Glutton for Punitions

on sauce and simplicity and excessive linking

2011-04-13T18:21:00.005-04:00

If you're a loyal reader of my awesome blog (or just a long-suffering friend) you know that I have a tendency to make things complicated. I find nitpicky reasons to complain about what should be happy occasions, I have an intricate organizational system for my sock drawer, and I just can't leave well enough alone.

But yesterday, I made a defiant stand against my personal faults. I made tomato sauce for dinner. And it was simple.

Ok, fine. I hadn't been to the grocery store in two weeks, and all I had in the fridge was half an onion. We all know I don't do self-improvement exercises anyway. Or any exercises for that matter. Ba dum ching!

But this sauce, it's the real deal. It's Marcella Hazan's recipe, and it is the most delicious tomato sauce I've ever made. Although in my sick, twisted mind I can't help but wish it were slightly more complicated so I could brag about it a bit more. Honestly though, it has three ingredients (which are probably all in your kitchen right now), doesn't involve any hands-on work, and could probably be put together by an ambitious 4 year old.

Here's what you do:

Grab half a stick of butter. Melt it in a large pot. Mmm. Butter.

Open a 28 oz can of whole tomatoes. Dump it in the pot. Mmm. Buttery tomatoes.

Root through your fridge for an onion. Cut it in half, peel it, and dump it in the pot. Mmm. Raw onion halves.

Simmer for 45 minutes. Now and then, crush the tomatoes with the back of a wooden spoon. Discard the onion, taste, and salt if needed. Pretend you don't see the thick layer of melted butter floating on top of the sauce, then spoon greedily over pasta. If you need to embellish, add parmesan and Go. To. Town.

That's it. The end. Simple.

on orahnjaca and origins

2011-03-11T16:45:00.015-05:00

(NB: If you think this entry sounds a bit off-voice for this blog, that's probably because it is. It's a reworked version of an admissions essay I wrote, slightly adapted to be less admit-me-to-your-school. I hope you'll like it nevertheless.)

I was the girl no one ever wanted to trade with in the cafeteria. I used to watch on as my classmates unpacked their lunchboxes and started bargaining. Out they would whisk tiny cups of chocolate pudding, Zip-loc bags of pepperoni, peanut butter sandwiches on squishy white slices of Wonder bread: all tenable currency in our elementary school marketplace. Meanwhile, I would gingerly reach for a Tupperware container likely filled with some mystery stew or, worse, my father's “papa a la Huancaina”- a concoction of cold potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, and a radioactively colored spicy cheese sauce, the dish my father proudly claimed as the greatest invention of the Peruvian people. Maybe so, but in the suburbs, it was also an embarrassing reminder of my not-American-enough heritage, a cultural token I wished I could keep buried at the bottom of my brown paper lunch bag. So to keep my pride intact, I waged a war at home against distinctive lunches, mother tongues with too few vowels, and the worst offender of all: my mom's orahnjaca.

Orahnjaca is a Balkan winter specialty, a slightly sweet bread rolled up with a filling of sugary walnuts. It's a bit of a production, requiring patience, dexterity, and, most crucially, luck, without which the whole sticky mixture tends to end up pooled in a blob on the kitchen floor. As a kid, I found it suspiciously exotic. The crust tasted grainy, the walnuts bitter, the entire dessert under-sweetened for a palette honed by Pop Tarts and Oreos. But without fail, every December, my mother would ignore my pleas for “something normal” and dedicate a day to reproducing my grandmother's orahnjaca. This was an ordeal characterized by my mother’s frantic attempts to turn doughy goo into clean rectangles, her face red as she dredged up towering clouds of flour and muttered darkly to herself in Croatian. It was an occasion designed, I think, to make my family feel closer to her culture, but the effect was reversed on me: orahnjaca seemed like an alien presence in our house and in our neighborhood.

In fact, while my father had Spanish-speaking friends and favorite Peruvian restaurants nearby, my mother’s Croatian remained an oddity. The less of it I spoke at home, the more it sounded like an awkward marriage of too many consonants, a graceless mouth-full of a language. (Seriously, try saying orahnjaca. I dare you.) And so, after a decade of studied avoidance, I came to the uncomfortable realization that my mastery of Croatian was limited to a few broken, infantile phrases – cries of “I'm hungry” or “Don't” or “Give it to me.” Even more painful was the fact that I could only just scrape by on the phone with my grandmother. We would have choppy thirty second conversations, set to a strict formula of greetings, how-are-yous, and goodbyes. All of my connections with my mother's background had slowly become secondhand; my relationship with my grandmother had become collateral damage in my war against orahnjaca.

In my senior year of college, I abandoned my resistance, and enrolled in my school's tiny Serbian-Croatian-Bosnian language course. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who had eaten the same mystery stews for lunch that I had. We struggled through the language’s infamously temperamental grammar, subject to dozens of different case endings, intricate word ordering, and nearly indistinguishable subtleties in pronunciation. And, slowly, I began to notice that conversations with my grandmother had become less strained; I was expressing myself more clearly and resorting less frequently to the old platitudes. Finally, that winter, I asked my grandmother if she would send me a copy of the walnut bread recipe.

I’ve done a lot of cooking over the years, but I found the orahnjaca recipe impossibly vague. It came replete with notes scribbled in the margins by my grandmother, who is fond of quantifying measurements with modifiers like “Just enough” or “Depending on the humidity.” I went through batches and batches of failed orahnjaca that winter. Sometimes the dough refused to rise, sometimes the filling would leak, sometimes the loaf emerged from the oven under-baked. I tweaked everything – added salt to the dough, increased the kneading time, upped the yeast, swapped light brown sugar for dark brown, lightened the filling with egg whites, slathered the dough with melted butter, plopped plum jam down by the spoonful wherever it seemed needed. When I finally reintroduced the recipe to my mother, I realized I hadn’t made the traditional Balkan walnut bread at all. Instead, I’d made a dish inspired by orahnjaca - one that I could actually enjoy eating.

As a kid in the cafeteria, I was afraid that culture was indelibly written on you, a sort of scarlet letter. I was wrong. Laying claim to a culture is not a passive process. It requires constant revisiting, editing, reconsidering, and if you ignore it for too long, you'll find that it may have disappeared. I’m proud to say that my Croatian gets better and better every day, that I no longer have to pass the phone to my mother in a panic whenever my grandmother uses an unfamiliar word. It took my learning Croatian to discover that my grandmother loves American police dramas, considers Pepto-Bismol a cure-all, and is not, in fact, the biggest fan of orahnjaca. She’ll have to wait until she’s tried mine. I’ve made the dish my own.

Orahnjaca
Adapted from my awesome grandma

Dough

1 tablespoon active dry yeast (a bit less than two envelopes)
2/3 cup warm milk
1/3 cup butter, melted
3/4 teaspoon sugar, plus 1/2 cup
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 3/4 cup flour

2 tablespoons butter, melted (to be used after the dough is rolled out)

Dissolve the yeast in the warm milk, stirring a bit to break up any clumps. Stir in the 3/4 t sugar.
In the bowl of a stand mixer or other large bowl, mix the melted butter, sugar, egg and salt with a paddle attachment or by hand until the mixture is silky, about 2-3 minutes.
Into the bowl, add the yeast mixture and flour. Again with the paddle attachment, mix the ingredients until well combined, about 1 minute, then switch to a dough hook and knead on medium speed 10 minutes. The dough should be slightly sticky but should clear the sides of the bowl. If the dough is too wet, add in a bit of flour, gradually. Alternatively, you can beat the mixture vigorously by hand for 12 minutes. Note that this method takes a great deal of bravery. I salute you.
Cover the bowl and let it rest in a warm, draft-free spot for 3-4 hours until doubled in volume (NB: I find it really helps to sit the bowl containing the dough in another, larger bowl containing warm water. Just don't let the dough get wet!). In the last few minutes, make the filling (recipe below) and preheat the oven to 325.
Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and punch down gently to deflate. Sprinkle a bit of flour on top and roll the dough out into a large square (or rectangle, or hideous blob, whatever you can manage) about 1/4" thick. Fold the left and right sides of the square in about 1". Spread the melted butter evenly over the surface of the dough, then top with the filling, taking care to stop a couple of inches before you reach the far end of the dough.
Starting from the closest side facing you, roll the dough over on itself to create a spiral. Once you have almost reached the end, drape the far end of the dough up over the top of the bulk of the dough. Place the orahnjaca on a parchment lined jelly roll pan and let rest 30 minutes.
Bake 30-40 minutes until golden brown on top. I like to err on the side of caution and leave it in slightly longer than I usually would just to make sure that the inside is cooked through. The moistness of the filling will keep the dough from getting too dry.
Let cool and cut into slices about 3/4" thick, on the bias. They keep, covered, several days, and I like them even better after a day or two.

