First off, a confession. If I am going to get all up in your face about how you should RSVP to every invitation that asks for one–and you’d better believe that I am–I’d better come clean now. I too am guilty of this cardinal sin of disrespect and inconvenience. Like, last week, even. And not just to some random fundraiser that someone sent to ALL their facebook “friends”.

No, it was a WEDDING invitation. Sent by good friends, no less. And yet, I dragged my feet. Not because I didn’t want to go, or because I was waiting for a better offer, but because I didn’t want to say no. And that, along with any of the other idiot reasons for not RSVPing to an invitation–no matter how slight–is really, really stupid.

This is what ends up being the most challenging challenge facing today’s would-be host- or hostess with the mostest. It’s not the ridiculous schedules; lack of plates or chairs; over-ambitious menus; exotic, weird, or missing ingredients; or even militantly vegan, gluten-free, fruitarian guests. It’s the wondering how many people are gonna show? Will they be on time? Will they bring their entire kickball team with them? It’s a wonder anyone tries to entertain at all.

Ultimately, the big reason to respondez vous s’il vous plait–the only one that REALLY counts–is that an RSVP represents a contract of significant import, both socially and economically. On the social side, the host or hostess generally has invited people that he or she would like to have at the event in question. That does not mean, however, that he’ll be crushed and disconsolate if you say no. A note of regret–regardless of how sincerely regretful–will be more appreciated than a non-response left hanging and the anxiety it will bring.

Indeed, your perspective host will likely be pretty ticked if, on the day of the party, he has no idea whether or not your coming–particularly if half of the guest list has similarly elected to prevaricate. While this is most true if the host needs a headcount to ensure there are enough wine glasses, canapes or, heaven forbid, seats at the table, (there’s the economic side of the contract) it holds true for even the least organized of to-dos.

And yes, all those semi-personal invites still deserve the honor of your reply. I know, I know, we’re all awash in the damn things these days: the random happy hour benefiting ADD Outback Parakeets, the first recorder recital of a darling little moppet you’re not even REMOTELY related to, the book launch of a frenemy you’ve not seen (or wanted to see) in years. It doesn’t matter if someone’s pulled every address from their AOL email account circa 1998 and you don’t even remember who they are.

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Mr. T. and I went to a “Seder” last-last weekend. While a lovely event, it wasn’t QUITE the real thing though, and not just because it was a week behind schedule. There were pork and shrimp spring rolls next to the kugel and gefilte fish, and the only bitter thing there might have been me (I kept missing the latkes). Given that our host and hostess were Vietnamese- and Jewish-American, the menu makes a bit more sense–even if it was an evening of tasty syncretism that would make the more Orthodox blanch in horror.

That’d be a shame, though, as everything was really tasty. Ok, almost everything was really tasty. The gefilte fish was… edible. And, given it’s peerless provenance, I can only shudder at the thought of rank and gefilte fish. Ech. Nevertheless, the guests demolished 10lbs of toothsome brisket, stacks of matzo schmeared with chopped liver and charoset, and fastest to dissapear were the fleets of spring and garden rolls handmade by the host’s mom and aunties. And, in an impressive feat of group adventuresomeness, even the gefilte fish got eaten.

In talking to the hostess in the week before the party, I’d offered to bring sweets–after convincing her that a) there was going to be enough food and b) kugel was going to be waaaay easier to serve at a cocktail Seder than tiny shots of matzo ball soup. The obvious choice, even for a shiksa goddess such as myself, was coconut macaroons. I also included tiny bite-sized versions of my favorite flourless chocolate torte, but more on them later.

For the macaroons, I turned of course to Rose, whose christmas cookie book (ironically) has a lovely recipe for coconut macaroons… that started out with baking a whole coconut and then shredding it by hand. *sigh* Rose, Rose, I love you, but I am NOT dealing with a whole coconut. Speaking from experience, the blood and broken crockery just isn’t worth it.

So, stepping back from that whole Robinson Crusoe ordeal, I elected to mix sweetened and unsweetened coconut and add a judicious tot of rum to the traditional sweetened condensed milk that binds it all together. Still sweet, but not throat-closingly so, they were met with serious acclaim at the party, with far better Jews than I calling them the best macaroons ever. I’ll take it.

