smitten kitchen

In honor of Debbie & Alex’s trip to Playa del Carmen I cooked Fish Tacos tonight! A receipe I learned from my Mexicans in none other than Playa Del Carmen. My first trip down there was with my BFF Victoria and about 10 guy friends. The boys would scuba dive and spear fish while we sun bathed and then the boys would bring up their catch of the day to the Mexicans at a beach front cabana cook-out place. They would turn the catch of the day into the best fish tacos I had ever had. So I spent the next day having them teach me how. And today foodies, I will give you my secret fish taco receipe, direct from Mexico to you, where ever you may be!

In a large pan or a wok throw together some white fish (I used tilapia), fresh cilantro, a small amount of oil (I use coconut oil), chopped onion and chopped red bell or poblano pepper. Squeeze fresh lime juice all over and simmer for approx 15 minutes. I usually flip the fish often and let it break up into small pieces.

When you are done scoop onto a flour tortilla and add toppings. You can use whatever kind of cheese is your favorite, I use the sharpest chedder I can find, fat-free sour cream, fresh chopped cilantro, Santa Barbara Mango & Peach Salsa and mixed greens. Wrap up and enjoy!

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Many of probably heard by now that we are slightly under the weather here in fabulous NYC. I had big plans to go to the grocery store and actually try to buy something so I could cook for you and make Debbie really proud. Alas the intersections are flooded, the airports are closed and well, I don’t drive…..Sooooo I had to rely on one of my old favorites: Pizza by the slice. It’s a thing you can always count on in Brooklyn, you are never more than a block away from a delicious slice of NY pizza. I like a regular slice with granulated garlic. I take mine to go, because there have been two shootings at my local pizza parlor since I have lived here, so I do not stick around!

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What seems like a million years ago, Alex and I had some friends over for a fajita party at our old 500-square foot Chelsea bungalow. Lacking an electric citrus juicer, we spent a good part of the afternoon hand-reaming the juice out of dozens of limes so that I could make a few pitchers of the margarita recipe that was printed on the Classic Cocktails paper place mat I’d stolen from Stingy Lulus the weekend before. If you like your margaritas so tart you might have to close one eye to swallow a single sip and your memories few and far between, I cannot recommend this old-school recipe enough.

But, if you’re only going to invite over four friends, may I suggest you make slightly less than two-and-a-half pitchers? Because in the years since, rarely a month goes by that we don’t tell the story of Dave and Steve getting ejected from a cab that night in the middle of Times Square, Steve having his “to-go cup” tossed in the trash by a patrolling police officer, Dave getting in a non-sensical argument with the cop’s partner (Steve swears they were speaking in Brogue by this point) who called him a drunken disgrace and told him to go home but Dave pleaded that he was trying to go home but mean cabbie kicked them out and then, when the cops finally sent them on their way, Dave announcing, “Well, I think I handled that pretty well.”

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Do you ever feel like a kitchen incompetent? That despite what seems like The Entire Rest of the World being able to cook something flawlessly, even going so far as to boast, “This is so EASY to make!” each and every time you try it, you fail? Believe me, it’s not just you.

Before this past weekend, nothing made me feel more unskilled and less deserving of your readership than gnocchi, which was a damned shame because it’s probably my favorite pasta in the entire world. After reading countless accounts by others about what a “cinch” gnocchi is to make and how you will “never buy it frozen again,” I tried to make it about a year ago and it was a complete and total disaster. I am not mincing words.

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I killed a biga. I didn’t really want to get into it at the time, as I’m not exactly proud of my actions. It’s not like I didn’t know how not to destroy a pre-ferment, it’s not like I don’t like, no love ciabatta bread, yet I made it at the start of one of those weeks that seem easy-peasy from the outset but when the pace picked up, I let it linger, carelessly convinced it would wait patiently for me. It was my neglect that took its life. And yet in hindsight, now that I’m ready to own up to it, it may have also been some passive-aggressiveness on my part.

You see, we were watching Everyday Italian on the Food Network a few Sundays ago, and upon eyeing Giada slicing into large ciabatta loaf in a low-cut blouse, Alex said, “You know what you should make next time? Ciabatta bread.” Except he said in sort of a lingering, elongated fashion, like the tone I might use to say “Baileys on the rocks” or “salted butter caramel.” I know that tone, and I didn’t like it but of course, I didn’t say this. I actually said, “Great idea! I’ll start the dough!” And four days later, the biga had been left for dead. Curious, eh?

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