eggs, beat the whites to soft peaks, and fold them in right before spreading the batter.

from Laurel’s Kitchen by Robertson, Flinders, & Godfrey, p. 251

4 cups cooked vegetables or very thick soup (LL note: I used 3 parsnips, 3 leeks, 1 turnip, 3 ribs of kale, and 1 big carrot)
1 1/2 cups stock
Herbs and seasonings to taste (LL note: I used 1/2 teaspoon of salt, quite a bit of black pepper, and about 2T minced parsley)
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 cup cornmeal (try swapping out other flours)
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup milk or broth

Preheat oven to 425.
Heat vegetables in stock, and pour them into a greased 9”x13” baking dish.
Stir dry ingredients together. Add eggs and milk (or broth) and mix just until ingredients are well distributed. (LL note: add the eggs first and only enough broth to make it the consistency of muffin batter.)
Spread batter over top of vegetables. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes. Sprinkle with cheese if desired.

Parts of pig used: 1.5 pounds ground pork

Remember the nursery rhyme about four-and-twenty blackbirds flying out of a pie? It actually used to happen—in the 16th century, cooks would bake immense pie shells, cut a hole in the bottom and stuff the inside with birds, animals, or…and this is completely true…midgets. To everyone’s delight, the sneaky filling would suddenly pop out of the pie and flutter, hobble or dance around on the table. Wheeeee! Think of it as a precursor to strippers popping out of cakes.

Most cultures, it turns out, as far back as the Egyptians have had some sort of pie-like pastry filled with meats, fruits…or, uh, people that they claimed for their own. The Greeks and Romans wrapped the dough around meat. The French, of course, elevated pies to an art, creating elaborate showpieces, and the British, well, they’re responsible for the midgets. Americans have mostly eschewed meat pies in favor of fruit-filled pies—though in pioneer times, more savory pies served as a utilitarian way to stretch meat supplies and incorporate potatoes and vegetables into a single dish.

In Canada, apparently meat pies are still popular, a sort of portable everyman’s dish ranging from beef and kidney, curry, chicken pot pie, or (a family favorite) Shepherd’s pie. In fact, my mom and dad, who recently moved to Calgary, are absolutely nuts over these nifty little single-serving pies made by a local baker, Simple Simon Pies. Apparently my dad gets his ration of Shepherd’s and Mincemeat each week from the farm market.

One of the most popular French Canadian pies is the Tourtiere, a meat pie made with pork (and sometimes beef, too) spices, onions, potatoes, raisins and other goodies. Don’t puke…it’s actually really good, if you do it right. Think spicy pig in a blanket, alright? You can do that.

After searching around for recipes, I came up with one that’s got a good mix of savory and sweet, with a cream cheese crust .The best part: I make individual pies in muffin tins so you can take them to school or work. If you’re not into the meat pie part, you can fill these with quiche, ham and cheese, or just about anything—uh, except midgets.

Prepare cream cheese crust in advance (up to one day). This is the most amazing recipe EVER from The Pie and Pastry Bible. It’s a little complicated, but makes a flaky, delicious crust.

Meat Pie Filling

1.5 pounds ground pork
1 large potato (boiled and mashed)
1 large onion, minced
3/4 tsp. salt
3/4 tsp. ground black pepper
3/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. ground gloves
1/2 tsp. ground allspice
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup raisins
1 egg (for pastry brushing)

Boil (about 15 minutes until tender) and mash the potato. Meanwhile, prepare the rest of your ingredients. Place everything in a large frying pan (sausage, spices, mashed potatoes, etc.) and simmer slowly for 45 minutes to an hour until thick. Test seasoning and add more spice, if necessary.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Cut and roll pastry to fit into well-greased muffin tins. I like to ruffle the edges a bit. Fill with about 2 tbsp. of filling. Reserve a bit of pastry for the top. I roll it out and cut leaf shapes, then place it gently on top. Brush with beaten egg and cook for about 50 minutes, watching closely to prevent burn crust. Let cool, but serve warm with chutney.

Autumn is the natural time for fermented and preserved foods. Foods were originally fermented of course as a way to preserve surplus that would otherwise rot after harvest time. Turns out too that if you pickle things they retain their vitamin C, which tends to be harder to find in the winter months. In Chinese medicine, the flavor associated with fall is sour. The action of the sour flavor is cooling, contracting, and absorbing, gathering up our energy and contracting it, the same way trees do in the fall.

