I just found a Killer Brownie in my purse. I’d purchased it at least a month ago for Ben, then promptly forgot about it. It’s been in the “checkbook” pocket of my purse, which, I admit, has been feeling a little bulky as of late. (Killer Brownies are not called Killer Brownies because they are tiny.) Ben says he still wants the brownie, but I’m not sure about the shelf life of these things. I’m leaving the decision up to him.

Here are two other stories of Purse Food.

String Cheese

In middle school — long before my 8th grade band director got accused of sexually harassing a student — I travelled with my fellow concert band musicians to Atlanta, Georgia to play at some sort of invitational. Before the concert, several of us climbed into an elevator that stopped working between floors. (This, I have a feeling, helped to solidify my ever-growing fear of physical entrapment.) So excited to play the clarinet for the people of Atlanta, I didn’t eat breakfast, causing a hypoglycemic attack. I became dizzy and asked to sit down in the center of the elevator. People — adults — did not like this idea. Instead, I endured the wait for rescue eating, strand by strand, a piece of string cheese that one of the moms had in her purse. I remember thinking it was strange and a little gross that she carried cheese in her purse and probably never properly thanked her for saving my life.

Chicken Bones

Last Spring, while travelling on a bus in Nicaragua, I purchased a snack involving chicken on the bone. I placed the bones in a baggie in my purse and promptly forgot about the remains. The next morning, I awoke to find an ant colony with the population of China taking residence in my bag. It wasn’t fun.

I think that the moral of these stories is to periodically check one’s purse or handbag for food. Whether or not to keep the food in the bag is up to you and your desired outcome. But it’s always good to know whether it’s there.

One solution to this problem? Brunch.

When I was planning my last trip to San Francisco, there were more restaurants I wanted to try than meals available— one of the hazards of choosing the three-day weekend over a longer stint—and Mission Chinese was, unfortunately, one of the establishments sidelined.

I thought I’d have to wait until my next West Coast visit to sample chef Danny Bowien’s Sichuan-peppercorn-spiked fare, but he opened a branch on the Lower East Side before I had a chance to buy another plane ticket.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, I finally got to see what the hype was about. The wait time for our group of three was minimal, we had a minor run-in with a celebrity (one who was very gracious about the fact that I nearly tipped our table onto her, I might add; see also: Reasons Why I Shouldn’t Be Allowed in Public, Part XXVII), and the food was great—pretty much everything you could ask for in a high-profile restaurant. The verdict? An all-around win.

We ordered three large plates and two small, and received them in no discernible order. Perhaps the most impressive, presentation-wise, was the much-lauded sizzling cumin lamb breast: Served in a smoking-hot cast-iron dish, bone-in pieces of meat crowned a tangle of sauteed onions, charred long beans, and sticky-sweet dates, all tinged with lamb fat, sesame seeds, and tangy pickled onions. We scraped the charred bits from the bottom of the pan and shamelessly gnawed on the bones; this was indeed as “good eating” as our runner proclaimed it to be when he delivered the goods.

I’m a sucker for a good pickle, so I knew that one of the menu’s five entries in that category would be making an appearance on our table. One member of our party had an aversion to cucumbers, which made our decision that much easier: We selected the Tartine-inspired spicy carrots. I wasn’t expecting whole vegetables, and, given the choice, I would’ve preferred more pickle flavor and less carrot—the brine didn’t penetrate as deeply as it might’ve if they had been sliced, and, to be honest, they were a bit rough on my TMJ—but these made for a solid palette-cleanser. A palette-cleanser with a burn, maybe, but a palette-cleanser nonetheless.

My pick for best bite of the meal was a toss-up between the aforementioned lamb and this thrice-cooked bacon. That rich, fatty belly meat melded with chewy slices of rice cake, with just enough textural distinction between the two to make things interesting; pungent, fermented black beans and crunchy cilantro stems provided even more contrast, while a healthy dose of chiles gave the dish that signature Mission Chinese spin. We had bits and pieces left on all of the serving plates save this one—it was the only dish we couldn’t stop eating.

I read a bunch of reviews before our meal, and the kung pao pastrami was near the top of my must-order list. I have to admit, though, that I didn’t realize its genius until I was at home on the couch, fishing the few remaining tidbits from the bottom of a takeout container. At the table, I’d cherry-picked a morsel or two of meat, chased it with a peanut here and there, and called it a day; I’m not a fan of celery, and bell peppers aren’t usually my favorite, so I didn’t taste those elements until they were all that was left. Boy, was I wrong. It turns out that the celery, slightly softened and stringiness eliminated, sidestepped my major complaint about its suitability for human consumption and provided a cooling note in one fell swoop; the peppers, also lightly cooked and juicy, did much the same. When a single bite comprised each element, it was a heat-lover’s version of perfection.

