Every holiday season, there are two recipes people ask me to divulge, one for eggnog, the other for chocolate truffles. The recipe for chocolate truffles is a true secret passed onto me from my mother and, I fear, it cannot be shared until I’ve reached my dotage and am no longer to make them myself. But as for the eggnog, which was bestowed by an aunt many years ago, I’m glad to share it this year. I’ll warn you all that it’s deceptively potent and that makes it perfect for the holiday party that needs extra social lubricant. It’s definitely not appropriate for any work-related functions, unless you want to see your boss getting jiggy with one of the interns. I make this more or less every year and, without fail, some sort of scandal always ensues. By the time the bowl is empty, you are apt to find couples caressing in dark corners or some of your guests frolicking in various states of undress through the snow. Trust me, after a glass or two you will have summoned the courage to ask your crush for a kiss (or two or three) beneath the mistletoe. Needless to say, it promotes good holiday cheer, which this year especially, we all need.

For parties of 20 or more, I usually double the recipe below. This makes a vast quantity that requires a very large vessel. I often use a stock pot, which might not be the most glamorous of serving pieces, but does the job with a little twist of kitsch. Also, I encourage you to buy the freshest organic eggs possible as the eggs remain raw. You want your guests to make out in the coat closet, not make trips to the ER with salmonella poisoning.

What you’ll need:

*8 eggs, separated
*1 cup granular sugar
*1 quart light cream or half & half
*2 quarts whole milk
*1/2 pint brandy
*1/2 pint rum
*1/2 pint creme de cacao (dark)
*1 pint bourbon
*1/2 gallon delicious vanilla ice cream, softened
*2 teaspoons cinnamon
*2 teaspoons freshly grated nutmeg

Beat egg yolks with 1/2 cup of the sugar until light in color. Slowly add brandy to yolks. Add remaining sugar and beat.

Next, beat egg whites until they form soft peaks. In a large bowl, pour together milk, cream, and egg yolks and slowly stir together. Now comes my favorite part when you pour in some of my favorite guys: Captain Morgan and Jim Beam. Beat those boys well and then fold in the egg whites and ice cream. Finally add the spices. Have a little taste and adjust accordingly. You will probably want to add a bit more nutmeg or bourbon. Chill until your guests arrive, then garnish with some freshly grated nutmeg or cinnamon on top.

Of late, my life is better suited to seduction in organic chemistry lab rather than in my kitchen. So while chemistry fills my days, it does not fill my heart and stomach in the way it used to. But I am lucky to be able to live vicariously through my friends and their stories of food and love. In particular, I am honored that my dear friend Tracey’s prose now graces the Sexy Spoon. T was one of the first people I met in college and in the eight years since, we have remained good friends, even when our lives took us to opposite points of the globe. Her writing, like her palate, has grown and I am always impressed by the delicate precision of her work. And I think all the ladies will agree, that her taste in men has also developed quite well.

Couscous for a Carnivore

Before I lived on my own, I used to laugh at my father and his peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich dinners, eaten in front of the TV and out of a paper towel. Chunky peanut butter, strawberry jam. Then there was his bagel phase, followed closely by his banana phase. The closest dear old dad has come to following a recipe was his ahead-of-the-curve juicing phase about fifteen years ago.

But, turns out, dad had the last laugh¬—I pretty much adopted his scavenger ways when I started living on my own. Then, last year I moved to South Africa, to a tiny town about five hours from Johannesburg. I didn’t like the one brand of instant oatmeal at the grocery store. The yogurt was—gasp—just OK. I didn’t even have a TV to watch as I enjoyed my own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

If this was one of those pretty articles in a glossy food magazine, I’d profess to have discovered a love of cooking in South Africa and I’d offer a recipe of my own creation for something like roast chicken stuffed with—I don’t even know—something you could stuff inside a chicken that would still taste good when you pulled it back out (as a vegetarian, I have to wonder if such a thing exists).

But that’s not where this story is going. I still don’t really cook and now I carry instant oatmeal packets with me when I travel. Instead, this is the unlikely story of my neighbor, a former rugby player who I’ll affectionately call Shrek because he is one of the largest, non-fat people I’ve had the pleasure to know. I hardly ever spent time with him when someone didn’t approach him to ask if he wouldn’t mind helping change this tire or something else that inevitably involved him getting his hands dirty. And he hates getting his hands dirty.