Filling

1 1/2 c. ground walnuts
3 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons dark brown sugar
3 tabespoons plum butter, or other jam
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
zest and juice of one small lemon
about 3 tablespoons warm milk
1/4 c. dried cherries or raisins, plumped for at least 1 hour in 1 T rum, optional
1 egg whites, room temperature

Mix together the walnuts, sugars, plum butter, cinnamon, salt, lemon zest, lemon juice and dried cherries or raisins (if using). Stir in the milk gradually until incorporated.
Just before use, whip the egg white to form stiff, but still glossy, peaks. Fold half of the egg whites into the walnut mixture, then repeat with the remaining half.

on coffee and counterparts

2011-03-06T16:20:00.007-05:00

I'm not nice in the morning. Actually, not nice is a euphemism. I'm really, really mean in the morning. I like to tell people that I need coffee before I can interact with other humans, but the truth of the matter is just that I need a few minutes before I trust myself to speak to anyone without accidentally insulting them. Or hitting them. It can be dangerous. I've compromised many a friendship.

Actually, coffee gets used as a scapegoat for more than my bad morning attitude. There's no better opportunity to sneak in a little breakfast treat than under the guise of Coffee Counterpart. Some crunchy biscotti, muffins the size of my face, thick slabs of pumpkin bread - they're all smuggled into my diet as a light coffee snack. Which of course is total hogwash.

But lately I've noticed that my coffee snacks have gotten less and less enjoyable. I couldn't put my finger on it for a while, but I've finally realized what feels so wrong about all of my Coffee Counterparts: they distract me from the coffee. All of the cheap bodegas by my school used to give you coffee packed with cream and sugar, whether or not you wanted it that way, and I was never able to force one down. I like my coffee to actually taste like coffee. And in the same way, I didn't want any snacks as bold and sweet as those I had been scarfing down to get in the way of my coffee.

And so I stopped eating desserts with coffee. Until - you knew there was a catch - I saw Joy the Baker's recent entry on cappuccino cookies. I was smitten. I had to have them.

...Only I forgot about them completely the very next day. And when I finally thought about them again, I thought I had invented them myself. I was so impressed with myself. Most of my brilliant ideas turn out to be from that embarrassing genre of things-I-heard-someone-else-say-then-subsequently-forgot-about-and-now-claim-as-my-own. Like that time in kindergarten when I thought I had invented tag. It was a really big letdown to learn otherwise.

What I'm trying to get down to here is that I actually ended up adapting these cookies from a Dorie Greenspan chocolate chip cookie recipe, as opposed to using the much more convenient recipe from JtB. As usual, I made things harder for myself. I wanted a nice flat cookie - the kind that ripples at the edges, creating little hills and valleys of cookie, the kind with crispy, shattery bites on the outside and soft yielding dough on the inside. And these are pretty much that. It's a lot of coffee flavor, with a few white chocolate chips to provide the occasional sweet interlude. And best of all, you can't spill a cookie on yourself and ruin your favorite shirt. I'm looking at you coffee.

Cappuccino Cookies
(directly inspired by Joy the Baker, needlessly adapted from Dorie Greenspan)

Makes 25 cookies

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa
3 tablespoons instant espresso
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
2/3 cup (packed) dark brown sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 large eggs
6 ounces white chocolate chips

Directions:

Center a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment or silicone mats.

Whisk together the flour, cocoa, instant espresso, salt, and baking soda.

Working with a stand mixer, preferably fitted with the paddle attachment, or with a hand mixer in a large bowl, beat the butter on medium speed for about 1 minute, until smooth. Add the sugars and beat for another 2 minutes or so, until well-blended. Beat in the vanilla. Add the eggs one at a time, beating for 1 minute after each egg goes in. Reduce the mixer speed to low and add the dry ingredients in 3 portions, mixing only until each addition is incorporated. On low speed, or by hand with a rubber spatula, mix in the chocolate. Chill the batter for 30 minutes.

Spoon two tablespoonfuls of dough into rounded balls onto the baking sheets, putting 6 on each sheet.

Bake the cookies - one sheet at a time and rotating the sheet at the midway point - for 10 to 12 minutes, or until they are set at the edges and still slightly puffed in the center; they may still be a little soft in the middle, and that's just fine. Pull the sheet from the oven and allow the cookies to rest for 1 minute, then carefully, using a wide metal spatula, transfer them to racks to cool to room temperature.

Repeat with the remainder of the dough, cooling the baking sheets between batches.

The cooking can be kept in a cookie jar or sealed container for about four days, or wrapped airtight and frozen for up to two months.

on brownies and breaks

2011-01-24T17:20:00.006-05:00

I know, I know, it's been a while. I'm sure you've all been on the edge of your seats, constantly refreshing this page in anticipation of a new post. Or, more accurately, you're my mother and I just called you begging you to read my blog - It's gotten a lot better, I swear!

I'll admit, I cringe a little every time I remember how long it's been since I've posted on here. I'll be going through my day, sorting through my e-mail, examining a wrinkle on my suit, vacuuming my floors, when BAM! All of a sudden I remember that it's been months - no, seasons - since I've written anything at all. And while it's true that I've been cooking drastically less, seduced by the efficiency of peanut butter sandwiches and the simplicity of bowls brimming with buttered pasta, that doesn't mean I haven't been cooking at all.

Last week, while rummaging through my pantry (in desperate search of anything other than the makings of a PB&J sandwich) I found a container of pricey cocoa wasting away, dusty and accusing. And suddenly, all my big dreams came back to me. The cocoa was for a recipe I had seen almost a year ago, a relatively unambitious brownie from Alice Medrich whose winning qualities included not having to chop chocolate, and alleged deliciousness.

It was too simple: melt some butter with some sugar and cocoa, mix in a couple of eggs, a handful of flour, and bake off. Finally, after months of willfully ignoring this blog, I had something that might be worth writing about.

I've gone through a lot of brownie recipes, and honestly, I wanted to kick myself after making these. I started baking ten years ago, and I've been searching for a brownie recipe that I've liked since then. The first time I tried my hand at them, I ended up scrambling eggs in overly hot melted chocolate, and then, to add insult to injury, overbaking them. They were speckled with white bits of eggs and served better as paperweights than sweets. I'm pretty sure I just threw the whole pan out and hid in my room and wrote an angsty entry in my livejournal. What? I was 13. Since then I've learned how to temper eggs, and have tried dozens of other recipes - most overly intricate - in search of a keeper.

I guess I've always assumed that more complicated correlated with more delicious, so when I made these, and they were so easy, and so fast, and so darn tasty, I couldn't believe that all it took was five months of laziness to make the most awesome brownies ever.

Finally, I know that there are basically two schools of brownie thought (excluding the great nut debate, which I'm choosing to ignore) - fudgey and cakey. These are definitely of the fudgey variety. You can't eat more than one at a time (except for when you can, like last night, while watching The Biggest Loser) and it's best to have plenty of milk around. The recipe can be found here!

on flavored milk and frivolity

2010-08-28T21:00:00.006-04:00

This is a post I've been meaning to write for a long time now. And today I am finally getting around to it. Which I attribute to my well-demonstrated ability to follow through on verbal commitments. Or to the grocery store having a special on strawberries.

I recently discovered that an unyielding love of strawberry milk is the great uniter of all humans. Except, perhaps, for those strange, unfortunate lactose-intolerant humans. Like my mom. (Hi mom!) But even those poor souls can enjoy strawberry milk with some dairy-impostor drink.

