Anniversary

Last week, B and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. And, for the third year in a row, we had a special dinner at Chez Panisse. I think I might say this every year, but I really believe that this was the best dinner we've had there. It was as though all of my springtime favorites were combined in one delicious meal! (Also, the company was very nice.)

Can you read the menu? I'll tell you about the most delicious parts, which were the beginning and the end. We started with a fritto misto of artichokes and asparagus. Wow. Just wow. Who knew that Alice and her chefs knew how to fry so well? The spicy arugula salad and the aioli on the plate cut any heaviness from the fried vegetables. Everything in the middle was delicious too, but we ended with a tartlet filled with strawberry-rhubarb ice cream, and topped with a truly lovely meringue. The "Happy Anniversary" banner you see in the picture adorned our dessert plates. Needless to say, not a speck of food was left on our plates at the end of each course.

Our three years of marriage are only part of the seven years that B and I have been together, and we know each other pretty darn well by now. There was a time when we didn't, however hard that is for us to imagine now. B did not entirely understand my devotion to the culinary arts when we met (though, for the record, I was not nearly as good a cook back then). As I've probably told you before, he described me as being "from scratch" in the kitchen. When we met, I was in medical school, living in an apartment on my own. B, on the other hand, was living and working as a consultant in San Diego, but technically working out of his company's office in San Francisco. This state of affairs meant that he had a per diem allowance, and ate out three meals a day! I preferred (and still prefer, when feasible) to cook three meals a day.

So, one morning when B and I did not know each other very well, I was casting about in the kitchen trying to find something to make for breakfast. I came across some blueberries in the freezer, and asked B how he would feel about having blueberry muffins for breakfast. He agreed that they sounded good. And then, after looking around the kitchen a little more, I reneged on the offer. Why?

We had no lemons to make lemon zest!

Lemon zest is a critical part of the following blueberry muffin recipe. Let's just say that in those few crucial minutes that morning long ago, B had fallen in love with the idea of blueberry muffins for breakfast, and did not entirely understand how lemon zest could be so crucial to their success. And, because B didn't know me very well, he wanted me to still make the muffins without the lemon zest. This did not happen. Though I don't remember what we ended up having to eat that morning, it was NOT blueberry muffins.

I guess I also don't entirely understand why the lemon zest is essential (other than that blueberries and lemons pair beautifully together), but it is. The lemon zest and sugar mixture that tops each muffin becomes a crunchy-sweet component to each bite. The muffins are studded with berries, ensuring fruit in every mouthful. As I alluded to, frozen blueberries work just as well as fresh. There is no need to defrost; however, you must be very careful to mix only as much as needed to fold the frozen berries in, because otherwise you'll end up with batter of an unappetizing gray shade.

Since there's only a half-stick of butter for 12 muffins, I feel no compunction about having mine with a pat on top of each slice, but health-conscious B prefers them plain.

I told B I was going to write about the lemon zest story, and he laughed. I've worked my kitchen magic over the years, and now he understands how important the lemon zest is. Hopefully you'll understand too. Here's to many more zest-filled years together! Enjoy.

Blueberry Muffins

From the Sacramento Bee sometime in the 1970s

Makes: 12 muffins

Time: 15 minutes active, 45 minutes total

zest of 1 lemon

1/2 c. sugar

1 1/2 c. flour

2 t. baking powder

1/2 t. salt

1 egg

1/2 c. milk

1/4 c. (1/2 stick) butter, melted

1 c. blueberries (fresh or frozen)

Preheat the oven to 375, and line 12 muffins cups with muffin liners. In a small bowl, mix together the lemon zest and 2 tablespoons of the sugar. In a medium bowl, mix together the remaining sugar, flour, baking powder, and salt. In another bowl, combine egg, milk, and melted butter. With several quick motions, mix wet ingredients into dry. Fold in blueberries. Drop batter into muffin cups. Sprinkle tops evenly with lemon sugar. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until lightly browned. Serve warm.

My favorite kind of beer

Third year of medical school is really hard. From the incubated cocoon of the first two years, spent almost entirely in the classroom, one is thrust (without adequate preparation; though in retrospect what really could or would constitute adequate preparation?) into the fast-paced, hospital-based world of the wards. It's pretty different, and I don't like change very much to begin with (though JB probably likes it even less).

