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Why is it that no one can resist a little tiffin in the afternoon? Tea, lunch, a swig, a mid-afternoon bonk--because the tiffin is a physical sort of portmanteau, with more compartments, more meanings all squashed into one little, well-travelled word the English brought over to India and later, took back with them.

It seems everyone's written an article about the tiffin carriers, or delivery men and women, often their wives, who cook the tiffins of Bombay--er, I mean Mumbai. The New York Times loved the comfort food delivery aspect--New York loves delivery. Forbes spun around on its platinum rimmed roley chairs for India's low liveable wages and huge low error system, "who could ask for anything more?" it ended, with a wink. High up in the fifth avenue office, a suit whistled Gershwin.

It took me a while to embrace my Southern heritage. Perhaps it is truly that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but after years spent trying to minimize my accent and be perceived as a generically cosmopolitan citizen of the world, pieces of my Tennessee self have become unexpectedly dear to me. For instance, I didn't love bluegrass music until I moved to Boston, and I didn't understand the glory of the iron skillet until I came to California.

In any of my grandmothers' houses, the iron skillet occupies a permanent spot on top of the stove. Used daily and rarely washed, they develop an onyx-black patina and a nearly nonstick surface. Combined with its near-mythic heat retention, suitability on a burner or in the oven, low price, and nigh-indestructibility, it seems strange that I could ignore such a cooking vessel.

Alas, I couldn't see these traits. I associated iron skillets with bacon grease, soggy vegetables, and bland, gray gravy. It was heavy, ugly, and hard to care for. It didn't seem to have a place in my modern kitchen. That is, until, one day last summer when I was craving a hamburger.

There it is, five dollars from Home Depot and fits not only on a sheet pan as a single slot, but in my locker too! It's my knife box, recently scrubbed and dried after emitting a suspicious smell--turned out it was a cheap spatula that collected muck where the wooden handle held the plastic scraper. Ew. I got rid of that and now stick with the all plastic ones. But first things first:

chocolate piping bags. I make them with parchment paper in advance so they're ready to be melted on top of the oven at the beginning of service. They're useful for anniversaries, birthdays, and marriage proposals, because yes, believe it or not people have me write "will you marry me?" in chocolate on their girlfriend's dessert plates. I always thought that only happened in movies.

one red plastic motorcycle of no particular use

one retractable Sharpie, one mini blue Sharpie, one regular Sharpie. Sharpies are fantastic for labelling your stuff and the retractable one is great because I only need one hand to use it.

one sachet of green tea. My chef gave this to me one afternoon to make but I always go straight for the espresso machine rather than the hot water tank.

one bottle of ibuprofen. For achy, crampy, crappy days that a double espresso won't fix.

three piping tips. A star, a small round, and a large round. Mostly they're just for whipped cream and piping macaroons.

one thermometer. For cooking sugar, often for the caramels with cocoa nibs that we wrap up as a petit four. Although I usually still use the ice bath test with my fingers because thermometers can't always be trusted.

one smiley face note from Glyn. Um, no comment.

one digital timer. When there's five or six things baking or boiling I need a timer going off every ten minutes or so to keep me aware of the speed at which the minute hand goes. This means that periodically, I open every oven door to peek and poke and stir all my pots and taste things, and then return to whatever I was doing. But without it, something will burn.

one set of tablespoon measurers. I only use the quarter teaspoon to measure fine powders like agar. Our kitchen scale isn't accurate to the gram so it's one quarter teaspoon to one gram.

two long teaspoons. For quenelling ice-creams, ganaches, and whipped creams.

one metal tasting spoon. I try to taste everything before service just in case something's off or needs adjusting, have to do this discreetly in the open kitchen though or it just looks like I'm snacking.

one pastry brush that smells of vinegar ever since I lent it out to garde manger.

a yellow Kuhn Rikon peeler. The best peelers ever! In my last kitchen someone saw me struggling with a normal peeler and a box of potatoes and felt so sorry for me that he gave me his. They're three for ten dollars at Perfect Edge so it's not a great loss to lose one. They come in all colours. They'll change your life.

a pair of scissors. You know, for cutting things. They're the kind that come apart and I always feel a little like a lab monkey trying to put them back together.

three heatproof spatulas. One small, one large, and one of those funky see-through ones with metal inside.

