What Truth I Have

Here are my truths tonight:

*I chose the Trebuchet font just because its name sounds French.

* My dinner fell apart tonight--literally.  I should have read my own salmon patty recipe.  Or added an egg when I found less mayonnaise in the jar than I remembered.  Also, the corn salad with feta and walnuts that I planned to photograph and rave to you about seemed dry somehow.  And my pie crust was tough.  How did that happen?

*I'm as tired tonight as I usually am on Thursday.  And it's only Monday.  And I rested well all weekend.  Where is the logic? 

*A catering bid was rejected.  Back to the drawing board, less than two weeks from service. Now I have to meet and redraft plans tomorrow instead of puttering about peacefully at home, keeping dirt and disorder at bay.  Keeping dirt and disorder at bay is very important to me.

*My neck crinkles when I turn my head.  What does that mean?

*It's time to get ready for bed, and my son hasn't made it in yet.  No mother relaxes under that circumstance.  Oh, and I haven't seen him for two weeks. I kept looking out the window while I was washing the (seemingly endless--I almost shoved them into the dishwasher until I remembered how many can't go in there anyway) dishes. Long expectancy is tiring.

Apparently it's one of the days to bag it, ditch it, give it up, turn in.  Just go to bed and start over tomorrow.

Here's another truth:  It all gets better eventually.  Always.  That's enough to rest on.

Bonne nuit.

Hi! I Made Laminated Dough Today. What Did You Do?

My fancy baking fit was brought on by the professional need to practice.  My students (still feels strange to say that) will be doing them in a little over a week, and I am not an expert on them.  While I've baked thousands of pies, loaves of bread, and cookies--plus a goodly number of cakes--Danish and croissants and puff pastry never quite made their way into circulation with me.  The only exposure I've had to them was in school, where they turned out well enough for someone new to them, meaning that they were pleasantly edible.  A fine start, I thought.

Still, I'm the (double ahem) teacher.  I need to be able to answer their how and why questions. I need more than a start now. Thus the practice.

After putting in my training time, it is official:  I am an absolute baking geek.  Now that my class is in the kitchen, I find myself truly excited to see how their efforts turn out.  Today, pounding butter and rolling it into the dough and folding and turning and chilling----I loved all that, too.  Creating happy dough just feels good, and the effects achieved with a little flour and butter are amazing.  My effects today weren't as amazing as I hope they will be someday (there could be more layers showing), but oh were they edible!

When I lifted the lid off the cake plate where my chocolate (of course) filled Danish coffee cake resides to nab a slice for a photo sitting, I could instantly smell the butter, even before the much loved chocolate.  Simple, rich, and beautiful.  The stuff of the good life.  The kind of food that makes me and my husband look at each other while we eat it with what I think is the same thought:  We have it so good.  Home made Danish.  Gyaw!

I think I never contemplated making laminated dough products before because I thought they were fancy and hard.  Fancy they are in a way.  All those showy layers, such a flaunt of chemical miracle.  But hard?  Not really.  There is a level of technique to master, but even that comes down to basics like keeping the dough and butter cold.  If you do that, everything else is manageable. Really.  

Even the ingredients are basic: flour, sugar, yeast, salt, milk, eggs, butter.  They could be purchased at even the most woefully untrendy grocery store anywhere in America, maybe even in a food desert.  What makes the fanciness is how the baker combines them.  I associated them with professional bakers in big cities or precious cafes in faraway France, but by ingredient list, they could rightfully be at home on the farm, too.  Or anywhere one wants to make an everyday amazement. 

I just realized in the middle of the above paragraph that I suffered the same delusion about laminated doughs as I did for years about bread.  (See rant here.)  Somehow I became convinced that both were something that I could not do for myself, so I should just resign myself to buying them. Well, it's just not true. So what else isn't beyond me?  Cheese making?  Bacon curing?  Underwater basket weaving?

I have this teaching job to thank for my DIY thrill.  Apparently it's true that we really do learn a lot by teaching. I also had never considered measuring solid fats by making use of the water displacement rule I learned in geometry so you don't have to scrape out the messy measuring cup. I may not take up the technique, but the ingenuity impresses me.  Go, Holly and mother!

