Even though the weather in Napa has been 100% summer—in the 80s every nearly day lately—the calendar still says its spring. And that’s a good thing because I haven’t gotten my fill of spring vegetables yet.

Especially baby artichokes. They’re one of the few produce items that’s not always available year-round, so that much more precious.

If you’ve never cooked baby ‘chokes, don’t be daunted. They take a little work up front, but because they’re small, they cook more quickly than their standard-size brethren. And there’s less work at the table—because with cooked baby artichokes, you can eat the whole thing.

And I do.

By the bowlful.

Here’s how to prep them for cooking.

1. Prepare a bowl of acidulated water.
That’s water with a little lemon juice or vinegar, 2 to 3 tablespoons per quart or so. This is where you’ll keep the prepped artichokes as you work, to help prevent browning. It won’t completely avoid browning, but it’ll help.

2. Snap off the outer leaves.
Working one artichoke at a time, remove the leaves—just bend back one or two at a time and they’ll snap right off—until you’re left with leaves that are at about 3/4 pale yellow (top row of photos above). You’ll end up taking off three or four layers, but when in doubt, remove another. It’s better to have a little less artichoke than a mouthful of tough leaves.

3. Trim and cut.
Use a paring knife to trim the top of the artichoke, removing the 1/4 that’s still green. Trim the stem, cutting off any dark green parts on the bottom and sides to create a stubby cone shape. Finally, depending on how you plan to use it, leave the artichoke whole or cut it into halves, quarters, or slices (bottom row of photos above).

4. Repeat.
Drop the prepped ‘choke into the acidulated water and repeat with the remaining artichokes.

That’s it. Your artichokes are ready to be drained and then cooked by almost any method you like. You can even slice them thinly and serve them raw, in salads or as a crudités.

One of my new favorite ways to enjoy baby artichokes is in a soup. Here’s the recipe.

I might think twice about hosting Thanksgiving or Christmas. But with Mother’s Day, there’s no hesitation.

Is it because I so enjoy the opportunity to celebrate the mothers in my life? Absolutely.

But there’s another, secret reason: Mother’s Day is the perfect opportunity to brunch. And I like to brunch.

I like the foods of brunch.

I like the casual elegance of brunch.

I like the brunchy time of day, with enough time passed to allow for sleeping in, but not so much that there isn’t still plenty of it ahead.

I especially like an outdoors brunch. And right around Mother’s Day, the weather is finally getting warm enough to have one.

The flowers are blooming. The sun is shining.

Hooray! Let’s do brunch!

So that’s the plan.

I’m not yet sure of the menu, with two exceptions. Rustic Gruyère Chive Scones (pictured) and mimosas.

With which I’ll toast the mothers in my life—my mom, my step-mom, my mother-in-law, and my Jewish mother, also known as my father.

And secretly, brunch.

The first time that the food and wine pairing light bulb went off in my head, when I had a combination that really underscored how good a good combination can be, it was thanks to a bottle of Riesling.

My husband and I were at a restaurant in San Francisco and it was one of those perfect evenings—the atmosphere, the service, the food, the company. But what sticks in my mind is taking a bite of the smoked sea bass, then a sip of the Riesling, and thinking, “Oh. My. God.”

That was about fifteen years ago, and Riesling is still one of my favorites. Especially as the weather gets warmer and I want a wine that’s light, fruity, and refreshing.

If Riesling is new to you, you’re not alone. Riesling has long been considered one of the world’s great grapes—but we’ve been slow to receive the message here in the States.

If it’s not new to you, you might think of Riesling as a sweet wine. While it’s true that Riesling is made in styles varying from bone dry to sticky sweet, a garden-variety Riesling off the supermarket shelf will likely have only a touch of sweetness.

And that’s a very good thing. Because while sweet foods are best paired with sweet wines—for example, dessert and dessert wine—slightly sweet foods are best paired with slightly sweet wines—for example, mahi mahi with mango salsa (pictured) and an off-dry, Riesling.

(For more about why I think off-dry wines are awesome, read this post.)

In addition to foods that are a little sweet, Riesling pairs well with foods that are a little spicy. Also foods that are a little smoky. It’s considered a classic pair for lighter Asian dishes, like Thai food. And it’s also classic with pork and ham, fish and shellfish.

And then there’s the aforementioned Riesling and smoked sea bass.

Oh. My God.