I was thinking about third year of med school a lot last month while I was in the ICU at our county hospital. The dearth of new blog posts in April was because the ICU was every bit as busy and tiring as I had thought it might be. (The dearth of blog posts in May has no such reason behind it. Sorry.) Similar to last month, third year of med school is busy and tiring. Instead of having weekends off and knowing what you're supposed to study and know, you are bossed around, unable to make plans because your schedule is no longer your own, and saddled with the realization that you've worked hard for two years but don't know anything about actually taking care of patients. This fugue state ultimately improves, but not without persisting for a while.

On my core general surgery rotation, the second rotation of my medical school career, I learned a lot. First and foremost, I learned how to retract. I learned how to work on a team, or, as my chief put it one time, how to play well in the sandbox. I also learned how to respond to pimping (wishing all the while that I'd paid more attention in gross anatomy), and how to stay up all night (complete with 3am pre-rounding). I even began to learn how to take care of patients. Nonetheless, I frequently came home grumpy, and exhausted, and convinced that I did not want to be a surgeon when I grew up.

My solace during these rough transitional two months? It was simple and delicious and satisfying: root beer floats.

I would come home after a long night, eat some cereal, watch a Tivo'ed "Jeopardy!", and quickly fall asleep on the couch. In the early afternoon, I would wake up starving, and then it was time for a root beer float. I started with two or three scoops of ice cream in a pint glass, and then added some root beer, poured carefully down the side so that it wouldn't get too foamy after mixing with the ice cream. I then slurped some root beer through a straw, ate a few spoonfuls of ice cream, and poured in some more root beer; this regimen was repeated until the glass was empty and my belly was full. I drank enough floats that I even bought reusable, dishwasher-safe straws to decrease the waste.

Little did I know what a transformative rotation surgery would end up being. I started a number of post-call traditions during those two months, including the "Jeopardy!" and the couch-sleeping. The afternoon root beer floats, though initially popular, fell by the wayside about a year later, well before I started residency and its plethora of long nights in the hospital.

Only recently (with B's assistance) did I realize why I stopped drinking floats: the summer following my surgery rotation brought the delivery of our ice cream machine. Though the advent of the ice cream machine brought many new and delicious flavors into our freezer, making vanilla seemed, well, too vanilla. Why not make salted caramel? Or fig? Or mint chocolate chip? They were quick variations on the vanilla base, and seemed a little more special than a flavor so easily available at the grocery store. And so, without vanilla ice cream at hand in the freezer, root beer floats quickly became a distant memory.

Thank goodness, then, for the ICU-induced stress so reminiscent of third-year medical school. Without it, I would never have come back to root beer floats. I don't think they need homemade ice cream to be delicious, but they definitely need top-notch root beer. While my family used to be IBC die-hards, we have since moved to the Virgil's camp. The best price and availability are at Trader Joe's.

I don't think this post will convince anyone to go to medical school (it's not that bad, really, I swear), but maybe it'll convince some of you to try root beer floats again. They're not just for kids, and they sure do hit the spot when you come home from the hospital after a long day or night. Enjoy!

Root Beer Float

Time: 5 minutes active and total

3 scoops of high-quality vanilla ice cream (you can make your own, or use a premium brand like Haagen-Dazs)

12-oz bottle of cold root beer (Virgil's is my favorite)

In a pint glass or tall soda glass, place three scoops of ice cream. Add root beer slowly, down the side of the glass, to avoid foaming. Serve with a long spoon, a straw, and the bottle with any remaining root beer.

Citrus

Somehow, March has shaped up to be like January. Uninspired, that is, at least in terms of this blog. I have to explain to you a few things: I'm not sure how that happened (again!); I'm sorry; and I don't want it to happen in the future. And so, on this last day of the month, I'm going to cram in one more post. Hopefully another one will follow in the next few days, as I already have the topic and a picture. I can't make any promises, though. Thursday (tomorrow) is a D-day of sorts since I will start in the ICU at the county hospital for a month. To call it an intense experience would be an understatement.

Today, I want to tell you about something I made last month. (I literally must write about it this month, or else it will be really, really old news; I'd be telling you in April about something I made in February!) It's one of those gifts that keeps on giving, the sort that are really important for a busy cook who needs to have pantry and freezer staples around for use at a moment's notice.

