the perfect pastry

Better than medicine

2012-02-11T09:30:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think I should have named this the Blog of Ugly Food. Chilaquiles; Split Pea Soup; Baingan Bharta; and now Lentil-Sausage Stew.

I last made this soup a few weeks ago, but I've spent the past three days huddled on my couch with the mother of all chest colds. While I've been eating little more than soup, it's been basic noodles in broth, and I've been longing for another bowl of this.

This soup—really more of a stew, as it's very thick and chunky—is a family tradition from the same origin as these oat cookies. I've changed the recipe over the years: I use white wine instead of red (although my mom usually decreases the amount or eliminates it entirely); I've increased the vegetables and decreased the amount of sausage; and I use stock (preferably homemade) instead of dried bouillon. In the nine years that I didn't eat meat, I left out the sausage (and even occasionally substituted vegetarian substitutes)

This soup quickly became a tradition in chilly Alaskan winters; not only is it warm, comforting, and easy, but it's even better a day or two after you make it.

Lentil-Sausage Stew
From a photocopied page of an unknown cookbook. If you like, cut a few slices of sausage on a diagonal, sear just before serving and use them to top the stew. If you leave out the sausage, you may want to add a little bit of smoked salt to finish.

8 ounces dry brown lentils (1¼ cups)
12 ounces smoked kielbasa or Polish sausage, halved and thinly sliced (optional)
3 large carrots, chopped (about 1½ cups)
4 cups vegetable or chicken stock, or a mixture of stock and water, divided
1 bay leaf
4 tablespoons butter
½ large onion, diced (about 1 ½ cups)
3 stalks celery, chopped (1 generous cup)
3 tablespoons flour
½ cup white wine
salt & pepper

Rinse and drain the lentils. Combine with the sliced sausage and carrots in a 4 quart dutch oven or heavy oven-safe pot. Add 3 cups of the stock and the bay leaf and bring to a boil; lower heat, cover and simmer 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 375ºF.

Meanwhile, melt the butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Cook the onion and celery until tender but not browned, about 10 minutes. Add the flour and cook 1-2 minutes more, stirring constantly. Add the remaining 1 cup stock and the wine; cook, stirring often, until thickened and just brought to a boil, 3-4 minutes more.

Stir the onion mixture into the stew. Season to taste with salt and pepper, then transfer to the oven. Bake, uncovered, at least 40 minutes, stirring from time to time.

Garnish with seared sausage if desired. Serve with sour cream and warm bread.

Serves 6 or more

Resolved

2012-01-27T22:50:00.000-08:00

Well, hello, blog. It's been a while.

It's been far longer than I intended, but when Major Life Stuff intervened, I thought it would be better to just take a break entirely and wait until I was able to hit the reset button on my life before I started back up.

Frankly, you didn't miss much. I did a bit of holiday baking, but not nearly as much as I usually do. Since the dust settled a few weeks ago, though, I've been getting to know my kitchen again. Spending some leisurely time cooking has reminded me of just how therapeutic it is. Whether I'm clanging pots in frustration or chopping up vegetables while humming off-tune, there's rarely a day that isn't improved by some time cooking.

And when it's winter in Los Angeles and Meyer lemons are four for a dollar, there's really no excuse not to make something delicious.

(While L.A. winter may not offer me the cold weather that I love, it does get dark early, which means terrible photos for a few more weeks— my apologies.)

I think I've made it clear that I'm a big fan of Dorie Greenspan. Her cookbooks are absolutely loaded with fantastic recipes, she always has variations (that sometimes sound even better than the original), and I haven't yet found an error. However, I would return every recipe I've ever tried—I might be willing to give up every recipe idea I've ever gotten from her—as long as I could keep the lemon cream recipe.

She credits Pierre Hermé, pâtissier extraordinaire, with the recipe; the man should have a monument in his honor somewhere in central Paris. Lemon cream is similar to lemon curd, but the butter is left out of the original mixture. Sugar, lemon juice, zest, and eggs are whisked in a double boiler until thickened. Once cooled a bit, the mixture is whizzed in a blender or food processor and softened butter is added. The butter emulsified, the curd lightens in color, and the whole shebang becomes light, creamy, and not nearly as rich as something with nearly three sticks of butter should be.

I've probably made this tart a dozen times in the last few years, but a couple weeks ago I decided to change it up. After all, when life gives you lemons ... get the blueberries out of the freezer.

Lemon Cream-Blueberry Tart
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking: From My Home to Yours

I almost exclusively use Meyer lemons for this now, but I have made it with Eureka lemons before; if your lemons are very tart, you may wish to add a bit more sugar. Also, this is a big recipe, but nothing is difficult. The cream is a little bit fiddly, but well worth the effort, and crust, blueberries, and lemon cream can each be made ahead of time. Ideally, though, the tart should be assembled the same day it will be eaten.

For the crust:
5 ounces unbleached flour (1 ¼ cups)
½ cup finely ground almonds
2 ounces confectioners' sugar (½ cup)
¼ teaspoon salt
4.5 ounces unsalted butter, well chilled and in several pieces (9 tablespoons)
1 large egg yolk

For the lemon cream:
7 ounces granulated sugar (1 cup)
zest of 3 Meyer lemons
4 large eggs
¾ cup Meyer lemon juice (from 4-5 lemons)
10.5 ounces butter, in pieces, at room temperature (21 tablespoons)

For the blueberry filling:
1 ½ cups fresh or frozen blueberries (use the best you can find)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon arrowroot (or cornstarch)

For the crust, whiz the flour, almonds, sugar, and salt together in a food processor. Add the butter and pulse until it is a oatmeal/pea consistency (this won't take long - just a few seconds). Add the yolk in a few drizzles, pulsing briefly each time, then pulse in 10-second increments until the dough just comes together—listen for the funny noise the processor makes, which means it's almost ready.

Press the dough quickly into a 9 or 10 inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Butter the shiny side of a piece of foil and press it over the surface of the tart, then transfer to the freezer for at least half an hour. I usually make it a day ahead. (Note: you really should save a little bit of dough in the fridge in case your crust cracks, but I never bother with this; just fair warning.)

To make the lemon cream, set some water to simmer. Also, have a strainer handy next to your blender or food processor. In a bowl that can be set over (not in) the simmering water, combine the sugar and lemon zest. Rub it together until the sugar is moist and fragrant, then whisk in the eggs and lemon juice. Set the bowl over the water and whisk from time to time until warm, then whisk constantly until the mixture reaches 180ºF (if you're not using a thermometer, which I will admit to plenty of the time, it will be rather thick, like lemon curd, and relatively hot to the touch). Immediately strain the mixture into the blender or food processor, discarding the solids. Let the cream stand until cooled a bit, about 5-10 minutes). Put the lid on the machine and set the speed to high. Add the butter pieces in about 4 additions, stopping to scrape the sides if needed. After all the butter is added, keep the machine on high for three more minutes. Scrape the mixture into a bowl, press some plastic against the surface, and transfer to the fridge to chill completely, 4 hours to overnight.

Meanwhile, make the blueberry sauce. Combine the blueberries and lemon juice in a small saucepan. Stir the sugar and starch together in a little bowl, then mix with the fruit. Heat over medium heat until the mixture is thickened and the blueberries are beginning to break down, about 10 minutes. Chill until you are ready to assemble the tart.

To bake the crust, preheat the oven to 375ºF. Put the tart on a baking sheet, leaving the foil on, and bake 25 minutes. Remove from the oven and carefully remove the foil. Press down any puffy bits, then return the tart to the oven for 8-10 minutes more, until golden brown. The edges of my crusts usually brown long before the rest of it, so you want to keep an eye on it and cover the edges with foil if necessary. Transfer to a rack and let cool completely.

Spread the blueberry mixture across the bottom of the tart, leaving about ¼ inch at the edges. Quickly whisk the cream to loosen it, then scrape it into the crust, spreading it carefully over the blueberries. Spread it up to the edges, swirl it around until it's pretty (or at least somewhat so). You can cut and serve immediately, but for best results, refrigerate for at least 15 minutes to let the lemon cream set a bit.

Serves 8

The perfect pudding

2011-11-17T11:44:00.001-08:00

Tell me, why did it take me a month to put my pudding craving to rest?

To be honest, I think I just made it worse, but still. Pudding is so simple to make—as long as you're patient enough to keep it from curdling, it takes little more than pantry ingredients and time—but for some reason, I eat the vast majority of my custards frozen or baked in a tart crust.

After weeks of complaining about the lack of pudding in my life, last weekend the desire to procrastinate on some unrelated work got me into the kitchen. Thank you, procrastination! After reading through several cookbooks and blogs, discarding the overly fussy methods, and washing enough dishes to be able to see the bottom of the sink (oops), I was ready to get started.

"Pudding" can be a confusing term depending on who you're talking to. There are steamed puddings (often called "English puddings), which I have never eaten and rarely seen, and so won't talk about here. There are bread puddings, which are the happiest death bread could hope for: like french bread in many ways, a custard of some sort is mixed into stale chunks of bread (and often other stuff, my favorite being spiced apples), and the whole shebang is baked until creamy, fluffy, and will-you-marry-me delicious. Then there are the things that most people in the U.S. think of when they hear the term.

Well, frankly, most people probably think of either a cardboard box or a little plastic cup, but bear with me. In Europe, they are most often baked in a water bath (these are your pots de crème, or cup custards), and thickened with nothing but egg yolks. Alternatively, you can add some starch and cook it on the stovetop, and they are even quicker and almost as good (my dad would say better).

My life is, sadly, without custard cups and very short on oven-proof pudding-sized ramekins, so I decided to make a stovetop pudding. I was thinking about a chocolate pudding—how could I go wrong—but then as I saw a recipe for vanilla pudding in my trusty Dorie Greenspan cookbook, I had a brainwave. Caramel. The only sweet that I crave as often as I do custard. If it makes the most divine ice cream, why not make a pudding?

As I got to work, I quickly dismantled Dorie's method. Food processors may make the silkiest pudding, but I wouldn't know, because pouring several cups of scalding milk into a running food processor isn't an exciting thought for me. I can say that without food processor (I did use it to unclump the cornstarch and mix it with the eggs) or sieve, I had perfectly smooth, lump-free pudding.

The vanilla pudding recipe that I adapted has little puddles of chocolate ganache at the bottom, and that probably would be fantastic with the caramel, too. I could also see serving this dressed up with a poached pear or down with some spice cookies, but it was heavenly by it self, and a dollop of whipped cream was more than enough to keep us happy.

Salted Caramel Pudding
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Split-Level Pudding in Baking: From My Home to Yours
For a fantastic how-to on caramel, go to—who else?—David Lebovitz.

2.5 ounces sugar (about 5 tablespoons)
2¼ cups whole milk
scant 1 ounce cornstarch (about 3 tablespoons)
½ teaspoon salt, preferably sea salt or kosher salt
3 large egg yolks (reserve whites for another use)
1 ounce butter (2 tablespoons), at room temperature and cut into a few chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Have six small (4 ounce) or three larger (8 ounce) ramekins or cups at hand.

Put the sugar in a medium heavy bottomed saucepan and set the heat to medium-high. Watch the sugar carefully, and when it begins to melt, use a spatula or wooden spoon to very gently stir from time to time, allowing the unmelted sugar to melt and keeping any hot spots from burning the sugar. When the sugar is mostly melted, swirl the pan from time to time, cooking until the sugar is a deep coppery amber color but not burnt (trust me, you can tell when sugar burns!).

When the sugar first starts heating, you should have ample time to get your other ingredients together. Measure the milk into a measuring cup or bowl and set near the sugar so that you have it handy. If you'd like to use a food processor, put the cornstarch and salt in the basin and pulse a few times—leave the lid on for a few seconds to let the dust settle before transferring to a plate or piece of waxed paper. Add the egg yolks and process for a minute, until lightened a bit. Alternatively, sift the cornstarch into a small bowl; if your cornstarch is lumpy, you may want to sift it twice. Then beat the egg yolks thoroughly in a large bowl; set aside.

Returning to the caramel: as soon as it's reached that amber color, begin stirring and carefully but quickly pour the milk in—it will bubble and steam furiously, so keep your face away and cover your arm with a towel if desired. The caramel will seize into candy immediately, but keep stirring and it will melt in a few minutes. Let heat until the sugar is completely dissolved and the mixture is nearly boiling, about 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, if your eggs are in the food processor, give them another quick pulse and then add the cornstarch mixture and pulse to combine, then transfer to a large bowl. If you're not using a processor, whisk the cornstarch mixture into the eggs. While whisking, slowly pour about a quarter of the hot milk into the egg mixture to temper the eggs. Transfer the mixture back to the pot and whisk constantly until the mixture has thickened and is just barely beginning to bubble, about 5-7 minutes (if you let the milk mixture come to a boil, it will take less time).

If you are worried about lumps, set a sieve over a medium bowl and pour the pudding through. Otherwise, pour the pudding into the reserved cups. If you like skin, stretch plastic wrap over the cups; if you don't, press it against the pudding. Chill until cooled, at least one hour. Serve with whipped cream or ganache (or both). These keep in the fridge for several days (if, for some reason, you don't eat them).

Serves 6Note: I will try to check this post carefully, but if there's anything wonky in it, I apologize—Blogger is being anything but cooperative right now.

Breakfast of champions

2011-10-24T06:20:00.000-07:00

This is the time of year when all I want to make is dessert. Apple cake; banana bread; pear tart. I've had a dangerous obsession with pudding lately, and cold weather makes me develop an illogical affection for ice cream. Kale is beginning to show up again, and I made my first batch of squash soup this weekend, but I don't think I will get truly excited about fall vegetables until I find my first early Brussels sprout.

Luckily for me, my birthday was last week, so a cake was in order. I don't eat a lot of cake in the summer, as most of my fruit goes into tarts and pies, so I wanted to do something new. I was originally planning on making a rum cake for my birthday—I've been toying for years with the idea of recreating a cake from a bakery up near Mike's hometown, and I was spurred into action when I read that the place had changed hands and gone down in quality since the last time we went.

That rum cake—which, you will notice, is not pictured here—is unlike most that I've seen. Several thin layers of moist, spiced sponge cake are brushed with rum syrup and filled with rum-spiked pastry cream; the whole thing is then frosted with more of the pastry cream and topped off with a liberal amount of shaved chocolate.

Delicious in concept, but not (yet) in reality. The sponge recipe I used was a bit too dry, the pastry cream a bit too loose. I'm not one to be bothered by fiddling with a recipe a dozen times before I'm satisfied with it, but I couldn't accept a substandard birthday cake. After flipping through my cookbooks and browsing dozens of websites, I found myself torn between two recipes from Smitten Kitchen. I wavered for a while, flipping back and forth between the pages on my computer, before I chose the Espresso Cake. The deciding factor? I already had everything I needed.

Never mind the fact that almond paste found its way into the house when shopping the other day ... another cake may be in my future, after all.

This cake is a bit time-consuming, but simple. The chiffon cake layers are assertively coffee-flavored; and a hit of espresso-rum syrup keeps them moist and adds another hit of flavor). I did decide to change the frosting—Deb calls for an instant fudge buttercream, and while "instant" and "buttercream" sound lovely together for this Swiss buttercream dévotée, it sounded too sweet and rich for my tastes. I chose instead to go with a whipped ganache—anything with a full pound of Valrhona chocolate can't be very bad—however, ganache sets firmly and takes a long time to soften, making it a bit too difficult to slice and eat a delicate cake (you can see in the picture below where the ganache cracked when I sliced it straight out of the fridge). After all, who wants to wait an hour after slicing a cake to let the frosting soften? I made this the day before I cut into it, but it would be best to make it in the morning or early afternoon and keep it at room temperature until you're ready to serve it.

Espresso Chiffon Layer Cake
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen (danger—you will spend far too much time drooling over/making delicious food if you click over there)

Note that because chiffon cakes owe much of their leavening to egg whites, they will collapse somewhat when cooling. This is normal; however, when you are getting ready to put the cake together, I recommend gently squeezing the base of the cake if the top of your cake shrank in very much; this will help avoid having an uneven layer of frosting on the outside of the cake. Also, know that eggs are easier to separate when cold, but whip much more easily at room temperature; I generally separate my eggs before I even start assembling the other ingredients and washing whatever dishes I need that I accidentally dirtied an hour before...

For the cakes:
¼ cup mild vegetable oil (for baking, I use canola)
6 large eggs, separated
6 tablespoons espresso, room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
5 ounces cake flour (about 1⅓ cups)
9 ounces granulated sugar, divided (about 1⅓ cups)
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cream of tartar

For the syrup:
¼ cup hot espresso
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup dark rum

For the ganache:
1 pound bittersweet chocolate, chopped (I almost always use Valrhona Extra Bitter 61% for things like this)
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
3 ounces unsalted butter, room temperature (6 tablespoons)

Preheat the oven to 350ºF; make sure racks are at top and bottom thirds of the oven. Line three ungreased 8-inch round cake pans with parchment rounds and set aside.

Combine the oil, egg yolks, espresso, and vanilla in a medium bowl and whisk to combine; set aside. In a large bowl, sift together the flour, 7 ounces (1 cup) of the sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt—or, if you're like me and hate sifting, whisk the mixture vigorously, which as far as I can tell does the exact same thing unless you have lumpy leavening or sugar. Set aside.

In another large bowl, combine the egg whites with the cream of tartar. Beat on low speed until foamy, then increase speed to medium-high and slowly add the remaining 2 ounces (⅓ cup) sugar. Beat until soft peaks form (if you lift the beater out of the whites, they should form a little mountain in the bowl, but with a soft tip that folds over on itself); do not beat to stiff peaks or you will end up with a dense cake.

Add the egg mixture to the flour mixture and fold together until combined. Add about a quarter of the whites and fold together quickly to lighten the mixture, then fold in the remaining whites, just until the color is uniform.

Pour the batter evenly into the prepared cake pans. Bake 17-20 minutes, swapping oven location halfway through, until they are springy to the touch and don't leave any batter on a cake tester. Transfer to cooling racks and let cool completely in the pans (30 minutes minimum).

Meanwhile, make the syrup. Measure the sugar into a small bowl, then pour the hot coffee over and stir until the sugar is dissolved. Add the rum, stir well, and let cool.

To make the ganache, heat the cream and corn syrup over medium-low heat until quite hot but not boiling. Add the chocolate and let sit 1-2 minutes, then stir until melted and smooth. Let cool until it's about the consistency of yoghurt or mayo. Beat the butter in a large bowl until fluffy, then add the cooled ganache and beat until lightened and stiff, about 3-5 minutes (you don't want to overbeat it; three minutes may not be enough with a hand mixer, but it certainly should be with a stand mixer).

To assemble the cake, run a knife around the edge of each cake and invert onto the racks; remove the parchment paper. Place the first layer, bottom side up, on the cake platter. Brush with one third of the espresso syrup, then carefully spread with just over a cup of the frosting; after being soaked in syrup, the cake will be fragile, so be gentle. Repeat with the remaining layers, frosting the sides of the cake with the remaining frosting.

Serve at room temperature; if keeping for more than a day, store in the refrigerator

Serves at least 12; you could probably feed 16 easily after a big meal (if you want to share)

Well-earned

2011-10-14T10:40:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a well-earned rest today.

The past two weeks of work have been maddening, but the madness ended yesterday! For the next couple months, my life will be unmitigated insanity, but very little of that will be coming from work.

Will that result in this blog getting a bit lively again? Only time will tell. Over the past several months it has been a source of guilt more than joy, as I've made all sorts of food that hasn't made it on here. Some of it will probably appear in future years (it's not exactly the time to share recipes for plum cake or curried corn fritters); some of it will probably trickle to the back of my mind and be lost forever.

In the meantime, though, we have biscuits. Who could complain about that?

I've been making biscuits for years. They're simple—flour, salt, butter, buttermilk, and leavening—and fast. You can bake them in a jiffy to go with stews and soups (I particularly like them with split pea or lentil-sausage stew), or eat them for breakfast stuffed with eggs and sausage. A little dry ham and cheese, and you can make great little two-bite sandwiches. Biscuits are also perfect with all manner of sweet accompaniments, from jam & butter to macerated strawberries and whipped cream; it's not necessary, but I usually add a bit of sugar to the dough, as well.

For years, I made the exact same biscuits. It was the basic biscuits that most people have made at some point over the years, almost verbatim from The Joy of Cooking: rub some cold butter into flour, salt, and leavening, moisten with buttermilk, and pop into a hot oven. Eventually, though, I started fiddling with things, looking at the many variations in my different cookbooks. I started playing with flour (all cake flour wasn't sturdy enough; only A-P flour didn't have enough tenderness) and leavening (a combination of baking powder and soda seems to work best with buttermilk). All in all, I thought, I made a pretty darned good biscuit.

And then. And then. A few weeks ago, sitting on the floor surrounded by a pile of cookbooks and magazines, I noticed the biscuit recipe in Michael Ruhlman's Ratio. After the first basic steps and a rest in the fridge, Ruhlman gives the dough the puff pastry treatment, rolling it and folding it into thirds several times. This results in extreme layers and extra tall biscuits, and it is entirely worth the extra work.

Extra Flaky Buttermilk Biscuits
Adapted from Michael Ruhlman's fascinating and useful book "Ratio".

If you're using these for dessert, I recommend adding a tablespoon of sugar to the dry ingredients, though it's certainly not necessary. And in a strawberry shortcake sort of application, I wouldn't do the extra rolling, as I prefer a less flaky biscuit. I've really started to embrace my kitchen scale for dry ingredients, and I highly recommend you do the same; the volume measurements are estimates in case you don't have a scale.

7 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1¾ cups)
2 ounces cake flour (about ¼ cup)
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
3 ounces very cold butter, cut into pieces (6 tablespoons)
¾ cup cold buttermilk

Measure both flours into a mixing bowl set on your scale. Add the baking powder, soda, and salt and stir well to mix. Add the cold butter, toss to coat, and quickly rub the butter into the flour (if you naturally have very warm hands, you may want to rinse them in very cold water and dry them before starting - or use a pastry cutter or a pair of knives). The biggest pieces of flour should be no bigger than peas, and the mixture as a whole should look rather crumbly, kind of like oats. Pour in the buttermilk and stir quickly just to combine.

Empty the dough out onto a piece of plastic wrap; if you have some troublesome flour at the bottom of your bowl, just toss it on top. Use the plastic wrap, if needed, to turn the dough a few times until any dry bits are combined, then press into a 1 inch thick rectangle and wrap tightly. Transfer to the refrigerator for about half an hour or the freezer about 10 minutes.

Unwrap the dough and either dust with flour or top with another piece of plastic wrap. Roll the dough out to approximately an 8- by 10-inch rectangle. Fold it into thirds, roll out again, fold into thirds one more time, and roll out about ½ inch thick. Rewrap and return to the fridge for about 20 minutes. (Note: if your home is very warm, you may wish to refrigerate it for a few minutes between folds, as you don't want the butter, which is very thin at this point, to melt or soften).

While the dough chills, heat the oven to 400ºF.

Remove the dough from the fridge and transfer to a cutting board. Using a very sharp knife, trim the edges from the rectangle, then cut the dough into 6-10 rectangles. Transfer to an ungreased baking sheet and bake until tall and golden brown, 16-18 minutes for very small biscuits, a few minutes longer for larger ones.

Makes 10-12 little biscuits (about 2 ½ by 2 inches)

Overworking, with a salad

2011-09-24T22:12:00.000-07:00

Well, crap.

Someday, perhaps, my life will be my own again, and I'll beable to do what I want, when I want (at least from time to time). I've finallyresorted to the Pomodoro Technique at work, and I've seriously consideredbringing it home with me. I'm not quite Type A enough to handle that kind ofstructure.

That being said, there is an end in sight. Work~~will~~ may return to some level of normalcy comemid-October, and several other things will be wrapping up before Christmas.

In the meantime, believe it or not, I have been cooking. Notmuch has been blog-worthy, though. I've got a pudding cake recipe that is about3 tweaks away from perfect; a chewy whole-wheat chocolate chip cookie that, Ihope, I will be perfecting this weekend; and several ideas for tarts and cakesthat I haven't even begun to properly plan. For dinners we've eaten scads ofpasta (tomato sauce made from our crop has been the high point of the pastseveral weeks), the occasional salad, and anything we could think ofto eat with salsa.

This is the time of year when I get confused with the foodthat's on offer. Late summer produce is still everywhere—tomatoes,corn, grapes, peaches—but we're also getting the first fennel andkohlrabi, the prune plums have already disappeared, and local apples arrivedjust this week. I'm thrilled with all the options, but it's easy to beoverwhelmed. Do I embrace the cool, cloudy evenings and use the foods I've notseen for nine months? Do I ignore those and instead just gorge myself on summerfavorites, hoping to help me get through the winter?

Not that it's ever worked—I'll be half-dreaming oftomatoes from the day they turn mealy and sickly pink until they return to somelevel of quality sometime next spring—but that's been my plan so far.We've still got another dozen or so tomatoes ripening on the patio, so as longas the evil mouse-rat that's already stolen at least 5pounds doesn't get any more of them, I'll be continuing for a littlewhile longer.

Every season, I find some item that I gorge myself on nomatter what the price, and when it's gone, I swear that I'm going to eat evenmore next year. Just as invariably, when that season comes again, I getdistracted by something else. Last summer, it was fresh black-eyed peas. Thisyear, it's been corn, and black-eyed peas are but a distant memory (I ate themonce, but it was a lackluster dish that we won't discuss). I've always lovedcorn, and summers spent at my grandparents house in Oregon always included manydinners of corn on the cob, unnecessarily but deliciously coated in butter andsalt. Corn is never as good as it is fresh from the garden—like peas,its sugars start converting to starch the minute it's picked. However, evenafter a few days in the fridge, the right seasonings and a few minutes in a hotskillet will make a meal that I'd never complain about.

Corn-Feta Salad withTomatoes

Also like peas, corn freezes extraordinarily well. In thespring, this salad would probably be great with Persian cucumbers instead oftomatoes and some fresh-frozen corn (put it in a very hot skillet withoutthawing, in a single layer to avoid steaming).

2 tablespoons olive oil, divided

½ sweet onion, thinly sliced

3 ears sweet corn, cut off the cob (2 to 2½ cupskernels)

1 large fresh tomato

2 ounces feta cheese

pinch dried oregano

salt & pepper

salad greens (optional)

Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add onetablespoon of the olive oil and the sliced onion; sprinkle with salt and cook,stirring well, until tender and beginning to brown, 5-7 minutes. Increase theheat to high and add the corn, mixing well and spreading across the skillet.Cook 2-3 minutes, stirring a few times, until tender; if your pan is hotenough, you'll get some nice caramelized bits on the corn.

Remove from the heat and transfer to a shallow bowl; setaside to cool to barely warm or room temperature.

Chop the tomato and add it to the mixture; crumble the fetaover. Add the oregano, some pepper, and the remaining tablespoon of olive oiland gently stir to combine. Adjust seasoning to your taste—dependingon your feta, you may or may not need more salt.

Serve over a bed of greens, with crusty bread or crostini(or, for that matter, <i>on</i> crostini as bruschetta).

Serves 3 as a main dish, 4-6 as a side, andI-have-no-idea-how-many as a bruschetta appetizer (8-10, maybe?)

Tart-maggedon

2011-09-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

I like to imagine that someday, somewhere, I will have enough land to have a proper garden. Rows of tomatoes, long beanpoles, cucumbers big and small grown for various pickles, a fruit tree or two. Until then, I just have to satisfy myself with my little starter garden on our patio. Every year we try a something new in the spring—it was sweet, oblong French breakfast radishes this year—and spend the summer coaxing as many peppers and tomatoes as we can out of our various containers and small strips of earth.

Yesterday, I decided to pick the tomatoes that were ripe.

I don't think we're doing so badly for an apartment patio.

Perhaps unfortunately, I haven't been doing much of particular interest with the tomatoes. We've eaten at least a half dozen dinners of panzanella; some sandwiches with mayo, tomato, and sharp cheddar cheese; and today we had pasta with the simplest tomato sauce: fresh blanched tomatoes, onion and garlic, olive oil, salt, herbs, and a touch of butter at the end. My favorites may have been the specimens that were sliced and eaten plain, still warm from the sun.

They may only be around, in all their end-of-summer glory, for another month or so, but I'm actually not here to talk about tomatoes. I'm here to talk about a meal that it took me several weeks, no few tears, and a burn scar on my arm to perfect. I'm here to talk about cheese gone bubbly and golden-brown in the oven. I'm here to talk about a mushroom and fontina tart.

Cheese and mushrooms, I'll venture, aren't ever likely to be a bad pair. Years ago, when I was still living in Morocco, I was paging through a borrowed vegetarian cookbook when I saw a recipe for polenta, baked with fontina and topped with mushrooms. In later years, I developed a slight obsession with savory tarts. Chard, beets, tomatoes ... you name it, I'll probably be happy to stick it in a buttery crust.

The first time I made this tart, I planned it days in advance. I read recipes and made notes and made a special trip to the store to get some fontina; I bought mushrooms and scrubbed my kitchen clean.

I should have known early that it wasn't going to work out. As I sliced onions and hummed along to Motown classics, suddenly it came to me: I never made the crust! I abandoned my vegetables, cranked up the oven, and feverishly put together the food processor, shaped my crust, and tossed it in the freezer, and by the time it was ready to go into the oven to blind-bake, it was nearly nine.

Never one to quit, I kept working. My mushrooms were prepped and custard mixed when the par-baked crust came out; the whole thing wasn't out of the oven more than 2 minutes before I popped it back in with its fillings. Then I waited.

And waited. The house was filled with delicious smells and both of us were practically drooling when the timer finally beeped. Perhaps I was starting to bonk and my hands were shaking; perhaps I was just tired, getting ready for dinner at 10 pm. As I took the bubbling, golden tart from the oven, something possessed me to unmold it immediately and without a spatula. As the metal tart ring inevitably slipped and wrapped around my forearm like a bracelet, I yelled, jerked ... and the entire tart fell, face down of course, onto the floor.

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I sat down, surrounded by tart-maggedon, and I cried for a few minutes. Afterward, I got up, iced my arm, helped Mike clean up the mess, and made ramen for dinner.

Tarts were on probation in my house for a few weeks after that. Eventually, though, I was ready to give it another whack, and I'm glad that I did.

As long as you don't wait until 8:30 to start dinner, this tart is totally worth your time. The ingredients may be difficult to find (or a bit expensive) in some places, but they're used in small enough amounts that it's not a wallet-buster. The first time I made it, I used a crumbly tart crust enriched with an egg yolk, but the second time I chose to use an all-butter flaky pastry dough, which was quicker, easier, and better suited to the filling. When making an all-butter crust, I use a method similar to the one on Chez Pim—I use more water and don't roll it nearly as much. While it's blind-baking, the onions and mushrooms have ample time to cook, and while the composed tart is then baking, there's ample time to make a salad—in my case, an incongruous but delicious warm corn salad. Just make sure you unmold it carefully when it's done.