Kimchee is a raw, wild-fermented food, the wholest of the whole. You don't use a starter culture or any other direct control over the microorganisms. The important thing then is cleanliness and indirect control. I have never had a batch of kimchee fail, but I've seen others turn nasty. With fermented foods it's always a bit of a challenge - how do you tell the difference between good-sour and bad-sour? Kimchee's sour flavor is fresh, light, and tingly, with a slight ammonia smell. The bad kimchee I've had tastes heavy and slightly sick.

In addition to accenting soups and noodles, I've eaten kimchee on rye crackers with sharp cheese, and used the strong liquid as a component in a vegetarian fish sauce replacement.

From Madhur Jaffrey's World-of-the-East Vegetarian Cooking, p 379

1 pound Chinese cabbage (about 1/2 a large head)
1 pound white radish (daikon)
3 Tablespoons salt
2 Tablespoons finely minced fresh ginger
1 1/2 tablespoons minced garlic
5 scallions, cut into fine rounds, including green
1 Tablespoon cayenne or hot Korean red pepper
1 teaspoon sugar

If you are using a small whole cabbage, cut it in half lengthwise, and then cut it across at 2-inch intervals. If you are using half of a large cabbage, cut it in half again lengthwise, and then crosswise at 2-inch intervals.

Peel the white radish (I don't - LL), cut it in half lengthwise, and then cut it crosswise into 1/8-inch-thick slices. In a large bowl put 5 cups water and 2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons of the salt. Mix. Add the cabbage and radish to this water and dunk them in a few times, as they have a tendency to float. Leave the vegetables in the salty water. Cover loosely and set aside for 12 hours. Turn the vegetables over a few times.

Put the ginger, garlic, scallions, cayenne, sugar, and 1 teaspoon salt in another large bowl. Mix well.
Take the cabbage out of its soaking liquid with a slotted spoon (save the liquid) and put it in the bowl with the seasonings. Mix well.

Put this cabbage mixture into a 2-quart jar or crock. Pour enough of the salt water over it to cover the vegetables (about 2 cups). Leave 1 inch of empty space at the top of the jar. Cover loosely with a clean cloth and set aside for 3 to 7 days. In the summer, kimchees mature with much greater speed; in the winter, the process slows down unless the central heating is ferocious. Taste the pickle after 3 days to check on the sourness. When it is done to your liking, cover the jar and refrigerate.

To serve, remove just as much of the kimchee solids as you think you will need for a meal – a cupful is enough for 4 people – and put it in the center of a bowl. The kimchee liquid in this pickle is left behind in the jar and may be used to flavor stews and soups. Serve this cabbage kimchee with any Korean meal.

I’ve gone a little apple crazy this week—the first nip of fall tends to do that to a girl. Braeburns, Jonathans, Golden Delicious…pounds and pounds of them are sitting on my kitchen counters, filling the air with their flowery, autumnal perfume. Ahhh, apples.

It hit me last week during a trip northward to Mendocino County. Though the weather was blistering, the apple and pear orchards of Anderson Valley were brimming with bright fruit, overflowing into farm stands set up on the side of the road. Tripping over lazy cats and even lazier folks working the stands—withered by the heat and, perhaps the fact that it was a slow Tuesday, we were on country time. Bully for me…all the more opportunity to blithely peruse the produce without a hard sell. No matter, I bought everything anyway.

In the heat of the moment, I ended up with something like 10 pounds of apples. I’ve never been one to worry about consequences in the flush of a purchase—especially one involving food. But even as I drove home along twisting, curving, nausea-making roads, apples rolling under the seats and across the trunk with each turn, visions of tarte tatin, apple crisp, applesauce and apple turnovers were dancing in my head.

A little less obvious was linking apples to my pig project. But years of watching the Brady bunch suddenly came in handy. Pork chops and….apple…sauce? Caught without a food mill for squashing the little buggers, I found the next best thing for using up pounds of apples and pairing them with the pork chops sitting forlornly in my fridge: apple chutney. Eat your heart out, Alice.

(adapted from Ming Tsai’s Ginger Apple Chutney

Four (or so) cups of tart apples, (Fuji is good), peeled, cored and chopped into small -pieces.
2 small onions, cut similarly
2 Tablespoons peeled and minced fresh ginger
Juice of one lemon
1 cup apple cider vinegar
1 cup apple juice

Cut the apples into small, pieces (about 1/4-inch), add the lemon juice and toss. Set aside.

Place a small amount of canola oil in a pan and saute' onions and ginger until just soft. Add apples and let them soften with the onions and ginger for several more minutes until soft. Add vinegar and apple juice and simmer for 10 minutes or so until the liquid has reduced.