As much fun as it was to watch Shrek struggle with whatever muscle-man favor was asked of him, it was much more fun to watch him putter around his own kitchen. As you can imagine, he liked food quite a bit. And when he was cooking, he’d wander around his kitchen in his crocks, singing made-up songs about the food he was making. You’re going to be so good, I can’t wait to eat you…

Once, while grilling pork rashers, he said to me, “This is my favorite meat. It’s really too bad you won’t eat it,” with such incredible regret that I actually thought about trying the thin, fatty strips. But a few days later he sang to lamb chops that they were his favorite meat.

“Wait,” I interrupted. “I thought pork rashers were your favorite meat.” He looked at me like I had just committed some act of sacrilege. “A few days ago, you said that pork rashers were your favorite,” I reminded him, laughing at the way he seemed to try to shield the lamp chops from our discussion.

With perhaps a wee bit of condescension he informed me that “pork rashers aren’t a meal. They’re something you eat while you’re waiting for the rest of the meal to cook.”

These are the kind of conversations an American vegetarian has with a South African carnivore. Perhaps you can see where this is heading. We started dating. And while he did most of the cooking in our relationship while I sat on his kitchen counter, I did contribute one successful vegetarian entree into his meat-heavy world: couscous.

My roommate had only introduced me to couscous a few months before. I’d always liked it, but assumed it was too complicated for me to make myself. Well, turns out, couscous is anything but complicated. Boil some water, let it soak for about five minutes, add whatever is in the fridge, and it’s done. A dinnertime miracle!

The first time I brought couscous over to Shrek’s he looked a bit skeptical. “What is it?” he asked. “Couscous,” I said. “Have you never had it before?” He had not. “Cous. Cous.” he said, forming each word carefully. With his South African accent, it was about the cutest thing I’d ever heard. “Yea, couscous,” I said, faster. He took a little, ate it, then took a little more. “Cous-cous,” he repeated to himself nodding.

I felt triumphant. Like an indulgent grandmother, now all I wanted was to feed this man. I made couscous over and over, slightly varying the vegetables and spices I added. Shrek started to tease me about how much I loved couscous, but I just kept going. Like my dad with his food phases, I had a one-track mind. Admittedly, I over did it. I don’t think Shrek will ever eat couscous again and even I have had to take a couscous hiatus. Good thing I’m now back in the U.S., with its plethora of yogurt brands and instant oatmeal flavors.

For those who love feeding others, but could give complicated recipes a skip, I refer you to someone who knows food better than me. You can see Rachel’s amazing couscous recipe right here: http://sexyspoon.com/blog/?p=48.

I picked up the most delightful collections of essays the other day on cooking for one and eating alone entitled Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant. Many of my favorite foodies, including Laurie Colwin and M.F.K Fisher, explore the art of a meal for one. Is it a lonely act to cook dinner just for yourself? Is eating by yourself at a restaurant a bold gesture? Is our enjoyment of cooking and of eating inextricably tied to sharing the experience with someone else? Every person seems to have a different point of view. For me, cooking for one always feels rather burdensome. Isn’t it a bit much for one person to play all the roles of cook, diner, and dishwasher, not to mention shopper and table-setter?

It’s a curious predicament, especially because it seems to be the fate of many of us in our twenties who, whether single or taken, living alone or with a houseful of roommates, often find ourselves struggling with such disparate schedules that we are obliged to cook for one. Even before I started reading Alone in the Kitchen, I had become intrigued by my friends’ stories of what they eat when they’re alone. They seem to range from anything baked at Starbucks to a roast fish dinner that includes a soup, salad, and cheese course. There’s a middle ground of course, though it appears to be primarily populated by canned soup and jars of Indian sauces from Trader Joe’s.