This recipe also takes advantage of the season. Winter and early spring are a really awesome time for citrus. We have been enjoying so many delicious types of citrus lately! I've had the privilege of eating some very sweet tangerines, and on ambitious mornings I juiced some navel oranges harvested from my grandfather's trees (until I ran out). The novelty of the balanced sweetness and acidity in a really good orange makes you understand why they used to be the only present the Little Women would receive at Christmastime. Good citrus can be revelatory.

In addition to the store-bought citrus, I had the excitement in February of receiving a large harvest of kumquats. My mother-in-law has a dwarf, but quite prolific, kumquat tree; better yet, though, she has friends with a 20 foot tall kumquat tree. I've never seen this impressive specimen, but I've tasted its bounty for the past two seasons. Apparently the deliveries I receive of freshly-harvested kumquats, which seem like large amounts, hardly put a dent in the fruit borne by the tree.

Both last year and this, the kumquats were used up quickly. A came over, and we made two batches of straight up kumquat marmalade. We also had shrimp and kumquat skewers, which were delicious and which I should definitely share with you on this blog sometime. Two batches of marmalade, and skewers for four, and a party favor Ziploc filled with kumquats for A&K only used up half of the fruit we had in the refrigerator.

It was time to make kumquat Earl Grey marmalade.

Making jam of any sort is ever so satisfyingly concrete. Making jam this beautiful (I mean, it's actually glowing, at least in the picture above) also fulfills an inner desire for creating lovely things.

Did I mention that it's tasty? The Earl Grey isn't necessary, but the orange flavor of the bergamot enhances the kumquat and makes for a great marmalade. A great marmalade, by the way, should include the proper proportions of sweet, tart, and bitter; most marmalades, to my taste, are too heavy on the bitter. This marmalade is perfect on a slice of lightly-buttered toast, and I think it would be wonderful as a sophisticated appetizer with a slice of Brie on a water cracker.

To make the marmalade in any decent quantity requires boiling-water canning. As I've written about before, the process sounds much more intimidating than it actually is; any interested locals are encouraged to e-mail me for a private lesson. I've only taught two people (A and C), but they are now both successful independent canners who have branched out on their own and shared their delicious creations with me.

What's harder than the canning (or at least more of a pain) is the preparation of the kumquats. These squirrelly little fruits hide seeds like nobody's business; one big seed if you're lucky, or a number of tiny ones if you're not. While you're slicing the kumquats crosswise into pinwheels, you'll spend a fair amount of time picking out seeds. It's time-consuming, but totally worth it for the beauty of the final jam. Oh, and not to worry if you don't have access to your own personal kumquat supplier like I do; the supermarket ones, as long as they're not soft (and therefore verging on spoiling), are perfectly acceptable.

Certainly during this busy upcoming month in the ICU, I'll need to prepare breakfast on the go. It's a good thing I have plenty of kumquat marmalade to spread on toast. Whether you eat it for breakfast or otherwise, enjoy!

Kumquat Earl Grey Marmalade

Adapted from the Kumquat Growers' Association

Makes: 6-8 half-pints (the first picture above was about 1 3/4 batches)

Time: 1 hour active, 1 hour and 15 minutes total

4 c. sliced kumquats

1 c. strongly brewed Earl Grey tea

1 package Sure-Jell pectin

6 1/2 c. sugar

1 t. unsalted butter (optional)

Slice the kumquats thinly crosswise, removing seeds as you cut; each kumquat should be sliced into about four or five pieces. Add the kumquats, tea, and pectin to a large pot. Heat on medium until mixture reaches a rolling boil. Add the sugar, all at once, and bring mixture back to a rolling boil. Add butter to decrease foaming, if desired. Cook at rolling boil for one minute, then remove from heat.

Ladle marmalade into jars that have already been boiled for 10 minutes to sterilize them. Top with fresh seals that have been soaked in boiling water, and place rings finger-tight on jars. Process for ten minutes in boiling water canner. Make sure each jar seals; if it doesn't, re-process in boiling water canner with fresh seal.

Breakfast in five minutes or less

A lot of breakfast items can be prepared really quickly. Fast-paced lives demand fast-paced foods, I guess. Cereal, probably the most frequently eaten breakfast food around our house, falls into the "breakfast in one minute or less" category. It's not a very complicated recipe: pour some Honey Bunches of Oats into a bowl, top with fruit, add a splash of milk, et voila! The eating certainly takes longer than the preparing.

