So yeah, I cook a lot. Five or six nights a week lot. (These holiday-season all-day baking marathons aren’t the norm, but I’m baking often too, from biweekly work birthday cakes to little desserts for potlucks.) And though I’m clearly partial to one-pot soups and stews and, of course, pasta dishes of every stripe — approachable weeknight cooking, it seems, is the unofficial focus of these pages — I don’t go for sad-single-person-at-home-alone cooking.

I may be single and home alone, but I cook for four as a rule: Me and a little more than me for dinner 1. Lunch for me the next day. Maybe lunch for me again the following day or, depending on the dish, something to sock away in the freezer for one of those nights when I just can’t get it together (this makes things like last week’s late-night pulled-pork sandwich dinner possible).

Do I invite anyone over? Barring the occasional calls from bored or drunk friends who ambush me at the last minute with demands to be fed (which I’m delighted to accommodate — there aren’t a lot of expectations around food on the fly), and the very rare houseguest, I almost never host dinner. Too scary.

Really, I blame cooking school. I can cook, and people know I can cook. I mean, for whatever it’s worth, I cooked in real restaurants before. I have knives. But I am also neurotic. What if it sucks?

I am fully aware that most people do not give a crap, and in fact would be delighted simply to be fed. They want to come hang out, gossip, drink wine, maybe meet someone new, drink more wine. The food is the excuse, not the focus. It’s just a bonus if they remember the food fondly. I know this from going to dinner at nearly all of my friends’ homes at one time or another. And then not reciprocating.

I am now becoming more worried about being a rude friend than a bad host, so it’s time to get some balls.

Enter Forking Fantastic, Tamara Reynolds and Zora O’Neill’s hilarious guide to putting “the party back in dinner party” — a crash course in intuitive cooking for apprehensive cooks and a handbook for freaks like me who just can’t grasp the idea that inviting friends (or even strangers, gasp!) to dinner does not have to be the prelude to a nervous breakdown.

forking fantastic!

Now, I’ve known Zora for years, and we used to live together in a house whose mantra was FOOD = LOVE, so it’s no surprise to me that these gals know their food. I might take issue with a couple of details (I was taught to never let my chicken stock boil, but I always flout that one, and my stock is damn good), but directions to add a handful of this, a glug of that, and a couple of roughly chopped whatever are right up my alley. (This is likely the reason Mark Bittman is my hero and I have a not-secret crush on Jamie Oliver.) Savory cooking is all about taste and smell and sound and feel, not slavish devotion to recipes, and this book champions the cause with a healthy helping of refreshing cursing and buckets of wine.

I’d recommend this book for the entertainment value alone — c’mon, can you really pass on a book that discusses carnivore squeamishness under the heading Meat Is Murder (Tasty, Tasty Murder!)? — and I adore Zora and Tamara’s passionate call to novice cooks to just go for it (Part 1 is titled Cautious Beginners, Start Here). But the recipes and menus are also so fun, sophisticated, and maybe most important, manageable, even a less-novice but freaked-out idiot like me is about ready to start the guest list. I’ve already added a few dishes and ingredients (pomegranate molasses, woo!) to my repertoire.

Menus are laid out with not only recipes but also complete “Plans of Attack”; booze recommendations (”Drink Up!”); hilarious and encouraging party-planning advice (”Horde Management,” “The Hour of Self-Loathing”); and tips designed to calm your panic and make your dinner run smoothly, all culled from the authors’ personal experience (”Learn from Our Mistakes!”). I’m partial to the choose-your-own-adventure buttermilk fried chicken menu, titled Are You Insane? (Yes gets you a recipe for 30, No scales it down for a few friends) — I haven’t even tried it yet, but I do agree that if you’re going to fry, you might as well go nuts, and the enthusiasm is goddamn infectious.

That they swear a lot along the way is just icing on the cake for me, a testament to their enthusiasm, and a reminder that I’m not that different from Zora and Tamara, really. Maybe I can fry for 30 without having a nervous breakdown.

Read an excerpt from Forking Fantastic.

