ellen cooks.

Herb Salt! part 3

2010-07-23T14:38:00.000-07:00

Cucumber Pie Crust "Sandwiches," seasoned with...Yes! Herb salt!

Herb Salt! part 2

2010-07-23T14:36:00.001-07:00

Powdered herbs and salt with the mortar and pestle.

Herb Salt!

2010-07-23T13:50:00.000-07:00

Dehydrated parsley, cilantro, dill, and arugula.

Dinner Out

2010-06-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

Last night, John and I took ourselves out on the town. We saw a show at the Cherry Lane Theatre and afterward strolled through the West Village to Blue Hill Restaurant. I've wanted to go to Blue Hill for years, but have never managed to actually walk through the door. That part of my life ended yesterday, and Oh! My! am I so, so happy. From the moment we entered the serene restaurant, 30 minutes early for our reservation, until we left almost three hours later, we were treated with gracious warmth. Blue Hill reminded me of what restaurants and hospitality should aspire towards, and caused me to develop some aspirations of my own. There were three items that I can't stop thinking about, and am determined to try and recreate at home.

The first was an arugula salt. Arugula salt! Dehydrated arugula, powdered, and then mixed with salt. Easy if you've got a dehydrator, and as the fates would have it, my friend Christine just got one for her birthday! I think I may start turning everything into salt. Or sugar. How about rhubarb sugar? Or carrot and mustard green salt? The possibilities make me giddy.

The second offering which made me smile and clap my hands was a garden greens gazpacho with a creme fraiche sorbet. I don't know what was in the chilled soup, but I am going to attempt to make it anyway. I think I'll start with parsley, cilantro, and chives. Puree them with some arugula and garlic. Add some water and maybe some dill. And radish greens. Puree a bit more. Taste. Wish me luck.

Finally, I ordered This Morning's Egg with English peas. So deceptively simple, I may never be able to conquer this dish. A poached egg nestled in a pool of green bliss with a smattering of peas and tiny bits of cured pork, this dish feels like home...a home that has turned its back on canned products and packaged meats, and embraced the bounty of the back yard garden. I crave that home, and this egg and pea pairing made me believe that it's possible.

Thanks to Emily and Kate

2010-05-21T18:11:00.000-07:00

Its been a while since my last post, and my sister Emily and my friend Kate weren't afraid to tell me to get my act together and put up something new. I'm pretty sure they were tired of looking at my burnt lips, and who can blame them? Its not a good look.

I've fallen in love with hibiscus tea (also known as flor de jamaica). It is tart, refreshing, good for you, and so so pretty in a glass. Go buy some of the dried blossoms, put a handful in a pitcher of cold water, and in an hour or so you'll have a delicious beverage to sip away the heat of the day. Just don't forget to strain the blossoms out first.

Stupid Me

2010-01-21T21:53:00.000-08:00

My mouth is on fire. Not because of spice. Because I was a total idiot. I was making smores over the gas burner, using a fork to roast the marshmallow. Once the marshmallow was melted, I slid it onto the waiting chocolate, and decided I COULDN’T let the marshmallow that remained on the fork go to waste, and yes! I put the red. hot. fork. in my mouth.

I heard the sizzling before I felt the burn.

Can you see the tine marks?

The Power of Soup

2010-01-18T10:21:00.000-08:00

Its funny what sticks in people’s memories, and what doesn’t. For example, I remember Athena’s blue leather shoes. We were 7, and her shoes had a flower design cut out at the toe, and buckles. Athena remembers my mother’s potato soup.

Last fall, we were sitting in a Lower East Side bakery, shivering every time the door opened and a gust of bitter wind swept down our collars, when Athena asked about my mother’s potato soup. “Which one?” I replied.
“The thick brown one, with cheddar in the bottom of the bowl.” The perfect soup on a cold, dark night-- thick, and rich, with chunks of cheddar, minced onion, and a drizzle of apple cider vinegar. I had completely forgotten about it. Athena had not.

Two days later I called my mother for the recipe, and made the soup. It’s easy. Start with 5 or 6 medium sized potatoes, and enough water to completely cover them in a pot. While the potatoes are boiling, make a deep brown roux using a stick and a half of butter and ¾ cup of flour. Mash the potatoes, mix them back into the boiling water, and then slowly add the roux, stirring constantly. Add salt and pepper, and cook over low heat until it thickens. If the soup gets too thick, add a bit more water. Serve with cubes of cheddar cheese, minced onion, and a splash of vinegar.

Athena has since moved on to warmer climes, but for those of us still enduring the winter winds, there is nothing like a warm bowl of soup to help us thaw out, from head to toe.

* Freeze the leftovers, because…Next week: Chicken and Potato Potpie

Sweet Potatoes

2010-01-09T09:10:00.000-08:00

Sweet potatoes make me happy. As a child, I loved sitting down to the dinner table, slicing open the brown skin, and while the steam rose, mashing a thick pat of butter into the orange pulp. Sweet potatoes; so delicious, so versatile, and yet over the years I’ve stopped cooking them. I realized this recently, and have decided that instead of being mad at myself for this serious lack of judgment, in this new decade, I am going to have sweet potatoes at least once a month. As proof of my sincerity, here is a dish I created on New Year’s Eve.

