I had a funny enounter in the produce aisle of the grocery store. I was standing in front of the lettuce, trying to decide whether to get red or green leaf. The man standing next to me turned and asked politely, “Excuse me, but what do you call these?”

He was looking at the radishes, but he couldn’t figure out which sign went with them to indicate the price. I pointed to the one that said “Radishes, 49 cents” and said, with a smile, “radishes.”

“Thank you!” he said, relieved. I turned back to him as he was putting his radishes in a bag, and I asked, politely, “What do you call them?” He looked and sounded Hispanic, so I assumed he would give me the Spanish translation.

“Rábanos,” he replied. Except that with his accent, the “b” sounded much like a “v,” and it sounded like he said, “RAVENOUS!”

I started giggling, and I couldn’t stop. He looked rather puzzled, so I explained it to him. “In English, ‘ravenous’ means very, very hungry!” I patted my tummy for emphasis and repeated, “RAVENOUS!”

Now he was laughing, too. “RAVENOUS!” he said. With a shared grin, we each continued our shopping.

A few minutes later, after picking out my fruit and milk, I started down the aisle with the cat food. At the other end of the aisle, I spied my ravenous friend, and he spied me. We both shouted, “Ravenous!” and started laughing hysterically.

A couple aisles further along, I found Barry near the peanut butter. Before I could tell him what happened, along came my new friend. “Ravenous!” we shouted, in unison, laughing. Barry was completely mystified by my strange behavior, until I explained the encounter over the radishes.

The encounter took me back even further, to my first office job. There was a woman who worked in our office who used to say, when it was time for a snack break, “I’m ravished!” It was a contraction of ravenous and famished, but it got funny looks from people who didn’t know her.

I’ve always loved radishes, raw, with dip. Or sliced, thin, and marinated in light salad dressing. But now I find they’re good roasted or stir-fried, too. And I’ve stopped throwing the greens away, since they can be washed thoroughly (they are amazingly full of sand) and tossed into a stew or stir-fry as well.

I know radishes are good for my health, and not just because they’re low calorie and full of fiber. They’re good for me, because they make me laugh out loud: “RÁBANOS!”

When we moved out of our house last year, I packed up all kinds of long-lasting ingredients in a couple of boxes and stored them. They just got unpacked a couple of weeks ago.

Opening those boxes was like having another Christmas.

Some of the stuff in there came from our travels, like the wild rice. We drove across Minnesota, passing many signs advertising cheap wild rice. We kept meaning to stop, but never did. Just over the border, in Nebraska, we stopped for some groceries and found it for $2 a pound, so we bought five pounds. Then there was that can of garlic macadamia nuts — Barry’s parents brought them from Hawaii, and he’s been hoarding them ever since. Some goodies in the box were holiday gifts, like blueberry barbecue sauce and Russian chicken soup mix. There’s even a pound of smoked salmon along with the an obscene 2-foot long summer sausage.

I turned up lots of healthy foods, like cracked wheat, dried beans, and TVP. Then I found it: The Karo syrup. I’d used it to make soft-batch cookies last year, but the recipe only uses 3 tablespoons, so the bottle was nearly full.

“I wonder if I could use this stuff to sweeten my tea?” I mused to Barry, just thinking about using it up.
He was alarmed at the thought. “No! Don’t use that stuff!”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you remember that book we read? That stuff is evil!”

A few years ago, Barry and I read Fat Land: How Americans Became the Fattest People in the World (Critser, 2002), about how Americans have become so obese. The author talked extensively about high fructose corn syrup, or HFCS, and the sinister politics behind its introduction. In 1966, HFCS was unknown to the American diet. Today, the average American eats over 60 pounds of HFCS every year. It’s a key ingredient in soda pop, candy, and jam, but large amounts are also found in baked goods, barbecue sauce, and spaghetti sauce. A glance at the cans in the cupboard finds HFCS in cranberry sauce, while the enchilada sauce and canned soup have “corn syrup solids.”

The stuff is insidious, and it’s really bad for you. The problem is the sweetener has a mix of glucose and fructose, and our bodies have a problem metabolizing the fructose. Scientific studies have associated it with elevated triglycerides, leading to heart problems, and also found that it alters your magnesium balance, causing bone loss. Unlike glucose, which stimulates hormones that make you feel full, it bypasses those mechanisms and just gets stored, like fat.