Mushroom and Fontina Tart
You might notice that my pictures look a little bit light on mushrooms; that's because I'm much worse at meal planning (and the shopping that goes along with it) than I would have you believe, and I made the second tart with only about 4.5 ounces of mushrooms

For the pâte brisée:

1 ¼ cups unbleached flour
½ teaspoon salt
4 ounces (1 stick) unsalted butter, well chilled
¼ cup cold water, plus more if needed

For the tart:

½ onion, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 tablespoons butter, divided
6-8 ounces assorted mushrooms (I used a mixture of shiitake, maitake, and cremini)
2-3 sprigs fresh thyme, or ½ teaspoon dried
salt and pepper to taste
4 ounces fontina, grated
2 eggs
¾ cup milk, preferably whole
pinch salt

Preheat the oven to 375ºF.

To make the crust, mix together the flour and salt in a bowl or on a clean counter or chopping board. Cut the butter into the flour until the mixture resembles very coarse meal. Pour the cold water over the flour and mix until it just holds together; feel free to add more, a teaspoon or so at a time, if necessary. Form the dough into a flattened disk, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerator for 30 minutes.

Roll out the dough to 11-12 inches in diameter and transfer to a 10 inch tart pan, gently pressing the crust into the edges; fold the crust under at the edges if it is thin in spots. Trim the edges, cover with foil, and weight with pie weights or some dry beans. Place the tart pan on a baking sheet and place in the oven for 15 minutes. Remove the weights and foil and return to the oven until just golden, 8-10 minutes more.

Meanwhile, set a large skillet over medium high heat with the olive oil and one tablespoon of the butter. Sauté the onion with a bit of salt until softened and just beginning to brown, 5-7 minutes; transfer to a medium bowl. Slice all the mushrooms and sauté in two additions, adding one tablespoon of the butter and seasoning with salt and pepper each time; when cooked, transfer to the bowl with the onion. Add the thyme, stir well, and set aside.

Beat the eggs together with the milk and salt; stir in the cheese, leaving a bit out. Spread the mushroom mixture evenly over the tart crust, then carefully pour the custard-cheese mixture over. Sprinkle the reserved cheese over the top.

Return the tart to the oven and bake 45-60 minutes, until golden brown all over and bubbling; if you prod a toothpick in near the middle you will see that the custard has set. Let cool 5-10 minutes before unmolding and serving. Serve hot or warm.

Serves 6 to 8

Seven links

2011-09-03T11:36:00.000-07:00

I wasn't the kid who responded to chain letters, but I can't resist a meme, and this one gives me the opportunity to look back at the past 14 or so months of blogging. Sometimes it's easy to get bogged down in day-to-day life, cooking the same meals, scrabbling for blog ideas, and forgetting to think about ideas and recipes from even a few months past. At least a dozen times this summer I've gone to my recipes page, only to see something like stuffed squash or apple caramels and rack my brain to remember when I last made or even thought about a dish.

Reflection, it turns out, has some value. Although tomatoes and corn and plums are reminding me that there's still a little bit of summer left, the beginning of school and chilly evenings are already turning my mind to braises and wintery spices, to squash and applesauce. As I scrolled through earlier posts, I felt a little flutter in my chest that most women my age reserve for Johnny Depp. Black-eyed peas! Pomegranates! Stroganoff! I may have a few more summer posts left, but my unfaithful heart is already scheming fall recipes. Here are some of the things that I'm planning to share:

- Kale Soup
- Braised Pearl Onions (a.k.a. the best Thanksgiving side dish)
- Cheesy Roast Pumpkin "fondue"
- Chili-that-Texans-would-hate
- Bok Choy
- Onion-Stuffed Moroccan bread
- A trio of autumn cookies: Ginger-Orange, Pumpkin-Raisin, and Molasses Spice
- Eggnog Ice Cream
- and hopefully, Spiced Rum Cake with Custard

But first, I'm going to head down memory lane with seven special posts. Thanks to Nicole at the wonderful blog And Baby Cakes Three for inviting me to participate and forcing me to look back.

My most beautiful post:

I suppose it's cheating to choose either of my Alaska posts, but as much as I love food, I don't think it will ever live up to the beauty of my first home. For food, I think some of my prettiest pictures have been on some of my barest posts—I flipped through dozens of posts, and my favorites all had one or two photos each. I finally settled on my Fresh Black-Eyed Peas with Swiss Chard; not only are they fantastic to eat, but I love both of the photos.

My most popular post:

This also kind of qualified as my most surprising post. Half a Cabbage and a Cake was written near the end of two weeks vacation; I was feeling lazy and relaxed, and I had whipped up a simple little cornmeal cake to celebrate the New Year (and the end of my pumpkin pie). While I make plenty of more complicated meals, this is the kind of food I love: simple, rustic, and flavorful.

My most controversial post:

Umm... I don't think anything that I write about is controversial—at least, I can't imagine someone who gets riled up about chocolate spends much time reading food blogs. I suppose for lack of anything else, I will choose this post about souped up ramen (pun totally intended), simply because lots of foodies have no place in their heart for packaged ramen. I make no apologies.

My most helpful post:

I don't think that very many recipes I post on here are outrageously complicated, but perhaps the most helpful post is the one for Cheese and Onion Enchiladas. The process of making a more traditional enchilada isn't familiar to most people I've met, but they're not difficult, just time consuming. In addition, eating enchiladas with a big pile of cold, crunchy vegetables is foreign to almost everyone I know, and it can make a believer out of an enchilada hater.

A post that surprised me with its success:

Once I discount the Blueberry-Lemon Cornmeal Cake above, this one's easy: Aloo Simla Mirch. Curried potatoes and bell peppers, made with a simple homemade masala, is one of my favorite Indian dishes when bell peppers are at their best (and one that I will probably be making again this week). However, in my experience most people are more interested in getting Indian food at restaurants than making it at home—perhaps due to the initial outlay to buy spices that Western-centric cooks often don't have—I credit Liana at Pie and Beer, who linked back to it shortly after I posted it.

A post I feel didn’t get the attention it deserved:

I had a hard time with this one—since my life crashed down around my ears and my posts became so infrequent this summer, I can't really blame anyone but myself for some of the posts that haven't gotten much attention. The internet wave just keeps on rolling no matter what is going on in real life. However, I think it's a real shame that more people didn't get a chance to check out this simple Pea Purée. Not only is it easy to make and delicious—I recently discovered that it's fantastic thinned with a little bit of water and tossed with pasta—but it also embraces the inherent starchiness of peas that haven't just been rushed in from the garden.

The post that I am most proud of:

The posts that I tend to be most proud of are the ones where I have the much longed-for combination of good recipe, photos, writing, and story. While I often have three of those four (sometimes I may be more terse and not have a story at all; more often, my pictures are altogether lacking), putting all four together is always an accomplishment. What could be more simple than oatmeal cookies? Without raisins, chocolate, or some other accompaniment, the recipe has to be spot-on. My Perfectly Simple Oatmeal Cookies are chewy and flavorful; the pictures, monochromatic though they may necessarily be, are better composed than most; and the story reminds me fondly of family and friends.

Wow. I think I'm exhausted. I'm going to cheat and not tag specific people for this. How about this: if you are interested in joining in here, send a message and let me know.

I'm off for the day, but that promised mushroom tart will be making an appearance before the end of the weekend—with (wonder of wonders) a dessert! I haven't had a dessert on here in ages, it seems, but that will change soon.

It's a start

2011-08-25T12:24:00.000-07:00

I've managed, in the past several days, to work my way from lying prone on the couch, sipping soup and running through entire boxes of tissue to having some ability to put together coherent thoughts, interrupted only by the occasional three-minute coughing fit. I guess I'll call it progress—on the bright side, a hacking cough provides a fantastic ab workout. Amazingly, I've actually been cooking. My favorite sick foods are not exactly blog-worthy (eggs poached in milk, served over toast, ramen noodles, and tomato-rice soup with cinnamon), but I didn't entirely lose my sense of taste, so once my throat had recovered a bit, I decided to take advantage.

Shortly after returning from my trip, I went to the farmer's market to find that summer had finally taken hold: piles of peppers, boxes of beautiful (and horribly overpriced) heirloom tomatoes, great heaps of fragrant basil. On my own little patio, habañeros are beginning to turn orange, tomatoes are ripening almost as fast as we can eat them, and a sunflower kindly planted by one of our local songbirds is swiveling from east to west each day.

I came home with a shock of sweet Italian basil, a big bag of red peppers, and a plan. Particularly in California, bell peppers seem to be forgotten around the summertime. Eggplant are everywhere, towers of corn stack up on tables and in grocery stores, and boxes of watermelon and cantaloupe loom like bodyguards at store entrances. But bell peppers? Eh, you can get those any old time.

True? Perhaps. But deeply colored peppers, small and firm, with sweet and lightly acidic flavor—those are harder to find. Red peppers (or their orange and yellow siblings) are all right raw, I suppose, diced with some red onion and a tangy vinagrette or used as a vehicle for hummus or some other sort of dip, but their flavor deepens when cooked. They pair well with spicy Indian flavors and are delicious blended into a nutty sauce, but they are at their most simple and versatile when roasted.

Every summer, I try to find a big bag of super-ripe red peppers on the cheap. Sometimes they are beginning to wrinkle with age, or they're strangely wrinkled and collapsed on themselves, or even beginning to bruise and turn brown. No matter—a hot, hot oven or grill wipes away all those sins. A bonus? Tuck them away in your freezer, and you can add color to soups and stews, or grill up crusty panini, all winter long.

I adore toasted sandwiches. Nearly anyone who is passionate about food would agree that texture and mouthfeel are integral parts of any meal, and for me, any proper sandwich has to have some good crunch. If it doesn't have lettuce, or cucumber, or maybe even some potato chips when the time is right, it's gotta be toasted. (That is not to say that some sandwiches don't require toast and a crunchy filling ... I don't want any soft bread on my BLTs.) A griddle and some melted butter will make a fine toasted sandwich, but the rippled, crusty ridges are what make panini really special. You don't need any special apparatus, although the panini presses look pretty cool; you don't even need one of those special cast-iron grill lids. Any heavy pot that fits into your grill pan or will balance on a flat grill will work fine. I use a 10-inch cast iron skillet that nests into my 10 inch grill pan, but any dish - even a plate weighed down with a bag of beans or a foil-wrapped brick will do.

Roasted Red Pepper Panini
To be honest, I usually make these with goat cheese instead of fresh mozzarella (it's less fussy, as the goat cheese doesn't get as gooey when it melts); just sub the goat cheese and spread it a little farther on your sandwich.

4 slices, about ⅜ inch thick, rustic country-style white bread (like a ciabatta loaf), or 2 individual ciabatta rolls
4 ounces fresh mozzarella
roasted red pepper, about one medium pepper total (see below)
8-10 fres basil leaves
salt & pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter

To make roasted red peppers, preheat your broiler or grill. Rinse red peppers (I can get about a dozen in my oven at once); arrange on a baking sheet and place near the top of the oven or pile them in a single layer on the grill. Cook until the skin is blackened, turning with tongs as needed until tender and mostly blackened all over. Place the peppers in a paper bag or a lidded container and set aside to steam and cool for a few minutes. When cool enough to handle, peel away the skin and remove the stem and seeds; discard all but the flesh. To freeze, you can either set little puddles on a baking sheet, then transfer to a bag when frozen, or stuff them into an ice cube tray and do the same.

To make the panini, heat a heavy, ridged grill pan over medium-high or high heat (because the mozzarella melts quickly, make sure it's higher than you would usually use for a sandwich); have ready an unheated matching skillet or a heat-resistant dish (with weights if needed).

If using individual rolls, cut a thin slice from the top of each roll, then cut crosswise into two ⅜ inch slices. Arrange the bread slices on a plate; if using the rolls, face the cut side down.

Thinly slice the fresh mozzarella and pat dry with a paper towel; if it is very fresh and juicy, you may want to press a little bit to remove a bit more whey. Arrange over two slices of bread, leaving a half-inch clear around the edges. Pat the red pepper pieces dry as well and arrange over the cheese. Scatter basil leaves over, season with salt and papper, and top each sandwich with the other slices of bread.

Melt the butter in a little bowl and mix it with the oil. Brush about half of the mixture over the tops of the sandwiches, then flip the bread, cheese side up, into the grill pan. Set your weight over the top, pressing down if needed to force the bread into the ridges.

Toast 2-3 minutes, until golden brown and crispy. Remove the weight, brush the tops with the butter mixture, and carefully flip. Note: if your pan was too cool or your fillings too juicy, you may have some pepper- or cheese-juice drip into the pan; if so, don't panic - just hold them over a plate to catch the drips before flipping them.

Press on the toasted side just briefly, then remove the weight to finish cooking. If necessary, use your spatula to poke any errant cheese back into the sandwich.

Toast until golden, 2-3 minutes more. Remove to a cutting board to firm up for 1-2 minutes, then cut and serve.

Makes 2 sandwiches

Jiggedy-jog

2011-08-20T20:58:00.000-07:00

There's something to be said for simultaneous refreshment and frustration. After a fantastic 10 days visiting my parents (and an old friend from high school), I returned home, only to contract a nasty virus on the plane ride home. I limped my way through the short week at work and am sniffling, coughing, and sneezing my way through the weekend.Alaska, as always, was a blast. We climbed mountains.

We saw ice ...

... and water ...

... and quite a few animals.

(That's a porcupine, by the way, but he was on the move.)

We also ate a lot of good food, but I didn't take any pictures. Halibut tacos; pea purée (this time with mushrooms, as a topping for pasta); seared coho salmon; and the best fried chicken I've ever made, if I do say so myself. We introduced Mike to zucchini patties and my mom to Swiss chard; we ate spring rolls, crusty pizza, and other hometown favorites; and we made three quarts of ice cream with cherries and dark chocolate stracciatella for my dad.It was fun—in some ways, I could have stayed much longer. Given that they had record-breaking rainfall the two days after we left, though, I suppose it was time.

Coming soon: red pepper panini, and the mushroom tart-that-almost-wasn't.

No regrets

2011-08-07T09:10:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again. The time when I make big batches of pesto, fill my freezer with fish and blueberries, stock my pantry with canned peaches and (if I'm lucky) tomatoes, and consequently, find myself trying desperately to use the last of the previous summer's precious haul.

Most recently, it's been blueberries. Good berries are hard to come by, and in my opinion, you've never really eaten a blueberry if you haven't had one from Alaska. Juneau may be rainy and cool, but the fertile soil and wet weather makes for the best blueberries I've ever had; even frozen for nearly a year, these little guys are incredible.

I'm not sentimental—childhood toys and never-looked at photos don't hold much appeal for me—but nothing brings out my inner hoarder like a treasured stash of delicious (and hard-to-find) food. If I find and splurge on a real Spanish chorizo, my meal portions become pauper-like. Bring me a jar of homemade jam, and I'll be spreading it over toast and biscuits for months. With a big freezer bag full of blueberries, I found myself making Blueberry-Maple Syrup (for our now-regular Sunday brunch of pancakes) and little else.

Finally, a year after I picked them, I really needed to make room in the freezer. But what to make? I had an odd desire for blueberry coffee cake, but I also had a half-cup of Meyer lemon sugar languishing in the fridge. However, I was worried about trying something new: wasting a few cups of flour on a failed dish is expected from time to time, but what if I had to throw away—or worse yet, eat and not enjoy—a dessert studded with those carefully picked and lovingly saved blueberries? Quelle horreur!

I googled; I paged through cookbooks. I scribbled little notes and peered into the pantry, agonizing over blog postings and measurements. Eventually, Blueberry-Lemon Cheesecake Bars were born, and I have no regrets.

I initially was going to make an actual cheesecake, but despite my husband's endless love for it, it's usually a little too much for me. Cheesecakes are always too rich and too massive—perhaps I should invest in a 6 inch springform, but as it is, I need a special occasion to start working with that much cream cheese at once.

Instead, I decided to take it a bit easy. These bars are like cheesecake on Valium; there's the rich, lemony cheese custard swirled with violet fruit, but the amounts are nearly equal, and the crumbly tart-like almond crust is around half the thickness of the topping. The result is the kind of harmony I expect, but never experience, with cheesecake. Each bite has a little bit of everything and too much of nothing.

Blueberry-Lemon Cheesecake Bars
Note: Meyer lemons are long gone here, but whenever I come across a recipe that calls for juicing (but not zesting) a Meyer lemon, I make lemon sugar. Zest 1 Meyer lemon into ½ cup granulated sugar, distributing the oils with your fingers, then cover well, label the amount of sugar, and refrigerate or freeze. It will last almost forever—though the sugar will go rock-hard—and it saves you throwing away that lovely lemon zest.

For the crust:

¼ cup unbleached flour
¼ cup sugar
pinch salt
1 ½ cup almonds (I usually use raw, but I had a surplus of slivered and used those instead)
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter

For the blueberry mixture:

1 ½ cups fresh or frozen blueberries (use the best you can find)
1 tablespoon lemon juice

2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch or arrowroot (I've been using the latter lately and preferring it for unknown reasons)
For the cheesecake:

12 ounces full-fat cream cheese, room temperature (I find that low-fat or Neufchâtel don't set up properly, but feel free to experiment)
2 eggs
½ cup (Meyer) lemon sugar (see above, or substitute ½ cup sugar with zest of one lemon)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
pinch salt

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line an 8 inch baking pan with foil and butter well; set aside. In a food processor, combine all crust ingredients save the butter and pulse until it resembles coarse meal. Cut the butter into 5 or 6 pieces and add to the mixture. Pulse in 10-15 second increments until the dough holds together well with few crumbs. Press into the buttered foil evenly (this will make a nice thick crust of a scant centimeter; leave some out if you prefer a thinner crust) and bake 15-18 minutes, or until beginning to puff all over and turn golden. Remove from the heat and press the puffed parts down with the curved part of a spoon; set aside to cool.

Lower oven heat to 325°F.

Meanwhile, combine the berries and lemon juice in a small saucepan and set over medium heat. Stir together the sugar and starch and add to the mixture. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the berries have completely thawed (if frozen) and are getting bubbly, about 10 minutes (fresh berries will heat faster but take longer to break down a bit, so the time will probably be about the same, fresh or frozen). Remove from the heat and set aside, partially covered, to cool.

Combine all the cheesecake ingredients in a large bowl - make sure the cream cheese is fully softened or you might end up with lumpy cheesecake. Whisk all ingredients together well to combine.

Make sure that the crust is no longer too hot to touch (it needn't be room temperature). Scrape the Cheesecake mixture over the crust, spreading it evenly to the edges. Spoon the berry mixture, now barely warm, over the surface. Using a knife or your spatula, gently swirl the berries and cheesecake together a bit.

Bake 40-50 minutes, until cheesecake is set and beginning to turn golden at the edges, but just a little bit wobbly still in the center. Transfer to a rack to cool completely, then cover with plastic wrap and transfer to the refrigerator. For best results, refrigerate overnight before cutting.

To cut clean slices, remove the cheesecake from the pan with the foil and set on a cutting board. Cut into squares by heating a long, sharp knife under running water and drying it before cutting; rinse the knife between cuts.

Makes 16 cheesecake bites

Devilish

2011-08-03T16:59:00.000-07:00

Stop reading.

No, really. Turn off your computer, put on your shoes, and go to the store to buy some eggplant. You know you want to.

Eggplants are like reverse ugly ducklings. Find a farmer with several varieties of eggplant, you might well be overwhelmed: small, pea-sized green ones; big, nearly black American ones; skinny eggplants in shades of violet and fuschia, sometimes streaked with green or white; pristine white ones that finally explain how they might have gotten their name. Once cooked down to that velvety texture I love, however, even the prettiest specimen has faded to an unappealing grey-brown. Unless you take great pains to keep its shape, it will also slump into almost a paste. Luckily, it's much more delicious than it looks (and sounds).

I eat a lot of eggplant, especially in the hotter summer months, but it almost inevitably becomes baingan bharta. Smoky, creamy eggplant spiked with spices and cooled with mint and yoghurt is delicious, but what about the delicious but oh-so-unfashionable eggplant parmesan? What about Greek-style egpplant sandwiches, and ratatouille, and all the other recipes that I always forget about?

Just over a year ago, I saw a recipe that looked just about perfect. Francis Lam, food writer extraordinaire, fantastic chef, and person whose wisdom I'd very much like to tap, reposted a Gourmet article about eggplant pasta.

It was devilishly simple. Salt some eggplant, then cook it with olive oil and garlic until velvety soft. Mash it, toss it with sun-dried tomatoes and basil, and toss it with some spaghetti. It sounded delicious ... but still, when eggplants came into my home, I made more Indian food.

I may be a year late—as with so many aspects of my life, I am unfailingly uncool in the food world—but better late than never. I left Francis behind while I flipped through pages of Marcella and Giuliano Hazan's respective cookbooks, took a look in my refrigerator and my little patio garden, and came up with my own version. This pasta is relatively fast (I think it took me 45 minutes; with proper mise en place it would have been scarcely more than 30) and very forgiving; it would be good with any number of herbs, and even eggplant that's going slightly leathery in the crisper will make a fine meal.

Eggplant Pasta
Adapted from Francis Lam and Marcella Hazan

1 lb eggplant (I prefer a couple smaller Italian eggplants, but any variety will work)
½ sweet onion, thinly sliced
4 cloves garlic
¼ cup olive oil
1 cup water
2 plum tomatoes (peeled if desired)
pinch crushed red pepper
8 ounces spaghetti or linguine, or some similar skinny pasta
salt and pepper
a small handful parsley, chopped

If you don't like eggplant skin, peel half or all of the eggplants—although with this very soft recipe, I never bother. Slice the eggplant into ½ inch medallions and salt each layer; stack them up and set aside for about fifteen minutes.

Meanwhile, pour most of the olive oil into a 10-12 inch skillet. Add the sliced onion and peeled garlic and set over low heat until fragrant and just beginning to sizzle.

Squeeze the eggplant to expel some of the excess liquid (I do this sloppily, with my hands—it's just going to be mashed up anyway); chop the eggplant into medium chunks. Add it to the pan, stir well to coat, and increase the heat to medium-high. Chop up the tomatoes and add them to the mixture with the crushed red pepper. When the mixture is sizzling happily, add the water and bring to a boil; reduce heat to medium and partially cover; ignore for about 20 minutes.

After about 10 minutes, set a pot of water to boil. Salt it and add the pasta. Cook until 1-2 minutes shy of al dente; drain, reserving ½ cup cooking water, then cover and set aside.

Return to you pasta. Using a fork, wooden spoon, or potato masher, bash it all up into a coarse purée; note that it will look kind of like baby food. If your pot is big enough, toss in the pasta; otherwise, toss the pasta and sauce in the pasta pot. Add about half of the pasta cooking water and toss it all together to coat the noodles; if it's very dry, add more water.

Serve topped with parsley (which does minimize the baby-food effect, if you care).

Serves 3 as a main or 4 as a side

A real love affair

2011-07-29T20:02:00.000-07:00

We were spared the heat dome that covered most of the country (and the news) last week—in fact, it's been unseasonably cool in Southern California, with the overcast mornings and cool evenings more expected in the Pacific Northwest.

However, when I saw a recipe for cold noodles with sesame sauce, I couldn't help myself. I just so happened to have some prawns in the fridge and a bag of green beans that needed to be used. I seem to be having a real love affair with sesame seeds these days, and who can blame me? The dry nuttiness is well suited to most vegetables, and when mixed with the salty-sour-sweet ingredients and a big pile of cold noodles, it makes the perfect summer meal.

Despite a few foibles, like forgetting to allow time to let the meal be well chilled—resulting in a colander full of pasta and ice cubes—and adding a bit too much water to the sauce, this meal was fast and easy. My beloved blender recently broke, so I used an immersion blender for the sauce; the resulting mixture was not perfectly smooth, but had lots of whole sesame seeds studded throughout.

Cold Sesame Noodles with Green Beans

Adapted from a recipe at Dispatches from Whitcomb Street

For the sauce (have more of the first four ingredients to adjust flavors):

2 tablespoons good soy sauce

2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar

2 tablespoons mirin

1 tablespoon sugar

a small lump of ginger, peeled and coarsely chopped (about 1 tablespoon)

1 clove garlic

2 tablespoons sesame seeds.

For the noodles:

12 ounces green beans

8 ounces wide Asian wheat noodles

¼ small sweet or red onion

2 small carrots

6-8 ounces peeled prawns, preferably butterflied

2-3 tablespoons cilantro, plus additional for garnish

Place the sauce ingredients in a medium bowl and blend with an immersion blender until well blended but with plenty of whole seeds—use a stand blender if you prefer a smoother sauce. Taste the sauce and adjust to your desire; I added a bit more mirin and soy sauce. Thin the sauce a bit with 1-2 tablespoons water; set aside in the fridge.

Bring a big pot of salted water to boil; meanwhile, snap the ends of the green beans and break them into 2 inch pieces. Boil the green beans just until tender, 4-6 minutes. Fish the beans out and transfer to a large bowl of cold water.

Return the pot of water to the boil, add the noodles, and cook until a bit shy of al dente, probably 4-6 minutes. Meanwhile, sliver the onion and julienne the carrots. Drain the green beans and add the other vegetables to the bowl.

Toss the prawns into the pasta water for the last 1 minute of cooking; when the prawns are opaque throughout and the noodles are al dente, drain the works and rinse well in cold water. When cooled, add to the vegetables and pour about half the sauce over. Toss until the noodles are completely coated in sauce; chill until cold.

Before serving, chop the cilantro and mix it in, adding additional sauce as desired. Serve cold.

Serves 4

Wild America

2011-07-18T17:47:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles has much more wildlife than most people (even Angelenos) would believe. I see raptors at least a couple times a week on light poles overlooking the freeways; deer, rabbits, and rattlesnakes are commonplace in the hills; raccoons wander along the sidewalks at night; I once even saw a brief glimpse of a coyote slinking through the trees by the side of the road.

This, though, was nothing short of exceptional.

Mike's photo isn't the best, to be sure; that's what happens when shooting through a screen door in need of a wash. That, viewers, is a full-grown Red-tailed Hawk ... sitting on our fence, not 8 feet from the door. Presumably he decided that our bird feeder, which draws dozens of songbirds throughout the day, was a good little snack bar for him—and personally, I'd be happy to lose a few finches if I got to see a hawk up close more often.

In food news, I'm still scouring the market every week for ever-elusive Blenheim apricots (I still haven't made any jam this summer), and quite possibly eating my weight in pasta.

A couple months back, two of my favorite bloggers proclaimed a shared dislike for macaroni and cheese. Everyone's tastes differ, to be sure—after all, I won't get within ten feet of any cooked broccoli if I can possibly avoid it—but what shocked me more than anything was their shared complaint about how greasy macaroni and cheese is. Setting aside the terrible, junky, non-greasy wonder that is Velveeta mac 'n' cheese, and politely ignoring the terrifying Tang-colored powder that accompanies the boxed stuff, I've been making homemade macaroni and cheese for years without a spoonful of grease in sight.

I may have a place in my heart for cheap boxed macaroni (along with ramen noodles, probably my favorite junk food), but for years I had wanted a good homemade recipe: something to make when going to a barbecue or craving bubbling brown cheese. When flipping through an issue of Bon Appétit several years back, I found a possible candidate, but I decided to make some changes.

Several months later (after all, how often can a person make macaroni and cheese?) I proclaimed it finished. The base is simple enough—provolone and sharp cheddar cheeses blended into a roux flavored with onions and garlic—but a dash of Spanish smoked paprika and a handful of chipotle chiles add a smoky, spicy kick. I like to top it with fresh buttered bread crumbs, but it's equally good (and crustier, to boot) when naked on top. No matter what you do, you won't have any puddles of grease.

Smoky Chipotle Macaroni and Cheese
Adapted from Bon Appétit's recipe here

As is, the recipe is not particularly spicy; if you like spice, note that a vinegar-based hot sauce (we like Secret Aardvark's habañero sauce) is fantastic stirred into the served pasta.

Also, this makes a pretty big batch; if I'm not making this to take to a party, I use one 8 inch square dish and two small-ish soufflé dishes, freezing the smaller dishes unbaked and without bread crumbs. When you're ready to eat them, they can be baked as below, increasing the baking time as needed.

1 pound elbow macaroni
2 cups chopped green onions, lightly packed
2 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, divided
1 very large or 2 medium onions, chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
½ cup flour
4 cups whole milk
1 pound extra-sharp cheddar, grated
8 ounces provolone, grated
2 teaspoons paprika
1 teaspoon pimentón de la vera (Spanish smoked paprika)
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3-4 chipotle chiles in adobo, minced (from one small can; I use Embasa, a readily available brand)
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (or to taste; optional)
1 ½ cups fresh bread crumbs (optional)

Cook the macaroni in boiling salted water until just barely al dente; drain and mix with the green onions and fresh oregano in a very large bowl; set aside, loosely covered.

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Using the same large pot, heat 6 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat. Add the onions and garlic and cook, stirring often, until softened but not browned, 6-8 minutes.

Add the flour and cook, stirring constantly, 2-3 minutes more. Gradually whisk in the milk. Increase the heat and whisk constantly until boiling. Reduce heat again and simmer until slightly thickened, 2-5 minutes - be sure to stir regularly to avoid letting the milk burn. Add the cheeses, seasonings, and chipotles; stir well and cook until cheese is all melted, 2-3 minutes. Adjust seasonings to taste.

Pour the sauce over the pasta and mix well. Mound into on 9x13x2 pan or one 8" square pan and two approximately five inch soufflé dishes.

If covering with bread crumbs, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter. Toss the bread crumbs until uniformly coated with butter, then sprinkle over pasta (note: if freezing, I recommend leaving off the bread crumbs). If freezing, wrap the dish(es) with plastic wrap, then foil.

Bake, uncovered, until heated through and brown & bubbly on top (about 1 hour; 1.5 hours if frozen).

Serves at least 12

Then and now

2011-07-10T17:46:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, my family spent every summer visiting my grandparents in Washington and Oregon. Growing up in Alaska, the quality of our produce relied on the vagaries of the few airlines that came into the city. The Pacific Northwest, however, benefits from abundant winter rains and long hours of sun (or at least daylight) in the summer months.

Weeks were whiled away at my grandparents' house in Eugene, watching enough television at night to last my sister and I through the rest of the year, and passing the day having water fights, playing in the sprinklers, and being put to work by my grandma in the garden.

Even as a small child, I loved working (or, to my mind, playing) in the garden. My grandma took advantage of her large yard, growing an abundance of vegetables—for every tomato or zucchini plant that was planted each spring, she would experiment with something new. Romanesco was tried and added to the regular rotation; eggplants were discarded as not worth the effort. While I loved shoveling up potatoes and plucking crimson tomatoes from their vines, not everything was fun—I developed an irrational fear of artichokes for years after several ants crawled out of one onto my hand. Without a doubt, my favorite time to visit was late June, when both strawberries and green beans would be coming into season.