3 Sweet Potatoes (classic sweet potatoes and Japanese sweet potatoes make a nice combo)
1 medium onion, cut into chunks
½ cup golden raisins
1 shallot, thinly sliced
1/3 cup Italian parsley, coarsely chopped
1 cup apple cider vinegar
1 Tablespoon sugar
Several tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Several hours before dinner, start soaking the golden raisins in enough vinegar to cover them. In another bowl, combine remaining vinegar with sugar, add shallots and set aside.

Bake potatoes at 350 degrees (prick them first with a fork so they won’t explode), 45 minutes to an hour (or until fork passes through easily). Toss chunks of onion with olive oil, place on baking sheet, and put into the oven for the last 30 minutes that the potatoes are baking. When the onions and potatoes are done baking, remove from the oven. Slice the potatoes into ¼ inch rounds. Pour a couple of tablespoons of olive oil in skillet and place skillet over medium heat. Once the oil is hot, place the potatoes in the skillet, flipping occasionally. Meanwhile, pour vinegar off of the raisins and shallots. When the potatoes have browned and slightly caramelized, remove from skillet and toss with roasted onions, raisins, shallots, and parsley. Season with salt and pepper to taste, and serve.

Bouillabaisse Bust

2009-12-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

My apartment was a wreck. Mountains of clothes were everywhere, my bookshelves, an avalanche waiting to happen, and my kitchen table so crowded with dirty glasses and unopened mail that it was easier to eat on the floor in the living room than clear a space at the table. In an attempt to exert some control over the chaos of my living space, I started cleaning out the fridge and freezer. Not exactly the most obvious place to start the de-cluttering of my life, but a small step is better than no step. In the midst of this freezer purge, I took out what I thought was chicken stock, planning to make a butternut squash soup. Turned out, I thawed lobster stock instead, so I decided to make a bouillabaisse. Things didn’t go my way. I wanted a dense, rich stew and ended up with a thin, brothy soup. Even more frustrating was that I had to throw down some serious cash for the dish because I don’t normally stock Pernod or saffron. After also buying the seafood, fresh herbs, and a fennel bulb, I had everything I needed to create the dish I craved, but instead of a meal that took me to the coast of Provence, it tasted like something more befitting a tenement in the early 1900s.

To sum up, not only did I fail in my cooking efforts, but I managed to bring yet another item into my apartment. Pernod, anyone?

Pie Crust

2009-10-17T13:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve avoided putting a recipe up for pie crust, because I KNEW it wasn’t going to be easy. It is difficult to explain how to make a pie crust, because so much of it involves tactile senses (I wanted to say “finger feel,” but that seems kind of vulgar). However, my friend Kate kept saying that it wasn’t fair of me to post recipes that involve pie crust and not include the pie crust recipe. Fine. This one’s for you, Kate.

Pie Crust

2 sticks of chilled butter
2 2/3 cups of flour
½ cup of chilled water
½ teaspoon of salt
pinch of sugar (optional)

Combine flour and salt in a large mixing bowl. Slice the chilled butter into the flour bowl, and using a pastry cutter, or your fingers, cut the butter into the flour, leaving some pea sized butter bits. When the butter and flour are incorporated, drizzle the water over the flour, tossing the ingredients together with a fork. Once you can form the dough into a ball, stop adding water. If the dough sticks to your fingers, and seems gummy, add a little bit of flour to the dough until it holds its form without being gooey. Once the dough is the right texture, divide it into two balls and flatten them into a disk about an inch and a half thick. Hopefully, there will still be bits of butter visible because these make the pastry flakey. If you are not in a rush, wrap the two disks in wax paper and refrigerate them for at least thirty minutes. Otherwise, sprinkle the rolling surface and the top of the pastry dough with a light layer of flour. Starting at the center of the disk working outwards, begin to roll out the dough. Continue rolling out the dough until it is about 1/8 of an inch thick, and then very carefully lay the crust in the pie plate. Cut away the excess dough on the sides, leaving only a ¾ inch overhang. If making a pre-baked crust, tuck the overhang under itself, and crimp the edges using a fork or thumb and forefinger. Poke the bottom and sides of the crust with a fork, place pie weights in the bottom of the plate, and bake the crust at 400f for about 20 minutes, or until golden brown. If making a pie with a top layer, do not tuck the overhanging dough yet. Instead, roll out the second disk of dough to the same thickness. Place pie filling into the plate, then very carefully put the top layer of crust onto the filling. Cut off excess crust, again leaving ¾ inch overhang. Fold the two overhangs together, tucking them as neatly as possible, and then crimp the edges. Using a sharp knife, cut vents into the top layer, to allow the steam to escape while cooking. Follow your pie baking instructions.

Makes two pre-baked shells, or one double crusted pie.

Rustic Love

2009-10-11T22:27:00.000-07:00

Jamie broke her ankle while crossing an uneven street in lower Manhattan. She wasn’t wearing heels, either. The street just jumped up and got her. She fell into the middle of the crosswalk and no one helped her up.