There is one website that talks about the healthful benefits of HFCS. Who sponsors it? The Corn Refiners Association. They’ve got financial incentives to sell as much HFCS as possible. No wonder they tout it as a wonder food.

If you don’t think the politics behind HFCS are sinister, here’s an interesting story. A few years ago, a study found that Mexicans had a 158% increase in obesity, due mainly to the “Americanization” of their diets and the amount of soda pop and junk food they were consuming. This was despite a 20% tax in Mexico on beverages sweetened with HFCS.

Last month, the World Trade Organization, the WTO, determined that Mexico’s tax was discriminatory, and must be lifted. Who’s cheering? The U.S. Grains Council and the Corn Refiners Association. They say that U.S. farmers have lost $4 billion dollars because of Mexico’s tax.

So now the Mexicans get to buy all the soda pop they want, without the tax. And how much will it cost Mexico to deal with the health issues of obesity? Probably about $4 billion dollars, if not more.

In another example of the politics of sweeteners, a few years back, the World Health Organization, the WHO, published a report recommending that we all keep our sugar intake to less than 10% of daily calories. The U.S. sugar lobby went ballistic, trying to discredit the report and wanting to cut off the U.S. membership in the WHO. Like the tobacco lobby, “Big Sugar” wants to suppress news of risks associated with their product.

Given my choice, I’ll take the WHO’s recommendations and thumb my nose at the WTO. And just to be on the safe side, I should toss that bottle of Karo syrup in the trash.

When Barry and I first encountered a pressure cooker, it was in the kitchen of our very capable friend, Barbara deLackner. It was the old aluminum “jiggle-top” kind, but Barbie used it often without problems. She taught us how to use it safely while were were living with her on Hill Farm, outside Portland, Oregon.

But accidents can still happen, and pressure cookers are notorious for them.

A few years after Barbie passed away, her pressure cooker was still in use. A friend of the family, Ras, had moved into her house and was taking care of it for her children. He kept it much as Barbie had, all the way down to her books, dishes, linens — and that pressure cooker.

One evening, Ras pulled out rabbit out of the freezer, placed it in the pressure cooker, then discovered the lid wouldn’t quite go on. So he left the pot on the burner, simmering, with the lid ajar, and went outside to do some farm chores.

While he was away, the rabbit thawed and the lid dropped down — just enough to almost lock in place. It began to build up pressure. When he came back, thinking the pan was just simmering, he touched the handle, and the lid exploded off the cooker. Ras was severely burned all over his torso and arms, and lucky that it missed his face.

Around that time, Barry and I had moved to Seattle, where I read about the new “second generation” pressure cookers. After years of exploding pots, designers came up with models that employ failsafes to keep them from exploding. The pressure valve is one steam vent. There’s a second vent in the handle by the latch. And if both of those were to get plugged, there’s a slot in the lid, where the gasket would blow out before the pot would explode.

I bought my own pressure cooker in 1995, because Barbie had taught me not to fear them and because I could get one of the new models, a Spanish Magefesa. A company called North American Promotions imports them. The cooker got so much use, we bought a second one to keep on our boat. It cooks real food — whole grains, dried beans, cheap cuts of meat — fast, and I love the fact that it is efficient and saves energy.

Our friend Cindy knows that we’re big fans of the pressure cooker. We’d invited her to come by for dinner this week, and when Barry called to finalize plans, she had an interesting proposition for us. “I just picked up a pressure cooker at the thrift store. Can you show me how to use it?”

That evening, we’d planned to cook Sesame Brown and Wild Rice. So we told Cindy to bring her pressure cooker — and we’d show her how to cook the rice. It was a lot of fun, sharing stories and making dinner together. Cindy also brought the ingredients for an Indian Dhal Dip that she wanted to try, so we made that as well. Or rather, Barry and I supervised and let her practice with her new cooker.

Cindy went home with new confidence about her pressure cooker, recipes, and leftovers. Barry and I got a kick out of sharing our pressure cooker knowledge, and we got recipes and leftovers, too. It was a great exchange, a skill we learned from a friend and then passed along to another friend — like sailing.

I called a couple of friends last week to invite them for dinner. “Come on over tonight,” I said. “Barry’s making curried chicken with apples and mango chutney.” They arrived promptly that evening, anticipating some gourmet chow. Then I almost blew it. “It’s a new recipe from that cookbook, over there,” I said, blithely. “The Weight Watchers one.”