As a kid I used to drink flavored milk by the gallon. (Sorry, Jamie Oliver) Chocolate, strawberry, what have you. But always from the Nesquik powder - for some reason I think my parents thought the powder was more respectable than the syrup which was banned from our fridge. This was one of the stranger food edicts from my childhood. Like the two color limit imposed on breakfast cereals which ruled out Berry Kix but welcomed Cocoa Puffs. Or the dreaded finish-everything-on-your-plate-or-else rule that once kept my brother and a plate of asparagus at the dinner table for a solid 6 hours. (I, meanwhile, with my strongly cultivated sense of sibling camaraderie, watched cartoons in the next room over and blew some killer raspberries in his direction when my parents weren't looking.)

But there is a time and a place for the delicious, syrupy, artificial strawberry milk. Usually when I feel sorry for myself and want a pick-me-up. Or when I am lounging in bed watching that dog whisperer show. Or when friends come to visit. Ok, let me revise. I usually want the artificial stuff, but there are, occasionally, moments when I remember I am not an infant. Which is when I go for a more grown-up version.

It's not exactly the strawberry milk I used to down from those tiny little cardboard boxes in my elementary school cafeteria, but in some ways it's better. To be honest, it's more like the milkshakes my parents used to make when I was little - thick and foamy and full of seeds that sink to the bottom of your glass and flood your mouth when have your last sip. Enjoy!

Strawberry Milk, of sorts

Grab a generous handful of raspberries and another generous handful of hulled strawberries and throw them into some sort of vessel. Why raspberries? They have the peculiar effect of making the strawberries taste more like strawberries. Kind of like sweet potatoes in pumpkin pie. Any berry will do though - I particularly like blackberries for this as well.
Sprinkle some sugar, to taste (some berries will, of course, be tarter than others) over the berries. I usually use a tablespoon or two.
If you like, add a tiny pinch of cardamom. I really mean tiny - the stuff is potent, but it gives the milk a nice twist.
Puree the berries in a blender, or food processor, or my personal favorite - the immersion blender, until mostly smooth. Some chunks are a nice reminder of what you're actually drinking.
Pour in enough milk to thin out the mixture and puree again until the milk is slightly frothy.
Pour into a glass, plant a straw down the center and drink greedily.

On pies and pride

2010-07-15T20:40:00.003-04:00

Confession: I worry a lot. I am a champion worrier. A marathon worrier! I am to worrying what Michael Buble is to being adorable. (Secondary confession: I have a thing for Michael Buble. I understand that I am not a middle aged suburban white lady, but true love knows no obstacles.) Every night before I fall asleep something new is eating away at me. Mostly it's things like - why have I never made my own mayonnaise before? What must people think? - Or are expensive salts really worth the money? Aren't I too broke to be sprinkling fleur de sel on my oatmeal? Am I a snob? - Or most crucially, what if I never make a perfect pie crust? The shame! I cry aloud.

And that's the sad truth - I have only made one good pie crust in my snooty pastry-making career. And it was my first one. The crust was tender and flaky and well-browned (Kind of like me! At least those last two.) and all those other buzzwords people use when waxing on about pie crusts. I thought I had beat the system - which dogface said pie dough was tough?

And then I got my comeuppance. Because every pie crust after that was a sad, miserable little troll of a pie crust. Some were tough, some were underbaked, some shrank, some crumbled and cracked when I tried to roll them out. This is probably attributable to my insistence on doing every step with my own two hands. No food processor, no stand mixer, no grandmother standing over my shoulder ready to pitch in when I needed help. And so things were until I sucked it up and used a food processor. Because honestly, that sucker is way better at making dough than I am.

And since then, things have been much better - flakier, more tender crusts, dough that doesn't fall apart at the sight of a rolling pin, and most importantly, these hand pies. Hand Pies! You just want to sing the name out loud! Hand Pies! Who could not love a Hand Pie? Only an ogre. A dieting ogre. They are small, and portable, and filled with sugary fruit!

I made them for a Fourth of July picnic, and they were a great accompaniment to the fireworks. Or at least they probably would have been if I could have waited that long.

Berry Hand Pies
Adapted from Martha Stewart (Dough) and Epicurious (filling)

Pie Dough, amount for a double crust pie

one egg, lightly beaten
turbinado or sanding sugar

Berry filling

3/4 cup sugar + 1T
1/4 cup quick-cooking tapioca
1 tablespoons fresh lemon juice + 2 teaspoons
pinch of salt
4 cups assorted fresh berries (such as raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries)

Mix the first four filling ingredients together. Toss in the berries gently. Let sit for at least an hour so the tapioca softens a bit.

Once the dough is well chilled, take out one half and roll it out to 1/8" thickness. Using a bowl with a 5-6" diameter rim, cut out as many circles of dough as possible, tracing a knife around the rim of the bowl. Gather the scraps and chill them. Place the circles on a parchment lined baking sheet and chill. Repeat the process with the second half of dough and then finally with the scraps. You should be able to get about 7 circles.

Once all the circles have been chilled, spoon about 2T of filling on one half of each one. Eyeball it - if it seems like the dough won't encase the filling, it probably won't. Wet the rims of the circles with water, and fold the not-filling-topped halves over the filling. Crimp the pies closed with the back of a fork, and then brush the tops with beaten egg and sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Chill again. Your patience will be rewarded!

Meanwhile preheat the oven to 375 and bake the little guys for about 20 minutes or until they are golden brown and even more adorable. Let cool on the baking sheets for a few minutes, and then carefully transfer them to a cooling rack. You can eat them warm, but they taste much better after a few hours!

on bundt cake and boredom

2010-06-02T17:17:00.006-04:00

Don't get me wrong, home is a pretty swanky place. It's got glossy hardwood floors, showers so clean you don't need to shield your feet with an impenetrable flip-flop barrier, and a a washing machine that doesn't eat all of your carefully hoarded quarters. And if that's not luxury, I don't know what is.

But the thing is, I'm bored. Really, really bored. Like sit on the couch doing crossword puzzles for hours straight kind of bored. Or watch a Lifetime Drop-Dead Diva marathon kind of bored.* Or send out all of those important emails and organize my student loans kind of bored. (HAH. Yeah right. Let's not get carried away.) Not to mention I feel like I'm 13 years old again. Like I'm going to break out with acne and start listening to Blink 182 any minute now.
*Ok, so this isn't actually boring. This show is so bad it's good.

I feel like I'm stuck in some sort of chasm between independence and childishness. First I scoff when my mother suggests that I continue living at home to save money and then, ten minutes later, I try to hit her up for 20 bucks to go see a movie and skulk around the local mall with my friends while eating food court pretzels. I'm a mensch like that.

Anyway, the point of all this complaining was that I made a cake. A bundt cake. A spirit bundt cake.* It's part summery, chock full of all those zucchinis you can't seem to get rid of quickly enough and drizzled with a very tart and very delicious lemon glaze, but it's also part wintery, with heavy-handed doses of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. Most importantly though, it saved me from an hour of boredom. Which is key when you've taken to watching at least two hours of Deadliest Catch a day.
*For those confused, a spirit-thing is something which you find yourself inexplicably and unintentionally drawn to. For instance, my spirit hat is a black, ratty, stretchy kind of thing that looks like a hobo's oversized athletic sock. Only you put it on your head. Bizarrely, I just can't stop wearing it.

I'm not usually a huge fan of bundt cakes, although I can't quite figure out why. To be honest they usually strike me as a little boring, but I guess I've gained some much needed perspective. And this cake's name is so off-putting to most people that there's no way it could ever be boring: Zucchini Olive-Oil Cake with Lemon Crunch Glaze. Green vegetable? Check. Fancy oil? Check. Crunchy Icing? Check. Lots of ways to send people running. But their loss, because this is a supremely moist, flavorful cake that has a lot of depth to it. And just to make sure it wasn't boring, I made a few tweaks, including swapping some of the all-purpose flour with buckwheat flour, which really helped highlight the ground walnuts in the batter.

