I love this time of year. I love walking into my local grocery store and seeing what kind of weird shit they have.
Fall produce is particularly entertaining. Knobby roots, strange little gourds, vegetables in colors they seemingly have no business being, and squash that look like somebody crossed a pumpkin with a circus tent.
Which is how two carnival squash ended up in my refrigerator.
And this is what happened to them.
Carnival squash becomes wonderfully sweet and almost custardy when roasted, but I wasn’t interested in making another sweet autumn squash dish. I wanted bitterness, acidity, something savory, and a little crunch.
So I roasted the squash until its edges caramelized, nestled it into a silky white bean–miso purée, added charred radicchio, and brought the whole thing together with sour-cherry agrodolce, crispy sage, and pistachios.
And holy shit, those cherries.
A Little Sicilian Wisdom
Agrodolce literally means sour-sweet in Italian, and Sicily has been playing with that combination for centuries. Influenced in part by Arab culinary traditions, Sicilian cooking often brings fruit, vinegar, nuts, and savory ingredients together in ways that have absolutely no business working as well as they do.
Consider caponata, that glorious combination of eggplant, celery, olives, capers, and tomatoes finished with vinegar and sweetness. It shouldn’t be nearly as good as it is.
But that’s the beauty of contrast.
For this dish, I simmered dried tart cherries with red-wine vinegar and just enough maple syrup to take the edge off. The result is glossy, sharp, and pleasantly sweet without becoming dessert.
And here’s why it works.
The squash is sweet and buttery. The white beans are creamy, while the miso adds a salty, savory depth. The charred radicchio contributes a wonderful smoky bitterness.
Then you bite into one of those tart cherries, and the entire plate wakes the fuck up.
The crispy sage brings an earthy, almost woodsy quality, and the pistachios give everything a little crunch.
Every ingredient has a job. Nobody’s just standing around looking pretty.
Well, except maybe the squash. It’s a bit of a showoff.
Easier Than It Looks
This is one of those dishes that looks like you spent the entire afternoon fussing over it.
You didn’t.
While the squash roasts, you can blend the white bean–miso purée, simmer the agrodolce, fry the sage, and chop the pistachios. The radicchio gets a quick char at the end.
Most of the components can even be prepared ahead of time, leaving you with little more than roasting, searing, and assembling when you’re ready to eat.
And that’s where the fun begins.
Start with a spoonful of warm purée and give it one confident swipe across the plate. Tuck in the charred radicchio and arrange the roasted squash wedges so their beautiful caramelized edges remain visible.
Spoon the cherries into the spaces between the vegetables rather than burying everything beneath the sauce. Scatter the pistachios, tuck in a few crispy sage leaves, and finish with a little of that fragrant sage oil.
Leave some negative space. Let the colors and textures speak for themselves.
You don’t need tweezers or a culinary degree. You just need to know when to stop messing with it.
That’s often the hardest part.
What We’re Drinking: Etna Rosso
Now, full disclosure. I drank an $80 bottle of 2022 Bernardus Rosella’s Vineyard Pinot Noir from Monterey County with this dish.
Why?
Because that’s what I had on hand.
Was an $80 bottle of Pinot Noir necessary for two carnival squash I bought because they looked weird?
Absolutely not.
Was it delicious?
Absolutely.
But if I were choosing a wine specifically for this dish, I’d head straight to Sicily.
My choice would be an Etna Rosso, particularly one made predominantly from Nerello Mascalese, a grape grown on the volcanic slopes of Mount Etna.
If you enjoy Pinot Noir or Nebbiolo, you’ll probably appreciate this wine. It’s elegant and aromatic, with notes of wild cherry, raspberry, dried herbs, subtle spice, and that distinctive earthy, mineral character associated with Etna’s volcanic soils.
And it has a particularly interesting relationship with our sour-cherry agrodolce.
The wine’s red-fruit notes echo the cherries, while its lively acidity finds a natural companion in the red-wine vinegar. Its fine tannins and savory, herbal qualities play beautifully against the charred radicchio and crispy sage.
The trick is keeping the agrodolce tart rather than overly sweet. Too much sugar can make a dry red wine taste harsh or excessively tannic. But when the acidity leads, the fruit and wine complement each other instead of fighting for attention.
Meanwhile, the wine’s freshness cuts through the creamy miso purée, and its relatively light body doesn’t overwhelm the squash.
I’d serve it slightly cool, around 55–60°F.
There’s something satisfying about pairing a Sicilian sweet-and-sour preparation with a wine grown in Sicily’s volcanic soil.
Sometimes the geography gets it right.
One Last Thing: Make Some Crumbs
My Uncle Paul LaRocca had a saying:
Cu mancia fa muddichi.
It’s Sicilian and translates roughly to:
Whoever eats makes crumbs.
I love that.
There’s something wonderfully practical about it. Eating isn’t always tidy. Neither is cooking. And life certainly isn’t.
It reminds me of another Italian tradition, cucina povera, the resourceful cooking of ordinary people who learned to make extraordinary things from whatever they had.
Nothing was wasted. Stale bread became pangrattato, toasted breadcrumbs scattered over pasta and vegetables. Scraps became soups. What grew nearby became dinner.
And some of the most remarkable food in the world came out of that philosophy.
Take what’s available. Respect the ingredients. Use a little imagination.
Which brings me back to those two ridiculous-looking carnival squash in my refrigerator.
They didn’t need brown sugar, marshmallows, or another predictable autumn side dish.
They just needed somebody willing to do something a little different.
Which, come to think of it, is why I bought the weird shit in the first place.
Cook the food. Open the wine. Sit at the table. Make some crumbs.
Sweet, caramelized carnival squash meets silky white bean–miso purée, bitter charred radicchio and tangy sour-cherry agrodolce, finished with crispy sage, toasted pistachios and fragrant sage oil. An elegant, plant-based autumn dish that’s all about balancing sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory.
Ingredients
Scale
For the carnival squash:
2 small carnival squash
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly cracked black pepper
For the white bean–miso purée:
1 can (15 oz) cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
1 tablespoon white miso
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1–2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
¼–½ cup vegetable stock, as needed
White pepper or black pepper, to taste
For the sour-cherry agrodolce:
⅓ cup dried tart cherries
¼ cup red-wine vinegar
2 tablespoons maple syrup
¼ cup water
Pinch of salt
Pinch of crushed red pepper, optional
For the charred radicchio:
1 small head radicchio, quartered through the core
1 tablespoon olive oil
Salt and pepper
For the finishing touches:
8–10 fresh sage leaves
2 tablespoons olive oil
¼ cup pistachios, roughly chopped
Finely grated lemon zest
Flaky sea salt
Instructions
1. Roast the carnival squash
Preheat your oven to 425°F.
Halve the squash and scoop out the seeds. Slice into approximately ¾-inch-thick crescents, leaving the skin intact.
Toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Arrange on a parchment-lined baking sheet, giving each piece enough room to caramelize rather than steam.
Roast for approximately 25–35 minutes, turning once, until the flesh is tender and the edges have developed beautiful golden-brown caramelization.
The goal is a creamy interior with deeply roasted edges.
2. Make the white bean–miso purée
Combine the cannellini beans, miso, olive oil, lemon juice, and ¼ cup vegetable stock in a high-speed blender.
Blend until completely smooth, adding a little additional stock as necessary.
You want a consistency somewhere between a thick velouté and a very silky hummus.
Transfer to a small saucepan and warm gently before plating.
Taste before adding salt; the miso already contributes salinity and umami.
3. Prepare the sour-cherry agrodolce
In a small saucepan, combine dried cherries, red-wine vinegar, maple syrup, water, salt, and optional pepper flakes.
Bring to a gentle simmer and cook approximately 10–15 minutes, until the cherries are plump and the liquid has reduced to a glossy, lightly syrupy consistency.
The sauce should remain assertively tart. Resist the temptation to make it too sweet.
4. Char the radicchio
Heat a heavy skillet over medium-high heat.
Brush the radicchio wedges with olive oil and season lightly.
Place the wedges cut-side down and allow them to sear undisturbed until deeply browned. Turn and repeat on the second cut side.
You want a little bitterness, a little smokiness, and enough retained structure that the wedges don’t collapse.
5. Fry the sage
Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a small skillet over medium heat.
Add the sage leaves and fry briefly until crisp, approximately 15–30 seconds depending on the oil temperature.
Transfer to a paper towel.
Save that fragrant sage oil. We’re using it to finish the plate.
6. Prepare the pistachios
Roughly chop the pistachios, leaving some larger pieces for texture.
Toss with a little lemon zest and a pinch of flaky salt.
Plating
This is where all that thoughtful preparation comes together.
Spoon a generous amount of warm white bean–miso purée slightly off-center onto each plate. Use the back of the spoon to create a soft, sweeping crescent.
Nestle a wedge of charred radicchio partially into the purée.
Arrange the roasted squash over and alongside the radicchio, allowing the shapes to overlap naturally.
Spoon the sour-cherry agrodolce over the squash, letting a little of its deep ruby syrup run toward the purée.
Scatter pistachios for crunch, arrange several crispy sage leaves, and finish with a restrained drizzle of sage oil.
A few flakes of sea salt.
Stop there.
One of the hardest lessons in plating is knowing when to leave something alone.