“No one helped her up.” Those words and the images they evoked wouldn’t get out of my head. Angry at all the people who had passed her by, and wanting to comfort her in some way, I offered to bring her dinner. With righteous indignation as my guide, I set out to make a comforting dish that would let her know, “you are loved.”

I made a rustic tart. Leafy green vegetables, potatoes, and cheese enveloped in a flakey crust, the tart strikes a balance between health and richness. It is perfect with a simple green salad.

Rustic Tart
1 Tablespoon olive oil
1 Bunch of Swiss Chard, chopped
1 Whole onion, diced
½ Bunch of broccoli rabe, chopped
2 Cloves garlic
2 Boiled eggs, diced
1 Egg, beaten
½ Cup Chicken Stock
½ Cup Feta
1 Potato cut into ½ inch cubes

Saute onion until transparent, add chard and sauté until the greens are wilted. Remove from pan. Saute garlic until it starts to turn brown and add broccoli rabe. Cook until the leaves start to wilt. In a large bowl, combine Swiss chard, broccoli rabe, diced egg, potatoes, and feta. In a smaller bowl, mix chicken stock and beaten egg, then pour over the vegetable mixture, stirring well. Pour the mixture into an uncooked pie shell, then fold the edges of the pie crust over the vegetables. Bake at 400 degrees for 50 minutes or until the filling starts to bubble and the crust is golden.

Chocolate Cure-All

2009-09-28T18:58:00.000-07:00

I had been feeling a bit down. Not the stay-on-the-couch-all-day kind of down, but a mild funk. A funk brought on by the end of the summer? A breakup with a friend? The discovery that certain pants don’t fit the way they did last fall? A combination of all three? Who knows. I just hoped it was the type of gloominess that could be cured with a chocolate pie, a chocolate pudding pie with cream on top.

I wanted my mother’s recipe, but she was out of reach for the weekend, so I called my sister Emily. No, she did not have mom’s recipe. She had an even better one, she claimed. And that’s how I wound up making a punch-you-in-the-face-with-chocolate pie. Unlike my mother’s recipe that calls for 3 oz of chocolate, Emily’s demanded 6 oz. The result was one of dense, creamy darkness that had me clutching my stomach in defeat long before I finished the slice on my plate. It was delicious, but a powerful weapon that should only be brought out in the direst of circumstances. Did it cure my funk? Absolutely. Will I make it again? Hell yes, and then I’ll serve it to those who need some powerful healing.

6 Tbls cornstarch

1 Cup sugar

1/8 tsp salt

3 Cups whole milk

6 oz unsweetened chocolate, chopped

1 baked pie shell

Combine cornstarch, sugar, and salt in a double boiler over medium heat. Slowly whisk in milk, scraping the sides and bottom of the bowl to incorporate all the dry ingredients. Stir continually for 15-20 mins, and once the mixture coats the spoon, add the chocolate. Stir 2-4 mins until the pudding is smooth and thick. Remove from heat and pour into the pie shell.

Guest Appearance

2009-08-31T08:52:00.000-07:00

My friend Kara asked me to make a guest apprearance on her blog, so for my thoughts on panzanella, head to http://anhourinthekitchen.com/.

Summer Salads

2009-07-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

The summer's humidity has arrived. It took its time, but after weeks of autumn-like weather, the damp, sweat inducing days are here. No more turning on the oven for me. Until things cool down, I'll be having salads, cold pastas, and sandwiches. Here are two salads that are guaranteed to refresh.

Cantaloupe Salad*

1 cantaloupe
cilantro
half a red onion
feta
lime juice
salt and pepper

Peel and cube the cantaloupe, chop the cilantro and red onion, crumble the feta, and combine all in a bowl. Squeeze a fresh lime over the salad, add a dash of salt and pepper. Done.

Cucumber Salad*

2 cucumbers
1 clove of garlic
2 spring onions
plain yogurt
olive oil
salt and pepper
cumin
lemon juice

Chop the cucumber into one inch chunks. Mince the garlic and thinly slice the spring onion. Stir the yogurt and olive oil together in a salad bowl. Add salt, pepper, and cumin to taste. Once the yogurt sauce is to your liking, throw in the cucumber, garlic, and onion. Squeeze lemon juice over everything, stir to integrate the ingredients, and serve immediately.

*Don't let these salads sit too long, because the cantaloupe and the cucumbers start to get soggy.

Crisp or Pie?

2009-07-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

I feel as though at some point, a person makes a decision that determines the course of their holiday feasts and dinner party desserts for years to come. The decision comes down to this: am I a pie person or a crisp person? I always assumed I would be a pie person. My mother is a pie person and I grew up watching her cut the butter into the flour, drizzle in the cold water as she tossed the buttery flour to delicately dampen it, then strew the wooden island with more flour before rolling out her crust. I made my first apple pie in my mother’s kitchen, with her at my side coaching me on when to stop mixing the crust so that it didn’t get overworked and tough. My mother always cut simple little designs out of the top crust –cute, practical steam vents. She would sprinkle the top of the unbaked pie with sugar so that when it came out of the oven it had a sparkled goldenness. I always thought my mother’s pies were the best part of any evening, and I wanted to be able to make them as well. And for years I tried. My pies were fine. Good, even. But I never felt the connection with them that it seemed my mother did with hers, and my pies never graduated from good to sublime.