Pork Chops

The key to good, moist chops is to brine them. Place the chops in heavily salted water for several hours in the fridge (a good gauge for saltiness is that it should remind you of ocean water). Rinse just before cooking. Dredge in flour, salt and pepper, then sear on one side for about 3 minutes. Flip, then place the pan (it needs to be oven safe) in the oven at about 375 for about 5-8 more minutes. Remove and let rest for several more minutes (about 5). Add the chutney and pair with sweet potato puree.

Have you ever thought about what possessions you value most in the world? Don't worry, it never really occurred to me, either, except as a sort of existential idea in the back of my mind. But sometimes you get a weird hand.

A few years ago, I found myself standing at the doorstep of an apartment I once shared with my ex-husband and children, with five hours to pack up everything I cared about. We had thirty boxes, some packing tape and a tiny U-Haul truck. With the seconds ticking away, it suddenly became painfully clear that I could only grab what mattered most, and leave the rest behind.

Looking back, I think a lot about what ended up in those boxes - and what didn't. The obvious items went in first: family photos, the children's toys and cherished possessions (we left behind the pet Walking Stick bug that I'd always hated), clothing, important documents, and the queen-sized bed. Next were the non-essentials: Lolly, my favorite porcelain fairy, a box of baby clothes, and every item in my kitchen, save a few paper plates and cups. I knew I had to have it all--every knife, fork, mixing bowl and serving platter stacked up to the ceiling in that insanely tiny kitchen. And most important of all were my recipes. Many were written on tattered pieces of paper, stuffed into drawers and hidden behind spice jars. Each one was a memory and it was impossible to leave even one behind.

One of my favorites was a recipe for home-made ravioli from my husband's Italian grandmother, Marie. It took me five years to get her to teach me how to roll the dough. Once I finally learned, she gave me a hand-cranked pasta machine and my own set of ravioli trays. I've had few prouder moments. Despite the situation, his family had in so many ways become my own, their recipes my recipes.

When I make homemade ravioli, I rarely use a recipe anymore (I've changed it to my own tastes and memorized it by heart). But Marie's recipe still sits on my shelf, tattered and torn, stained and folded over and over, reminding me of the possessions and the memories I treasure most in the world.

Marie would likely be horrified by this aberration of her authentic recipe, but I love filling raviolis with unlikely mixtures. With fall setting in, I wanted to create something both savory and sweet, with lots of flavor. The fun thing about ravioli is that you can create a variety of sauces to complement the fillings. I tried it with a lemon cream sauce (just a simple white sauce with some Meyer lemon and about a 1/4 cup of Fume Blanc) that brought together the sunny flavors of summer with the spice and heartiness of autumn. I think it would also be great with a browned butter sauce. See what you like best.

I experiment with flavors and amounts to taste, so don't be afraid to change things up to your own liking.

The filling
12 oz. ground sausage (gourmet if you can, but Jimmy Dean is fine)
3 apples, sliced (pref. Gala)
1 small onion
1 bulb fresh fennel (take off fibrous outer skin and slice very thinly)
8 oz. crumbled goat cheese
1 egg
1/4 cup bread crumbs (I use panko)

In a large pan, cook thinly sliced apples, fennel and onions until golden - aiming for slightly caramelized but not burnt. I add a pinch of sugar and a pinch of lemon while cooking. Keep heat medium to low and let them get really soft.

Meanwhile, cook sausage in a separate pan until browned. Drain grease and set sausage aside.

When everything is cooked and cooled, mix apple, fennel and onion mixture with the sausage. Incorporate well and add the goat cheese and bread crumbs. Mixture should be stiff, but pliable. Taste, and add salt and pepper to taste. Once you're satisfied, add the breadcrumbs a bit at a time - these are just to give the mixture a little body and keep it together. Finally, add one beaten egg. Spoon a small amount into your ravioli dough.

Homemade Ravioli

You'll need a pasta machine to do this right. I've adapted this from a number of recipes.

1 cup cake flour (nice, but not required)
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1/4 cup of warm water
1 tbsp. olive oil

To really make authentic pasta dough, pour the flour onto a smooth surface and make a well in the center. Add salt, olive oil and eggs to the center, ideally not letting it spill over the sides of the well. Gently pinch at the sides of the well, incorporating the flour into the eggs and olive oil. If you do it right, you end up with a nice ball of dough to which you can add the water as needed until it is a pliable consistency. Knead, then set aside to rest for about an hour.
After it rests, cut the ball in quarters. Put the dough through the widest setting on your pasta machine. Roll through a couple times, patting with a small amount of flour. Continue to increase the setting, making the dough thinner and thinner. Ravioli dough should be thin, but not see-through, to make it tender.

