When the heat is on and you cannot bear the thought of turning on the oven, keep cool with refreshing gazpacho. Gazpacho originated in Spain as an afternoon snack. The true Andalusia version has almonds, bread, grapes, olive oil, vinegar and salt.

Clarity. It all started out with a cooking class. Well, me and our Ethiopian nanny cooking together. So, it was more of a lesson than a class, which I think ends up making more sense.

I recently spent several days in Boston with my son Ari who is a student at MIT (much Jewish mother kvelling). Boston is an easily maneuverable city, unlike Chicago, LA or New York. You can get from point A to point B without much cab fare, train time or stress.

I grew up in a very adventurous household. I did not know it at the time, but we were really different from other families. I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and from all outward appearances we were probably very typical. My father was a pretty average suburban dad with one eccentricity—he liked to travel the world with food.

As a personal trainer, I get asked nutritional questions all the time. The thing is, I’m not a nutritionist—I’m just a really opinionated personal trainer. I do, however, have several nutritionist friends, so I went to one with an expertise in celiac disease to learn about allergies, organic food, and of course weight loss tips.

This is the first time in many years that I do not have to work on Mother’s Day—woohoo! I have been excited for months. I kept cautiously checking the calendar at work, each time confirming with myself that “no one books an event on Mother’s Day.”

I think we are supposed to end Passover feeling unburdened and brand new. I feel neither. Do not get me wrong—I had a great Pesach. The weather was amazing for Chicago in March/early April and we were able to get outside and take walks. We ate great food and enjoyed some fun family time. But I have this nagging feeling that I did not do the holiday the way I should have.

One sure sign that spring has sprung is the plethora of Passover products that start appearing on grocery store shelves. Each year I look forward to checking out what new foodstuffs were invented. Usually these products are meant to counterfeit their non-Passover counterparts. Each year I hold my own personal contest to see what the strangest and most Pesadich-y thing will be.

‘Tis the season for spring break.  Left and right, nearly everyone I know is heading somewhere, whether they are graduate students heading on exotic vacations or colleagues leaving town for Passover to avoid the stress of de-chametz-ing the kitchen.

As you enter, you are greeted by an obsequious type wearing a bowtie or a garish – possibly sequined – tie and vest combo. You are led to a room full of gilded baubles. Tables are piled high with colorful food whose names you know only if you grew up in a Russian household.

Being a foodie can occasionally be something of a burden.  It is all too easy to get jaded, to stop finding pleasure in perfectly serviceable meals, because they aren’t new enough or innovative enough.  One can forget that doing something simple and well is actually proof of skill in the kitchen.  After all, ask almost any chef or restaurant critic the mark of a great cook, and they will tell you roasted chicken is the ultimate test.

Fridays are frenetic, frantic and leave me frizzled! I run around like a maniac so that I can rush home to make an elaborate dinner for my family and friends. I don’t usually question if I could be doing a better job of “doing a Friday,” I just accept it and run around trying to make it all happen.

What if I told you, you could eat bread, pizza, potatoes, wine and pastries and still be thin? Oh, and you can eat dinner at 10 p.m. Carbs, alcohol, sugar and some more carbs do not add up to a diet most people think of as healthy. Dr. Atkin’s would be shocked.

Often lovingly referred to as the “other food group,” chocolate has become an obsession, inspiring everything from recipes, stories, cravings and a host of products from funky-flavored chocolate bars to bubble bath.

Imagine soft candle light, beautiful music, crisp-refreshing martinis, crackling skinned chicken with the fragrance of rosemary and lemon perfuming the air and deep dark chocolate mousse. Your favorite restaurant? No. This is your home kitchen with you at the helm.

When I think of the Jewish pastry rugelach, I usually picture my late, silver-haired Russian Jewish grandma—or at least someone’s Jewish grandma—flattening dough with her rolling pin in her cozy kitchen. But Leon Greenberg, a low-key, middle-aged guy from Great Neck, Long Island, doesn’t look or act anything like my grandma. He dubs himself “The Rugelach Man,” and makes rugelach as delicious as that of any grandmother I know.

David Sax is on a quest. His mission? Save the deli. Growing up in Montreal and Toronto, Sax was first introduced to matzo ball soup, kishke, corned beef and coleslaw on a weekly jaunt to the deli his family would make after Friday night services. Sax translated his love for all things Eastern European food into visits to the “great deli cities” – New York, Chicago, L.A. and Montreal come to mind foremost.

In these trying economic times, socializing can become a challenge. Restaurants are still expensive, and if you want a nice leisurely evening, with an appetizer or salad, an entrée, and a cocktail or glass of wine you can easily be out $50 with tax and tip, and lord help you if you want a dessert or a second beverage.

As the holiday season is really all about food, I thought it would be funny if I attempted to cook a traditional Shabbat dinner for my boyfriend Mike and wrote a blog post making fun of my inevitable failure. Lucky for me (and for Mike), this isn’t a story of failure at all.

It is hard not to feel festive this time of year with all of the shining lights, decorations, and a general feeling of goodwill toward everyone. It is my favorite time of year. I love the brisk—chilly air and broody—moody sky that December brings. I also love Chanukah.