Notes
Chef’s Notes
Make ahead: The sour-cherry agrodolce can be prepared 3–5 days in advance and actually improves as the flavors develop. The white bean–miso purée can be made 2–3 days ahead and gently reheated with a splash of vegetable stock or water to restore its silky consistency.
The squash: Carnival squash has an edible skin that becomes tender when roasted. Cut the wedges evenly and give them plenty of room on the baking sheet. Crowding causes steaming, and we’re after those beautiful caramelized edges. Delicata or acorn squash makes a good substitute.
The agrodolce: Keep it tart-forward, especially if you’re serving a dry red wine. You’re looking for a balance of acidity and sweetness, not cherry jam. If the sauce thickens too much, loosen it with a splash of water.
The miso purée: White miso adds umami without overpowering the beans. Add vegetable stock gradually; you want a smooth, spoonable purée thick enough to hold its shape on the plate. No vegetable stock? Water simmered briefly with celery, thyme, and a bay leaf works beautifully. Taste before salting, since miso is already salty.
The radicchio: Char it just before serving. Keep a little of the core attached so the wedges hold together, and don’t be afraid of some dark edges. That smoky bitterness is an important part of the dish.
The finishing touches: Fry the sage just before plating so it stays crisp, and save the fragrant oil. Add the pistachios at the very end for maximum crunch.
Plating: Warm your plates, start with the purée, and build from there. Give the ingredients some breathing room. A few deliberate placements look better than piling everything into the center.
One last thing: This recipe is naturally plant-based. For a gluten-free version, be sure to use certified gluten-free miso and check your other packaged ingredients.
On horror movies, psychological resilience, and the delicious terror of the unknown.
Some of my fondest childhood memories involve sitting beside my grandmother on the couch, watching Friday-night horror double features.
There was something wonderfully contradictory about it. On television, terrible things were happening to unsuspecting people in dark houses, deserted streets, and places they should never have entered in the first place. Meanwhile, I was perfectly safe beside my grandmother, enjoying every deliciously terrifying minute.
One of the first stories I remember genuinely frightening me was an episode of The Twilight Zone called The Hitch-Hiker.
A woman is driving alone when she notices a man standing beside the road. She passes him and continues driving. Miles later, there he is again.
The same man.
Standing beside the road.
How in the hell did he get there?
She keeps driving. And there he is again.
I remember watching that and thinking, My God. What IS this?
He hadn’t chased her.
He hadn’t threatened her.
He was simply standing somewhere he couldn’t possibly be.
And I was absolutely captivated.
I’ve watched every single episode of The Twilight Zone. Twice. And I’d happily watch them all again.
Rod Serling understood something about fear that I think a lot of modern horror filmmakers have forgotten. You don’t have to show people something monstrous to frighten them. Sometimes you simply have to make the familiar world behave in a way that it shouldn’t.
I’ve loved horror movies for as long as I can remember, although gore has never done much for me. There’s only so much entertainment I can derive from watching someone’s internal organs become external organs.
I prefer the kind of horror that gets inside your head and makes itself comfortable.
Give me the slow creak of a floorboard. A shadow that might have moved. A photograph with something terribly wrong about it.
Give me ambiguity.
Give me atmosphere.
Give me the terrible possibility that something is wrong without explaining precisely what it is.
Because the most frightening thing in the room is often the thing we cannot see.
Things That Go Bump in the Night
Kevin doesn’t understand my fascination with horror movies. He cannot, for the life of him, understand what I find so entertaining about them.
Of course, he’s an Aquarius and I’m a Scorpio, arguably one of the most spectacularly mismatched pairings in the zodiac.
He’s perfectly content to let a mystery remain a mystery. Meanwhile, I’m determined to drag it out of the darkness, interrogate it, psychoanalyze it, and probably write a dissertation about it.
Which is why we frequently end up watching television in separate rooms.
Probably for the best.
And here’s what I find particularly amusing: If something goes bump in the night at our house, guess who’s getting out of bed to investigate?
That would be me.
Kevin may be six-foot-three in stature, but I’m six-foot-three in courage.
Perhaps I inherited a little of that from my four-foot-eleven grandmother.
What interests me about psychological horror is the way it exploits our instinct to make sense of things. Our brains are constantly trying to interpret incomplete information, and when something doesn’t fit, our imaginations are more than happy to supply the missing pieces.
Consider The Changeling (1980).
A little ball bouncing down a staircase shouldn’t be particularly frightening. It’s a child’s toy, for heaven’s sake. But put that ball in the right house, surrounded by the right silence, and suddenly it’s one of the most unsettling images in horror cinema.
Nothing leaps out of a closet. Nobody loses a limb.
A ball simply comes bouncing down the stairs.
And something inside us knows that it shouldn’t.
A jump scare is a reflex.
Dread is a psychological experience.
The Honey Badger
I wouldn’t describe myself as fearless.
It’s that I seem to utilize fear differently.
I’ve studied criminology and the psychology of fight, flight, and freeze responses. I understand that fear can produce radically different reactions in different people, often without conscious choice.
In my own experience, danger tends to produce an initial surge of adrenaline followed by an extraordinary calm. My senses sharpen. My attention narrows. The unnecessary noise disappears.
I become an impenetrable tower.
I discovered something about this when I was twenty-four, at my very first Halloween haunted house.
Someone jumped out at me, and before I even had time to register what was happening, I jumped right back at them.
Not away from them.
AT them.
The poor person actually stumbled backward.
Apparently, my nervous system had decided that if something was going to leap out of the darkness and scare me, we were going to return the favor.
Some people jump back.
Evidently, I jump forward.
And that’s when I first met my spirit animal.
I used to tell my mother, “God help the person who ever attacks me and doesn’t knock me unconscious, because I’m coming at them like a honey badger.”
And I meant it.
I’ve also never understood those women in horror movies who run screaming through the woods, trip over absolutely nothing, and then lie there sobbing while the murderer leisurely approaches.
For the love of God, woman, GET UP!
If I hit the ground, it would only be to gain momentum for the launch back onto my feet.
I was recently watching When a Stranger Calls (1979), and there’s this woman who walks what seems like thirty miles to her home from a bar.
In high heels. At night.
First of all, who walks that far in heels? And second, why go to a bar? She’s not meeting anybody. She’s not even talking to anybody once she gets there.
I’m sitting there thinking, Jesus, woman, buy yourself a bottle of wine and stay home. At least take your damn shoes off.
And then she has to walk all the way back.
In the same heels.
Frankly, by the time the murderer shows up, I’m more concerned about the condition of her feet.
Walking that far in high heels? That’s a horror movie in and of itself.
Of course, I understand that freezing is an involuntary survival response, not a character flaw. Real victims deserve compassion, not criticism.
But sitting on my couch watching a horror movie? I’m practically coaching the woman through her escape.
And I do know what it’s like to be genuinely frightened.
I remember seeing The Conjuring (2013) in a theater and thinking afterward that perhaps I’d made a terrible mistake. That movie frightened me for days.
And I loved it.
A particularly good horror movie follows you home.
It’s crouching behind the driver’s seat as you make your way through the dark. It’s in the rearview mirror when you glance up, half-expecting to see something that wasn’t there a moment ago.
It follows you through the front door, down the hallway, and into your bedroom.
And even after you’ve turned on every light in the house, you can’t quite convince yourself that it didn’t come inside with you.
Now that’s a good horror movie.
Fear doesn’t always diminish us. Sometimes it sharpens us. Sometimes it makes us pay attention.
Where some people experience fear as paralysis, I tend to experience it as propulsion.
I don’t want to live a life in which my primary objective is never to be afraid. I want to live a life in which fear doesn’t get to make all my decisions.
What Creates a Monster?
Some of my favorite horror films make us question whether the monster exists outside the character or somewhere inside the mind.
Roman Polanski’s Repulsion (1965) is a particularly disturbing example.
As Carol’s psychological world deteriorates, the apartment around her becomes increasingly threatening. Walls seem to lose their solidity. The familiar turns grotesque. Reality, memory, and perception begin to bleed into one another.
The film doesn’t simply frighten us with what happens to Carol. It makes us inhabit the uncertainty of her experience.
The Sentinel (1977) and Let’s Scare Jessica to Death (1971) accomplish something similarly unsettling. They make us question what we’re seeing and whether the people experiencing the terror can trust their own senses.
What happens when the mind—the very instrument we depend upon to interpret reality—becomes unreliable?
A monster outside the window is terrifying.
But what if you can no longer trust the window?
There’s another reason Repulsion has stayed with me, although it’s one I find increasingly difficult to reconcile.
Polanski made a film in 1965 about a young woman whose psychological deterioration is intertwined with sexual trauma and violation. Twelve years later, he would sexually assault a thirteen-year-old girl.
Rather than remain in the United States to face sentencing, he fled.
I recently tried watching The Tenant (1976), another of his psychological horror films, and couldn’t finish it.
Not because the film frightened me.
Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what its director would do just a year after its release.
I’ve always believed that it’s possible, at least sometimes, to separate the artist from the art. A film can be extraordinary even when the person responsible for creating it has done something terrible.
But where is that line?
Perhaps having a thirteen-year-old daughter makes it more difficult for me to approach that question with the intellectual detachment I might once have had.
I found myself thinking about that girl. Not the fictional woman on the screen, but the actual child whose life was affected by the actions of the man behind the camera.