After I moved to New York, I started cooking a lot with my friend Kara. Kara is a crisp person. Whereas my mother takes her time, measures carefully, and would rather err on the side of under seasoning rather than over seasoning, Kara dives into her cooking with the assumption that if she screws something up, she can fix it. She rarely measures anything with actual measuring spoons, preferring to eyeball the ingredients as they go into a bowl. She looks at a recipe to get the general idea of what it needs, and then usually doesn’t look at it again. This method of cooking doesn’t always pan out, but with a crisp, it works great because no delicacy is required. No amount of pampering is going to turn a crisp into anything more than a rustic, ugly duckling of the dessert world. The combination of fruit, flour, butter, and sugar is always going to taste good, and without the pressure of making a beautiful dessert, it is easier to have fun with what is being created. There’s an element of adventure to this way of cooking that gives me a bit of a buzz.

Recently, I decided to take a rhubarb crisp to a cookout, figuring that after all the burgers, hotdogs and chips had been eaten, a tangy fruit dessert would be welcomed. Plus, I had just gotten a pound of rhubarb from the farmer’s market and couldn’t wait for my first rhubarb dessert of the season. Once my rhubarb was in the pie plate, I realized that I needed more fruit, so I added a bag of frozen strawberries, and for good measure, one granny smith apple. I sprinkled the fruit with a couple teaspoons of sugar, and then started preparing the topping. After combining a cup each of rolled oats, flour, and brown sugar, I melted about a stick of butter, and stirred that into the dry ingredients along with a dash or two of salt, tasting small pinches of the mixture to determine whether more sugar was needed. Because I like the zing of orange, I added a spoonful of frozen orange juice concentrate to the topping. Once the topping stuck together in clumps, but wasn’t mushy with dampness and I was happy with the sweetness level, I piled it onto the fruit in the pie plate. After cooking for about 45 minutes at 350 degrees, it came out bubbling and slightly browned on the top. At the cookout, I watched as everyone spooned the dessert onto their plates, satisfied with my status as a crisp person and dreaming about the peach, blueberry, and blackberry possibilities still to come.

Pickled Pink Experiment

2009-05-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

Because they are so bright and cheerful, and because they have a crisp juicy zing, I keep buying radishes. I use three or four of them in a salad, then put the rest in the refrigerator to save for later use. Within days, they degenerate into a wrinkled, saggy unappetizing mess, so I throw them away and then days later start the cycle again. This pattern gives me twinges of guilt every time I head to the trashcan with my lumpy brownish radishes, and so today I’ve decided to put a halt to the waste. This afternoon when I opened the fridge, there sat the radishes I bought two days ago, already losing their luster, already showing signs of the wrinkles to come. Determined to avoid the shameful trashcan walk, I pulled the radishes out, cut them into slices slightly larger than matchsticks, and put them in a Tupperware container. I gathered together sugar, salt, black pepper, coriander seeds, and two types of vinegar—cider and red wine, stirred everything together until I was happy with the flavor, and then poured the mixture over the sliced radishes. The radishes are pickling in the refrigerator, and later this evening I’ll do a taste test with my friend. Hopefully I’ll have managed to avoid yet another walk of shame.

Late Winter Blues

2009-04-08T11:04:00.000-07:00

Two days ago it was 60 degrees in New York. Yesterday it snowed. Not much, just a few flakes, but it was enough to crush my soul. This hump, between winter and spring fills me with a combination of eagerness and frustration. I know that a mere few weeks from now, the air will be warm and kind, the breezes will tantalize, not torture, the trees will burst with blossoms and chartreuse leaves, grass will be plush and soft, and flowers will unfold in riotous colors. Everything will be ALIVE, fresh and new, with birds chirping and bees buzzing. I try to keep these images in my head, but as the grey skies, naked branches, the cold ground, and the bleakness of the season wears me down, I find myself falling down the dark hole of late winter ennui. Even cooking holds little interest—my body craves delicate baby lettuce, and new peas, asparagus, and spring onions. But they aren’t here yet. The farmers’ market has the same veggies it was selling months ago. Broccoli, cauliflower, kale, potatoes, leeks-- Winter produce that I’ve grown tired of and frustrated with.