two step palets, or offsets. The small one is like an extension of my own hand during service and it's probably the tool I use most often setting up and spreading tuiles downstairs.

one Santoku. A present from Glyn's parents, it's the Wasabi by Kai, currently being sharpened on the stone. I love this knife--feels like it was made for me and the specific cutting jobs I do.

one chef knife. It's hard to sharpen, heavy and a bit bulky for me, the complete opposite of the Wasabi, but it's the knife I used through culinary school and I still like it.

one bread knife. The blade is a little too flexible, but I can't invest in a good one right now.

one office knife or paring knife. I don't keep this very sharp so I can cut straight onto my hands when necessary and mistreat it a little, using it straight on sheet pans to lift thing out, opening boxes and such.

one filet knife. I used to use it for fish, but now I use it for fruit because it's so sharp and flexible.

All my knives are covered in those slip-in plastic covers by Messermeister that come in various sizes. Most of my cuts used to be from reaching in carelessly to find what I need until I bought them.

And that's the tour.

It's no secret, I love my Bialetti. But lately, things haven't been right. The reliable two cups a day have been watery sometimes, leaking from the sides, smelling, inexplainably, of hazelnut flavouring. Gross. I thought maybe it was time for a new one--they have so many sexy models now, sleeker, shinier...

But Glyn discovred the culprit: a loose, dirty, old gasket. At Perfect Edge, my favourite kitchen shop, they sell replacements in packs of four. That means we have a few more years ahead of us before I start considering changing it out for a new model.

Another new addition to our kitchen: the Skimmer. A small metal mesh for skimming stocks, sugar, anything really. I've always used a ladle, which wastes some liquid in the process of cleaning it, so this should be great.

The dreary weather persists. Wet feet are all the rage, or at least the inevitable result of leaving the house. The other result, at least around my place, are rich, slow-cooked dishes that warm the tummy and fortify against the rain. I have simmered, stewed, slow-roasted, and braised until I worry that my Le Creuset Dutch oven may collapse from exhaustion.

And let me, for a moment, sing the praises of that very extraordinary cooking vessel. Nothing is better suited for gentle, moist cooking than enameled cast iron. Its smooth interior is pleasantly stick-resistant, yet it develops truly superior fond when meat is browned in it. The lid fits tightly, sealing in moisture, and the dense, heavy cast-iron absorbs the heat and releases it back into the food with consummate care. Its cheerily colored exterior brightens up even the grayest winter day. Chicken thighs and cubes of pork shoulder emerge tender and infused with flavor. My enameled cast iron Dutch oven is one of my most useful, most prized tools in my kitchen. Indeed, it was an investment, but since I fully expect my heirs to fight over it at my funeral, I believe it was totally worth the price.

Stephen and I had a rare day off together today. We lounged, snacked and cuddled in our pajamas. Tonight I made a rich Bolognese sauce that simmered for about two hours. It smelled so good I expected my neighbors to knock on the door, hoping for a taste. The recipe follows (with the standard caution that I'm not always great at exact quantities). Expect more of my recent slow-cooked creations in the days to come.

Rigatoni with Bolognese Sauce

1 pound ground chuck
1/2 pound ground pork
3 slices bacon, diced
1/2 cup finely chopped celery
1/2 cup finely chopped carrot
1 medium onion, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, minced
8 ounces cremini mushrooms, chopped
1/2 ounce dried porcini mushrooms soaked in about 3/4 cup boiling water, finely chopped with 1/2 of the liquid reserved
1 cup milk
1 cup red wine
1 14.5 ounce can diced tomatoes
2 1/2 cups tomato puree (no salt added is best)
1 cup low-sodium chicken or beef stock
1 generous teaspoon each dried thyme and oregano
2 bay leaves
pinch dried red pepper flakes
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 1/5 pound rigatoni

Heat a heavy Dutch oven over medium-high heat and add the ground chuck and pork. Season with salt and pepper and cook until all the pink is gone. Drain the meat in a colander and set aside. Turn down the heat to medium and cook the bacon until it starts to get crisp. Add the onion, celery and carrot to the bacon fat. Sprinkle lightly with salt and saute about 10 minutes until the vegetables are very soft and starting to turn golden. Add the garlic and cremini mushrooms and saute until the most of the mushroom liquid has evaporated, about another 5-10 minutes.

