Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
It's messy, so messy
Baking in the afternoon. Today is Yom Kippur, and I'm with a chocolate cake, wet wrists, licking from the bowl. Atonement, it's a nice idea.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Hello, again!
I'm back. After a summer writing and working for Diner Journal, I'm back. Below is the last of the blog entries I wrote. This is what I've been up to. It's been just great.
photo by Anna Dunn
Butch 8.21.08
So, uh, since I've spent three posts and an entire summer doomsdaying my way through the history of meat eating – and, since, the whole point of that tirade was to tell you something else, something wonderful, and not just make you depressed about your love of pork belly, I figured, well, I should probably tell you about that something else:
Tom Mylan is the in-house butcher for these restaurants.
You may already know this. Or you may not know this. But undoubtedly, if you've tasted this meat, you will want to know more about this.
I go back into the walk-in. Tom is slicing through a dark, shiny orb that turns out to be beef liver. It's Wednesday, so he's working through the two pigs and steer that arrived from Fleischer's yesterday. They arrived hanging weight meat, huge hulks of muscle and tissue and bone and skin. By now he's gotten the pigs into primal thirds: shoulder, loin, belly, sirloin and ham. He gestures to an invisible stack of pigs on the block, saying, "All this is done."
The radio is on and it's hot. Mark's coming to take meat to Bonita and we have to get those bags of it into a cooler for him. I jump in and once we've loaded the meat in half way, Tom warns, "Watch out, they're a little bloody on the outside."
Then we're back to talking beef. Tom tells me about smoking, brining, braising. I ask about the burgers. He grinds the beef twice so it sticks together, but it's still coarser than most ground beef because the holes on the grind plate are larger. That's what gives the burgers their meaty quality – there's more whole muscle in them.
Tom talks with such ease about cutting up meat that it's hard to believe he hasn't been doing it forever. Just a few years ago, Tom was in charge of the grocery at Marlow and editing the journal with Anna when he walked passed Cheffie and Andrew outside of Diner one day. They told him they were considering getting an in-house butcher so they could get hanging weight meat from Fleischer's. And he said something like, "That sounds really, really cool." And they said, "Wanna do it?"
He moved in with Josh and Jessica of Fleischer's, lived on their futon with their mastiff Booboo and a giant tortoise. Every morning it was "beef leg, beef leg, beef leg." He began to collect books on the subject like a Navy meat manual from 1945 and watched educational clips on You Tube.
And it has paid off. According to Tom, getting hanging weight (100-180 pound sections) meat is the only way for a restaurant to be able to afford getting grass-fed, local, properly raised meat. There's a lot of flexibility. Tom gets together with Juventino, Sean and Dave, and they can cut any way they want, make stylistic choices that wouldn't be possible if their meat came out of Cryovac. And it's a lot more exciting to cook here. Curing lardo, rendering it, whipping it. Dealing with odds and ends. Says Tom, "Limitations, not infinite possibilities, are what make great, classic cuisine." Agreed.
Tom Mylan is the in-house butcher for these restaurants.
You may already know this. Or you may not know this. But undoubtedly, if you've tasted this meat, you will want to know more about this.
I go back into the walk-in. Tom is slicing through a dark, shiny orb that turns out to be beef liver. It's Wednesday, so he's working through the two pigs and steer that arrived from Fleischer's yesterday. They arrived hanging weight meat, huge hulks of muscle and tissue and bone and skin. By now he's gotten the pigs into primal thirds: shoulder, loin, belly, sirloin and ham. He gestures to an invisible stack of pigs on the block, saying, "All this is done."
The radio is on and it's hot. Mark's coming to take meat to Bonita and we have to get those bags of it into a cooler for him. I jump in and once we've loaded the meat in half way, Tom warns, "Watch out, they're a little bloody on the outside."
Then we're back to talking beef. Tom tells me about smoking, brining, braising. I ask about the burgers. He grinds the beef twice so it sticks together, but it's still coarser than most ground beef because the holes on the grind plate are larger. That's what gives the burgers their meaty quality – there's more whole muscle in them.