However, in the way that I nearly always prefer a hot lunch to a cold one, I'm often in the mood for something hot for breakfast. This can take the form of scones, or popovers, or pancakes, but the first two of that list take about an hour from start to finish. That's OK for the weekend, but that time commitment isn't really practical for the week. (And you know that I'm all about a practical kitchen.)

It was in this hot-breakfast-mindset, then, that I first became intrigued by RK's version of a breakfast egg sandwich. She told us about it a couple of months ago. She cracks an egg into a mug, breaks up the yolk with a fork, puts the mug in the microwave for a minute, and then eases the cooked egg out onto an English muffin.

The egg comes out of the mug, she said, in the perfect shape for an egg sandwich on an English muffin. That it most definitely does.

What RK didn't share with us, though, was that the egg sometimes makes little exploding noises before a full minute has elapsed in the microwave. Those exploding noises are generally accompanied by corresponding exploding bits of egg. All over the microwave. A kitchen explosion (and the subsequent clean-up) doesn't seem like the best way to start the day, especially for a recipe that's supposed to be quick and easy.

I really, really wanted this one-minute technique to work, though, so I've played around with it a few times. I think everyone's microwave is a little bit different, and I can cut down on the exploding significantly by taking my egg mug out after only fifty seconds. Also, the choice of mug seems to make a big difference, which may relate to something about the composition of the ceramic.

A few days ago, still obsessed with minimizing the exploding mess, I thought I had the most brilliant inspiration of all: I would rip off a piece of aluminum foil, and lightly cover the mug with that before placing it in the microwave. Any errant egg bits would be captured by the foil. As I placed the foil on the mug, though, I (thankfully) remembered the small Microfridge fire I'd started sophomore year of college. Back then, I had put a small paper take-out container of leftover Chinese food, complete with a metal handle, straight into the microwave. It didn't take more than 30 seconds for the paper to light on fire where the metal inserted into the sides of the container! Oops. With that memory as my guide, I took the foil off the mug, and resigned myself to a few small explosions.

If you're scared of errant egg bits, and you have a few extra minutes, you can also pan-fry the eggs overeasy to make a really satisfying egg sandwich. That's how B and I used to do it before we heard about the microwave technique (and how we still do it when making more than one sandwich at a time, which is frequently, since B often eats three in a row). Either way, make sure to put some cheddar or Jack cheese on top. With the mug technique, sprinkle slivers of cheese over the egg right after it comes out of the microwave, while it's still hot; for the eggs in the frying pan, put cheese over the eggs right after you flip them. Melty, gooey cheese is the absolute best.

I like my English muffin toasted, which you can do while the eggs are cooking, and I also love avocado on top. You can add a splash of hot sauce if you like, but the sandwiches are also great with any salsa you might have lying around in the fridge.

Quick, easy, and flavorful; just what I like in any meal! I'll admit that these egg sandwiches are a relatively frequent post-call lunch for me, when I arrive home after thirty hours in the hospital. I think you'll like them too, whether for breakfast or for a breakfast-y lunch. Brave the explosions if you dare, or just go for overeasy eggs in the frying pan. The recipe below includes options for both. Let me know if you experiment with the microwave technique and find a way to minimize the exploding egg bits...without causing sparks or fire in the microwave, of course. Enjoy!

Egg Sandwich

Serves: one

Time: 5 minutes active and total

1 English muffin, split

butter (for greasing the skillet, if pan-frying)

1 egg

slivers of Jack or cheddar cheese

salt, to taste

several slices of avocado (optional)

dollop of salsa (optional)

hot sauce, to taste (optional)

First, start toasting the English muffin (if desired). Then, cook the egg.

For the microwaved egg: crack the egg in a mug, break up the yolk with a fork, and place in the microwave for 45 to 60 seconds, until white is not runny. Place cheese slivers over the hot egg in the mug.

For the pan-fried egg: heat a small skillet over medium heat; swirl the butter until melted, and then crack the egg into the pan. Lower the heat to medium-low, and cook the egg until the white is mostly set (approximately two minutes); then flip and cover with cheese. Cook until cheese is melted, approximately one to two minutes more.

Ease the egg onto the English muffin. Top with salt, avocado, salsa, and hot sauce to taste. Serve immediately.