I find myself sprinting between the two ends of the spectrum: one night I’ll eat a bowl of instant ramen in bed (shocking, I know) and the next, I’ll be sitting at the dining room table with a cloth napkin and glass of wine accompanying my roast chicken with a frisee salad and shallot vinegarette. As my darling friend Sam pointed out to me though, most of us can’t seem to truly master preparing a meal for just one person. We inevitably cook as if we were going to be entertaining six. Perhaps it makes the act less lonely, or maybe it’s just a habit we can’t shake. For me, whenever I try to reduce a recipe, I always end up drifting back to making the full number of servings, as if more hungry mouths will have appeared by the time it is done cooking.

So I always make enough food for leftovers for lunch (and for dinner) the next day. And like Amanda Hesser, I try to keep all my dishes to a minimum: one cooking vessel, one plate, one fork, one knife, and perhaps, one sexy spoon.

Here’s my favorite dish for one. There are endless variations - you can add sweet potatoes, red onion, butternut squash - whatever your heart desires.

Roast Chicken with Autumn Vegetables

Preheat oven to 400°F. In an 8×8 pan, toss the following in a generous glug of olive oil and the juice of one lemon:

• 6 whole shallots
• 4 or 5 small fingerling potatoes, chopped into bite size pieces with skin still on
• 1 fennel bulb, thickly sliced
• 4 boneless chicken thighs

Season with fresh ground pepper and sea salt. Bake for ~30 minutes, or until chicken is done.

For all you culinary Romeos and Juliets out there, here’s your chance to share your prowess with the world! The 92nd Street Y is hosting a recipe contest with some pretty dynamite, and romantique, prizes. Tickets for two to anywhere JetBlue flies, a weekend getaway at the Affina Hotel in NYC or Chicago, and oh so much more! I should add that the Sexy Spoon’s inimitable photographer - the lovely Renee Claire - is one of the organizers behind this event.

For all the details, check it:

www.92Y.org/megabites

We’ll be submitting our original recipes (cupcakes anyone?) and hope you all will give us some delicious competition. The oven clock is ticking!

Who knew there was a name for such men? Check out this article from the Daily Mail: Rise of the ‘gastrosexual’ as men take up cooking in a bid to seduce women. They stole a trick right out of our play book!

Thank you, Ms. B, for passing this along!

The Sexy Spoon is staging a comeback! I’m sorry, dear readers, that I have been so negligent. But as I slowly return to the land of the living, shrugging off the fetters of inorganic chemistry, the Sexy Spoon will also return in full glory. To start, I am delighted to again have a guest post by our intrepid Hong Kong contributor Heather. This recipe, and the sultry story of heartbreak and healing that accompanies it, are to be savored.

“Heather, we are going out. Get dressed,” commanded Deb’s voice through my cell phone. I detached myself from the couch in my sublet where I had been hiding out for the better part of two weeks after a nasty breakup. I knew, theoretically, that going to a party was a good idea, but I sure as hell didn’t feel like getting up.

Two hours later, I’m small-talking away in a corner of a sweet duplex in the East Village, filled with Deb’s grad student friends. I still feel a bit dazed, and tune in and out of conversation, but I keep encouraging myself with those behavior therapy maxims: Pretend like you are fine, and you will be fine! I’m dragged back into the moment when A., the curly-haired host, starts getting excited about my recent move to Carroll Gardens. “My favorite restaurant in New York is in Carroll Gardens. Banania. Do you know it?”

Of course I do. It’s two blocks from my house and serves outrageously good cinnamon-raisin French toast on Sundays. We trade neighborhood tales, and I’m impressed by his knowledge of Brooklyn (to most Manhattan-ites, Brooklyn might as well be Kentucky) and his good taste in wine. An hour later, when I go over to say goodbye and thanks for a lovely night, he asks if he can take me to dinner at Banania the next weekend.

Dinner is wonderful. Great food, great wine, sexy lighting. The conversation is easy and he’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says, “I’m so excited to be sitting across the table from you right now.” I’m charmed when he walks me home, and swept away when he kisses me at the gate. He calls the next morning and says he wants to see me again. Soon. All week I feel triumphant. The worst is over. I am healed and I have moved on.

Next Friday, we decide to cook. I had spent the previous summer in Puglia, in southern Italy, and was eager to try making linguini with mussels and clams, which I had learned from my wonderful host mother, Anna. I showed up with a bottle of Salice Salentino, cherry tomatoes, fresh basil and flat leaf parsley. He brought the seafood.