And suddenly I wasn’t particularly interested in analyzing his symbolism.
What troubles me most is the contradiction. Here was a filmmaker capable of portraying the psychological devastation of violation with extraordinary artistic sensitivity, yet capable of committing a violation himself.
How does someone portray suffering so convincingly and still inflict it on another human being?
I don’t know.
And perhaps that’s what makes the question so disturbing.
Understanding is not absolution. Appreciating someone’s art does not obligate us to look away from what they’ve done.
Sometimes the most disturbing thing about a horror movie isn’t what happens on the screen.
It’s what we know about the person behind it.
Morbid Curiosity Is Not a Personality Disorder
People sometimes assume that enjoying horror means enjoying suffering.
I don’t think that’s true.
There’s a meaningful difference between being fascinated by frightening subjects and wanting terrible things to happen to actual people.
Psychologists study something called morbid curiosity: our interest in dangerous, disturbing, or threatening aspects of life.
Research by psychologist Coltan Scrivner and colleagues has found associations between horror fandom, morbid curiosity, and aspects of psychological resilience during the COVID-19 pandemic. The findings don’t establish that horror movies make people resilient, but they raise an interesting possibility: perhaps frightening fiction gives us opportunities to mentally rehearse uncertainty and danger.
Other research on recreational fear has found that people visiting haunted attractions tend to enjoy being frightened most when the experience reaches a certain sweet spot.
Too little fear is boring. Too much becomes unpleasant. Somewhere in between, terror can be exhilarating.
Apparently, there’s an actual science to enjoying the shit being scared out of you.
Research has also challenged the stereotype that horror fans necessarily lack empathy.
Which makes perfect sense to me.
My fascination with the darker corners of human psychology isn’t limited to horror movies.
I remember writing one of my graduate school essays on serial killers while listening to Black Sabbath’s Psycho Man.
I believe in having an appropriate soundtrack for academic research.
But what interested me wasn’t simply what these people had done.
It was why.
What combination of personality, childhood experiences, environment, opportunity, and individual choices produces someone capable of extraordinary cruelty?
And perhaps more importantly, why do other people endure terrible circumstances without becoming monsters themselves?
I’ve never been particularly satisfied with the explanation that someone is simply evil. It may describe our moral judgment of their actions, but it tells us remarkably little about how they came to commit them.
I’m not fascinated by suffering. I’m fascinated by what creates it.
I want to understand the psychology of fear, certainly. But I’m even more interested in the psychology of the thing we’re afraid of.
I don’t particularly care how many people the monster kills.
I want to know what created the monster in the first place.
Leave the Light Off
Which brings me back to my grandmother.
When I think about those Friday-night double features, I don’t remember being traumatized by what I watched.
I remember feeling safe.
The television flickering in the dark. My grandmother beside me. The delicious anticipation of whatever terrible thing might happen next.
Fear and safety existed together in that room.
And perhaps that’s the paradox at the heart of my affection for horror.
We can be frightened and still feel secure. We can confront something disturbing without being destroyed by it.
But I also think some of us are simply born with a particular kind of curiosity.
Not every fascination with the darker corners of life needs to be explained by trauma or some unresolved psychological conflict. Our experiences certainly shape us, but I suspect some temperaments are there from the beginning.
I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember.
When I was in fifth grade, we went to the school library once a week. And every single week, I checked out another Nancy Drew mystery.
I wanted the clues, the suspects, the secrets, and that wonderful moment when all the pieces finally fell into place.
Apparently, I’ve been interrogating mysteries since I was ten years old.
I didn’t study psychology and criminology and suddenly develop an interest in what makes people tick.
I studied psychology and criminology because I already wanted to know.
And not much has changed.
I will turn over every rock, examine every clue, question every motive, and entertain every possibility until I understand what happened and, more importantly, why.
That’s what I love about psychological horror. It doesn’t hand me the answers. It makes me work for them.
Nancy Drew simply grew up, studied psychology and criminology, and developed a rather questionable taste in movies.
I want to know whether those footsteps in the hallway were real. I want to understand what’s wrong with the photograph on the mantel. I want to catch that fleeting expression on someone’s face and spend the next twenty minutes figuring out what it meant.
And sometimes I want to be frightened enough that I regret watching the movie in the first place.
Only to watch another one the following night.
Because perhaps the darkness isn’t simply where some of us go to be frightened.
Perhaps it’s where we go looking for answers.
Sometimes, the answers are far more disturbing than the questions.
And some of us have exquisite taste, found only in nightmares.
The Tell-Tale Heart
Some things are better left buried. Others are worth digging up.
It’s a perfectly rainy October day, and I can’t imagine a better way to spend it.
Autumn has settled in, the house is quiet, and for once, I’m entirely alone. Outside, the rain taps against the windows. Inside, I’m roasting beets, writing recipes, and contemplating murder.
Fictional murder, of course.
October is my favorite month, and there’s something positively delicious about a rainy afternoon when the house is empty and the world beyond the windows looks a little gray and mysterious.
The perfect setting for a psychological horror movie.
Or, as it turns out, a recipe inspired by Edgar Allan Poe.
And what better story to bring into the kitchen than The Tell-Tale Heart?
Poe understood something about the human mind that I’ve always found fascinating: sometimes the most terrifying thing isn’t what we’ve done, but what our minds refuse to let us forget.
In The Tell-Tale Heart, a murderer meticulously conceals his crime beneath the floorboards, only to be undone by the relentless beating of a heart that may exist nowhere but inside his own head.
Guilt, obsession, paranoia. All the ingredients of a good psychological horror story.
And, apparently, the inspiration for a rather beautiful plate of beets.
This dish is my culinary nod to Poe’s masterpiece. Thinly sliced roasted beets, arranged in overlapping crimson layers, are dressed with a glossy pomegranate gastrique. A quenelle of whipped cashew chèvre adds richness, while toasted pistachios provide crunch and a scattering of micro-greens brings a welcome touch of freshness.
There’s a whisper of rosemary, too. Just enough to make you wonder what you’re tasting.
It’s earthy, tart, sweet, creamy, and slightly mysterious. A composed first course that looks far more complicated than it actually is.
And those micro-greens languishing in my refrigerator? They’ve finally found their purpose.
Nothing wasted. Not even in the House of Usher.
A Few Words About Bloody Beets
A word of caution before we begin: don’t wear white.
Red beets stain absolutely everything—your fingers, your cutting board, your kitchen towels. One afternoon of peeling and slicing them, and your kitchen could resemble a crime scene.
Wear food-safe gloves, peel the cooled beets with a damp paper towel, and use a nonporous cutting board to keep the evidence to a minimum.
Of course, you shouldn’t be wearing white after Labor Day anyway.
Some horrors are simply unforgivable.
The pomegranate gastrique should lean tart rather than overly sweet. The roasted beets already bring plenty of natural sweetness, and that sharp acidity is what makes the creamy cashew chèvre and toasted pistachios sing.
When it comes time to plate, think restraint rather than decoration. Overlap the beet slices organically, almost suggesting the shape of a heart. Add the gastrique sparingly, place the whipped quenelle cashew chèvre slightly off-center, and finish with pistachios, micro-greens, and just a whisper of rosemary.
Beautiful, a little unsettling, and absolutely delicious.
The perfect first course for a rainy October evening.
And unlike Poe’s unfortunate narrator, we have absolutely nothing to hide.
Well, except perhaps our fingers.
The heart may be silent, but the evidence is everywhere.
The beauty of The Tell-Tale Heart lies in its balance.
The roasted beets bring earthy sweetness. The pomegranate gastrique delivers sharp acidity. The whipped cashew chèvre adds richness, while the toasted pistachios introduce crunch. The microgreens provide freshness, and the rosemary lingers quietly in the background.
Resist the temptation to overdecorate. Let the deep crimson beet slices remain the focal point, with the other elements supporting rather than competing with them.
And if your fingers end up stained despite every precaution, try rubbing a little cooking oil onto the discoloration before washing with soap and warm water. Any remaining pink will generally fade on its own.
Ingredients
Scale
For the roasted beet carpaccio
4 medium red beets (approximately 1½ pounds)
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
½ teaspoon kosher salt
Freshly cracked black pepper
For the pomegranate gastrique
½ cup unsweetened pomegranate juice
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon pure maple syrup
1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
Pinch of kosher salt
For the whipped cashew chèvre
¾ cup raw cashews, soaked in hot water for 30 minutes or overnight in cold water
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon white miso
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
3–5 tablespoons cold water, as needed
For the rosemary oil
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 small sprig fresh rosemary
For finishing
¼ cup shelled pistachios, lightly toasted and roughly chopped
½ cup fresh microgreens
2 tablespoons pomegranate arils (optional)
Flaky sea salt
Freshly cracked black pepper
Instructions
Roast the beets
Preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C).
Trim the greens, leaving approximately ½ inch of stem and the root intact. Scrub the beets thoroughly, but leave their skins on.
Rub lightly with olive oil and season with kosher salt. Wrap individually in foil or place in a covered baking dish with a tablespoon of water.
Roast for 45–65 minutes, depending on their size, until a thin knife slides easily into the center without resistance.
Allow the beets to cool until comfortable to handle. Wearing food-safe gloves, use a damp paper towel to gently rub away the skins.
Refrigerate until completely chilled, preferably several hours or overnight.
