It’s official. Not like you need me to tell you–it’s crazy-cold out. But here, inside, all signs point to winter:

Peter has given up the frappe, and shifted to Greek coffee.

Peter was away, so I cooked a meal of foods that he’s not so into. First I put some sweet potatoes in the oven to roast.

Next, and really the main thing: liver. I’ve had a slab of pork liver in the freezer for a little while now. I suppose it’s actually an entire pork liver–more than a pound of the stuff.

I was inspired to get into it finally by cook eat FRET, and a recent post there about fegato alla veneziana. Please go read it, because it’s hilarious, but I don’t want to give away the ending, but it explains why I wanted to cook my own liver…sort of to set things right.

Anyway, I pulled it out and hacked off a piece. It will take me at least a year to eat the whole thing. I don’t think Peter will be out of town enough.

I’d recently happened to read in Joy of Cooking that it’s common to soak liver in milk, to soften the flavor. I figured this was worth a shot, since I’d also read that pork liver has a stronger flavor than calf’s liver. Plus, my liver was frozen, so the milk bath would speed up the defrosting.

Anyhoo. Soaked it till I got other kitchen business sorted, and also caramelized some onions. Got out some escarole, and some leftover vinaigrette. Got the sweet potatoes out of the oven–they’d busted open.

Sizzled up my butter, tossed my liver pieces in the pan. None of this Italiano business, though, with the tiny thin slices–I want pink in the middle of my liver.

Or I thought I did. Then I lost my nerve.

My dad always says, “Don’t overcook it!!!” And I always hear him saying that, and then I chicken out. I pulled out my liver after about 20 seconds on each side, and sliced it open. It looked good, but it oozed red. I panicked. I threw it back in. And promptly overcooked it.

Totally retarded! I should’ve reread my post about the pork liver at Joseph’s Table–turns out I ate liver in which “the inside was almost jelly-like it was so rare” and I fucking loved it. Maybe I was more remembering the totally raw pork liver I once ate at a Japanese restaurant–one of the few times I’ve actually had to hide unloved food under the garnish.

Anyway, then there was another small blunder. I thought I’d sprinkle some sumac over the liver, en homage to some fan-fucking-tastic liver I once ate at Ali’s Kabab Cafe.

But halfway through the sprinkling, I realized it wasn’t sumac between my fingers, but Sichuan peppercorn. Der. Turns out it wasn’t half bad. But the other half with sumac was better.

For dessert, I had some gingerbread, for old time’s sake.

I did the liver right…but I could’ve done it better. Next time: jelly-like!

Well, OK, really: Last night Tamara and I shot a segment for a new TV series the Estimable J.O. is currently working on, a tour around the US. Jamie attended one of our Sunday Night Dinners in Astoria…which, for once, was actually on a Sunday. Just like old times.

And despite there being a celebrity of world renown and a whole camera and sound crew there, and the lights turned up way too bright, it was a great deal like a regular SND. What we’d been planning to make (a whole roast lamb) was axed, because it was pouring rain all day. So we had to wing it, and even used a recipe we’d never tried before, as per usual.

As per usual, we had to chase the chatty people (well, Jamie) out of the kitchen in order to finish the food.

As per usual, half the food made it to the table before the other half, and then people were so ravenous they didn’t really notice the second half or care what its backstory was.

But the beauty of blogging is that I can tell you what I didn’t get to say last night about the food, and more:

Yesterday morning, we had a 66-pound lamb killed at our behest at Astoria Live Poultry. I got to pet it on the head, and thank it, and then later I got to direct just how its steaming carcass got cut up. I probably wouldn’t have mentioned the gorier details for the TV cameras, but I thought you’d want to know. (Sorry, no pictures, though it was highly photogenic.)

And can I just point out that this lamb is all organic and humanely treated? And it costs $3 a pound (live weight)? It drives me crazy that organic-whatever-certified meat has been built up as this unattainable elitist thing, while Mexican immigrants, devout Muslims and me are all just popping over here to pick up our tasty chickens?

Anyway, then I got to process all that meat further at home. There’s something delightful about cutting up a piece of meat and having it suddenly resemble something you’ve seen at the butcher’s: So that’s how a lamb loin chop works!

We put the boneless lamb roasts in pomegranate molasses with a garlic-herb paste (a recipe from the coming cookbook). We put the shoulders and shanks in a braise with saffron and a few warming spices, with some celery root (a recipe made up on the spot). And we took the loin chops and the little riblets and dunked them in a tempura batter and deep-fried them, and then topped them with fried rosemary and garlic (a recipe from Olives & Oranges, a cookbook I recently picked up because a friend of Peter’s co-wrote it).

We also served the terribly obvious but always satisfying salad with candied bacon. And rice pilaf with cherries. And there were baked apples with honey-nutmeg ice cream for dessert–my first time making ice cream since I gave away my ice-cream maker to Karl many years ago, and it turned out well. Vaguely made me want the appliance back, but I sobered up. Karl has done ten times more good with that thing than I ever would.

Anyway, Jamie was delightful, and I felt honored to feed him a hot meal–just a tiny bit of payback to the guy who encouraged me to make my own pasta, and find out that it really is easy. And every time I turn around, he seems to be doing something new and smart for food education–the genius Ministry of Food, most recently.

But I do want to end with a toast to the lamb, which the little guy didn’t get last night. And a toast to Astoria, my microcosm of New York, where I’ve found so much new to cook with. And to all the SND guests, including Jamie, for being such enthusiastic eaters. Many thanks for a fine evening.

This could very well be Kitchen Rule #1:

If you smell something burning, go down to the kitchen. Don’t sit there at your desk, doing a mental inventory, trying to convince yourself nothing could possibly be burning.

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