• Cool Brew coffee concentrate (buy milk from the library café)
• 50/50 blend Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Cracklin’ Oat Bran
• Pillsbury sugar cookie dough
• Cabot white cheddar cheese
• Sour Patch Berries
• FaveReds Starbursts

Block all fun Internet websites for 8 hours. Realize after you’ve made the irreversible blockage that you forgot to include WordPress on the blacklist. Update your food blog when you’re taking a break from philosophizing about parental and filial obligations. Focusfocusfocus until Loui’s opens at 5am. Go order a 3-3-3 (three pancakes, three sausage links, three eggs).

Be calm, you intrepid scholar, you. Sleep will come soon enough.

Still, it’s the simple joys that are often the greatest, and the same goes here. My favorite new discovery is the incredible, edible egg. Specifically, the fried egg, in all its glory. I’ve lived my life believing I scorned it. Sunny side up, over-easy, over-hard, whatever; I just knew to avoid it at brunch. Yolks that somehow manage to be both runny and chalky, whites that are plasticine and flavorless… who needs it?

I needed only a few tweaks to have a total 180. I’d been missing out on the secret all along. The way I’ve started frying eggs makes the best of both components, resulting in a crispy, crackly egg white that’s surprisingly redolent of latkes and a velvety egg yolk free of all former chalkiness. Even better, it’s embarrassingly easy to prepare. Like, these eggs take me less time, from when I start cooking to when I take my last bite, than it takes to eat a bowl of cereal.

1. Generously coat the bottom of a frying pan with extra virgin olive oil. (You want ~1/8 cup for 2 eggs, so adjust the ratio accordingly; really, just a nice, very shallow pool is what we’re going for.)
2. Heat the pan on high for a few minutes. You’ll know it’s hot enough when a flick of water into the pan makes crackling noises.
3. Pour your eggs into the oil (it’s easiest if you crack them all into a ramekin or bowl beforehand and pour them in simultaneously). Since you’ve been good and patient while the pan has heated, it should be hot enough that the white starts to bubble almost immediately.
4. Sprinkle with salt and pepper; drizzle over lemon juice or white truffle oil or any extra flavor your heart desires.
5. Once the white has bubbled up and made itself pretty unsightly (the yolk, on the other hand, will still be near-raw), cover the pan completely. This will corral all the heat so that the yolk finishes cooking in the steam. Leave the cover on for one minute if you like your egg on the runny side and two minutes if you prefer it more well-done.

That is it. Seriously. It is great on its own, with a hearty helping of sautéed shiitakes, on a sandwich, whatever. Try it for yourself and spread the love!

This is just a fun concept. It has nothing to do with food and everything to do with how this blog will come in handy through the rest of this super-busy semester (10 papers left to write between now and summer). Basically, the professor’s idea is that procrastination is normal and inevitable, but if we procrastinate doing otherwise meaningful things that may normally get pushed to the bottom of our to-do lists–calling a family member to catch up, exercising, reading for pleasure, writing a food blog–then it’s actually great, one way of leading richer, more dynamic lives.

Pierre Hermé's Ispahan croissant: a 2€ joy filled with rose, lychee, and raspberry. It tastes like angels.

I’m giving this another go, now that I’m one year wiser. A brief recap of the events that transpired in the last 52 weeks or so: I was a crazy person and took three summer jobs, rendering me a SAT teacher cum apprentice cheesemonger cum dessert flinger. I earned a lot of money doing this. I did a lot of traveling, within the U.S. (New York, two of its suburbs!, Boston, Vermont, Chicago) and outside it (Paris, Rome, Barcelona, London, Copenhagen). I took a semester of classes in Paris at the University of Paris VIII: Vincennes Saint-Denis (also known as the school that was founded by Foucault in the 1960s and doesn’t seem to have restocked its soap or toilet paper since then). I bought 20€ of chocolate that promptly fell into the Seine. I was stricken by the overwrought poeticism of this event. I reevaluated my educational philosophy and am taking everything pass/fail. I got accepted to lead BOLT, aka Brown Outdoor Leadership Training; as a participant it changed my life, and as a leader I think it will be exponentially better. I’m loving it so far.

I’m also back on my gig as a threefold food columnist; you can find me on the interwebs at BlogDailyHerald or on Thursdays in print by way of Post- magazine (in the BDH). Most recently, we came out with a Best of Providence issue, which is kickass from cover to cover. My best friend Gopika wrote a love letter to Providence from her outpost in Cambridge, England (page 3). Anita wrote her hilarious and all too true memoir of being a cyclist on campus (page 6-7). Clay, Anita, and Ben conspired to add to my Providence bucket list with all the cool new bars and hipster coffee shops (page 10-11). And my fellow food columnist Jane and I wrote a hilarious, witty, knowledgeable Oscars-style homage to Providence’s gastronomic superlatives (page 12-13). Shameless promotion of publication, others, and self. Check it out.

