It’s Mark’s eyes that draw you in. I first came across them at a food conference in an expansive dining hall in Denver filled with big round tables and mounds of mini croissants. They were clear and blue and electric, like the calm before a storm or a lazy careless morning on the shores of St. Barts, but when they are engaged in a conversation with you, a conversation inevitably and rightfully about, what else, salt, the entire room gets filled with an intoxicating culinary energy that is simply contagious.

Mark Bitterman, owner and self-proclaimed selmelier of The Meadow shop in Portland, Oregon first told me about his store  specializing in salts, flowers, drinks and chocolates when we first met in Denver. It sounded lovely to own a quaint shop in the even quainter town of Portland and I imagined it overflowing with roses and pinot noir and an old-time world charm non-existent to my South Florida neighborhood whose foundations seem built on an abhorred obsession with strip malls and Applebees restaurants.

Then I attended his salt tasting at the Greenbrier and I was a changed woman. It was the nightcap to an evening filled with good wine and food. No doubt the wrong time for this, I thought to myself as my belly sat complacent and my body ached for my warm bed. I’m too full, and, it’s just salt, right? But I went anyway, because, quite frankly, how often can one say they’ve attended a salt tasting?

The room was cramped with other equally intoxicated foodies from the conference and Mark and a colleague were feverishly slicing cucumbers and buttering breads (I learned this was the way to sample salts, both a wet tasting and a dry one, respectively). And once that was all set, that is when those electric eyes kicked in as Mark pulled tiny glass bottles of multi-colored salt crystals, describing their characteristics, origins and tastes with the care, attention and passion a father does of his own children (this one has a mischievous streak, this one is faithful and delicious, this one will capture your heart.) I basked in an impassioned survey of the world of salt from colors to crystal formations to textures and realized it was a world  I knew nothing about, one where I learned I’d been, not only neglecting but abusing my taste buds with Kosher salt (tsk tsk), an item too sharp and unpolished to warrant the tongue.

It sounded crazy unless you were in that room, with that man and his cucumber and bread slices, and then it was just right because not only did he teach you, but he showed you as well, with bite after bite of salts, I learned to understand the nuances and beauty of the world of salt. And just like that, I was forever infected.

The night ended with a big show-off item: a huge beautiful block of Himalayan salt. Mark explained the many usages for such a block: from frying up the best egg ever, to sizzling pomme frites  (use the duck fat from that is cooking on your block as well), to curing sashimi and I knew that, alongside all the new salts I had to purchase to feel complete I must also have one of these.

As folks prepare to dish out the pizza, chicken wings and nachos for this weekend’s Superbowl, I will be fetching my beautiful block of salt for the simplest and tastiest of snacks: ensalata caprese. Thin slices of fresh mozzarella and plump tomato hugged by my garden basil and cured by my Himalayan beauty swim wonders on my tastebuds, making that, the best touchdown ever!

It recently became fashionable to celebrate our obsession with list taking. You know the books: 1000 Places to Visit Before You Die, 1000 Things To Do and even the movie, The Bucket List, a melodramatic journey of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two old men revisiting dreams and rekindling failed relationships. Even Oprah Winfrey’s O List has a way of magically transforming the item mentioned into an instant best seller, whether it is a book, a product, or a personality like Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz. We are a culture obsessed with lists: little items, thoughts, or deeds we must write down to check off and feel a sense of accomplishment. I’m not knocking it; I am a list queen myself. If I don’t write it down (to then check it off), it doesn’t get done. And then, sometimes it still doesn’t get done! I have pads of paper at my nearest reach: lost in the scary place that is my purse, scattered about my vehicle, fighting for space amongst half forgotten water bottles (baking for hours in the hot Florida sun), and then there is the grocery pad list on the fridge AND the iPhone application lists, iGrocery and To Do’s, respectively. Lists are a necessity. A requirement. So, why don’t I have one for food, I wondered out loud the other day while tackling the careful balance of tastes in my refrigerator (breathe the wrong way and my leaning towers of food will collapse)?

The answer for this one is a no-brainer for me: my tastes are too erratic, too temperamental, too unconfined to confine them to a list. That is the answer I want to give: it sounds cosmopolitan and articulate, the only snag is that it is, well…wrong.