Zucchini Olive-Oil Cake with Lemon Crunch Glaze
by Gina DePalma, from "Dolce Italiano"

For the cake:
1 cup walnut pieces
1 3/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1/4 cup buckwheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
3 large eggs
1 3/4 cups granulated sugar
1 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 1/2 cups grated zucchini (about 2 small zucchini)
Confectioner's sugar, for dusting (optional)

For the lemon crunch glaze:
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 cup confectioners' sugar

To make the cake: Preheat the oven to 350 and position a rack in the center. Grease a 10 cup Bundt pan using nonstick cooking spray or butter, then dust it with flour to coat it completely, tapping out the excess flour.

Place the walnuts in a single layer on a baking sheet and toast them until they are golden brown and aromatic, 12 to 14 minutes. Cool the walnuts completely, then finely chop them in the food processor and set aside.

Sift the flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and spices into a medium bowl and set aside. In an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the eggs, sugar, and olive oil together on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes, then beat in the vanilla extract. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula after each addition. Beat in the dry ingredients all at once on low speed until they are thoroughly combined, then switch the mixer to medium speed and mix for 30 seconds. Beat in the zucchini and the walnuts on low speed until they are completely incorporated, scraping down the sides of the bowl.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan, smoothing the top with a spatula.

Bake the cake for 45 to 50 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through the baking time to ensure even browning. The cake is done when a tester inserted in the center comes out clean and the cake has begun to pull away from the sides of the pan.

While the cake is baking, prepare the glaze: In a medium bowl, whisk together the lemon juice and granulated sugar, then whisk in the confectioners' sugar and salt until the glaze is completely smooth.

Allow the cake to cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then carefully invert it onto a wire rack. Using a pastry brush immediately brush the glaze over the entire surface of the warm cake, using all of the glaze; it will adhere to the cake and set as the cake cools, Allow the cake to cool completely and the glaze to dry completely.

Transfer the cake to a stand or serving plate and, if desired, lightly dust it with confectioners' sugar. Any leftover cake may be wrapped in plastic and served the following day.

on sours and sneezes

2010-03-25T02:36:00.008-04:00

So I have a sixth sense. Granted, I don't read into the stars, I can't see my future in lumps of soggy tea leaves, and I'm certainly not a telephone psychic with a fake Jamaican accent to boot. No, my skill is more refined, more precise - I have an uncanny knack for always knowing when the weather is about to change. Without fail, at the start of every shoulder season*, my nose ceases to function as any sort of reliable sensory perceptor or air passage, my head feels like it weighs an extra ten pounds and I find myself in bed all day trapped by an impenetrable wall of tissues and a deep desire to Never. Move. Again.
*Another reliable indicator of oncoming sickness: you just used the last of your kleenex. Why is it that you always seem to run out of tissues right before a cold?

But despite how appealing it may seem to stay tucked under the covers, watching March of the Penguins (those adorable penguins! that soothing Morgan Freeman!), you inevitably have to make the trek outside your bedroom to prove to the world that you're still alive. And perhaps maybe brew up some peppermint tea while you're at it.

People say that the best way to get over a cold is with tea, soup, and citrus. I'm a fan of all three, just to cover my bases - endless cups of spicy chai, carrots roasted until caramelized and then pureed with chicken broth and garlic into a velvety soup, and... well. Okay. Confession. Maybe this wasn't one of my most intelligent ideas. But sometimes the best way to clear your sinuses, jolt some life into your bedridden limbs, and get yourself back into healthy, lively company (It'll be them next!) is with a whiskey sour.

And sour mix is about the only thing I'm really up for making right now, anyway. It's got a few simple components, comes together super fast, and uses things I usually have on hand - which means no unnecessary trips to the grocery store, bundled up like the Michelin man, coughing and sniffling while upper west side ~~moms~~ nannies veer their expensive strollers away from me in unbridled horror.

This stuff is nothing like the nasty glow-in-the-dark mix they use in crappy bars, it's bright and tart and just slightly sweet, and could honestly make even the cheapest plastic handle of Georgi taste like liquid gold. This time, I added in some blood orange juice to give the drinks an added punch of color, and possibly also just to be able to say that these were blood orange sours thank-you-very-much. Allow me my moment.

Blood Orange Sour Mix
Makes about 4 drinks

1 c. sugar + 1 c. water
1/2 c. lime juice (About 4 limes)
1/2 c. lemon juice (About 4 lemons)
juice of 1 blood orange

1. Combine the sugar and water in a medium saucepan over medium heat, and stir mixture until sugar is completely dissolved. Bring to a light boil and allow to cook for about a minute (precision is not really key here, I like to tell myself.) Take pan off heat and allow the syrup to cool completely.

2. Combine the lime, lemon and orange juices and add the simple syrup.

3. To serve, fill a glass with ice, pour in sour mix and whiskey (or other booze of choice) to taste.

On upside down cake and urges

2010-03-06T17:31:00.013-05:00

It was love at first sight. One of those instant I Want to Go to There*, Still My Beating Heart moments where you're overwhelmed by desire. Only with slightly more drool than usual. I'm a lady like that. But really, when I saw this recipe in Bon Appetit I was kind of powerless to resist. It had just the right combination of things I like and things I pretend to hate but secretly adore: part homely, sweet upside down cake, part rugged cornmeal, part slightly bitter caramelized blood orange. See - irresistible!
*Thank you, Liz Lemon

I brought it over to my friends' apartment for our weekly Winesdays (since, you know, everyone needs a pick-me-up on Wednesdays. And Tuesdays. And Thursdays. Hey, I'm still in college! No judgment!) and it went over pretty well. Although this could also be attributed to the general level of sobriety and the restrained ~~river~~ splash of cream I poured on top of each slice. Regardless!

The cake was moist, light and incredibly fluffy, and the polenta gave it just enough of a nutty edge to stand up to the caramelized oranges, without overwhelming the light cake. And the oranges - coated in caramel but with a bit of bitterness lingering in the rind - definitely stole the show. But my favorite part had to be the top layer of the cake - the part soaked through with caramel and juice from the blood oranges.

So go ahead and give it a try - all the bright citrus is great for chasing away the last of the winter blues! The recipe is here!

on beans and boring

2010-02-24T20:10:00.005-05:00

I'm a pretty predictable person, and the fact of the matter is, I get stuck in ruts all the time. Sometimes these are ruts of the unfortunate variety - listening to Miley Cyrus' Party in the USA on repeat for a month straight, wearing pajamas everyday until noon, or polishing off a 12-pack of Cherry Coke Zero in a week. But to be honest, sometimes I like the comfort and predictability of a rut, especially when it comes in the form of a delicious food. When I cook for myself, I generally tend to want the same things over and over - sweet potato hash with garlic, sage and a poached egg, cauliflower roasted until caramelized and topped with a harissa-yogurt sauce, or shredded cabbage salad with buttermilk dressing. It's basically guaranteed that I'll make one of those dishes any given week. And recently, I found a new favorite - Kemp's Black Beans.

Now I know, nothing sounds less exciting and less rut-worthy than a gigantic pot of beans, but these, velvety and soft when cooked just right, have a trinity of secret ingredients that lends them an unexpected depth of flavor. I was leafing through the Gourmet Today cookbook/doorstop when I came across a recipe that suggesting adding sherry, soy sauce and balsamic vinegar to a standard pot of black beans. I was skeptical at first, but the idea started to nag away at me until I finally caved and tried it. Kind of like that time in middle school when my friend convinced me to use sun-in on my hair, but with better results.

The combination, strange though it may seem, is extremely well-balanced, slightly sweet from the sherry, slightly acidic from the vinegar, and wonderfully salty from the soy sauce. The rest of the ingredients are simple - beans, olive oil, salt, and onion - and you honestly don't need to gussy them up with any other spices (although, because I just can't help myself, I sometimes throw in a bit of cumin).

What's even better is that I converted the recipe to fall in line with my favorite ultra lazy, no-soak, hands-off, oven bean-cooking method. It's just about idiot-proof, which is wonderful for me, and also guarantees that I can continue on in my black-bean rut with minimal effort. Win win.