Chef’s note: Chilled beets are firmer and easier to slice thinly without tearing. Roasting them a day ahead makes final assembly much easier.
Make the whipped cashew chèvre
Drain the soaked cashews and transfer to a high-speed blender.
Add the lemon juice, white miso, olive oil, kosher salt, and 3 tablespoons cold water.
Blend until completely smooth, stopping to scrape down the sides as necessary.
Add more water, one teaspoon at a time, until the mixture is silky and creamy but still thick enough to hold its shape.
Taste and adjust the lemon or salt as needed.
Transfer to a covered container and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes to firm up.
Chef’s note: This should have the consistency of thick, whipped goat cheese rather than a pourable sauce. The miso contributes a subtle savory depth without overpowering the lemon.
Prepare the pomegranate gastrique
In a small saucepan, combine the pomegranate juice, red wine vinegar, maple syrup, balsamic vinegar, and a pinch of salt.
Bring to a gentle simmer over medium heat.
Reduce the heat slightly and cook for 8–12 minutes, until reduced by approximately half and lightly syrupy.
Remove from the heat and allow to cool. The gastrique will thicken slightly as it sits.
Chef’s note: Taste as it reduces. The finished gastrique should be bright and tart, with just enough sweetness to balance the vinegar. The roasted beets already bring plenty of natural sweetness, so we’re looking for contrast, not candy.
Infuse the rosemary oil
Combine the olive oil and rosemary sprig in a small saucepan over very low heat.
Warm gently for approximately 5 minutes, without allowing the rosemary to fry or brown.
Remove from the heat and allow to cool. Discard the rosemary sprig.
The finished oil should have a delicate herbal aroma.
We’re looking for a whisper of rosemary, not an entire Christmas tree.
Toast the pistachios
Place the shelled pistachios in a dry skillet over medium-low heat.
Toast for 2–4 minutes, stirring frequently, until fragrant.
Remove from the heat, allow to cool, and roughly chop.
Slice the beets
Using a sharp chef’s knife or a mandoline fitted with its safety guard, slice the thoroughly chilled beets approximately ⅛ inch thick, or slightly thinner if they hold together.
Wear food-safe gloves to protect your fingers from staining. If using a mandoline, always use its hand guard or appropriate cut-resistant protection.
Gently blot excess moisture from the slices with a paper towel.
Chef’s note: For the most elegant presentation, choose slices of similar diameter and keep them intact. The slight variations in their shape and color are part of what makes the finished plate beautiful. I love a black plate here. I have some super cool lava plates that I bought years ago and used one for this plating.
Plate The Tell-Tale Heart
For each serving:
Spoon approximately 1 tablespoon of pomegranate gastrique onto a dark ceramic plate, spreading it into a loose, organic shape.
Arrange 6–8 beet slices in overlapping layers, subtly suggesting the contours of an anatomical heart rather than a perfect circle.
Place a small quenelle of whipped cashew chèvre slightly off-center.
Scatter with toasted pistachios and a few pomegranate arils, if using.
Add a delicate cluster of microgreens.
Finish with a few drops of rosemary oil, flaky sea salt, and freshly cracked black pepper.
Serve slightly chilled, or allow the beets to approach cool room temperature for a fuller expression of their earthy sweetness.
Notes
Chef’s Technique: How to Make a Quenelle
A quenelle (pronounced kuh-NELL) is an elegant, oval-shaped scoop of something soft or creamy, traditionally formed using one or two spoons. It’s a classic French technique that gives even a simple spoonful of cashew chèvre a beautifully refined appearance.
And it’s much easier than it looks.
Here’s how to make one:
Chill the chèvre. The mixture should be thick, smooth, and cold enough to hold its shape.
Warm two tablespoons. Dip them into hot water, then shake off the excess. The warmth helps the chèvre release cleanly.
Scoop a generous spoonful of chèvre with one spoon.
Shape it. Using the second spoon, gently scoop the mixture from the first, following the curve of the spoon. Pass it back and forth two or three times until it forms a smooth oval with slightly tapered ends.
Place it on the plate. Gently slide the quenelle off the spoon, positioning it slightly off-center over the roasted beets.
Kitchen Oracle tip: Don’t worry if your first attempt looks more like a potato than a perfectly sculpted French quenelle. Even professional chefs practice this technique. And if all else fails, a beautiful, rustic spoonful tastes exactly the same.
The goal is elegance, not a nervous breakdown over cashew cheese.
An easier alternative: Use a single warm, oval-shaped dessert spoon. Draw it smoothly through the chilled chèvre in one continuous motion, allowing the mixture to curl into the bowl of the spoon. Gently release it onto the plate.
A slightly imperfect, handmade shape is perfectly appropriate for this dish.
When my parents first got married, my dad had just come back from Vietnam. He was living in his car when they met, so he only had a few things to his name: some clothes, his service medals, and his records. Like me, his taste in music was all over the map—from Peter, Paul & Mary to Black Sabbath.
He discovered Sabbath while he was overseas—said one of the guys in his unit had a reel-to-reel tape of their first album, and it sounded like what war felt like.
My mom, raised Baptist, found his Sabbath records after they moved in together—and burned them. Needless to say, they were only married five years.
My dad suffered deeply from PTSD. He was a point man—what they called a “pony man”—a cavalry scout in the Army. His job was one of the most dangerous you could have: to ride ahead of his unit, often through dense jungle, eyes scanning for tripwires, ambushes, landmines, and booby traps. He was the first line of defense. The first one out front. The first one in danger. Every step could have been his last, and he knew it.
But he did it anyway.
He was brave. He still is my hero.
My dad is the 5th guy standing on the right wearing the baggy shirt. (Feb, 1969)
When he came to Columbia for Dad’s Weekend my freshman year at Mizzou, we spent hours talking about the past—about what he was doing when he was 19. He told me that after the war, the first place he went was San Francisco in August of 1970. That’s when he went to one of the Dead’s acid test parties—Jerry himself handed him a cup of Kool-Aid.
For my 16th birthday, he gave me a copy of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe. My mom tore it up. So when I got to college, I bought another copy. And yeah, we had some of our own acid parties. That’s when I understood what it means to break on through to the other side.
That was the height of my Grateful Dead years. Around then, he sent me a postcard from Haight-Ashbury. On the front: Tie dye pic of Haight Asbury. On the back, “The 60s—love ‘em or leave the Haight.” and he scrawled lyrics from The End by The Doors:
“I awoke with dawn, putting on my boots,
I take a face from the ancient gallery
And walk on down the hall.”
Then he wrote:
“The West is the best.
See ya in September.
Love, Dad.”
That same weekend at Mizzou, he told me the story about my mom burning his Sabbath albums—how she’d found them not long after they moved in together, called them devil music, and threw them into a fire. He just shook his head and laughed, like he’d made peace with it, but you could still hear the sting in his voice.
Then he took me to Streetside Records and bought me a copy of Paranoid. Said it was his favorite. Said it came out the year before I was born. Told me he used to blast that record in his old bedroom after he moved back into his parents’ house—cranked it up loud to drown out my grandfather, who used to call him a worthless hippy every time he walked in the door.
We sat in the car after that, and I finally worked up the nerve to tell him I’d started smoking weed. I braced myself for a lecture, or at least a long pause. But he just looked at me, calm as ever, and said, “Just be careful.”
It broke my heart to know what he went through in Vietnam—and what he went through when he came home. The war didn’t end when he got off the plane. He had to fight for peace in his own house, in his own mind, every single day.
I wanted to be like him.
A rebel.
A wiseman.
Someone who had seen beyond the veil and didn’t flinch.
Someone who knew.
Someone who could still love.
He loved me fiercely. No matter what was happening in his own head, he always made room for mine. He made sure I saw the world from all sides—not just the one my conservative mother tried to shield me with. He wanted me to question, to feel, to think for myself. To never be afraid of the dark—or the truth hiding in it.
He became a vegetarian. A Buddhist.
A man who had once walked point through jungles and tripwires, now walking gently through this world—choosing compassion, silence, stillness. He had seen death up close and decided, in the end, to live with tenderness.
The day my brother Sean was born, my dad was at a feminist rally—because of course he was. Fighting for equality one minute, racing to the hospital the next. That was him in a nutshell: one boot in protest, the other in fatherhood.
And even near the end, he was still showing up for others. Before he died, he was teaching the Chinese family who lived next door how to speak English—patiently sitting with them, one word at a time, offering the language of belonging like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because to him, it was.
He died from Agent Orange exposure—slow poison from a war he never stopped fighting.
Some men died on the battlefield.
Some died forty years later.
But they all gave the same sacrifice.
Like Ozzy, he died in his 70s—taken too soon by Parkinson’s.
Two warriors from different worlds.
Both loud, both gentle.
Both mine to cherish.
So, when Ozzy died, I cried. Like… a lot.
But I think it was because I couldn’t stop thinking of my dad.
That’s what really broke me open.
That’s what’s making me cry now.
My mom called him Honey.
His family called him Butch.
I called him Honey Butchy.
There is no one on earth like your dad.
And there never will be.
God, I miss you, Daddy.
I know your blood runs in my veins.
I know you’re always with me.
And I like to believe that somewhere out there,
you’re hanging with Jerry and Ozzy—
jamming, laughing,
and passing around some sweet leaf.