Eating as many strawberries as I could stomach was fun; making the rest into jam or tart fruit leather was like a special treat. None of that could compare, gardener protégé that I was, to snapping and canning green beans. My grandma must have canned 50 quarts of green beans every summer, all from one row of the garden, and if we had come to visit, we were all put to work.

I would go outside with the big stock pot, picking beans until my back ached and my neck was sunburnt. The pot brimming, we would lug it up to the patio. Three generations, my grandma and mom in chairs, my sister and I on the steps, would sit around the pot, grabbing handfuls of beans and snapping them with that satisfying "pop" into an even bigger bowl. I would take a few tentative bites of the raw bean—even now, when I can use that bite to gauge the freshness and ripeness of a bean, I still don't particularly enjoy it. The quarts would be packed and set in the pressure canner (still not something I've ventured to play with on my own), then set in rows along the kitchen counter to cool. Without room to work in the kitchen, our dinner that night would be cooked by my grandpa out on the grill—with green beans, of course, on the side.

For years green beans were my exception to the rule—I preferred them soft and cooked nearly into oblivion (or "Southern-style", as I was told once), like they were when canned, then reheated on the stove months later. However, in recent years, I have begun cooking my green beans quickly. My most common method is from Marcella Hazan: the beans are tipped, then boiled in salted water until just tender throughout, 3-5 minutes; they are then drained, spread out to cool quickly, and tossed immediately in olive oil with lemon juice, salt, and some coarsely ground pepper.

Last night I decided to do something different. I had thawed a Sockeye salmon fillet the night before, and I suddenly decided that I wanted to do a broiled, miso-glazed salmon instead of my typical nearly-naked salmon, seared with nothing more than salt and pepper. That inspiration encouraged me to do a quick google search, and half an hour later, I sat down to salmon, rice, and toasted sesame green beans.

Toasted Sesame Green Beans

Inspired by several recipes, including these two.

1 tablespoon white sesame seeds

1 lb green beans, preferably Blue Lake

2 teaspoons mirin (Japanese sweet rice wine)

2 teaspoons soy sauce

1 teaspoon vegetable oil

2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil

In a dry wok, toast the sesame seeds over medium heat, stirring regularly, until very fragrant and golden-brown, about 4-5 minutes. Transfer to a bowl or mortar and let cool.

Set a large pot of water to boil. Meanwhile, rinse the beans and snap the tips off; if the beans are very large, break into two pieces. When the water is boiling, salt it and carefully add the beans. Cook until just nearly tender, about 3 minutes.

Meanwhile, set aside a pinch of seeds for garnish and crush the rest into a rough paste with a pestle or wooden spoon. Transfer to a small bowl and add the mirin and soy sauce and stir well to blend.

When the beans are cooked, drain them and soak briefly in cold water to stop the cooking; drain. Reheat the wok over medium-high heat and add the two oils. When the wok is hot but not quite smoking, add the drained beans. Cook 2-3 minutes, stirring regularly, until hot all the way through. Add the sesame paste mixture, stir well to blend, and cook 1-2 minutes more—the beans should be cooked through but still a little bit crunchy. Sprinkle with the reserved sesame seeds and serve hot (or at room temperature, some people say, but I'm not okay with that).

Serves 3-4

When all else fails

2011-07-04T13:12:00.000-07:00

It's depressing to spend as many hours in the kitchen as I have in the past week with nothing to show for it, but it's been a week of failures.

Last weekend, I carefully planned out a savory tart. There were mushrooms, there was cheese, there was a buttery crust and rich custardy base. After an hour in the oven, the tart was puffed up, golden-brown, and smelling of heaven. I'd forgotten to parbake my crust earlier in the evening, and the clock was creeping steadily to a time even the most traditional European would find absurd, so I was hungry, excited, and hurried—a bit too hurried.

I would have taken a picture for you if I hadn't sat down on the floor and wept when the entire tart fell to the ground, upside-down of course, onto a freshly cleaned floor. I'm usually one to curse at food failures rather than cry, but facing a 9:30 dinner smeared across the kitchen floor was just too much.

You will forgive me, I hope, for spending putting my kitchen in time out for a day or two—save cobbled-together lunches and pasta or sandwiches for dinner, it took me nearly half a week to get the fortitude to start cooking again.

Perhaps I was still a bit frustrated, because kneading bread was the most appealing thing I could think of when I returned to the kitchen. I made chapati to go with Indian food (the chapati didn't puff), and made my own phyllo dough for spanakopita (not a failure, necessarily, but no better than storebought and definitely not worth the aching arms I have today).

When all else fails in the kitchen, I make eggs. Eggs are one of the world's perfect foods, and they're pretty hard to mess up. Granted, I've made my share of egg disasters—boiled eggs forgotten on the stove for 30 minutes, fried eggs put in a too-hot pan, soft boiled eggs taken off the heat too early—but on the whole, I can rely on eggs in a pinch to make a great meal.

I swear, I could work for the American Egg Board—I love them cooked just about every way, and I'm a big proponent of eggs-for-meals-other-than-breakfast. A fried or poached egg on braised cabbage or kale is one of the great pleasures in life; a boiled egg with a bright yellow yolk tops pickled asparagus for a delicious (and beautiful) appetizer; swirled into nearly any brothy soup just before serving makes a filling and rich meal.

While I normally prefer my breakfast eggs fried or soft boiled (or really, any way that offers a runny egg for satisfactory toast-dipping), my favorite way to eat scrambled eggs is akuri. I first discovered akuri when browsing through My Bombay Kitchen, a fantastic cookbook (and fascinating read) by Niloufer Ichaporia King. The book focuses on traditional Parsi dishes, and within a day of buying the book, I was searching through it to find something I could make without going to the store. My eyes caught the words "scrambled eggs", and I headed to the kitchen.

Like any dish, from pasta with tomato sauce to green beans, there are as many different ways to make akuri as there are people to argue that their method is the best one. Some people may add tomatoes, others turmeric, still others garam masala or cumin. I've made it a dozen different ways, but eventually I settled on this method as my favorite.

Akuri, or Parsi-style scrambled eggs
Adapted from My Bombay Kitchen

I usually eat eggs alone (how sad!), so this recipe is just for one—it scales up easily: just use a bigger pan and allow more cooking time. Also, the original recipe called for ginger-garlic paste, a staple of Parsi cuisine, but I rarely have it made; if I'm making a big meal, I'll make some, but for breakfast I just mince them together as below.

2 large eggs
2-3 teaspoons heavy cream
salt
½ tablespoon butter or ghee
3-4 tablespoons finely chopped onion
1 clove garlic
1 small knob ginger
1 small serrano chile
1 ½ tablespoons chopped cilantro

Beat the eggs very well with the cream and a generous pinch of salt; set aside.

Heat a small pan over medium heat. Melt the butter, then add the onion. Let cook, stirring occasionally, until softened but not browned, 4-5 minutes.

Meanwhile, peel and finely mince the garlic (I use enough to make nearly a teaspoon). Peel and mince the ginger, making sure that you have about the same amount of ginger as garlic. Quickly mince the ginger and garlic together, crushing them lightly with the side of the knife to release the juices and make a coarse paste (some salt helps; also, a mortar makes quick work of this if you don't mine the additional dishes); set aside. Mince the chile, first removing the seeds if you like less spice. Chop the cilantro and set aside.

When the onion is cooked, reduce the heat to low and add the ginger-garlic paste and the chile. Stir well and let cook until very fragrant but not sizzling loudly, 1-2 minutes more. Briefly beat the eggs again and add them to the pan with the cilantro. Cook slowly, stirring often, until the eggs are softly set and very creamy.

Serve immediately with some sort of bread—I'm partial to buttered wheat toast, but it's also great wrapped in a piece of chapati or naan.

Serves one, but can easily be scaled up - just use a bigger pan and allow more cooking time

Not going to wait

2011-06-25T19:13:00.000-07:00

Spring seemed oddly short this year. It seems that I only made asparagus a half-dozen times before they became thick and woody, and shelling peas were wrinkled and sad almost before they were good enough to buy, and my beloved fava beans were huge and starchy before June came along.

Now, though, is the time for green beans and the end of cherry season, for the first baby zucchini and sweet stone fruit. After several weeks of Southern California's famous June Gloom, strawberries are still lingering, and while the tomatoes on my patio garden are blooming and showing small fruit, the specimens at the markets are getting fatter, redder, and sweeter.

A rainy spring in the plum and apricot Mecca north of L.A. has made for an uncertain apricot season; my preferred Blenheim variety was almost nonexistent last summer, so I'm not going to wait and see what July brings.

After getting home from the market last week, I looked at my fruit selection and wondered what the heck I was going to do with it all. Stone fruit, strawberries, tomatoes and cheese are my unabashed food splurges—while my husband is left sputtering at the price, I happily fill my bags with aromatic apricots and unblemished nectarines, controlled only by the limited amount of cash that I bring and a strong aversion to food waste. However profligate I may be while at the market, I always try to plan my meals to avoid the (sometimes inevitable) bag of who-knows-what from who-knows-when that we all ignore in the bottom of the crisper drawer.

Good intentions and careful meal planning aside, I got home last week with six beautiful apricots and a vague idea for some sort of cake. I flipped through my cookbooks and clicked on countless blogs; I thought about making my apricot yoghurt cake, which I discarded as uninteresting, or this fantastic almond torte with apricots, which was rejected because I'm hoarding my almonds for another purpose. While rifling through my pantry searching for ingredients, I saw a bag of walnut halves and remembered my husband's half-jesting request that I make walnut cake once a week for the rest of eternity.

It made sense—we see dried apricots and walnuts used together quite often, but fresh apricots are more often paired with almonds. A little more research, a few tweaks to the cake recipe, and Apricot-Walnut Upside-Down Cake was born.

The first version was good - the walnut cake was dense and moist, with an almost pudding-like texture where the apricot juices and caramel had soaked in. At the same time, my taste for less-sweet desserts didn't do this cake any favors; when I cut the amount of caramel, the tart apricots were a bit too harsh. A second trip to the market and second batch of apricots later, I doubled the amount of caramel and tried again.

Perfection. The apricots are tart but flavorful, an appropriate contrast to the sweet cake. The cake is delicious with whipped cream, but it stands alone.

Apricot-Walnut Upside-Down Cake
Inspired by multiple recipes, not least Ruch Reichl's Apricot Upside-Down Cake

I used Lorna apricots for this cake, a large variety that is slightly bland and also a bit crunchy when raw; after cooking, they hold their shape well, and the flavors develop but don't overwhelm the nutty cake.

For the caramel:

4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter
⅓ cup brown sugar, packed
3 tablespoons granulated sugar

For the cake:

3-4 large or 6-8 small apricots
¾ cup ground walnuts, lightly packed (from one scant cup walnut halves or pieces)
1¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
¾ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup brown sugar, packed
1½ teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
1 large egg, room temperature
¾ cup milk (I used whole), room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup (1 stick) butter, melted

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Lightly butter an 8 inch round pan with at least 2 inch sides; set aside.

To make the caramel, melt the butter in a skillet over moderate heat. Add the sugars and stir gently; let cook 3 minutes; the butter will bubble but the sugars will not be completely dissolved. Pour the mixture into the baking pan and quickly spread it across the bottom. Cut the apricots into pieces and arrange them over the caramel; large apricots can be cut into eigths, while smaller apricots can be cut into quarters or halves; set aside.

Grind the walnuts in a food processor until the consistency of coarse meal; mix in a large bowl with flour, sugars, baking powder and salt. Beat the egg together with the milk and add to the dry ingredients. Stir until barely combined, then add the melted butter and stir until smooth.

Pour the batter gently over the apricots and transfer to the oven. Bake about one hour, or until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from the oven, hold an inverted plate tightly over the pan, and carefully flip. Gently and slowly remove the cake pan away from the plate—hot caramel will drip down the sides, and some of the edges may crumble a bit. Let the cake cool, then replace any dislodged pieces of apricot.

Serve plain, or with whipped cream or ice cream.

Serves about 8

From the dead

2011-06-14T20:59:00.000-07:00

I didn't mention it last week, but happiness is also being able to breathe and smell properly. Leave it to me to go all winter without so much as the sniffles, only to get a summer virus that wouldn't let go. A box of tissues and 873 cups of tea later, I actually feel human.

Not human enough to ever cook anything but frozen desserts, apparently. I've felt, to be completely honest, that I've been failing my blog (and the internet-food-writing-world at large) lately. Some huge life changes have shaken things up, leaving me exhausted more days than not, happy with a bowl of some sort of pasta or a salad for dinner—not the best blog fodder. I've been terrible about keeping up-to-date with other blogs, as well—I'm reading, and writing notes, and saying "I'm totally going to make that!" a dozen times a week—but somehow that hasn't translated into any success in the kitchen.

The unfortunate aspect of this is that for me, like for most of us who spend countless hours testing recipes and to let our meals get cold to get the perfect photos, cooking is my sanity. I may sometimes grouse about being the one to "do all the cooking," but I rely on my evenings in the kitchen not just for my next day's lunch, but for my downtime: I can peer around the corner to watch TV, and I can catch up on daily chatter with my husband or on the phone with family, but more often it's my time to meditate, to straighten everything out in this rat's nest I call my brain and make myself generally fit for human companionship.

Luckily for me (and for any readers willing to put up with the relatively sparse and boring fare), while there is no end in sight, I think I may be on my way to a more manageable level of stress. Several things have been dealt with, and a few more projects that I'm working on are reaching the point where they feel more like enjoyable ways to spend my time and less like black holes. I can only hope that this means I will be spending more time cooking—and I'd love for you to help me with that if you'll indulge me. Tell me your favorite summer dish/meal (with a recipe if you have one)—dessert or dinner, I want your ideas and I need your inspiration!

Case in point: I have yet another frozen dessert for you. Trust me, though, this one is good enough to be worth it. Strawberries and balsamic vinegar don't make the news anywhere, but they really should. This sorbet softens quickly and has the perfect combination of sweet, acid, and how-many-strawberries-are-in-this-thing flavor. With one batch making a generous pint, this recipe is small but mighty—feel free to double it. I used my remaining strawberries for ice cream, but I would be happy to eat my weight in this stuff every summer.

Strawberry-Balsamic Sorbet
Note that due to the vodka in this recipe, it softens much more quickly than many sorbets.

1 pound fresh strawberries, rinsed
½ - ⅔ cup sugar
1 tablespoon vodka
1½ tablespoons high-quality balsamic vinegar, divided

Hull and slice the strawberries and give them a taste; if they are very sweet and pink all the way through, use the smaller amount of sugar. Toss the berries with the strawberries and let sit at room temperature about one hour, stirring occasionally.

Add the vodka and one tablespoon of the vingar to the strawberries and blend with an immersion blender; alternatively, transfer the strawberry mixture to a blender. Taste the mixture and add the additional half tablespoon (1½ teaspoons) vinegar if desired.

If you're not partial to strawberry seeds, use a sieve to strain them out. Refrigerate until well chilled, then freeze using your preferred ice cream maker.

Makes one generous pint (about 2 ½ cups)

Happiness is ...

2011-06-08T11:55:00.000-07:00

... the first few radishes from the garden (served thinly sliced and salted, on a thick slice of buttered baguette) ...

... and an unguarded smile from a puddle on the counter top (discovered randomly by my husband).

A snack and a supplement

2011-06-02T17:31:00.000-07:00

I wasn't the pickiest child ever, but I had strong opinions about food. I knew to pick my battles—there was no way that I was going to leave peas behind uneaten—but my mother was kind enough (or too annoyed to be bothered) to force me to eat the things that I truly detested. Maybe she was just happy to have a larger portion of broccoli for herself, but I had no complaints.

Strangely enough, nuts were some of the most problematic foods for me. Peanuts were all right, along with peanut butter and similar things (my mom's homemade peanut butter cups were a much-anticipated treat). Walnuts? Gag me. Pecans? No thank you. Hazelnuts, brazilnuts, pistachios? I doubt I had even tasted them. Even almonds—the almighty, healthy, versatile almond—were out; it wasn't until high school, when I fell in love with almond shortbread cookies, that I decided to give them another chance.

I'm a much more adventurous eater than I was before, and although I still don't particularly like broccoli or pecans, I made my peace with almonds long ago. I like them savory or sweet, and while I enjoy them in dishes, they are also one of my favorite snacks. I typically buy my almonds raw, in bulk; I grind them for tart crusts and pesto, toast them for granola or salads, and candy them for any number of dessert toppings. The recipe for cinnamon almonds below, adapted from a Martha Stewart recipe that we typically use for spicy cashew nuts, is the perfect almond recipe: eat them as snacks, sprinkle them over a dessert (like a marquise) to add crunch, or roughly chop them in a food processor (or in a plastic zip bag with a mallet) and fold into freshly-churned ice cream.

Cinnamon Almonds
Adapted from this Martha Stewart recipe

1 egg white
¼ cup sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon, cassia, or a combination
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups raw almonds

Preheat the oven to 300ºF. Beat the egg white in a medium bowl until quite frothy, about 20 seconds. Mix the sugar and cinnamon and add to the egg with the remaining ingredients; stir until the almonds are well coated. Spread in a single layer on a baking sheet and place in the oven.

Bake, stirring once or twice, until quite dry and golden brown, 20-25 minutes. Remove from the oven, stirring once more while warm, then let cool completely. Store in an airtight container.

Makes 2 cups

As promised

2011-06-01T20:23:00.000-07:00

As promised, a marathon recipe ensues, I warn you. Best made over two days, these desserts are tasty enough to be worth the effort (once in a while, at least), and interesting enough to be a show stopper after a nice meal.

While not the most scintillating activity in the kitchen, it is possible to make this dish without a stand mixer. Take it from me: pull up a chair, grab a book, and set the timer; if you move the hand mixer around from time to time and check it every few minutes, you may survive the monotony.

Another interesting note about this recipe is the admonition to only use Dutch cocoa powder. While I have used both, and always heard that they can be used interchangeably, I had never had a side-by-side comparison. Since my current cocoa powder was all natural, I bought some Dutched powder and did a little research. While they can, indeed, be used interchangeably, the key advantages to Dutched powder are its darker color—more appealing to many eyes—and a reduction in the natural acidity of cocoa, allowing its other flavors to take center stage. While substituting with natural powder in the marquise probably wouldn't make a great difference, the cocoa powder used to coat each piece will likely be unpleasantly bitter and acidic unless Dutched powder is used.

Marquise with Spiced Cherries and Cinnamon Almonds
Adapted from a Daring Bakers recipe by Emma of CookCraftGrow and Jenny of Purple House Dirt.
Note: a full batch of the cherries and almonds are not needed—but you should really make a full batch anyway, as both are versatile and keep well.

1¾ cup heavy cream, divided
6 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped (I used about 72% cacao)
pinch cinnamon
2 tablespoons corn syrup
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons Dutched cocoa powder
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened
7 eggs, divided
1 cup sugar, divided
Additional Dutched cocoa powder for coating
Spiced Cherries
Cinnamon Almonds

Whip 1 cup of the cream to stiff peaks; set aside in the refrigerator. Prepare an 8" square pan much as you would for brownies; line with two long strips of parchment the width of the pan, laid crosswise with the ends hanging over; set aside.

Heat the remaining ¾ cup cream until almost simmering. Place the chopped chocolate in a medium bowl and pour the hot cream over it; let it sit for 1-2 minutes to allow the chocolate to melt. Slowly stir the mixture until well combined; add the cinnamon, corn syrup, vanilla, 2 tablespoons cocoa powder, and butter and mix well. Set aside the chocolate mixture to cool to a warm room temperature (I keep it on the stove because my kitchen is chilly).

Meanwhile, begin the egg base for the marquise. Separate five of the eggs, setting the whites aside for the meringes. In a large bowl with a hand mixer, or in a stand mixer, begin beating the 5 yolks with the additional two eggs. Beat on high speed until very thick and pale, about 15 minutes (probably a bit more with a hand mixer, a bit less with a stand mixer).

When the eggs are almost done, mix ¼ cup sugar with 2 tablespoons water in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil, swirling to mix, then cook to 265ºF (soft-ball stage). When the syrup is hot, drizzle it into the egg mixture while beating on low speed. When combined, increase the speed to high and beat until cooled to room temperature, about 5-10 minutes more. Add the chocolate mixture and quickly beat just to combine—don't beat too long or you will lose the air that you whipped into the eggs. Fold in a third of the whipped cream to lighten the mixture, then quickly fold in the remaining cream. Scrape the mixture into the prepared pan, press a layer of plastic wrap against the mixture, and transfer to the freezer until completely frozen, 4-6 hours minimum (easiest to just freeze overnight and finish the dessert the next day).

To make the meringue, bring the five reserved egg whites to room temperature. Place the whites and remaining ¾ cup sugar in a double boiler over simmering water. Beat with a mixer on medium-high speed until hot to the touch and the consistency of marshmallow cream, about 5-7 minutes. Remove from the heat and beat until cooled and holding stiff peaks, about 6-8 minutes more.

Preheat the boiler or a hot oven (400-450ºF). Line a baking sheet with parchment or silicone. Spoon the meringue into six nests and hollow the centers with a large spoon. Bake or broil until browned all over and carefully transfer to serving plates (the bottoms will be a bit sticky). Alternatively, shape and brown the meringue nests on the serving plate and brown with a blowtorch.

To assemble the desserts, spoon some cherries into each nest and pour some cocoa powder onto a plate. Turn the marquise out onto a cutting board; if your baking dish has curved edges, trim those and set aside. Cut into nine equal squares, coat each thoroughly with cocoa, and arrange atop the cherries. Set each dessert aside to thaw at room temperature (15-20 minutes) or in the fridge (around an hour). Scatter with almonds and serve.

Makes 6 full desserts with 3 remaining marquise blocks (mine are frozen, ready to be coated, thawed, and served with meringue, whipped cream, or custard whenever needed)

Stranded

2011-05-31T11:35:00.000-07:00

I enjoy a certain amount of time away from technology. I'm not a technophobe by any means, but I would be happier without cable than with it, and I felt more liberated than lost when my mobile phone broke a few months ago.

However, I felt a little bit lost this weekend when I discovered that my always-precarious internet connection had gone down. Three long days later my computer has revived enough to share a few pictures with you. I'm already late with this post, though, so the recipe will have to wait until tomorrow.

The May 2011 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Emma of CookCraftGrow and Jenny of Purple House Dirt. They chose to challenge everyone to make a Chocolate Marquise. The inspiration for this recipe comes from a dessert they prepared at a restaurant in Seattle.

I used the marquise and (an adapted recipe for) meringue from the challenge, baking the meringues into nests since I was without a blowtorch. I then filled the nests with spiced candied cherries and topped it off with a handful of sweet and crunchy cinnamon almonds.

While the cherries and almonds alone would have made me happy enough (and they did, as I picked at the cherries cooling in their syrup and crunched on the almonds all morning), the marquise is what really makes this dessert. Similar to a mousse, the mixture is made from copious quantities of eggs, whipped until ~~the motor on your hand mixer dies of exhaustion~~ you are ready to cry from boredom. For the first time in several years, I cursed my limited counterspace and dreamt of a stand mixer. The eggs are then heated with a sugar syrup, whipped for ~~another lifetime~~ 5-10 minutes more, then briefly mixed with a cooled ganache and some butter. After you fold in some whipped cream, the mixture is molded (in my case, in a 8" square baking dish) and frozen.

The frozen block is finally turned out onto a cutting board and cut into 9 cubes. However, even with the rounded edges from my pan trimmed away, this made a large, rich dessert; I could have easily made 12 or perhaps even 16 smaller portions. The cubes are coated with cocoa powder, arranged on their plates, and allowed to thaw. When ready to eat, you have an architectural masterpiece—soft, fluffy, rich mouthfuls of chocolate in an incongruously severe shape. The bitter chocolate flavor paired ideally with the sweet meringue, almost-tart cherries and crunchy almonds.

I'm usually one for simple desserts: tarts or rustic cakes, a single scoop of ice cream or sorbet. However, every once in a while I like to be pushed to do something a little bit more complicated. This dessert fit the bill, and the best part? With two people in the house, I have 7 more servings of marquise in the freezer, ready to impress after a roll in cocoa powder and a fifteen minute thaw.

Mushy and delicious

2011-05-22T18:53:00.000-07:00

Something strange has happened.

Yesterday, I went to the market to buy peas, greens, and strawberries. I also a bought cherries. Cherries! Generally my signal that summer has begun, this year they've appeared, plump, juicy, and flavorful, mid-May. While I'm not sure where they came from, and they're a welcome treat after a difficult past month or so.

I will make no complaints, just buy as many as I can afford. I may preserve a few jars, I may make a pie, I'm definitely making a super-secret something to show you in a week or so—but I may also just sit on the patio with a bowl in my lap, eating cherries and soaking up the sun.

One of my favorite parts of spring is not waiting for the stone fruit that will arrive shortly, but enjoying the greens vegetables that are at their best early in the year. Fava Beans, Sugar Snap Peas, Shelling Peas, and the Green Beans that will come into their prime in the following weeks—all of them call my name.

Fave with Bacon is one of my favorites, and while it deserves a recipe (that it's not getting, at least not today), it doesn't really need one: fry some lardons until cripy, drain, and cook some onions and garlic in the bacon fat; add shelled & peeled fave, salt & pepper, and some fresh herbs and cook three or four minutes; toss in the bacon and devour.

Sugar snap peas are a constant disappointment for me; one that stems back to childhood summers at my grandparents house. After eating firm, shiny, perfectly-sweet peas straight off the vine, farmer's market peas just won't cut it. Like corn, peas begin turning their sugars into starch the moment they're picked, and every hour—every minute, it seems—makes the difference between delicious and ho-hum. While I usually break down and buy them once or twice each spring (I'm a particular fan of this Bon Appétit recipe), more often than not I follow their purchase up with a return to long-range garden planning.

English peas (also called shelling peas), on the other hand, are a different story. They're prone to the same sugar-to-starch phenomenon as sugar snaps, but they also have an easy solution. Yes, you can certainly grow your own and toss them on the heat as soon as they come off the vine, but you can also eschew the common just-cook-peas-until-they're warm advice. Anyway, if Francis Lam tells me to do something, I do it.

The basic idea is this: when you get peas, embrace their true nature as beans and cook the heck out of them. When they're tender and creamy, I like to roughly mash them, though it's certainly not a requirement. Smear them on crostini, toasted in an oven with just a drizzle of olive oil, and serve with a simple green salad and shallot vinaigrette, and you have a perfect spring dinner.

Mashy-Mushy Green Pea Crostini

2 T olive oil
½ small onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 kilogram/2 pounds unshelled English Peas (about 500g/1 pound shelled)
1-2 cups mild stock (preferably vegetable, but a poultry stock will work as well)
salt and pepper
decently-large sprig fresh thyme
Good baguette or Italian bread for crostini
Additional olive oil for crostini

Heat the olive oil on medium-high heat in a medium pan. Add the onions and garlic and cook briefly, until very aromatic; add the peas. Mix well and cook 1-2 minutes, until the peas are heated and well coated. Add 1 cup stock and some salt & pepper, bring to boil, and simmer, partially covered. Stir occasionally, adding more stock if the mixture becomes dry.

Meanwhile, cut the bread into thin diagonal slices, drizzle on both sides with olive oil, and toast until golden brown under the broiler or in a very hot oven. Flip and toast the other side; set aside.

When the peas are very tender and beginning to turn "pea-green", 20-30 minutes, remove from heat and mash roughly. Taste and adjust seasoning as desired. If the mixture is very thick, add more stock by the tablespoon until it reaches desired consistency.

Serve with crostini and salad.

Serves 4 with a salad as a light meal, 6-8 as an appetizer

Last gasp

2011-05-08T16:52:00.000-07:00

One of the most frustrating—and also exciting—aspects of seasonal produce is its unreliability. One summer you may be waiting weeks for that first perfect apricot; the following spring, you may find tender baby asparagus weeks before you expect them.

I love the seemingly endless parade of citrus varieties throughout the winter, but I'm particularly happy at the end of the season when kumquats arrive to jolt me out of my root-vegetable-and-tangerine stupor. Kumquats are the ideal end-of-winter fruit: they have a touch of bitterness (they are one of the few citrus fruits that you eat, peel and all) and a zingy flavor—if you could pack all of the flavor of a fantastic tangerine into a package the size of a grape, this is what you'd end up with.

As I progressively bored of apples, pears, oranges, grapefruit, and tangerines this winter, I began to keep my eye out for kumquats. January passed, then February. March rolled on by, and the next thing I knew it was spring. When April arrived and I began finally seeing a few lone baskets of kumquats, I snatched them up like I'd never see them again.

While kumquats can certainly be eaten raw, I usually halve and simmer them in syrup (sometimes spiked with mint) for a simple compote. They're also delicious in savory dishes (stuffed in roasted fish or cooked into a spicy glaze for chicken), and I've been meaning to try a sorbet or granita, too. This time, I managed to keep my conniving fingers off of them long enough to make a preserve, a perfect bridge from winter to spring, bursting with zesty citrus and spicy ginger.

I hope you can take advantage of this recipe; here we are, well into May, and I'm still seeing kumquats all over the market.

Not for long, though, I'm sure—they're moving over for strawberries already.

Kumquat-Ginger Marmalade
Once upon a time I didn't worry about preserving my jams and marmalades in a boiling-water bath. I still don't worry about health issues in particular, but the discoloration common in well-sealed, unprocessed cans bothers me enough that I started hauling out the canner again. Do as you prefer

Scant 3 pounds whole kumquats (about 1 ½ quarts)
½ cup peeled and minced ginger, packed
1 pound sugar (about 2 cups)
1 cup water

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Pick over the kumquats for any bad fruit, then blanch them in water for 1 minute. Drain; pour cold water over. Slice the fruit into 3 or 4 pieces, picking out and discarding all seeds; transfer cut fruit into a clean heavy pan (about 4-5 quarts is a good size).

Peel and mince a good-sized knob of ginger; measure ½ cup, packed, and add to the fruit (you can reserve any additional ginger for stir=fry or another use). Add the sugar and water and bring to a boil. Lower heat to a simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until ginger is beginning to soften and the marmalade is ready to set, 45 minutes to 1 hour (I am partial to the freezer test: place a couple saucers in the freezer; as you want to test the preserve, put a dab on a place and return to the freezer for a minute. Press the edge of the preserve with your finger; if it wrinkles, it's ready).

Meanwhile, wash (and sterilize, if desired) your jars. Fill with marmalade, leaving ¼ inch headspace. If processing in a bath of boiling water, process 10 minutes. After removing from the water bath, let sit undisturbed 12-24 hours; remove any unsealed jars to the fridge.

Makes about 5 half-pint jars

Maple Mousse with Walnut-Bourbon Cake

2011-04-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

This month's Daring Bakers challenge was a good one. The April 2011 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Evelyne of the blog Cheap Ethnic Eatz. Evelyne chose to challenge everyone to make a maple mousse in an edible container.

