SpiceLines

All cumin is not created equal: The Moroccan spice (on the right) has a fresh, earthy, almost vegetative aroma. Indian cumin (on the left) is warm and mellow, with a touch of citrus.

"No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place…at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory…" In Search of Lost Time, Marcel Proust

Proust was talking about tea and madeleines, of course.

But I’m thinking of cumin.

Many of us have a scent-memory that so completely envelops us in a golden haze of well-being that the disasters of the day are instantly reduced to nothingness, like shreds of papery ash floating in the air after a raging fire.

Do you have a fragrant memory that transports you to a feel-good place? The smell of a succulent turkey roasting in your grandmother’s Magic Chef gas range(the one with the enameled blue and white Delft tile pattern that you’d die to have in your own kitchen)? The sultry scent of a voluptuous French rose on a humid summer day?

How to make great chili: Lightly brown chunks of premium buffalo in olive oil , liberally season with ground chiles, warm spices and a cup of black coffee, simmer slowly for at least two hours. Top with avocado. Eat with warm corn tortillas.

There are just three things you need for truly great chili:

1. Excellent meat.
2. Superb seasonings.
3. Time.

In other words, great chili is all about slow-cooking the very best ingredients. Of course this is heresy in some circles, chili having been “invented” as a way to tenderize cheap, tough cuts of meat by stewing them with spicy peppers.

But trust me. It’s better this way.

A few days ago, while the snow was swirling through the air, I became obsessed with the idea of chili. This happens every winter: When it’s cold and grey, I start hanging around the butcher, checking out cuts of meat to put in the pot. Chuck roast or bottom round? Beef or buffalo? Then I have to putter around my own pantry, sniffing jars of dried chiles and spices. Cumin is a must, but what else ?

Antidote for winter: A stone basin filled with fragrant plumeria, marigolds and rose petals welcomes visitors to a spa in Cochin. Before massage, a delicious detox tea of holy basil, lemon and honey.

Cold, sleeting rain, cloudy skies, 50 mph gusts of icy wind.

Will winter never end?

Well, never mind. I've got just the cure: A sunny tour of India.

Blue skies, bright flowers, a temple, and markets to die for.

Come along and take a look...

When you're playing for keeps, French toast slathered with raspberry vanilla jam and vanilla creme, and sprinkled with powdered sugar, will unlock your true love's heart.

“It is very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is over. The very essence of romantic love is uncertainty….” Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

If you can believe The Wall Street Journal, America’s florists are in a snit.

In media circles, the word is out: Why buy a dozen all too perishable (and expensive) roses on Valentine’s Day when “…computer goodies…last longer”? (See The Flower, the Leaf and the Lobby: A Valentine's Tale, The Wall Street Journal, February 12, 2010, p. W13.)

Oh, yes? You'd like some anti-virus software? Or maybe a Crackberry? How romantic.

But you know, fragility is the nature of romantic love. It can be as ephemeral as a rose petal or as evanescent as a Laduree macaron. And as Wilde observed, a firm proposal can be the start of The Big Letdown.

But what if you’re playing for keeps? How to capture the object of your affections and keep the glow for the next, um, 27 years?

Well, tomorrow morning you might want to awaken your true love with a plate of triple vanilla raspberry hearts. But be sure your love's more than a passing fancy: These delicious French toast trifles are so addictive that you’ll have to pry the loser’s clenched fingers from your doorjamb when things fall apart.

Flaky Halen Mon sea salt from Wales meets sweetly floral, ground Tahitian vanilla beans and bittersweet chocolate. The result: A match made in culinary heaven.

I’m addicted to salt.

Always have been, always will be.

Now I don’t eat spoonfuls of salt right out of the box, a mortal sin to which New York Times food editor Craig Claiborne famously confessed. (Later he atoned by writing Craig Claiborne's Gourmet Diet which minimized fat and salt.)

But I have been known to slip into the pantry for a few grains of Hawaiian Alaea sea salt—and shiver with pleasure as the briny red crystals melt slowly over my tongue. I might follow up with a pinch of ancient Japanese sea salt infused with the brothy, umami-like flavors of Hon’dawara seaweed. For the finale, maybe some delicately creamy Spanish flor de sal.

Why worry about food when you can get your artisan salt fix straight from the pantry?

A pristine red snapper, stuffed with scallions and ginger, wrapped in parchment paper, and baked in rock salt, is succulent and sweet, with a faintly nutty flavor. Serve it with a ginger infused soy sauce.

I went to the market yesterday, intending to pick up a chicken.

But I came home with a fish.

A pristine red snapper, pearly scales shimmering atop filigreed rose and silver skin, looked at me though the glass window of the seafood counter. Its eye—the one I could see—was bright and clear. “Choose me!” it whispered.

I changed my plans on the spot.

The snowflakes are flying, but melt as they touch the ground.

Under its snow cap, the witch hazel is sputtering, like a star fizzling sparks on a wet, grey day.

The flowering apricot, "Bridal Veil," is in delicate bloom--a blushing bride in the throes of first love, however fleeting.

And the earliest crocuses have thrust sturdy buds through the dead leaves, then unfurled wanton purple petals to the sun.

Can spring be far behind?

/>
In San Antonio there are a lot of contenders for "best breakfast tacos," but it's hard to surpass Las Salsas, a modest eatery which serves barbecued lamb on the weekends.

What to do if you’re in San Antonio on a Saturday morning:

First show up at Las Salsas around 11:30 AM.

That’s when the weekend special, barbacoa de borrego, is ready.

The lamb, braised until the meat falls off the bones, comes with fresh cilantro, sliced avocado and onion, atop a trio of small, very thin corn tortillas. A squeeze of lime cuts the richness of the meat.

Next sit down at one of the formica topped tables and order the 3-taco plate. A few minutes later a platter piled with a truck driver’s ration of unctuous barbecued lamb, so tender that it practically melts in your mouth, arrives at your table. The critter’s neck and shoulder have been braised for 5 hours in a big pan on the stove until it falls off the bone, oozing, it must be said, with delicious lamb fat that’s brown and crispy around the edges.

Now load up a delicate corn tortilla with some of that lamb, lay on some avocado, onion and cilantro, and drench the whole thing with lime juice. Roll it up and take a big bite of breakfast taco heaven.