Meyer Lemon Cream Sauce

3 tbsp. butter
3 tbsp. flour
1 cup whole milk, warmed
Juice of 1/2 Meyer (or regular) Lemon
1/4 cup Fume Blanc

Melt butter, then add flour, whisking briskly. Let the mixture cook down and brown about 2 minutes, but make sure it doesn�t burn. Add the warmed milk and stir until you have a nice, smooth sauce. Add the lemon, stirring quickly and the wine. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle over the top of the raviolis.

I made mole with the nibs a couple of times, and it was lovely (I'll post that recipe another time), but I wanted to try something sweet. Desserts are a fun challenge in whole foods cooking. When you first start transitioning to a vegetarian diet, you eat a lot of miso and other strong-flavored, umami, meaty foods. Likewise, when you start eating whole foods, you (or I at least) eat a lot of dates, because they're ultra-sweet, but at least they didn't come out of the vending machine at work. So they're a good place to start with desserts.

I'm not going to say this is good for you, but eaten in small portions, particularly by those who are cold and deficient (what's up vegans), it is strengthening and improves the spleen/pancreas qi which regulates digestion.

I tried to make my own coconut milk, but was unable to find coconuts that weren't sour, moldy, or rotten. An industrious raw-foodie could very easily adapt this recipe by extracting the coconut milk (perhaps use young coconut) and steeping it with the cacao at the highest temperature tolerated.

I think dates taste icky once they've been heated, but if you don't, then you could serve this warm.

Ingredient	Attributes
Coconut	Sweet, warming, tonifies qi, builds yin fluids
Date	Sweet, warming, tonifies qi & blood, improves spleen qi
Raw Cacao	Probably has antioxidants and stuff, but is better considered a drug than a food.

(My own recipe)

4 oz raw cacao nibs
2 cans full-fat coconut milk, do not shake
4 oz dates (pitted weight)

Grind the cacao nibs as finely as you can. I use ye olde 'half pint jar on a blender' because it grinds more finely than the food processor. Open up your first can of coconut milk and spoon the cream off the top into the top of a double boiler. Add the ground chocolate and bring to a simmer. Stirring frequently, simmer uncovered until the coconut cream turns a nice brown color, maybe 10 or 20 minutes. Add the rest of the can of coconut milk and strain through a single or double thickness of cheesecloth (single - crunchier but faster). The straining took some time; I ended up squeezing it by hand, a gross-fun job that would be well-suited to a 10 year old.

Pit your dates and put them in a food processor with the other can of coconut milk. Process completely. Once the chocolate mixture is completely cool, mix it together with the date mixture. You could do this in a food processor so it was light and fluffy. Serve in small bowls, because it's extremely rich.

By itself, buckwheat is barely sweet, with a strong fragrance of slightly smoky hay that fills the mouth and overflows, buckwheat-breathing dragon style. It's intense! I saw this recipe and had to try it. Too often people try to make challenging flavors easier to deal with by covering them up, but the tough love of skanky sauerkraut and pungent onions helps buckwheat be its perfect, ferocious self.

I tried this recipe twice, once with raw buckwheat (whitish-colored) that I roasted myself, and once with kasha, the reddish commercially-roasted kind. I prefer the former. You get more control over how toasty you want it - more for the winter or if you're feeling cold, just a touch in the summer. I would recommend lighter roasting to anyone who doesn't know they love buckwheat: the fully-roasted kind is much more ferocious.

I was almost shocked at how tasty the finished dish was. Once I had the right amount of salt in it, it just shone - oniony-pungent, slightly sour, buckwheat-crazy, and studded with the cooling flavor and crunch of cabbage. The magenta cabbage looks beautiful with the green onions, but after a night in the refrigerator, the whole thing turns a lurid shade of purple. The recipe suggested reheating it for breakfast with some tempeh bacon. For that, you might want to cook the grain a little softer and chop the cabbage a little finer for a 'hash' kind of texture. It makes a delicious crispy crust on the bottom when you pan-fry it too!

2 Tbsp light sesame oil (untoasted, unrefined)
1/2 cup sliced green onion
1 3/4 cups red cabbage
3 cups cooked kasha (or raw buckwheat, pan-toasted slightly)
1/2 cup sauerkraut juice
1/4 cup water (optional)

Heat a skillet over medium heat and add oil. Saute onions, cabbage, and cooked kasha for about 7 minutes or until they are slightly browned.