 Ah, the Festival of Lights—the eight days of oil burning brightly in the newly purified Temple, thanks to the Maccabees and the thousands of Jews that stood against its oppressors. While we do say blessings and light candles as a reminder to the sacrifices of those before us, I say it’s about time we raise our glasses and say a toast! Lucky for us, this year the first night of Chanukah coincides with a Friday night—drink up people!

In his new book Eating Animals, Jonathan Safran Foer gives the following advice about having a Thanksgiving holiday that is truly reflective of one’s appreciation for health, happiness and loved ones.  His advice:  DON’T SERVE TURKEY!

I think the concept that best explains how I think about food is the notion of Cucina Povera. This Tuscan concept is one born out of humble and peasant ingredients both afforded in the region of Italy and grown locally. The phrase Cucina Povera means "poor kitchen." The idea is almost more of a technique and way of thinking rather than just a bare cupboard.

It’s a few minutes after 7 p.m. as we gather inside the waiting area of the popular Lakeview restaurant, greeting each other with hugs and friendly handshakes.  Our ritual marks the end to another weekend and the start to another week in our busy lives.  Restaurant patrons push their way around us to get a table as we gather into a tightly packed circle making sure we have a full headcount to give the host a more accurate number.  One never knows who will show up late or bring a friend along.  We meet at the Bagel in Lakeview frequently, but tonight everybody is in a little brighter mood than normal as we have something special to celebrate.

I’ve been in a very thoughtful place of late.  The loss of both John Hughes, the passionate chronicler of my adolescence, and Michael Jackson, who I loved right up until he lost his ever loving mind, and whose music defined my entire childhood, put me in a fog of nostalgia.  I see odd vestiges of my youth everywhere, and it isn’t always pretty.  Neon is making a weird fashion comeback, as are shoulder pads, and I really hope it is short lived.  Remakes of 90210 and Melrose Place are on the airwaves.  Hershey is now using Modern English’s anthem of teen longing “I Melt With You” to sell chocolate bars with almonds.  No, really.  It’s official.  I’m old.

As I began packing for my Advanced Mixology Academy class field trip to Chef’s Garden in Milan, Ohio, I had no idea what to expect. Sure, I have been to my share of the city’s vast and vibrant neighborhood farmer’s markets. I've tasted some of the best food and sipped the highest quality cocktails around, but I was told that this wasn't anything like your typical farm and that these ingredients weren’t going to be found at the average farmer’s market.

Cooking keeps me company when everyone around me is busy or absent.  And, as I've developed a deeper appreciation for what and how I cook, so too with my Judaism.  So here I am: a 20 year-old junior, living in a one-bedroom, eager to make it kosher.  And not just kosher—organic and local round out my trinity of food wants.  Organic, Local, Kosher—two out of three's not bad, right?

 Ah, summer. Finally. After all the months of winter when you think the sun will never shine again, and the spring, which is mostly cold and rainy, we can settle into summer and all of its promise. Flip flops and tank tops, hanging at the beach or the pool, all the restaurants putting out tables on the patio, street fairs and festivals... And barbecues.

Anyone who has ever been married, or had a serious long-term relationship, knows that there are temptations everywhere. Even the most devoutly monogamous person can find herself drawn in other directions, intrigued by the new. If you are smart, your crush remains chaste; taking the best of what is possible, breaking neither trust nor vows. After all, there is nothing wrong with building a deep friendship; even if underneath that friendship is the tacit understanding that in a different world, in a parallel reality, the boundaries would be very different. If you are less disciplined, the passion takes over and you can find yourself in a full -fledged affair of the heart.

Five and a half years ago, Linda Zelda Neiman was a stay-at-home mom, doing lots of volunteer work and baking and cooking up a storm in her Lincolnwood kitchen. When she felt ready to go back to work, she opted not to go back to her old job in computer science and instead to follow her passion for sweets, opening Zelda’s Sweet Shoppe in Skokie.

We don’t know anything about St. Valentine whose feast day is February 14 other than the fact that he was buried on February 14 at the Via Flaminia north of Rome. How this martyred saint (who might actually be the amalgamation of several martyred guys named Valentine) became the representation of romantic love for most of the Western world is a mystery to me. But because it is effectively a Gentile construct (and they celebrate the June birth of the most famous Member of the Tribe on December 25), we don’t need to ponder the logic overmuch, especially as it is now as secular a day as Thanksgiving.

After arriving home from a 10-day visit to Israel on January 2, I declared to all who would listen that I would never eat falafel again. Fewer than three weeks later, while thumbing through a coupon book, I saw an ad for Mizrahi Grill, and was overcome with a craving for deep-fried chickpea balls. I grabbed my husband, ripped out the coupon and headed to Highland Park.

The old Sunday night take-out standby for members of the tribe used to be Chinese. I myself have nothing but fond memories of the Sunday nights of my childhood: waiting to watch whatever was the special Sunday Night Movie on network TV as my mom arranged the signature red and white cylinders and white trapezoidal boxes on wooden trays. We got to eat on television trays and drink pop instead of milk—Sunday nights were special.