Another source of frustration is how quickly these late winter days can switch from sunny and mild to bitter and dark. A week ago, I was roaming the streets of Brooklyn, enjoying the feel of sunlight on my face, thinking about a light, springtime dinner. By the time evening rolled around, I was miserably cold, my fingers were stiff and red and my nose was starting to drip. I no longer wanted a light springtime dinner. I wanted a hearty, warming meal that would chase away all the cold. Standing in front of the fridge with the door open, looking at the Tupperware containers filled with leftovers of broccoli rabe, chunky tomato sauce, brown rice, and sautéed mushrooms, I was filled with the urge to make a casserole. I wanted a meal completely unlike what we had eaten the night before- oven roasted salmon served over brown rice and topped with tomato sauce. A casserole fit the bill. I don’t have much experience with casseroles, but I do know that if its dry, its inedible. There also needs to be an ingredient that binds all the other ingredients together. In this case, because I had been so cold and miserable that I wanted comfort food, and nothing is more comforting than my mother’s macaroni and cheese, I used that as my inspiration. The base of her mac and cheese is a béchamel sauce, or as she calls it, a basic white sauce. This is what I started with. Further more, I decided that a sweet Italian sausage would be perfect to add for protein and to finish the Italian theme out, I added almost 5 ounces of grated asiago cheese, small pasta shells, and cubed fresh mozzarella. Everything got stirred together, dumped into a baking dish, topped with a dusting of breadcrumbs, and put into the oven to bake at 350 degrees. I pulled the bubbling dish out 40 minutes later and when I scooped out the first serving, I could tell that the asiago was fully integrated into the dish, but that the cubes of mozzarella, while melted, had maintained their integrity so that there were long gooey strands of cheese with almost every bite. The casserole put a little spring back in my step and fortified me for yet another long winter night. I could call this dish “everything but the kitchen sink, Italian style, mac and cheese,” but "late winter casserole surprise” works just as well.

Brussels Sprout Conversion

2009-02-12T11:38:00.000-08:00

Brussels sprouts used to make me gag. They were bitter and mushy, and I hated the purple-brown bruised color they turned in the center. As a child, I would eat just about anything. Liver wasn’t a favorite, but I’d eat it. My father would make sandwiches of peanut butter, peaches, honey, and alfalfa sprouts. I hesitate to mention that he sometimes added cottage cheese for fear that no one would believe me, but its true, and I’d eat them. But, when it came to Brussels sprouts I remember pinching my nose shut, holding my breath, chewing a couple at a time, swallowing, and then gasping for breath before trying to wash the flavor away with a glass of milk. Oh, so, so disgusting.

In my twenties, I was re-introduced to Brussels sprouts by my friend Rick who doesn’t really like food. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sit down and eat a whole meal. He’s more of a grazer-- A little salad here, some almonds there, a handful of cheerios occasionally. So imagine my surprise when I walked into his apartment and he announced he was cooking Brussels sprouts for dinner. First, he doesn’t cook. Second, Brussels sprouts and only Brussels sprouts? I might actually have made a face, but he was excited-- went on and on about how he loves Brussels sprouts and how delicious they are and how easy they are to cook. I gathered my strength and sat down to eat Brussels sprouts for the first time in over 15 years. They weren’t bad. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they were good, but they were definitely edible, and that qualified as a miracle in my book. Rick had steamed them but they weren’t bitter and mushy. Some of them were still bruised purple in the center, but I didn’t eat those. Most importantly, he had sprinkled them with lemon pepper which added a sweet, salty tartness that elevated the sprouts from lumps of green obligation to surprising bites of spice and zest.

Since then, slowly at first, I’ve started cooking brussel sprouts myself. My favorite method is to roast them. I slice them in half, toss them with cubed apples and onions in some olive oil until they are well coated, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, add a squeeze of lemon, and roast them on a cookie sheet at 375 degrees until the edges of the outer leaves start to turn brown and crispy. Sometimes I crumble bacon over them. This recipe turns the Brussels sprouts into a dish that has people asking for seconds, leaving no leftovers, and clamoring for the recipe. I’ve even heard someone proclaiming with genuine surprise, “That was actually good.” Another convert. Thanks Rick.

Simple Pleasures

2008-12-03T10:51:00.000-08:00

Christine arrived at my apartment carrying a 2-3 lb bag of rolled oats, a jar of coconut oil, and a package of almonds. Plunking them down on the table she announced, “We’re making granola.” Christine is one of those friends who is game for anything. Helping someone move? She’ll pitch in, and bring a bag of trail mix to keep everyone’s energy up. Need to spend the day trying to decide which clothes to keep and which go to good will? Christine will lend her discerning eye to the cause. She’ll probably also have wine handy for when the piles of clothes become too overwhelming. She is the friend who makes everything fun and rarely demands anything in return.
So when Christine says we’re making granola, I’m only too happy to oblige. Besides, I love granola, and for me, the simpler the better--save the vanilla clusters, puffed corn, or yogurt coated cranberries for someone who cares. I like my granola with some dried fruit for tang, a few nuts, sunflower seeds for texture, and a hint of bitter sweetness that comes from sesame--Anything fancier than that starts to feel like dessert.

The two of us started going through my cabinets and pulled out currants, pecans, honey, and after consulting the two recipes she brought with her, a bottle of toasted sesame oil. Using a large mixing bowl, we tossed everything together, stirring well to make sure that the honey and oils coated all the dry ingredients. Next we dumped the raw granola onto a baking sheet and spread it out evenly. We put the dish in the oven, and for the next hour sat in the kitchen, getting up every 10-15 minutes to stir the granola so that it cooked evenly. When it came out of the oven the granola was a golden brown. It was crunchy with a mellow sweetness punctuated with bits of dried fruit and nuts. Simplicity at its best.