Return the meat to the pan, add the thyme, oregano, pepper flakes, bay leaves, and a few grinds of pepper. Add the milk and cook until most of it has evaporated. Next add the wine and also cook until almost dry. Pour in the diced tomatoes, tomato puree, stock, the reserved porcini soaking water, and add the cinnamon and nutmeg.

Bring to a boil and simmer, stirring occasionally, about two hours or until the sauce is very thick. Stir in the cream and balsamic vinegar, taste for salt and pepper. Cook the rigatoni and toss it all together. Garnish with chopped basil or parsley and grate on some parmesan.

Today is Monday, the first day of my work week. And I find myself wondering if there is anything sweeter than being woken up by someone you love, shuffling over sleepily to plop down on the floor cushions, and seeing good coffee poured, milked and sugared just as you like it, in your favourite green cup. Not for me, no, my morning coffee is a daily monument to love.

I remember the day I bought my Bialetti in Boston; it was the most beautiful and promising thing I'd ever seen and I used it every day. Slowly, it lost its shine. And the tiny man with his finger in the air who seemed caught at the moment of an unspeakable epiphany, faded. The inside stained brown, the rubber seal asked to be replaced, and one week while in Lisbon, I neglected it dirty in the sink and a velvety green mould welcomed me back.

When Glyn and I first began to see each other, it was all late nights cooking and eating together: snacking on waffles my roommate brought back from Holland, feeding the bread doughs (Sponge Bob Yeasty Pants), sealing raviolis with apple, onion and Taleggio, tunnel boning and roasting tiny quails, turning out liquid centred panna cottas, and quiet snacks of cucumber sandwiches and rose milk at four in the morning. It's easy enough to stay up late and stir rose syrup into cold milk for someone you love, but at 6:30 in the morning it's quite another story.

The bleeping of the alarm snatches us back from dreams. The room is dark, outside is dark, the kitchen is dark and possibly cluttered with dirty dishes. The garbage has started to smell. Without slippers, the floors are cold on our toes. Turning on the light is sharp and painful, as is the noise of the coffee grinder and the clanks of the pans. Then there's the business of finding the green cups and saucers, the tub of brown sugar, and a clean teaspoon. There are never, ever clean teaspoons.

I could not get up and face this, when my head is heavy and my dreams still palpable, for just anyone.

Whose turn it is to rise and conquer the stove top espresso is a daily, silent agreement we make with each other. And always, the one who leaves the bed first to turn on the stove and returns triumphant with the smell of dark roast caught in their hands, is truly a hero.

A knife sharpener comes around once a month with the ultimate shaggin' wagon for anyone with a knife fetish: the ceiling and walls are covered in knives, several stone wheels whir like crazy, and it doesn't smell of patchoili. Also, the sharpening is pretty good.

The van comes around once a month from The Perfect Edge. No, it's not that first and after, unattainable state you receive your knives in--when they're sharp enough to shave a fingernail, scratch-free and gleaming with the dark magic of their creation. It's a shop/therapy/clinic for your knives: leave them for a night or two and all nicks, broken tips (gasp!), uneven sharpening are smoothed away lovingly. I sent in a few neglected knives and got them back sharp, beautiful and happy. So now when it comes time to buy new tools, this is where I go.

It's a small store, but filled with toys and books, and two full walls of knives. Best of all, there's a demo table where you can play a bit with potentials. Tara, whose store it is, knows each knife in the way Mr Olivander knows the composition of every wand in his shop. It's freaky. She listened carefully to what Glyn wanted--what tasks specifically the knives would be for, price range, and personal preference--and then reached knowingly into the random corners of the shop, pulling the knives she thought were right from the magnets in the middle of the wall, under the demo table, and inside cabinets. Glyn was then able to brunoise courgettes with each knife as it was explained to him.

Tara talked about folded blades, printed blades, layered blades, pointed and rounded slicing knives, hand-polished bevels, why there were enormous price differences between all of them and finally recommended a ceramic sharpener to take care of the one that felt right.

We came home with new colourful plastic peelers, a half size boning knife, a beveled slicer, magnetic knife guards, parchment paper, and a pair of tiny curved scissors. There's a discount for anyone in the industry on sharpening, and though they don't believe in sales, the prices are always decent.

The Perfect Edge
1640 Palm Ave, San Mateo, CA 94402
(650) 349-2665
closed on sundays