Table of Contents: From Breakfast With Anita Diamant to Dessert With James Patterson - a Generous Helping of Recipes, Writings and Insights From Today's Bestselling Authors (38 page)

1
Line two cookie sheets with wax paper. In a large bowl of an electric mixer, blend peanut butter, sugar, graham cracker crumbs, and butter. Roll into 1-inch balls (see note), and place on the cookie sheets.

2
In a double boiler or heatproof bowl set over simmering water, melt paraffin wax and chocolate morsels, stirring until smooth. Remove pan from heat.

3
Toss several balls at a time into the melted chocolate mixture. Use spoon or tongs to coat balls completely, then use tongs to remove candies to cookie sheets and let harden for 10 minutes.

Makes 8 servings

Juggling a dying business, a new love, and a large family is never easy, especially when you are eighty! This is why Gram (of my novels
Brava Valentine
and
Very Valentine
) enjoys an occasional Italian cocktail to unwind.

Like Gram, we love a cocktail at our house. We also love a digestif, and thankfully limoncello works either way. For Italians, the lemon is the fruit of the gods. Enjoy this — because we sure do!

Note:
The limoncello takes at least 4 days to make.

Use organic lemons, if possible, to prevent any chemicals from entering the drink. If you can't find organic lemons, scrub the lemons thoroughly to clean them of any residue.

1
Grate the lemon peel using a microplane grater or the fine blade of a box grater. You should have about 1/3 cup of peel. (Try to avoid peeling the white pith as it will add bitterness to the drink.) Set aside the grated peels. To save the juice for another recipe, squeeze the meat of the lemons and set aside the juice. (Gram doesn't like to waste; you don't need the juice, but you can use it on chicken cutlets or something else.)

2
Back to the limoncello. Pour the vodka into the jar and add the grated peels. Seal the jar tightly. Let this jar sit for 3 days until the peels of the lemons become pale.

3
Then, make a simple syrup: Boil water in a small saucepan, stir in the sugar, then reduce heat and simmer until sugar is dissolved and mixture becomes syrupy, about 5 minutes. Allow to cool. Once the simple syrup has cooled, pour it into the jar with the vodka and peels. Put the lid back on the jar and let it sit overnight.

4
The next morning, pour the mixture through a strainer. Throw out the peels. Transfer the limoncello to a pretty container. Put it in the fridge or, for best flavor, store it in the freezer in a nonglass container that has some room for expansion. It won't freeze because of the alcohol in it, and it tastes best when it's good and cold.

Damijan Saccio

SELECTED WOEKS

Bitter in the Mouth
(2010)

The Book of Salt
(2003)

Inspiration
I always think about food. What to eat, when to eat, where to eat? My books are, therefore, understandably about food and about the characters' particular relationship with food. That is my way into their stories, which then end up being about many other things as well: language, the search for identity, the meaning of home, the definition of family. Yet, the seeds for my books have all been edible ones. That is how they first get my attention and spark my imagination. I am now working on a third novel that is about hunger, and hopefully other things as well.

Readers Should Know
I write very slowly. I have been accused of writing slower than turtles making love (though a rougher word was used than “making love”). I have no idea how turtles make love, but I am sure that the effort, no matter how protracted and cumbersome, must be worth it to them. I blame my lack of speed on my unbending belief in the carefully crafted sentence: First the sentence has to be structurally sound, and then it has to be beautiful, which is not the same as saying overly wrought or needlessly decorative. Beautiful, I think, often comes down to word choice, and the clarity and the candor that can result from finding exactly the right words.

Readers Frequently Ask
Readers of
The Book of Salt
most often want to know whether I am a cook. The answer is a resounding yes (You could even add a “hallelujah!” before that yes). Cooking, or rather the techniques and the sensibilities of an avid cook, was one of the few things about my first novel that I did not have to research. I have been cooking and reading cookbooks since I was seven years old. While I had to research the types of dishes that Bình, who is the live-in cook for the American writer Gertrude Stein (“Rose is a rose is a rose”) and her lover Alice B. Toklas in their Paris home, would have cooked, I otherwise felt free to draw upon my own experiences in the kitchen. For example, though I have never killed a pigeon with my bare hands (or in any other manner!), when I wrote the passage in which Toklas teaches Bình the technique, I knew that the fingertips of a cook can often “see” much better than the eyes. (Think about sorting dried beans or fresh cranberries and how your eyes can deceive you about the quality of what is in front of you. It is only when you plunge your fingers into the bowl that you can finally locate the hidden pebble or the soft and wilted berry.)

A Major Influence on My Writing
Gabriel García Márquez's writing engages all of the senses. I never feel as if I am on the surface of his narratives. I am never looking in, a pane of glass between them and me. I am inside of them. I smell the scent of bitter almonds. I see the house filled with yellow butterflies. I hear “the desolate breath of the sea.” I taste the artificial sweetener that he so aptly describes “as a sad sweetness … something like a ringing but without bells.”

Makes 4–6 servings

My first novel,
The Book of Salt
, was about Bình, a young, gay Vietnamese man who worked as a live-in cook for Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas in their legendary Paris apartment on the 27 rue de Fleurus. A reporter once asked me which dish I would cook for Stein and Toklas if I had the chance. I immediately thought of this Vietnamese take on
daube de boeuf
or French beef stew. Bò Kho is a quintessential example of what we now call fusion cuisine.