Oops. I should have waited until after they’d tasted it. They looked at each other, alarmed. Now they were probably expecting something like cardboard.

Instead, we all enjoyed a delicious meal, and no one was disappointed.

When I’d first come into Anne’s kitchen, my eye was drawn to her cookbooks. They took up a shelf and a half, and three of them are in my own collection — the Joy of Cooking, Molly Katzen’s Vegetable Heaven, and Laurel’s Kitchen, which I jokingly call the vegetarian Joy. I knew right away, even before we shared a meal, that Anne’s style of cooking is a lot like mine.

When we moved in and started house-sitting, I immediately started reading the rest of her cookbooks, the ones I don’t have at home. There are lots of vegetarian options, including a couple of intriguing Almost Vegetarian titles by Diana Shaw. I found several gourmet cookbooks, along with a big pile of Cook’s Illustrated magazines. Those should be good for dinner parties. A busy, hectic life is addressed by Recipes to the Rescue, The Quick Recipe, and One-Dish Meals.

But what captivated me first were the three Weight Watchers (TM) cookbooks. Not that Anne looks like someone who needs Weight Watcher’s. She’s very trim and fit.

I’ve read lots of diet cookbooks before, and they usually call for lots of artificial ingredients — aspartame, nonfat mayonnaise, Pam spray. So I was surprised and pleased to find almost none of that. The cookbooks focus on flavorful ingredients, like fresh herbs, lemon juice, olives, and ginger, and one key thing: Portion control. A recipe that serves four in another cookbook will say, “Serves 6.”

In addition to the curry, we’ve also made our version of their grilled chicken with diced beets and yellow pepper. I’m planning to try the goat cheese and herb-stuffed chicken breasts next. There’s a Caribbean callaloo pork stew and a simple-looking pork adobo that are also on the future menu.

In the next couple of months, I’ll see what else is in those shelves of cookbooks. In the meantime, the three Weight Watchers titles are full of great recipes to try, and photos that make “diet food” look more appetizing than “regular food.” I have nothing to lose — only a few pounds.
=====
The three Weight Watchers cookbooks:

• Simply Delicious
• Cook It Quick!
• Best of Weight Watchers Magazine

Our local paper just published an interesting piece from the Associated Press about fast-food drive-through service, and how they are using technology to increase speed and improve service. It made me smile, since I am a drive-through operator’s worst nightmare.

For one thing, my van is too tall for most of the overhangs. I could do more damage to them they could do to me.

For another, my husband and I almost never go to a fast food restaurant. With no advance knowledge of the menu, we are unable to make the super-fast decision they expect. Besides, since we do it so rarely, we want to read every word of the menu, experience the gestalt, savor it. At least in the regular line, inside, we can step back and let people go in front of us.

The article did, however, make me think of some of my favorite drive-through stories. Like the time we were coming back from a pizza joint in New Orleans, and we decided to stop at a drive-through daiquiri shop. A week earlier, we had walked into one of these ubiquitous joints and discovered that we could order an alcoholic drink in a “go cup” and drive off with it. The driver isn’t supposed to actually drink it (wink, wink), but the passengers are free to imbibe.

We had that “I can’t believe we’re doing this” feeling as we pulled up to the window and asked what the specials were. Since gallons were on sale, we ordered a gallon of frozen “white Russian” daiquiri.

“How many cups?” the attendant asked us. Brian, the driver, looked puzzled. Isn’t a gallon 16 cups? We took the plastic jug, similar to a milk jug, back to the boat, where we had our own cups, and proceeded to get plastered.

When I lived in Ohio, I had another strange drive-through experience. I once took a whimsical overnight bicycle trip, packing nothing but a tent, a bathing suit, and a towel. I didn’t carry any food, figuring I’d just buy it as I went along. When I arrived at Alum Creek, the state park with the campground, I discovered that the only thing nearby was a drive-through beer store.

Ohio must have an interesting loophole in their beer sales law, because these places are always enclosed buildings, styled like garages with doors on both ends, rather than just drive-up windows. You drive in, roll down your window, and an attendant walks around the garage, picking up your case of beer, bag of chips, and Slim Jim and passing them in your window. I had three problems with the place: One, I was shopping for dinner, not beer; two, I was a vegetarian, so Slim Jims were out of the question; and three, I was on a bicycle. I grabbed a bag of cookies and got out of there fast, wondering how the attendants could tolerate that much exhaust.