The other person I have to thank for my fancy dough breakthrough is Joe Pastry.  He writes a thorough and wide ranging blog about baking that was very useful today.  His recipe and methods were, I'm sorry to say, easier than those in the textbook assigned to my class.  I really should put a few bucks in his tip jar for services rendered.

I still have half the dough left.  I'm itching to bake up some lovelies with it and share with friends who don't yet know that they could do it, too.  We all should get to know that miracles are often made of the simplest stuff.

We Licked Our Plates

Unfortunately, when I sit down here I don't come alone.  My shadows come, too.  The devil on my left shoulder, the resistance in my belly, the ghost of potential failure--they show up sneering.
 
I'm not the only one with this problem.  Molly of Orangette fame, who in addition to her blog can count Bon Appetit articles and both a published book and a book in the works among her accomplishments, recently wrote a post about the difficulty in just doing the writing, despite her passion for her subjects and her undeniable complusion toward the craft.  She compared getting ready to write to sitting outside a dark cave, afraid to go in.  So many commenters shared her feelings, including me.  Welcome to my cave.  

It's not all dark and scary in here.  The food is quite good these days.  Occasionally something is so good that I know I must brave the dark inside to nail it down.  Like this beauty being kissed by the setting sun's warm rays.

How silly that I used to protest limitations. They are such fodder for creativity now, a Cinderella story waiting to be told. Sunday night I had two egg whites left from a sabayon whimsy and nearly a pound of dark, sweet cherries that wouldn't be resting quietly in the fridge much longer. I recalled David Liebovitz's recipe for cherries in red wine syrup before I remembered the waning egg whites, then realized with delight that they could be quite the match, a beautiful and frugal pair with a swan song worth hearing, or eating as the case turned out to be.

To the puny devil that tries to tie down my fingers and my heart, I say take that!  He used to show up in the kitchen, too.  My mental gears used to grind to a halt while he smirked in self-prophesied satisfaction when I tried audaciously to work with who I am and what I had.  But I didn't let him win.  I went to culinary school anyway, even though I wasn't sure how I'd pay for it, or if I'd ever use all that education professionally, and even though I sometimes felt like quite the imposter in those kitchens.  I brushed right past the cobwebs enough times that I got what I personally wanted in my own kitchen--his absence and purring gears.

We'll also eat three meals this week that are my own creations for good or ill.  So I win.  Air out the cave. I'm coming in with a dessert as deeply red as a blood sacrifice but way less painful.  Pure pleasure in fact.  Gently fracturing meringue, winey (but not too winey) sweet cherry flesh, and a soft cap of whipped cream.  My husband loves me more now.  Again.  And we licked our plates just to spite all demons of despair everywhere.  

It won't be too long before I share this with guests. (The little punk demon used to say that I couldn't do that either.  Shows what he knows.)  It's perfect for company after all.  The cherries and meringues can be made up to days ahead.  Just whip the cream, assemble, and wait for the groans.  They'll want to lick their plates, but they'll be too polite.  Poor guests.

I feel much better now.  Almost as good as I did about the time my plate looked like this.

And aren't those colors wonderful together?

Cherries in Red Wine Syrup

from David Liebovitz, bless him, with minor tweaking

1 pound fresh cherries, stemmed and pitted

1/2 cup 2 tablespoons sugar

1 1/4 cups red wine

2 teaspoons corn starch

1/4 teaspoon almond extract

Put the cherries and sugar in a large, wide saucepan.

Mix one tablespoon of the red wine with the corn starch in a small bowl until it's dissolved and set aside.  

Add the rest of the wine to the saucepan.  Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce the heat to a low boil and cook, stirring frequently, for about 12 minutes, until the cherries are completely wilted and softened through.

During the last moments of cooking, stir in the corn starch slurry and let the mixture boil an additional minute or two, to thicken the juices.

Remove from the heat and stir in the almond extract.  Cool to room temperature.

Storage:  The cherries will keep up to one week in the refrigerator or can be frozen for up to six months.