A few more summery recipes that’d pair well with Riesling:
Seafood and Andouille Jambalaya from “100 Perfect Pairings: Main Dishes to Enjoy with Wines You Love” in Bay Area Scene
Baja Fried Fish Tacos from Sunset
Thai Pork Salad with Chiles and Mint from Real Simple
Shrimp and Cucumber Salad with Horseradish Mayo from Bon Appetit

I think it’d be safe to say that over the last generation or so, we’ve all learned to cook more simply, quickly, healthily. We grill more. We stir fry. We’ve cut down on the fats and focused on good ingredients simply prepared. With few exceptions, we don’t make the gravy-laden and cream-of-mushroom-soup-based dishes our mothers and grandmothers did.

Somewhere in the translation, though, we lost the ability to make a sauce. By that I don’t mean a heavy, gloppy concoction that gets slathered all over the plate. I mean a spoonful or two of something flavorful and wet to enhance our simply prepared foods.

Let me say it again because doesn’t it sound nice?

A spoonful or two of something flavorful and wet to enhance our simply prepared foods.

Here’s how to make one of the world’s easiest, a pan sauce.

1. Pan-sauté something.
Could be a chicken breast. Could be a rib eye. Could be a fish fillet, a cauliflower steak, or simply a skillet-full of diced vegetables. Whatever it is, cook it so that it gets nicely browned.

2. Set the pan-sautéed food aside to rest, loosely covered.
Notice the pan (upper left photo above). If your food is nicely browned, your pan should be, too. That’s not burned stuff in the bottom there, that’s called fond and it’s culinary gold. (If it’s black, not brown, it is burned and you should forgo the idea of a pan sauce.)

3. Deglaze the pan.
By “deglaze” I mean to return the pan to the heat, add some liquid—it could be water, but why use water when you can use something more flavorful like stock, wine, or juice?—and then use that liquid, the heat of the pan, and a straight edged spoon or spatula to gently scrape up the fond (upper right photo above). How much liquid should you use? Enough to fill the pan by about one-quarter of an inch.

As the fond releases, it’ll give it’s delicious round, brown flavors to the liquid, enhancing your sauce. With just a minute or two of scraping, the bottom of the pan should be fond-free (lower left photo above)—also rendering it easy to clean.

3. Cook the liquid down to concentrate the flavors.
How much to cook it down? Until it’s about one-eighth inch deep in the pan. Remember, we’re not making gobs of gravy. We’re making a tablespoon or two of something flavorful and wet.

4. Finish your sauce with a pat of butter.
Don’t freak out—it’s not a lot of butter. And that small amount does some cool things. Because fat is a flavor carrier, the butter will enhance the flavor of your sauce. It’ll also slightly thicken the sauce and give it a silkier mouthfeel (lower right photo above—some thyme has also been added in the photo).

5. Season to taste and serve.
Add salt and pepper to taste, spoon your sauce over your sautéed food, and serve.

To enhance that basic idea, but only if you’re so inclined:
1. After you do the initial sauté and remove your browned food from the pan, add some aromatics and sauté them. For example, diced or sliced onions, shallots, or garlic. Then proceed with adding your liquid.

2. Add spices and sturdier herbs like rosemary and thyme along with the aromatics. Add more delicate herbs like cilantro and chives right after the butter.

3. Replace the butter with a different creamy ingredient. Try cream, crème fraîche, goat cheese, or blue cheese. (But avoid pre-crumbled cheese because it might not melt like not-pre-crumbled.)

Ta da.

You just made a pan sauce.

Yay you.

Pictured, Sauteed Chicken with Parsnip, Apple, and Sherry Pan Sauce.

It all started back in January, when I resolved to cook more often and make homemade versions of some of the processed foods I buy—things like bread, cheese, pasta, and yogurt.

First, I made a few batches of rye. Then my husband, who had been a semi-regular bread baker, got into the act. Soon our freezer was jam-packed with the rye, several versions of a rustic Italian, and a beautiful bread from Peter Reinhart’s Artisan Breads Every Day—my husband’s bible—called struan. We’re particularly excited about the struan for BLTs with homegrown tomatoes in a few months.

It was bread-pallooza.

Which was really good and righteously satisfying. But not quite enough to rule out store bought bread once and for all.

See, I like a really grainy, wheaty, hearty bread, especially for toast in the morning, slathered with peanut butter or goat cheese. None of our breads so far had filled that bill.

And then along came Rosemary.

More specifically, a blog post from my friend Rosemary Mark featuring No-Knead Country Wheat Bread. I made it within the week.

Now most bread is pretty easy to make. But this one is ridiculous. I put it together in about ten minutes, let it rise overnight, then spent about five more minutes of hands-on time the next day.