Whereas I pride myself in being a culinary adventurer (I’ve yet to turn anything down, although I may take pause with the live cockroaches in China), I find myself headed down the road of comfort time and time again, back to meals that intrinsically make me feel better because of the emotional connection I have to them. Meals with a childhood story woven into them have me hooked, regardless if they are far from Michelin stars, and the older I get the more I seem to crave them.

So, while, yes, I do enjoy greatly a reduction of lamb with truffle foam and a sprinkling of fresh dandelion (it’s good, trust me) I am proud to say I happily gobble up a bowl of Spanish rice, not only because it is hot and filling and good, but also because each bite is brimming with stories my mother told me as a youth: stories about her adventures as a young adult in New York City, where money didn’t go far and to splurge on a meal meant to buy ground beef for a fancy dish of, you guessed it, Spanish Rice (always made to impress boyfriends, no less.) These were tales of adventure, resilience, and determination, not cuisine.

My mother, allegedly could not boil a pot of water before she got married, a detail I always questioned and deemed as wildly exaggerated for my mom was not only a cook, but a chef, creating delightful surprises meal after meal after meal. Yet I felt hugged and loved and nourished by the simplicity of her big bowl of Spanish rice which she’d happily plop in front of me, year after year and I’d ask, each time it seemed, I’d ask, for those stories of her in New York with her best friend Virginia and the endless amounts of Spanish rice. And so in my safe, comfortable home in Venezuela, where I would want for nothing and, quite frankly, was spoiled rotten as the youngest of three girls, I envisioned my tall and beautiful mother in her dank apartment on the Upper West Side (and not the chic part) scraping up enough to splurge on this delightful feast of Spanish rice, the same I would be spooning up happily in her company all those years later.

Spanish rice is not fancy. It’s not emulsified. It’s not even on a restaurant menu. But that doesn’t stop it from being top on my list, especially when paired with a nice green salad, a glass of hearty red, and the memory of a great story.

What’s top on your food list?  Let me hear from you!

My daughter balances me out. Oh don’t tell her I said so, and on my blog no less, but she does. Many times I forget this myself. I am too busy in mother mode, which, as any parent will contest, requires a tight leash at times. She can be a handful because she is so damn smart (and now you nod and you say, ‘here goes another mother about to bore me to death with her daughter’s attributes, if she could she’d pull out the video, no wait, she’s going to attach a YouTube link of The Daughter performing “You Light Up My Life” on the piano. Just wait. I know it is coming.) I mean, yes, she whips out a mean version of her own music on our dusty keyboard (inventing music is always more intriguing than following sheet music to her), but I won’t subject you to that. I was an aunt for many more years before I was a mom, so I know about endless VHS performances. (Note: apologies to all my wonderful nieces and nephews, whom I adore and am endlessly proud of.)

It’s this kindness in Dani that both balances me out and unsettles me. Yes. You read right. Unsettles me. Most likely because it is so foreign to me. Don’t get me wrong; I am not a total bitch. Just partial. And more so if I haven’t had coffee. Or my morning orange juice. Or my eight hours of sleep. And then of course if I am interrupted. At any time. In the middle of anything. And endless coughing. Don’t get me started on how I respond to that.

But Daniela, she’s a whole other story. It starts in those eyes. They are huge and soft almonds lined with incredibly thick eyelashes. And when you look inside them, you aren’t quite sure what color they are- a mixture of honeycomb and caramel on sunny days, sometimes a temperamental green, other times they are pools of rich dark chocolate. They seem to have a mind of their own.

Which leads me back to the difficult part and the unsettling part because if you saw them in action you’d never forget them. They’d enchant you as they have me, and I am not saying this as her mother but as her prey, because alongside the eyes comes that old soul that is Daniela and when that soul and those eyes get together you are inevitably sucked into a whirlpool of goodness, no matter what. This child, at two, insisted with the librarian at storybook time that she give her two cookies, no not two for her, but one for her and an extra for her aunt who was sitting way in the back and most definitely wanted a cookie. The librarian didn’t understand this feisty little girl and kept repeating to her that every child gets one cookie, but she hadn’t contended with Dani’s strong will until that point and that tiny toddler stood firm on her ground and insisted for two two two until she made it clear that she needed the extra one for someone else. And, yes, she got it.