Meringue Nests

Makes 6

2 egg whites

1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 cup granulated sugar

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Put the egg whites, cream of tartar, and vanilla in the bowl of an electric mixer.  Mix on high speed until soft peaks form.  Gradually add the sugar, beating until stiff peaks form.  Form into six nests on parchment lined baking sheets.  Place in oven and turn off the heat.  Leave in the turned-off oven overnight. 

Sweetened Whipped Cream

1/3 cup whipping cream

2 tablespoons powdered sugar

Place whipping cream and powdered sugar in chilled bowl.  Whip by hand or with an electric mixer until soft peaks form. 



A New Job and a Good Idea

For days and days I've wanted to record my above mentioned good idea, but the also above mentioned new job got in the way.  As of yesterday, I'm now teaching Basic Baking at a nearby community college's culinary school.  Boy, have I learned that teachers have a lot of work to do before they ever even see a student in the classroom.  I've had to do all sorts of new things--create syllabi, prepare for lecture, find teacher resources, and navigate the administrative requirements of being new to the institution.  All of that thas been challenging, wonderful--and preoccupying.  I haven't had a spare focused moment to tell you about this. 

And you need to know about this.  A good old fashioned hamburger upgraded with smoked cheddar and caramelized onions.  So simple and so good.  You don't even need a recipe, just the idea.

Well, you might need to know how to caramelize onions if you haven't before.  That's not hard. Slice some onions (I prefer purple/red/whatever you call them, half of one per person), toss them in a skillet with a little oil over lowish heat, and let them cook until they're deeply browned, thoroughly relaxed, and transformedly sweet.  Stir them occasionally for eveness.  Add a smidge of water if they seem stickish.  That's about all the maintenance they'll need for their 20 to 30 minutes or so of cooking time. I started mine and let them turn marvelous while I prepared the rest of the meal. 

And marvelous they are.  I cannot now believe that I didn't fall in love at first taste with caramelized onions. All that slow cooking and browning (here we go with the powers of browning again) vanquishes the biting, sulfurous side of the onion and reveals the hidden sugars in all their mellow glory.  I'm still working on 100 percent unadulterated endorsement of the texture of cooked onions, but the taste helps me ratchet up to at least 90 percent.

Those tasty, slippery sweet onions are mightily complemented by the smoke and tang of the cheddar.  And don't just go for smoke here.  Get a sharp cheddar for the duo.  Our second helping of this combo wore a milder one, and we missed what my mama would call the wang.

According to my research, some wild people even add a dollop of barbecue sauce as well.  That could happen here at the barn.  But what really leaped to mind while devouring this burger was a pizza with smoked cheddar, caramelized onions, arugula, and bacon.  One good thing leads to another, you know. Eventually. When I'm not inventing professional wheels.  Until then, this goes in the repertoire.  Consider it for yours.

Now, back to playing teacher!

White Beans and Cabbage and the Sin of Envy

Here's another easy dinner that's full of nutritional goodness and graced by a tiny fillip that makes it special.  Beans, veggies, a touch of carbohydrates, and a smidge of thyme.  Dinner out of Granny's cast iron skillet but not grandma style.  Because it's Heidi's idea.

Heidi Swanson, that is.  She's definitely no grandma.  She's currently a darling of the foodie world, with a popular blog (101 cookbooks) and now two cookbooks of her own.  Jaden Hair at Steamy Kitchen (among many others) posted this recipe from Heidi's latest book, where I found it in an ingredient based search, quite by accident.  It was a good enough dinner that it got repeated.  Always notable around here.

I'm thinking that one of the secrets of the dish is browning.   Apparently Heidi understands the power of caramelization, or the Maillard reaction, whichever the case may be.  (Unless you're an Alton Brown wannabe, just go with browning.)  First, diced potatoes are pan-fried. And let's face the truth here: any meal that starts with fried potatoes shows promise, whether fancy or down home.  No one is immune to their appeal.  Then the beans and onions are added to the skillet and, yes, browned.  More fond appears, the fancy French word for the flavorful bits left on the bottom after browning, sauteeing, etc. 

Here comes another trick.  The cabbage goes in only briefly.  Nothing sulfurous has time to happen.  The wholesome vegetable ends up barely and pleasantly cooked, with no gas warfare. 