Valentine

I'm not usually big on Valentine's Day. It's not that I don't love B; I do, very much! The holiday itself, though, is sort of overrated, often just providing a chance for restaurants to charge exorbitant amounts of money for not very exciting food. Hallmark, of course, sets up unreasonable "romantic" expectations for any couple.

Sometimes, though, I succumb to the holiday vibes. I think this might be related to the fact that my favorite color was pink throughout elementary school. (This was before princess culture had gotten totally out of control.) I very much enjoyed both the giving and the getting of Valentines, and usually labored over an arts and crafts project plus/minus a baking project for my classmates. But I date myself. Apparently, in this day and age of the childhood obesity epidemic, baked goods are forbidden in many schools.

A few days ago, in honor of this heart-shaped, red-roses-and-chocolates-filled holiday, I put on (and am still wearing) heart-shaped earrings. One year I got B boxers covered in hearts. More recently, I've steered toward an edible celebration of Valentine's Day (though my goal has not been an aphrodisiac). Last year, I made this very sophisticated and very easy cake in a heart-shaped pan I have. (I confess without embarrassment that I own a heart-shaped pan, but I must emphasize that I inherited it from my grandmother and did not purchase it on my own.)

And this year? I was inspired to make red velvet cupcakes in honor of R's birthday, and secondarily Valentine's Day.

They turned out very, very red. This was partially (O.K., completely) due to the fact that I added twice as much food coloring as the recipe called for. You see, I made a red velvet cake several years ago that called for three (three!) bottles of food coloring. Since this seemed excessive, I purchased but one bottle of red food coloring at the store last week. After I added the whole bottle, and after the batter turned a very deep shade of red, I reread the recipe and realized that I had doubled the desired amount. Oops. Too late to turn back, so I plunged ahead.

My late grandmother (she of the heart-shaped pan) used to color all sorts of cakes and frostings...in the sixties. A residency colleague of mine went through a phase where she only ate green food, so her parents were forced to use green food coloring to get her to drink her milk...in the eighties. Food coloring seems awfully dated now, doesn't it? Useful for Easter eggs, of course, but it does not occupy a prominent position as a go-to pantry item.

Many of the red velvet recipes I looked through commented on how the recipe was an old Southern tradition, but I wondered when food coloring, such an integral part of the recipe, actually originated. The answer, as it turns out, was quite some time ago. Apparently the Romans really liked the yellow color imparted by saffron. And before red food coloring was regulated by the U.S. government, those enterprising Southern cooks used beet juice. I even came across one carrot cake-like recipe for red velvet that used shredded beets.

Thank goodness for red food coloring! This time, I was even able to purchase it stand-alone, without those pesky yellows and blues and greens left to languish in the back of the cupboard. The simple buttermilk cake that forms the basis of red velvet becomes unique with the addition of a few tablespoons of cocoa powder and a few tablespoons of food coloring. What really makes it special, though, is the cream cheese frosting (which I love, and which I've already written about). Besides the delicious flavor, the contrast between the red cake and the white frosting is very pleasing.

These cupcakes were perfect for the birthday party, the leftovers were perfect for Valentine's Day, and future incarnations will be perfect for other special occasions. Enjoy!

Red Velvet Cupcakes

Adapted from Bon Appetit, June 2003

Makes: 24 cupcakes

Time: 45 minutes active, 2 hours total

For the cupcakes:

1 stick (1/2 c.) unsalted butter, softened

1 1/2 c. sugar

2 eggs

1 c. buttermilk

1-2 T. (1/2 - 1 oz.) red food coloring

1 t. vanilla

1 t. distilled white vinegar

2 T. unsweetened cocoa powder

1 t. baking powder

1 t. baking soda

1/2 t. salt

2 1/4 c. cake flour

For the frosting:

12 oz. (1 1/2 packages) light cream cheese, at room temperature

3/4 stick (6 T.) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 t. vanilla

2 1/2 c. powdered sugar

To make the cake, preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line 12 muffin cups with cupcake liners. In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add the eggs, one at a time. In a separate small bowl, add the buttermilk, food coloring, vanilla, and vinegar.

To the large bowl, add the cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and 3/4 c. flour. Mix well. Add half the buttermilk mixture, mix, add 3/4 c. flour, and mix; repeat with remaining buttermilk mixture and 3/4 c. flour. Batter will be a deep red color.