Mix sauerkraut juice and water and pour over buckwheat and vegetables. Cover and cook until liquid has been absorbed into the grain. Turn once.

Ingredient - Attributes
Buckwheat - Warming (more if roasted), sweet, cleansing & strengthening. Not recommended if wind** conditions exist
Cabbage - Slightly warming, sweet and pungent, soothing, calms wind
Green Onion - Increases qi circulation, calms wind

** Wind, in TCM terms, is not to be confused with intestinal gas. Wind is a changeable, penetrating, even disruptive force - on the plus side it stirs up stagnancy, but it tends to partner with cold, heat, dampness, or dryness, helping them enter the body and cause illness. This recipe carefully balances wind-calming vegetables with buckwheat, resulting in a dish that circulates the qi without agitation.

Apologies, first off, for a dish that has no right to even be contemplated during the last sweaty throes of summer. As a pile of wintry white sauerkraut drains over the sink next to fresh blackberries and fragrant peaches that are so beautifully in season, I can't help but feel a little ungrateful. I promise to remember them fondly as the weather turns cold, but right now, Szekely Gulyas comforts me in a way that no ripe fig or juicy melon ever could and I am in need of comfort.

Out of the high cupboard we pull a colorful old tin of sweet paprika and a tiny bottle of caraway seeds smell like rye bread. We carefully measure out pinches of each into a bowl. Next, onions are cut into tiny pieces, and we lift them to our noses, inhaling the green, earthy fragrance. This, I say to my daughter, is what an onion smells like. She wrinkles her nose and tears well up in my eyes.

A hand is held over the hot pan testing its warmth. Butter drops in sizzling, followed by the chopped onions and a smash of garlic. The warm, musky smell of butter and onions circles around our heads, intensifying as the color fades to translucence.

My knife, razor-sharp, slices through flesh once held close to the heart, reducing it to tiny marbled pieces each uniform in shape and size: one inch by one inch. The jiggling cubes are tossed, too, into the pan, releasing animalistic vapors as they cook. Stir, stir, stir, brown, cover. Then we wait as everything comes together-quite literally done when everything falls apart. The irony isn't lost on me.

Forty minutes later, there is liquid where none was before. Juices released, we add the pungent, acidic pickled cabbage into the pot. You learn to love the bite of the vinegar and the smell of meat, bone, garlic, spice and onions bubbling together. Right now, it is a red, angry mess that hasn't yet figured itself out. We cover the pot and wait again, patiently.

Half an hour later, my fork pokes into the meat and it gives without struggle--resigned. Angry red has given way to a calmer orange and the once individual ingredients have become something cohesive and resolved - but not quite finished.

Our last ingredient is added, cooling the heat of the paprika and tempering the bite of sauerkraut - rich sour cream that turns everything a cheerful yellow. Ladling it onto our waiting plates, we've finally found happiness in our steaming pot.

Next up: Pork Rind Salad

(This is dead-of-winter comfort food that is rich and soul-satisfying. Make it on a cold, dark night - or when you need to feel better.)

1 pound lean pork, cut into 1� cubes (use a thick boneless loin chop)
1 pound spareribs split into 2 large pieces (you may have to ask your butcher for this cut)
2 pounds sauerkraut (canned or bottled is fine)
2 small onions, chopped into �� pieces
2 Tbsp. butter
1 tsp. sweet Hungarian paprika (imported variety)
1 tsp. caraway seeds
1 clove garlic, smashed
12 oz. sour cream
1 Tbsp. all-purpose flour
Salt, pepper, sugar to taste

In a large pot, saute' onion in butter until transparent. Add paprika, garlic and caraway seeds. Don't let burn. Add cubed pork and spareribs and saute' with onion. Brown lightly, but don't let it burn. Cover the pan and let the meat braise for about 40 minutes at low heat. Stir occasionally.

Drain sauerkraut and rinse. Then add to the meat with one cup of water. Let simmer 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. When the kraut and meat are tender, stir in 8oz. of sour cream that has been mixed with 1 Tbsp. flour. Bring to a gentle boil and let bubble for about 5 minutes to cook the flour. Remove from heat and stir in remaining sour cream. Taste for salt. I like to add a couple pinches of sugar to cut some of the bite of the kraut and a little pepper. Serve with boiled potatoes, dumplings or - my favorite - spatzels.

"Cabeza de puerco," says a voice behind me to the butcher, mercifully ending this ridiculous pantomime of mine. "Ahhhh. Si, si," he says with a knowing grin. I think he was just faking it. I really do. The snickering continues behind me, silly gringa. I smile and act like I've known the words my whole life. "Cabeza! Cabeza! El Porko!" I direct him with authority. He disappears into the back.