The final fillip mentioned earlier is a bit of thyme.  Now, to be frank, thyme (or to be more specific, dried thyme) makes me wary.  Everyone has their sensitivities; thyme is one of mine.  If used too liberally, it seems to elbow every other flavor out of the way.  It gets....well....pushy on my palate.  Maybe that's a personal problem. Maybe I'd like it much better fresh, if I ever get some planted.  Either way, I adjusted the amount to suit my fear level. That said, I was pleasantly surprised that the thyme seemed just right.  It was the grace note that completed the elevation of this skillet supper beyond uninspired to interesting.

Oh that Heidi and her tricks.  She inspires me to envy, but that's really my problem.  Truth be told, she takes beautiful photographs and shares/creates healthy, usually quick and simple food.  So I certainly get what all the fuss is about.  I don't know that I'll ever be able to afford even half the things on her occasional favorites lists (I don't even know what some of them are.  They're probably only available in big cities, where I am determinedly not.), but I do understand and crave beauty.  That, she knows.  And a few good dinners besides.

My only quibble with this particular nurturing concoction is the alleged quantity. The recipe states that it will feed four. We only get about three servings out of it, and I am a bird eater not known for dishing out honking servings. Just ask my husband. To prevent a bed time snack the second time around--and to help use up an open tin--I added anchovy toast to our menu.

Anchovies are something else that I've found scary in the past.  I tried them on pizza once and did not like their exposively salty, briny, fishy flavor. I have since matured and learned that balance is required in all things.  I minced up a couple of fillets with chopped cilantro, grated Parmigiano, extra virgin olive oil, and a little ground mustard.  Spread on toasted rustic bread and topped with more Parmigiano, the combo was quite good--salty, yes, but grounded by the fats in the oil and cheese to a pleasant level.  Plus it added a little protein to balance out the extra carbohydrates in the bread, in case you need to worry about such things.  And I do.  

I'm also tempted, especially during the winter, to add a bit of sausage or bacon to Heidi's dish.  I can't help myself.  I'm cured-pork dependent!

By the way, my favorite part of the (non-Heidi-quality) photo is the color of the rose wine against the deep blue of the ticking stripe table runner.  That's a beauty bonus for me.  Dinner with a side of pretty rather than envy!  May it ever be so.

White Beans and Cabbage
from Super Natural Every Day via Steamy Kitchen

Serves: 3-4

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 ounces potato, scrubbed and cut into 1/4-inch dice
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme or 3-4 springs fresh thyme
1/2 onion, minced
One 15-ounce can white beans, drained and rinsed
3 cups very thinly sliced or shredeed green cabbage
Salt and pepper to taste

Warm the olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat.  Add the potatoes and spread them out evenly in the pan.  Cook the potatoes for five minutes or until cooked through, scraping and tossing them to make sure they brown on all sides.  

Add the thyme, onion, and white beans and spread around the bottom of the skillet.  Let cook undistrubed for 2 minutes or so to brown just a bit, then scrape and toss again.  Cook until the beans are nicely browned on both sides.  (Unless they start to fall apart, which my cannellini beans did.  Still tastes good though.)

Stir in the cabbage and cook for another minute. Season with salt and pepper to taste.  Remove from heat when cabbage is just wilted and serve. 


Anchovy Toast

Covers 2 slices rustic bread.  

2 anchovy filets
1 clove garlic 
2 tablespoons chopped cilantro or parsley
Pinch or two ground mustard
1/4 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
Extra virgin olive oil
2 slices rustic bread, toasted

Mince up the anchovy filets and garlic and place in a small bowl.  Add the chopped cilantro, ground mustard, and half the grated Parmigiano. Drizzle in enough olive oil to make spreadable.  Spread on toasted bread and top with remaining cheese.  Place under broiler or in microwave oven briefly to soften the Parmigiano if desired.