This one’s for Ozzy, Jerry, and my Dad. Honey Butchy forever.
The Ozz-Bowl: moody, bold, and plant-based to the core. Black rice, crispy tofu, miso eggplant, and a tahini-ginger drizzle that hits like a power chord. 🖤🥢
Ingredients
Scale
1 cup black rice, cooked according to package directions, and fluffed.
Splash of rice vinegar + sesame oil for flavor
Crispy Tofu:
1 block extra-firm tofu, pressed and cubed
2 tbsp tamari
1 tbsp sesame oil
1 tbsp cornstarch
1 tsp garlic powder
Optional: black sesame seeds
Miso-Glazed Eggplant:
1 small eggplant, sliced into half-moons
1 tbsp white miso paste
1 tbsp maple syrup
1 tbsp rice vinegar
1 tsp soy sauce
1 tsp sesame oil
Blistered Shishito Peppers:
1 cup shishito peppers
1 tsp avocado oil or olive oil
Sea salt to finish
Charred Greens:
2 cups kale or collard greens, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp olive oil
Pinch of chili flakes
Tahini-Ginger Drizzle:
2 tbsp tahini
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tbsp water (more as needed)
1 tsp fresh grated ginger
1 tsp maple syrup
1/2 tsp tamari
Chili “Bat Wing” Crisp:
1 tortilla (charcoal or black bean for color)
1 tsp olive oil
Chili powder + flaky salt
Instructions
Cook black rice according to package. Season lightly with rice vinegar and sesame oil if desired. Set aside.
Make crispy tofu: Toss tofu in tamari, sesame oil, garlic powder, and cornstarch. Air-fry at 400°F for 10–15 min or bake at 425°F for 25 min until golden and crisp. Optional: toss in black sesame seeds.
Prepare miso eggplant: Mix glaze ingredients and brush over sliced eggplant. Roast at 425°F for 20 min, flipping halfway, until caramelized.
Blister shishitos: Sear peppers in a hot skillet with oil until blistered and slightly charred, about 5 minutes. Sprinkle with sea salt.
Char greens: Sauté garlic in oil, add greens and chili flakes, cook until just wilted and edges start to char.
Make drizzle: Whisk tahini, lemon juice, ginger, maple, tamari, and water until pourable.
Create “bat wing” crisp: Cut tortilla into jagged bat wing shapes, brush with oil, sprinkle with chili powder and salt. Bake at 375°F for ~7 minutes or until crisp and dark.
Assemble: In a shallow bowl, layer black rice, tofu, eggplant, greens, and shishitos. Drizzle with tahini-ginger sauce and crown it with your chili bat wing crisp.
🔥 Optional Garnishes:
Pickled red onions
Black garlic paste swirl
Edible black flowers (like viola or pansy) for that gothic flair
I just watched the Oscar-nominated movie The Brutalist. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but I found it raw, bold, and confounding. With its stark and powerful visuals, the cinematography alone makes it worth watching. The film follows the journey of an acclaimed Hungarian architect (Adrian Brody) who had studied at Bauhaus before the war, survived the horrors of the Dachau death camp, and ended up in America.
Bauhaus Photo via: Wikipedia
The movie, with its heart-wrenching and, at times, painful narrative, uncovers the unexpected beauty of brutalist architecture. As a lover of art and architecture, I was pleasantly surprised by the movie. It opened my eyes to the wonderment of human resilience and the unique allure of Brutalism, a form of architecture with which I was slightly unfamiliar. The film stirred me and transformed my understanding and appreciation of this minimalist aesthetic.
Brutalism is a unique architectural style rooted in the philosophies of modern architecture. It champions the truth of materials, which is achieved by their “raw” expression. Béton brut, or raw concrete, is not about concrete but more about the way of using concrete. While many people do not care for the form (you either love it or hate it), I was deeply engaged, browsing through various pictures of Brutalist architecture. Each resonated with me on some level, fueling my passion for this unique architectural style.
As a lover of mid-century everything, I was thrilled to visit the Guggenheim a year or so ago. The Guggenheim is a unique embodiment of Brutalism, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Wright, my most beloved architect, has left an indelible mark with his organic architecture. His use of low-pitched roofs, horizontal lines, large open floor plans, and natural materials like wood and stone sets him apart. The Guggenheim, one of his most ambitious projects, is a testament to his genius. It’s a pity he didn’t live to see its completion.
Wright’s only other Brutalist design is Fallingwater, which might be the most beautiful home ever built. Wright designed the house to rise above the waterfall it was built on. The house’s cantilever terraces blend with with rock formations, and the floors and roofs cantilever over the waterfall. It’s sublime!
Fallingwater Photo via: Wikipedia
Another favorite example is Les Choux de Créteil, a creation of Gérard Grandval, which was completed in 1974. It is a sight to behold. This group of 10 buildings, each nearly 69 feet high, is surrounded by rounded petal-shaped balconies, which gave it the nickname “choux,” meaning cabbage.
Les Choux de Créteil- Paris Photo via: WSJ
The balconies were initially intended to be used as gardens filled with ornamental plants and trees, creating a more ‘green’ appearance that would change with the seasons. I loved this idea and was greatly disappointed when I learned that part of the project was never completed. It’s a feeling many of us can relate to when a vision is left unfinished: a sense of disappointment and longing for what could have been. Who knows, maybe one day, Grandval’s vision will be complete.
I guess it should come as no surprise that this recipe is all about cabbage! This simple, understated choux is slightly seared and then braised until fork tender. I sauteed red bell pepper, a shallot, carrots, and garlic until browned somewhat. Then, I added some tomato paste, stock, salt, and pepper. I finished the broth by blitzing it in a blender and adding it to the pan with parmesan, lime juice, and zest. Because of the citrus in the sauce, I removed it from the heat and added the vegan cream.
This step is crucial so the sauce doesn’t curdle. You can make your own or buy a pre-made plant-based whipping cream. I added the cabbage to the sauce and topped it with a simple tomato salsa. Combining these flavors may seem unusual, but trust me, it’s a culinary adventure that all comes together nicely. I like a salsa with some heat, but you do you!
Sear the cabbage: Heat 2 tbsp olive oil in a cast iron pan. Sear cabbage wedges flat-side down for 5-6 minutes, flip, and sear the other side for 3-4 minutes. Set aside.
Add 1 tbsp olive oil to the same pan. Sauté the shallot, carrot, bell pepper, salt, and pepper for 3-5 minutes.
Stir in tomato paste and garlic. Add fennel, a pinch of salt, and pepper, and cook for 30 seconds.
Pour in vegetable stock, add bay leaves, and return cabbage to the pan. Cover and braise in the oven for 20 minutes.
Remove the lid, raise the temperature to 425°F (220°C), and cook for an additional 15-20 minutes.
Fennel pan sauce:
Remove the cabbage, carefully add the stock and vegetables to a blender, add parmesan, and blend the sauce until smooth—taste for seasoning. Keep warm.
Cashew cream:
Blend cashews and water until smooth.
Add lime juice and zest.
Salt and Pepper to taste.
To serve, divide the fennel sauce between 4 bowls. Add cabbage and top with cashew cream and tomato salsa.
Enjoy!
Notes
You can make your salsa or use your favorite store-bought. I heated my salsa on the stove top before serving.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the kitchen lately. When I sent my dear friend Monica a Miles Davis song, she immediately responded, ‘Are you cooking?’ It’s a joy to be understood so well by a friend. The influence of the work of the great artists and musicians I’ve been immersing myself in is palpable, sparking inspiration and creativity. Like an artist in their studio, I’ve found myself drawn to the kitchen. Cooking, in its many forms, has become more than a pastime. It’s a profoundly transformative experience; like an artist using color, texture, and form to create a painting, a chef uses ingredients, flavors, and presentation to craft a culinary masterpiece.
Recently, I completed a book on the Spanish painter Pablo Picasso’s Blue Period (1901–04). The book delved into how the young Picasso, born in Málaga but moved to Barcelona at 14, crafted a unique style and a strong artistic identity. He adapted the artistic lessons of fin-de-siècle Paris to the social and political climate of an economically struggling Barcelona. Despite his controversial reputation, which is a result of his unconventional artistic techniques and personal life, I’m struck by his passion and the profound impact of his art on the human experience.
The Blue Room, Pablo Picasso (1901) Photo via: Wiki Art
Femme assise (Melancholy Woman) 1902-03 Photo Via: WIki Art
Picasso’s Blue Period is a series of monochromatic events and a deeply personal journey into the universal consciousness of pain. Inspired by the suicide of his close friend, Carlos Casagemas, these paintings resonate with me on a deeply profound level. They carry a somber mood focusing on human suffering, sadness, poverty, and social isolation. They seem rather apt for these trying times.
The ‘blue’ theme, reminiscent of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue, seems to echo a sense of loss and mourning that I’ve felt in my own life recently. It’s as if Picasso’s brushstrokes and the aching and evocative loneliness of Miles’s trumpet have captured my experiences, creating a shared connection through their art. I understand all too well how art and music, with their transformative power, can alter one’s mood, change perceptions, and inspire change.