Three years later these same eyes softened and changed as they absorbed horrible scenes on the evening news of schoolchildren stranded because of a devastating tsunami many many worlds away from her safe, manicured suburb in the United States. The empathy that filled her eyes compelled her to do something and that steadfast stubborn will sprout itself anew and she insisted insisted insisted she needed to raise money for the Tsunami victims and she did, by golly she did, selling cupcakes she had made on the streets of Plantation, a determined five-year old stopping cars and stating her case. That kind, stubborn creature made all vehicles stop and give, much more than she even cared ask for people gave and gave and gave and she turned around and gave it all to the Red Cross without a doubt in the world that things were better now.

When the earthquake struck Haiti I knew my bitchiness was doomed. Images flooded the news and personal stories trickled into our lives: there was Clarice, the girl in her class who couldn’t find her grandmother, Charles our Handyman who’d lost track of his brother and all his family, orphans being flown into Jackson Memorial Hospital, right here in Miami. It was too horrible, too real, and too close and Daniela’s eyes began to grow restless. I knew something was coming and I welcomed it. She insisted on baking, because this is how we heal in our house: a pot roast for a family reunion, chicken soup for a sick friend; so she would bake carrot muffins to raise money for the victims in Haiti. She did it all, stirring, measuring, sifting, her eyes narrowed into a deep focus and that stubborn will propelled forward. Amongst clouds of flour and cinnamon she moved and I was proud and honored to be beside her, a willing audience and participant of this amazing deed and inspiring human being, all of age ten. I wondered what was in store for her. What the world was in store for with her in it. And by being around her, being connected to this, a part of it rubs off me and I am in a better place now too, even without the morning coffee and the extra hours of sleep, I am in a better place, piggybacking my way to heaven on Daniela’s good will because that kindness that is so her calms me, settles me, shows me that in all this tragedy there are good people and the world can be a better place. With Dani, it’s a start.

Come out and support Dani as she sells her carrot muffins, this Saturday, January 23, at Central Park’s Aquatic Center from 9:00-11:00. All proceeds go to The American Red Cross!

I was greeted by a dead 25-pound iguana when I opened my front door to get the New York Times yesterday morning. It was a learning opportunity having this prehistoric creature available at such close range, but even still, sad and gross. The poor thing had frozen to death; unable to withstand the uncharacteristic frigid evening that had blasted South Florida the night before. It lay there upside down, little claws sticking straight up to the sky with its tail whipped along my crocus plant like another lost weed.

“Wow! This would be awesome for my animal-obsessed seven-year old son to see,” I thought to myself. How fascinated would he be to have an up close look at this precursor to one of his all-time favorites, the dinosaur?

But once I spoke the thought out loud I knew it to be a mistake. A mistake reconfirmed by my husband’s wiser shaking of the head.

How awful would it be? This child does, after all, fret over the fate of ants left to contend with water-spraying sprinklers, spiders cast away from their webs by menacing gusts of wind, and baby lizards separated from their mommies, (all these get “adopted” by him and named and he is always so sad and hurt when they ‘run away’.) No doubt this child’s fixation with all living creatures deems him a Buddhist, in his past, present, or future. Keeping that in mind, a dead iguana would deliver quick and irreparable trauma.

With that clarified, my husband did the kind and fatherly thing (bag it up and taking it to a trash far, far away) and I did the sensible and motherly thing (re-enter house with the New York Times, a smile, and act as if nothing happened.) And the day went on just like that. One little boy saved from sadness.

The only problem is that I had seen the iguana. And it was beautiful and bright green and glorious. And it was also dead. Frozen on my front lawn, you’ll remember. I’ve never really wondered about spiders or ants, or even those tiny lizards. There are so many of them sprawled outside (and inside) my house. But I couldn’t help think of the iguana. I know they run amock here and aren’t popular with Floridians. People take them in as pets then set them free in the Everglades and now they are all over the place, affecting the delicate eco-system there., But there was this frozen one, and, like I said: beautiful, bright green, and glorious and I couldn’t help but wonder what had been her last thoughts before the great freeze. There she’d be, Guani (yes, I’ve named her) snoozing on a tree, trying to survive the chill, wondering where she took the wrong left turn that led her north and not south and then, thump, dead on the ground the next morning. Was she wondering what bug she’d have for breakfast? Where to get the next sip of water? When Mr. Iguana was coming home so they could snuggle and keep warm? Would I?