But I am cooking, always cooking. And this week was not only Thanksgiving but also a week of houseguests, visiting friends, and Christmas cookies (dear lord, so early?). What I’ve made this week, sort of in order:

• with Tony, lamb meatballs with collard wrappers, rice, roasted cauliflower, and broccoli di cicco, topped with his bacon-gorgonzola sauce (later polished off the cheese sauce warm on toast…yum)
• pasta with roasted butternut squash, amaretti, and parmesan
• a spicy soup made with the leftover lamb, collards, and beans
• 3 porchetta-style pork roasts, with crackling
• an apple torte
• a hazelnut-grape tart
• a large persimmon pudding
• a case of roasted brussels sprouts with bacon, breadcrumbs, and balsamic
• about 10 pounds of pomegranate-glazed carrots
• many, many pounds of mashed potatoes with roasted garlic
• a massive pile of creamed spinach
• Thai-style carrot-squash soup (killing the leftovers)
• 8 quarts of turkey stock
• 3 batches of rugelach
• chocolate-pepper cookies
• chocolate-hazelnut cookies
• English toffee
• ginger cookies

I’m tired. More cookies tomorrow. Requests?

mmm, pie

When you’re talking to the farmer who got up at 4am and drove 2 hours from Sebastopol to bring you 14 varieties of apples that run the entire sweet-tart spectrum, how can you not want to make pie?

Tip: You can freeze wedges of fruit pie for later to ensure you don’t eat the whole thing in one sitting. Yes, I love pie.

Sometimes the best dinners are a mishmash — one of the great gifts of living alone.

Backing up: Whenever I have piles of potatoes languishing in a bowl on the counter, my thoughts inevitably turn to gratin. The new nighttime chill doesn’t help (nor does my general propensity for carbs and cream, no matter the weather). Everything in moderation.

Tonight the mission actually started with a giant bulb of fennel. Three potatoes, one bulb of fennel, the (oh!) mandoline, a bit of cream, and some shredded cheese, and a dish of golden goodness awaits…in an hour.

An hour! And I’m starving. So time for a little snack. Something light: a few carrots and a bit of Trader Joe’s tomato hummus (I like that stuff, and always forget to eat it…we’ll see if I let this tub go bad from neglect like the last one, sad).

Just a few. The gratin still needs some time to brown nicely and set. Putting away the hummus, I notice the cute little peppers I bought at the market this weekend — and I wish I remember the name. They’re like pimientos de Padrón but Italian and, the seller confidently informed me, always sweet. I’m fine with the hot, but why not try them? Goddammit, I wish I remembered the name….

Anyway, some hot olive oil, a large pinch of salt, and a few minutes later, and I’ve got a small handful of blistered little peppers for my second snack. Or second course. The little dose of vegetable that will prevent me from gorging on the creamy potato-fennel concoction, and you’d better believe it, finger-licking, scrumptiously delicious. Worth ever cent of that 5 bucks, and I’ve got some to spare in the unlikely event guests swing by.

Take a small break to lift some weights. Pre-countering the gratin (I didn’t even use all cream! it’s part milk! but we skipped the gym tonight).

And back to the gratin. There is nothing more beautiful than a pan of crusty, bubbling…well, anything food-related, honestly. I really should have invited someone over for dinner.

One strange thing about traveling alone as a woman: The night managers all want you to hang out with them. This isn’t really surprising, as they’re bored and lonely, and I’m clearly on my own; I just wasn’t expecting it. My suspicion is simply that they can’t fathom what I’m doing traveling by myself. In Roma, Simone looked momentarily taken aback when I answered that I was not in fact in town for work but for la vacanza, though as I was renting a room in a B&B, it would have been hard for he or his brother to really look out for me.

In Napoli, Alfredo offered me a glass of wine when I returned from dinner, then shocked me by pouring himself a glass and sitting down for a chat with a plate of sfogliatellini con nocciola (I ate one to be polite…they were delicious, actually). I did appreciate his wanting to chat with me despite my speaking crap Italian after a bunch of wine, but it was all just a little awkward.