A Craving is a Craving

I have an absolute fixation on Saturday breakfast.  Even though I happily eat the same breakfast the other six days of the week (4 ounces of whole-milk Greek yogurt with homemade granola and fresh or dried fruit), on that glorious weekend morning, I must have something different, something cooked, something indulgent even.  Like sausage gravy and biscuits when my father-in-law's spicy sausage is in house; waffles of one kind or another with bacon; or French toast with sour cream or yogurt and jam, a fabulous idea I picked up over at Poor Girl Gourmet.  The two toppings on that last one aggrandize quickie egg-dipped loaf-bread slices in a surprisingly good way. We've come back to that treat a few times over now.  

Recently, however, I got the hankering to try French toast in a new easy and good way--the overnight way.   I had tried the idea many years ago from a recipe that I guiltily tore out of a doctor's exam room magazine. (Isn't that like stealing? I don't normally do such things!)  I probably absconded with it because the recipe had a French name, trou pain perdu, which literally means lost bread found, referring to the transformation of day old bread into a fresh new meal.  It apparently wasn't a hit with me way back when, but tastes change. (They really do. I eat condiments on my burgers now and love vegetables!) It was worth another try.

I'm glad I made that decision.  After soaking up a lightly sweetened egg and milk mixture all night, thick slices of rustic bread become almost pastry like in flavor, with a center texture like pudding cake and edges that are browned and crusty. It's creme anglaise rich without being overly sweet. In a word, dee-lish.  And the only work required in the morning is sticking the pan in the oven!

This method is also a great way to have all the French toast ready at the same time--no holding in the oven, no tending of multiple skillets--so it would be great for a crowd.

It might also be better for cooler times than the last week (Or is it two?), when turning the oven on seems like a crazy idea, even with central cooling running.  But a craving is a craving. If it's good enough to defy the heat, it must be a keeper.

For all its charms, this recipe is a basic one. I'm already aware of fancier versions out there--stuffed with jam, lidded with caramel, brightened by citrus, etc.  Someday they may call to me.  But for now, I'm happy to add this one to my personal repertoire.

Overnight French Toast
Adapted from Epicurious

Serves: 4    (I cut it in half for just the two of us.)

1 1/2 tablespoons butter, melted
4 3/4-inch-thick slices rustic bread
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
4 teaspoons sugar
1 tablespoon maple syrup
Dash vanilla extract
Pinch salt

Spread butter over bottom of a large heavy baking pan with at least one inch sides.  Arrange bread slices in pan.  Beat eggs, milk, sugar, maple syrup, vanilla, and salt to blend in a large bowl.  Pour mixture over bread.  Turn bread slices to coat.  Cover and refrigerate overnight.

In the morning, preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Bake bread 15 minutes.  Turn bread over and bake 10 minutes longer or until golden brown.  Serve sprinkled with powdered sugar just because it's so pretty!

Sweet in the End

In the past, I have thought that my life has been remarkably untouched by death.  I have been at times possessed by the fear of it, but have been brushed by it very seldom.  During my childhood, I only remember attending one funeral, for a neighbor woman who was the mother of our down-the-alley playmates.  I still recall the bright red dress I wore. The sorrowfulness of the event was apparently lost on me.

My presence was not required at a funeral again until I was twenty seven, when my great-grandmother, who functioned more as an actual grandmother and who helped raise me, died after 97 long years of life.  I wore appropiately sober colors but was late to her memorial service because my new born son was excessively fussy during the three-and-a-half hour drive to my hometown.  The needs of the new life in my care interfered with my duties to the departed and insulated me somewhat from the loss.  Besides, it seemed appropriate and acceptable that she should leave a life that had become what she had explicitly never wanted--an existence in a nursing home fed by a tube.  I felt no tearful resistance.  It was her time. 

In the ensuing years, I attended a few other funerals for acquaintances from work or church, still insulated from grief by the space between their hearts and mine.  Each time I would marvel a bit that no one really close to me had died yet.  I knew my time must surely come.

Then I got one of those phone calls.  My mother, crying (she doesn't cry often) and saying that Jerry was dead.  In my shock, the dumb question I could form was whether she meant my father or my brother, for they share the same name.  She answered that it was my brother. There followed information about the circumstances, arrangements.  I remember none of it.  But I will always remember her voice saying "Jerry is dead."  Forever, echoing in memory.  It's been years now.  I'm pretty sure it's here to stay.