Kemp's Black Beans
Adapted from Gourmet Today

1 lb dried black beans (about 2 1/3 cups), picked over and rinsed (but not soaked)
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3 tablespoons olive oil
8 cups water
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/4 cup Sherry (cream or medium-dry)*
1 to 2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 to 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

Preheat the oven to 325. Combine black beans, onion, oil, and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a large Dutch oven, then add water to cover the beans by about 1-2 inches. Cover the pot and bake in the oven for 75 minutes. Remove the pot from the oven, stir and check the beans for doneness. If they need more liquid, add more water, and if they need additional time place them back in the oven in 15 minute increments until they're soft through, but not mushy and falling apart. Once they're done, take them out of the oven and stir in the Sherry and remaining teaspoon salt, then soy sauce and vinegar to taste (I always end up using a little extra soy sauce), and let sit, uncovered, stirring occasionally, 5 minutes. The beans really benefit from an overnight rest, but honestly they are still amazing just cooked. If you want though, you can even freeze them in small portions, where they'll keep for 3 months. That way you can guarantee yourself black beans every night for essentially the rest of your life. And that is a beautiful thing.

*Confession: I know, I know, they're very different, blahblahblah, but I always end up using Port because it's what I have hanging around. It's still delicious, I promise.

on candy and caring

2010-02-14T19:53:00.005-05:00

Once a year, when I'm back home and bored to tears, I get struck with The Desire to Organize. This leads to lots of horrible things, like heavy lifting, over-exuberant dusting sessions, and the annual rediscovery that I am a packrat who can't bear to part with a book receipt from 1999. But, it also leads to all those boxes I've shoved back into the farthest part of my closet, the ones stuffed with class pictures from kindergarten, doodles and notes from middle school friends, and painfully embarrassing journals from my angsty high school years.

One of my favorite things to sift through is a small, beat-up shoe box, packed to the brim with valentine's cards from elementary school. Most of them are the mass-produced valentines - the kind that come in a themed box set with 6 different messages, all silly puns and cheesy graphics - but some of them were homemade - clumsily cut-out pink or red hearts, paper doilies, excessive amounts of glitter. Just the thought of those valentine's day parties as a kid makes me smile - doling out cards and candy to friends, agonizing over who would get which valentines, coming home and dumping mine all out on the floor to reread them.

Maybe that's why I still really love Valentine's day. It gets a bad rap, but I think that's because people start looking at it as either an obligation or a reminder that they're still single. But hey, I figure I have a Catholic mother for that kind of guilt. So in the spirit of elementary school valentines, of letting friends know you care with a carefully selected Power Rangers card, I like to make something small every year for those pals in my life who I think are especially swell.

This year, it was sacks filled with homemade candy - from brittle to toffee, caramels to marshmallows, bacon fudge to molasses sponge candy. And chocolate-covered salted peanut caramel cups.* Possibly the most adorable candy known to mankind. (Ok, behind gummy bears. But a close second.)
*It's moments like this when I wonder whether I like my friends or have some sick desire to see them all obese and diabetic before they hit 25...

Delicate outer chocolate shells, rich, thick caramel inside, salted slightly and packed with roasted peanuts, they're like Reeses' for grown-ups. And, despite how involved they might look at first glance, they are pretty simple to put together, so give them a try! Plus, nothing is more cheering than watching your friends tuck in. Unless your friend is named Jesse and has eating habits that could best be described as "black-hole." Then you might want to turn away and shield any defenseless children or small animals nearby. It can be frightening.**
**As Laura would say: Sorry Jesse!

The recipe can be found here, from David Lebovitz.

Happy Valentine's Day!

on cancha and cravings

2010-02-05T16:39:00.004-05:00

Snacking can be extremely challenging. It's too early for dinner, you're rifling through the pantry, wondering why in the world you own five types of salt but no teddy grahams, all while trying desperately to avoid grabbing the jar of peanut butter in the corner and diving straight in with a spoon.* And while all this poking around is going on you manage to eat small bites of about twenty things you don't really feel like eating, but have to test out, just in case it turns out to be what you've been craving.
*This is highly dangerous behavior, and also why I hate keeping peanut butter, nutella, or dulce de leche on hand.

But in the end it always turns out that I'm craving exactly the same thing - cancha. Kind of like the Peruvian version of popcorn, this stuff is snacking at its best - crunchy, salty and spicy, not to mention more addictive than angry birds. It's also a cinch to prepare, if you can track it down, that is. If you know a latin market (or if your grocery store has a decent latin foods section) you can probably find it there, under the name maiz cancha chulpe. It comes in bags that contain what look like horrifying shriveled corn kernels that could never in a million years be delicious.

Once you have your bag of ugly dried corn, you are set. Here's what you do. First, get yourself a couple of cloves of garlic, 2 or 3 should work well. Think of something you hate, like calling your cable company, sick puppies, or losing at Scrabble. Now crush your garlic cloves with the side of your knife. Or your fist, if you are manly. You want your cloves peeled and crushed, but still intact.

Now grab yourself a jalapeno or two, depending on how spicy you like things. Slice it crosswise into thick rings.

Next, take out a medium sized saucepan (one that has a matching lid) and put it over medium heat with 2 tablespoons or so of canola or other neutral oil. Once it's nice and hot, toss in the garlic and jalapenos and cook them just until the garlic starts to take on color, under a minute. Once it's ready, add in about half a bag of your cancha (~7 ounces) and turn up the heat to medium high.

Once the heat is turned up, you want to keep the corn moving constantly - it will burn pretty fast if you aren't careful. What you're waiting for is the little guys to all give a loud pop. They will try and escape the pan - scalding you if you're in the way. If you value your skin, I recommend you put the lid on the pan. Now is when you begin an exciting game of chicken with the cancha. You will want to take the pan off the heat, but don't give in. If the kernels haven't properly popped they will not be as delicious as those that have, and that waste of potential would be such a same.

Once they seem ready (this should take about 10 minutes depending on your corn, you're waiting until you hear the popping mostly taper off), take them off the heat, pour them into a bowl and salt generously with table salt. Fish out the garlic and jalapenos, let the cancha cool just a little bit, and dig in greedily.

Maiz Cancha
Serves 2

2-3 cloves garlic
1-2 jalapenos
2 tablespoons canola or other neutral oil
maiz cancha, about 7 ounces
table salt

Peel and crush the garlic cloves, taking care to keep the cloves whole.
Slice the jalapenos crosswise into thick rings.
Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat. When the pan is hot, add in the garlic and jalapenos and cook until the garlic just starts to take on color, under a minute.
Add the cancha to the pot, turn the heat up to medium high, and cook the corn, keeping it moving in the pan constantly.
Once the kernels begin to pop, you may want to put on a lid to help keep them from flying out. When the popping has mostly subsided, take the pan off the heat, pour the cancha into a bowl and salt to taste. Fish out the garlic cloves and jalapeno slices and snack away.

on cabbage and quirks

2010-01-29T21:15:00.006-05:00

We all have secret guilty pleasures that are best kept under wraps. The kinds of things that you censor from people you've just met, that you own up to only when caught in the act. Maybe you collect calendars with babies dressed up as adults, or still follow Lost, or laugh at puns. Or maybe you drink orange juice straight from the carton, like watching rhythmic gymnastics, or own a bedazzler. I, as a paragon of restraint, moderation and normalcy do none of these things.

But... I do love cabbage. I love it braised, sauteed, roasted, stuffed, raw, shredded, pickled. I love to eat it in the winter, I love to eat it in the summer, but most of all I love to eat it in secret when no one is around to say "EWW! YOU LIKE CABBAGE?!" Because once that happens, you will never be able to live down the label of human-who-likes-cabbage-and-must-not-deserve-friends. And that, readers, is a tough cross to bear. I would know. A year ago some friends caught me standing over the stove, stirring up a big pot of Marcella Hazan's rice and smothered cabbage soup and I have never lived it down. They are now convinced I am a Dickens era orphan who lives on a diet composed solely of cabbage, potatoes and gruel. Which, honestly, I wouldn't entirely mind if it meant that I got to eat this soup every day.

But frankly, if your friends are as suspicious of cabbage as mine, this is not the easiest introduction. The soup looks... well, it looks horrifying. It's brown and murky and I found myself tempted to use an excuse of the but-she-has-such-a-nice-personality variety when a roommate saw what I was cooking. But when you taste it. Oh baby. It's hearty and rich without being heavy, and has that particular flavor that comes from having cooked something for hours and hours.