El Porko indeed. A couple minutes later, I'm handed a frozen pig head, loosely wrapped in newspaper and a plastic bag. Ew.

"So, what are you going to do with that?" asks my helpful translator with a concerned look. I don't think she often sees white girls at Lola's Mexican Grocery asking for whole pig heads. Her question is a perfectly fair one.

I have no idea, I tell her. I really have no idea.

The other, other white meat

Okay, I sort of had an idea. But when I get the meaty skull home and start unwrapping it, I'm not so sure I want to go through with it. I've never been this up-close and personal with my food. The damn thing still has eyeballs. Oh god, I feel like I'm in an Indian Jones movie. It's looking at me.

It goes straight into the trash - outside, double-bagged. But it wasn't supposed to be like this. See, I've been searching for pork cheeks for two weeks. They're all the rage with local chefs; in fact, I had to suffer through not one, not two, but something like five different pork cheek dishes at a recent event in the sweltering summer heat. (Note to chefs: hot, salty pork cheeks=bad plan during 100-degree weather).

So, I figure I'll have no problem finding some cheeks at my local meat counter. Nice, neat little bits of yummy cheek all packaged up and ready to cook. I have the tastiest recipe - something with dried cherries and lots of wine. Oh, yummy! Eagerly, I call one meat counter, then three more, then finally to several meat distributors in the area. Unless I'm planning to buy cheeks in bulk, there's no cheek meat to be had. They all suggest Lola's as a possibility. Lola's is the local Mexican grocery store that features, let's say, a variety of variety meats, including the aforementioned pig head. Lola's doesn't sell cheeks. But if I want the whole head - Si.

You know what happens next. Obviously, I'm not quite ready for this little adventure. I'll work up to it. Opening the cupboard, I decide to give myself a break already. It's been a hard day and there's no reason not to start simple, I think as I open a can of Spam. Hmmm. Well, at least its not looking back at me.

This is a popular Hawaiian snack that you either absolutely love-or absolutely hate. It's not fancy, so don't worry about using what you have on hand. To do it authentically, use the Spam can to mold the rice into a little rectangle. However, I alter things a little, making it more like Spam Roll.

1 1/4 inch slice of Spam (sliced lengthwise)
One ripe avocado
Wasabi paste
Sweet teriyaki sauce (I like Soy Vay Island Teriyaki)
Quick Sushi Rice (recipe follows)
Toasted Nori (full sheet)
Soy sauce

In a rice cooker, cook two cups of short-grain rice (long grain won't work correctly). In a separate pan, warm up 1 � tablespoons rice vinegar, 1 tablespoon sugar and � teaspoon salt until the sugar and salt dissolve. Set aside. When rice is cooked, add the salt/vinegar/sugar mixture to the rice and mix. If you're in a hurry, spread the rice on a plate and let it sit on the counter while you're cooking. It should be cooled by the time you're ready for it.

In a warm pan, grill up the sliced Spam, adding some sweet teriyaki sauce for flavor. Slice into thin strips. Set aside.

On the toasted Nori sheet, spread the rice about � inch thick, leaving about � inch uncovered along one edge. At the other end, spread a thin stripe of wasabi, several thin slices of avocado and the strips of Spam. Roll tightly. Slice into � inch pieces like a sushi roll. Dip in soy sauce.

Waste not

Much has been said, recently, about how we eat-and how much goes to waste. In few places is that more true than in how we eat meat. Think about it: the average consumer buys about 60-70% of the pig-the ham, bacon, spareribs, loin and maybe a shoulder for cooking at home. That leaves a considerable portion of the pig, some 40 pounds or so of jowls, feet, tail, neck, fat, and bone in an average 250-pound pig. Some of that goes into hot dogs, gelatin and other by-products of the meat-slaughtering process, but for the most part, some 30% of the animal is all but unwanted.

I can only think of what my great-grandmother would say to wasting a single morsel of the animal. Undoubtedly it would be in Hungarian, but the gist of it would be, "Are you kidding me?" as she sucked the very marrow out of a hambone. Then sucked it again and probably threw it into a pot the next day for stock. Or so I'm told.

Reading through our family recipe book, which is mostly old Hungarian recipes for things like goulash and spaetzle...and well, tongue and heart and liver (blah!) it becomes very evident that until recently, all that was left of the pig was the oink. Nothing was wasted, from the feet to the tail, it all got boiled down, fried up, or mixed into some gelatinous goo and eaten. Thankfully.

