The Perfect Pantry

Thyme (Recipe: herbed cheese spread)

New England, famous for its exuberant display of Fall foliage, seldom disappoints us.

Here in the southern part of the region, the leaves are just beginning to turn, mostly to yellow, but I see an occasional bright red or orange sugar maple along the roads from my house to anywhere. Right outside the window nearest to my desk, the dogwood's leaves have a bit of a purplish tinge today.

My garden senses the change of season, too. The tomato plant should win an award for tenacity, as it continues to produce lovely little green tomatoes that hang on the vine just long enough, it seems, for the deer, or rabbits, or woodchuck to discover them.

In the herb beds, some plants linger while others have begun to fade away. Parsley: gone to seed. Sage: still lively, waiting to be called upon for Thanksgiving turkey stuffing. Rosemary: surprisingly vibrant, though not much left.

And thyme. There's always thyme, hanging on well into winter, when I dig down through the snow to grab a few sprigs for my cooking.

Tortillas (Recipe: shrimp and avocado quesadillas)

Down the hill from the house where Ted's aunt and uncle live, in Ajijic on the shore of Lake Chapala, a small tortilleria opens in mid-morning, six days a week.

When you hear the slap-slap-slap of the masa dough between the palms of the women's hands, and when the aroma of corn toasting on the comal (griddle) works its way up the road, you know the shop has opened.

A dozen tortillas costs very little, just a dollar or two, and a meal would be unthinkable without them. Tortillas -- the round, thin, flatbread made from corn or flour -- are the sandwich bread of Mexico. They're the sandwich bread of The Perfect Pantry, too.

Feta cheese, and a cookbook giveaway (Recipe: baked shrimp with tomatoes and feta)

When I was younger, I learned a lot of what I knew about boys in summer camp, from my girlfriends who had older siblings or whose mothers had had "the talk" before mine ever worked up the courage to give it a try.

Similarly, I learned a lot of what I knew about food from my friends who had grandparents and parents from Italy and Puerto Rico and the American South. Pasta and parmesan, enchiladas and chicken fried steak -- all were new to me.

I didn't know any kids from Greek families, though, so it took years before I learned about feta cheese.

Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (Recipe: Broccoli and cauliflower sformatino)

 

When my friend Ben, who goes to the local high school, asked me to give him the test for his Boy Scout cooking merit badge, I figured it would be easy.

After all, Ben had been taking cooking classes with me since he was 12 years old, so I knew that he knew how to cook cool stuff like quesadillas and meatloaf and deviled eggs and vegetable sushi.

What I didn't expect is that I'd have to question him about botulism and E. coli, kitchen safety and serving sizes, or that as part of the test he would have to plan meals for six days of wilderness camping, with no refrigeration.

Six days without ice cream or fresh milk for morning coffee? I could handle that. But six days without Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese? Maybe not.

Gifts for food lovers: Art and craft (Recipe: four-fold gratin)

Part Four of an eight-part series.

My little log house in Rhode Island is the old-fashioned kind, with lumpy-bumpy walls inside and out.

Some logs stick out more than others, as though trees were felled and simply piled up in a rectangle, holes cut here and there, until someone said, "Okay, that's enough -- let's put a roof on it!"

I know the construction wasn't quite that haphazard, but try hanging artwork on a log wall, and you'll know what I mean. Nails or hooks go into the logs that protrude; then the art must be shimmed out on the bottom to make it more-or-less level, or it looks like it's sliding down the wall. And you'd better like the height, because those protruding logs aren't always quite where you want them to be.

Except in the kitchen.

The kitchen has one long plastered wall. No lumps, no bumps, no logs. Perfect for art.

If the food lover in your life has an art wall, or an art corner, or a tiny space above the countertop for a little painting, here are gift ideas galore for art-loving foodies or food-loving artsies.

Grated or shredded cheese (Recipe: zucchini frittata)

I am way above average.

Not in a Michael Phelps way, but somehow, some way, way above average.

I always believed it, but now I have proof.

The average American eats 32 pounds (14.5 kilograms) of cheese per year. And if that's true, I am above average. I'm sure I eat more cheese than that.

My refrigerator always has a stash of hard cheese and soft, white and blue, spreadable and sliceable, and grated or shredded cheese.

For my grated cheese stash, I have Julia Child to thank.

Turmeric (Recipe: saag paneer -- spicy spinach with cheese)

What do margarine, Domino's Pizza grilled chicken, chow-chow relish and monks' robes have in common?

They all get their bright yellow color from turmeric.

What do curry powder, ras-el hanout, hawayij, and tandoori spice rub have in common?

They all get their bright color from turmeric.

Herbes de Provence (Recipe: marinated bocconcini)

Who was more ingenious, the Provencal cook who first tossed together a few herbs growing on a hillside and gave it a fancy-sounding name -- herbes de Provence -- or the person who thought to market those herbs in an adorable ceramic crock ?

(You have one of those iconic little crocks on your spice rack, don't you? Me, too.)

Pie crust (Recipe: empanaditas)

When I was born, my parents took inventory.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. Eyes, ears, nose.

DNA. RNA. PIE.

Wait a second. PIE?

Right away, my parents sensed that something was missing -- the PIE gene, the one that governs the ability to bake fruit pies, cream pies, sweet or savory lattice-covered perfectly-crimped-edges pies.

After extensive testing, the diagnosis was confirmed; indeed, I lacked the pie gene. Oh, I could make a tasty enough filling, but when it came to marrying filling to pastry, I couldn't quite pull it together. I'd always forget an ingredient, or my pie would look great, but the bottom disintegrated. Or the filling escaped from a hole I didn't create.

For years I suffered the indignity of never being asked to bring dessert to a party or potluck. And when I entertained, I would pooh-pooh pie, telling my guests that I just wasn't in the mood to bake, or that I really preferred ice cream or a fruit salad.

And then, in the refrigerator aisle of my local market, right next to Paul Newman's lemonade, I found help for my affliction. Pie crust, ready to unroll and bake!

Could it be that simple? Yes, it could.

Phyllo dough (Recipe: cheese phyllo triangles)

Cleveland, Ohio, stakes its claim as the phyllo dough capital of the world.

Athens Foods, which opened in Cleveland in 1958, makes more than 90 percent of the phyllo dough sold in the United States -- all told, more than five million pounds a year of the paper-thin, flaky dough called phyllo, phillo, filo or fillo.

Phyllo, the Greek word for "leaf", is made of wheat flour, water, and a small amount of oil. Filo and fillo are alternate spellings of the same word. In my local Middle Eastern market, I've heard people ask for FEE-LOH (the correct pronounciation) and FIE-LOH -- and, yes, for FILL-O.

In Turkish, phyllo dough is called yufka ... or youfka.