5 Cups old fashioned rolled oats
1/2 Cup raw sunflower seeds
1 Cup raw almonds, or combination of nuts
1 Cup unsweetened shredded coconut
1/4 cup sesame oil
1 Tbs. vanilla
1/4 Cup virgin coconut oil
1/2 Cup honey
1 Cup dried fruit (I like apricots, currants and cherries)

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees. In a large bowl, combine dry ingredients. Heat the two oils, vanilla, and honey over medium flame until coconut oil has melted. Add the warm liquids into the bowl of dry ingredients, stirring until evenly incorporated. Spread the mixture evenly onto two baking sheets, place into oven, and bake up to an hour, stirring every 10-15 minutes.

Figs and Gorgonzola

2008-11-11T12:39:00.000-08:00

The first rule in improvisational theatre, is never say, “No,” because once you do, everything stops. There is nowhere to go. Instead, if you say “yes, and ...”, the options are endless. For example, “Yes! I am a princess! And I live in the kingdom of Brooklynsylvaniabourg!” If you follow the same rule in the kitchen, all sorts of surprises can result. I was reminded of this a year ago when I was at my sister’s farm outside of Fredericksburg, trying to decide what to fix for dinner. Neither of us were up for a trip to the store, so we decided to make due with what was on hand. There wasn’t much. It was late September. The last of the tomatoes had been picked, and the peppers were long gone. The garden was bare. One little fig tree, tucked away behind the green house, was the only plant that still bore fruit. The figs on the tree were the tiniest I’ve ever seen-- Jewels of sweet earthiness no bigger than a quail’s egg. In the fridge was a block of gorgonzola and there was a box of rigatoni in the cabinet. I wanted to stuff the figs with the blue cheese and roast them. Emily suggested pasta. It didn’t sound good to me, but she was a new mother and feeling sensitive, so I gave a non-committal grunt and kept searching for more ingredients. The afternoon passed, and as dinnertime approached, I brought the subject up again. “What should we do with the figs and gorgonzola?” Emily gave me a steady look. “I’ve got sausage in the freezer. Lets make a pasta with all three.” I sighed, and went along with her idea. The dish was quick and easy to prepare and full of zesty cheese and bits of sweet earthiness. Even her husband, who isn’t a blue cheese fan, had seconds. Maybe he believes in “ Yes, and,” as well.

Cup of figs, cut in half
Cup of crumbled gorgonzola
3 sweet Italian sausages, casings removed
¼-1/2 cup white wine
3tbls olive oil
2/3 box rigatoni

Start water boiling for pasta. When water is at a rolling boil, add pasta, cooking until al-dente.
In skillet, cook sausages until well done. Remove cooked sausage from pan, and then add wine to the same pan, stirring over med-heat to de-glaze. When wine is reduced by half, add olive oil. Continue to stir. Season with salt and pepper (and sugar if the wine is too tart) to taste. Once wine oil mixture has a silky texture, turn down heat and add a tablespoon of gorgonzola. Remove skillet from heat.

When pasta is done, drain, but reserve ¼ cup liquid. Place the pasta and reserved liquid into serving bowl, and stir to incorporate. Add gorgonzola, sausage, and sauce. Top with the figs. Toss and serve.

Note—recently I wanted to make this again, but didn’t have any figs. I used green grapes instead, and it was delicious as well.

Birthday Cake Surprise

2008-11-11T11:47:00.000-08:00

My belief in the magic of birthday cakes started early. When my twin sister and I turned 10, we had a roller skating birthday party at the Old Mill Skating Rink. What I most remember about that party was that the cake was a giant blue and pink roller skate. We were the coolest 5th graders ever! From that point on, I believed birthday cakes were supposed to be big, beautiful, and fanciful, and part of me will always fall sway to the perky pastel birthday cakes of the world. As I grew up, however, I realized that the cakes that truly satisfied me were usually the ones that had a more humble aspect-- The ones where the effort wasn’t in the appearance, but in the taste. The perfect example is the humble caramel cake. The lumpy golden brown frosting might not look “festive” but as that frosting melts on the tongue, one can experience pure bliss. But no matter what type of cake you prefer, one thing remains true. When the cake arrives, so do the smiles. That’s magic.

Sean has been in our lives for 20 years and for his 40th birthday, my mother and I wanted to make him the best cake ever. My sister Sydney, who is about 7 years older than me, first brought Sean home to meet the family when I was in 7th grade. He was a very quiet college sophomore with long dark hair that almost hid his sweet sad eyes. Emily (my twin) and I discovered he was funny. If we stopped talking long enough, he would actually have the opportunity to respond, and usually what he had to say would make us laugh. By the time Sydney and Sean got married, he had become the most adored person in the family. He would help Mom clean up after dinner, discuss his latest art project with daddy, and bring Emily and me his most recent comic books. Now, as a father of three boys, he rises at 6:15 am, makes coffee, and then gets the boys up. After breakfast, he walks them to the bus stop, making sure they’ve got all of their school supplies. He smiles with pride whenever the boys present the latest Lego starship they’ve created. He and Sydney still hold hands, and enjoy trying to gross the kids out by kissing in the kitchen.