Nice little shrink-wrapped packages

Unlike many cooks on this site, I'm more of an eater than a chef. I tend to look at the neat little meat packages lined up at my grocery store with, well, some confusion. I can roast a nice pork tenderloin, fry up some bacon and pull out a Honeybaked Ham at Christmas with aplomb. But what exactly do you do with Boston Butt? Or a tongue?

That's my mission: finding out not just what to do with it, but where it came from, and why it's good. Because life is more than neat little packages. There are stories to be told and adventures to be had in learning about an animal that's been part of our diet since, well, nearly the dawn of man being able to catch and spit-roast the little buggers.

So, my goal in eating a whole entire pig is two-fold: to not waste any part of the animal (as much as my stomach and wallet will allow for) and to learn how to cook a pig from head to tail. And leave nothing but the oink behind.

This is one of great-grandma's authentic Hungarian recipes.

2 pounds pork kidneys, sliced 3/8" to 1/2" thick
1 pound onions, chopped 1/4" dice
1 fresh clove garlic, pressed
salt to taste
1/2 to 1 tsp. fresh ground black pepper
6-8 medium potatoes, peeled and cut in 1/2" chunks
1 cup chicken or beef stock
3 Tbs. lard (or butter)

In 3-qt. heavy bottomed casserole pot with cover, saute' onions and garlic in lard or butter until they wilt. Add washed and well-drained kidneys (if you actually cook this, you need to prepare the kidneys by soaking them in 2Tbs salt and cover with water, which will draw out the blood. You do this for about 2 hours and flush with cold water, squeezing the kidneys until they're grayish. Then drain.)

Turn up the heat and stir well until kidney and onion mixture comes to a boil. At this point the kidneys and onions will give off some liquid. Add stock if needed to about 1 cup.

Cover the casserole and bring to simmer. Continue to simmer 1 1/2 to 2 hours until kidneys are tender (they won't get mushy). Stir and add more liquid as needed to keep from burning. When kidneys are almost done, add potato chunks. Stir well and add water to cover, and bring to full boil. Cover and reduce to simmer, simmering for 15-20 minutes until potatoes are soft. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serves 6-8.

Congee is the perfect breakfast. It's warm and comforting, it cooks itself, and the recipe is totally flexible. Everyone needs to eat more whole grains, and in this form they're digestible, creamy and soft. I think of it as getting my body started up appropriately, 'setting a healing intention' for the day, as they say. Even if I'm going out for a gnarly grease-bomb hangover brunch, I like to take a few bites of congee to make peace with my body first.

But how does it taste? Frankly, it's not the tastiest thing in the world. The first time I made it, I used amaranth, which does not taste good in congee; it tastes like compost. It took me a while to be open to liking congee, not knowing that it was just the amaranth that made it taste nasty. But I knew could just condition myself into thinking it tastes good because it feels so good. Its flavors are subtle. You could say bland. After eating something so plain every day for a year, I think I've become more sensitive to the small differences in flavor.

The addition of a small amount of spices improves the flavor astronomically. Fennel, cardamom and turmeric are mildly warming and said to aid the digestion. I'm not a big fan of cinnamon, but for people who have a hard time keeping warm, a small chunk of cinnamon would probably be nice. To keep with the gentle, mild character of congee, use just a small pinch of spices; they'll scent the dish and complement the flavors of the grains.

If you don't feel like putting the finished congee in a container in the fridge, just leave it cooking for another day, it'll be fine. In fact, its potency is said to increase with cooking time. Just don't accidentally turn the crockpot on high - it'll boil over, burn, and make you cry.

My favorite thing about congee is its adaptability. You can add and subtract ingredients to suit how you're feeling or whatever's in your cabinets. While rice is traditional, different rices and other grains can be used to different effects.

Sweet rice is good for dry conditions such as dry skin and frequent thirst. A congee made just with sweet (also called sticky or glutinous) brown rice will have a smooth, satiny texture with crackle-pop bits of the emptied-out rice bran. Long grain (and especially basmati) rice is good for dampness - feeling stuck, phlegmy, muddy-headed. It cooks up into fluffy bits suspended in a thin soup (if you keep cooking it, it concentrates down to a thicker fluffy mass). Short-grain rice falls in the middle, and is neutral.

Millet is a great little grain. It's said to clear up fungal infections (yeast) and stagnant dampness while not drying the body out too much. When millet's cooked, it puffs out of its hull and has a nice creamy texture. It's a great textural complement to the long-grain rice. Barley turns very silky-smooth in congee, and tastes even better if it's pan-toasted for a few minutes before cooking. Whole oats also cook up very smooth, and have a really warm, yummy taste - it'll be familiar from oatmeal, but stronger and more complex.