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We here at the PassionFruits kitchen would like to pause in our frenetic Easter luncheon preparations to wish y’all a very lovely whatever it is you might be celebrating this weekend. In any case, whether it’s in a bunny or schmeared on matzo, we hope there’s chocolate involved. And remember, this is the one time of the year it’s acceptable to call Cadbury Creme Eggs a meal.

As Spring whips itself into high gear, everything’s abloom (gesundheit!) and profligate baby veggies abound. Whether in the supermarket, farmers’ market, or your weekly CSA delivery, now is the time for adorable little carrots, beets, turnips and other such things. And, more often than not, they’ll come with some frilly, flouncy greens attached. Aren’t they pretty?

Well, yes. Yes they are. But cut the green tops off of your springy spoils the minute you get them home. If you leave them attached, the rooty bit will continue to feed moisture up into the greens, and you’ll end up with wan, flaccid baby carrots. And really, who wants that? No one. It’s sad.

This really holds true for any root vegetable, like the celery root at right. The longer the plant stays whole out of the ground, the worse off it’ll be by the time you get around to cooking it. And as the adorable baby seasonal veggies are so small, things can get dire pretty quickly.

Of course, if your greens are edible (celery, beet, and turnip top, for example), just rinse ‘em well and cook ‘em up after you’ve trimmed ‘em off. The tender little celery stalks are really wonderful–like super celery. I’ll be putting mine into a fava bean cassoulet for Easter lunch. Other greens are delicious too, whether sauteed on their own, or blanched and added to mashed potatoes. It’s like getting a bonus vegetable while preserving the freshness and resilience of the rooty bits you bought in the first place. Now, get out there and get your sassy baby vegetable on!

Pop quiz, hotshot. You’ve got people coming to dinner: Ms. Foodie Italian, Mrs. Foodie Indian-American, and Mr. Foodie Italian-Peruvian-Nerd. Two of them are vegetarian. What do you serve? WHAT do you serve?

Ok, so not exactly as pressing as saving a bus full of screaming passengers with Sandra Bullock at the wheel, but this was still the closest thing to a crisis that I had to deal with last weekend. I was not about to throw down anything Italian, and Indian too–my go-to vegetarian dinner party option–was similarly off the menu. I toyed with Indonesian, given the “I” theme that had developed, but then it got a bit chilly and the idea of gado gado and smoked tofu summer rolls seemed a bit premature.

Instead, at the suggestion of  dear friend and PassionFruits Edinburgh correspondent Lady Dae-Dae, I whipped up a lentil-based shepherd’s pie based very loosely on several recipes by Nigel Slater (English foodie institution) and Sophie Dahl (English foodie… something).

Yes, yes, I know I just wrote about my “African” sheperd’s pie, but bracketed by tapenade and goat cheese toasts, fennel apple salad, and a flourless chocolate torte, the lentil-based pie made a perfect, hearty centerpiece to a tasty, veggie-friendly meal that didn’t rely on any of my guest’s native cuisines.

While definitely savory and substantial enough to stand on its own, the shepherd’s pie would also be absolutely stellar as a side for lamb chops… but then, what DOESN’T go with a good lamb chop? In any event, though, it was such a delicious success that Ms. Foodie Italian refused to leave till she’d extracted a promise that I’d share the recipe–which I gladly agreed to, with the warning that I’d have to write it down first!

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Alrightly, then. I seem to have entered myself–or my Chocolate Malted Milkball Birthday Cake, rather–in the 2012 Makes-Me-Wanna Shout! Chocolate Layer Cake Baking Challenge. And, since the recipe’s gone and made it to the semifinals purely on its written merits, I now need a little help from my D.C. peeps at a public tasting event on Saturday, March 24, from 2 to 4. You’ll have the chance to taste (and vote on) 15 chocolate layer cakes, and $15 of each ticket will go directly to Martha’s Table. So all you lovers of cake (and, ahem, of moi), should up and get yourself a ticket.

Martha’s Table is a venerable D.C. institution that provides meals to the homeless, maintains tutoring and learning programs, and provides a variety of other family support services. Consider your attendance a bit of chocolatey good karma.