Perhaps even better, the finished bread had all the grainy, hearty qualities I was looking for.

I’ve made several more since that first loaf, each time slightly varying the flours and adding different combinations of seeds, grains, and nuts (here are of Rosemary’s variations). I like that, in addition to being quick, easy, and delicious, the recipe is super malleable. It’s a good way to use up the bits and bobs that tend to accumulate in my cupboard. (I like making homemade granola for the same reason.)

So is this the end of store bought bread? Perhaps.

Although I can’t imagine life without an occasional Acme baguette, thanks to Rosemary, I don’t think I’ll be buying the sliced stuff for my morning toast any time soon.

I’ve been working on a project for a few months now. It’s not a new cookbook—but I’m as excited as if it was.

It’s a remodeled office with my very own photo studio.

Let me tell you about it.

For the past several months I’ve been working on my photography. I got a new camera, then a new lens. I learned basic photo post-production. I polished my food and prop styling.

One reason I’ve been doing all this to help my blog look better and to attract more followers. But it’s also because I’ve lost more than one job because the client wanted a recipe AND a photo, and I felt compelled to point out that, while I can take a decent shot, I’m not a real photographer.

So I decided it was time to do away with that compulsion.

Along the way, I’ve been taking shots in various spaces around the house—each time schlepping out the camera, lights, props, surfaces, then dutifully putting it all away to restore some sense of order.

Finally, my husband the art director, who knows of things like photography and who has been a champion and teacher throughout this becoming-a-photographer process, made a suggestion.

He suggested I create a photo studio.

See, like many of us who work at home, my office is in a spare bedroom that also served as a guest room.

Why not get rid of the guest bed, he suggested, shove all the furniture to the outer edges of the room, and put a tabletop for photography in the middle?

A very good suggestion indeed.

So with apologies to the handful of friends and family who thought they might one day use our guest bed, I set about remodeling.

I got rid of all the furniture. Bed. Desk. Various Ikea shelves. I gutted the closet.

Once the room was completely bare, I repainted. And had the carpets cleaned.

Then, in my now-pristinely clean white space, I installed bright, white shelves. Lots of them. One wall-full for props, camera equipment, office equipment, and cookbooks. And another with one wide shelf as a desktop and more shelves for desk stuff and ephemera.

The closet got reconfigured with wire shelving for files, office supplies, more props, and household doo-dads like gift wrapping supplies and family photos.

In each corner of the room, there are spaces for additional supplies—bounce cards and scrims, backgrounds and surfaces, and ingenious sticks in a can for lighting and backgrounds.

All of which makes for a pretty, clean, super functional work space, one with a place for everything and everything in its place.

Happy happy.

But even better—and more to the whole entire point—a space with a huge, roughly 8-by-10-foot area in the middle for photography. I bought a not-too-big Ikea table as my shooting surface. And it’s on wheels so I can easily move it around within the space.

The net net?

An office/guest room transformed into an office/photo studio. A realignment of my feng shui. A renewed excitement about coming to work every morning.

And no more hesitation about calling myself a photographer.

Mayonnaise is a foodstuff that we take completely for granted.

We spoon it out of a jar and spread it onto sandwiches, stir it into slaws and salad dressings, and whisk it into dips, never really thinking much about it.

But if you did, you’d notice that, for the most part, store bought mayonnaise is a texture. It’s thick, slick, and, well, fatty. More than adding any discernible taste, it adds body and mouthfeel to foods.

Homemade mayonnaise, however, is an entirely different animal. More than a mere condiment, it’s a versatile sauce—one with all the thick, creamy attributes of the jarred stuff, but with real flavor, a delicious balance of sweetness and piquancy.

And takes about five minutes.

For a basic recipe, start with one egg yolk, a teaspoon of mustard, and a pinch of salt. Whisk this trio together, then slowly—pretty much drop by drop—add a cup of oil, continuing to whisk as you do. Finally, blend in a tablespoon or two of something acidic, typically vinegar or lemon juice, plus salt and pepper to taste.

And there you have it—homemade mayonnaise.

Since I’ve been semi-obsessed with Meyer lemons lately, I’ve been making lots of Meyer lemon mayonnaise (here’s the recipe). It’s amazing on top of fish. I also love it as a dipping sauce for oven fries. And spooned on top of a grain salad. And mixed into hard-cooked eggs.

Best. Egg. Salad. Ever.

Yes, the whisking can get pretty tiring. But it’s only for a little bit, and you’ll live. I promise.