The truly challenging part of this month's exercise was devising the edible container. Something with bacon sounded appealing, but boring—living in L.A. often means I'm quickly exhausted with new food trends, and the bacon-as-dessert phenomenon has been no exception.

I've been spending a lot of time traipsing through Tartelette's blog recently, and she has a dangerous skill: her food is so beautiful that I want to make it all right now, just this second. Luckily for my waistline, my budget doesn't allow for such profligacy, but as I thought about mousse, I couldn't get these beautiful mousse cakes off my mind.

A couple hours and a few dirty dishes later, magic happened. The cake was moist and surprisingly boozy for only having two tablespoons of bourbon, and the flavor offset the maple mousse quite well.

I don't know that it's not much of a container, and the molds were a little bit messy, but for someone who specializes in a simple scoop of ice cream, a rustic crumble, or some fruit tossed in sugar and tossed into a tart crust to bake, these little mousse cakes were almost too elegant to eat. Almost.

Maple Mousse with Walnut-Bourbon Cake
Inspired by several desserts from Tartelette; mousse recipe adapted very slightly from that provided by Evelyne.

If you don't like the taste of bourbon, leave it out—for such a small amount, it packs a lot of flavor.

For the cake:

1 ¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
¾ cup ground walnuts (a scant cup of walnut halves or pieces)
¾ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup dark brown sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup egg whites (from 3-4 eggs)
¾ cup milk (I used whole)
2 tablespoons bourbon
½ cup (1 stick) butter, melted

For the mousse:

1 cup Grade B all natural maple syrup
4 large egg yolks
1 tablespoon gelatine (7 grams; generally one envelope)
1 ½ cups heavy cream, divided

Preheat oven to 300°F. Line a half-sheet pan with parchment paper, lightly butter the paper, and set aside.

Pulse the walnuts in a food processor until finely ground but not pasty; measure ¾ cup ground nuts and reserve the rest for another use. Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl and stir to mix. Whisk the egg whites just to break them up, then combine with milk.

Add the egg-and-milk mixture to the dry ingredients and stir just until combined. Add the bourbon and melted butter and stir gently until smooth.

Scrape the batter into the pan, smoothing into one layer with a spatula. Bake, turning once after about 10 minutes, until the cake is springy and a skewer comes out clean, 20-30 minutes. Remove to a rack to cool.

To prepare the molds:

Line the inside of up to eight 3 inch molds (you can use soup cans, cleaned and both ends removed, if needed) with parchment paper. Cut the cake into rounds, then carefully place in the bottom of the lined molds and set aside.

To make the mousse:

Bring the maple syrup to a boil in a small saucepan and remove from heat. Whisk the yolks in a medium bowl. Temper the yolks by carefully and slowly pouring some of the hot syrup over while whisking vigorously. Whisking the syrup, transfer the warmed yolk mixture back to the saucepan. Set aside.

Measure ¼ cup cream into a small bowl and sprinkle with the gelatin; let rest five minutes. Carefully heat the cream in the microwave (about 45 seconds) or over a bain-marie of simmering water (a minute or two) without stirring until the gelatine is completely dissolved. Whisk into the maple mixture until well combined. Let the maple mixture cool one hour, whisking occassionally, until just over room temperature and the approximate texture of egg whites.

Meanwhile, whip the remaining 1 ¼ cup cream to stiff peaks; refrigerate.

When the maple mixture has cooled as above, stir about ¼ of the whipped cream to lighten the mixture. Scrape the remaining whipped cream into the maple mixture and fold together until just combined.

Pour the mousse gently into the molds; if you prefer the mousse by itself, simply pour it into individual dessert cups (or keep it in the large mixing bowl). Refrigerate until set, at least one hour and preferably longer.

Makes at least 8 generous dessert portions, with leftover cake scraps

Bait and switch

2011-04-26T22:04:00.000-07:00

I have pictures, and I have a recipe ... unfortunately, they don't match.

I went to an Easter party on Sunday: just a small get together of (mostly) family. A turkey was dragged out of the freezer and deep-fried, ribs duly oven roasted, macaroni and cheese baked (smoking oven optional). I was asked to bring vegetables—never a problem when spring has sprung—and also "those pretty meringue cookies that you brought to the Super Bowl party."

That's right. I brought macarons to a Super Bowl party. They were a big hit, and each time I make a batch of these elegant-yet-adorable cookies, they turn out a little more even in size, a little more evenly-baked, a little less likely to stick to the parchment. I use the basic recipe from the inimitable Tartelette (including this one for the strawberry macarons), baking at 300ºF instead of 280.

I don't have much to add to the almost endless macaron-making resources ... so let's talk asparagus.

I went to the farmer's market on Saturday with no idea what I wanted to make for the party. I wandered the stalls to see what was available before settling for six bunches of beautiful skinny asparagus and two big bags of unshelled fava beans.

For several years—in fact, ever since I discovered the wonderful vegetable—I have specialized, if you will, in asparagus with olive oil and Parmigiano. Lightly dressed with olive oil, either grilled or broiled until tender and browned at the edges, then liberally sprinkled with freshly grated parmesan cheese, I could eat a full bunch of asparagus without complaint.

I wanted to do something a little bit different, but I wanted it to be simple—a good thing, because my timeline was shorter than expected and I spent the first half hour of the party rushing around the kitchen.

Grilled Asparagus with Fresh Herb Vinaigrette and Parmigiano-Reggiano
As with many other asparagus recipes, if you are using thicker asparagus (anything much bigger than a pencil), you will have the best results by blanching them for 1-2 minutes in boiling water, then shocking in ice water and draining.

3 bunches asparagus
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons minced assorted fresh herbs, such as thyme, oregano, parsley, and tarragon
2 teaspoons red wine vinegar or lemon juice
salt and pepper
2-3 tablespoons good olive oil, plus more as needed
½ ounce parmigiano-reggiano cheese

Snap the ends of the asparagus (save the ends for soup, if you like). If you are using thick asparagus, blanch as described above. Heat a grill or grill pan (alternatively, place a rack at the top of your oven and preheat the broiler).

Mince the garlic and herbs and place in a medium bowl with the vinegar or lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper and whisk well to combine. Whisking constantly, slowly pour in the olive oil until the vinaigrette is well-combined and slightly emulsified; set aside.

Toss the asparagus in a little bit of olive oil and put it on the grill. Cook, tossing with tongs from time to time, until bright green and tender, about 2-4 minutes. Spread out on a platter to cool slightly; add the vinaigrette and toss well to combine. Grate some cheese onto the asparagus and toss well to combine; grate the remaining cheese over the top of the asparagus. Serve hot or warm.

Serves 6-8

She's back

2011-04-17T18:53:00.000-07:00

Better than ever? Time will tell.

My continued descent into internet obscurity was not entirely my choice. I have been cooking, but for weeks I've been trapped in a cycle of pasta, simply dressed with tomato sauce or aglio e olio; grilled cheese sandwiches; and nachos. I did make desserts twice—one was a Very Secret Recipe, while the other is already on this site.

The worst of it is over now. Ever since last weekend, when I finally pulled my head out the sand, I have been relishing my free time. I've been cooking every day—and even washing the dishes. I have more ideas than I can fit in my weekly menu plans (and than I have time, but that's nothing new). My weekly trip to the farmer's market is not a chore to be completely as quickly as possible, but a leisurely Saturday morning stroll.

I am grateful that I came back to life before spring passed me by. The next few weeks are some of my favorites: strawberries, drool-inducing after months of apples, grapefruit, and tangerines, are appearing in the markets; great heaps of fava beans, high-maintenance or not, one of my favorite legumes, made their way into my bag on Saturday; and sugar snap peas are appearing at every corner, a reminder that English peas will be here soon.

In general, my favorite produce is at its best in the summer: eggplants and apricots, chiles and cherries, tomatoes in any shape or color. However, the explosion of spring fruits and vegetables after months of braises and soups (even I can get tired of cabbage and cauliflower) is a welcome jolt of variety, and I find myself getting greedy at the market, trying to buy enough food to feed twelve instead of two.

I generally prefer to keep spring vegetables simple: fave dressed with olive oil and sea salt; artichokes with homemade aioli; radishes with a smear of cold butter. More often than not, I roast asparagus with olive oil and a generous topping of Parmigiano-Reggiano, which goes crispy and golden in a hot oven. However, my vegetable avarice has left me with more bunches of asparagus than I could handle this past week, so I decided to branch out.

Returning home from the market with four bunches of asparagus, a tub of feta from my favorite Greek restaurant, and some much-prized green garlic, I set to work with big plans for a light lunch. I've always preferred so-called continental salads to green salads—they're more filling, and while a nice green salad makes a welcome meal with a hunk of bread and perhaps some cheese, sometimes (oh, all right, usually) I crave a one dish meal.

Warm Asparagus Salad with Quinoa and Feta
For an equally-delicious but very different salad, try replacing the quinoa with freshly-cooked (or canned, well-rinsed) beans like cannellini or peruano—see the note below for more information. Also, I like using skinny asparagus because it sautés evenly and quickly; if you prefer thicker spears, I recommend blanching them first.

olive oil
2 small heads green garlic, minced (white parts only) (or 2-4 cloves garlic)
¼ small onion, thinly sliced
¾ cup white quinoa
1 ½ cups water
2 sprigs fresh oregano, or any other fresh herb that you like, minced
salt and pepper
one bunch skinny asparagus (about 8 ounces)
2 ounces feta cheese
red wine vinegar (optional)
very good olive oil (optional)

Heat a large, heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Pour in enough olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan and add the onion. Cook until translucent and just beginning to brown in a few spots, about 5-10 minutes. Add the garlic and stir well, then add the quinoa. Stir well until coated with the oil, adding a bit more oil if needed. Cook, stirring often, until just beginning to color and pop, about 5 minutes. Add the water, stir well to mix, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover, and let cook until quinoa is tender and the water has evaporated, about 20 minutes. When quinoa is cooked, transfer to a large plate or bowl and let cool.

Wipe out the skillet and set the heat back to medium-high. While the pan is heating, trim the ends of the asparagus and cut into 2-inch lengths. When the quinoa has mostly cooled, season with the fresh oregano and with salt and pepper.

When the pan is hot, coat with olive oil and add the asparagus. Cook, stirring constantly, until the spears are bright green and tender, about 5 minutes for skinny spears. Transfer to a plate and spread out to cool slightly.

Crumble the feta over the quinoa and stir lightly to mix. Add the warm asparagus and a bit of vinegar, if desired, and toss well to mix. If desired, drizzle the top of the salad with a bit of excellent olive oil.

Makes 2 meals or 4 side dishes

Ridiculously Simple & Delicious Beans
These are so delicious it's stupid. It's also not much of a recipe, but so many people I know eat canned beans because they're "easier" that I feel duty-bound to add this. I try to make these every weekend, and I use them for salads, in pasta, with rice, or cold & straight from the fridge. For beans with much more character than your standard grocery-store varieties, check out your local Mexican/Caribbean market or go online to Rancho Gordo and treat yourself.

1 cup medium dry beans, such as cranberry or peruano (sometimes called canary beans)
¼ large onion, peeled and cut in half
3-4 cloves garlic
4-6 sprigs of your favorite fresh herbs (I usually use thyme and oregano because they are always threatening to overtake my garden)
1 bay leaf (optional)
salt

Place the beans in a medium heavy pot and rinse well with cold water, then add water to cover by about 1-2 inches.

Note: some cookbooks will say that you absolutely must soak all beans overnight, or that you should discard the soaking water due to "accumulated gases". I rarely do either; unless your beans are very old, they probably don't need an overnight soak (and you'd be happier buying fresher beans), and I have experimented with discarding the soaking/early cooking water—the only difference I ever noticed was that with some varieties of beans, the discarded-water versions end up with less flavor. Add to that the vitamins and minerals that are inevitably lost by discarding the water, and I keep all the liquid, invariably resulting in a rich, unctuous pot liquor.

If you prefer to soak overnight, cover the pan and stick it in the fridge or in a cool place. If not, place over high heat and bring to a boil; boil for about 5 minutes. To save a bit of energy, I then cover and turn of the heat and ignore the beans for about an hour, but it's not necessary. Add the onions, garlic, and herbs (do NOT add the salt) and either reduce the heat (if it's boiling) or heat (if you let it cool) to a simmer. Cook until the beans are just barely tender, then turn off the heat and cover; the beans will finish cooking in their juices. When tender, add salt to taste (it is thought that salt "gets stuck" in the pores of the beans and impedes water absorption, so salting at the end results in more tender, flavorful beans).

Drain the beans if desired (save the delicious juices for soup or some other use—even pouring over steamed brown rice is delicious. If using for a salad like above, drain about 2 cups of beans, let cool to room temperature or barely warm, then treat it like you would the cooked, cooled quinoa.

Makes about 3 cups—increase amounts as desired

Unsung hero of the taco

2011-03-20T10:33:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I got a lovely piece of halibut out of the freezer to thaw. If there's one thing that I love about having parents in Alaska, it's the regular restocking of my freezer with responsibly-fished halibut, prawns, and salmon (smoked and fresh). I had great plans to make Potato-Wrapped Halibut, but once I got home, fish tacos sounded more appealing.

The tacos themselves are pretty simple: sear cubed halibut, seasoned with salt & pepper; thinly slice some green cabbage; load into tortillas with salsa, guacamole, and a quick crema (or yoghurt, or sour cream thinned with a bit of water)-lime-cilantro sauce. However, Nicole from And Baby Cakes Three made a passing comment about flour tortillas the other day, and even though I envy her life in Rome, I remember cooking without certain key ingredients available in stores, so I decided to focus on the unsung hero of the taco.

Tortillas are often an afterthought, but just as a Reuben requires good rye bread, and a gyro isn't all it could be with stale and bland pita, a good tortilla becomes more than just a filling-holder.

Like many great breads, tortillas have few ingredients: flour, salt, shortening, and water. If you have a good source of lard, do use it, but at present I use Spectrum Organics non-hydrogenated shortening. Because of the paucity of ingredients, process is key.

After kneading the dough, it is broken up into flat disks of dough before resting. I have the best luck by pressing the hunk of dough between my palms while making five or six little circles, but these disks may end up round or amoebic.

When rolling out, I start with a tapered rolling pin like this—it is often said that tapered pins are harder to work with than the standard cylindrical pin, but I struggled for years with various incarnations of pins, marble, wood, and plastic, before discovering tapered pins. I find them much more intuitive; direct contact with the pin makes it easier to feel the dough, and the tapered edges allow minute adjustments. Tortilla dough is relatively soft and elastic, so the key to rolling it is regular turning and flipping. If you look carefully, you can see the outline of my fingers and a bit of my ring through the tortilla.

The cooking process is easy but a bit time consuming. If you have plenty of range space you can heat up multiple pans, but I usually cook them one at a time, preparing the rest of my meal as they cook, checking them regularly to pop bubbles, flip, and roll dough as needed. Once cooked, tortillas will last for several days in the fridge—wrap them in a towel and place them in a plastic bag; reheat briefly on the stove or even in the microwave, just until warm and pliable.

Flour Tortillas
This recipe makes "standard" 6-8 inch tortillas; if you want to make the cute little mini-tortillas popular at taco stands, either halve the recipe or cut in twice as many pieces. Flour tortillas will work with any filling, but I particularly like fish and carne asada.

3 cups all-purpose flour, plus about 1 cup bench flour for kneading/rolling
1 ½ teaspoons salt
generous ½ cup vegetable shortening (I like Spectrum Organics) or lard
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons warm water

Combine 3 cups flour and salt in a large bowl, then add shortening and just over a cup of water—reserve remaining water. Stir until the mixture begins come together into a soft and flexible ball; add the additional water if the dough is very stiff. Sprinkle your counter or a large board with some of the bench flour, then turn the dough out and knead until smooth and elastic, adding flour as needed to keep it from sticking, 5-10 minutes (note: you will probably use about half of the flour during this process). Cut the flour into 16 equal pieces, roll them into flattened balls, and dip each side in flour. Cover the dough pieces with a clean dish towel; let rest 20 minutes.

Heat a cast iron skillet, tortilla pan, or griddle over medium-high heat (note: for most stoves, cast iron will operate best if you treat "medium" or "high," so this would actually be medium-low heat).

Dip each ball of dough in flour again and roll out into a very thin tortilla—the dough should be barely translucent, about 1-2 mm thick. Place on the hot tortilla pan and cook until opaque and bubbling all over, 1-2 minutes. Gently break the bubbles with a wooden spoon, tongs, or your finger to let the underside cook evenly. Flip with tongs or your fingers - the tortilla should be golden brown in spots. Let the second side cook about 1 minute more, until golden-brown spots develop.

Remove the tortilla from heat and wrap in another clean towel. Repeat, taking care not to stack the uncooked tortillas after rolling them out.

Makes 16 tortillas about 6-8 inches thick

First time's a charm ... again

2011-03-13T18:01:00.000-07:00

The muffin obsession continues apace.

I fiddle obsessively with recipes, reducing sugar with abandon, increasing spices with impunity, and shuffling ingredients as he whim suits me. However, I have only recently started building recipes from scratch, and although it has increased my rate of epic failure in the kitchen, there is little that's more exciting than starting with little more than an idea and ending up with breakfast.

This idea was born, in part, out of necessity. I was sitting at home, alone, with a few good books and a craving for muffins. I had a few apples that had been sitting in the crisper drawer for far too long—while I appreciate their longevity, the shriveled skin that apples develop after a long rest leaves them good for baking and little else—some wheat pastry flour that I've been experimenting with sporadically, and half a nutmeg.

I stirred and grated, holding my pen between my teeth and jotting down notes when I had a moment. It was like a moment out of a movie when I took the pan out of the oven. The muffins weren't flat or rock-hard; nor had they run over into a blackened mess. They looked ... like muffins.

Carefully plucked out of the pan and cooled to won't-quite-burn-your-fingers temperature, I pulled one apart. Success! The crumb was fine and moist, streaked with bits of coarsely-grated apple. The wheat flour provided body and a toothsome flavor, and the nutmeg and mace combined with not-too-much sugar for delicate flavor.

I wish every random craving had such fine results—but until then, I will counter each flop with a batch of muffins to take the edge off.

Apple-Nutmeg Muffins

For the streusel:

3 tablespoons butter, melted
3 tablespoons brown sugar
6-8 tablespoons flour

For the muffins:

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour (or ½ cup whole wheat and an additional ½ cup all-purpose)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon salt
½ freshly ground nutmeg
½ mace (or additional nutmeg)
pinch cinnamon
2 tablespoons brown sugar, lightly packed
¼ cup granulated sugar
1 cup grated apple, lightly packed (from one quite large or two smaller apples; I used Gala)
½ cup butter, melted and cooled
1 egg, beaten
1 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 400ºF. Butter the cups of a muffin pan or line it with paper liners; set aside.

To make the streusel, melt the butter, then stir in the brown sugar. Add the first 6 tablespoons flour, mix well, and add additional flour if necessary to make a crumbly texture; set aside.

Mix both flours, leavening, salt, spices, and sugars in a large bowl. Add the apple, butter, egg, and buttermilk and mix just until combined—the batter will be lumpy. Spoon the batter evenly into the muffin cups and sprinkle liberally with streusel.

Bake 25-30 minutes, or until golden brown, turning the pan once during the cooking time. Remove from the tin and cool on a rack; serve warm or at room temperature.

Makes a dozen

Heady

2011-03-04T08:20:00.000-08:00

It's been a few weeks since I made a dinner that filled me with excitement. Oh, I've had eagerness to eat certain meals (my first falafal in over six months), and happiness with the fast-yet-perfect nature of my favorite pasta dish, but I haven't had those moments of trying something new with the vaguest idea, the barest of inspirations, tasting, eyes widening, then tasting some more.

I wish that I had taken notes, that it had been perfect and blog-worthy in that first moment, that I had taken a picture—but let it be known, Chicken-Chipotle tacos will be coming your way the next time I buy a chicken. In the meantime, let's talk enchiladas.

Living in Southern California, Mexican food is ubiquitous—the good and the bad, the traditional and the contemporary American style. For every delicious stand at the Grand Central Market, there is a restaurant serving stale food straight out of the microwave; for every traditional taquería, there is a fusion restaurant just down the street. Whether food is down-home traditional or more contemporary and upscale, I tend to like it, but my half-Mexican husband is a bit more picky.

When he was growing up, Mike's kitchen was the nexus of the family—every Saturday, his tías, cousins, and family friends would converge on their house. Carne asada, rice and beans, enchiladas, tamales, and more were served, and his mom was smart enough not to do the work on her own—at four o'clock in the morning Mike would be shaken awake, put to work chopping onions or shredding cheese. When visiting family in Mexico one summer, his grandmother woke his mother up, proudly displaying the healed blisters on his fingers that allowed him to flip tortillas over the open flame.

The family has diminished and scattered over the years, and it has taken half a decade for Mike & I to perfect some of our favorite family dishes. Salsa and guacamole were the first priorities, but they were followed closely by cheese and onion enchiladas.

There are a few keys to good and easy enchiladas. First, the sauce. It make take a bit longer than opening up a can, but once you've tried a homemade enchilada sauce, you'll never want anything else. It's little more than a very smooth salsa—chiles, garlic, and some tomato—but it has a rich, smoky, complex flavor. The sauce can be easily adapted, too: use vegetable or chicken stock instead of water for a richer flavor; add a roughly chopped chipotle for a more intense smoky flavor; add onions for a bit of texture and a more salsa-like taste.

The construction of the enchiladas is a bit messy, leading to an oil-splattered stove, but if you take a few minutes for mise en place, you will quickly fall into a rhythm. Here's my setup:

To the left I have my sauce on a plate, for dipping the tortillas, and some extra water for thinning the sauce if it gets too thick.

This is where I stand - I cook the tortillas on the back, then transfer them directly into the baking dish where I fill and wrap them.

To my right, I prepare all of my fillings and keep them close at hand; the tortillas and vegetable oil are also within easy reach.

The production of a large batch of food leads to a busy hum of work, a steady stream of things to do. It's one of my favorite times to be in the kitchen, preferably with a big mug of iced tea and a sunny window letting a cool breeze in. Once the enchiladas are in the oven (or freezer, as it may be), there's ample time to make some rice, set the table and sit down with a book for a few minutes before it's time to eat. And eating is the best part—it may have taken a while, but if I've learned anything from Mike, it's how to properly eat enchiladas.

See that big pile of vegetables on the plate? Mike grew up with enchiladas served with thick slices of iceberg lettuce, long wedges of cucumber, and cold, salted radishes. The cool crunch of the vegetables is the ideal foil for the creamy, spicy, and soft enchiladas. I've never heard of anyone else eating enchiladas like this, but I'll never go back.

Enchiladas come in many forms—nearly as many as there are families—but this recipe is basic: red mole for sauce, cheese and onions for filling. The assembly takes a bit of time, and for that reason I always make a fair batch—about two dozen. I recommend making it on a weekend; an ideal time to linger in the kitchen with family & friends, and perhaps a cold beer.

Cheese & Onion Enchiladas
I think the sauce is best if made the day before and refrigerated overnight; also, a tray of unbaked enchiladas will freeze quite well for at least a month; wrap tightly in plastic wrap, then aluminum foil. Remove the plastic wrap and replace the foil before baking (can be baked frozen).

Note: the leftover oil, laced with tortilla flavor and studded with little bits of browned mole, makes fantastic Mexican rice.

For the sauce:

4-6 cloves garlic
1 teaspoon dried oregano (or one sprig fresh, if available)
2 dried pasilla chiles (also called ancho)
7 dried guajillo chiles (also called California chiles)
3-4 dried chiles de arbol (optional)
2 tomatoes
salt to taste
(yields about 3 cups)

For the enchiladas:

2 dozen (six inch) corn tortillas
1 pound Monterey Jack, Pepper Jack, or other mild grating cheese
1 pound queso fresco (or an aged cheese like cotija)
1 large onion, finely chopped
oil, for frying the tortillas

To make the sauce: heat a heavy skillet (preferably cast iron) over medium heat. Add the dried chiles and the tomatoes and cook, turning regularly, until the tomatoes are beginning to blacken and the chiles are softened and fragrant but not burnt, 5-8 minutes.

Meanwhile, bring a couple cups of water to boil. When the chiles are done, add them to the pot, lower the heat to a simmer, and cover. The peppers will soften in 5-15 minutes.

Peel the garlic and toss it into a blender with the oregano. Discard the seeds and stems from the dried chiles, if you haven't already, and add the peppers to the blender. Peel and core the tomatoes and add them, as well. Add some of the chile water.

Blend the sauce thoroughly until it makes a sauce. Add more water as needed to achieve a thickness like applesauce, and add salt to taste. You should have about three cups of sauce. If you're making the sauce ahead of time, let cool, then cover and refrigerate overnight or up to a week.

To assemble the enchiladas, prepare all the fillings: grate the Jack cheese, crumble the queso fresco, and chop the onions; keep all of them close at hand. Also keep two baking dishes handy—for a thin layer of enchiladas, use two 9 by 13 pans, for a thicker layer (you will push the enchiladas together; this is how I prefer them), use one 8 inch square pan and one 9 by 13 or 8 by 12 pan. You will also need the cooking oil, the enchilada sauce, and some water for thinning the sauce as needed.

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Heat a generous layer of oil at medium-high heat in a 12 inch cast iron skillet. Spread some of the sauce into the baking dish and pour some onto a plate, thinning it with a bit of water if needed. Coat a tortilla on both sides with a layer of sauce (it does not need to soak) for long. With tongs, carefully place the tortilla in the oil—it will pop and sputter. Cook 15-30 seconds on each side, until the tortilla is pliable but not falling apart. Transfer to your baking dish and let cool for a few seconds, then add some of each cheese and a few onions, then fold and move to the side of the dish. Repeat, adding more oil to the pan as needed—after a few you should get into a rhythm, filling one cooled tortilla while another one is cooking and a third is sitting in the sauce.

Once all the tortillas are filled, thin the remaining sauce with about a quarter cup of water and distribute it over both of the baking dishes, getting sauce around all the edges and between enchiladas, if possible. Sprinkle the tops with the remaining cheese and cover with foil. Bake for 30 minutes, until the cheese is bubbling. Uncover and cook 10-15 minutes more.

Remove from the oven and let sit 5-10 minutes before serving—serve with an assortment of cold, crunchy vegetables, and rice and beans if desired.

Makes about 24 enchiladas

In pursuit of real food

2011-02-20T20:02:00.000-08:00

The occasional package of ramen noodles is all well and good, and I could eat quick-and-mindless pasta al pesto or mascarpone three or four nights a week without complaint, but after several crazy weeks, I was craving some lazy time in the kitchen. I would have been happy doing something, anything but washing dishes—I'm not clear how I dirtied every dish in the house when I was cooking little and eating less.

This morning I woke up and just couldn't take it any more. It was a perfect morning for baking—our skies were clearing after a few days of rain, and the whole house was chilly.

I've had a bit of an obsession with muffins lately. Good muffins are sweet but not sticky, substantial but not heavy. They're quick to make, and rarely require more than you have in your pantry, and if you have a small family like I do, odds are good that you'll have leftovers for the next day.

I'm equal-opportunity when it comes to muffins. I like the newfangled orange-cranberry and the classic almond-poppy seed (although I prefer lemon); I enjoy more cake-like chocolate and barely-sweet corn; I'm happy to gobble up gingerbread and banana alike. Recently I've made doughnut muffins and spice muffins, and I just bought bran, but mostly, I've been experimenting with blueberries.

Blueberry muffins have always been my favorites; they're a lesson in simplicity. The fruit greatly reduces the structural integrity of the muffin (particularly while warm), so I like to counteract that with some whole wheat pastry flour, a bit sturdier than white flour. I like to spike the batter with a few good pinches of mace or nutmeg, but the most important element is certainly the berries. I still have a few cups of blueberries from home in my freezer, but when I need to buy them I try to find small, wild Boreal blueberries, as they seem to have the best flavor. While I don't hesitate to use fresh berries when I have them, I find that frozen berries reduce or eliminate the purple streaks that are the bane of so many berry-lovers. These muffins are chock-full of berries and will stain your fingers purple if given half a chance—just like they should be.

Blueberry Muffins with Cinnamon Streusel
Adapted from the Stone-Buhr Cookbook

Baking manuals usually abound with instructions to have all ingredients at room temperature, but for this recipe, I recommend keeping the milk and egg cold. The blueberries are frozen, and having a cool batter will slow down the thawing process and help reduce any unnecessary purple streaks.

For the streusel:

3 tablespoons butter, melted
3 tablespoons sugar
pinch cinnamon
½ cup flour, divided

For the muffins:

1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
¾ cup unbleached white flour
5 tablespoons sugar
2 ½ teaspoons baking powder
¾ teaspoon salt
2 pinches mace or nutmeg
1 egg, lightly beaten (cold)
¾ cup milk (cold)
⅓ cup oil or butter, melted and cooled
1 cup blueberries, kept frozen

Preheat the oven to 400ºF. To make the streusel, mix the melted butter, sugar, cinnamon, and ¼ cup flour. Add additional flour by tablespoonfuls until the mixture crumbles but holds clumps easily; set aside.

Grease a muffin pan or line with paper or foil liners; set aside. Mix the flours, sugar, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg in a large bowl with a fork or whisk. Make a well in the center and add the egg, milk, and the oil or butter. Fold the ingredients together swiftly with a spatula, folding three or four times. Add the blueberries and quickly mix to distribute - the dry ingredients should be just moistened.

Distribute the batter in the muffin pan (I often leave one empty to keep the muffins nice and tall). Sprinkle the streusel over the top of the muffins—if you have leftover streusel, you can cover it and refrigerate for up to a week.

Bake 30-35 minutes, until golden brown. Remove from the pan and cool on a rack for at least 10 minutes.

Reheat any leftovers in the microwave or in a 250ºF oven.

Makes about 12 muffins

Climbing out of the crater

2011-02-12T21:20:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've felt like my life has exploded around me like a meteorite. Things haven't been bad (in fact, most of the chaos has been the good variety), but I've felt like I haven't had a chance to breathe. My days have been longer (at least the sun is playing along); I go to bed mentally and physically exhausted, and can hardly sleep for the thoughts rattling my brain; every item checked off my list warrants a celebration, but it seems that three more things are tacked onto the end.

I have been cooking, believe it or not. We made roasted chile salsa and tacos de papa for the Super Bowl; I'm eating bowls of spaghetti al mascarpone and penne with pesto frozen last summer; I even made a batch of diminutive lemon macarons with raspberry buttercream filling. Unfortunately, my current level of disorganization resulted in a disastrous kitchen and a missing camera (found it—in the cabinet where it belongs).

I'm sure there's an embarrassment of riches on all the lovely blogs I read; people are probably creating all sorts of delicious fare—but I wouldn't know, as I haven't had a chance to read any of them.