The only dish we didn’t love was the Beijing beef pancake. I was anticipating a somewhat traditional version of the Chinatown favorite; though the flavors were similar (and the quality of the beef much better), I missed both the pickled vegetables and the original wedge-shaped presentation. That’s not to say that I didn’t take the leftovers home—paired with the kung-pao remnants, they made one hell of a halftime snack.

As usual, I’m already planning a return trip; the five items we tried hardly put a dent in that two-page menu. I’ll need quite a few dining partners, though: We have to have the thrice-cooked bacon again, and the lamb…and then there’s the salt-cod fried rice, the braised pea greens, the broccoli and beef brisket (which might sound passé, but looked anything but when it passed our table numerous times during the course of the afternoon), the chicken wings, the four remaining types of pickle….and that’s the edited list. In other words, I want to eat everything. Any takers?

Mission Chinese
154 Orchard Street
New York, NY
212.529.8800

After a particularly demanding day in the trenches, I was in the mood for something indulgent; I didn’t have the budget for anything fancy but wanted comfort food nonetheless. This burger, an umami*-rich combination of Italian sausage (I used half hot and half sweet, with great results), anchovy-spiked spinach, and sharp provolone cheese, couldn’t have been a better fit.

It took longer to wash and dry the spinach than it did to cook it; a minute in boiling water, a minute in the skillet, and it was ready to go. Amazingly, the most time-consuming element of the process was waiting for the sausage patties to cook, and that only took ten minutes. (Well, that and searching the grocery-store shelves for the requisite sun-dried-tomato pesto—I couldn’t find it, and it took me way too long to decide on a replacement. I eventually went with the cheapest spread available and was thoroughly satisfied with my choice.) I didn’t quite know what to do with myself.

Cradled on a sturdy ciabatta roll, sandwiched between a smear of that acidic tomato spread and a pile of that funkily tangy spinach, this is a burger for the permanent files.

* For those unfamiliar with the term, umami is the fifth element our tastebuds can identify. Per the Wall Street Journal: “First identified by a Japanese scientist a century ago, umami has long been an obscure culinary concept. Hard to describe, it is usually defined as a meaty, savory, satisfying taste.”

Italian-Sausage Burgers with Garlicky Spinach
By Grace Parisi | Food & Wine, June 2010

10 ounces baby spinach
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for brushing
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon anchovy paste (optional)
Salt
1 pound sweet or hot Italian sausages (or a combination of both), casings removed
4 slices of provolone cheese
1/4 cup sun-dried-tomato pesto
4 round ciabatta rolls, split and toasted

1. In a large skillet, bring 1/4 inch of water to a boil. Add the spinach and cook, stirring, until just wilted, about 1 minute; drain and press out as much water as possible. Wipe out the skillet.

2. In the same skillet, heat the 2 tablespoons of olive oil until shimmering. Add the garlic and anchovy paste and cook over high heat, stirring, until fragrant, 1 minute. Add the spinach, season with salt and stir just until coated, about 10 seconds.

3. Light a grill or preheat a grill pan. Using slightly moistened hands, form the sausage meat into four 4-inch patties, about 3/4 inch thick. Brush the burgers with oil and grill over moderate heat until browned and crusty on the bottom, about 5 minutes. Carefully flip the burgers. Top with the cheese and grill until the burgers are cooked through and the cheese is melted, about 5 minutes longer. Spread the pesto on the rolls. Top with the burgers and spinach and serve.

So far, I’ve gained 1.5 pounds. I hope they pick a restaurant with inexpensive drinks.

I miss the rice. I miss the beans. I miss sushi. I don’t love eating meat all the time. And try drinking just a single glass of wine after an emotionally difficult day. (I’ve broken the booze rule several times; it seems I’m an all-or-none gal.)

I don’t actually miss the bread. Or the pasta. Or the sweets. And I was never a potato chips sort of person.

But I could go for a pizza, I think.

I was informed early on in the Copenhagen meal-planning process that our Saturday night was spoken for—my cousin has a friend in the city, and her family had invited us all over for dinner. Magic hour was just hitting when we got off the train in Hellerup, a well-kept suburb to the north. (Fun fact: If you stand in the spot where I took the picture above, turn about thirty degrees to your right, and look out over the water, you’ll see Sweden. Hi, Malmö!)