Now, in Positano, the night guy, effusive Peter, offers me a glass of limoncello on my arrival home, thankfully leaving me in peace to admire nighttime Positano and the fireworks across the harbor in Praiano (I think); but he also knows exactly which room I’m in before I tell him (they must put a flag on the solo-traveler loser rooms) and insists on a friendly kiss-kiss before I retire. It’s not creepy, just awkward.

But the limoncello does make for a nice digestif after what turned out to be hands-down the finest meal of my trip so far. Luck is with me today, from learning (via Alfredo) of a post office 50m from my Napoli hotel to snagging one of the last seats on the SITA bus to Positano, I’ve been doing pretty well. (The monstrous hike from the bus to my hotel here wasn’t so lucky but also couldn’t be avoided — everything here requires belay gear.) Dinner was serendipitous, too, really: After spending a couple of hours watching embarrassingly tacky American college kids, overbronzed Italians, and Amalfi daytrippers on the beach for a while, I decided to try out the stairs instead of the road back up the hill, thinking they’d join the street eventually. They did, about 20 stories up, but conveniently deposited me right in front of my hotel. Seriously. I almost passed out at my luck.

Parking myself on a bench to catch my breath, I scoped out the two restaurants at the foot of the scala to the hotel, and decided on impulse to walk across the street to da Vincenzo and book (shocking everyone once again with a request for una tavola per una).

They must have felt really bad for me, because I ended up with one of about 8 outdoor tables, which put me basically 3 feet from passing traffic (nothing much here is further) but with a direct view of the bay. Damn.

When I’m around this much fish, I just have to go for it, and I figured with prices this steep and most of the tables already reserved, how bad could it be? That and I’d eaten a single panino all day and was starving.

So, the menu: First they brought an amuse-bouche, fried mozzarella stuffed with some kind of pesto, I think — a greenish, very delicious little bite. Next, caponata del ventresca di tonno, which was basically a cold composed salad highlighting fresh tuna belly, which I really couldn’t pass up. A little more olive oil, and it would have been perfect, but I ate every last bit of it, admiring even the knifework on the little squares of potato and zucchini interspersed with the tuna and bits of olive and peperoni.

I could have eaten my pasta dish all night, would I not gain 600 pounds and never get to the secondo (yes, I went for a secondo this time…fish are powerfulfully persuasive). Mixed pieces of pasta are thrown together with mixed seafood in a light broth — who cares, right? Probably leftovers or all the bits left over after they portioned the secondi. But holy christ, that was genius at work: The perfectly cooked, insanely fresh seafood — several kinds of clams, mussels, a huge piece of octopus, squid, and god knows what else — worked in lockstep with the different kinds of pasta, matching textures and shapes, all the different nooks and crannies of the pasta picking up different elements of the fish. Wow. Octopus and squid should be cooked like al dente pasta, who knew? Not a clam unopened, the mussels briny and plump…damn.

But oh, no, I didn’t stop there, though I kept it simple, laying waste to most of a plate of alici alla brace, or grilled anchovies. I don’t know if there’s a difference between alici and acchiugi, but I do know that fresh anchovies bear zero resemblance whatsoever to those nasty bits people toss on pizza at home, nor the quality marinated filets I sneak into sauces at home (which in Italian I know as acchiuga, for what that’s worth). The finger-size fish were gutted, then grilled with just some olive oil and lemon, leaving deliciously crispy skin and sweet flesh that pulled just taut enough to allow for basically one-stroke deboning. I didn’t manage the entire plate, but I did finish with a rather large stack of doll-size skeletons.

When I dine out alone, I will skip reading while eating if the scenery or food is worth its own attention, and needless to say, between a packed restaurant, traffic careening by about 3 feet from my toes, alici to be dismantled, and a spectacular view I could enjoy without craning, I wasn’t reading. (The small bowl of wild strawberries and cream chantilly I chose for dessert didn’t change that.)