All for now; it’s back to beating my head against the wall that is Aristotle’s nature/art analogy (I fondly call it Aristothell). I swear I’ll be back soon with the legend of Noma, though.

The weather’s in the 80s. The park is absolutely flooded with sunbathers. When I went to Hogs for the Cause last Saturday on my first day home for spring break, I got a sandals tan after being outside for just a couple of hours. (And who knows, if I keep talking up the springtime, maybe it’ll become so enraptured with me that it follows me back to New England…)

This can mean only one thing: IT’S TIME TO GO GET SNOWBALLS. The line is already permanently out the door over at Hansen’s, but that shouldn’t stop you. Go get you one (or seven); by the time you’ve made it to the front of that line, you deserve it! I like to get several tiny cups, each with a different flavor, so I can get everything I want all in one go. Satsuma, nectar cream, vanilla bean, and raspberry are all safe bets. Coffee + condensed milk is a revelation.

Dirty chai made with Intelligentsia's Black Cat espresso: one thing I've reviewed recently. Mmm, deeelish. (Click the picture for more!)

I know I’ve abandoned ship with the whole “personal blogging” thing, but I actually started Passionfruit Butter more as a portfolio than a blog, so I’ve decided it would be fitting for me to come here and check in with all of y’all about my whereabouts.

Since my last post, I have become a threefold food columnist. So… THAT’S where I’ve been. Writing a shitload about food, only somewhere else. I would really, really love it if you scampered on over and checked out what I’ve been doing!

Amuse-Bouche is my first real food criticky outlet. It’s a weekly restaurant review of the digs around College Hill, by way of the Blog Daily Herald. So far, I’ve reviewed La Laiterie, Sakura, Sawaddee, Parkside Rotisserie, and The Edge. Coming up in the next couple of weeks will be Harry’s and, methinks, New Rivers. Stay tuned.

Chow Down Brown, also on Blog Daily Herald, is about college kids + food: the funny things we eat and drink in cafeterias, in our dorm rooms, in the wee hours of the morning, etc. It’s a lot of fun.

Ravenous Rapture is the title that’s been slapped on my articles for Post- magazine, where I’ve been writing since the beginning of freshman year. Same old stuff; new official, biweekly column. Last time it was about portable delectable condiments; this week it’ll be about chocolate.

“It is utterly insufficient [to eat pie only twice a week], as anyone who knows the strength of our nation and the foundation of our industrial supremacy must admit. Pie is the American synonym of prosperity, and its varying contents the calendar of the changing seasons. Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished.” –New York Times (May 3, 1902)

What holiday could be more American than Thanksgiving? Rooted in colonialism, family, and God, it remains a quintessential part of our country’s identity, marked by binge fests and football. Similarly, what dessert could be more American than apple pie? A cultural icon, it is the emblem of patriotism and down-home comfort.

Indeed, America has appropriated pie as its most nationalistic dish of dishes, a symbol of heroism met with humility, robustness with cozy delicacy. It’s ubiquitous during the holidays, but in the summer, you’ll find it in the form of strawberry rhubarb or key lime. And what would the Fourth of July be without good old cherry pie?

There is something so viscerally, universally appealing about pie, as darling as a cake but nowhere near as fussy. Pastry and filling were destined for each other like Barbie and Ken: together, they are the image of domesticity, yet infinitely versatile. On any given minute of the day, there is some breed of pie out there begging to be consumed.

Breakfast. Bam. Start the day off right with a simple tart filled with fresh fruit. Berries, pears, peaches, citrus–pick your poison. Best if you pile ‘em over pastry cream, if you can swing it.

At lunchtime, quiche reigns supreme. What the French have done here is answer to the American pie in a trickier, more ethereal fashion. Still, a rose by any other name… yadda yadda. Smoked ham and Brie or mushrooms and leeks are redolent of eating al fresco on Parisian sidewalks. If you, a pie purist, insist on omitting the eggy filling, a noble alternative can be found in a tart of roasted squash and Gorgonzola. Go wild.

Dinner calls for something more substantial, and so the stage is set for chicken pot pie. With its bubbling interior of gravy beneath a halo of crust, it is the textbook example of comfort food, a perfect antidote to these damp gray days with their cruelly evanescent sunlight. Later in the night, pizza is the only option, at least as pies go–as they say in Wedding Crashers, it’s good no matter what.

Dessert, though, is the arena in which pie can really shine at its Platonic ideal. During Thanksgiving, certain dishes start to seem repulsive as more of them are heaped onto the table. I can tolerate two casseroles. I cannot tolerate seven of them. With pies, though, there is no diminishing marginal value. Keep them coming, and everyone will stay happy.