I think I'll be crawling out the crater and joining the real world soon—there will be muffins, and marmalade, and something made with the beautiful chuck roast in my fridge—but in the meantime, I thought I'd share my tips for making ramen.

Ramen may be touted as the food of poor college students and hung over young adults, but when gussied up properly, it makes a fast, cheap, and easy meal, and that's always a comfort when life gets crazy.

Not Your Average Undergrad's Ramen
Adapted from a David Chang recipe I saw somewhere and then forgot.

1 package ramen noodles (any flavor)
1 half-inch piece ginger, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 large cloves garlic, peeled
½ teaspoon sesame oil (plus more if needed)
3 green onions, thinly sliced
1 fresh serrano chile, minced, or a large pinch crushed red peppers
soy sauce to taste
rice vinegar to taste

Bring water to boil in a small pan and add the noodles. Cook until barely tender, 2-4 minutes.

Meanwhile, crush the ginger and garlic in a mortar and pestle. Add the sesame oil.

Drain most of the water from the noodles. Add the ginger mixture, the green onions, and the chile and mix well. (If you want to add the flavoring packet, you can, but it's really not necessary.)

Add a splash of soy sauce and a sprinkle of rice vinegar. Eat, and add the pot to your growing pile of dishes.

Serves one

Best-laid

2011-02-06T11:12:00.000-08:00

Are you watching the Super Bowl today? Will you be eating salsa and guacamole? I know I will.

I hope that you, like me, find that the weeks after the Super Bowl leave you starved for salsa and guacamole, because we made a batch of Mike's Famous Salsa last night ... a few days too late to offer it to you for your Super Bowl party.

Instead, I decided to offer you orange cream. Blood orange cream, to be precise. Lest you think that this might be some sort of wimpy flavored Chantilly or boring custard, let me explain.

This orange cream, adapted from yet another Dorie Greenspan recipe, is similar to an orange curd, with juice, zest, eggs, sugar, and butter. However, to make the cream you cook all of the ingredients together except the butter. The slightly cooled custard is then whizzed in the blender with the butter, creating a creamy, emuslified, rich-yet-deceptively light cream.

This recipe could hardly be more versatile. Spread it in a tart crust; spread it between macarons; smear it over toasted English muffins or freshly-baked scones; layer it in an entremet; eat it from the bowl while standing in front of the fridge: spoon optional.

The only unusual thing about this (and some other citrus recipes) is the instruction to rub the zest into the sugar. I encountered these instructions in several books and have decided that it does help distribute the citrus oils (and therefore flavor) throughout the dish, but feel free to omit that step if desired.

Blood Orange Cream
Adapted from yet another Dorie Greenspan recipe.
Note: if you do not or cannot eat gelatin, I think this recipe would be fine without it; the next time I make it I will try it without and report back.

1 scant cup granulate sugar
zest of 3 blood oranges
zest of 1 lemon (preferably Meyer)
4 extra large eggs
¾ cup fresh blood orange juice (from 3-5 good-sized blood oranges)
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1¼ teaspoons unflavored gelatin
1 tablespoon cold water
10 ounces (2½ sticks) unsalted butter, in pieces and at room temperature

You will need a strainer, a blender or food processor, and a good digital thermometer handy.

Choose a bowl that fits snugly into one of your pots; bring water to a simmer in that pot (the water should be just below the bottom of the bowl. Measure the sugar into the bowl and zest the fruit directly into the bowl; rub the zest into the sugar with your fingers until the sugar is moist (it should smell heavenly). Whisk in the eggs and the two juices.

Set the bowl over the pan of simmering water and start whisking as soon as it is beginning to warm. Cook the cream, whisking constantly, until the temperature reaches 180ºF (it will lighten as you whisk and will start to thicken shortly before it reaches the correct temperature). The heating process can take as long as 10-15 minutes.

Pour the hot cream through the strainer into the blender, pressing all of it through with a spatula; discard the solids. Bloom the gelatin with the cold water in a little bowl, then add to the cream, cover, and carefully (it's still hot) pulse briefly to blend. Uncover and let cool to 140ºF, 5-10 minutes.

Cover the blender again and turn the speed to high. Using the little hold in the blender lid, add the butter in 4 or 5 additions, letting the butter become completely absorbed before adding more. When the butter is added, blend for a full three minutes (I do it in 1-minute intervals, scraping and giving the machine a rest for a few seconds in between.

Transfer to a bowl, press plastic wrap against the cream and refrigerate until well chilled.

Whisk well to loosen before using.

Makes about 3 cups (enough to fill a standard 9 inch tart pan)

We interrupt our regular scheduled programming

2011-01-31T16:09:00.000-08:00

I do intend to post the recipe for the orange cream and the entremet, but yesterday something happened. I made dinner, and it swept me off my feet.

With each bite, I fell more in love, and by the end of dinner I was eyeing the leftovers with anticipation. Who would have thought that I could be brought low by little more than a head of cauliflower and a box of pasta?

My love for cauliflower isn't well documented on this site, but it helps me get through every winter. I love it curried with potatoes or peas; I adore it sautéed or fried with cumin and salt, Moroccan style; I can't get enough of it puréed into a simple, perfect soup. Like so many things, I tend to fall into a rut, but a vague memory of a recipe seen once before inspired experimentation last weekend. Thin slices of cauliflower were roasted until golden brown and caramelized; cut into chunks and mixed with pasta, it was very nearly sublime. Unfortunately, my lack of attention to timing had led to a lackluster final result, and the lack of parsley in our kitchen contributed to a photograph that resembled baby food more than a fantastic winter pasta dish.

After several days of thought and many hours of anticipation, methods were tweaked, timing was thought out, and herbs were purchased. The result? Heaven.

I could roast a bushel of cauliflower, dressed in nothing more than olive oil and salt. I'd admire its pretty caramelized hue, make a little pillow out of it, and eat nothing but its lovely florets until there was nothing left. I've hidden batches of roasted cauliflower before, in order to save it to add to risotto and the occasional quinoa salad, but it always seemed to take away from the cauliflower—most often, I've gone back to a pile of burnished brown slices next to a piece of seared fish or supplementing a dinner of good bread and cheese. This dish, however, takes all the goodness of roasted cauliflower and makes it into a meal.

The sweetness is complemented by barely-caramelized onions; a liberal amount of dried breadcrumbs add some body and carry the flavor into every bite; the primary seasoning is black pepper, with the smallest pinch of red pepper flakes for a little zing. While any chunky shape of pasta will do, I yielded to my occasional impulse for whimsy by choosing campanelle, bell-shaped, ruffled, and echoing the shape of the cauliflower.

This is a simple dish, so I recommend the freshest cauliflower you can find—if you typically buy from the supermarket, you may be surprised by the flavor of good, fresh, local cauliflower. Also, for all that's beautiful in the world of food, get some fresh parsley (or at least something green) to mix in before serving—even the most delicious dish will disappoint if it looks as monochromatic and bland as this one does without it.

Pasta with Caramelized Cauliflower and Breadcrumbs

For the caramelized cauliflower:
½ large head cauliflower (or 1 small)
olive oil
sea salt

For the pasta:
2 tablespoons butter
olive oil
½ large onion, sliced
black pepper
pinch red pepper flakes
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup fresh parsley, minced
¼ cup dried breadcrumbs (preferably fresh)
generous ¼ cup grated pecorino cheese
½ pound chunky pasta, such as campanelle (farfalle, orecchiette, and penne would all be acceptable substitutes)

Preheat the oven to 425ºF. Slice the cauliflower about ¼ inch thick (much of it may crumble, which is okay). Spread in a single layer on two rimmed sheet pans. Drizzle on both sides with olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt. Roast for 20-30 minutes, turning once or twice during the cooking time, until the cauliflower is tender and well browned on both sides. Remove from the oven and set aside.

Fill a pot with water and put it on to boil. When the water comes to a boil, salt it liberally and add the pasta. Cook until al dente, then drain, reserving ¼ cup cooking water (and set aside, if needed).

Set a large, heavy skillet over medium heat and melt the butter with a slosh of olive oil. Add the sliced onions and season with salt, black pepper, and the red pepper flakes. Cook, stirring from time to time, until the onions are tender and beginning to brown, about 20 minutes. (The pasta should be mostly cooked at this point). Add the garlic and cook 1-2 minutes more, until quite fragrant. Cut the cauliflower into bite-sized pieces and add to the pot; reduce the heat to low and stir gently until the cauliflower is heated. Add the drained pasta and reserved cooking water as needed to make a uniformly moist pasta.

Add the parsley, breadcrumbs, and cheese, and stir just to combine. Top with additional cheese if desired. Serve. Eat with abandon.

Serves 3-4

First time's a charm

2011-01-28T23:16:00.000-08:00

I've never seriously thought about going to pastry school—it's always been a pie-in-the-sky idea for an idyllic early retirement after some happy accident left me independently wealthy. I've always known that I don't have the temperament to be a chef, and pastry is no exception.

Sometimes, though, a glance in the window of a particularly talented baker will make me stop, jaw dropped, and wonder why I never went to pastry school, who came up with such a lovely creation, where I can go to learn how to make that.

In fact, I had that exact experience just a few weeks ago—wandering through a local Korean market, I stopped at the French-style bakery to ogle the lovely cakes and entremets. How lovely, I thought—I wonder if I could make one of those at home?

The January 2011 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Astheroshe of the blog accro.
She chose to challenge everyone to make a Biscuit Joconde Imprime to wrap around an Entremets dessert.

Considering my first attempt at the design on the cake as a learning experience, I simply piped silly designs on the cake. In the future, I may go for a more ... elegant design.

Entremets are traditionally filled with mousse, custard, or bavarian cream of some sort, and traditionally is layered with several fillings of different colors, making a lovely presentation once cut into.

The flavor of this dish is unparalleled. A thick layer of caramel bavarois was allowed to set, then covered in a thin layer of rich, buttery blood orange cream. A thin layer of blood orange gelée was then poured over the top to set.

I was hesitant to try caramel with blood orange, despite the many recipes I see combining them. The flavor of blood orange is perfect by itself: sweet, berry-stained, and the tiniest bit tart. I took the plunge, however, and I was not disappointed. The caramel custard layered with the blood orange cream made for an elegant and complex final product.

The whole process of making an entremet takes a lot of time—between preparing the different parts and allowing them to set before proceeding, it's a good day in the kitchen. I will provide the additional recipes soon, but in the meantime ... have some bavarian cream. Use the bavarois to fill cream puffs or just pour into individual serving dishes to set.

Caramel Bavarian Cream
Do note that once refrigerated, the cooled custard goes from "just barely beginning to thicken" to "completely set" in a matter of a few minutes. Once you noticed the custard thickening, whisk vigorously to even the temperature and check every minute. You want to add the whipped cream as soon as it is thick enough to fold easily, and before the custard solidifies.

¾ cup granulated sugar
½ (2 standard envelopes) ounce gelatin
2 ½ cups milk
7 egg yolks
pinch salt
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 ½ cups heavy cream

Have the milk measured out and the gelatin in a small bowl. Whisk the yolks in a medium bowl and set aside.

Place the sugar in a large, heavy, light-bottomed pot (this will make it easy to see the sugar caramelize). Place the pot over medium to medium-high heat and cook the caramel to a deep amber shade (check out this fantastic tutorial if you are not accustomed to making caramel).

As soon as the caramel is deep amber but before it begins to smoke and burn (I use my nose more than my eyes at this point; you can convince yourself that the caramel is "too brown" when it still doesn't have much flavor, but you will smell before the caramel begins to burn and turn acrid), pour in the milk, stirring carefully. The mixture will bubble up and steam furiously, so keep your face well away and use a long-handled spoon to protect yourself from spit and steam.

With the heat on medium, stir until any petrified bits of caramel have dissolved. Add 3 tablespoons cold water to the gelatin and stir. Let the gelatin absorb the water, then stir it into the milk.

When the milk is hot but not boiling, temper the egg yolks: while whisking the yolks rapidly, slowly pour a cup or so of the hot milk into the eggs. Return the pot to the heat and whisk the eggs in carefully; add a pinch of salt. Lower the heat slightly and cook until the custard coats the back of a spoon and leaves a clear line when you run your finger through it, 10-15 minutes.

Transfer the custard to a large bowl and mix in the vanilla. Cool to tepid at room temperature (You can use an ice bath if you are in the kitchen to stir it regularly), then refrigerate until just beginning to thicken. The amount of time this takes will vary wildly depending on the temperature of your house and refrigerator—set your timer to five minutes, stir well, and check the temperature until it begins to cool.

When the custard is almost thick enough, Pour the cream into a cool bowl and whip until it just holds stiff peaks. Remove the custard from the refrigerator and stir briskly. Stir in about a third of the whipped cream to loosen, then fold in the remaining cream. Pour into prepared entremet mold, individual serving dishes, or a big bowl; press a layer of plastic wrap over the surface of the custard and let chill until firm.

Serves 8-12

A little bit of glamour

2011-01-20T21:36:00.000-08:00

Save two meals of delicious cabbage-and-noodle soup from a local Chinese restaurant, I don't think I've eaten anything beyond toast, cheese sandwiches, and pasta for the past two weeks.

Thank goodness for homemade pesto, frozen by the tablespoonful in the summer and gathered into big bags. It was hard work not eating all of it right away, but it was worth it—nothing adds pizzazz to the litany of winter vegetables like summer, stocked away in the freezer.

Still, it's difficult to find something interesting for a food blog when one's diet is so unequivocally boring. I have a few Big Secret recipes for Secret people that I am working on, but Big Secrets aren't much good when posted on the internet.

In the meantime, I have a meager offering for you: Blood Orange Cream.

It sounds like a makeup shade for someone using artificial tanners, and I don't have any pictures to prove how light and lovely it is—even if I did, a mere photo couldn't begin to express how wonderful this stuff is—the creamsicle of your childhood, suddenly glamorous, sexy, and desired by everyone in the room.

Lighter than curd, the orange cream is made by heating eggs, sugar, and blood orange juice in a double boiler until the custard is cooked. After a few minutes to cool, the whole mixture is whizzed in a blender with a positively irresponsible quantity of butter, which melts and emulsifies. The resulting custard, when cooled, has richness from the eggs; a luscious, velvety texture from the butter; and a bright flavor from the oranges that makes for a surprisingly light dessert.

Spread this custard in a baked tart shell (this is my favorite recipe) for a simple, elegant-yet-rustic dessert (you can top with fresh fruit or serve with a compote of frozen berries for a little something extra); smear it onto scones or biscuits for an easy breakfast; or just scoop it into little shot glasses or bowls and serve with nothing but a few leaves of fresh mint.

Blood Orange Cream
Adapted from Baking: From My Home To Yours
Use the best blood oranges you can find, as their flavor is the primary part of this dish. Be careful later in the season: the fruit that is heavily tinged with red on the skin is often bitter inside.

A note for those who don't eat gelatin: I've not tried this recipe without, but I make a similar lemon cream without gelatin that turns out fine. The lower level of pectin in oranges might result in a thinner custard—please let me know if you try it and tell me how it turns out.

1 scant cup granulated sugar
grated zest of 3 blood oranges
grated zest of 1 lemon (I used Meyer lemon for the zest and juice)
4 extra large eggs
¾ cup fresh blood orange juice
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 ¼ teaspoons gelatin
1 tablespoon cold water
10 ounces (2 ½ sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature

You will need a good thermometer (preferably digital), a sieve, and a blender ready. Bring a few inches of water to simmer in a double boiler or a pot with a heatproof bowl that fits nicely over it.

Zest the oranges and lemon directly into that bowl with the sugar. Rub the zest together with the sugar until moist and aromatic. Whisk in the eggs, then the blood orange and lemon juices (don't worry about straining chunks of pulp or seeds at this point).

Set the bowl over the simmering water; start lightly whisking as soon as the mixture is barely warm to the touch. Set up the thermometer and cook the custard, whisking constantly, until the mixture reaches 180ºF (usually 8-15 minutes).

Immediately remove the bowl from the heat and pour through the sieve into the blender, pressing out all of the custard. Discard the solids.

Mix the gelatin with the cold water to bloom and add it to the mixture; place the lid on the blender and pulse once, just to combine. Let the mixture cool, uncovered, until it reaches 140ºF (an additional 5-10 minutes).

Meanwhile, cut the butter into small pieces. When the custard has cooled to the correct temperature, turn on the blender and add the butter pieces, about ¼ cup at a time. Blending constantly (you can give you machine a rest from time to time if necessary), let the butter emulsify completely before adding more. You will notice the custard lighten from a salmon-pink shade to a very pale orange pink.

When all the butter is added, blend on high for an additional 3 full minutes. Transfer mixture to a bowl, cover directly with plastic wrap to avoid forming a skin, and place in the refrigerator to cool completely, at least 4 hours and up to three days.

Makes about 3 cups

Karma chameleon

2011-01-10T21:51:00.000-08:00

There are several things I can say about Indian cuisine, chief among them that it is, almost without exception, both delicious and unphotogenic.

Through some mysterious alchemical process stews and braises, purées and fritter, unwanted cuts of meat and boring winter vegetables alike are saved from ubiquity with a deft addition of chilies, ginger, and a few ingredients from the spice cabinet, but the resulting dishes are often smooth and monochromatic—not the best fodder for the camera.

Take cabbage, for example. A beloved staple of our winter table, cabbage nonetheless tends to tumble into the same meals again and again. There's the braised cabbage with carrots, made no less than a dozen times a year. Slaw of a pseudo-Asian variety is commonly thrown together with the occasional orphaned quarter, and to heck with lettuce—a taco just isn't a taco without finely-shredded cabbage on top. Add to that the periodic dabbling with kimchi recipes and regular meals of cabbage and mushroom stir fry, and I sometimes think I should turn my patio into a petite cabbage farm.

A few weeks ago, I decided to expand my cabbage repertoire with an Indian dish. I had experimented briefly with curried cabbage of several varieties a few years back, and quite frankly, they left me cold. Not so this time! Using mostly pantry ingredients, thinly sliced cabbage is braised in a curried tomato broth, resulting in a dish that is spicy, a bit crunchy, and colorful.

The two things that take Indian food from an occasional weekend undertaking to a regular weeknight meal are mise en place and a well-stocked pantry. A few items uncommon in Western pantries, such as coriander seeds, cumin seeds, and cardamom pods will make it easy to make most curry powders—and it's easy to leave out an ingredient here or there when something is missing. Making the curry powder and chopping the vegetables makes the composition of the dish a snap, giving you time to prepare rice, wash the dishes, and start thinking about dessert.

Unlike many Indian dishes, this one is pretty. The tomatoes, the turmeric-stained cabbage, and the peas make a lovely rainbow of red gold and green.

Last night I scribbled notes as I hummed dated New Wave singles and puttered in the kitchen. I whipped up spiced rice and dal, read a few pages of Murakami, and washed half of my dishes. I kept an ear open for the timer while I watched a basketball game, and I feverishly finished the last few minutes of cooking, an hour late and famished. I snapped some quick photos and sat down to quiet my complaining stomach.

It wasn't until later that I loaded the photos and looked at them.

Red, gold ... and no green.

I forgot the peas.

So, let it be known: if you don't have peas in your freezer, this meal is delicious without. If you are really, really hungry, polling suggests that you might not even notice that they're missing. Do add them, though, if you have them.

Curried Braised Cabbage with Tomatoes and Peas
If you find good cabbage and good tomatoes at the same time, feel free to replace the canned tomatoes with 3-4 fresh chopped tomatoes (you may need to add a couple tablespoons water from time to time). In the winter, though, canned tomatoes are quite nice.

For the curry powder:

½ teaspoon coriander seeds
½ teaspoon cumin seeds
6 black peppercorns
4 whole cloves
3-4 cardamom pods, or ¼ teaspoon seeds
¼ teaspoon caraway seeds (optional)
pinch fenugreek (optional)

For the cabbage:

2 tablespoons ghee, vegetable oil, or 1 tablespoon each butter & oil
½ medium onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
½ teaspoon turmeric
½ teaspoon cayenne (more or less, to taste)
1 - 14.5 ounce can whole or diced tomatoes, with their juice (or 3-4 whole fresh tomatoes)
½ head cabbage, halved and thinly sliced
1 cup frozen green peas (keep frozen)
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons chopped cilantro (optional)

To make the curry, combine the ingredients in a mortar or spice mill and grind well; set aside.

Heat the ghee in a large pot over medium-high heat. Fry onions until translucent. Add garlic, turmeric, cayenne, and curry powder; stir until fragrant and beginning to stick to the pot, 1-2 minutes.

Add the tomatoes and juices and bring to a boil. Lower heat to a simmer and cook, uncovered, until sauce is thickened and fat separates, 15-20 minutes. Add shredded cabbage and mix until well coated with sauce. Partially cover and simmer about 15 minutes more, until cabbage is cooked but still a bit crunchy; add water by the tablespoon if dry. Add peas and cook 1-2 minutes, just until heated through. Add salt and cilantro. Serve over rice.

Serves 4 with another Indian dish, or two generously

Discombobulated

2011-01-07T18:08:00.000-08:00

I learned a few things over the past two days.

1. Access to cheap, fresh vegetables after my neighborhood market has been closed for 10 days inspires a frenzy in me similar to a pre-teen at a Jonas Brothers Concert.

2. It is exceedingly difficult to cut garlic into a fine julienne when one's hands are shaking from hunger.

3. A simple winter stir fry of cabbage and mushrooms, tossed with a sauce of black and white soy sauces, fish sauce, and a touch of sugar, does wonders for a head cold.

4. The citizens of Seattle are lucky indeed.

We enjoyed a dinner last night of crusty baguettes, good pecorino, and two salume from Salumi Artisan Cured Meats. Cured meat was a revelation the first time I visited Europe, and while I've enjoyed the occasional bite of prosciutto (and even one ecstasy-inducing bite of jamón ibérico de bellota) since I began eating meat in March, I've had no more than a spare whiff of salumi as I wrapped it up as a gift to family.

Needless to say, between the head cold and the salume, there hasn't been much actual cooking going on. This weekend, though, things may change. There will be tacos if I have anything to say about it.

Half a cabbage and a cake

2011-01-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

With a small batch of soup today, the leftovers from last week's Thanksgiving dinner (I can't think of turkey & fixings as anything but "Thanksgiving Dinner," no matter what the date) are confined to 4 quarts of stock and a pint of turkey bits in the freezer for more soup later this winter.

The past week has been filled with sleeping in late, afternoon walks, reruns of The West Wing, and an utterly boring menu of oatmeal with spiced apple butter, turkey sandwiches, and whatever could be thrown together from the fridge and pantry.

The fresh vegetables in my house have dwindled to half a cabbage, two onions, a couple carrots and one head of garlic—I don't begrudge my one-family grocer their vacation, but I can't wait to roast a big head of cauliflour, braise countless bulbs of fennel, or perhaps make some spiced sweet-potato fries in my brand new deep fryer.

In the meantime, I decided to take advantage of the only good deal I found at the Tuesday Farmers Market: fat, juicy Meyer lemons at 25 cents a pop.

I am thankful to whatever capricious deity that put lemons in their prime four months after blueberries have disappeared for also making blueberries so eminently freezable. I have a bag still in the freezer from my blueberry picking adventures back at home this summer, from which I have carefully meted out a half-cup for a tiny batch of pancake syrup here, a few tablespoons for a bowl of yoghurt there. For weeks now, though, I have been dreaming of cake: a simple, rustic cornmeal cake, flavored with lemon and studded with purple-blue orbs of blueberries.

Back again, then, is the gâteau au yaourt. As I said in that post, the yoghurt cake recipe can be bent to your needs: add or subtract fruit; swap half a cup of flour for nuts or, in this case, cornmeal; change zest and other flavorings to your taste.

The resulting cake is near perfection. The cornmeal adds texture, fullness, and lovely golden color; the crumb is dense and intensely moist; the zest permeates the cake and the glaze soaks in for intense, lemony flavor; the blueberries stud the cake with little fireworks of indigo.

There really is nothing like wild, hand-picked blueberries, but if you aren't lucky enough to have them, buy the best you can find. Small wild berries from Maine are quite good and much more flavorful than the almost golf ball-sized commercial ones that can be found from time to time.

Happy New Year—may it be filled with safe and happy adventures, in the kitchen and outside of it.

Meyer Lemon-Blueberry Cornmeal Cake
While standard Eureka lemons will work in this recipe in a pinch, they have a much stronger, more acidic flavor; you may want to increase the sugar in the glaze by one or two tablespoons, or to taste, to avoid a harsh flavor. Use the best blueberries you can find.

While I generally bring my eggs to room temperature before baking, I use cold eggs and yoghurt so that the blueberries melt as little as possible—this ensures a lovely yellow crumb without purple streaks.

1 cup granulated sugar
2-3 teaspoons Meyer lemon zest (from one large or two small Meyer lemons)
3 large eggs
½ cup yoghurt (I prefer whole milk yoghurt, but nonfat will work)
1 cup unbleached flour
½ cup cornmeal
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup flavorless oil, such as canola
1 cup frozen or fresh blueberries (do not thaw if frozen)

For the glaze:
juice of two Meyer lemons (about 6 tablespoons)
4-6 tablespoons confectioners' sugar

Preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter a nine inch cake pan and set aside.

Zest the lemons into a large bowl and add the sugar. If desired, rub the zest into the sugar with your fingers until very fragrant and moist. Add the eggs and yoghurt and whisk together until well combined. Add the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt; whisk lightly until just combined. Add the oil and mix with a spatula until you get a homogeneous mixture (it will start out gloppy and gross).

When you are ready to bake the cake, remove the blueberries from the freezer. Mix into the batter very quickly, just stirring three or four times to distribute. Scrape the mixture into the pan. Bake 40-50 minutes, until a tester comes out clean and the cake springs back in the middle. Cool in the pan on a rack for about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the glaze: juice the lemons into a small bowl; remove any seeds or large chunks of pulp. Add 4 tablespoons confectioners' sugar and mix well to make a thin, sweet-tart glaze. If you like, add one or two tablespoons more sugar.

Run a knife around the edge of the cake, invert to remove from pan and invert again onto a rack (so the cake is right-side up on the rack). While still warm, use a basting brush or spoon to distribute the glaze over top and sides of the cake—you may wish to place the rack over a large plate or piece of waxed paper to catch drips. When the cake has absorbed glaze all over the top, let cool completely.

Serve with a simple blueberry sauce, softly whipped cream, or nothing at all.

Serves 8-12

Last-minute

2010-12-27T17:09:00.000-08:00

What timing! Did you know that today is National Fruitcake Day?

The 2010 December Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Penny of Sweet Sadie’s Baking. She chose to challenge Daring Bakers to make stollen. She adapted a friend’s family recipe and combined it with information from friends, techniques from Peter Reinhart’s book ... and Martha Stewart’s demonstration.

Stollen is a German fruitcake that bears a similarity to panettone and other traditional holiday yeast breads. This bread is stuffed with dried fruit, zest, candied citrus, and nuts, and the mildly sweet dough is topped with melted butter and confectioners' sugar after baking.

I have a fractious relationship with fruitcake at best. I didn't grow up with a family that baked traditional fruitcakes, but I heard the stories from friends and, well, the world at large, which told me that fruitcake was heavy, saccharine-sweet, and stuffed with everything from raisins to the frightening red and green jellied cubes that were supposed to be candied citrus.

Of course, I've moved on from that point in my life, at least a little bit. I still prefer my raisins eaten out of hand to mixed into bread, and I only recently discovered that homemade candied citrus is not only edible, but absurdly delicious, but I've eaten various fruitcakes from around the world over the years.

I made a few variations to the recipe based on my desires and my pantry stock: I substituted the traditional raisins with cranberries that needed terribly to be used; I soaked them in orange juice instead of rum (to avoid waste from the fruit I was zesting and candying); I used finely chopped almonds rather than slivered almonds because I don't like big pieces of crunchy things in my bread. I also added the candied orange peel only when I was rolling the dough into its wreath shape, as I didn't start making it until I was ready to make the bread. Luckily for us, there was enough orange peel left over for us to munch on it throughout the evening, as well.

Due to this bread's longevity—supposedly, it lasts for a couple weeks at room temperature—I may continue to fiddle with the recipe before next year's holiday season. I'm sure my family wouldn't be bothered by the addition of a fruitcake to the cornucopia that I mail out.

Short and sweet-tart

2010-12-24T15:24:00.000-08:00

Were you thinking, perhaps, that cranberry sauce wasn't worth the effort this year? That the recipe on the back of the back didn't turn out much better than a can, or that the solid mass of ribbed, jellied sauce that slurps out of the can would make up for what it lacks in pure amusement value?

Reach to the back of your freezer, then, for the bag of cranberries that you stashed away when they were on sale last January, because this cranberry sauce is so much more.

The most obvious addition is slivered almonds—toasted to perfection, half are mixed in with the hot sauce, the other half sprinkled over the top before serving. More subtle is star anise, a beautiful spice with subtle, complex flavor.

All told, this takes about 15 minutes to make—at least thirteen of which can be spent paying attention to other things—so it's ideal to make on Christmas Eve or even in the morning when you are brewing your tea or coffee. Just reserve time for the sauce to cool and chill (an hour or two if you put it directly in the fridge).

The turkey is brining, the sausage is made. Stale bread is finishing the drying process in the oven, and bottles of Prosecco and grape juice are chilling in the fridge. I have a mug of spiced cider in hand, and the presents are all wrapped and under the tree.

The only thing left to do is decide what's for dessert tomorrow. Oops.

Spiced Cranberry Sauce with Tangerines and Almonds
If you don't have star anise, most Chinese five-spice powder mixes would would as a replacement (just make sure it doesn't have chile, pepper, or salt); just add about ¼ teaspoon powder.

1 cup slivered almonds
12 ounces fresh or frozen cranberries (one standard bag)
1 tangerine or small orange
¾ cup water
¾ cup granulated sugar
1 nutmeg, broken into large pieces with a pestle or rolling pin (or 1 pinch ground nutmeg)
2 whole star anise
¼ teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350ºF. Spread almonds in a single layer over a rimmed baking sheet and toast, stirring once or twice, until light golden and fragrant, 5-10 minutes. Set aside to cool.

Pour the cranberries into a medium saucepan and briefly rinse, then pick over to remove any bad berries. Zest the tangerine directly into the pot, then cut in half and juice into the pot. Add the water, sugar, and spices, stir to combine, and place over medium-high heat.

Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer 10 minutes. The cranberries will be breaking down and the mixture will have thickened slightly. Mash one quarter to one third of the mixture roughly with a wooden spoon, then stir well to combine. Remove from heat and stir in half of the almonds.

Transfer the mixture to a bowl and cool completely. Chill before serving—mixture will thicken further as it cools.