“Gather around my friends, you are in a sacred place, you are among those you can trust, and your secrets are safe here.  No one will judge you. No one will point fingers. And no one will tell your grandparents.”
This is always how I imagine that a support group for Jews with Christmas Envy might start, in a library conference room or a community center basement, with large pots of bitter coffee and platters of slightly stale and lopsided gingerbread men.

From age four, Halstuk acted as a young sous-chef to her mother, Marla Templer, helping her to prepare the mandel bread, a dessert often called the Jewish biscotti. And when Halstuk was away at Jewish summer camp, Templer would ship her daughter a bag of the goodies. “It would be 90 degrees and I would make the mandel bread last for four weeks hidden under my bed. I guess that’s kind of disgusting,” jokes Halstuk.

It’s probably going to get me some flack to admit that my favorite holiday isn’t a Jewish holiday, but a secular one. Don’t get me wrong, I love many of our ages-old holy days, and look forward to both the sense of connectedness they bring as well as the comfort of traditional foods and the company of friends and family. Rosh Hashanah, Passover…both solidly in my top five holiday-wise. I love a latke, I’m moved by matzo balls, get blissed out over brisket. I even heart a hamentashen. But none of the celebrations mandated by the Torah come close to inspiring the passion I have for Thanksgiving.

I am unabashed in my love of sparkling wines.  And while I have a particular affinity both for the true French champagnes, and for the sparklers made in the Méthode Champenoise from other regions of the world, I don’t turn down a good cava from Spain or a prosecco from Italy.  For the sake of ease, despite the twitch it is likely to produce in any serious oenophiles who may be reading this, it’s really all champagne to me, and I tend to refer to it as such.  I don’t need an occasion to drink champagne, any random day will do.

Stacey Ballis Joey, in action Joey’s Brickhouse 1258 W. Belmont 773.296.1300 When I called Chef Joey Morelli to see if I could interview him for this article, the first thing he did was propose. Upon discovering that he had gone to high school with a cousin of mine, and

As I have mentioned before, my Judaism, while deeply rooted and very important to me, is something that falls more on the side of culture and tradition and less on the side of religion or spirituality. But there are certain aspects of every holiday that resonate for me, and one of the things I appreciate about being Jewish, is that I can feel free to cherry pick the pieces I like and leave the rest behind.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but in general, only rarely do your day in and day out dining choices ever get reviewed anywhere. With limited space, reviewers tend to focus on what’s new, what’s hot, what just opened or which fancy chef has blown into town. Sure, now and again you might see one of your regular haunts mentioned in a Best Of article, but really, does that get you through a Tuesday night when you are looking for something that requires neither a reservation nor much brain power?

There is evidence to indicate I have no business contributing to anything called Nosh. My college roommate still recalls the time I removed a cold, hard Idaho potato from its produce bag and asked, “So is this a baked potato, or do I need to do something to it?”  Fast forward two college degrees (yes, from accredited universities) and you will witness a similar scene as my husband – in one of his more patient moments – walks me through the complex art of boiling an egg.

Zed is the British/French pronunciation of the last letter of the alphabet.  451 is the number of degrees (in Fahrenheit) needed for fire to ignite.  So, one would imagine that somehow the creators of this new restaurant are implying that their concept is a culminating point, the end all be all, the point of combustion.

Kosher wine.
For many of us, those two small words pack a big, sweet, grapey, syrupy, low-alcohol, Manischevitz-endorsed punch. We have memories of tasting it for the first time in elementary school—at synagogue, at Bubbe’s seder, at cousin Bobby’s bar mitzvah—and either loving it (“Yummy, tastes like grape Nerds!”) or loathing it (“Yuck, this stuff tastes like Robitussin!”).

Chalkboard is romantic enough to be a great date spot, but not so overt as to be alienating for those of us who are dining with friends or family. The menu is full of carefully crafted dishes, with inspired touches…your childhood favorites made sophisticated with a rich tomato soup paired with a blue cheese grilled cheese sandwich on the side, Kobe beef mini burger appetizer with Nueske bacon, truly spectacular fried chicken.

For anyone who loves Chicago history, one of the most exciting periods occurred in 1871 after the Great Chicago Fire, when the Custom House Levee District flourished. Filled with saloons, brothels and gaming houses, and home to the genesis of the classic pay-for-votes politics, the Levee District was an oasis of sin and sensual pleasures. The higher class bordellos were as famous for the quality of their food and wine as they were for the charms of their girls, and the area we now know as Printer’s Row spent a glorious thirty-five years reigning as the place to experience carnal delights of every sort.

When people ask me what I love most about being Jewish, the images flash before my eyes. Succulent slices of slow cooked brisket, moist with rich tomato-y gravy. Latkes, crisp on the outside, melting in the middle, with applesauce and sour cream. Light as air matzo balls, floating in a pool of golden chicken soup, dense sweet noodle kugel. After all, I’m the girl who, when asked what she wanted for her third birthday dinner, answered “brisket and farfel!”