Nanna’s family lives in a gorgeous, modernist apartment complex, not a fifteen-minute walk from the train station. With huge windows that make the most of every bit of the northern latitude’s seasonally limited light, typically classy Nordic style elements, and warm wood and cream tones throughout, it’s pretty much a dream apartment.

We were welcomed with hugs and handshakes; flutes of Champagne were distributed, a dish of roasted, salted, smoky almonds were passed, and we were instantly made to feel at home.

A peek inside the kitchen revealed hints of the meal to come: rounds of goat cheese, awaiting their date with the broiler; bouquets of asparagus, ready to be steamed; colorful, fruit-topped salad, individually portioned on Royal Copenhagen china. Simple. Beautiful.

After Champagne and getting-to-know-you chat, we sat down to dinner.

There was no shortage of conversation, or wine—our hosts (above left and right; that’s my aunt in the middle) kept both flowing with ease.

A basic bed of greens, with grilled peaches, blueberries, pine nuts, and now-toasted goat cheese, was vibrantly colored and delicious.

Peeled, boiled potatoes, perfectly salted and strewn with parsley, were a great vehicle for the emerald-green sauce that stood in for gravy.

To completely generalize based on two personal experiences: Those Danes sure know their way around a bunch of herbs.

The salt-crusted lamb and steamed asparagus were both great on their own, and even better with a drizzle of that sauce. We sat around the table for hours, refilling our glasses and telling stories, helping ourselves to seconds (…and thirds), and by the time the idea of dessert and coffee was floated, the sun had long-since set. We enjoyed our homemade molten-chocolate cake, fresh strawberries, and strong coffee by candlelight, the reflection of the flames flickering in the surrounding windows.

Over the course of the evening, the talk had wandered from the differences in our two countries’ health-care and educational systems and how we handle our respective homeless problems to stories from our hosts’ peripatetic youths; Nanna and her younger sister told us about growing up in Denmark and shared anecdotes about their daily lives. We talked about Copenhagen’s restaurants, and public transit system, and what American TV shows are popular among the city’s school-age population. They welcomed us into their home with open arms and made our experience so much more personal than it would’ve been any other way, and I can’t thank them enough for it.

Take note. I am in no way trying to compare the situation I’m about to describe with that of the 46.2 million people who live in poverty in the U.S. Poverty and inconvenience are very, very different.

But this week, I’ve taken on a little bit of a challenge, myself. Along with 2013 came an expired credit card. Rather than walk the 50 feet to the bank outside my work to pull out cash, I’ve decided to see if I can survive on pantry basics and leftovers. (And the 2 tons of Chex Mix, baked goods and various bottles of wine delivered to my house throughout the holiday season.)

Thank all that is good that I happen to count frozen pork belly as part of my New Years Eve okonomiyaki leftovers. (Is pork belly a pantry basic?)

At any rate, last night, I didn’t go hungry. Instead, I dined on a combination of lentils, rice, onions and pork belly seasoned with fenugreek, curry, cumin and coriander. I feel full. I feel grateful. And I feel ashamed that more often than not, I stare into my cupboards, think, “There’s nothing to eat,” turn head out to see what the Columbus dining scene can offer my hungry belly. (A lot, it turns out.)

I’m too much of a cynic to declare that I’m going to find ways to go through all my rice, condiments and spices for the rest of the month, only to supplement with $29.78 worth of food. (Just like Corey Booker!) But I will try really hard to see how long I can survive off of what I have without drawing out cash until things are back in order. I’m guessing that I’m going to be just fine.

Jill: My itinerant adventures included a spring trip to Nicaragua and Costa Rice, summer visits to New York City and Cleveland (yes, a worthy destination) and a last-minute trip to San Francisco spurred on by World Series baseball. Below are a few things of note as I look back at the year that the world was supposed to end.

1. One-Course Meals.

In 2012, I realized that while I may not be able to afford three courses of fine dining, I can create my own buffet of great eats by visiting several places for one course each. San Francisco was the perfect backdrop for this style of eating, and I found myself slurping oysters not once, but twice in the ten-day stay. The key, by the way, is to be upfront with servers from the beginning. And to tip a little extra before heading out for the next snack.

2. Fancying Fruit.

I started 2012 by reading The Fruit Hunters, and a thus my fascination began. Throw in my April trip to Nicaragua and Costa Rica (interspersed with daily hiking or yoga) and I felt like the year was on the right start. It all plummeted once I landed on U.S. soil. Apples just aren’t as sexy as my Costa Rican fare. And yoga is much easier to do with the salty smell of the Pacific nearby. I’m hoping to get hit with the fruit bug again. Perhaps my banana cream pie tonight will steer me in the right direction for 2013.