Chef StephPepper Rain
Picasso and Davis, with their bold and unconventional styles, radically deconstructed traditional perspectives of both art and music. Comparable to Picasso, Miles was at the forefront of every cutting-edge change in his art. Both are known for their bold and daring creative risks, pushing the boundaries of their work to excess. Picasso, estimated to have created around 50,000 art pieces, left a monumental legacy and often went far beyond what was considered socially acceptable (see his piece “Guernica”). Both men were very charismatic and complex, and each had a ferocious temper, which reminded me of the Italian word arrabbiata. Arrabbiata means ‘angry’ or ‘get fired up’ in Italian.
Arrabbiata Pasta Desconstructed
In the Romanesco dialect, the adjective arrabbiato denotes a characteristic of being pushed to excess. Excess in art refers to using exaggerated or extravagant elements in an artwork. It involves going beyond the usual or expected boundaries regarding quantity, size, color, texture, or any other artistic element.
Just as their art was a bold departure from the norm, this spicy recipe is a daring departure from traditional Italian cuisine. It incorporates both expected and bold flavors, such as the intensely concentrated sweet and savory flavor of slow-roasted tomatoes and garlic paired with rich, slightly nutty Parmesan, but also the sharp, pungent, biting kick of red pepper flakes. Despite these complex flavors, it comes together quickly and easily, making it a perfect choice for a busy weeknight. Paired with a dry Pinot Noir like my new favorite central coast Poppy Pinot Noir Reserve, this dish is genuinely la comida como arte.
It’s a spectacular dish and so easy. I believe the key is to find fresh organic garlic. I added a whole head of garlic to some tin foil, drizzled it in olive oil, and slowly roasted it with two pints of fresh cherry tomatoes.
Ingredients
Scale
Pasta of choice, such as rigatoni, spaghetti, or penne
Two pints of cherry tomatoes
2 1/2 tsp Italian seasoning
2 tsp fennel seed, chopped
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Head of garlic
2 cups fresh organic spinach
1 cup fresh vegan ricotta cheese (I used Kite Hill)
1/2 cup grated vegan parmesan
1/4 cupolive oil
1tablespoonwhite sugar
1tablespoonlemon juice
Salt and pepper
1teaspooncrushed red pepper flakes
Instructions
Preheat oven to 425°F.
In a medium bowl, toss cherry tomatoes, 2 tablespoons of olive oil, fennel seed, Italian seasoning, salt, and pepper.
Cut the top off the garlic to expose the cloves inside. Place a garlic head, cut side up, in the center of a foil square. Drizzle garlic with olive oil, then season with salt and pepper. Bring the foil sides up to enclose the garlic, creating a sealed packet.
Place tomatoes and garlic in preheated oven and roast for 30-35 minutes, tossing tomatoes halfway through the cooking time. Roast until tomatoes are tender and beginning to brown.
After tossing the tomatoes halfway through cooking time, cook pasta according to package directions. Drain and set aside, saving 1 cup of pasta cooking water.
When the tomatoes and garlic are done, remove the garlic from the foil and squeeze the garlic cloves from the garlic paper. Add the garlic and tomatoes to the bowl of a food processor with spinach, vegan ricotta, grated parmesan, olive oil, white sugar, lemon juice, and tsp each salt/pepper.
Process into a smooth sauce. If the mixture is too thick, add one cup of pasta water, one tablespoon at a time, until the desired consistency is achieved.
Add arrabbiata sauce to drained pasta. Over medium heat, stir in red pepper flakes and taste for seasoning.
As I write this post, I’m reminded of the phrase, “Be Careful What You Wish For.” We’ve had another 4 inches of snow this week, and I’m starting to feel a bit stir-crazy. This year, we’ve had a whopping 25 inches of snow and subzero temperatures. While I adore the beauty of snow, I’m beginning to long for a change. Perhaps a change of scenery, like mountains and skis, would rekindle my love for it. I’m all about being warm and cozy by the fireplace, but it’s becoming a bit overwhelming.
Speaking of warm and cozy, I’ve recently stumbled upon a new musical love that has added a delightful twist to my winter cooking sessions. The joy of discovering Miles Davis and his album Kind of Blue has been a revelation, adding a new dimension to my winter days. This album sets the perfect ambiance, transforming the comforting atmosphere of my kitchen. I fell into a rabbit hole, starting with a documentary called Miles Davis: Birth of the Cool and then a two-part podcast about the Juliard student, which took me on a deep dive into the world of modal Jazz. Davis used his trumpet to emulate the sound of the human voice by cutting out vibrato, turning his Jazz into a smoother and more emotional form of music.
Photo via: Wikipedia
I’ve long loved John Coltrane, who plays the tenor saxophone on the album. I bought A John Coltrane Retrospective: The Impulse Years in college. His version of Sentimental Mood with Duke Ellington is one of my favorite pieces of music. But Miles, although I knew who he was, was new to me. Kind of Blue is heralded as one of the greatest jazz albums ever recorded and certainly as Miles’s masterpiece. It’s also the best-selling Jazz album of all time. Recorded in 1959, Kind of Blue is a landmark in jazz history, known for its innovative modal jazz style and the legendary lineup of musicians like Coltrane and Julian Adderly. Blue in Green is my favorite song on the album, and it evokes the melancholy of a long winter’s night, eliciting a certain longing for something you can’t quite put a finger on.
While I’m yearning for sunshine and warm weather, I’m also embracing that this is my favorite time of year to cook. I adore winter cooking, especially comfort foods. And I can’t wait to share this unique cauliflower recipe with you; it’s a delightful twist on a classic pasta dish that wraps me in a warm and cozy embrace! The cauliflower is roasted to perfection, creating a hearty texture that pairs beautifully with the rich flavors of the sorghum pesto. This unexpected combination is a perfect match for a cold winter’s night.
There is a clear connection between mood and food, and one of the best things you can do to help your immune system and boost your mood is to add foods high in vitamin C. This recipe contains Cavolo Nero, or Italian Kale, sometimes called Tuscan or lacinato (las-i-na-to). It’s curly kale’s talk, dark and handsome cousin. One serving (one cup) contains more than a day’s vitamin A requirement, essential for eye health and immune function. It contains vitamins K, C, B6, manganese, copper, calcium, and magnesium. One cup of cooked kale contains 1000% more vitamin C than one cup of cooked spinach! This cauliflower recipe is delicious and a powerhouse of nutrients, ensuring you’re well cared for during the winter.
For the pesto, I used walnuts instead of traditional pine nuts. Walnuts are great for cognitive function (memory, attention, and language) and can also boost mood. Not to mention, they’re a whole lot cheaper than pine nuts. I keep them in my freezer and grab a handful when I need a little afternoon snack.
As always, I’m eager to hear how you like it. I have a “Jazz, Baby” playlist on Spotify if you’re a Jazz enthusiast like me. If you do a profile search on Spotify, my name is Spinning Wheel. I’d love to hear your thoughts and recommendations, so don’t hesitate to share them.
It’s a super easy recipe loaded with flavor! I used Sorghum because I wanted a gluten-free grain, but feel free to use Pearl Barley or any grain of choice.
Ingredients
Scale
1 medium cauliflower, cut into small florets
1 1/2 tsp paprika
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp fresh cracked pepper
juice 1/2 lemon
1 cup rinsed sorghum
1 bunch Tuscan kale, leaves pulled from the stalk and roughly torn
A handful of shelled walnuts, about 50g/2oz
1-2 cloves of garlic minced
30g/1 oz freshly grated vegan Parmigiano
Olive oil (quality)
Salt & pepper
Red pepper flakes
Instructions
Sorghum:
Cook according to package directions. Make this first, as it takes the longest to cook.
Pesto:
While the sorghum is cooking, strip the kale leaves off their thick stems and blanch them in boiling water for about 3 minutes. (Do not discard water)
Drain the kale leaves in a colander over a bowl, saving the water. Run the colander under ice-cold water. Pat the leaves dry and roughly chop.
Add the blanched kale leaves, walnuts, garlic, and a small pinch of salt to the bowl of a food processor. Pulse until you have a rough paste.
Drizzle in enough olive oil while the processor runs to produce a smooth and dense paste. (about 1/2 cup of oil).
Add pesto to a small mixing bowl. Mix in the grated parmesan cheese—taste for seasoning.
If needed, thin it out with some kale cooking water, a tablespoon at a time, until you have a very thick but pourable mixture.
Cauliflower:
Prepare cauliflower by placing a baking sheet in the center oven rack and preheating oven to 450ºF.
Cut the cauliflower into small florets and add to a large bowl. Toss with olive oil, paprika, salt, and black pepper.
Carefully arrange cauliflower out onto the preheated baking sheet in a single layer, avoiding overcrowding.
Roast for 20 to 25 minutes, turning pieces halfway through, until lightly charred and tender.
Remove from oven and add to a mixing bowl.
Squeeze or drizzle lemon juice over the cauliflower.
Add Cavolo Nero pesto to sorghum and mix well.
Top sorghum pesto with roasted cauliflower, shaved Parmesan cheese, crushed walnuts, and red pepper flakes (to taste).
Enjoy!
Notes
I love the addition of the red pepper flakes. If you don’t like the dried flakes’ heat, feel free to leave them off.
Greetings! I hope this post finds you well. Thanks to some good old-fashioned relaxation, I feel much better! I am grateful to have spent much time wintering here at Innsbrook. I love peace away from the hustle of everyday life. Winter is undoubtedly a time of introspection and retreat, slowing down and going inward. I am also profoundly delighted to be off social media. The respite from that chaotic, soulless world has been a blessing.