I was an impressionable teen-ager when my brother Dave got married in Seymour, Indiana. His fiancé, Jeanie, dressed for the wedding in the motel room I was sharing with my sister, Julie. With Jeanie in the driver’s seat, we piled into her car to go to the wedding. On the way there, she suddenly decided to stop at Wendy’s. We pulled up to the microphone, and she place her order for a medium Frosty. “That will be $1.01,” said the disembodied voice. “Please pull up to the window.”

When Jeanie pulled up to the window, dressed in her wedding gown and veil, the attendant was completely flabbergasted. “Oh my god! That’s a wedding gown!” she said. When she heard Jeanie was on the way to her own wedding, she handed back the money, along with the Frosty. “I can’t charge you for this!” said the flustered Wendy’s employee.

Since I grew up with the concept of drive-through or drive-up windows, I’ve always had a soft spot for drive-in restaurants, the kind where the waitress brings a tray to your car and hangs it on the window. In the late 80’s, I drove along the shore of Lake Michigan with a couple of friends on a weekend trip. The Holland tulip festival was a bust, so the highlight of the trip was a stop in Ludington, where we ate supper at an A&W drive-in.

About seven years later, I was chatting on the phone with my sister Julie, who was driving cross-country from North Carolina to Oregon with her bicycle and camping gear. She’d was lamenting the expensive and major repairs she’d just had made to the bike, because she forgot it was on top of the car.

“What did you hit?” I asked, sympathetically.

“The roof of an A&W drive-in,” she admitted, “along the shore of Lake Michigan.”

Laughing, I admitted I knew exactly which one.

To this day, I don’t think she has the same soft spot for drive-ins that I do.

“Wow!” I said, “I should have ordered the French toast!” My gaze followed the waitress, who was walking by with three plates, each one loaded with thick pieces of French toast and garnished with nuts, bananas, and sultanas. I’d fallen in love with the cozy, colorful atmosphere at the Blue Fox in Victoria, British Columbia, and I was in love with the food before I had a bite.

My breakfast special that morning came with pan-fried red potatoes, thick-cut whole-grain toast, and homemade raspberry jam. Barry had the same, with the addition of two large sausages, not those tiny pinky-sized things you find in the freezer case. Most remarkable was that the menu said the eggs were free range. I’d almost forgotten that when my fork hit the yolk, and out came deep, satisfying orange, not yellow. Real eggs, from happy Canadian chickens.

For me, that breakfast was the best of all the meals we ate in restaurants during our recent 6-day visit to Vancouver Island. We were traveling in our van on a fairly tight budget — ferry fares alone were over $120. It was too cold, rainy, and windy to cook on our propane stove on a picnic table, so we planned to eat one meal each day at a restaurant and have sandwiches and snacks in the van the rest of the time.

One way we keep our restaurant budget down is by eating at small ethnic restaurants. They usually provide flavorful food at lower prices. During this trip, we used that tactic, trying Chinese, Middle Eastern, and Indian restaurants in Victoria. The results were mixed — the Indian and Middle Eastern places were forgettable.

The most memorable thing about Ocean Garden, the Chinese restaurant on the corner of Fisgard and Government streets, was the waitress. She knew just enough English to place an item in front of the customer and say, “Enjoy-your-meal!” And she didn’t just say it once: When she placed the soup, she said, “Enjoy-your-meal!” This was followed by the rice — “Enjoy-your-meal!” and each entree — “Enjoy-your-meal!” and even the tea and water. She did, however, know not to say it when she gave us the check with its ubiquitous fortune cookies. Sadly, I did not enjoy my meal as much as I would have liked, because the Kung Po Scallops turned out to be Kung Po Celery (my least favorite vegetable), and I had to search for both the scallops and the peanuts.

Giving up on our usual ethnic choices, we turned to Canadian restaurants and had some wonderful meals, including the Blue Fox breakfast and a dinner at Suzy’s, on Gabriola Island.

The folks at these two restaurants know how to serve tea. They bring you a small pot, a cup or mug, some milk or cream, sugar, and, most importantly, a spoon for stirring it. It adds a gentle ritual to the meal, or it can be an event in itself. It’s a far cry from the U.S., where you often get a stained coffee mug with a tea bag dangling over the side, and if you ask for sugar or milk, they never think to give you a spoon. Canadians are civilized tea-drinkers, although they also have their share of Starbucks.