In short, Sean has lived a forty-year life worthy of an incredible cake. Mom and I decided to make one of her favorites, a lemon teacake. Light, and plenty tart, with a lemon glaze, it seemed perfect for a hot July day in Virginia. However, we wanted to “fancy” it up for the birthday—the cake is delicious, but very plain looking. Mom pulled out the Cake Bible and turned to butter creams. Quickly we realized a traditional butter cream wouldn’t work because the recipe calls for 4-5 egg yolks, and my sister Sydney abhors eggs. She hates the smell, the texture, and the taste of them. And not just eggs by themselves, she hates them in baked items. If a pastry has an egg wash on it, she will refuse it. How does she know it has an egg wash? She’ll smell it. She can barely tolerate sitting at a table where others are eating poached or sunny side up eggs—the oozing yellow makes her nauseous. Chocolate soufflés are out of the question. Her ability to sniff out eggs in food items never ceases to amaze me. I think of this as her superhuman mutant talent. Needless to say, a butter cream that calls for 4-5 egg yolks was not an option.

Flip, flip, flip went the pages until we found a white chocolate butter cream. No eggs. Plus, it called for a bit of lemon juice, which would complement our lemon cake perfectly, and the white chocolate would add a silkiness and an additional layer of flavor to an otherwise standard icing. Cheered, we started writing out grocery lists, pulling items out of the fridge, calculating how much butter cream we would need.

At some point during all of this a neighbor called, telling us her blueberries were ready, if we wanted to come pick some. We were ecstatic because we both realized at that instant that blueberries were the final touch we were looking for. The sweet tartness of the lemon cake giving way to the burst of blueberry, soothed over by a touch of creamy decadence. The plan was finalized. The lemon teacake would have a middle layer of white chocolate butter cream studded with whole blueberries. The top of the cake would have the lemon glaze and more blueberries sprinkled about. In my mind, the cake had a look of whimsical elegance—the simplicity of the lemon glaze drizzling down the sides of the yellow cake checked by cheerful blueberries.

Picking the blueberries took an hour (between chatting with the neighbor and playing with her 4 month old puppy). Her blueberry bushes are over 6 feet tall, with branches sagging under the weight of the berries, and we couldn’t stop ourselves from picking more, more, more. Shopping took a couple of hours. By then, it was dinnertime. After dinner, we started squeezing and zesting 7 lemons, creaming the butter, measuring the flour. Next thing we knew, it was 10:30pm. With a sigh of resignation, we went to bed.

Next morning, we got up early, took the batter out of the fridge to warm, and by 9:30am were back in the thick of things. Butter cream, lemon glaze, and lemon syrup all had to be made. Cake to check in the oven. Wash dishes, wash dishes, wash dishes.

Once we were done with the baking, we put everything into separate containers, saran wrapped the cakes, loaded up the car and drove 2 hours to my sister’s house. There, my mother, my youngest nephew, Quinn (age 4), and I started assembling the birthday cake. Quinn loves to help out in the kitchen. He stands on a footstool at the end of the counter and will stir whatever is put in front of him. Mamma stabbed the layers of cake with a fork and then poured the syrup over the holes. After the lemon syrup has been absorbed, I spread the white chocolate butter cream on a middle layer, and Quinn dropped on the blueberries. Carefully, we put the second layer on top. As we assembled, it became apparent, this was not going to be a good looking cake. Did I mention it was rectangular? Two rectangular cakes, sliced in half lengthwise with a center of white butter cream and blueberries that left gaping holes of nothingness. The top of the cake started to look like a watercolor that had been rained on. Splotches of blue and yellow with smears and streaks ran down the side. The more blueberries we added, the sillier it looked. In the end, we propped the sections of cake against each other, threw some lemon slices on the top to cover up some patchiness, and put as many birthday candles on as possible. The cake was hideous. But! As the cake was served, conversation ceased. The only sounds were the scraping of plates and umms of pleasure until Sean, mouth full with the his last bite of cake said, “My favorite part is how the blueberries compliment the blue of my eyes.” Well, at least we got that right.

my father’s pancakes

2008-08-05T05:17:00.000-07:00

Growing up, most mornings my father would wake us bellowing, “Breakfast”. My childhood home was filled with yelling-- Not the angry type usually, but rather the kind of yelling that comes from being downstairs and trying to get the attention of someone upstairs. There was plenty of chasing, tickling, and laughter, all done at top volume. When it was time to feed the animals, one of us would stand on the front porch calling and calling until all were accounted for. The nearest neighbors were a field away, so we didn't worry about disturbing anyone.