Images of a rich vanilla milkshake filled me now. It made no sense really. Milkshakes are cold and if I was to slurp one up as an iguana I’d sooner freeze and drop from the branch. But milkshakes are also decadent and delightful and for that reason saved for only the most special occasions when they always make me feel better, no matter what. Even if what follows is a long, hard fall.

Just when you think your blood will freeze over, your nose will crack off, your lips have reached ungodly limits of chapness, you see another poor lad pass you by in the same predicament and you both turn to each other for that split second and nod in communal misery. You may even smile, risking further injury to your taut lips. You don’t know him. He does not know you. But for that instant in the universe, you both share the same moment of cold.

I am a South Florida transplant originally raised in the humid tropics of Venezuela, so, believe me, when I placed myself in frigid weather for a ski holiday in Beaver Creek, Colorado last month, I was more than aware of the shock my mind and body lived minute by minute.

Sure I had the layers. Lots of layers. Some looked like glorified skin gauzes (this is the undergarment for the seasoned skier), other items where more chic, with slick zippers and snazzy tags, all intended to create aesthetically appropriate barriers against the arctic air creeping in from the north.

And for the most part it worked. Until the sun set and you were basically on your own- the layers seemed to melt away into thin cotton, the bitter cold too much for them to bear. And just when you thought you could no longer stand it, just when the snowy slopes lost all romance and the snowman kids had built in childhood play lost all cuteness, I saw the Smores Lady emerge from the cozy and toasty lobby of the Park Hyatt hotel way on the other side of where I was freezing. She carried with her trays and trays of goodies and sliced through the unforgiving wind with a bright and cheery smile.

Sue, the Smores Lady, was headed towards one of the numerous blazing fire pits strategically placed throughout Beaver Creek Village. This one was in front of the Hyatt, so it was particularly glorious- loaded up with a ravenous fire and plenty of spark. Its bright light and unflinching warmth invited me closer, bringing some of the circulation back to my cheeks and fingertips.

Then Sue spoke in a chipper voice I thought not possible under such climate circumstances:

“Come join us for Smores Night” she gleamed.

I looked at her apprehensively. Surely there was a catch here. She was showing off plates upon plates of, what she declared to be, homemade marshmallows: vanilla bean, M&M, Grand Marnier, Mint. Alongside those sat mountains of slabs of Hershey’s chocolate, dark and milk, and alongside that, an endless supply of graham crackers.

Smores night in the bitter cold of Beaver Creek is to an oasis in the scorching heat of the desert.

Where was the credit card swiper to charge you for this delight? Or was this all-inclusive for Hyatt guests only?

The honest Abe in me wanted to clarify that, even though I approached her with the utmost confidence and assuredness (that is just me walking cold, by the way), I was indeed NOT a guest at this incredible and incredibly expensive hotel. In fact, I was staying at a small venue across the road, modern and lovely, but across the road. However, the marshmallows begged me to be silent. They knew I was a foodie. They knew I needed to sample their delights. They needed me to look the other way.

“Do it for us” they implored, Grand Marnier having a bit of a feisty tone to its plea. Mint wanted me to go for it first:

“Betcha never had a smore like me,” it argued. (It was right).

But even Vanilla and M&M put up a good fight- knowing in all due right, that they offered a classic and memorable experience I just couldn’t let my conscience pull me away from.

Sue’s smile had either frozen or she was truly, truly nice. She had finished setting up and now handed me a long iron stick for me to begin creating childhood fantasies. There was no charge. There was no room check. There was just the stick.

What could I do? Raised to be polite, I grabbed it. And then, I went insane. Madly insane. Smored out, I lost myself in a flurry of sticky sweet flavors: mint with dark, vanilla bean with light, slightly toasted, fully toasted, orange Grand Marnier with double graham crunch, and on and on it went, until my belly was full of sweetness, my heart warmed up and my mind swirled with memories of youth and carefree fun. I looked up, liking my sticky fingers to catch the gaze of a fellow stranger enjoying the same sugar high. It didn’t matter where we came from or where we went. What mattered was that we found ourselves side-by-side, warming by the fire on this unforgiving cold night, enjoying a moment of sugar and kindness. We nodded, gave each other a sticky thumbs up and managed to crack a sweet Smores smile.