Your reward will be one of those things that can only be explained as kitchen magic. A few familiar ingredients are transformed into something entirely else—a creamy, delicious dollop.

Interested in more simple sauces? Join me for Let’s Get Saucy, a hands-on cooking glass at Ramekins in Sonoma, on April 4. The menu includes Provolone Toasts with Chimichurri; Rosemary Salmon Skewers with Meyer Lemon Aioli; Sauteed Chicken with Parsnip, Apple, and Sherry Pan Sauce; Grilled New York Steak with Martini Butter; and Rosemary-Infused Strawberries Jubilee.

It’s spring. Officially. Finally. And that makes me think of chicken.

Oh sure—it also makes me think of daffodils and trees leafing out and baby ducks and jellybeans.

But also, chicken.

You know, because of the phrase “spring chicken.”

Spring chickens don’t really exist any more, at least not as culinary opportunities. It used to be that chickens were hatched in the spring and so a spring chicken was a markedly young, small, and tender one.

Nowadays, though, chickens are hatched year-round, so there’s nothing special about one in the springtime. Also year-round, if you want a small chicken you can buy a Rock Cornish game hen. But they’re not young chickens—Cornish hens are simply a breed that produces a very tiny bird.

More than you ever wanted to know about chickens!

But my mind wanders to chickens in the springtime nevertheless. Specifically roast chicken. It just seems seasonally appropriate, falling perfectly between the chicken braises, soups, and stews of winter and the grilled chicken and chicken salads of summer.

And what could be simpler than a roast chicken?

Sprinkle on a little salt and pepper, maybe some herbs. Put a halved lemon or orange in the cavity—or not. Stick it in the oven, wait about an hour, pour yourself a glass of Chardonnay—a perfect pairing with roast chicken—and enjoy.

Yes, you can fress about the best way to get perfectly crisped skin or whether to do a wet or dry brine. The merits of a hot oven or a slow one. But you do so at the risk of convincing yourself that roasting a chicken is somehow hard or complicated.

Which it’s not.

So enjoy a nice roast chicken.

Spring has sprung.

I’m currently at Rancho La Puerta, in Tecate, Mexico, being their visiting culinary instructor for the week. To get a sense of what an incredibly awesome honor it is to get to say that sentence, check out these posts from my previous visits, here, here, and here.

I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. But meanwhile, enjoy this recipe for Mexican Chocolate and CherryBrownies, which we’ll be making in class tomorrow.

Hasta la vista.

I had almost forgotten them.

When I worked at Copia, Napa’s now-defunct center for food, wine, and the arts, we had them in the garden and used them constantly.

But that was over four years ago and I’ve hardly seen a Meyer lemon since. Not that they aren’t around. Spoiled by how accessible they used to be, I simply haven’t looked.

Meyer lemons, named for Frank Meyer, who discovered them in Peking and brought them to the US in the early 20th century, are a beautiful cross between a standard, or Eureka, lemon and a mandarin—and they truly display the best qualities of both. A Meyer’s lemon flavor has less acidity and more sweetness than a standard lemon’s, as well as a lovely floral aroma from the mandarin. All the pastry chefs I know adore Meyers for that combination—lemon flavor without the lemon “ouch,” plus wonderful aromatics.

Imagine what lower acidity and a flowery fragrance would add to your favorite lemony dishes. Imagine Meyer lemon meringue pie. Meyer lemon marmalade. Even Meyer lemon vinaigrette.

You can get it, right?

Thin skins make Meyers less than ideal for distribution—which is why they’re mostly a backyard crop. That said, you can find Meyers at specialty and farmers’ markets from October/November through April/May.

In other words, don’t delay.

That said, a lot of people have trees that produce all year long, especially in Southern California. Lucky ducks.

Anyway, all that Meyer magnificence was a distant memory until just the other day, when my mom brought some over from a friend’s tree.

That night, my husband made his special pan-seared petrale and I prepared some Meyer lemon wedges to serve along side. As soon as the first cut released that lemon-mandarin scent, we both sort of swooned.

And I remembered.

Here are a few recipes for enjoying Meyers, all of which I created for Bon Appetit back in 2005:

Meyer Lemon and Vanilla Bean Marmalade
Lamb Chops with Minted Meyer Lemon Compote
Roasted Carrots, Parsnips, and Meyer Lemons

And here’s a killer recipe for Meyer Lemon Curd from Gourmet.

Added February 28:

How could I forget my favorite Meyer lemon recipe of all?!? Rosemary Meyer Lemon Drops, right here on this site.