The essentially idea is to braise a huge pot of shredded cabbage until you can hear it begging for mercy, and then to simmer it slowly with some broth and a little bit of arborio rice until you're left with possibly the world's most comforting soup, into which you (naturally) stir a pat of butter and a mound of grated parmigiano. I may not have grown up eating this, but as far as comfort foods go it's right up there with my mom's knedle. Especially if you top a bowl of this with a poached egg - there is nothing more fulfilling than taking a big spoonful and letting the runny egg yolk blanket it. Now if only I hadn't eaten the last of this while ~~watching The Jersey Shore~~ leafing through The Economist.

The recipe can be found here, from one of my favorite blogs.

on pudding cake and delusion

2010-01-15T00:52:00.003-05:00

It's the end of January, and I'll admit that this is the time of year when I start clinging to my last shreds of delusion. Visions of a new, upstanding, suave, emotionally functioning self start fading. I slip back into old habits - marathon sessions of internet t.v., not putting on pants before noon*, and replacing dinner with a sleeve of saltines and a diet soda. But I figure I still have about a week before I completely throw in the towel on my new year's resolutions. Which is exactly where these meyer lemon budinos come in handy - they are the ultimate bridge-gappers.
(*Although apparently I no longer need to feel guilty about this. See pantslessness.)

At first glance they seem like tiny, light, airy cakes - perfectly innocent, perfectly respectable. But just underneath is a hidden layer of tart, thick lemon pudding, the perfect counterpart to the unassuming tops. I like to think of the pudding as the Stefan Urquelle to the cake's Steve Urkel, if you will. (Please tell me I'm not the only one with an uncanny memory of the plotline from Family Matters) They're one of those baking miracles, perfect for people as indecisive as myself, who are always agonizing over their decisions once it's already too late to change them. (To this day I still wonder what would have happened had I only worn my light-up sneakers to the first day of third grade. So many regrets.)

And this cake solves so many of my problems. With its dual delicious identities you will never have to wonder "what if I had made the pudding?" I know, I know, one of life's most pressing dilemmas, it troubles me more than I'm keen to admit. (Thoughts like this make me worry that I am too privileged.). It toes the line between restraint and indulgence, whispering to me that it's okay to strike a balance between the two. And if you think that I'm projecting far too grandiose a set of notions onto this dessert (or wondering why I think I can hear it whispering to me), then it's obvious that you've never tasted it. Or that I'm having some sort of crisis of identity and have yet to seek out the proper help. But for my sake, I'd prefer the former.

So if you too are having trouble sticking to the ridiculously ambitious goals I'm sure you outlined at the beginning of this month, I suggest taking a break and making these pudding cakes. They're an elegant little dessert, dignified without being pretentious, comforting, and they highlight one of the season's few treasures - meyer lemons. Hot or cold, they're a perfect little treat and they keep surprisingly well once made. That is, if you've managed to cling to the restraint you promised you'd show 25 days ago. (Fat chance. Pun intended.).

Meyer Lemon Budino
From Bon Appetit, via Epicurious

1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3 large eggs, separated
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup fresh Meyer lemon juice
2 tablespoons fresh regular lemon juice
2 tablespoons finely grated Meyer lemon peel
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons whole milk
1/4 teaspoon salt
Whipped cream (optional)

Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter six 3/4-cup custard cups or ramekins. Combine 1/2 cup sugar, egg yolks, flour, lemon juice, and lemon peel in large bowl; whisk until well blended. Whisk in milk.

Using electric mixer, beat egg whites and salt in medium bowl until frothy. Gradually add remaining 2 tablespoons sugar and beat until soft peaks form. Fold beaten egg whites into lemon mixture in 2 additions. Divide mixture among prepared custard cups. Place custard cups in roasting pan. Pour enough hot water into roasting pan to come halfway up sides of custard cups*. Bake puddings until tops are golden and spring back when lightly touched, about 30 minutes**. Remove cups from water. Serve warm or cold with whipped cream, if desired.

*If you, like me, have the balance of a thirteen year old boy after a growth spurt, it is much easier to place the roasting pan in the oven and then pour the hot water in. It will keep water from splashing into the batter and vise versa.
**Really keep an eye on these near the end. If you overbake them you will end up with all cake and no pudding, which would really defeat the point and make you unhappy. So try checking a few minutes early.

on marmalade and mistakes

2010-01-10T23:19:00.002-05:00

When I was little I thought orange marmalade was repulsive. Sneakily similar in appearance to its more delicious cousin, apricot jam, it made frequent cameos in my mother's jam sandwich cookies and was an unwelcome guest swirled into bowls of morning oatmeal. Despite stringent screening procedures
(Me: Is this orange jam?
Mom: No. Stop stalling. Just eat it.
Me: But are you sure? It looks like orange.
Mom: I'm sure. Eat it.
Me: But aren't you just saying that it's not orange so I'll eat it?
Mom: unprintable
(I was a difficult child.))
I would often end up having tastes of it here or there which were inevitably followed by loud, fake gagging noises. I was quite the charmer.

So it's really puzzling what on earth compelled me to make orange marmalade - sworn childhood enemy - a few days ago. First I thought that I had just got swept up in an irrepressible urge to can, but the truth is that I'm not terribly into canning. (You stand in front of a hot, bubbling pot for hours, ducking intermittent showers of hot, angry sugar, boiling fragile glass jars, praying that you've sterilized everything well enough so that you don't kill anyone, and hoping that your recipe is any good so that you don't end up with a pantry full of mediocre jam.) Really I think that I wanted to make myself like orange marmalade. With its bitter edge it always seemed so adult, something I would grow into, like drinking coffee, sipping whiskey, or wearing socks with sandals.

But if I'm going to be really honest, I actually made the marmalade because Ina Garten made me. There I was, curled in bed, eating the last of the Christmas cookies, trying to convince myself I wasn't as lazy as I suspected, all the while watching Ina on tv gliding around her huge Hamptons kitchen, effortlessly stirring a huge pot of jam, entertaining a million house guests, and making me feel woefully underachieving. (I'd like to say that I immediately jumped out of bed and sprinted down to the kitchen, but the truth is, I think I stayed in bed and watched Sandra Lee create some sort of semi-homemade monstrosity, fuming in bed and yelling at the tv every time she broke out the cool whip. What can I say. I'm a masochist.)

When I finally tasted the jam...well. I still don't love orange marmalade. But I didn't hate it, which is an improvement. And, in a landmark moment, I even spread it on a slice of bread slathered with butter. Which I ate. So there. If you like orange marmalade, you might actually enjoy this. My mother, an orange jam enthusiast, approved heartily, if it's any consolation.

The recipe can be found here. As usual, I played aroung with it - I halved the sugar, following reviewer's comments (it was definitely sweet enough), and added in a glug of rose water, a healthy dose (about a teaspoon or so) of cardamom, and a cinnamon stick before the first boil. Besides making your house smell amazing while cooking, the spice also plays a nice counterpart to the bright citrus.

on eggnog and endings

2010-01-01T23:23:00.006-05:00

Once the holiday season comes to a close, several terrible things happen. First, it's no longer appropriate to wear Christmas socks.* Second, you have to make a list of resolutions for self-improvement that you never intend to follow. This is usually accompanied by expensive gym membership fees, the purchase of things like seitan, bulgur or agave nectar, and a one-week period living under the soul-killing glow of energy efficient light-bulbs (sorry Laura!). All equally horrifying. But perhaps the worst tragedy of all is the disappearance of the eggnog.

Eggnog is really only appropriate during that small two month period during the holidays, which is a shame, since it's friggin delicious. And the sad thing is, there is really only so much of it you can drink in a short period of time without starting to feel awfully sick. One of life's many cruel jokes. (Like snuggies. So warm, but so hideous.) Luckily for all of us, the King Arthur Flour Company created the eggnog sandwich cookie. So much eggnog flavor, none of the embarrassment of getting drunk in front of family. Win win.