3. Model Bakery’s English Muffin.

The one culinary life-changer from my west coast foray was a surprise. When my nearly vegan friend Cara told me to head to Model Bakery and order an english muffin, I was curious. Of all the fare available in the valley she chose a baked good? I trust my skinny foodie friend, though, and for good reason. My life will never be the same. I went back two days later and bought six. And don’t think that I didn’t ask whether they ship to Ohio. (They do.)

4. Eating at Home.

While I still fail at every day cooking, I’ve found a happy medium between my multi-course dinner parties for 18 people and microwaving freezer burnt hot dogs. In 2012, I did what I could to put my (growing!) Le Creuset collection to use with fairly simple one-pot dishes that required little work, but yielded great quantities. (I ate these Korean-style beef short ribs while watching playoff baseball.)

5. A New Columbus Favorite: Till Dynamic Fare.

I wrote about Till in June and it’s won the distinction of being my most-visited restaurant in 2012. I’ve been for brunch, for lunch, for drinks, for girls’ nights. And each time, I love it more and more. The fare is consistently excellent, and the atmosphere is both approachable and flexible. With a progressive philosophy, Till is an example of what I’d like to see in my home city’s restaurant future.

Maya: Other than ten days in Copenhagen and Norway, one too-short weekend in Atlanta and one at the Jersey Shore, and a few trips back to Virginia, 2012 was the year I embraced my inner shut-in and stayed close to home. I rediscovered the functionality of such exciting pantry items as dried grains and pasta, abused the takeout menus, and did a whole lot of baking. The following are the things I craved—and made—to break up the monotony.

1. Lowbrow Bite.

I’ve yet to share the details on most of the amazing food I had in Copenhagen (New Year’s Resolution #1: Finish CPH report before one-year anniversary of trip), but those few days provided some of my best eating memories of the past twelve months. One of my favorites was also the most accessible: a hot dog from a kiosk on the touristy Nyhaven canal. What I expected to be the equivalent of a dirty-water dog from Times Square turned out to be a bacon-wrapped, fried-garlic-drizzled, dill-pickle-draped dream. The perfect combination of salty, sour, sweet, crunchy, soft, and chewy, I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.

2. Upscale Element.

At the other end of the spectrum was our splurge meal at Formel B, on our last night in Denmark. I didn’t even order the dish above, but the lovely, inky green sauce pictured above was the best single thing I tasted this year—so good that I can’t remember much about the rest of the plate. That’s fish of some sort, I’m sure, fried and topped with various Danish vegetables and damson blossoms, but the only thing that really sticks is that vivid, robust dill flavor. I snuck it off my mother’s plate by the spoonful and later tried to replicate it in my own kitchen, with somewhat mixed results.

3. Domestic Favorite. 

Runner-up for year’s most craveworthy bite goes to the salt-and-pepper tofu at So Ba, in Atlanta. Of all of the things I ate this year, this is the dish I most wish I could have anytime I wanted here at home. (Even better if it were accompanied by those stellar grilled-pork-filled summer rolls.) Please, Vietnamese restaurants of New York, get on this.

4. Best Takeout.

My options for delivery don’t include a lot of winners. I have a really solid source for pizza, a passable go-to for predictably bad Chinese, a pretty good Thai spot, and stack of other restaurants that I’ve never felt the urge to order from but feel the need to keep on file, just in case that urge one day strikes. Buried in the middle of the mediocrity is one gem, though it’s an inconsistent one at best. La Estrella del Castillo is always loud when you call—the place has a steam table in front and dancing in the back—and it’s hit or miss whether or not they’ll have the pernil, but that’s what you want to ask for anyway. For $18, combo #15 gives you enough roast pork, rice and beans, salad, and plaintains for two days, if you can manage to stop eating and make it last that long.

5. Homestyle Cooking.

In 2012, I found comfort in homestyle cooking. I braised six pounds of brisket for a Hanukkah meal, then made a chicken stew with the leftover pan juices; I revisited this tried-and-true garlicky, buttery roast chicken and made stock from the carcass…or at least I would’ve if I hadn’t let it sit in the fridge until it went bad. I baked cobblers during the summer, and cheesy onion bread in the fall; I canned tomatoes and slow-cooked beans. I’m even taking this whole thing a step further in 2013 and reinstating a regular Sunday-night dinner—I like the idea of having a pot on the stove (or in the oven, or on the grill) every week, with friends around to share the spoils.

We told you ours, now tell us yours: What were your favorite food moments of 2012? Anything exciting on the horizon for 2013?