Tom talks with such ease about cutting up meat that it's hard to believe he hasn't been doing it forever. Just a few years ago, Tom was in charge of the grocery at Marlow and editing the journal with Anna when he walked passed Cheffie and Andrew outside of Diner one day. They told him they were considering getting an in-house butcher so they could get hanging weight meat from Fleischer's. And he said something like, "That sounds really, really cool." And they said, "Wanna do it?"
He moved in with Josh and Jessica of Fleischer's, lived on their futon with their mastiff Booboo and a giant tortoise. Every morning it was "beef leg, beef leg, beef leg." He began to collect books on the subject like a Navy meat manual from 1945 and watched educational clips on You Tube.
And it has paid off. According to Tom, getting hanging weight (100-180 pound sections) meat is the only way for a restaurant to be able to afford getting grass-fed, local, properly raised meat. There's a lot of flexibility. Tom gets together with Juventino, Sean and Dave, and they can cut any way they want, make stylistic choices that wouldn't be possible if their meat came out of Cryovac. And it's a lot more exciting to cook here. Curing lardo, rendering it, whipping it. Dealing with odds and ends. Says Tom, "Limitations, not infinite possibilities, are what make great, classic cuisine." Agreed.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Bananas do the darndest things
I'm making banana bread with some ripe bananas that I had put in the freezer last week. Look how they defrost! So weird and beautiful. So weird!
Monday, June 16, 2008
It was too hot for tarts
And the oven here is more than fickle. But ice cream - ice cream, I thought - that would go so nicely with a rhubarb compote.
And it did.
Rhubarb, Strawberry and Fennel Compote
this is sort of a recipe and sort of a fend-for-yourself-it's-worth-it
rhubarb, chopped
strawberries, chopped
fennel, chopped
sugar, to taste
dash of vanilla extract
dash of bourbon
butter
Heat about 1 tablespoon of butter in a saucepan over medium heat. When it's good and melted add everything. Let it all sit for for a minute or two, then stir occasionally while it becomes compote over the course of about 15 minutes or so. There should still be some soft bits of fruit.
And it did.
Rhubarb, Strawberry and Fennel Compote
this is sort of a recipe and sort of a fend-for-yourself-it's-worth-it
rhubarb, chopped
strawberries, chopped
fennel, chopped
sugar, to taste
dash of vanilla extract
dash of bourbon
butter
Heat about 1 tablespoon of butter in a saucepan over medium heat. When it's good and melted add everything. Let it all sit for for a minute or two, then stir occasionally while it becomes compote over the course of about 15 minutes or so. There should still be some soft bits of fruit.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Eternally yours,
These are busy times for Bread and Butter. Only quiet tables and stoop picnics cut the city heat. But I've got a little something for you. Diner Journal. Check it out. I'll be writing for their website about the meat program at their awesome restaurants. And the quarterly journal is really a treat for the intellect and the eyes. I know you'll like it. Interviews, features on oysters, a saucy centerfold, recipes - it's enough to make a over-heated, sluggish city girl jump for joy.
It even comes in handy on date night. Last weekend, Andrew and I made a small move-in feast. Hand-rolled cous cous with chile powder, raisins, and fried onions. A salad of tomato, basil and fennel. And an indoors adaption of Diner Journal's Grilled Squid with Eggplant, a toothsome mix, especially when generously accompanied by garlic and rosemary. Get your copy of the newly arrived summer issue, and you too can eat like Diner.
It even comes in handy on date night. Last weekend, Andrew and I made a small move-in feast. Hand-rolled cous cous with chile powder, raisins, and fried onions. A salad of tomato, basil and fennel. And an indoors adaption of Diner Journal's Grilled Squid with Eggplant, a toothsome mix, especially when generously accompanied by garlic and rosemary. Get your copy of the newly arrived summer issue, and you too can eat like Diner.
Monday, June 2, 2008
If you weren't convinced
that Wesleyan's own MGMT is everywhere, they are. Hellooo, stewed rhubarb. Hello, Brooklyn.
Classic and cheap: hunks of fresh sourdough with butter, some sliced radish (1 dollar for a bunch) and chives, because - as the man at the market told us - the hotter it is outside, the hotter the radish, and these babies were still oh so mild.