I have connected with some good girlfriends, sharing books, art, and movies. I have immersed myself in art by watching close to 30 hours of art documentaries, including The Andy Warhol Diaries (highly recommend), two documentaries about Jean-Michel Basquiat (I adore him), Banksy, Mark Rothko, Bob Ross, and Andrew and Jamie Wyeth (Jamie is another artist I dearly love). These documentaries have given me a deeper understanding of the artists and their work, and I’m excited to sharpen my knowledge of one of my favorite mediums. The most exciting part was that I even purchased my first Basquiat, one of his early SAMO pieces done on masonite, which was a dream come true for me.
I’ve joined the St. Louis Art Museum and am proud to call myself a true art patron. My friend Monica and I anticipate visiting Art in Bloom in two weeks. Recently, I’ve been on a journey of discovery, immersing myself in new art forms. I’ve taken up the Japanese art of Ikebana, a minimalist approach to flower arranging that has truly captivated me. The three principles of Ikebana are simplicity, asymmetry, and balance. The ephemeral compositions are breathtaking, and their possibilities are endless.
I’m thrilled to share this newfound inspiration with you. In these moments of sharing our personal experiences, we truly connect and inspire each other. I hope my journey into the world of art and writing can also bring a sense of connection and inspiration to your life. I may even start a blog on various art forms.
In April, Monica and I will see Roaring: Art, Fashion, and the Automobile in France, 1918-1939. The Deco period in France was one of the most interesting and creative periods in modern times. With the likes of Picasso, Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Woolf, Matisse, and Gertrude Stein, France experienced a modern-day Renaissance, to be sure! I’m eagerly looking forward to this exhibition and the opportunity to immerse myself in the art and culture of that era.
I just finished my fourth round of edits on my novel and am happy to say it’s finally done. Although, I believe it was Da Vinci who said, “Art is never finished, only abandoned.” And after eight years of writing, I would agree. Writing has always been my gift, my sanctuary. It’s where I can lose myself, create life, and let my imagination run wild. The joy I find in writing is unparalleled, and I wish to share it with you, even if it’s just in this space for now, with a few recipes sprinkled in. My writing process is a journey of discovery and creativity, and I’m excited to share this part of my life with you to make you feel connected and inspired.
Speaking of recipes, this one, Pan-Seared Fennel with Garlicky Butterbeans, is a keeper. It’s perfect for winter and comes together quickly, which can be a gift when you don’t feel much like cooking. Roasted fennel has a sweet, slightly caramelized aroma with distinct notes of licorice or anise. If you have difficulty finding “fennel” in the grocery store, ask if they have anise. Like black licorice, fennel has a milder, more mellow quality when roasted.
I seasoned the quartered fennel with fresh thyme and dried fennel seeds. The butterbeans were sauteed with shallots, garlic, and minced fennel fronds. Once warmed through, I pureed about 2/3 of the beans with olive oil, salt, and pepper. That made a lovely base for my fennel. I topped it with whole butterbeans, fresh parsley, and fennel fronds. It was, in a word, mouthwatering! I hope you enjoy it.
2 medium fennel, each cut lengthways into 6-8 wedges, with the herb/ frond finely chopped
2 (14 oz.) cans butterbeans, drained and rinsed
2 shallots, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp fresh thyme leaves
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon lemon zest & juice of half a lemon (2-3 teaspoons)
Olive oil
Salt and Pepper
Instructions
Saute the shallots in 2 tablespoons of oil in a medium pan until softened. Stir in the garlic and fennel seeds. Cook out for 2-3 mins, then stir in the beans. Keep stirring until the beans are very tender. Add water if necessary to keep the pan from drying. Stir in the lemon juice and zest.
Blend two-thirds of the bean mixture until smooth. Add 1-2 tablespoons of olive oil and scrape down the sides of the food processor to help it blend. Stir the fennel fronds into the remaining beans. Season both bean mixtures with salt and pepper to taste.
Meanwhile, place a little oil in a cast iron pan over medium heat. Add the fennel, brown on one side, then turn. Reduce the heat to low, and add the thyme, butter, and salt. Cover and cook over low heat until the fennel is entirely tender
Spread the bean purée over a serving plate and top with the fennel, the remaining beans, and fennel fronds.
Enjoy!
Notes
I covered my fennel to allow the steam to soften them up a bit.
If you’ve followed my culinary journey for any length of time, you already know that winter is when I truly come alive in the kitchen. Cold weather turns me into a cozy-food alchemist—give me comforting soups, hearty stews, and bubbling casseroles, and I’m in my element.
And this Shepherd’s Pie?Thisis one of the recipes I’m most excited to share with you.
There’s something magical about warming up with delicious food when the air turns cold. It fills my belly, nourishes my soul, and always seems to bring me back to center. This particular recipe has been a favorite of mine for years. The way the flavors meld together, deepen overnight, and become even better the next day—it’s pure comfort in a dish.
Over time, I’ve tested several versions, each with its own personality and little twist. Some were good… but a bit too tame for my taste. I’m all about bold, layered flavor—after all, what’s the point of cooking otherwise? One version was decent but needed that extraoomph. In a pinch, I grabbed a bottle of Heinz Chili Sauce from the pantry. Normally, I avoid store-bought sauces because of the additives, but I’ll admit—it absolutely worked.
Still, you know me. I wanted something deeper, richer,mine.
So I set out to create a homemade version: a balanced, robust tomato-based sauce built from scratch with spices and love. The result was everything I hoped for—savory, tangy, full-bodied—and it ties this entire dish together beautifully.
It’s hearty, comforting, flavorful, and a perfect cold-weather staple.
I hope it warms your home the way it warms mine.
Hearty and satisfying, this vegan shepherd’s pie is one of my favorite cold-weather recipes. This lentil dish is packed with protein and will satisfy even the pickiest meat eater!
Ingredients
Scale
MASHED POTATOES
3poundsYukon gold potatoes, washed and partially peeled
3-4Tbspvegan butter
1/2 cup plant-based milk (I used cashew milk)
Sea salt and black pepper (to taste)
FILLING
1Tbspolive oil
1mediumonion(diced)
2clovesgarlic(minced)
2 Tbsp quality tomato paste
8 oz tomato sauce
Lemon juice from ½ lemon
1 T light brown sugar
1 T honey
¼ t mustard powder
¼ t onion powder
¼ t garlic powder
¼ t chili powder
¼ t Worcestershire sauce
1healthy pinch eachsea salt and black pepper
1 1/2cupsuncooked brown or green lentils(rinsed and drained)
4cupsvegetable stock
2tspfresh thyme (or sub 1 tsp dried thyme per 2 tsp fresh)
110-ouncebag of frozen mixed veggies: peas, carrots, green beans, and corn
Instructions
Preheat oven to 425° F (218° C)
Dice the potatoes into quarters and place them in a Dutch oven or large stock pot. Fill the pot until the potatoes are just covered. Bring to a boil on medium-high heat. Generously salt, cover, and cook for 20-30 minutes or until fork tender.
Once cooked, drain and transfer to a medium-size mixing bowl. Using a potato masher or fork, mash until smooth. Add vegan butter and milk—season with salt and pepper to taste. Loosely cover and set aside.
While the potatoes are cooking, lightly grease a 9×13 pan.
Warm pan over medium-low heat. Add olive oil and sauté onions for 6-8 minutes until caramelized. Add garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds.
Add tomato paste and cook for 3-4 minutes until the tomato sauce is a deeper, browner brick red. This will caramelize the sugars and intensify the flavors even more.
Add tomato sauce, lemon juice, light brown sugar, maple syrup, mustard powder, onion powder, garlic powder, chili powder, Worcestershire sauce, and a pinch of salt and pepper.
Then add lentils, stock, and thyme and stir. Bring to a low boil.
Cover and reduce heat to simmer. Cook until lentils are tender (35-40 minutes). Once tender, remove the lid and continue simmering uncovered, stirring frequently, to evaporate any excess liquid.
Add the frozen veggies and stir in the last 10 minutes of cooking.
Taste and adjust seasonings as needed. Transfer to your prepared oven-safe baking dish and carefully top with mashed potatoes—fluff potatoes with a fork and season with another dash of pepper and sea salt.
Place on a baking sheet to catch any drips and bake for 10-15 minutes or until the mashers are lightly browned on top.
It will be hot! Let it cool before serving. The longer it sits, the more it will thicken.
Enjoy!
Notes
Let cool completely before covering, and then store in the fridge for up to a few days.
Reheats well in the microwave. I re-heat at 70% power level for 4-5 minutes.
I love mushrooms, but my favorites are big, juicy portobellos. Add some thyme, red wine, and onions, and I’m all yours.
When immature and white, this mushroom may be known as common mushroom, white mushroom button mushroom, cultivated mushroom, table mushroom, and champignon mushroom. When immature and brown, it may be known as Swiss brown mushroom, Roman brown mushroom, Italian brown mushroom, cremini/crimini mushroom, chestnut mushroom, and baby Bella.
When marketed in its mature state, the mushroom is brown with a cap measuring 4–6 inches. This form is commonly sold under portobello mushroom, portabella mushroom, and portobello mushroom. Thank you, Wikipedia. Who knew?