I knew that Stein and Toklas, or my “Mesdames” as Bình called them, would be tickled by how recognizable this dish was: cubes of tender beef and chunks of carrots in a slow-cooked sauce. But once they take a bite, the stew's complex flavors would make these two ladies swoon with the pleasures of the unknown: five-spice powder, star anise, turmeric, fresh ginger, and lemongrass. I, of course, would offer the stew and the accompanying loaf of French bread to them without a fork or a spoon, and I would invite Stein and Toklas to eat with their hands. Bình, I know, would enjoy the impropriety of it all.

Note:
Allow 24 hours for the beef to marinate. (This stew may be made up to 2 days in advance, cooled, and refrigerated. Actually, like all stews, it is best made ahead and gently reheated.)

Chinese five-spice powder and whole star anise can be found in the spice aisle of many grocery stores. You can find fresh lemongrass and Thai basil leaves at Asian markets or specialty grocers.

The lemongrass will come apart during cooking. I don't mind pieces of lemongrass floating in the finished sauce, but if you prefer to contain the stringy pieces, place the lemongrass in a piece of cheesecloth and tie the pouch with clean string before adding to bowl.

1 To make the marinade:
In a large bowl, combine the lemongrass or lemongrass pouch (see note), fish sauce, garlic, five-spice powder, turmeric, sugar, salt, pepper, and ginger. Add the beef, and mix to coat evenly. Cover with plastic wrap and marinate overnight in the refrigerator. Take the meat out of the refrigerator about 30 minutes before proceeding to next step.

2
Remove meat from marinade. Reserve the lemongrass and the ginger from the marinade, and discard any remaining marinade.

3
In a 5-quart Dutch oven or similarly heavy-bottomed pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Working in small batches, cook several pieces of the beef until well-browned on all sides, 3–5 minutes. (Reduce heat if oil begins to smoke or food begins to burn.) Transfer cooked beef to a clean bowl. Repeat procedure with remaining beef and oil.

4
Lower the heat to medium-low and add onion. Cook, scraping bottom of pan to loosen any browned bits, until onion is fragrant and soft, 4–5 minutes. Add tomatoes, sugar, and salt, and stir to combine. Cover and cook for 12–14 minutes, or until the mixture is fragrant and has reduced to a rough paste. Check occasionally to make sure tomato mixture is not sticking to the bottom of the pan. If it does, add a bit of water to the pan and stir.

5
When the paste has formed, add the beef, the reserved lemongrass pouch and ginger, and star anise. Cook, uncovered, for another 5 minutes.

6
Add the broth and water and bring to a boil. Lower the heat to a simmer and cover. Cook for 1¼ hours or until the beef is close to being done and is chewy-tender. To test for this, press on a piece; it should yield but still feel firm.

7
Add the carrots and return the stew to a lively simmer. Cook uncovered for 30 minutes or until the carrots are tender.

8
Just before serving, taste the stew. Add a bit more salt or fish sauce, if needed. Or if the taste of the tomatoes is too acidic, add a bit of sugar. If the sauce seems overall too strong in flavor, add a bit of water. You are looking for a balance of salty and sweet and savory (in other words, the balance that is the hallmark of many Vietnamese main dishes).

9
Discard the lemongrass, ginger, and star anise, and serve the stew in wide bowls.

10
On the dining table, offer the loaves of French bread (warmed in the oven is best), the herbs, and the lime wedges. Encourage diners to add the herbs according to their taste. Ask your guests to tear the leaves of the herbs into bite-sized pieces before adding them to their bowl. This final touch of freshness (the fragrance of the herbs) and a judicious squirt of lime are very important to this dish.

11
Finally, diners should feel free to eat with their hands as well as with a fork. Tear the hot bread and dip it into the stew's sauce. (The sauce is why many people eat this dish!)

Makes 3 dozen cookies

I first read about Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas's “experiences with the Indochinese” in
The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book
. First published in 1954, Toklas's book is equal parts entertaining memoir and compendium of recipes. Toklas writes fondly about a cook who had worked previously in the French Governor-General's house in Saigon. She describes how he always made sure that there was a fresh supply of fruit purées, whipped cream, almond paste, and puff pastry dough in the icebox. That way, he could whip up at the drop of a hat (
her
hat, of course) a tray of elaborate French pastries whenever unexpected guests would appear at the front door.

This recipe calls for frozen puff pastry dough, and I am not sure whether Toklas's cook, who was so clearly classically trained, would have approved of such a convenience item. I, who sorely lack the benefit of his time and labor, certainly approve of frozen puff pastry dough. I always feel prepared, a bit privileged, and wholly transported to France whenever I make a plate of these easy but impressive little cookies.

Note:
These cookies are mini versions of the American “Elephant Ears.”

The puff pastry should be about 9″ × 9½″ in size. If you use puff pastry that is smaller, gently roll the dough until it reaches this size.

1
Place rack in center of oven, and preheat oven to 400°F. Cover two cookie sheets with heavy-duty foil or parchment paper. If using foil, spray the foil with a light coating of nonstick cooking spray. Set aside.