Makes about 3 cups

Raise your glass

2010-12-21T07:22:00.000-08:00

Are you planning a feast of some sort this Saturday? I know I am. Roast turkey (I contemplated goose for a day or two); dressing with homemade pork sausage and apples; Mike's fantastic, rich, and rustic mashed potatoes; braised pearl onions; roasted carrots & parsnips; the essential cranberry sauce with tangerines, almonds, and star anise; and the ugly duckling of the holiday feast: sautéed Brussels sprouts with bacon & herbs.

I had never eaten a Brussels sprout until a year or two ago. My mother had grown up hating them, so she never made them at home, and while I spent college tentatively trying new foods and cuisines, I wasn't quite ready for institutionally-prepared, boiled-and-buttered sprouts, however good my school's food might have been.

Finally, finally, I spent one winter Saturday wandering through the farmers' market, looking for inspiration. There they were: little miniature cabbages, so cute and unoffending, so green and bright among the root vegetables and butternuts, so lonely and unwanted. I grabbed a few—their bad rap renewed my tentative streak—and went home to my internet and my trusty, dog-eared, and stained copy of Chez Panisse Vegetables.

It was love at first bite. Why on earth does everyone malign the poor, defenseless Brussels sprout? When cooked properly, they are nutty, sweet, and not at all stinky like their reputation suggests, and they are now a regular winter guest in our home. I've tried them hashed (delicious tossed with hot pasta) and whole, and you can't go wrong roasting the halves in a hot oven until caramelized around the edges—adults and children alike will be filching them off the platter like candy.

My new favorite way to prepare sprouts, discovered this November, is with bacon. It may be unoriginal, and it may counteract the various health benefits—but try it and you may be converted. The sprouts are sautéed in some of the rendered fat just until hot, after which point a splash of white wine and stock are added to deglaze the pan. As the sprouts finish cooking, the sauce coats them in a silky emulsion of smoky bacon, herbs, and wine—the flavor is bright and springy, fending off the winter blues, making you raise your eyebrows and reach for more with each bite.

If you're afraid of Brussels sprouts, if you've been trained to think of them as little ping pong balls of evil, please, take a deep breath, drink a glass of wine, and try them with bacon.

Sautéed Brussels Sprouts with Bacon
Adapted from a few recipes in Chez Panisse Vegetables

If you don't like bacon or don't eat it, add a couple tablespoons of olive oil to replace the lost fat. This recipe will double (or even triple, I suppose) easily, but you want the sprouts in a single layer if possible so that they will cook evenly.

About 1 pound fresh Brussels sprouts (chose smaller heads with compact leaves)
1 tablespoon butter
2-3 ounces uncured bacon (about 2-3 slices for most)
½ small onion or one shallot, chopped (optional)
2-3 sprigs fresh thyme, or 1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 bay leaf
salt & pepper
splash white wine
2-4 tablespoons mild stock or water

Peel off the tough, blemished outer layers of each sprout, revealing clean, bright heads. Trim the root end of each sprout and cut in half or quarters; if the size varies, cut smaller specimens in half only.

Meanwhile, heat the butter a large pot over medium-high heat. Cut the bacon into lardons about ½ inch thick and add to the pot. Cook, stirring once or twice, until just beginning to brown (note: if your bacon renders a huge amount of fat, you may want to remove a small amount before proceeding). If desired, add the onion or shallot and stir to combine.

Add the sprouts, thyme, and bay leaf and season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring regularly, until the sprouts are hot and just beginning to wilt and brown, 3-4 minutes. Add a splash of white wine and stir well to deglaze. Add two or three tablespoons stock, partially cover, and let cook until the sprouts are tender throughout, about 5-10 minutes more. If the mixture is dry, add a bit more stock. Serve hot.

Serves about 4 as a side dish at a normal meal; at a feast with many dishes, would probably serve 8 easly

Pretty darned fantastic

2010-12-20T19:04:00.000-08:00

Can we all get together and agree that chickpeas are pretty darned fantastic?

For one thing, they really do look like miniature naked chickens, and that can't do anything but improve them. Further, there's no complaining about any food that has multiple, fun names. Chickpeas has a whimsical ring to it, the kind of word that I like to use for finger foods like roasted, spiced chick peas and falafal. Garbanzo beans, then, are like the chickpeas' smoky, all-the-boys-love-her older sister, sultry, mysterious, and brooding. Garbanzo beans are just cool.

So really, could it be anything but garbanzo beans in this dish? What happens when you mix garbanzo beans with chard, and cook them both with handfuls of shallots, scads of garlic and buckets of olive oil? Good things happen. Magic happens.

I stumbled upon a recipe for Roasted Garbanzo Beans and Garlic with Swiss Chard several years ago in a Bon Appétit, and I believe I made it for dinner that night. I've made this dish countless times since, a cure for an uninspired fall, the winter blues, or a misty spring day alike.

The original recipe, provided by Michael Psilakis, was mindblowing, but it was no suprise: what wouldn't be good with 1 ¼ cups of olive oil? I'm not anti-fat by any means, but my frugal wallet winced at roasting the beans in that much oil, just to drain it off. Sure, I could (and did) reuse it, but still. I slashed at the amount until I found the perfect level of olive oil—all of the flavor and none of the waste.

As if roasted, garlicky, herb-covered garbanzo beans bathing in velvety chard wasn't enough, I dare you to find a way not to serve this. I've had it under seared salmon and aside roast chicken. I've tossed it with pasta; I've added stock for a soup. I've topped it with a runny-yolked poached egg (oh, the unctuous sauce that resulted!); I've drained it and stuffed a pita for a sandwich. Truly, the versatility of this dish knows no bounds.

I waited all day to finish this post so that I could take photos; unfortunately, I was at work with nothing but my leftovers to eat, so they were gone before I got to my camera. Still, I've got more garbanzo beans in the refrigerator, so I'm sure I'll make more in the next week, and I promise you pictures at that point. Until then, I exhort you—soak some garbanzo beans tonight, or get out a few cans and start immediately. You won't be sorry.

Roasted Garbanzo Beans with Swiss Chard
Adapted from this Michael Psilakis recipe on Epicurious, from Bon Appétit

This dish calls for a large amount of garlic, but as most of it is roasted, and the rest lightly sautéed, it offers a mellow flavor. Use whatever kind of chard you like; the red chard, which I usually buy, will stain the broth and the beans lightly pink.

For the garbanzo beans:
3 cups cooked, drained garbanzo beans (or about 2 cans, rinsed well and drained)
1 teaspoon fennel seed
2 bay leaves
2 shallots, thinly sliced (can replace with ½ red onion)
10 cloves garlic, peeled
salt & pepper
¼ cup good olive oil

For the chard:
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 shallots, thinly sliced (see above)
5 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
2 bay leaves
1 large or 2 small bunches chard, ribs removed and leaves coarsely torn
1 ½ cups mild broth (I prefer vegetable stock)

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Toss the drained beans with the herbs, shallots, garlic, and liberal amounts of salt & black pepper (at least ½ teaspoon salt and 1 teaspoon pepper for me). Drizzle the olive oil over, toss lightly, and cover the dish tightly with foil or its lid. Place in the oven and roast, stirring once or twice, until the beans are tender and a light gold color, and the garlic and shallots have relaxed completely. Remove from heat and set aside (can make a day ahead if desired; bring to room temperature before proceeding).

Heat the olive oil over medium-high heat in a large, deep pot. Add the shallots and garlic and cook for a minute or two, until fragrant. Add the bay leaves, then about a third of the chard. Stir well until wilted, then add remaining chard in batches. Add the stock, bring to a boil, and cook until the chard is tender, 5-10 minutes. Add the garbanzo beans, mix well, and cook one to two minutes more, until the beans have absorbed a little of the broth. Adjust seasoning as desired, remove bay leaves and serve.

Serves 4 as part of a main dish (with an egg, pasta, etc.), or 8 as a side dish

An unassuming trio

2010-12-17T18:21:00.000-08:00

I'm running behind schedule—and not just when it comes to blogging. My parents came to visit, which was fantastic ... but wow. Christmas is one week from tomorrow.

I'm behind on my blogging, to be sure, and my blog reader is about to burst from all the unread posts, but that's the least of my worries.

I'm behind on gifts—there are some downsides to focusing as much as possible on hand made items. I'm behind on knitting, on wrapping, and on so much as thinking about stocking stuffers. And until yesterday, I had not made a single Christmas cookie.

How is that possible? I'm usually the queen of Christmas cookies, with half a dozen varieties baked up before the second week of December begins. I may have a party to go to this weekend, but I think I will be stocking up on butter, buying another bag of sugar, and dirtying every baking sheet I own. Several times.

Luckily for my blog (and for my belly), I made shortbread last night. Shortbread is one of my favorite kinds of cookie, and one that I rarely make after December. A simple, sugar-flour-butter cookie—complimented with a dash of vanilla and a sprinkle of salt—is all that anyone should ask for, but what can I say? My favorite thing about shortbread isn't the rich butter or the melt in your mouth sandy texture (no wondering why these are called sablées in France), but rather the endless tweaking that I can do to a recipe.

Last year I became more than a little bit obsessed with dark chocolate-drizzled cardamom shortbread, but I'm a fickle girl, and they haven't even crossed my mind. This year, it's time for something old, and something new; for tradition and experimentation. Yesterday afternoon, after recovering from a vicious migraine, I made up for lost time by making four different batches of shortbread. One I'm saving for later, but I'll show three of them to you today.

It's an unassuming trio of little rectangles—no fancy shapes for the humble shortbread in my house—of brown butter and salt, Mexican chocolate, and Meyer lemon. Each delights me in different ways, but I'm going to start, as I so often do, with chocolate.

I was inspired by the Salt & Pepper Cocoa Shortbreads from Dorie Greenspan's lovely "Baking: From my Home to Yours," but after several hours pondering black pepper (with chocolate? without chocolate? with lemon instead of chocolate?), I scratched that idea and went with a classic chocolate-cinnamon combination. I think these would be ideal with Ceylon, or "true" cinnamon (see my polemic on cinnamon at the bottom of this post), but I spaced out (I blame the vestiges of migraine) and used cassia. No matter - these are crumbly, intensely chocolaty, and jolted by the shot of spice.

The most important things about shortbread are the butter and the method of mixing them together. While you don't need to bankrupt yourself buying the best butter available, it should definitely taste delicious just by itself. I mix my shortbread by hand only—it lowers the chances of over mixing and dirties nothing more than one bowl and one spoon, and it gives me an arm workout too. Use butter that is softened but still slightly firm—not at all oily—or else you'll lose that sandy texture. Also, don't beat the butter and sugar like you would for, say, chocolate chip cookies, or you'll end up with a cookie that will puff and then, most likely, collapse when cool. Five minutes and a little elbow grease will produce a perfect, light-yet-rich, crumbly-but-melting cookie that you won't be able to keep your hands off. I should know—I ate some for breakfast this morning.

Mexican Chocolate Shortbread Cookies

These cookies are not too sweet—a common occurrence with my desserts, to be honest—so if you like sweeter cookies, you may want to add a few extra tablespoons of sugar. These cookies would be fantastic with a café au lait or an espresso, but they stand alone just fine. An added bonus for those with cookie thieves in the house: cut and bake the ragged ends, reserving the pretty pieces for gift boxes.

1 ½ cups unbleached flour
6 tablespoons cocoa powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon (or cassia, if you prefer)
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup (two sticks) good-quality unsalted butter, mostly softened
⅖ cups confectioners' sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Mix the flour, cocoa, cinnamon, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside.

Break the butter up with a wooden spoon in a large bowl, then stir briskly to loosen. Add the sugar and beat briefly until well combined, with no lumps. Add the vanilla and beat very briefly, until just combined.

Dump in the flour mixture and carefully stir until just combined—watch out here to avoid flour explosions that dump your carefully measured dry goods onto the floor (ask me how I know this).

Place a piece of waxed paper on a large board or clean counter. Dump the dough onto the paper, cover with another piece of paper, and quickly roll out the dough about ¼ inch thick (for me, this made a square roughly eight inches by fourteen. Transfer to a baking sheet and refrigerate at least two hours, but the longer the better (cover the entire sheet with plastic wrap if you will chill overnight.

Preheat the oven to 350˚F and place racks in top and bottom third of the oven. Line two baking sheets with parchment or Silpat. Remove the cookies from the oven, peel off the top layer of waxed paper and cut into 1 inch by 3 inch fingers. Using a thin spatula, transfer to the sheets.

Bake 12-14 minutes, swapping sheets midway through the baking time. The cookies will still be a little soft when gently pressed with a finger, but not mushy. Transfer to racks and let cool.

These cookies will keep in a tin for 4 or 5 days at room temperature; alternatively, wrap tightly and freeze for up to two months.

Makes about 3 dozen (plus the ugly bits)

Not a sabbatical

2010-12-03T19:37:00.000-08:00

How life does get away from me sometimes.

I've been offline for days. My meals have been simple, formulaic, and unphotogenic in the early evening darkness: brussels sprouts with brown rice; pasta tossed with tomato sauce and mozzarella; simplest turkey soup with a rich stock from Thanksgiving's carcass.

But the clearest sign that things are not as they are supposed to be? Today is the third day of December, and I have not baked a single cookie. No spritz, no shortbread, no gingerbread, no spiced-treacle, no pumpkin. With a full weekend scheduled—my best friend is in town to visit—I don't know if I'll have an opportunity to rectify this situation before my parents come into town mid-week.

Something had to be done to take the edge off, and I declared that something to be yet another pot of soup. In the winter months I cling to soup like it's the only thing to keep me warm (and with no central heat in our southern California home, it's sometimes true). I miss true winter, with icicles and snowmen and big heavy boots and an endless supply of hand knit mittens, gloves and scarves—but without that available to me, I open my doors to the cold coastal air, put on a sweater and make soup.

I had never eaten split pea soup until a few years ago. Split peas were in the "just throw everything in" vegetable soup from my childhood, but the classic split pea was something reserved for restaurants, where it often looked grey, crusty, and altogether unappetizing.

On a whim one winter day five years ago, I pulled out my computer, some cookbooks, and a plastic tub of green legumes, and a few hours later, I was converted.

Often split pea soup is puréed and sieved into a smooth, sauce, but I prefer to mash the soup roughly with a potato masher, leaving a chunkier soup with more body. No one is ever going to claim that split pea soup is a particularly attractive—in fact, I hesitate to even post a picture.

Shall I? Oh, what the heck. Here is is, in all its baby food-like glory.

Split Pea Soup
For some extra flavor, feel free to add diced ham, lardons of bacon, or a hambone where noted below; otherwise, a sprinkle of smoked salt adds some depth to the flavor of a vegetarian soup.

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium bunch carrots, peeled and diced (about 1 ½ cups)
1 large onion, chopped (about 2 cups)
1 cup ham, chopped, or 4 ounces of bacon, sliced, or a small hambone (optional)
2 cups dried green split peas
2 large sprigs fresh thyme
2 bay leaves
4 cups (or more) mild stock or water, or a mixture of the two
salt and freshly cracked black pepper

Heat a large pot over medium-high heat with the olive oil. Add the carrots and onions and cook about five minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the meat, if using, and stir for a few minutes to distribute.

Add the split peas and herbs and stir well, then add the 4 cups stock and/or water. Season with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer. Cook, partially covered, until the peas are tender and beginning to fall apart, 1 ½ to 2 hours. Add more stock or water by half-cupfuls if the mixture gets dry.

Mash roughly in the pot with a potato masher or big wooden spoon. The soup may be quite thick—add additional stock or water to thin to your tastes. Adjust seasonings as needed.

Serves 4 as a main course or up to 8 as a starter

Make way for crostata

2010-11-28T09:14:00.000-08:00

Having Thanksgiving dinner at another house means many things. It means there will be exponentially fewer dishes to wash, but more importantly, it tells me that I will have fewer leftovers. That may sometimes be beneficial—there's only so much stuffing two people can eat—but it also means no pie.

Pumpkin pie is good, but it's never been my favorite; I tend to prefer it piled with mountains of softly whipped cream. I'm generally more likely to eat apple pie, or pear-cranberry crisp, or perhaps a pumpkin cheesecake with caramel sauce.

This year, I took advantage of the Daring Bakers' Challenge for November and made a few crostate.

The 2010 November Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Simona of briciole. She chose to challenge Daring Bakers’ to make pasta frolla for a crostata. She used her own experience as a source, as well as information from Pellegrino Artusi’s Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well.

Crostata is simply an Italian tart, traditionally filled with pastry cream, preserves, fresh fruit, or any number of other delicious things.

My first crostata was only half a success. The pasta frolla (crust) was spread with a layer of almond cream, then covered in a layer of sliced poached pears before baking. The almond cream—adapted from a recipe to accommodate my ingredients—was a bit too sweet, and I wished that I had used fresh pears to counteract that sweetness. Still, it was a big hit with the others.

A few days later, I pulled out my baking supplies and the last of my butter to make another crostata, and I wanted to use preserves. I still hadn't figured out what I wanted to do with my damson plum preserves, and a tart seemed to be the perfect choice. A few adjustments to the pasta frolla recipe, and an ideal dessert was born.

The pasta frolla recipe provided for the challenge calls for either lemon zest or vanilla sugar. However, since the plum preserves are quite tart and already studded with vanilla seeds, I decided to leave out both and keep the crust simple. The buttery, crumbly crust provides an ideal base for the sweet-tart filling; perhaps adding a dollop of whipped cream is gilding the lily, but it made for a delicious dessert-cum-dinner last night.

Falling further behind

2010-11-24T07:02:00.000-08:00

I had plans for a week of Thanksgiving preparations here.

Cranberry sauce? Certainly! Brussels Sprouts? You bet! Stuffing with Sausage and Apples? Sure!

Unfortunately, life intervened. As a peace offering, I bring you soup.

To be precise, Butternut Squash-Apple Soup, and the perfect answer to a cool fall day. We eat this all winter long—even Mike, who claims to not like soup, has proclaimed that he would happily eat this every week.

Puréed vegetable soups are ideal for winter; the kind of food that makes you dream about climbing down into your mug for a warm, velvety soak.

Also, puréed soups are deceptively easy to make; onions and apples are softened in some butter, then mixed with roasted butternut squash purée, stock, and some minimal seasonings. After simmering, it is blended and reheated with a bit of cream. The sweetness of the squash is tempered by the onions and the slightly tart apples (I like to use an eating apple like Gala or a tart Granny Smith or Pippin), and the cream adds just enough body and richness to bring it all together.

The first few times I made this soup, I forced the purée through a sieve before adding the cream, which resulted in a perfect, even-textured soup. Until I have enough room for a chinois or a food mill, though, I don't think it's worth the effort; a good blender will leave a lovely texture and remove any possible stringiness from the squash.

This would be an ideal first course at a fancy Thanksgiving meal, but is equally welcome in a big mug with a slice of crusty bread, eaten while wrapped in a blanket on the couch.

For those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow, have a lovely day filled with food, laughter, and friends.

Butternut Squash-Apple Soup
I find that 4 pounds of squash will yield about 3 pounds of purée—I usually leave the leftovers for another use or for a small batch of soup later in the week, but this will scale up just fine.

2 pounds butternut squash flesh(see below)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, thinly sliced
2 medium sweet-tart or tart apples (I prefer Gala), peeled, cored & thinly sliced
2 ½ cups mild vegetable or chicken stock, plus more if needed
1 large bay leaf
1 ½ teaspoons salt
½ cup heavy cream
black pepper

To prepare the squash, preheat the oven to 400˚ F. Cut the squash in half lengthwise with a heavy knife, then scoop out the seeds and pulp. Place the squash on a large baking sheet, cut side down, and roast until they are quite tender when pierced with a knife or skewer, 30-60 minutes depending on size. Set on a rack until cool enough to handle. Scoop out the flesh from the skin with a spoon.

Place the butter in a large, heavy pan on medium heat. Add the onions and apples to the hot pan and cook, stirring occasionally, until just softened, 5-10 minutes.

Add the squash, bay leaf, salt, and 2 ½ cups stock and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and let simmer about 30 minutes uncovered, stirring occasionally.

Transfer to a blender and let cool slightly, then carefully purée, working in batches if needed. If preferred, blend in the pot with an immersion blender (this will generally lead to a coarser purée). Transfer to a clean pot or, if desired, force the purée through a fine sieve. Set over medium heat and stir in the cream. Heat just to a boil, then season to taste with salt and pepper and serve.

Serves 4 as a main dish

Sacrificing hipness for comfort food

2010-11-20T16:45:00.000-08:00

We all have some dish that instantly transports us to our childhood. For some, it might be a chocolate milkshake that was a regular bedtime snack; for others a lemony roast chicken. Most of us, in fact, probably have multiple memory-filled meals, each one as comfortable as an old sweater.

For me, my standby is stroganoff: sliced or ground beef cooked with mushrooms and onions in a sour cream sauce. Stroganoff is an intensely uncool dish, the sort of thing that was featured on the back of a Campbell's soup can in 1973. It's the sort of thing that most people associate with a hospital cafeteria rather than a home-cooked dish of comfort food. But hey, even Thomas Keller has good things to say about it, so it must be good!

I grew up eating Stroganoff, blissfully unaware of my future uncoolness. Despite the frozen peas that were always served with the dish, it was always one of my favorite beef dishes. We made ours with ground beef and concentrated Cream of Mushroom soup, and served it always on a bed of egg noodles. I would always complain about the peas that my mom would pile on top, and they would always end up on my plate anyway. In recent years, I have discovered a love of just-warmed-up peas, and I pile them up on my plate without complaint.

Since moving out on my own, the recipe has changed: I add gobs of thickly sliced mushrooms and ample amounts of browned onions. Throughout our years of non-meat-eating, we would brown vegetarian steak strips, which was all right, given that I hadn't had it any other way for years. Economical skirt steak, however, fills out the meal and adds deep, beefy flavor. Skirt can get tough easily, so it's best to sear it at the beginning, then let the slices cook at a simmer until just done. Sirloin or ground chuck would make fine substitutes if you preferred.

If you're in a hurry with this meal, you can cook beef, onions, and mushrooms at the same time in different pans, but I generally prefer more cooking time over more dirty dishes.

Beef Stroganoff

Serve over egg noodles or rice; this would also be great with roasted potatoes, and I can see it pairing well with a parsnip purée, too.

Dried porcini mushroom flour can be found at various gourmet food stores, and it adds some rich flavor to the sauce; alternatively, you could finely chop/blend another cup or so of mushrooms and cook those in the pan before making the roux.

3 tablespoons butter, divided
about 12 ounces skirt steak (or other beef as desired)
salt and pepper
1 large onion, halved and sliced
250 grams white or cremini mushrooms, thickly sliced (about 3 cups sliced)
1 tablespoon flour
½ cup milk
½ cup heavy cream
2 sprigs fresh thyme
pinch nutmeg
1 ½ teaspoons mushroom powder (optional)
6 tablespoons (or more) sour cream

Egg noodles: 1 to 1 ½ cups dry per person
Frozen peas (optional)

Heat a very large skillet over medium-high heat. Season the beef well with salt and lots of black pepper. When the pan is quite hot, add a knob of the butter (about ½ tablespoon) and the steaks. Cook, turning after a minute or two, until golden brown on both sides and still rare in the middle, about 5 minutes. Transfer to a plate and set aside.

Add about 1 tablespoon butter to the hot pan and add the sliced onions. Season with a bit of salt, reduce the heat slightly if needed, and cook, stirring regularly, until golden brown and almost completely softened, 8-10 minutes. Transfer to a plate or bowl.

Note: if you are serving this over egg noodles, this is a good time to put the water on to boil.

Add about ½ tablespoon butter to the pan (you should have one tablespoon of butter left) and add the mushrooms in one layer; cook in two batches if necessary. Cook without stirring until golden brown, then flip and finish cooking the second side. Transfer to the bowl with the onions.

While the mushrooms are cooking, take the mostly-cooled steak and slice it thinly across the grain; reserve any juices and transfer to the bowl with the onions.

Add the last of the butter to the pan and reduce heat to medium. Add the flour and cook the roux until medium blonde, 2-3 minutes, scraping the bottom of the pan with your spoon to loosen up the cooked bits of meat. Add the milk, cream, thyme, nutmeg, and mushroom powder if you have it, and stir briskly to combine.

Add the reserved vegetables, beef, and juices and stir well to combine. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer and cook until thickened and the beef is cooked through, about 5 minutes more.

Stir in the sour cream, bring back up to heat, and taste to adjust seasonings.

Serve with egg noodles and green peas, if desired.

Serves about 4

Free for the taking

2010-11-15T17:26:00.000-08:00

There's much to be said about metropolises like Chicago, New York, and Seattle, but if Los Angeles has anything on them, it's the bounty of free-range fruit.

Foraging is second-nature for many, and isn't limited to food—we have dozens of tools in our garage, from ratchets to a whole hammer, that Mike has picked up from the gutter while riding his bike. Many of us may have fond memories from childhood: from blueberries in Alaska to blackberries in Oregon, rhubarb in Michigan to crabapples in New England. While urban foraging is becoming more popular all over the country, I've never seen a bounty like L.A.'s.

If this is starting to sound like an ill-fated expedition to the dumpsters behind the local grocery store, fear not! Countless houses have yards bursting with heavily laden, often un-harvested fruit trees—the lucky ones hang over sidewalks or alley walls for easy, legal, and no-permission-needed picking. (Please note that laws may differ outside of California.) Herbs and fruit trees are used as ornamental plants; kale is sold at garden shops between the azaleas and the snapdragons.

While one must always be concerned with contaminated water, ground pollutants from traffic and animals, and pesticides used by zealous landscapers, there's a steady supply of interesting foods, particularly fruit, throughout the year.

Imagine my excitement, the first winter that I lived in my current home, when I went on a walk and discovered that the attractive, broad-leafed trees lining the blocks around my house were heavily laden with pale orange, fuzzy fruit—loquats! Without stepping off of public property, a stroll around my neighborhood reveals pomelos, lemons, tangerines and oranges ripening before my eyes. My eyes dart from one tree to the next as I look for a reliable source of kumquats this winter, and this summer I spied a few days too late an apricot tree that dropped nearly all of its fruit uneaten.

In the very alley where we drive to park our car, a gnarled old pomegranate tree is beginning to drop its fruit. The fruit is baseball-sized and beginning to split on the tree, revealing deep garnet seeds (or arils, botanically speaking).

I couldn't let them go to waste. Lacking a sturdy ladder at the moment, we steered our car below its boughs. After a spry leap to the roof of the car, Mike stretched and contorted and gathered up nearly a dozen big beauties. There was a moment of excitement when one fine specimen slipped and exploded onto the windshield, but no permanent damage was done, and the car needed a rinse anyway.

I made a horrible mess of my kitchen extracting the arils before I read the suggestions from the can't-be-improved Chez Panisse Fruit: Alice Waters recommends filling a large bowl with water (I'd do it in the sink, just to be safe), and plunging the pomegranate pieces into the water before expelling the seeds. Any bits of membrane will float and the seeds will sink; the membrane and peel are very bitter and tannic, and this method makes them easy to remove. I seeded mine directly into the blender, and my kitchen looked like a murder scene; I ended up with pomegranate juice in my eyes, on the backsplash, and on my white carpet (it did come up, wonder of wonders).

But what to do with 8 cups of pomegranate arils? Certainly, pomegranate has its place in salads, and it can't do wrong as a marinade or sauce for roast lamb, but I wanted something simple, something pure, something I could make in my pajamas on a Sunday afternoon.

"What about a granita?"

Mike to the rescue again. He may not care deeply for food, but when it comes to a frozen fruit dessert, he will always be first in line.

I wanted to make a white chocolate mousse to nestle under this, but someone ate the last of my white chocolate ... perhaps next time. Lightly sweetened whipped cream provided an adequate foil for the highly acidic, slightly bitter fruit.

Pomegranate Granita
This would probably also be delicious with ½ cup of the pomegranate replaced with lime juice.

My apologies for an unwieldy recipe.

2 ½ cups pomegranate juice (if making fresh, from about 10 medium pomegranates—see below)
¾ cup water (or diluted juice—see below)
¾ cup sugar
2 tablespoons good-tasting vodka

To extract the pomegranate juice, score the fruit and seed them as instructed above; it will take 7-8 cups of pomegranate arils to make the juice. Place the arils, as much membrane as possible removed, in a blender or food processor. Pulse several times, until the volume reduces by about half and the mixture is mostly liquefied (brief pulses will extract the juice without pulverizing the seeds). Strain through a sieve or fine strainer, pressing gently to remove extra juice. Measure out 2 ½ cups juice and pour into an 8-inch square glass baking dish; reserve any additional juice for another use.

Place the water or diluted juice in a small pan with the sugar. (Use diluted juice to get every last drop out of your fruit: take the drained pomegranate seeds and transfer to a bowl or back to the blender. Pour about 1 C water over and stir briefly to combine; strain again and use the diluted juice in place of water.)

Place the water and sugar over medium high heat and cook, stirring regularly, just until the sugar is dissolved; do not let boil.

Gently stir the syrup into the juice and add the vodka. Cover the dish with foil and transfer carefully to the freezer.

Freeze, breaking up the crystals with a fork every hour or so, until the mixture is frozen throughout, 6-8 hours.

Serve with sweetened whipped cream if desired.

Makes a very scant quart (about 3 ½ cups)

On family ties and oat cookies

2010-11-13T08:54:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up my parents had two close friends that we visited often. They were always a unit—Pat'n'Pam—and they were always fun to be around. I remember them playing Scrabble, I remember their laughs, I remember the living room of their house, and I remember the first time I ever ate lentil soup, sitting in their dining room. I do not remember Pam's Oatmeal Cookies.

Pat'n'Pam moved away when I was still young, and our families lost touch soon after. I've tried to find them over the years, and I think of them whenever I see a Scrabble box or eat lentil soup. Oatmeal cookies were, until recently, free of this bittersweet association.

The trials of being the youngest! The rest of my family remembers those oatmeal cookies fondly, even passionately: very small but thick, chewy and intensely oat-y.

A few months ago, the recipe, transcribed by my six-year-old self, was discovered in my mom's recipe files. She sent it to me, along with her notes from the one or two times she had attempted the recipe.

Perhaps I wasn't careful enough when I wrote out that recipe as a child; perhaps Pam had some secret method that I didn't know about. When I first baked the cookies, they spread, thin and lattice-like, to all edges of the sheet. They tasted delicious—the butter along the bottom browned slightly and the sugar caramelized into a satisfying crunch—but they were more useful for an ice cream mix-in than for eating plain.

Two months and half a dozen tries later, we have a cookie that is everything an oatmeal cookie should be: chewy without being tough, thick but not too big, unpretentious but tasting deeply of oats and brown sugar, and entirely without superfluity like raisins or chocolate.

I hesitate to call anything like an oatmeal cookie "perfect"—my blog, with a good dash of irony, is an exception. However, these cookies are the closest to perfect that I've stumbled upon, and they are already winging their way to my grandpa (happy birthday!) and dad (happy latelatelate birthday!). Bake these cookies until the edges are beginning to turn golden brown—they will still be very soft in the middle—then cool completely on the sheets. This will yield a chewy-but-not-tough cookie.