As for the cake I’ve entered, it’s the best, most original ”Operation Birthday Cake” cake I’ve come up with to date. A rich, smokily dark chocolate stout cake layered with a white chocolate-cream cheese-malt filling and wrapped in a milk chocolate malt frosting. The birthday girl in question actually gave up alcohol for the week after her party so she could eat the leftovers! High praise indeed. Definitely decadent, totally tasty, and maybe even award winning? Hope to see you there!

When I travel for work, I’m usually headed to a state capital. Unfortunately, seats of government are rarely located in the parts of a state that one’d actually want to visit–the view is particularly bleak when one invariably seems to end up at the Holiday Inn Express on the Airport Bypass Road. But since I’m there to, you know, WORK, this isn’t that a big deal except for on the dining out front. Of my colleagues, I have the highest restaurant standards. I do not consider frozen Sysco hotwings food, and woe betide anyone who suggests otherwise.

I’m also generally the bossiest person, and the youngest, which makes me comparably adept at using the Internets on my phone (amazing!) to locate good restaurants and then chivvy everyone along for the ride. I’ve found that cross-checking Zagat, Yelp, and Chowhound recommendations gets a good list that doesn’t skew too old, too hipster, or too foodie. Even then, though, sometimes the road away from the T.G.I. Chilibees is a rough one, and I’ve had my moments of… compromise. (Graceful, naturally.)

Fortunately, my most recent trip was to Sacramento. And, while not as exciting as nearby San Francisco, California’s congenial climate and foodie culture meant that I had no problem mapping out the gustatory aspects of the itinerary. We had excellent ramen, Mexican food, and swanky Cali cuisine, but the most strinking meal was our lunch at the Magpie Café. After a smoke trout baguette, the most beautiful BLT ever, and a lushly lemony chicken salad, we felt we HAD to get the dessert specials. So, fennel blood orange ice cream sandwich it was, along with an avocado chocolate mousse.

Now, I generally turn up my nose at such hippie-dippie palaver, but everything else had been so good I figured the kitchen wouldn’t serve something that didn’t work. And lo, it was good. Dense and flavorful with no detectable avocado-y-ness, it’s more like a pudding or a pot de creme than a mousse, but very tasty regardless. And, as something of a lactard myself, it’s gratifying to have something so rich and delicious that doesn’t involve a bucketload of cream.

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Last week I got a rather plaintive remonstrance from my friend C, wondering if I’d quit the food blogger biz (such as it is…). Though it may say more about the quality of entertainments in rural Mozambique than about my prowess as cook or blogger, it was still very nice to know that someone was left wanting by my protracted winter vacation…

Somewhat chastened, I assured her that I was merely taking a break, and that things should be picking up very shortly indeed. And, in sifting through my backlog of recipes and ideas, this “African” shepherd’s pie seemed to be just the thing.

So this one goes out to you, C. I’m hoping that enough of these ingredients are available to you right now–where local and seasonal aren’t just foodie buzzwords, but the WAY. THINGS. ARE. I do, though, have every confidence that you’ll be able to make it work regardless.

In any case, the shepherd’s pie itself was inspired by half a jar of homemade berbere I’d rummaged up from the back of the spice drawer. I’d ended making a batch of this incendiary African spice blend in a somewhat-more-OCD-than-usual spasm of making Ethiopian food from scratch.

Which… mmmyeah… happened all of once. Take it from the pros, by the way, and just buy the bread ready made. Not even real Ethiopians make their own injera these days.

In any case, faced with a mess of face-meltingly hot African spice mix, I got to gooving in a most hippie-dippie Moosewood goddess vibe and came up with this somewhat idiosycratic riff on peanutty west African groundnut stew and traditional sheperd’s pie. I’m sure there’s a multiethnic farming collective somewhere in the Catskills that just got its wings.

For all it’s syncretic liberties– and I DO apologize to Africans and shepherds everywhere–this is really a great dish. With just the right mix of, well, everything, it’s spicy and sweet and savory and packs a ton of virtuous vegetables without really trying (should you care about such things…).

Even now, having finished up the berbere, I regularly whip this out on a weeknight when something delicious and easy is the order of the day. It’s also got an ingredient list that pulls almost entirely from the freezer and pantry cupboard, so I can prepare it with minimal to zero shopping.

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