Of course, Starbucks cannot compete with that Canadian favorite, Tim Horton’s. One evening, in Nanaimo, we were cold and needed something warm to drink. We walked to Tim’s, hoping for a Nanaimo bar and a warm place to hang out. Evidently, everyone else in Nanaimo had the same idea.

I couldn’t believe how busy a donut shop could be at 9 pm on a Tuesday evening. We sat in the corner, sipping our hot chocolate, surrounded by tables full of people sharing conversations in mellow Canadian accents. Everyone seemed laid-back, relaxed, just enjoying the company of their friends. It was hard to believe it was a fast-food restaurant.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Nanaimo, head to Tim Horton’s for a Nanaimo bar. It’s what the Nanaimans do.
===
Since I missed out on the French toast at the Blue Fox, I did the next best thing. I came home and invented a gourmet French toast recipe, with bananas and nuts and dried fruit. Now, if I could only reproduce that wonderful Canadian atmosphere!

After posting my latest essay about zucchini and world peace, I decided to search for recipes from Iraq. Does their cuisine use zucchini? What about squash?

But there are almost no recipes on the Internet from Iraq. Not that I’d expect a lot of creative cooking to be coming from Baghdad these days, but I’d hoped that some of the expats from Iraq living around the world might share their cuisine with us.

From the looks of it, Iraqi cuisine is similar to many other Middle Eastern foods, which often use eggplant as an ingredient. I found a recipe for eggplant-wrapped meat, where you could probably substitute zucchini for eggplant. Eggplant has a stronger, more distinctive flavor than zucchini, so the result would be milder. Or you could travel the other way, to northern Africa, where the Moroccans use zucchini in their rich and wonderful cous cous dishes.

Curious George — the one in my family, not the one in the movie — wrote to me again last week. I usually get four or five e-mails a day from this brother, but the goofy questions he writes in his “curious George” persona are my favorites.

“I found bananas for cheap yesterday…got some…what do they do for you?? many calories?? how many a day is enough??”

A few days later, I brought home a bunch of bananas from the store. In addition to the usual Dole sticker, there was another sticker, a little brown monkey labeled “Curious George.” What are a funny coincidence! So today, I am compelled to write about bananas.

When I was in high school, I did my first long-distance bike ride. It was the first MS-150 fundraiser for Central Ohio, and besides my sister and myself, there were only 6 other riders, all of them “serious” cyclists. We loaded our luggage into the “sag wagon” so we could ride unencumbered. That is, except for the mountains of bananas the other guys carried on their bikes. It was my first encounter with the bicyclists’ cult of bananas.

Bananas are the main reason why bicyclists have pockets in the back of their shirts. They eat them by the dozen. Some bicyclists can peel a banana one-handed. If they don’t eat enough bananas, they lose energy, which they call “bonking.”

Bananas are loaded with potassium, and they have more calories per unit than most other easily available fruits. Nature’s packaging is almost unbeatable, unless you put one in the bottom of your backpack and then throw some books on top. The resulting bruised banana mush is unappetizing.

I admit, I get bored with plain old bananas. I have to dress them up.

One trick is to eat a banana with a little tub of yogurt. Peel the banana, and dip the end into the yogurt. This is a little embarrassing in public, but it’s a good way to get a park bench all to yourself.

Another trick is to cook bananas. I’ve always been a fan of plantains, which look like huge bananas that must be cooked. I love a side of fried plantains in a Cuban restaurant — you can make your own by just peeling, slicing, and pan-frying them. Serve them with salt and lime wedges. I also turned up a Puerto Rican recipe where mashed plantains are used to make a sort of pie crust: Ripe plantain pie with meat.

Recently, I’ve discovered that regular bananas, slightly green ones, can be used like plantains. In some countries, both fruits are used the way we use potatoes. You can boil them, fry them, or add them to soups and stews. Last week, I tried a new tomato soup recipe that Barry says is the best he ever ate. It’s pretty simple, mostly just tomatoes, bananas, and onions.

Bananas are wonderful with coconut milk. You can cook the two of them with rice, or just poach bananas in coconut milk.

Here in the U.S. we’re more likely to think of bananas in baked goods, like banana bread, banana pancakes, banana cream pie. Or made into a healthy smoothie.