These cookies come together in a snap - the dough is easy to roll out, bakes up like a charm, and the filling only needs about 30 seconds of your attention. The cookies are crisp, slightly sandy and are packed with nutmeg. They could certainly stand alone (and, in fact, that's what my mom preferred. hi mom!) but the frosting, which carries an extra hit of rum flavor, is a delightful interlude between the layers of cookie. Of course, if you want to tinker around a bit, I might suggest replacing the milk in the frosting with either eggnog (the obvious choice) or a little splash of rum (I'm not a huge fan of the artificial flavors, but they do, of course, bring a lot of flavor without adding too much extra moisture to the filling).

You can find the recipe here, via Serious Eats.

*Some of you out there have expressed concern that it is never appropriate to wear christmas socks after the age of four. To which I say: jealousy.

on pity and patties

2009-12-30T21:54:00.006-05:00

Sometimes (read: approximately every two hours), I make life hard for myself. I'll decide that I need to color code my class notes, dust in between all my blinds, read Madame Bovary in the original French, or alphabetize the contents of my fridge. Or, most recently, make dozens of tiny chocolate candies when I only have one hand in commission. (Sidenote 1: Never try to slice a frozen bagel with a serrated knife bigger than Kanye West's ego. Sidenote 2: If you ever massacre your hand with a large serrated knife, just take solace in the fact that your nine stitches will become a conversation piece at bars. This will usually lead to free booze. Embrace it.)

There are usually good excuses why I get myself into these messes - trying to justify a 200k education, trying to put off studying for exams, trying to justify a 200k education, and trying to put off studying for exams, respectively. This time, however, my reasoning had little to do with college-related anxiety, and more to do with holiday-related anxiety. I got it into my head that I needed to make a batch of peppermint patties for my brother's girlfriend this Christmas, since she's always seemed to like them. And while it was well worth the effort to surprise her, man, I have to ask, what was I thinking? What with the rolling tiny globes of filling, melting chocolate in a double boiler, coating the candies - it was just slightly overly ambitious.

But! That is not to say that you normal, non-disfigured, realistic folks won't find this recipe incredibly easy! Not to mention, once you taste these puppies, you will never go back to the old silver-wrapped standbys (I won't even mention their name). They're great for bringing to parties, or for gifting, and people are always really impressed when you bring over homemade candy - just don't let them know how simple it was. In fact, I suggest complaining loudly about how long and difficult the process was, preferably in some sort of public forum, like a blog, so people will shower you with sympathy and you can bask in the glow of your own self-pity. But I don't know, that seems a little overdramatic.

And a word to the wise! You will probably end up eating all the leftover melted chocolate. I suggest you accept this fact now and prepare a plate of adorably small clementine segments or perhaps frozen banana slices for dipping. Somehow, throwing this tiny bone to health will manage to alleviate a bit of your post-holiday cookie binging guilt. Pat yourself on the back. Assuming you can spare a hand, anyway.

I'm partial to this recipe, tried and true, from TheKitchn, but they posted this one over at Serious Eats recently, slightly different, but it looks like another great resource!

P.S. A few quick tips! For the filling, I really prefer using a stand mixer - it does a great job of incorporating all the ingredients without constant scraping (I'm looking at you, blender) and makes a wonderfully fluffy mixture. As for the chocolate, don't feel obliged to use a double boiler to melt it down - nothing is easier than zapping it in the microwave for 30 seconds, stirring, and then if necessary, returning to the microwave for another 10 seconds. No waiting for water to simmer, and it makes for easier cleanup. Also, for the coating step, I've found that by using one fork, you can chuck the candy disks into the chocolate, flip them over gently and then lift them up, let the excess chocolate drip off and slide those suckers onto a silpat really easily - no fancy tools necessary.

on gingerbread and my refined palette

2009-12-23T07:21:00.010-05:00

Most days I decide what I want to eat through an intense inner dialogue with my stomach. This is a mainly unhelpful strategy, because my stomach usually doesn't have much to say other than SUGAR. BUTTER. and NOW (it's very eloquent). And of course I already knew all that. But this past Sunday was one of those days when what I wanted to eat really didn't matter. Life dropped a foot of snow on my plans and all of a sudden the only legitimate food options were soup, hot toddies, and gingerbread men. Guess which one I went with. (I mean after that hot toddy.)

Not to mention, finals week always calls for an overly ambitious, labor-intensive, time-consuming project completely unrelated to that game theory exam you are about to bomb or that art paper on the High Line you've been diligently ~~ignoring~~ writing for a month now. So I also obviously needed to whip up some royal icing and break out the non-pareils. Hey, at least I'm dedicated to something.

I went off of a Martha Stewart recipe, since the lady seems to know her cookies, and I like to think she's never led me wrong when it came to a classic recipe. These gingerbread people were no exception, although I couldn't resist doing a little tweaking of my own. She didn't call for any cinnamon, which offended my holiday sensibilities, so I threw in a few pinches, along with some black pepper and cayenne for the extra heat. Once cooled, these cookies were a hit - at first sweet and buttery, then warm and spicy, with a great lingering kick from the cayenne. Not to mention that they're shaped like tiny people and embarrassingly entertaining to eat. Not that I'm the type to, you know, play with my food like a toddler. I also definitely didn't spend the weekend making snow angels and scoping out all the highest piles of snow to stomp through in my wellies.

Gingerbread People
Just barely adapted from Martha Stewart

3 cups all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled), plus more for rolling
2 teaspoons ground ginger
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon cracked black pepper
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
1/2 cup packed dark-brown sugar
1 large egg
3/4 cup unsulfured molasses
2 cups confectioners' sugar
4 teaspoons powdered egg whites (meringue powder)

In a large bowl, whisk together flour, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, pepper, cayenne baking soda, baking powder, and salt; set aside.
Using an electric mixer, beat butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy; beat in egg and molasses. With mixer on low, gradually add flour mixture; mix just until combined. Divide dough in half; flatten into disks. Wrap each in plastic, and refrigerate until firm, at least 2 hours and up to 2 days, or freeze up to 3 months (thaw before baking).*
Preheat oven to 350 degrees, with racks set in upper and lower thirds. Working with one disk at a time, place dough on lightly floured parchment paper, and roll out to 1/8 inch thick, dusting lightly with flour as needed. Using paper, lift dough onto two baking sheets; freeze until firm, about 20 minutes.
Remove paper and dough from baking sheets. Using a long offset spatula, loosen dough from paper. Cut out shapes with cookie cutters, and brush off any excess flour. Transfer to baking sheets. (Gather scraps, briefly freeze, and re-roll.)
For softer cookies, bake 8 to 10 minutes**; for crunchier cookies, bake 11 to 12 minutes, rotating sheets halfway through. Transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool completely.
Make icing***: In a large bowl, whisk together confectioners' sugar, powdered egg whites, and 1/4 cup water (if needed, adjust consistency with confectioners' sugar). Transfer icing to a pastry bag with a small tip, or place in a resealable plastic bag, and snip a small hole in one corner. Decorate cookies as desired, and store in a single layer in airtight containers.

*Make sure to chill these super well at every step - the dough turns into a stick, unworkable mess once it even suspects it's being moved out of the fridge. It's like it can smell your fear.
**Mine took about 7 minutes in a 325 oven, and even though my oven is less accurate than the National Enquirer, I would still recommend that you keep an eye on your first batch!
**For sparser decorations, I recommend making a half batch of icing - I had a ton left over from even this reduced amount

on pudding and aging

2009-11-26T15:22:00.007-05:00

Growing up is hard to do. Unless it involves pudding pie, in which case it is a breeze. And even though the word "pudding" doesn't exactly reek of adulthood, these two pudding pies are really best appreciated after at least a couple decades of life.

With a dark, borderline bitter chocolate pudding spiked with kahlua and sprinkled with cacao nibs, and a rich, complicated butterscotch filling with a hazelnut praline topping, these puddings are far from the snack packs my parents never let me buy (and that I, obviously, ate with overdramatic gusto whenever at a friend's house). Though that doesn't mean the pies aren't any fun - crusts made from crushed chocolate teddy grahams and ginger snap cookies and sloppy crowns of whipped cream help balance out the more grown-up fillings.