Perfectly Simple Oat Cookies
adapted from Pam's recipe

While these cookies could be made with nothing more than a spoon and some elbow grease, the dough is quite thick, so I recommend a mixer of some kind. You can also make big cookies easily, by using ¼ cup of dough per cookie (you may want only 6 per sheet).

1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
3 ¼ cups rolled oats
¾ teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon baking powder
generous ¼ teaspoon cassia or cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt (plus a pinch if desired)
1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter
1 ¼ cups dark brown sugar
½ cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla

Mix the flour, oats, leavening agents, and seasoning in a large bowl until combined.

In a very large bowl, cream the butter until fluffy. Add the sugars and beat until light and creamy. Add the eggs and vanilla; beat until well combined.

Add the dry ingredients and stir or beat on low speed until well integrated. Cover and refrigerate until well chilled, at least one hour; dough will keep well overnight in the refrigerator.

To bake, preheat oven to 350ºF. Line baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone mats. Scoop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls (about 2 tablespoonfuls each) and arrange on baking sheets. For best results, bake 8-9 cookies at a time.

Bake, two sheets at a time, rotating halfway through cooking time, until the edges are set and beginning to brown, 12-14 minutes total. Transfer sheets to racks and cool cookies on sheets until completely cool, 15-20 minutes.

Store at room temperature in an air-tight tin for up to a week.

Makes between 3 and 4 dozen cookies

Enter braising

2010-11-08T18:49:00.000-08:00

We've had a contentious relationship, carrots and I.

Don't get me wrong, I've never had a complaint about a carrot stick, crunched by itself or dipped in hummus for a snack, but until a few years ago, I didn't want to have anything to do with a cooked carrot.

My clearest memories are of pot roast—not one of my preferred childhood meals anyway—at which time I would take the carrots that were forced on my plate and carefully mash them into mounds of potatoes, sometimes theatrically holding my nose and gulping milk after choking them down.

When I visited France in high school, I bravely swallowed endless mouthfuls of carrots puréed in cream without complaint, silently mystified by the radical change from crunchy and sweet to mushy and cloying.

My first positive experience with cooked carrots was in a holiday Tofurky—never my favorite Christmas meal, but one that my husband still adores. The "meat" was tightly wrapped with carrots, potatos, and onions, then dressed with a soy sauce-based dressing before cooking. One Thanksgiving afternoon one of those carrots found its way onto my plate, and never one to refuse a food another chance, I bit into it.

What a revelation! The carrot was sweet and tender, with an earthy complexity that would be unrecognizable in a raw carrot.

From that inauspicious start, I have become quite enamored of the lowly cooked carrot. In soups and stews, puréed or roasted, I spend much of the cooler months finding new ways to cook and eat carrots.

Enter braising—is there a better way to cook in the winter? The oven warms the house as flavors deepen and vegetables slump into tender piles of comfort. I am partial to this fantastic cabbage recipe, to be sure, but last night I wanted carrots to take center stage.

Here is the result: halved carrots, braised in stock with honey, ginger, and onions until just tender, then heated under the broiler until just beginning to brown. Infused with ginger and the sweet complexity of honey, these would be a delicious accompaniment to roast chicken, pork chops, or even, I suppose, a pot roast.

Braised Carrots with Honey and Ginger

1 ½ pounds medium carrots (about three bunches)
½ large white onion
3 inches fresh ginger, peel scraped or cut off
2 tablespoons honey (I used avocado because it's what I have in the house)
2 tablespoons olive oil
3-4 tablespoons chicken or vegetable stock, or water
salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 325˚F.

Peel the carrots, or thoroughly scrub them if you trust where they came from and like the skin. Keep smaller carrots whole and split large ones lengthwise. For presentation, I like to buy carrots with the tops, trim so that about one inch remains. Arrange carrots in an au gratin dish or other medium baking dish.

Thinly slice the onion half and add to the carrots. Cut the peeled ginger into matchsticks, halving once lengthwise if desired, and scatter over the carrots. Drizzle the honey, olive oil, and stock over the carrots, season with salt and pepper, and toss well to combine. Cover with aluminum foil or a tight-fitting lid and place in the oven.

Cook 45 minutes to an hour. Toss the vegetables well; if the carrots are not completely tender, recover and cook 15-20 minutes more. When the vegetables are completely tender, uncover and place the vegetables in the top half of the oven and turn on the broiler. (Note: if you don't have a broiler, simply uncover the dish and increase heat to 450˚.)

Broil until the edges are beginning to blacken, 5-10 minutes.

Serves about 4

Failure and success

2010-11-05T21:41:00.000-07:00

Who doesn't love apple season? Apples may be available year round in some form, but fall and winter bring the crisp Galas, giant Fujis, sweet-tart Pippins, and luscious Rome Reds. At my local grocer or the farmer's market, I find myself picking a few from each variety, planning tarts, cakes, and pies, and wishing desparately for a food mill.

My sophomore year of college I travelled to rural Pennsylvania with a good friend for Thanksgiving. Her family owned an apple orchard, and I spent Wednesday morning pressing my own cider.

It was a heady experience—much like making stock from scratch for the first time and discovering the true inferiority of box, can, and foil-wrapped brick. Why had I ever bought apple cider before? How would I ever enjoy it again? What reason had I for going to college when my true calling was to be an apple farmer?

In retrospect, I probably wouldn't be a very good apple farmer; I would be far too likely to hoard my apples, sitting on a slowly mounting pile of pastries and cores, licking applesauce off my fingers while growing to monstrous proportions.

Earlier in the week I made a pie for a friend. She had been sick earlier in the year, and I promised her a pie all for herself when she convalesced.

Is there any easier pie than apple? Don't ask me that today. A confluence of events left me with a lackluster filling, a soggy bottom crust, and a mockingly delicious, flaky, shatter-under-your-fork top crust.

I love the way the top crust sets before the fruit collapses on itself, leaving a little apple cathedral inside—the Duomo delle mele, if you will.

Luckily for my friend, I embarked upon an experiment while the pie dripped apple syrup all over my oven—an experiment, based on vague memories of articles and blog postings, that became a resounding success.

As you might know by now, I don't like to waste food if I can avoid it: no fewer than 4 bags of vegetable bits reside in my freezer, ready for stock, soup, or anywhere else I can fit them; I carefully hoard fat from roasting chickens for gravy or potatoes; I never need an excuse for ice cream or macarons—especially since I always have yolks or whites sitting in my fridge.

I remembered something about quince syrup being used for caramel (I did some research and remembered that it was this post from Chez Pim). As I prepared the apples for my pie, I tossed the peels and cores—stems, seeds, and all— into a large pot with just enough cold water to cover. I plopped it on the stove and set it to a boil for about 30 minutes, until the cores were softened and the peels limp. The mixture of Jonathan and Granny Smith apples that I was using for my failed pie left a lovely pink juice.

My biggest problem with caramel is avoiding crystallization: I just can't leave things alone in the kitchen, so I tend to overstir. Even crystallized caramel couldn't make this plan go wrong: the resulting candies, coated with chocolate, were similar to New Orleans praline or butterscotch squares. A few tweaks to the recipe, though, and the second batch was even more successful. The tang of the apple comes through in a rich, buttery, chewy bite of whimsy: this is my answer to caramel apples.

Another bonus, of course, is that you can use your trash to make holiday gifts for your loved ones.

Caramels aux Pommes, or Apple Caramels

1 cup Poor Man's Apple Cider (see below)
½ cup brown sugar
1 ½ cup granulated sugar
½ cup butter, softened and cut into small pieces
¼ cup heavy cream
Tempered Chocolate for dipping (optional)

To make the cider

Place a large pot in your sink with about ¾ cup cold water. As you peel 2-4 pounds apples for some delicious treat, toss the refuse (all peels, cores, stems, etc.—I shake out the loose seeds, but I don't worry about the rest) into the pot. After peeling and coring all the apples, place over medium-high heat and bring to a boil. Lower heat to medium and cook, stirring from time to time, until the juice is colorful and fragrant and the cores have completely distintegrated, 20-45 minutes. Let cool slightly, then strain through a sieve, pressing on the solids to extract as much juice as possible.

For the caramels

Butter an eight-inch square pan and line with parchment paper. Butter the parchment and set aside.

Place the sugar in a medium saucepan; add the apple juice, stir just to combine with a clean spoon and place over medium high heat. Bring to a full bowl.

When the sugars are completely dissolved, add the butter, a few pieces at a time, then the cream. Stir just to combine. Cook without stirring until your thermometer reaches between 248 and 250ºF (cook to a lower temperature if your kitchen is cold or if you prefer squishy caramel).

Remove from heat and pour into the prepared pan without stirring or scraping the pan. If desired, you can scrape the remaining caramel onto another small plate (it may crystallize).

Let cool, then cut into pieces and wrap in waxed paper or dip in tempered chocolate.

Notes for cutting: use a sharp knife dipped in hot water and saw gently with little pressure. It will take a bit of time, but it will be a lot less messy than the alternatives.

Makes about 60 small caramels

Some things will always be ours

2010-11-01T17:42:00.000-07:00

My husband and I bonded over carrot cake before we even started dating. He has much less interest in food than I—eating 7000 calories a day to maintain weight for several years will do that to anyone, I suppose—but there are a few things that he genuinely loves, and carrot cake is one of them.

One Thursday, six-and-a-half years ago, we were sitting together at work craving cake. Not just any cake, but a moist carrot cake with pineapple, coconut, and a not-too-sweet cream cheese frosting.

Internet searches were made, plans were set, and that Saturday we combined our efforts in the kitchen to cook our first dish together. Over the next week he brought big slices to work for us to share; I should have known right then that we were meant for one another.

I've tweaked the recipe over the years, adjusting amounts and scribbling them onto the smeared and stained pink index cards, and the end result is always delicious. The lightness of the buttermilk counteracts the proclivity of fruit & vegetables to make a heavy, bread-like cake, and the citrus-laced cream cheese frosting offers a tang that accentuates the flavors without overpowering them.

Oft-requested by friends and family, I have been known to bake the three layers but to only assemble a two layer cake, leaving the last just for us. Mike's favorite part is the thin slice cut from the top of the layer, smeared with frosting and rolled up like a taquito.

There are some dishes that will always be ours, no matter who cooks them: falafal, salsa, farfalle pasta with a chunky tomato-and-vegetable sauce ... and carrot cake.

Carrot Cake with Orange-Cream Cheese Frosting
Makes three nine-inch layers.

I shred about half of the carrots with the coarse grater and half with the fine; the finely shredded bits seem to dissolve into the cake, and the coarser pieces add a little texture and visual appeal. I've also been known to add chopped walnuts upon request, but I feel that chunks of nuts don't belong in cookies and cakes, so I prefer it plain.

For the cake

3 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
1 tablespoon cassia (see note below)
1 ½ teaspoons cinnamon
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon cloves
¾ teaspoon salt
3 large eggs
2 ½ cups granulated sugar
1 cup canola oil
1 ½ cups buttermilk
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
¾ cup pineapple, drained, well chopped, and packed
3 cups shredded carrots, lightly packed
¾ cup dried, sweetened coconut, lightly packed

For the frosting

½ pound butter (two sticks)
1 pound cream cheese (preferably regular, although low-fat or Neufchâtel will work)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 tablespoon freshly-squeezed orange juice
2 teaspoons orange zest
approximately 4 cups confectioners' sugar

Grease and flour three 9-inch cake pans; set aside. Preheat oven to 350ºF and place racks in the top and bottom thirds of the oven.

Whisk together the flour, leavening, spices and salt in a medium bowl; set aside. In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs until light yellow. Add the sugar and beat until very pale and slightly fluffy, 2-4 minutes by hand. Add the oil, buttermilk and vanilla; mix well. Quickly beat in the flour mixture, then add the pineapple, carrots, and coconut. Mix well just until combined.

Divide evenly between the prepared cake pans and transfer to the oven, placing one pan on the lower rack and two on the top. Bake 50-60 minutes or until skewer comes out clean, switching from top to bottom after thirty minutes. Cool on racks 10-15 minutes, then remove from pans and cool completely.

For the frosting:

Have all ingredients at room temperature. Cream butter and cream cheese until quite fluffy. Add vanilla, juice, and zest; beat well to combine. Add the first three cups of frosting, sifting directly into the bowl and beating to combine. Add additional frosting if desired.

For best results while assembling cake, transfer the frosting to the refrigerator for 5-10 minutes before frosting. Otherwise, your frosting between the layers may be thin, and nobody wants that.

A note about cassia/cinnamon

What you usually buy at the store as "cinnamon" is actually cassia, a similar spice from a related plant. It typically comes from Indonesia, China, or Vietnam (the best, in my opinion, is the "Saigon Cinnamon" from Vietnam), and it is quite spicy and perfect for savoury dishes. "True" cinnamon, sometimes marketed as "Ceylon" cinnamon, has a more delicate, floral flavor, and it is the cinnamon flavor common in Mexican cooking and many cinnamon flavored candies. I prefer a mixture of the two in this recipe, but you can interchange them as you like.

A toe in the pool and a deep breath

2010-10-27T06:38:00.000-07:00

Whew.

Since my birthday weekend, I've been faced with a bout of culinary ennui more powerful than I could have expected. Dinners have been mindless batches of pasta with tomato sauce from the freezer, big bowls of spicy lentils with rice, or simple salads and sandwiches. Lunches were comprised of leftovers, and my camera languished in the back of the drawer.

After a great meal of roast chicken with sausage-and-apple stuffing and a big deadline at work passing, I think I'm back—and what plans have I for the coming weeks!

I have so many things to show you: I've perfected a cookie recipe; I finally have a book I've craved for years; the cool weather is making me crave my family's lentil-and-kielbasa stew.

This Sunday I woke up to rain, and decided to celebrate by baking my first Daring Bakers' challenge - doughnuts!

The October 2010 Daring Bakers challenge—myfirst—was hosted by Lori of Butter Me Up. Lori chose to challenge DBers to make doughnuts. She used several sources for her recipes including Alton Brown, Nancy Silverton, Kate Neumann and Epicurious.

I've made cake doughnuts dozens of times in my life, but I've never made yeast doughnuts. A flour-coated kitchen and endless bowls of glaze later, we had a feast of fried dough.

Doughnuts offer endless variations. In addition to plain, creamy maple and sweet-tart raspberry glazes, I filled some hole-less varieties with sweetened fresh ricotta and lemon. A granny-smith apple, chopped and cooked in butter and brown sugar until tender. The apple fritters were oddly puffy, but delicious.

The cake doughnuts held so much promise—I tried to duplicate the fantastic blueberry-buttermilk doughnuts from Stan's, but my oil temperature was off, and they turned out as slightly gooey bites of almost-perfection.

Recipes for the adapted recipes will follow—everyone should make homemade doughnuts at least once.

On virtuous eating ... with bacon

2010-10-18T18:51:00.000-07:00

The beans-and-greens combination is nearly perfect. Not only are both ingredients healthy and delicious, but there are so many combinations! Kale-cannelini, chard-chickpea, beet-black bean; in soups, salads, or sautés, the final result is a dish that will leave you feeling righteous, even while you lick your bowl clean.

Unfortunately for you and me, even the warmer climes are reaching the sad end of fresh black-eyed peas. After six weeks of walking past heaping boxes of purple-green pods, I took the plunge in time for only two meals; at the market this Saturday, only one vendor had one sad pile of beans left.

Even when I've bought canned beans for the sake of simplicity, I've long been in the dried-beans-are-better-than-canned camp, but I have had few opportunities to try fresh shelling beans. The spring is filled with hours of thumbnail-splitting fava bean preparation, but I've yet to see the beloved fresh limas, borlotti, or cranberry beans of which I've heard so many tales. If they're anything like black-eyed peas, though, I'll be on the hunt.

This is a virtuous dish despite the use of bacon. After lardons of bacon are sautéed until crisp, sweet onions are caramelized in some of the rendered bacon fat. The greens are added with some stock, garlic, and liberal amounts of pepper, then gently mixed with the tender beans and the bacon. I served it over brown rice, but it would be equally delicious with pasta, or perhaps made with a little bit more broth and poured over a piece of crusty, toasted bread.

If you can't find fresh black-eyed peas, this dish would also be great with dried beans—I've included notes for adjusted soaking/cooking times in the recipe below.

Fresh Black-Eyed Peas with Swiss Chard
This dish can easily be made kosher/vegan by omitting the bacon and replacing the bacon grease with 2 tablespoons of good olive oil. If you would like a smoky flavor that the bacon brings, try sprinkling the dish with a bit of smoked sea salt before serving.

This dish doubles easily and reheats well, so make lots while fresh beans are available!

¾ to 1 pound (unshelled) fresh black-eyed peas (for 1 ½-2 cups shelled beans), or 1 cup dried
2 slices bacon
½ large sweet onion, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
½ cup chicken or vegetable stock
2-3 sprigs fresh thyme (optional)
1 medium bunch Swiss chard, center ribs removed (about 8 oz net), chopped or roughly torn up
salt and coarsely ground black pepper
1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

Shell the fresh beans into a medium saucepan. Rinse well and cover with cold water at least one inch above the beans. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat; reduce heat, cover, and simmer until just tender, 15-25 minutes (for best results, do not salt). Rinse with cold water, drain, and set aside.

Meanwhile, cut the bacon crosswise about ½ inch (1 cm) thick and cook until golden and crisp over medium-high heat. Transfer the bacon to a paper towel to drain. Pour off roughly half the grease, leaving about 2 tablespoons in the pan. Add the onion, reduce the heat to medium-low, and cook, stirring regularly, until caramelized to your taste, about 20 minutes.

Add the garlic and cook, stirring until fragrant. Add the stock and thyme; deglaze the pan, then increase heat to medium. Add the chard a handful at a time, stirring gently until wilted. When all the chard is added, partially cover and simmer until tender, about 10 minutes.

Add the bacon, drained beans, and cider vinegar; taste and add salt as needed and liberal amounts of cracked pepper.

Serve over rice, toss with pasta or add additional stock to make a hearty stew.

NOTE: If you are using dried black-eyed peas, you can pre-soak or not.

To pre-soak: rinse, then cover with cold water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat, cover, and set aside for one hour. Drain, cover again with cold water and simmer until tender, about 30 minutes. (Pre-soaking will take longer; some people think it makes the beans easier to digest, but it is not necessary with black-eyed peas)

To cook directly: rince, cover with cold water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat. Cover and simmer until tender, about 45-60 minutes.

Serves 2-3; doubles easily to serve 3-6.

Not that we need a reason for cake

2010-10-15T21:45:00.000-07:00

A birthday is always a good reason for cake, no?

After my cake-off a couple weeks ago, I settled on a recipe that I liked: an adapted version of this recipe, made with strong coffee and bittersweet chocolate. I first frosted it with a simple bittersweet ganache, but after a few bites decided that the flavors were fighting for dominance. A simple whipped cream was fantastic; a soft counterpoint to the assertive cake.

In the end, I chose a mild espresso buttercream, an adapted version of this frosting recipe. I've never been a fan of buttercreams—they are generally cloyingly sweet and much too rich—but the sweetness of this frosting is tempered by both the espresso and the bitter-but-not-too-sweet cake.

My cake-decorating skills aren't the sharpest—the cake resembles a shoddy spackle job from 1973 more than anything else—but modern art food styling aside, this cake was a perfect end to the day.

The cake itself is marvelous and grown-up, with a tender crumb and a complex flavor. The coffee, chocolate's favorite supporting cast member, is only identifiable in the cake if you're looking for it, but it makes the bittersweet chocolate stand up and get noticed. In fact, the only thing I would change would be to increase the coffee in the buttercream.

Bittersweet Chocolate Cake with Espresso Buttercream
Adapted from Epicurious and Baking: From My Home to Yours

I used an Americano-style coffee in the cake batter, as I only have a small stovetop espresso maker. This recipe makes 3 eight-inch layers, 2 ten-inch layers, or 3 dozen cupcakes. My third eight-inch pan was mysteriously swallowed by my pantry, so I made 2 eight-inch layers and a dozen cupcakes.

Note: in my experience, this cake is vastly improved from an overnight nap in the refrigerator before frosting; just make sure to let the cakes come to room temperature fully wrapped before frosting.

Cake

3 ounces bittersweet chocolate (I use Valrhona)
1 ½ cups hot coffee, or 6 ounces espresso mixed with water to make 1 ½ cups
3 cups sugar
2 ½ cups unbleached flour
1 ½ cups natural unsweetened cocoa powder (I ran out and used a 9 ounce for $1.99 box from Trader Joe's—and it was remarkably good)
2 teaspoons baking soda
¾ teaspoon baking powder
1 ¼ teaspoons salt
3 large eggs
¾ cup canola oil
1 ½ cups buttermilk, shaken
¾ teaspoon vanilla

Buttercream

1 cup granulated sugar
5 large egg whites
1 ½ cups (3 sticks) unsalted butter, completely softened
¼ cup strong espresso, cooled completely
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

To make the cakes

If you are using cake pans, butter the pans, line the bottoms with parchment paper, then butter the parchment; set aside. If making cupcakes, line the pans with cupcake liners or butter and dust with additional cocoa powder.

Coarsely chop the chocolate and pour the hot coffee over. Let cool, stirring occasionally, until the chocolate is completely melted. Set aside.

Sift together the sugar, flour, cocoa powder, soda, baking powder, and salt into a large bowl; set aside. Place the eggs in a very large bowl and beat with a hand mixer on medium speed until pale yellow and slightly thickened, 3-5 minutes. Beating constantly, slowly add the oil, buttermilk, coffee mixture, and vanilla. Add the dry ingredients in one go, beating just until combined; to avoid overbeating, stop the machine a bit early and use a stout spatula to finish the job.

Bake just until a skewer or toothpicks poked into the center comes out clean, 20-30 minutes for cupcakes, 50-70 minutes for cakes. Cool completely in pans on racks, then remove from pans. Peel the paper from the bottom of the layers, wrap tightly in plastic wrap, and keep at room temperature or refrigerate overnight. Let come to room temperature before frosting.

To make the frosting

Place the sugar and egg whites in a large heatproof bowl over a pan of simmering water. With a hand mixer at medium speed, beat constantly until hot to the touch, 5 to 6 minutes. The sugar should be dissolved and it should look like a shiny, thick foam. Remove from the heat.

Beat on medium speed until the meringue is well-cooled, 6 to 7 minutes. Add the butter one stick at a time, beating until smooth. (Note: the butter should be completely softened)

Beat the buttercream on medium-high speed until thick and very smooth, Anywhere from 6 to 25 minutes. If it looks thin or curdles, keep beating until it comes together - I've heard of buttercreams taking up to 45 minutes of solid beating to come together, so if it looks like a failure, give it a good long time before you give up on it.

On medium speed, beat in the espresso a little at a time, then the vanilla. The frosting should be thick, shiny, and smooth. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside.

Store the cake in the refrigerator. For the neatest slices, cut while cold and let come to room temperature on individual plates.

Serves 8-12 as a two-layer 8" cake, 14-16 as a three-layer

The best and the worst

2010-10-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

I've been eyeing the fresh black-eyed peas at the market every Saturday for a month, coveting and planning—and getting distracted. I buy favas in huge amounts throughout the spring, spending hours shelling, blanching, and peeling—I've never shied away from working for my dinner—but I never really new what to do with fresh black-eyed peas.

Enter Alice Waters' Chez Panisse Vegetables, a leftover package of bacon, and the mother of all swiss chard (that's a large dinner fork).

Add some caramelized onions, a dab of cider vinegar, and some brown rice, and we sat down to the best dinner I've eaten in months. The beans-and-greens combination is always a great one, and this is no exception.

As I tasted, wrote notes, and muttered to myself about how good it was going to be, I was already planning my post, excited to share such a healthy, easy, and fan-freaking-tastic meal with you, when I stumbled upon a problem.

We ate it all. Every bite. That photo of the chard up there? It's all I've got.

In my defense, it's far too dark here for photos when dinner is ready, and I have to rely upon leftovers for a picture of anything that I cook at night. Unfortunately, the empty skillet and a bowl of rice was all that was left to photograph.

So, I leave you with a request, and a promise: look for fresh black-eyed peas at your local market, and if you find them, by a pound or two and stash the bag in your crisper drawer. This weekend, I will post the recipe (and some photos). I'm only sorry I didn't start doing this a month ago.

Crab canapés

2010-10-11T15:47:00.001-07:00

Growing up by the sea has distinct advantages.

The salt-seaweed-shellfish smell, the funny feeling when you poke an anemone, a slip on kelp-covered rocks and hands bleeding with barnacle cuts—all of these things are tied up in my childhood.

(Picture taken by my cousin José)

We drove past the harbor whenever we went, well, anywhere. On a lucky day, we would see a piece of plywood propped at the entrance with a dripping orange spray-paint sign: HALIBUT $4/LB, and I've never quite forgiven a close family friend for bringing us King Crab straight off his boat the same day I had my wisdom teeth removed.

If you are every lucky enough to visit Juneau, Alaska, make sure you go to Jerry's Meats. Nestled in an industrial area behind the wetlands and near Lemon Creek, Jerry's does a fine business smoking and packing everything the locals bring in, from halibut to moose. Luckily for the rest of us, they also sell a wide variety of fresh and frozen seafood and meats. Every time I go to Juneau I stock up with a styrofoam box full of halibut, King, and the best smoked Sockeye salmon you'll find—but I never have enough room left for Jerry's famous crab dip.

I've seen all sorts of recipes for hot crab dip online, but this dip is from a different world. It tastes like something you would find on a canapé platter from 1957: creamy and delicately flavored, it pairs equally well with crusty bread or a buttery table cracker.

Good articifical crab (or "krab," as it once was called) is not to be scorned—made properly, it's better in dip than real crab. Besides, who wants to take that carefully-extracted crab meat and mash it all up? Still, if you have a source of cheap crab or are prepping half a dozen for freezing, it's worth tossing the little bits in a bowl and making up some of this dip.

Cold Crab Dip
Inspired by Jerry's Meats

Note: if you choose to use artificial crab, please take a look at the ingredients and buy the most environmentally-friendly variety you can find. Many varieties of articifical crab are made with overfished or farmed varieties; Wild Alaskan Pollock is a good-tasting, well-managed fish (listed as a "good alternative" on the Seafood Watch website).

5 oz real or artificial crab, cooked and chilled (or frozen and thawed)
¼ cup cream cheese
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
¼ teaspoon celery salt
1 teaspoon fresh dill, finely chopped
salt and pepper to taste
lemon juice (optional)

Place the crab in a medium bowl and shred it into small pieces with two forks.

Add the cream cheese and mayonnaise and mix well to combine. Add the celery salt, fresh dill, and black pepper. Mix well, taste, and add salt and/or lemon juice as needed.

Serve with bruschette, warm crusty bread, or crackers.

Makes a scant 2 cups

A small slice

2010-10-09T11:05:00.000-07:00

Where has the time gone? My days have been a whirlwind; I think I've spent more time washing the ever-growing stack of dishes that fills my kitchen than I have cooking. I'm sometimes convinced that there's some sort of kitchen sprite that cooks great meals while I sleep, leaving the empty plates and bowls for me.

I had a cake-off earlier this week—my birthday is fast approaching, and I wanted to experiment with a few recipes. After making three different chocolate cakes—a deep, dark chocolate cake; an adapted version that was more torte-like; and my childhood chocolate-mayonnaise cake—I took them to work and asked for opinions.

This was a serious job, it seems. The cakes were devoured and I was left with three pages of detailed notes outlining the positive and negative aspects of each cake. The big winner, and my favorite, was the first cake (adapted from this recipe). Although I have yet to find a frosting that can stand up to the deep, rich, espresso-and-chocolate flavors of this cake without overwhelming the palate, it was perfect mounded with a sloppy tower of whipped cream.

More adjustments will be made before the weekend, and I will be able to give you more than just a picture. Hopefully in the weeks to come, the other two recipes will be presentable, as well. After all, you can never have too much chocolate.

The perfect pancake

2010-10-05T07:41:00.000-07:00

I have a love-hate relationship with pancakes (which I, by the way, called "hotcakes" until I got to college and began losing my Alaskan-with-Southern/Midwestern-origins dialect; I still say "fair to middlin'" and "Down South" when I mean "Seattle," though).

I grew up on a hybrid pancake mix, which involved blending Bisquick, a Belgian waffle mix, and a honey-oat waffle mix into one giant plastic container. Nearly every Saturday, I would get up and expertly blend the mixture with just the right proportions of egg and milk, then heave our big electric griddle from the pantry to the kitchen counter. If I had a friend over, we would invariably take some batter aside and add a horrid mixture of food coloring to make maroon, teal, or chartreuse pancakes.

The pancakes themselves were thin but relatively flavorful. Since those days, however, I have abandoned not only wildly-colored pancakes but also pre-purchased mixes, preferring for years to jump from one recipe to another every six or eight months, tweaking an amount here, replacing an ingredient there. My standby has been the buttermilk pancake recipe from what we always called "The Stone-Buhr Cookbook," a beloved baking cookbook that my mom received by mail for a few UPC codes and about $2.25 back in the seventies.

It's a fantastic cookbook, with many of my family favorites: chocolate-banana bars, cornbread, blueberry muffins. Like any good family cookbook, its pages are filled with scribblings from various family members, with many a GOOD written in bold black Sharpie. Dozens more recipes have never been tried and are waiting for me to find them when I'm in the mood for something new.

I love breakfast, but I'm more likely to eat cereal, toast, or maybe a fried egg sandwich than make pancakes on the average morning, so we usually enjoy our pancakes and waffles at dinnertime. Breakfast for dinner was a much-loved meal in my childhood home—and pancakes with jam or syrup are like dinner and dessert all wrapped up in one!

I originally planned to make this recipe, but just like every other time I've intended to make it, I forgot that the batter has to sit overnight. Instead of settling with a basic buttermilk pancake, I decided to play around with it. The resulting pancakes were an advertisement for adapting recipes—thick, flavorful, and just oaty enough.

Half-Oatmeal Pancakes
Adapted heavily from Cooking with Gourmet Grains (aka "The Stone-Buhr Cookbook")
Note: As of February 2011, we have started referring to these as "wheaty oaty pancakes"—I replace ½ to 1 cup of the unbleached flour with wheat flour, and I like them even better that way.

1 ½ cups unbleached flour
½ cup oat flour
½ cup rolled oats
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons raw sugar
2 large eggs
2 cups buttermilk
2 teaspoons mild oil
butter for cooking

Heat a griddle or a couple heavy skillets on medium to medium-high heat. If you would like to cook all of the pancakes before eating, set your oven to warm (about 200ºF) with a baking sheet on the top rack.

Combine the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Beat the eggs well and add to the dry mixture with the buttermilk and oil, stirring just to combine; batter will be lumpy.