But I did think about eating alone, eating together, and what my boys would make of the meal (the girls, I know, would take it all in stride). One would have freaked out about anchovies in general, then secretly loved them while spitefully demanding that I debone all of them. One would have grimaced and wished me a good time, likely trying none and ordering some fried shrimp. One would have made catty remarks about how much I ordered, but going nuts over the fish bonanza and absence of cheese split the plate with me and loved it. And one, I know for sure, would not only have gone crazy for the alici; he might have even picked them first, as they seemed the most radical of the fish choices, then suggested we try the octopus and artichoke spiedini as well. Alas.

I thought I made a horrible mistake landing here — gawdy, overtouristed, vertical, full of American coeds, loud tourist shops, and smoochy couples — but if for that meal alone (and the sick view from my hotel room, which may be the best extra 20 euros a day I ever spent), I’m glad I came. Tomorrow, Capri.

Crossing a street in Roma is about taking a deep breath and just going for it. It’s exhilarating and terrifying to step in front of 400 scooters, taxis, and a bus or two, but if you don’t swallow the fear of certain death, you’ll never get anywhere.

(If you need help getting started, lock step with an old lady or purposeful businessman. It took me 3 hours to start throwing myself into traffic like a true Roman. Just keep walking.)

And just as I’m becoming confident in my avenue-crossing skills, clever navigation of the inscrutable bus map, and a near-faultless sense of direction and comfort with the winding streets of the Centro Storico (read: ability to walk home well over a few blocks without consulting a map after drinking half a bottle of wine), it’s about time to go. And possibly at the right moment, after my second and most winning bowl of bucatini all’amatriciana (god, that’s good). On to Napoli and then Positano, where, according to Lonely Planet, the food is generally mediocre tourist fare, and expensive to boot. Here’s hoping for a surprise. Or molti sorpresi. I dreamed of vongole tonight — maybe that’s a good sign.

The novelty of arrival having worn off, plus the combination of overeating on day one, heat, and loneliness, has actually made me want to eat less, which is better on the stomach, and on the pocketbook, honestly. Swearing off secondi (well, eschewing for the moment, anyway) and a post-cena espresso is an experiment in progress. On the loneliness, it waited until day 4 (or is it 5?) to set in, but I’m banking on a change of scenery and the challenges of navigating a completely unknown city to squelch it.

Today’s deliciousness: Not starving but knowing full well that I’d never find anything worth ingesting near Piazza di Spagna later, I found a nice little place in Monti near Via de Serpenti (Street of Snakes) that served up crispy, chewy pizza with bufala, carfiofi (artichokes), and prosciutto, a perfect light meal paired with a beer, ideal not least because it didn’t require a post-meal nap. Unfortunately, my outing later to Trastevere and a leisurely couple of Proseccos at a neighborhood bar did me in, but this is why I love Roma, and Italy in general: You can wake up at 9:45 pm and not worry about missing dinner. In fact, you might have trouble finding a table.

For dinner, simplicity: prosciutto e melone, and that fantastic pasta. And wine. Lots of wine.

A few things that suck about dining alone:

• You can’t try everything.
• You feel like a cow when you attempt it anyway.
• Indifferent service feels like a personal affront.

A few great things about dining alone:

• You can go wherever, whenever you want.
• You can embrace wanton people-watching.
• Indifferent service can strangely turn into very earnest entreaties to walk that way for the ottimo view, or smiles and a very firm handshake and grazie mille at the end of the meal.

Who knew the Italians were caught up in the small-production beer trend? Well, “caught up” is likely an overstatement, but then, this is the birthplace of Slow Food, so why not?

The Trentatre Ambrata pale ale-style beer I tried was actually quite good, and stood up nicely to the ravioli, cool breeze, and excellent people-watching I enjoyed in Trastevere over lunch. You can read more about the beer on the Italian site Cronache di Birra (Chronicle of Beer).

Since I ate way too much today, I’ll omit the play-by-play, but some observations:

• Artichokes properly fried giudia-style are my new favorite anything.
• Italians usually wield the knife with their strong hand, eat with the other. I continue to cut up my food at will…that’s how I roll.
• Romans love salt. Love it.

On Italian secondi: I don’t know why I keep ordering them, as they’re rarely worth the price of admission. I’m apparently experimenting to see whether they’re honestly mediocre or I’m simply too full by then to fully enjoy whatever it is I’ve ordered.