But really, I'm pretty sure no one needs much convincing to make a pudding pie, so:

Chocolate Pudding Pie
Adapted/Merged from this recipe and this recipe

4.5 ounces of chocolate teddy grahams, or other chocolate wafer cookies, finely ground*
2 tablespoons sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

1/4 cup cornstarch
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided
3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 cups whole milk, minus 1 tbs
1 tbs kahlua, or other booze of your choice
4 oz bittersweet chocolate (not more than 60% cacao), finely chopped
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 cup chilled heavy cream
1 tbs cacao nibs

Crust:
Position rack in center of oven; preheat to 350°F. Blend cookie crumbs and sugar in processor, or in a large ziploc bag. Add melted butter; process/shake bag until crumbs are evenly moistened. Press crumb mixture onto bottom and up sides (not rim) of 9-inch-diameter glass pie dish. Bake until crust begins to set and no longer looks moist, pressing gently with back of fork if crust puffs, about 12 minutes. Remove crust from oven, then sprinkle chopped chocolate over bottom of crust. Let stand until chocolate softens, 1 to 2 minutes. Using offset spatula or small rubber spatula, spread chocolate over bottom and up sides of crust to cover. Chill crust until chocolate sets, about 30 minutes.

Filling:
Whisk together cornstarch, 1/3 cup sugar, cocoa powder, and salt in a 2-qt heavy saucepan, then gradually whisk in milk. Bring to a boil over medium heat, whisking constantly, then boil, whisking, 2 minutes (mixture will thicken). Remove from heat and whisk in kahlua, chocolate and vanilla until smooth. Pour filling into cooled shell and chill, its surface covered with wax paper (if you want to prevent a skin from forming), until cold, at least 2 hours. Just before serving, beat cream with remaining 2 Tbsp sugar until it just holds soft peaks. Spoon onto pie.

Butterscotch Pudding Pie
Adapted from, who else, Martha and from the crust here

1 1/4 cups finely ground* gingersnap cookie crumbs (about 25 cookies)
2 tablespoons sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

3 ounces (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter
1 cup dark-brown sugar
2 cups heavy cream
1/4 cup cornstarch
3/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups whole milk
4 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Crushed Hazelnut Praline**

Crust:
Position rack in center of oven and preheat to 350°F. Mix gingersnap cookie crumbs, sugar, and ginger in medium bowl. Add melted butter and stir until mixture is evenly moistened. Transfer crumb mixture to 9-inch-diameter glass pie dish; press crumbs firmly and evenly onto bottom and up sides to top of dish. Bake until crust is firm and slightly darker in color, about 8 minutes. Cool crust completely.

Filling:
Melt butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat until butter browns. Stir in sugar until it dissolves, about 5 minutes. Slowly pour 1 cup cream down the side of the pan, stirring constantly until smooth (caramel will bubble). Remove from heat. Whisk cornstarch, salt, and milk in a small bowl until smooth. Whisk into butter mixture until well combined. Cook over medium-high heat, stirring constantly, until bubbling and thick, about 7 minutes total (about 2 minutes after it comes to a boil.) Whisk yolks in a medium bowl until combined. Pour in milk mixture in a slow, steady stream, whisking until completely incorporated. Return mixture to the saucepan, and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until it returns to a boil, 1 to 2 minutes. Immediately remove from heat, and stir in vanilla. Let custard cool in saucepan on a wire rack, whisking occasionally, for 10 minutes. Pour custard into prepared crust. Press plastic wrap directly on surface of custard. Refrigerate until custard filling is chilled and firm, at least 4 hours*** (or overnight).

Whisk cream until stiff peaks form. Pile onto the chilled pie and top with hazelnut praline.

*Crush cookies into fine crumbs using either a food processor, or - if especially angry - with a rolling pin while the cookies are in a large ziploc bag. You can even get creative and crush the cookies using the side of a large knife!
**Make sure to taste-test this (as if you wouldn't) before using - my brittle looked and smelled great but when I tried a small piece all I could taste was bitter and burnt. Keep a watchful eye on it if you, like me, are caramel-unsaavy
***After four hours this was still definitely not ready, although this may have just been a case of the-fridge-was-opened-too-many-times, and not really an instructions error. Either way, if your friends are hungry enough (read: college students) they will not care and will attack the pie anyway, communal-style, with forks stolen from the dining hall. So, you know, like I said, only adults can enjoy this pie.

on cans and cranberries

2009-11-13T21:51:00.001-05:00

Now I know a lot of people make fun of canned cranberry sauce. It's strangely gelatinous, has those odd can indentations on the side, makes a giggle-inducing flurmp when it flies out of its can, and is entirely impossible to serve in any kind of dignified manner - believe me, I've tried. But the thing is, I still have a bit of a soft spot for it. Every Thanksgiving my mom makes our cranberry sauce from scratch, without fail. And without fail, someone always ends up sneaking off to the pantry in the middle of dinner to grab the canned stuff. It's not because my mom's sauce isn't that tasty (it is - hi mom!) or that the canned stuff is that tasty (I think we all know the answer to this one) it's just that it's been on our table for so long, it's hard to let it go.

But that isn't to say that those canned berries aren't ever worth their salt. No way. There is one time when they and only they will do - and that time is in these bar cookies. Cranberry Cheesecake Oatmeal Bars. These are one of those cookies where when you tell people what's in them, they immediately turn their nose up. I hate cheesecake. I would rather die than eat a cranberry. Oatmeal? That sounds healthy. Etc, etc. But as soon as they try them any doubts are silenced. Or maybe they're just chewing.

But in all honesty, these are pretty darn delicious. The oatmeal gives it a nice, nutty undertone - warm and slightly spicy from the cinnamon, while the cheesecake and cranberry play nicely off one another - the thick, lemony custard against the tart fruit. They're great cold, and great warm, and great for using up any leftover cans of cranberries you might have lurking around the house after Thanksgiving. Give them a shot!

cranberry oatmeal cheesecake bars

Adapted from Better Homes and Gardens, circa forever ago

Makes 24 bar cookies

Crust and crumb topping:

2 cups flour

1 1/4 cups old fashioned or quick cooking oats

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt

3/4 cup packed light brown sugar

1 cup butter, cubed and chilled

Cheesecake batter:

1/2 cup sugar

zest of one lemon

12 ounces cream cheese, softened

2 large eggs, room temperature

2 tsps lemon juice

1 tsp vanilla

Cranberries:

1 16 oz can whole berry cranberry sauce

2 tsps corn starch

For crust and topping:

Preheat oven to 350F and grease a 13x9" pan.

In a medium bowl, combine flour, oats, cinnamon, salt and brown sugar. Using a pastry blender, two knives, power of persuasion, or your hands, cut in butter until coarse crumbs have formed. Reserve 1 1/2 cups of the mixture, and dump the rest into your prepared pan. Pat down crumbs to cover the bottom of the pan and a bit of the sides. Bake for 15 minutes until golden brown. Cool in pan, on a rack until no longer hot, about 40 minutes.*

Cheesecake filling:

Place sugar and lemon zest in the bowl of an electric mixer. Using your fingers, rub the sugar and the zest together until the sugar is moistened and your hands smell fantastic. Add the cream cheese and mix with the paddle attachment on medium until light and fluffy, 3-5 minutes. Mix in the eggs, one at a time, until well combined, then add the lemon juice and vanilla. Pour filling onto the pre-baked crust.

Cranberries:

Open your can of cranberries. Snicker immaturely while you plop the contents of the can into a small bowl. Mix in the corn starch. Carefully spoon the cranberries over the cheesecake filling. This will be frustrating, as you will not be able to spread an even layer. Don't worry though, the bites of cranberry will be all the more delightful in their unpredictability.

Sprinkle the reserved crumbs over the cranberry layer and bake for 40 minutes, until browned on top.

Cool for 15 minutes on a rack and then chill for at least 3 hours.** Cut into squares and refuse to share with others. Trust me, you will not want to.

*If you are impatient, like me, this can be ignored. I've poured the cheesecake and cranberry batters on top almost immediately after the crust had come out of the oven and I like to think they were no worse for the wear.

**This step, unfortunately, is actually crucial.