What is more sensuous than preparing food with someone? For the first half hour, we danced around each other in the kitchen, wine glasses in hand, laughing as we squirted tomato juice on the counter, pretending not to notice how close our bodies were when he reached around me for the olive oil. I told stories about my summer to keep my nervousness at bay. I described how Anna and I would drive down to the docks in the morning and buy mussels right off the boats and take them home in their brine to eat for lunch that day, or how buying meat, cheese or foccacia all required trips to different nearby towns that specialized in such things.

At one point, mid-cooking, he turned very suddenly and kissed me. Moments later, I was sitting on his kitchen counter, his hands at my hips, my hands still full of flat-leaf parsley, being kissed with that particular sense of wonder and energy that only happens at the very beginning of things. We did manage to finish cooking, and he practically swooned over the pasta. It was delicious. It tasted like the sea and fresh herbs and the wine had a tint of sunburn that brought us both back to the summer that was quickly fading from late September New York skies. Would I stay the night?

Panic swam up through the salty-sweet taste in my mouth. No. No. I can’t. Not yet. Not ready. Oh God. I stood up from the table and started clearing the dishes, muttering lame excuses all the way to the sink. Have to get up early tomorrow. Really long week. So nice to see you again. A quick kiss and I was gone.

He called the next day. I was deep into avoidance mode and ignored the call. He called again. He was open and affectionate and just wanted to spend time with me. But I had to face the dread that had settled into the pit of my stomach. I could go through the motions (Pretend you are fine, and you will be fine!) but I wasn’t ready.

So here’s my advice: don’t break out the seafood until you know you’re serious.

Anna’s Linguini with Mussels and Clams

(This is the recipe as I learned it standing in Anna’s kitchen; don’t expect cookbook exactness!)

DeCecco linguini (wrap your thumb and index finger around the linguini—that’s about one serving size, add or subtract according to your appetite and the number of people)
Clams and mussels—you can add shrimp or squid here too. If you can get them in brine, reserve the brine. If not, take half a cup of the pasta cooking water and add salt until it tastes like the ocean.
Garlic, 4 or so sizable cloves, crushed
Bunch fresh basil
Bunch fresh parsley
Box of cherry tomatoes, ripe (you’ll use half to 2/3rds of the box)
Crushed red pepper to taste
Crusty bread for sopping up the sauce

Pasta:

Put the biggest pot you have to boil with a healthy pinch of salt and glug of olive oil added to the water. Follow the cooking time on the packet.

Sauce:

Prep:
De-seed the tomatoes by making a slit in the center of the tomato that goes halfway through and squeezing the seeds into a juice glass. Separate the basil and parsley leaves from the stems. Keep the leaves whole. Rinse the mussels and clams a couple times in fresh water to get rid of any grit.

In a medium saucepan, coat the bottom with good-quality olive oil until the oil is about a quarter inch thick. Put on medium-high heat.

Crush the garlic with the flat side of your knife and toss it into the saucepan. Be careful not to burn the garlic, just cook it for a minute or so until it becomes fragrant and softens a bit. Encourage the pieces of crushed garlic to separate by spreading them around with a wooden spoon. Add a quarter teaspoon or so of crushed red pepper and cook for another minute. Stir in the tomatoes and let them soften but if the skins start to separate from the meat, move on to the next step ASAP. Toss in at least a handful of basil. Smell. Mmmm.

Add the seafood and the half cup of brine. Give it all a good stir (or, as Anna used to say, “Sbatutta! Sbatutta!”), make sure it’s bubbling nicely, and then put the cover on. Steam for just a few minutes, until the clams and mussels open. Pick out any that haven’t opened. Finally, pour the drained linguini into the pot and toss to your heart’s content. Adjust the seasoning. Serve in a shallow bowl. Garnish with parsley.

The Sexy Spoon is thrilled to post our Hong Kong correspondent’s first of what will hopefully be many stories of food and love. Heather is a dear dear friend who has been based in HK for the past two years. It was OK for her to live in Asia when I lived there too, but now that I’m back stateside, I just miss her! She is a passionate and graceful being in everything she does, but especially when it comes to love.

So with great pleasure, let me present Heather’s take on the best anti-restaurant foodie first date…