When the griddle/pans are hot, drop a small knob of butter to melt. Pour the batter by half-cupfuls; do not spread out. Let cook until the edges are beginning to firm and the bottom is golden brown, three to four minutes. Carefully flip and cook until golden brown and cooked through, another two to four minutes.

Transfer cooked pancakes to the warmed baking sheet, overlapping each slightly.

Makes about eight 6-inch pancakes

A sweet spread for a stuffed-up head

2010-09-28T21:08:00.000-07:00

I've been fighting off some unidentified malaise (I slept until 11:30 on Thursday and 9:30 on Friday), and I'm thoroughly tired of achy muscles, headaches, and sniffly noses. After a long weekend shuffling from my bed to the couch, I finally feel like myself again. Four days into a diet of Cheerios, olive oil pasta, and chilled fruit, however, my kitchen is filled with haphazard stacks of bowls.

Still, in the past week I have managed to make two different batches of preserves. My pantry cupboard will soon be overfilled with bright glass jars, and heavy boxes are being tucked away upstairs for gifts, cake fillings, and winter toast emergencies.

I was excited when my grocer opened up after a week of vacation with a big box of tiny prune plums—I expected them to be out of season by the time the shop reopened—so I bought a big bagful to make plum preserves. At home I cut them open, expecting the pink-tinged gold of the prune plums I've been eating for the past month, and was surprised to find a firm, tart, green flesh encased in the violet-black skin.

After a little research, I discovered that my mislabeled drupes were in fact damson plums, a tart, "cooking" variety that I have never seen in Los Angeles before.

I was uncertain how I wanted to prepare this jam at first—I still want to try the Cardamom-Plum Jam from this fantastic book—but in the end I decided to spike the fruit with white wine and fleck the jam with vanilla beans. The resulting spread is sophisticated and special—it's almost too decadent for toast, but it would be brilliant on a cheese platter, delicious warmed and drizzled over french toast, and I'm planning to try it with roast pork.

Damson plum preserves with vanilla beans and white wine
These preserves are sweet but still a little tart; if using a sweeter plum, I would reduce the sugar by at least a half cup.

3 ½ pounds (about 1 ½ kilos) damson plums
3 ¾ cups sugar
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 vanilla bean
generous ½ cup white wine (I used Chardonnay)

Quarter and pit the plums. Place in a large heavy pot with the sugar, and lemon juice over medium-high heat. Split the vanilla bean, scrape the seeds into the pot, and add the bean to the fruit.

Bring to a boil, stirring occasionally, until the sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat. Transfer the mixture to a large bowl, place a sieve over the pot and return the syrup to the pot. Set the fruit aside.

Bring the syrup back to a boil over medium-high heat, add the wine, and boil, stirring occasionally, until the syrup is reduced by about half and is thick, about 15-20 minutes. Carefully add the plums, stirring gently to mix, and return to a boil. Boil until the plums are tender, the skins almost candied, and the mixture is set to your tastes (about 10-15 minutes longer). This preserve won't set firmly without a lot of cooking, if at all.

Can as desired.

Makes about 7 half-pint jars

Last day

2010-09-23T01:30:00.000-07:00

I was listening to my local NPR station on the way home yesterday, when the weather report came on. "Tomorrow is the first day of fall," he said, "not that we've really had much of a summer."

Fall usually enters with panache down here—after several weeks of shortening days but hot sun, making us squint on our morning commutes, autumn appears like a debutante at a coming out party. The doors are thrown open and the fog sweeps in, lingering until noon, retreating for a few hours and swarming back in by five. It wasn't much of a shock after the West Coast's abnormally cold summer, but I still say welcome! Bring on the crucifers, sweet fall carrots, and as many apples as I can eat.

First, though, I wanted to say farewell to the flavors of summer. I plucked chiles from our plants and made them into salsa with the last of the red, ripe tomatoes; last bunches of basil and bags of peaches were snatched from tables; I sigh as I pass quickly-paling melons at the market.

Catalunya is known for the spring calçotada in Valls, near Tarragona. Calçots are forced spring onions, which are grilled, then steamed, then dipped in Romesco—and eaten, as far as I can tell, with copious amounts of wine. Valls is in the same area, by the way, that is famous for the human towers—I don't know if there is a connection, but I like to think that there might be.

It may be late summer instead of early spring, and my green onions may be small and not nearly so sweet, but I wanted to take advantage of my homemade Romesco sauce.

On went the pot of pasta water. Into a very hot pan with a glug of olive oil went three bunches of green onions, darkest green parts cut off. After they were tossed and blackened and just starting to wilt, I took the pan off the heat and covered it—it may not be the traditional coals and newspaper, but it worked. Peeled and cut into mostaccioli-sized lengths, tossed with hot pasta, olive oil, and romesco loosened and warmed with cooking water, this was one of the most satisfying (and easiest) dinners I've eaten in weeks.

Pasta amb romesco i calçots (pasta with romesco sauce and green onions)
I used mostaccioli (unridged penne), but I think this sauce would also be great with fettucine—just leave the onions long and perhaps halve them lengthwise.

½ pound mostaccioli or penne rigate pasta
2 tablespoons olive oil, divided
3 bunches (about 2 dozen total) fresh green onions (scallions), tough, dark green parts removed
3 tablespoons romesco sauce

Fill a large pot with water for the pasta and set to boil; when boiling, add salt and cook the pasta to just al dente, about 10 minutes for penne.

Meanwhile, heat a heavy skillet on high heat. Drizzle one tablespoon olive oil into the hot pan and add the onions, tossing well to coat. Let cook, uncovered, stirring every few minutes, until largely blackened and beginning to wilt, 5-7 minutes. Remove from heat and cover.

Place the romesco in a large bowl, add a few spoonfuls of the pasta cooking water, and stir to loosen; set aside.

Spread the onions out on a plate or board to cool slightly. Peel off the outer layer and trim the roots from each onion, then cut into two-inch lengths (or the approximate size of your pasta). Add to the romesco.

When the pasta is done cooking, drain and transfer to the bowl with the onions and sauce. Drizzle with the remaining olive oil and toss well to combine. Adjust for salt as needed.

Serves 2 as a main course

A gluten-free weekend

2010-09-20T07:35:00.000-07:00

I don't have a lot of experience with gluten-free food—I have been lucky enough to have lived my life (thus far) without any dietary restrictions that weren't by choice. I've dabbled with restrictions: when my sister went to college, I latched onto her newfound idealism and dropped red meat from my diet for a year or two; for health reasons, I stopped eating all meat other than seafood for nine years; I fasted for the month of Ramadan while living in Egypt. Still, it was never an allergy that kept me away from anything.

In Los Angeles—home of the diet fad—I encounter countless people who are choosing to eat a gluten-free diet, but very few who have celiac sprue or other gluten allergies that force them to avoid foods, restaurants, and sometimes even friends' homes in order to remain healthy.

I wanted to spend a few days thinking about how often we find ourselves saying, "I could never live without (insert food item here)." Yes, you could. Avowed meat eater, you could live without meat if health or circumstances required it. Chocolate lover, unless you have some sort of theobromine requirement, you could live without chocolate. And all of us could, if necessary, live without gluten.

Gluten, I think, is the key - I've lurked on Shauna's blog "Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef" for ages, and if I've learned anything, it's that eating gluten free does not mean living without bread, or pasta (see below), or desserts (again, see below).

I was lucky enough to have the time to participate in the event Shauna and her husband (the Chef) called "Dancing in the Kitchen with Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef," and it taught me a few things.

First: Restocking a pantry with the staples for gluten-free food isn't cheap.

Second: I never would have bought quinoa flour without this challenge, and I can think of all sorts of uses for it.

Third: Oat flour is really easy to make with a good blender. Now I'm wondering if quinoa flour is, too.

Fourth: If you don't already, learn to love your kitchen scale.

All of the dishes below are from the new cookbook Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef: A Love Story with 100 Tempting Recipes (please purchase from your local bookstore if possible).

Seared Shrimp with Garlic-Almond Sauce

This recipe is why I love my blender: mix almonds, garlic, oil, and seasonings, and they sublimate to something akin to crack. I couldn't stop eating this - a little bit on my fork, a dab on my finger, great mounds that made the shrimp more of a utensil than a food item.

Fresh Pasta with Anchovies, Lemon, and Olives

Think of it as Puttanesca without tomatoes, if you like. This sauce was mind-blowing—the wine was subtle, the lemon was bright and fresh but not overpowering. I would dip bread in it, mix it with breadcrumbs to stuff artichokes or tomatoes, toss it with blanched green beans (oh, that sounds good!) ... or just eat it with mounds of freshly made fettuccine, as below. (Note: I had an olive emergency at home, so my pasta is olive-less, but I will definitely be adding them next time)

I found the gluten-free pasta a lot harder to handle than my standard fresh pasta, but I was very impressed with how it held up upon cooking - the freshly-cut, uncooked pasta was quite fragile, but even being tossed around by boiling water, it held together and cooked into a delicious, firm-yet-tender noodle that held the sauce like a champ.

Chocolate-Peanut Butter Brownies

Other than not allowing the brownies to cool completely before removing them from the pan (and honestly, who does?), these were a breeze. I think I may add oat flour to my standard brownie recipe, too—they add an interesting texture and, well, oatiness. My swirling skills leave a bit to be desired—I think I should have warmed up my peanut butter, which was really quite thick, but I ended up with fudgy-rich brownies bites and gooey, chocolate-peanut butter bites mixed throughout—not a bad thing.

Smoky, sweet, and the color of sunset

2010-09-15T21:29:00.000-07:00

Nothing says summer like peppers. Whether fiery habañeros in salsa, plump serranos in a Thai curry, or sweet roasted peppers in a goat cheese panini, they are always at their best this time of year.

I have an habañero plant that is weighed down with dozens of peppers, ready to ripen with a few more days of sun. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with them all - I may try to duplicate a sauce I had at La Cevicheria - but I couldn't be more excited.

Peppers of all kinds are available nearly year-round in Southern California, but too often they are watery or bland. The past month has yielded bell peppers that are rich, sweet, and thick-fleshed - perfect for roasting and whirling through a blender.

Romesco is a sauce from Catalunya in Northeast Spain; while traditionally made with a dried sweet pepper, I love the full-bodied flavor of fresh-roasted red peppers. After seeing a post on the Smitten Kitchen about Suzanne Goin's recipe, which uses a combination of fresh and roasted garlic, I was inspired to pull the blender out again for another nut-paste.

This recipe is simple and relatively fast - and while there are several things that need to be cycled through the oven, it can all be done on one rimmed baking sheet. I love the addition of smoked Spanish paprika, or pimentón de la vera; it adds an incomparable smoky flavor that can't be beat.

I used a dried guajillo chile for the smallest bit of heat - guajillos are easy to find in mercados or in the "Latin/Hispanic food" section of the supermarket, but the chile in this recipe can easily be replaced with two small ancho chiles or left out entirely for a sweeter sauce.

Salsa Romesco
Romesco can be served with seafood or grilled vegetables (green onions are traditional) - I adore it tossed with some additional olive oil on hot linguine or fettucine.

3 large red bell peppers
¼ cup raw almonds
¼ cup raw hazelnuts
½ cup olive oil, plus additional for drizzling
1 guajillo chile or 2 dried ancho chiles
3 small roma tomatoes
6 cloves garlic
2 medium slices country bread
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
¼ teaspoon pimentón de la vera
salt & pepper

Place a rack on the top level of your oven and turn the broiler on high. Wash and pat dry the bell peppers, then arrange on a rimmed baking sheet and place under the broiler. Cook, turning every few minutes with tongs, until blackened all over, 5-15 minutes (it will be faster if you preheat your broiler). Transfer to a large container or plastic bag and set aside to steam & cool.

Turn off the broiler, lower the rack to the center and set the oven temperature to 375˚F. On the same rimmed sheet, arrange the almonds on one half and the hazelnuts on the other. Toss the almonds with a little olive oil and return to the oven. Toast until golden brown (the hazelnut skin will be darker) and sizzling, 8-10 minutes. Place the hazelnuts on a kitchen towel and transfer the almonds to a small plate to cool. Peel the hazelnuts by rubbing them vigorously with the towel.

Remove the stem of the dried chile(s) and shake out the seeds. In the basin of the blender, combine the chile(s) with very hot water; cover and set aside.

Half the tomatoes and place them on the same baking sheet with three unpeeled cloves of garlic and the breat slices. Drizzle the bread and tomatoes with olive oil and return to the oven. Roast, flipping the bread once, until the bread is golden brown on both sides and the tomatoes and garlic are softened, 15-20 minutes.

Peel and seed the roasted red peppers; remove the peels from the tomatoes, if desired. Peel the roasted and raw garlic.

Drain the water from the blender and add the red peppers, nuts, tomatoes, garlic, 2 tablespoons vinegar, and pimentón to the dried chile; pulse briefly just to combine. Break up the bread into pieces and add it to the mixture, pulsing to make a thick paste. With the blender running, drizzle in the ½ cup olive oil. The mixture will be thick and bright orange-red.

Taste and add additional vinegar if desired; salt and pepper to taste.

Finished sauce may be frozen in small jars; alternatively, cover a baking sheet with waxed paper and dollop the sauce by the tablespoonful. Freeze until fully solid, then transfer to a freezer container.

Makes about 3 ½ cups

The perfect party

2010-09-14T05:24:00.000-07:00

I think I've determined the best way to have a dinner party: hold it at someone else's house. I didn't have to deal with pre-party cleaning, had a minimal amount of after-party dish washing, and someone else did the majority of the shopping, too!

Dinner was, for the most part, a smashing success. We chopped mountains of onions and piles of potatoes; I coughed and cried as I pounded masalas in the mortar; we cooked, washed the pots, and then cooked some more. A half-dozen dishes were duly made and devoured, with leftovers for us, our cousins (the official hosts), and even a few lucky guests.

I do want to share a recipe or two from the party - the lamb vindaloo, in particular. The meat was tender and juicy, the broth spicy, tangy, and a wee bit sweet. Unfortunately, my photos from the party are being held hostage on my cousin's camera.

Instead, in honor of the perfect party we had this weekend, I will be sharing my adaptation of Dorie Greenspan's Perfect Party cake. The cake is light, fluffy, and flavorful; the icing is rich, but not overbearing; the raspberry filling adds a little zing. It is also impressive - four layers that slice perfectly and stand to attention on the plate.

Of all the things to love about this cake, my favorite was the smell when the layers were turned out of the pans - the butter browns between the pan and the parchment, releasing its nutty perfume. That smell is reason enough to make this cake again. I already have about a half-dozen adaptations for this cake: lemon curd! almonds! spices! The options are endless.

The flavors of this cake are delicate, so the best quality products really do make a difference. Use the best lemon extract and raspberry jam you can find, and I highly recommend splurging for organic or unsprayed lemons, to reduce the chemical aftertaste on the zest.

Raspberry-Lemon Party Cake
The stand or hand mixer provides the lightness of the crumb, but if you have a strong arm, you could probably make it without. Also, the times I list are estimates based on my own experiences, and differed from the original recipe. Depending on your mixer, ingredients, and luck, these times may vary, so be vigilant.

Cake

2 ¼ cups cake flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ cups buttermilk
4 large egg whites
1 ½ cups granulated sugar
1 tablespoon lemon zest (from 1-2 lemons)
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
¾ teaspoon pure lemon extract

Buttercream

1 cup granulated sugar
5 large egg whites
1 ½ cups (3 sticks) unsalted butter, completely softened
¼ cup fresh lemon juice (from about 2 lemons)
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
¼ pure lemon extract

Assembly

about ⅔ cup seedless raspberry preserves (or 1 cup with seeds - see below)

For the cakes

Center a rack in the oven and set the temperature to 350ºF. Butter two 9 inch cake pans, line with parchment paper, and butter the parchment. Put the pans on a large baking sheet and set aside.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Whisk the egg whites and buttermilk briefly in a medium bowl, until the whites are broken up. Set aside.

In a large bowl, mix the sugar and lemon zest with your fingers until moist throughout and very fragrant (note: if I have extra zest on my lemon(s), I will do this with some additional sugar and place it in the fridge for sprinkling on fruit, scones, or using in sablées). Add the butter and beat well with a stand or hand mixer at medium speed, until well mixed and very light (3 to 4 minutes).

Beat in the lemon extract, then add one third of the flour mixture. Beating at medium, alternate half of the egg mixture, another third of the flour, the remaining egg mixture, and the remaining flour, beating well to combine at each interval. Scrape the edges with a spatula, then beat for two full minutes.

Divide the batter evenly between the two cake pans and smooth the tops. Bake 25-35 minutes, until well risen and barely golden. This cake doesn't brown much, but it can become brown if overcooked, so test with a finger poke (it should be springy) and a toothpick.

Cool on racks in the pans for 5 minutes, then run a knife around the edges, unmold the cakes, and peel off the paper. Invert and cool right-side up.

To make the icing

Place the sugar and egg whites in a large heatproof bowl over a pan os simmering water. With a hand mixer at medium speed. beat constantly until hot to the touch, 5 to 6 minutes. The sugar should be dissolved and it should look like a shiny, thick foam. Remove from the heat.

Beat on medium speed until the meringue is well-cooled, 6 to 7 minutes. Add the butter one stick at a time, beating until smooth. (Note: the butter should be completely softened, like when you soften butter for cookies but then forget it for six hours in a reasonably warm kitchen)

Beat the buttercream on medium-high speed until thick and very smooth, up to 25 minutes. If it looks thin or curdles, keep beating until it comes together - I've heard of buttercreams taking up to 45 minutes of solid beating to come together, so if it looks like a failure, give it a good long time before you give up on it.

On medium speed, beat in the lemon juice a little at a time, then the extracts. The icing should be thick, shiny, and smooth. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside.

To assemble the cake

If you are using raspberry jam with seeds (I've yet to find a great-tasting seedless jam), warm it slightly or stir it well, then remove the seeds by stirring the jam vigorously in a sieve set over a medium bowl.

Split the two layers into four with a large bread knife, and carefully flatten one of the top layers, discarding the scraps. Spread a thin layer of preserves on the bottom layer of the cake, leaving at least ⅜ inch all around. Carefully spread about ¼ of the icing over the jam, taking care not to mix them. Gently top with the second layer and repeat, finally topping with the fourth layer. Cover the top and sides of the cake with the remaining icing.

If desired, reserve a small amount of icing and mix with some remaining seedless preserves to tint it; decorate as desired.

Serves at least 12 (easily 16 with small slices)

Quite a contrast

2010-09-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

I've made a goal, since starting to eat meat after 9 years (for me) and 19 (for Mike), to buy the best meat I can afford, to limit my meat consumption to no more than once or twice a week, and to waste as little meat as possible.

In that spirit, I've been buying whole chickens and jointing them myself. The two of us can get quite a few meals out of a 4 pound chicken: I set aside the wings in the freezer for when I'm making fried chicken, stow away extra fat for making schmaltz, and freeze the giblets separately for gravy (or give them to the cats). The most recent pair of hindquarters were roasted with mustard and tarragon and served with tasty roasted potatoes and some ho-hum spaghetti squash, and the breasts were browned and then poached with tequila and lime juice for tacos.

The carcass made a lovely 3 pints or so of stock, which was used to make this quick, easy, and oh-so-delicious weeknight soup. It was a nice contrast for tonight, when I will be cooking for 30. Two meat dishes, 4 main vegetarian dishes, plus appetizers, rice, and dessert. I'll try to take a photo of the carnage.

Herbed Chicken Soup
I don't even know if it's worth posting a recipe for this - chicken soup is pretty self explanatory. The keys to this particular soup are fresh herbs, parmesan cheese rind, and manfrigul: barley-like chunks of dried homemade pasta that cook up chewy and delicious. I will update later this weekend with a recipe for the pasta, but you can replace it with any small, chunky soup pasta, rice, or barley (which will take longer to cook).

Olive oil
Garlic, peeled and lightly crushed
Onion, sliced
Celery, chopped
Carrots, chopped
Chicken or vegetable stock (preferably homemade, 3-4 cups minimum)
Bay leaf, fresh or dried
Salt & pepper to taste
3-4 inch rind of good Parmigiano cheese
Cooked chicken, cut or torn into bite-sized pieces
Sprig fresh thyme
Manfrigul, another soup pasta, rice, or barley
Fresh parsley, tarragon, and/or other assorted herbs

Heat a medium pot over medium heat with a drizzle of olive oil. Add garlic, onions, carrots and celery and cook for a few minutes, until fragrant, with onions translucent but not brown.

Add the stock, bay leaf, and season to taste with salt & pepper. Increase heat to high and bring to a boil, then add the parmesan rind, chicken, and thyme and reduce heat to a simmer. If using the barley, add it to the soup immediately.

After 5-10 minutes simmering, add the pasta or rice and simmer until tender. Finely chop the remaining fresh herbs and stir into the soup just before serving.

Remove the bay leaf and garlic clove(s) before serving, and give the cheese rind to your favorite person at the table.

Serves 2 as a main course the way I made it, with about 3 1/2 C stock

Suffering in the name of thrift

2010-09-08T20:42:00.000-07:00

I don't like to throw food away. I would be lying if I said that it was an extraordinarily rare occurrence in our home, but I don't like it. Often I will find myself with some peaches that have ripened to perfection on the twenty minute walk home from the market, or a bundle of chard that was carefully wrapped, then forgotten at the bottom of the crisper drawer. More often than not, I will carefully peel and pit and scrape out bad spots, then dump the food in the freezer to use later in smoothies or soup ... more often than I'd like, I find it a year later, freezer burnt beyond recognition under an ice pack.

So imagine my concern, a week or so ago, when I found myself with a bowl full of egg yolks in the fridge. I had sorbet in the freezer, and a tart in the fridge already ... and all I could think of was ice cream.

About ten minutes' walk from my old house at college is an ice cream parlor called Herrell's. We stopped in while I was visiting colleges in the heat of August, and it remained one of my favorite shops during my three years in Northampton. The flavors were always changing, and although I often stick with boring flavors like chocolate, I found myself yearning for new and different things whenever I went in.

I was always excited for the beginning of holiday season, and the introduction of Egg Nog Ice Cream - not a regular grocery-store item at the time. I was delighted when I walked in a few days before Valentine's Day my first year of college and discovered "Hearts & Flowers," a lavender and rose petal ice cream available for only a few short weeks. Banana ice cream, with fresh banana puréed and in chunks, made the best milkshake around.

My favorite - the flavor that I usually planned to order, that often found its way into my cup or cone even when I swore I would try something new - was Cinnamon-Nutmeg. It was rich, creamy, and devastatingly simple. No mix-ins, no hot fudge, no nuts on top - just a pale, nearly golden ice cream, flecked with the tiniest bits of spice.

Sitting at home, flipping through cookbooks (David Lebovitz, you are truly my downfall. Less than three months blogging and already I have three recipes inspired by this book?), I came upon a recipe for Cinnamon Ice Cream. A few tweaks made up a nice big batch of velvety, spicy, not-too-sweet ice cream. It is so good. So good that it transports me to my college days. So good that there is only this much left:

I would serve this ice cream with poached fruit, with a cake or tart - and it would make fabulous ice cream sandwiches with oatmeal cookies. But I usually eat it plain.

Cinnamon-Nutmeg Ice Cream
Inspired by Herrell's and heavily adapted from The Perfect Scoop
Note: I read a lot about not reducing the fat level in ice cream because it will increase graininess. For me, I find it far more distastefull to find a thin layer of fat coating my spoon and palate (a phenomenon I can't avoid with a high ratio of cream), so I often use about a 2:1 ratio of whole milk to cream. A higher ratio of milk, without special equipment, tends to result in icy cream, but I have never had a problem with this ratio.

3 cups whole milk
1 cup + 2 tablespoons sugar
⅛ teaspoon salt
3 five-inch cinnamon sticks (I use Ceylon or "true" cinnamon), broken into several pieces each
1 whole nutmeg, roughly broken with a mallet or pestle
1 ½ cups heavy cream
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon, or half cinnamon and half ground nutmeg
8 large egg yolks

Combine the milk, sugar, salt, cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, and one cup of the cream in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan. Heat until hot to the touch but not boiling. Cover, remove from heat and let steep about one hour.

Rewarm the milk mixture and remove the big chunks of cinnamon stick and nutmeg. Pour the remaining ½ cream into a large bowl and set in an ice bath and set aside. Whisk together the egg yolks in another bowl, then temper the yolks by slowly pouring in about half of the hot milk, whisking constantly. Return the yolk mixture to the saucepan and put the pan on medium heat. Add the ground spices (I usually taste before to determine how much of each) and stir constantly until thickened enough to coat the spoon.

Pour the hot mixture through a fine mesh sieve into the bowl with the cream. Stir until cool, then cover and chill thoroughly. Freeze in your favorite ice cream maker.

Makes 1 ½ quarts

In order to avoid pine nut mouth

2010-09-06T13:25:00.000-07:00

This long weekend has been much-needed, but hasn't resulted in a lot of cooking. I felt like I was coming down with something, so I spent most of Sunday lying on the couch in my pajamas, feeling sorry for myself and watching Law & Order (is that show ever not on TV?).

Still, I've found time to dirty a kitchen full of dishes. I've roasted endless peppers and eggplant for grilled sandwiches, made 3 quarts of chicken stock, simmered a fantastic ginger-plum compote that I completely forgot to photograph. I roused myself enough to make a batch of cookies last night, but the recipe needs a bit more tweaking before I share it. Instead, I'm going to share my most recent recipe for pesto.

You may have heard about the problems people are having these days with pine nut mouth. Many people say that the Chinese crop is the cause of the increase in this phenomenon, but since I didn't feel like paying $16 for 8 ounces of Italian pine nuts, I decided to adapt my pesto recipe.

Walnuts are a common replacement for pignoli, but I've never liked walnuts. Although our relationship has recently started to soften, thanks to a marvelous piece of baklava that was brought on the house at our favorite Greek restaurant, I still tend to avoid them when I can.

Enter almonds. Any nut can make a good pesto, but I love the flavor of almonds, particularly these almonds that I bought raw and lightly roasted with olive oil and sea salt. Combined with the bite of raw garlic, the grassy, anise-like flavor of fresh basil, and a touch of red pepper, this pesto is perfect for smearing on bruschetta, tossing with hot pasta, or stirring into a soup.

Basil & Almond Pesto

½ cup raw or roasted almonds (see below if using raw)
2 cups lightly packed basil leaves (from one large bunch)
4 large cloves garlic, lightly crushed
¼ teaspoon salt
pinch red pepper flakes
black pepper
½ cup good olive oil, plus additional if needed
¼ cup grated & packed pecorino cheese (substitute parmigiano if desired)

If you are using raw almonds, preheat the oven to 350ºF. Spread the almonds on a baking sheet, drizzle with some olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt. Toss well and cook, stirring once or twice, until golden brown and fragrant, 10-15 minutes. Let cool completely.

Place the almonds, basil, garlic, salt, red pepper flakes, and black pepper into a blender or food processor. Pulse a few times to combine, then, with motor running, slowly drizzle in the ½ cup olive oil. Scrape sides as needed. Alternate tablespoonfuls of water with additional tablespoonfuls of olive oil until the almonds are well ground and the mixture forms a smooth paste. Add the cheese and pulse briefly to combine.

To freeze, line a baking sheet with foil, waxed paper, or plastic wrap and drop the pesto in tablespoonfuls. Freeze until solid, then transfer to airtight container.

For pasta or gnocchi, place about 1 tablespoon pesto per serving into a large serving dish. Add a few teaspoons cooking water and stir to make a thick slurry. Drain the cooked pasta, then add to the pesto and toss well to coat. Serve with additional cheese if desired.

Makes about 1 ½ cups

Stuffed squash (sandwiches)

2010-09-02T07:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I see something at the market that makes me toss my week's meal plan into the recesses of my bag and start from scratch. Often, it's something that I don't usually eat and never think of, but the wheels start turning and I can't be stopped.

That happened this week when I saw lovely little spheres of zucchini - often called 8-ball squash. They were simply begging to be stuffed. I'm not normally interested in summer squashes - I remember being force fed sautéed zucchini at my grandma's dinner table practically every day in the summer - but I've grown to not mind it when mixed with other foods.

These squash made a lovely and easy vegetarian main dish - for a bit of Middle Eastern flavor, the filling of onions, garlic, tomatoes and chick peas were seasoned with toasted cumin, cinnamon, a touch of red pepper, and a bit of fresh oregano. The vegetables were combined with some tiny croutons before being stuffed into the squash shells and baked. Served with crunchy roasted chick peas and an olive oil fried egg, it made for a perfect summer dinner.

The added bonus? The next day, I reheated & quartered my leftovers and stuffed them into a piece of pita. Topped with yoghurt, it made a great work lunch.

Stuffed Squash with Chick Peas

For the roasted chick peas:

1 t cumin seeds
about 1 C cooked chick peas, or ½ a can, rinsed well, drained, and patted dry
salt & pepper
olive oil

For the squash:

4 medium 8-ball squash (1 ½ - 2 pounds total)
1 slice mild bread, or ¼ cup coarse breadcrumbs
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 large cloves garlic, minced
½ small onion, chopped
2 plum tomatoes, chopped
1 C cooked chick peas, or the remainder of the can used above, rinsed & drained
⅛ teaspoon cinnamon
pinch crushed red pepper
salt & pepper

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Place the cumin seeds in a small pan over medium heat and toast, tossing regularly, until fragrant and lightly browned but not burnt, 3-5 minutes. Transfer to a mortar or spice mill and grind.

Spread the 1 C chick peas onto a baking sheet; drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt, pepper, and half of the cumin. Toss well to mix and transfer to the oven.

Roast, stirring once or twice, until the chick peas are golden brown and quite crispy, 30-45 minutes, then set aside.

Meanwhile, wash the squash well and cut the top ½ inch or so off, retaining the "hat" for baking. Using a melon baller or grapefruit spoon, hollow out the squash, leaving a wall about ⅜ inch thick all around. Reserve the squash innards, place the hats on the squash, and set aside.

If using bread, toast until very crisp and golden brown, then chop up into very small cubes; set aside.

Heat a skillet with the olive oil over medium heat. Cook the onions and garlic until fragrant and translucent, then add the tomatoes and chick peas and cook until the tomatoes begin to break down, 3-5 minutes. Chop up the scooped-out squash and add it to the vegetables with the remaining cumin, cinnamon, crushed red pepper, and salt & pepper to taste.

Stir in the croutons or bread crumbs and mix well. Stuff the squash with the mixture, being careful not to pack too tightly. Mound slightly and top with the squash "hat", then transfer to a glass pie pan or baking dish. Bake at 375°F for 20-40 minutes, until the squash are tender when squeezed or poked with a sharp knife (20 minutes will produce a more tender-crisp squash).

Serve with some roasted chick peas and an olive oil fried egg, if desired.

For squash sandwiches, halve and heat pita bread. Quarter the squash and stuff in the pita with any remaining chick peas. Drizzle liberally with thick plain yoghurt and a dusting of cumin, if desired.

Makes 4