That funeral had me.  I was no longer in the outer circles of loss and grief.  I was the family member in black standing in line by the casket, greeting the visitors, recognizing faces from childhood, crying, laughing, remembering, touched by the loveliness of those who came to say goodbye and comfort us.

My brother was only 37 when he was found dead on his bathroom floor.  We waited for six months to find out why from the autopsy report, which turned out to be weakly conclusive at best.  I will never know why he had to die the way and when he did, just as I never really knew the heart of him.  It turns out we can grieve what we don't know as well as what we know intimately.  We can grieve what wasn't as deeply as what was.

Since my brother's funeral service--my initiation into grief--I've been more tender toward loss.  I know how quickly it can come.  I know how important it is to pay those respects.  I find it a privilege to sit with the mourning, to conduct what rituals we have to mark the ending of life.  Which was a good thing these last two weeks.  There have been two funerals, both oddly enough for men named Gary that I barely knew but was honored to help memorialize.  I've sung and baked gladly because these are the little things that we can do for each other while we are here.  They are sometimes bigger than we think.

When my brother died so unexpectedly, I reached for meaning and sense among the wrongness of it all.  I tried to let the pain pass through me and accept what undeniably was, but I wondered how we could peacefully memorialize a life that didn't seem to us to be done.   He hadn't had time to do great things, to win the victories that by all rights should have been his.  He was just, like most of us, a good, hard working person trying to defeat the pain this world can sometimes deal out--not rich, not overtly "successful."  What was there to report of this abruptly ended life?

I got my answer when my brother's neighbor stood up to tell the story of how Jerry came over and fixed his heating unit when it went out one winter and the repairman wasn't going to be available for days.  He was helpful enough that this casual aquaintance chose to speak at the funeral and mowed his lawn for the years that the house had to sit empty while the estate was settled.  My brother wasn't rich or famous or powerful, but he was good to someone while he was here.  As far as I know, he never really hurt anyone except himself.  Not many of us can say that.

Hearing that story at Jerry's funeral led me to make a new habit.  Every night since then, when I say my prayers, I think of my brother and ask that God help us to be better people so that we may be better to each other while we're here. The little things we do matter:  Lending a hand to a neighbor.  Showing up to express sympathy.  Sending a card or note.  Saying that positive thought out loud. You never know what it might mean to the recipient.

That's why I feel privileged to attend funerals, bake lunch for the free medical clinic, pray for those requesting it, hug those I love.  If there is nothing else brave and grand we can do in this life, we can all leave love behind.  It's the best legacy.

Baking doesn't hurt either.  The cake I baked for the second grieving family that it was my privilege to feed is not my gourmet fantasy, but it did make use of part of a two-liter bottle of Coca Cola that my son's friends left in my refrigerator.  I don't drink sodas, so I turned it into a sweet gift of love.  Like dealing with death, it's good to make the best of what we get, even if it isn't what we wanted.  It just might turn out sweet in the end.

Coca Cola Cake
from MyRecipes

Yield: 12 servings

1 cup Coca Cola
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 cup butter, softened
1 3/4 cups sugar
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup cocoa
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 cups miniature marshmallows

Combine Coca Cola and butter milk; set aside.

Beat butter at low speed of an electric mixer until creamy. Add sugar and beat until light and fluffy. Add eggs and vanilla; beat at low speed until blended.

Combine flour, cocoa, and soda. Add to butter mixture alternately with cola mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Beat at low speed just until blended.

Stir in marshmallows.  Pour batter into greased and floured 9- X 13-inch pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes.  Remove from oven; cool 10 minutes.  While cake cools, make Coca Cola frosting.  Pour frosting over warm cake.

Note: Do not make the frosting ahead. It needs go on the warm cake while still warm itself.


Coca Cola Frosting

1/2 cup butter
1/3 cup Coca Cola
3 tablespoons cocoa powder
1 lb powdered sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Bring first three ingredients to a boil in a large saucepan over medium heat, stirring until butter melts.  Remove from heat; whisk in sugar and vanilla.