My mouth is currently watering over the memory of this smoked-trout salad from Boerum Hill’s Rucola, in which bitter frisee and radicchio, coins of soft, creamy potato, and pungent flakes of Shelsky’s fish are roped together with a horseradish dressing and punctuated with crunchy, tangy pickled onions. Yes, please.

Rucola
190 Dean Street
Brooklyn, New York
718.576.3209

Sadly, work beckons instead, but if you happen to be lucky enough to have a few hours at your disposal, might I suggest a cheesy, oniony, pull-apart bread to warm things up?

There’s nothing like the smell of fresh-baked bread to brighten a dreary day, and this one is no exception. Buttery, crumbly biscuit-style dough bookends pockets of gooey cheese (the recipe calls for Gruyère; I used fontina), sweet, nearly caramelized onions, and, if you don’t mistakenly assume you have them in your cupboard, like I did, poppy seeds. The dough is very sticky—you need quite a bit of flour to knead and compile the accordion-style loaf—but the mess is well worth it. This is by no means health food, but it’s officially fall. Such things are allowed.

Pull-Apart Cheesy Onion Bread
By Grace Parisi | Food & Wine, September 2009

2. Meanwhile, in a food processor, pulse the flour with the baking powder, baking soda and salt. Add the cubed butter and pulse until it is the size of small peas. Add the buttermilk and pulse 5 or 6 times, just until a soft dough forms.

3. Turn the dough out onto a well-floured work surface and knead 2 or 3 times. Pat or roll the dough into a 2-by-24-inch rectangle. Spread the onion mixture on top. Cut the dough crosswise into 10 pieces. Stack 9 pieces onion side up, then top with the final piece, onion-side down. Carefully lay the stack in the prepared loaf pan and brush with the reserved butter.

4. Bake the loaf in the center of the oven for about 30 minutes, until it is golden and risen. Let the bread cool for at least 15 minutes before unmolding and serving.

I miss him, every day. Not as brutally as I did those first couple of years, and for that I’m grateful, but the ache is constant. I’m usually alone on his yahrzeit — previously, I’ve marked the occasion with too many martinis and/or Manhattans — but this year, my mother and I spent the weekend together at the beach. I hope it’ll be a new tradition.

In keeping with the location and in homage to his preferred style of dining, we kept things informal. Earlier in the week, we’d decided on pasta with clams and basil; Mom brought the few groceries we’d need from home, so we just had to make a quick trip to the fish market on Saturday afternoon for the shellfish.

We couldn’t resist amending the recipe to include scallops as well as clams, and Mom forgot to pack the (optional) fennel seed and (requisite) chile flakes, so we wound up with a slightly different dish than the author intended. Still, though, it was satisfying in its simplicity: a couple of pounds of clams, steamed in a bath of white wine, garlic, and olive oil and poured over a pile of pasta, with a puree of basil, parsley, garlic, and olive oil (pesto would work almost as well) swirled in at the end. Finished with a hefty squeeze or two of lemon and topped with a trio of sauteed scallops, this was the ideal beach meal — and one, I think, my father would’ve enjoyed.

This was his favorite childhood picture of himself; it epitomized his love of the water, his ease on and around boats, his utter fearlessness. He didn’t believe in worrying, or in second-guessing; he believed that decisions should be made and courses of action implemented accordingly, without indulging in what-ifs. I didn’t inherit that sense of pragmatism, obviously, but I try to channel it when I’m at my weakest.

He believed in the power of positive thinking, but he also believed in letting you know when he was angry and just how angry he was — that’s one trait I did inherit. (He claimed to have “mellowed” in his later years, but he still had the worst temper of any human being I’ve encountered to date.) Most important, though, he believed that time is best spent with the people who care about you and make you happy, and he believed in showing those people exactly how much they were loved in return, that life is too short for anything else.

Family time is harder now than it was before — his absence is more noticeable, the phantom-limb pain more obvious — but it’s also more valuable, and more comforting. On that, my dad was right: Life is too short for anything else.

Clam Pasta with Basil and Hot Pepper
By David Tanis, from the New York Times

Yield:  4 to 6 servings
Total Time: About 30 minutes

For the Basil Puree:
1 cup basil leaves
1 cup Italian parsley leaves
3 garlic cloves, smashed to a paste
1/4 cup olive oil
Salt and pepper

For the Pasta:
1 pound bucatini, spaghetti or linguine
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 teaspoon crushed fennel seed, optional
1/2 teaspoon peperoncino (hot red-pepper flakes)
4 pounds small clams, such as little neck or Manila, rinsed of sand
1/2 cup dry white wine
Basil leaves, for garnish
Lemon wedges