I wanted to add a portobello mushroom recipe to my cookbook but lamented the best way to prepare them. I got out my handy dandy cast iron, but then I remembered that I had my little-used Cameron stovetop smoker. Within minutes, I fired up my gas stove and added some portobello mushroom caps and cherry wood chips. Twenty-five minutes later, I was floating in mushroom heaven. And no worries if you don’t have a smoker. You’re set if you have a medium pot with a lid, steamer basket, foil, and wood chips! Just so you know, there may not be a lot of variety, but you can buy wood chips at almost any grocery store.
Finally, I debated between topping it with a simple red wine sauce or a cabernet demi-glace, aka a Marchand de Vin Sauce. I opted for the latter. It didn’t disappoint, either. With just a tang of the sherry vinegar marinade shining through the cherry wood’s mild and fruity smoke, it was the perfect balance of flavor. I didn’t make my own demi-glace, but you certainly can. I will work on that recipe next!
The key to this recipe is the marinade. Mushrooms are highly porous so you don’t need to marinade them long. I also use a great mushroom brush to remove any dirt.
Ingredients
Scale
4–5 Portobello mushroom caps, brushed with stems removed.
Whisk marinade ingredients together in a small bowl. Add mushrooms to a shallow baking dish or a gallon size ziplock bag and top with marinade. Set aside and allow to marinate for 30 minutes.
While mushrooms are marinating, make the demi-glace.
Warm a medium-size sauté pan over medium heat.
Add butter. When butter begins to foam, add shallots, salt, and white pepper and bouquet garni. Sauté until shallots have softened, about 5-7 minutes.
Add vegetable stock, demi-glace, and wine.
Stir well and turn up the heat. Bring to a boil.
Reduce heat to a simmer and cook until the stock has reduced by half, about 20 minutes.
Mushrooms:
If using a smoker, add wood chips to the bottom of the smoker. If using a pan to smoke, jump down to the notes section.
Place the drip tray on top of the wood chips inside the smoker base. Spraying the tray with non-stick vegetable spray, or place a sheet of aluminum foil to make for easier clean-up.
Place the wire rack on top of the drip tray. Remove mushrooms from the marinade and arrange them on the wire rack. Slide lid closed.
Smoke for 20 minutes over medium heat.
Remove bouquet from demi-glace and taste for seasoning. Carefully remove mushrooms from the smoker and transfer them to a cutting board.
Slice mushrooms into 1/2″ slices. Plate the mushrooms and spoon 3-4 Tbsp’s of demi-glace over the top.
Enjoy!
Notes
Never wash mushrooms with water! They are like a sponge and soak up water lowering the flavor. People think it’s dirt that’s on them, but it’s peat moss, and it’s all pasteurized. Portobello’s are usually pretty clean, but I use a mushroom brush for other types.
A bouquet garni is simple to make. Place herbs together in a small stack and tie stems together with a short bit of kitchen twine. Tie it tightly, as the herbs will shrink as they cook.
If pan smoking:
Place a double layer of foil in the bottom of a medium pot. Place wood chips on top, in a little mound. Place strainer basket over top. Place mushrooms in the strainer basket.
Place the pot on the stove and turn to medium high or high heat. Leave uncovered until you see smoke. When you see smoke, tightly cover. Wait 30 seconds, then turn heat to medium.
This dish is one of my all-time favorites—complex yet approachable. Part savory, part sweet, it brings together earthy sage, aromatic baking spices, and a subtle drizzle of maple syrup for a flavor that lingers just right. Unlike most pumpkin-ricotta recipes that lean fully savory, this one dances between sweet and earthy in a way that feels both comforting and unexpected.
The earthy sweetness of pumpkin pairs beautifully with sage, while warm baking spices add a subtle complexity that makes this dish unmistakably autumnal. Finish it with my velvety cashew béchamel, and you have a holiday-worthy centerpiece that deserves a place at the Thanksgiving table (turkey optional). And the wine? It pairs beautifully with both reds and whites, but I’m partial to a lightly oaked Chardonnay from Burgundy. Its bright acidity and subtle toasted notes are a lovely complement to the pumpkin, sage, and creamy béchamel.
Part savory, part sweet, this recipe covers all the bases! Some recipes do not have you press the tofu. Pressing the tofu removes an additional 1/2 cup of water, and this prevents it from being too runny.
Ingredients
Scale
For the pasta
1 (16-ounce) package jumbo conchiglioni (gluten-free if desired)
1½ cups unsweetened plant milk, plus more as needed
1 tbsp vegan butter or olive oil
1 tbsp nutritional yeast
½ tsp white miso paste
¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
1–2 tsp fresh lemon juice
Sea salt and white pepper, to taste
For the crispy sage and pepita finish
12–15 fresh sage leaves
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
¼ cup raw pepitas
Zest of ½ lemon
Flaky sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Instructions
1. Roast the pumpkin
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Combine the pumpkin purée, olive oil, maple syrup, baking spices, and a pinch of salt. Spread in a thin layer on a parchment-lined baking sheet or shallow ovenproof dish.
Roast for 15–20 minutes, stirring once, until the pumpkin darkens slightly and becomes concentrated and fragrant. Avoid scorching the edges.
Set aside to cool.
Chef’s note: Roasting the purée concentrates its natural sugars and develops a deeper, earthier flavor. This is the first step toward giving the filling more complexity without adding unnecessary ingredients.
2. Prepare the sage ricotta
Crumble the pressed tofu into a food processor.
Add nutritional yeast, fresh sage, dried oregano, dried sage, white miso, vegan Parmesan, lemon juice, and black pepper.
Pulse until the mixture resembles a thick, slightly coarse ricotta. Avoid processing until completely smooth.
Transfer to a mixing bowl and gently fold in the roasted pumpkin.
Taste and adjust the salt, lemon, and sage as necessary. The filling should be distinctly savory, with a gentle sweetness from the pumpkin and maple.
Chef’s note: White miso adds a subtle fermented depth and rounds out the flavors of the tofu and pumpkin. It should enhance the ricotta without making the filling taste overtly of miso.
3. Prepare the cashew béchamel
Blend the soaked cashews with the plant milk until completely smooth.
Transfer to a saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the vegan butter, nutritional yeast, white miso, and nutmeg.
Cook gently for 5–7 minutes, stirring frequently, until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon.
Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice. Season with salt and white pepper.
If necessary, thin with additional plant milk until the sauce is creamy and pourable.
The finished béchamel should be silky, lightly savory, and balanced with just enough acidity to cut through its richness.
4. Cook the pasta
Reduce the oven temperature to 375°F.
Bring a large pot of generously salted water to a boil.
Cook the conchiglioni until just shy of al dente, approximately 2 minutes less than the package directions.
Drain carefully and rinse briefly with cool water to stop the cooking. Arrange the shells on a lightly oiled tray to prevent sticking.
5. Assemble the conchiglioni
Spread approximately 1 cup of cashew béchamel over the bottom of a 9-by-13-inch baking dish.
Using a spoon or piping bag, fill each pasta shell generously with the pumpkin-sage ricotta.
Arrange the filled shells in the baking dish, open side up.
Spoon the remaining béchamel around and lightly over the shells, leaving some of the pumpkin filling visible.
Sprinkle with vegan Parmesan.
Cover loosely with foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and continue baking for 10–15 minutes, until the sauce is bubbling and the tops are lightly golden.
For additional color, broil briefly, watching carefully.
6. Prepare the crispy sage and pepitas
While the pasta bakes, toast the pepitas in a dry skillet over medium heat until fragrant and beginning to pop, approximately 3–4 minutes.
Remove and set aside.
In the same skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-low heat.
Add the sage leaves in a single layer and fry for approximately 20–40 seconds, until crisp but still green.
Transfer to a paper towel and sprinkle lightly with flaky salt.
Reserve the fragrant sage-infused oil.
7. Finish and serve
Allow the baked conchiglioni to rest for 5 minutes.
Drizzle lightly with the warm sage-infused olive oil.
Scatter the crispy sage leaves and toasted pepitas over the top.
Finish with freshly grated lemon zest, flaky sea salt, and black pepper.
Serve warm, with a little additional béchamel spooned around the shells if desired.
Notes
Chef’s Notes
Building depth: The most important changes are roasting the pumpkin, introducing white miso, and balancing the béchamel with acidity. Together, these create a more developed savory foundation while preserving the original sweet-and-earthy character.
Balancing sweetness: The maple syrup has been reduced from 3 tablespoons to 1. Pumpkin and baking spices already contribute sweetness, so a lighter hand allows the sage and miso to shine.
Texture: The toasted pepitas and crispy sage provide contrast against the tender pasta, creamy filling, and silky béchamel.
Make ahead: The ricotta and béchamel can be prepared up to 2 days in advance. Assemble and refrigerate the shells up to 24 hours before baking, adding a little extra plant milk to the sauce if it has thickened.
Gluten-free: Use certified gluten-free conchiglioni and verify that the miso and vegan Parmesan are gluten-free.
A final thought
This is still the dish I originally envisioned: warm, aromatic, a little sweet, and deeply comforting. But the roasted pumpkin, fermented notes of white miso, and brightness of lemon give it a more complete flavor. The crispy sage and toasted pepitas add a final contrast that makes each bite a little more interesting.
It’s everything I love about autumn cooking—earthy, fragrant, rich, and layered, without losing the beautiful simplicity of seasonal ingredients.