Fill muffin cups 3/4 full with batter. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, or until a cake tester comes out clean. Once cupcakes are cool enough to transfer to a rack (about five minutes), place new cupcake lines in muffin tins. Fill with remaining batter, and bake. Allow cupcakes to cool completely (about one hour) before frosting.

To make the frosting, beat cream cheese and butter together in a medium bowl. Add vanilla and powdered sugar. Frost each cupcake generously. Cupcakes can be made 24 hours ahead of serving if stored tightly covered.

Rocket

Last Saturday was one of those capricious weather days of San Francisco; it started rainy and dreary, but ended sunny and blue. When I awoke that morning, I had a sick husband in bed, a paper to edit, and the aforementioned rain endlessly pounding on the skylight. It didn't seem like an auspicious start to the day.

By lunchtime, however, things were looking up. B was out of bed, though still coughing every time he took a deep breath (and sometimes coughing just spontaneously). The paper was edited (one draft, at least), and I'd started on a long list of chores for the day: laundry, straightening up the house, picking up the dry-cleaning, grocery shopping, and making the peppermint meringues for an ultimately disappointing cake. I'd also fixed a nice brunch for me and B, with cheese scones and an insalata tricolore. He was well enough to partake by that time, downing four scones without a problem.

The scones I've already told you about, and they were as good as usual, so today I want to tell you about the insalata tricolore. This devastatingly simple salad is complex and delicious. The salad items are awfully patriotic (if you're Italian, that is), with appearances by each of the three colors of the Italian flag (green arugula, white Belgian endive, and red radicchio).

And by arugula, I mean rocket. Rocket! Isn't that a funny name for a salad green? I lived in England for a year right after college, and besides drinking a little bit too much and rowing intramural crew and meeting lots of new people from around the world, I immersed myself in British vocabulary. I of course learned the standards: boot, lorry, lift, jumper. But what I found most poetic were the British names for vegetables. Rocket I've mentioned, but did you know that zucchini are called courgettes? Or that eggplant is known as aubergine? I like eggplant now, but I despised its slimy nature and numerous seeds when I was younger; my dad swears, however, that if eggplant had been known as the more romantic, mellifluous "aubergine" in our house, I would have grown up liking it. Too bad we'll never know, since the names aubergine and rocket are pretty much confined to the other side of the Atlantic.

The rocket salad, if you will, is inspired by one at Pizzeria Delfina, a restaurant I very much enjoy (and which has previously provided inspiration for posts on this blog). There are only two differences that I can detect between their salad and mine. First, their chefs have perhaps better knife skills than I do (and perhaps more patience), and the radicchio and endive are sliced into very fine ribbons. Second, the salad components are served separated by color, making the flag resemblance even stronger, before being all tossed together.

The salad works really well at dinner, with pasta or panini, and I know now that it makes a great brunch with cheese scones. It's tangy from the lemon in the dressing, and flavorful from the slightly bitter greens and salty Parmesan. By later in the day Saturday, the sky had turned blue with flecks of cumulus clouds, B's cough was at least partially controlled by Ricola, and our bellies were full of hearty cheese scones and lighter insalata tricolore. Enjoy!

Insalata Tricolore

Inspired by Pizzeria Delfina

Time: 10 min active and total

Serves: 2

2 cups arugula

1 head Belgian endive, ends discarded and thinly sliced crosswise

1/4 head radicchio, cored and thinly sliced

juice from half of a lemon

2 T. olive oil

1/4 t. salt, or more to taste

1/4 t. dried oregano (optional)

Parmesan shavings

Add arugula, endive, and radicchio to a salad bowl. In a small jar, mix together lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and oregano (if using); cover, and shake vigorously to emulsify. Dress salad with lemon juice mixture, and toss. Top with Parmesan shavings for serving.

Research

Now that it's February, work has calmed down a lot. I have a whole luxurious day of research stretching ahead of me. Because I can make my own schedule on research days, I've already taken my car in to get the brakes replaced (which I'm sure will cost a pretty penny, but I have been plagued, for the past few weeks, by a sinking "what-if-they-don't-work-this-time" feeling every time I press the brake pedal; that, at least, will be vanquished, even if my pocketbook will suffer). I've eaten breakfast, and now I'm reflecting back on my busy January, a month that was packed with my least favorite part of residency: thirty-hour overnight calls in the hospital.