We were not a family who did things quietly. My father, tall and bearded, was the best bellower of us all. His voice, deep and even, felt like it could shake the floorboards when he used it to its fullest extent. Even if he was having a simple conversation, I could hear the rumble of his voice from the floor above. The home I grew up in was a simple white wooden farmhouse built just around the turn of the 20th century near the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia. There were three bedrooms upstairs, two family rooms and a kitchen downstairs. Of all of these rooms, the one I loved the most was the kitchen. It had two windows, one facing the north, with the Rappahanock River in the distance, the other facing east and looking out onto the back deck. There was a wooden island in the center, over which hung all of the well used pots and pans. The cast iron skillet and stew pot sat on the white enameled 1940’s stove. There were drips on the yellow walls from various cooking accidents. The rust and chocolate brown linoleum floor was cracked and peeling, and there was a big, round stain on the ceiling, just over the stove, that was a result of a leak from the bathtub above. My mother believed that separate dining rooms were a waste of space (at least in her house), so the table sat across from the island. A couple of my father’s paintings hung above the china cabinet. There was nothing froufrou about the kitchen.

On school days, my sister, mother, and I would make our way down the creaking wooden stairs, yawning and rubbing our eyes, to settle at the scarred kitchen table. With elbows on the table, Emily and I would wait for daddy to serve up oatmeal and wheat toast, or cold cereal (wheaties, cheerios, cornflakes—no sugared cereals for us) and toast, while mom poured us orange juice. Quietly, the four of us would eat our breakfast letting the voices of NPR’s Nina Tottenberg and Bob Edwards soak into our heads as we passed the butter, poured milk into our bowls, asked for more sugar. After 15-20 minutes one of our parents would say, “Okay girls, time to get ready.” We’d take our dishes to the sink and then, finally awake, race each other up the stairs, trying to beat the other to the shower. Weekday breakfasts were about nutrition, sustenance, and speed.

Breakfast on Saturday was another matter. We’d still get awakened with a thundering, “Breakfast!”. We’d still walk blearily to the kitchen, but instead of the boring weekday fare, there would be something yummy waiting for us. Biscuits and scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese. French toast covered with powdered sugar and maple syrup warmed at the stove by our mother. Bacon. Sausage. Pancakes. Ahhh, pancakes. There was nothing better than sitting at the kitchen table, watching Daddy pour the batter into the skillet, knowing that in less than 5 minutes pancakes were going to be on my plate. He used an electric skillet and could cook 5 pancakes at a time. Daddy would continue cooking until either the batter ran out, or we gave up, but as a kid I could eat about 5, so usually the batter ran out. Daddy’s pancakes weren’t light airy things, rather they were substantial enough to soak up syrup without turning to mush. This was because he added wheat germ to his batter, which in addition imparted an almost nutty flavor to the pancakes. Sometimes he wouldn’t stir the batter as thoroughly as he should and we would have to pick out the balls of dry flour from the cakes. Mom would say, “Earl you’ve got to make sure you stir it enough”. He’d reply with a grunt and an exasperated, “Well, I don’t want to over stir it either, do I?” Emily and I would compare our flour balls, looking for the biggest.

I discovered, when I left my parents house for college, that my idea of pancakes differs greatly from others’ ideas of pancakes. I could never find any that made me happy. Sometimes they’d be too puffy and taste like baking powder, almost metallic-y. Other times they’d be too thin and tough, with the only flavor coming from maple colored corn syrup. They were always too pale as if cooked on too low a heat.

Even now, I never order pancakes for breakfast (or for that matter French toast), because I know they will never stand up to the pancakes of my youth. In my small Brooklyn apartment, I usually have granola and yogurt, or raisin bread with peanut butter and honey. I eat by myself, because my husband and I have been unable to work out a feasible breakfast schedule. Sometimes, however, I’ll get the urge to make pancakes, usually on a Saturday. I always use my father’s recipe. We clear the kitchen table of all its papers, books, gum wrappers, and bags. After heating the syrup in the microwave, the two of us sit and eat a rare breakfast together. Sometimes we’ll have mimosas, a drink never seen in my parents’ house. These breakfasts are a treat, and the pancakes are good, yet …they fail to satisfy this certain craving in the corner of my heart. Because what I really want are the pancakes of my youth.

I want to be back in my parent’s kitchen where, in the quiet of a new day, I would sit in my nightgown watching my father pour batter into a smoking skillet. Where the four of us would gather, drinking orange juice, listening to weekend edition, and mom would start making a list of objectives for the day. Where the cat would jump into my lap and pretend to be interested in my empty plate, and as Car Talk came on, Emily and I would prepare for the next bellowed word, “Chores!”.

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Daddy's Pancakes

1 egg
1 1/3 Cup milk
1/4 Cup melted butter
1 1/4 Cup flour
1/3 Cup wheat germ
1 Tbls sugar
2 tsp baking powder
dash of salt

Whisk all the liquids in a bowl. In a larger bowl, combine all dry ingredients. Add the liquid mixture to the dry ingredients, stirring until all ingredients are incorporated, and only small lumps remain. Place a lightly oiled skillet over medium heat. Using a 1/3 cup measure, pour batter, in batches, into skillet. Once the batter has formed bubbles, flip the pancakes. Remove when both sides are browned.