On a whim I went for the grilled baby lamb to follow a small bowl of bucatini all’amatriciana and its gloriously crispy guanciale bits. I skipped the fried lamb’s brains and sweetbreads in favor of an antipasto of Giggetto’s famous fried artichokes, fiori di zucchini ripieni (zucchini flowers stuffed with anchovy, I believe), and stockafisso (baccala). There’s really only so much fried I can do in one sitting.

Italians tend to cook the crap out of their meat (the exception being the nearly raw and phenomenally awesome bistecca alla fiorentina). My chop? For one thing, it seemed to have been hacked in one slice from the rib, the bone removal was such a pain in the ass, but the flavor was powerful: My lamb sported the charred, crusty bits that make the Italian grigliata so remarkable. But worth the trouble? I’d save room for gelato instead.

I landed finally at my little bed and breakfast in the Jewish Ghetto , and after a nice chat with Simone (”my inglese is horribile!”) killed some of the jet lag with a nap and long shower, then first real order of business: coffee. Pronto.

At the bar I met clearly retired and bored Enzo, who was terribly excited by the fact that I was not only traveling da sola but could also chat (sort of with him) and his handsome young barista friend. No one seems to understand why on earth I’d learn Italian, but they love it. Good start.

On to food: a late-evening snack of some thin pizza from Forno di Campo de’Fiori, hacked from a counter-wide slab, folded, and delivered into my grateful hands in about 4 seconds and 2 euros.

Restored, I wandered over to the Forum for a short evening visit (in the waning light, devoid of people, it looks like a stage set – completely unreal), realizing along the way that I was thinking in Italian. Short phrases, but still.

For dinner I headed near Piazza Farnese, landing at Da Sergio, on a quiet back street, with an outside table. Success: some solid cacio e pepe (why are Italian basics always so much better than anything I can do at home?), beef with rucola, un quarto di vino rosso, and an espresso – cheap, easy, and all I needed to get on with a late-evening stroll along the river. And now I collapse.

I get cravings sometimes, but I can usually calm them down. When I need hot and sour soup (usually when I’m sick), I really need it. Bad. And then I have to go through the whole mental battle of trying to decide whether I want to eat that much MSG; whether I want to spend a bunch of dollars when I could just make dinner; whether I have the energy to walk three blocks to pick it up…but dammit, I need my soup.

Well, I was skeptical about this one, but Cook’s Illustrated (not usually my favorite) came through with a recipe for hot and sour soup involving completely normal pantry ingredients that’s actually really good.

I had a pork chop and stock and most of the other ingredients, and just ran around the corner for some tofu, sliced bamboo shoots, and fresh shiitakes (ok, fine, so they’re not all common pantry ingredients). I found that my black Chinese vinegar had gone south, so I went with the red wine and balsamic vinegar alternative, boosted with a little more cider vinegar — the sour wasn’t quite sour enough.

Lots of white pepper and chili oil, and a half hour later, I am not joking: best hot and sour soup I’ve had in ages. I thought I hated bamboo shoots, but they added just the right tang. The little bit of pork gave it just enough heft for a light dinner. And the crunch of the scallions scattered over the top just reinforced that it was fresh.

Beautifully, I’m not even sick.

I’m pretty good with a knife. Never lost a finger, and in fact have been lucky to experience very few tragic kitchen accidents (if you ignore the massive scarring I incurred while working the pastry ovens at Aqua…and the asbestos fingers). Brilliantly, I’ve sustained most of my injuries while cleaning my knives.

Hence tonight’s bandage event, a completely unnoticed slice to the knuckle, received, I assume, while washing my chef’s knife after mincing some parsley for a massive batch of meatballs.

(Which are delicious and the perfect antidote to a long, gray day, by the way. Freeze batches of the meatballs in their sauce for a welcome treat next week and beyond. Tonight I’m making meatball sandwiches.)

In any case, I acknowledge that this is kind of gross (and no, there’s no blood in the food), but you have to admit that the bloodstain I left on my other sleeve as a result of the bleeding knuckle is pretty funny. Or ironic.