When you spend that long in the hospital at any one stretch, it's important to be prepared. I have a little case with toothpaste and a toothbrush that lives in my locker. I also bring lots of snacks, as the hospital becomes a ghost town at night, and, if you come without fortifications, midnight cravings can be sated only by a vending machine. Trader Joe (a.k.a. Jose or Giotto) provides many of the snacks that keep me and my team going through the night, but I also like to bring in homemade treats.

The goal is for home to seem like it's not far away while I eat these goodies, goodies that I would normally be eating at home with B and the cats. Sometimes, however, the strategy backfires. I sit at 2am in a sterile, windowless room, filled with basic office furniture and fluorescent lights, wondering why I'm awake typing orders into the computer and getting endlessly paged, when I would rather be asleep in my own bed. Home seems very far away at a time like that.

At least, on one recent overnight call, I had spiced caramel corn to see me through the night. Crunchy, sweet, and just a little bit spicy with cayenne, it's pretty addictive stuff.

Like popovers, I've been looking for a caramel corn recipe for a long time. Lucky, then, that I stumbled across two within the period of a month (here and here). I didn't really do a fair experiment on each (my mom always taught me to try a recipe to a T the first time around), but I'm pretty happy with the outcome regardless. I like to think I took the best parts from both of the recipes to make one that's better than each of them alone.

You start with one half cup of popcorn. It doesn't look like much, but popcorn is kind of amazing. Every time I make it, I am literally astonished. Popped in a big pot on the stove, you end up with cups and cups worth of deliciously light and airy popcorn from this little starting amount.

In addition to the impressive bowlful of fluffy white popcorn, you will also end up with a few unpopped kernels at the bottom of the pot. One of the keys to this recipe—and certainly the biggest pain about it—is separating the popped from the unpopped, or the wheat from the chaff, if you will. Learn from my mistake: I was not careful the first time I made the caramel corn, and had several unpleasant bites that ended with me almost cracking a tooth on an unpopped kernel that had glued itself invisibly to a lovely popped one. Avoid this situation. Leave the unpopped kernels behind. Your dentist will thank you.

Once you've made the popcorn, a simple caramel sauce is boiled on the stove, and then tossed with the popcorn. The second secret to this popcorn is the next step: baking the caramel-covered kernels on a parchment-lined sheet in the oven for an hour, mixing every 20 minutes or so. This method keeps the kernels nice and dry, as well as allowing them to be evenly coated them with caramel sauce.

Cayenne was the only spice I went for, but I think you could add a little bit of cumin or coriander if you have adventurous eaters around. The heat from the cayenne cuts the cloying sweetness of typical caramel corn, making a really special snack.

Here's what I envision: you'll make this spiced caramel corn, and, instead of being in the hospital on a long night, you'll be able to enjoy it at home, sitting on the couch with your loved ones and your newest Netflix disc. That's how I plan to make it next. B and the cats and I will snuggle together while we eat it. Enjoy!

Spiced Caramel Corn

Adapted from recipes by Pete Wells (NYT 11/09) and Molly Wizenberg (Orangette 12/09)

Time: 1 1/2 hours total, 1/2 hour active

Makes: about 2 quarts

2 T. canola or other neutral oil

1/2 c. popcorn

1 t. salt, or more to taste

1 c. light brown sugar, packed

1/4 c. light corn syrup

6 T. unsalted butter (3/4 of a stick)

1 t. baking soda

1 t. vanilla extract

1 t. ground cayenne

First, preheat oven to 250 degrees. Line a rimmed cookie sheet with parchment.

Heat the oil in a large pot on the stove. When hot but not smoking, add the popcorn, and cover the pot. Lower the heat, and move the pot back and forth continuously for several minutes, until the popping decreases in frequency. Sprinkle salt to taste. Transfer popped kernels only to a large bowl.

In a medium-sized saucepan, add brown sugar, corn syrup, and butter. Stir continuously to form the caramel, stopping when mixture reaches 250 on a candy thermometer. Turn heat off. Quickly add baking soda, vanilla, and cayenne (mixture will rise up). Pour caramel mixture over popcorn, mixing evenly with a spatula.

Turn caramel corn mixture out onto parchment-lined sheet. Bake for 1 hour, stirring mixture twice during cooking. Cool completely. Caramel corn keeps, in a tightly-sealed container, for 2 weeks.