In addition to grains and spices, people often use meats and vegetables in their congee. Generally if you see congee at Chinese restaurants, it'll have pork, chicken or fish in it and be served with condiments. Small amounts of these animal products are supposed to make the congee more strengthening, thus better for the kind of people who typically eat it. It's worth noting that it is also usually made with white rice, so don't expect the texture to be the same.

1/4 cup millet
3/4 cup short-grain brown rice
1/4 - 1/2 tsp fennel seeds
6 cups water
Add everything to a crockpot and cook on low overnight. [Crockpots are ubiquitous at Goodwill for $5-10, and the trashy-looking ones work just great.] Stir 3T melange into your bowl.

Melange

Equal parts:
Dried blueberries
Almonds
Raw pumpkin seeds
Flax seeds

Put in a container, cover with water, and allow to soak in the fridge overnight. Soaking the ingredients is said to wake up the dried foods and get them started producing the enzymes to sprout and turn back into vegetable. Soaking also makes almonds taste delicious.

I've been curious about quinoa. I'm a busy, stressed-out vegetarian, so quinoa's warming, nutrient-dense, strengthening nature is just what I should be eating. I didn't really know what it tasted like (despite having tried it a few times), but I had a feeling I didn't like it very much. Of course it made perfect sense to try it in "loaf" form, perhaps the yuckiest presentation imaginable.

Paul Pitchford in HWWF leans toward very low-fat foods. He has a lot to say about the Standard American Diet (which - sure - is awful), so the intention seems to be to heal readers from the damage through very simple, ascetic foods. This is a monk's recipe, not a cook's - it's extremely easy. It would be ideal for throwing together after work with leftover cooked grains from the refrigerator.

Quinoa is unstoppably fluffy, so the texture came out more like a sticky pilaf than a loaf. The flour wasn't enough to hold it together firmly, and it added an unharmonious flavor (not bad, just too sweet), so it would probably be better as a pilaf. Quinoa is very umami, it tastes quite a bit like asparagus. Except a more funky earthy taste. I confirmed that I am not terribly fond of quinoa's flavor, but I found the dish weirdly good anyway, which is what made me think to taste for umami, that tricky magic flavor.
The carrots really make the dish, they infuse the whole loaf with that aerial bright carrot smell that elevates the flavors out of the heavy and earthy. If possible, you'll want to use a fragrant carrot rather than a purely sweet one. I recommend you dice or even grate them, to spread the flavor out more.

The measurements suggested that Pitchford intended dried basil and thyme, so that's what I used, despite thinking that dried basil tastes like dust. I'd skip the basil next time or perhaps use herbes de provence in its place. Also, I'd add the herbs to the liquid when dissolving the lecithin so they have time to reconstitute and get friendly with the other flavors.

"This would be better with butter," was the first thing I thought when I tasted the loaf. If I made it again, I'd go ahead and saute the carrots and onions in butter instead of steam them. The day after I made it, I decided to fry it up as croquettes, thinking a toasty-rich buttery flavor would be a nice addition. But it didn't do much for it - the quinoa's already very rich and earthy, so the toasted flavor got lost. What it really needed was something slightly bitter or sour or bright like the carrots to balance all the comforting, warm, homey-ness. An arugula and romaine salad would have been perfect.

1 cup quinoa
1 cup whole-wheat flour
1/2 cup warm water
1 Tbsp miso
1 Tbsp lecithin granules
1 tsp each basil & thyme
1 onion, chopped
2 cups carrots, sliced
2 cups broccoli, 1-inch pieces
1 Tbsp sunflower seeds

-- Soak quinoa in water for 8-12 hours. Discard soaking liquid and cook in 2c water with a pinch of salt for 20 minutes or until it's done. You can do this ahead of time, and you can forego the soaking and just cook it longer and with more water if you're pressed for time.
-- Combine quinoa and flour in bowl.
-- Dissolve miso and lecithin in warm water and mix with grains and herbs.
-- Optional: let dough rest 4 hours to blend flavors and naturally ferment. (I didn't do this, but if I make it again I will)
-- Place onions, carrots, and broccoli in steamer, cook 7 minutes.
-- Gently mix dough with vegetables and place in lightly oiled baking pan.
-- Dry-toast sunflower seeds until golden brown and sprinkle on top of loaf.
-- Bake 30-40 minutes at 350.