The weirdest recipe I’ve run across for bananas was this one, for a banana nut salad. I’ve never tried it, only because I’ve never had any Miracle Whip (TM) in my fridge. It sure sounds interesting, but one thing is certain: You’ll never find me dipping my bananas in Miracle Whip. At least, not in public.

I have an innate distrust of stores like Trader Joe’s and Publix, where produce is shrink-wrapped onto a styrofoam tray. Often, the pieces hidden on the bottom are blemished or rotten. If I only want to buy one bell pepper, instead of three, I can’t do it.

That’s what I love about a farmer’s market or a good grocery store. I can walk in and grab exactly the amount of produce I need to make one batch of minestrone, or wilted asparagus and apple salad. A half pound of asparagus, one apple, and a small head of lettuce cost a couple of dollars, and the leftovers don’t go to waste.

Being able to do that is a real luxury. On the other hand, a garden provides a different kind of luxury. If you love asparagus, you can have six pounds at a go. We ate ripe juicy pears until they came out our ears this year, then juiced dozens with lime juice. Speaking of ears, there is nothing like fresh corn — you run to the stove after you pick it, and it’s as sweet as candy.

Somewhere in between these two forms of luxury is my sister’s choice, the farm box.

Julie and Ed sign up for a farm box every year. During the summer and into the fall, a local farm provides them with a weekly box of random fruits and vegetables. They have all the benefits of fresh, organic, local produce without doing the work.

Opening the box is like having your birthday every week — you never know what will be in there. One week might have strawberries, lettuce, and tomatoes. Another week there are apples and beets and broccoli. When fall comes, it’s time to learn the difference between turnips, rutabagas, and parsnips.

I love the idea of the farm box and the local produce. I love the fact that the food doesn’t travel all the way from Argentina or Chile in a refrigerated container. Everything is dull, with a little dirt on it. There’s no wax.

The challenge is what to do with the stuff. Like the person with their own garden, you don’t just get one of each item. You might have to eat cucumbers or rutabagas three times this week.

That’s where the Internet comes in. The food may be local, but the recipes you use can come from anywhere in the world. This week, Stephen, at Stephencooks.com wrote about jerusalem artichokes. He’s over in Maine someplace. I recently unearthed a Pacific Islands site with lots of information about preparing seafood. Their fruits and vegetables may be very different from ours, but fish is fish. I’ve even started trying to decipher recipes in Portuguese, since Brazilian foods are among my favorites.

The easiest thing to do is just Google for the ingredients you have on hand. Green beans, bacon, and onions combine to bring back plenty of hits. Banana, strawberry, and kiwi go together to make a tart. Even lemon, apple, and tuna can be combined in a search that returns some tasty salad recipes.

I recently ran some searches for herbed roasted turnips, but I didn’t find much. I had to modify a potato recipe. Now, if you search for “herbed roasted turnips” (in quotes), guess what you find? My recipe!

Once upon a time, someone offered me a garlic pill.

“Pssssst, little girl, wanna garlic pill?”

No offense, but you gotta be kidding me. Garlic is one of my favorite foods, right up there with chocolate and steak. If I’m going to consume garlic, I want to taste it!

The trick with garlic is to buy a nice big bulb and a nice big garlic press. Peel off enough of the bulb to detach a clove, and cut off a sliver at the root end. Put it on a cutting board and whack it with the side of your knife, and the papery stuff will crack and come right off. Stuff that in your garlic press and give it a mighty squeeze, and heaven will come out the little holes.

As an alternative, you can buy a Microplane grater, and grate it. Be careful you don’t grate your fingers!

Many recipes say to saute onions and garlic together, but I disagree. Onions must cook for a lot longer, so I put the garlic in at the end of the onion-cooking time. The same goes for soups or stewed foods. Garlic is very spicy when eaten raw, but you also don’t want to overcook it and lose the flavor.

Some foods just cry out for garlic, like pasta, bread, and potatoes. My all-time favorite is Caesar salad, with fresh garlic and lemon juice, instead of the bottled dressing to which most restaurants have descended (everybody has to be on the Caesar-salad-bandwagon).

Here are a few recipes to try, the next time you’re in a garlic mood. Just remember, if you and your sweetie share the garlic, you won’t notice it when you smooch!

• Complicated original Caesar salad (great reading, even if you’re not going to make it)
• Simplified Caesar salad
• Olive oil bread dip with fresh herbs
• Chicago-style deep dish pizza