I am a strong supporter of pecan pie; the pecans, gem-like, precipitate bursts of buttery expression amidst the molasses alluvium. Another contender is sweet potato pie, which is further glorified with a gingersnap-pecan crust. Gild the lily that is pumpkin pie by folding caramel into the filling. Chilled pies needn’t be ruled out; as a Southerner, I’m partial to the lemon icebox pie, a wonder of tangy golden custard atop coarse graham cracker crust. It tastes like wearing a sundress on a wrap-around porch. While you may call that inappropriate for Thanksgiving, I call it timely. This is an under-publicized cure for Seasonal Affective Disorder.

So the New York Times editorial, however hyperbolic, makes a good point. Pie, in its manifold manifestations, is a cornerstone of American culinary tradition. Rustic or highbrow, sweet or savory, it always manages to satisfy–what better cause exists for giving thanks? Should you need to satisfy a pie fix wherever you find yourself next week, here’s my pick. I’ve heard it’ll earn you the eternal adulation of whoever eats it, but you may want to just hoard it in your room. Leave the apple pie to everyone else.

Ali’s Amazing Pecan Pie
It should speak volumes that I still get warm fuzzies thinking about spending the holidays with an ex-boyfriend, an abnormality I accredit largely to this pie, a brainchild of my ex’s mom. It’s so beloved that she has to make several every Thanksgiving in order to satisfy the appetites of her throng of hungry sons. The secret is the dark corn syrup and brown sugar, which meld in a torrid, oven-bound affair to create just about the most celestial smell I could ever dream up.

Ingredients:
1 cup dark corn syrup
1 cup brown sugar
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1.5 cups chopped pecans (reserve 1/4 cup)
One pie crust, unbaked

Preheat oven at 350. Mix together all ingredients until combined. Pour into pie crust, sprinkle reserved pecans over the top, and cover with aluminum foil. Bake for about forty minutes, or until a knife inserted in the middle does not emerge covered in raw pecan goop. Remove the foil and bake for 5 more minutes. Let rest an hour before serving.

Let me start by saying that I love cheese. I want cheese to be my boyfriend. I want to talk to it about its hopes and dreams. I want to be its #1 confidante when it has one of those days and starts questioning what it’s doing with its life.

Sadly, that’s not possible. I suppose it could be if one were to get innovative, but that’s what we’d call fetishistic, and while I am many things, cheese fetishist is not one of them.

With all that said, I can boldly and publicly claim that Ewephoria is very possibly my favorite cheese in the world. It is an all-American aged sheep’s milk Gouda, unabashedly punny, with Reggiano’s robustness but a characteristic butterscotch sweetness that makes you give it a doubletake. I want to show up at its door during Christmastime and profess my love for it.

Indeed, Ewephoria was developed for the palate of the American sweet tooth, which would be vexing if the cheese wasn’t so darn successful. The sheep at the Holland-based farm behind it purportedly eat better than the farmers’ two sons, which resonates in the cheese’s warm, nutty richness, which comes as close to a hug as is possible for a cheese. This cheese, like Iberico bellota ham, is a hands-on lesson on the food chain: really and truly, you are what you eat. Eat something scrumptious, and acquire its best traits. Don’t you want to be scrumptious?

On the first day of French classes at summer school in Nice, my teacher told us, in no uncertain terms, that the only things French people talk about are food and sex. Exhibit A:

Jenna and I found this bakery while wandering through Paris. According to my stepdad, “the guy’s just kneading.” This is a stunning exemplar of efficiency and multi-tasking.

Now I’m trying to write a 10- to 15-page paper for my food anthro class about that. But where do I even start? Better question: where do I stop? The two are so inextricably connected that it’s kind of dizzying for me to attempt to outline an academic essay. There’s so much to say about everything from gendered foods to whipped cream bikinis. That said, I’m attempting to delving into the role language plays. Where do we get phrases like food porn? Orgasmic cheesecake? Sexual appetite?

There is very little conclusive evidence for the libidinal effects of many aphrodisiacs. The New York Times decided chocolate doesn’t have a marked effect on actual desire, and it’s even dubious that oysters, the most infamous aphrodisiac at all, have real physiological effects. If you don’t believe the case that aphrodisiacs are more decided by culture and folklore, consider that bull penises are eaten in China to increase sexual desire and potency. Gentlemen: wanna give that a shot with your ladies next Valentine’s Day and report back to me?

Now imagine what a $5 footlong will do to your mind.

Fun fact: in Brazil, the Portuguese word “comer” — meaning “to eat” — has the vulgar added meaning of “to fuck.” Women are “comidas,” or “foods.” So literally, the guys devour the chicks. That brings a whole new meaning to dinner dates.

Other fun fact: the author of The Sex Life of Food is named Bunny Crumpacker. Really and truly. Not only is that horribly vicious on the part of her parents, but it’s like her career as a food (and sex) writer was handed to her as soon as they put her name on the birth certificate. This is supporting evidence for self-fulfilling prophecies, my friends.