Classic and cheap: hunks of fresh sourdough with butter, some sliced radish (1 dollar for a bunch) and chives, because - as the man at the market told us - the hotter it is outside, the hotter the radish, and these babies were still oh so mild.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Can't say I miss Teresa Heinz
I've been thinking about this ketchup recipe since December. Without warning and with varied intensity, it would flicker across my field of vision. Sometimes I was on my imaginary island, smoking a cigar, sipping cognac, and spreading it over grilled steak. Sometimes, I was in the middle of America, spinning through a county fair, high off my recent win for best ketchup. Sometimes, I was alone, standing over a stove, dipping caramelized onions into it and eating them with my hands. It was my ketchup fantasy carousel of those long, cold, winter months. It was mine.
I couldn't wait until the tomatoes were riper. It's memorial day weekend, and at least metaphorically, that's summer. And I have to say, making this ketchup was no less filled with fantasy than fantasizing about making it. The moment I lifted the cover off the pot, five minutes into the process, I was once again in The Holiday Snack Bar in Beach Haven, Long Beach Island - my little corner of Jersey. My mom's family had a beach house there since 1958, ten years after the Snack Bar opened its doors. For a long time, the sleepy town's summer renaissance meant little more than sand in the Belopolsky girls' bathing suits, kid productions of South Pacific, Jersey corn, blueberries, and the occasional breakup of the neighborhood mobster cartel. Hey, it was Jersey.
A lot had changed when I got to know my mother's Beach Haven, but the Holiday Snack Bar remained. The horseshoe bar. The finished, shellacked puzzles of Coca-cola pastorals hung on the walls. Unbelievably vertical lemon meringue pie in the center of the bar. Incredible burgers. And, at intervals along the wrapped, thick wood counter, little brown bowls of chopped fresh onions and their relish waiting for you along with, what else, ketchup. It was a place for a believers - of what, I don't know. But the smell of this ketchup was so much like the inside of that bar, I just may believe in time travel.
Spicy Tomato & Horseradish Ketchup
from The Cook's Book, makes about 3 cups
4.5 lb ripe plum tomatoes, cut into large pieces
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 cup finely chopped onion
2 cups peeled, cored and chopped tart apples
6 whole cloves
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 cinnamon stick, broken in pieces
1/2 tsp celery seeds
1 cup distilled white vinegar
3 tbsp coarse sea salt
1 cup packed light brown sugar
3 in piece of fresh horseradish root, peeled and grated
Put the tomatoes, tomato paste, onion, and apple in a nonreactive pot with the cloves, mustard seeds, cinnamon stick, and salt. Slowly bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer.
Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes are soft and pulpy and the mixture has reduced by one third, about 1 and 1/2 hours. Using the back of a ladle, press the mixture through a fine sieve and into a clean pan.
Add the remaining vinegar, the sugar, and horseradish. Cook over low heat until the sugar dissolves, then simmer until the ketchup is thick (it's going to be a little watery compared to what you're used to, folks), 40 minutes or so. Pour it into a sterilized mason jar and seal, then let cool before using. It can keep for up to six months in a cool, dry place. Once you open it, you have to refrigerate it. That's just the way it goes.
I couldn't wait until the tomatoes were riper. It's memorial day weekend, and at least metaphorically, that's summer. And I have to say, making this ketchup was no less filled with fantasy than fantasizing about making it. The moment I lifted the cover off the pot, five minutes into the process, I was once again in The Holiday Snack Bar in Beach Haven, Long Beach Island - my little corner of Jersey. My mom's family had a beach house there since 1958, ten years after the Snack Bar opened its doors. For a long time, the sleepy town's summer renaissance meant little more than sand in the Belopolsky girls' bathing suits, kid productions of South Pacific, Jersey corn, blueberries, and the occasional breakup of the neighborhood mobster cartel. Hey, it was Jersey.
A lot had changed when I got to know my mother's Beach Haven, but the Holiday Snack Bar remained. The horseshoe bar. The finished, shellacked puzzles of Coca-cola pastorals hung on the walls. Unbelievably vertical lemon meringue pie in the center of the bar. Incredible burgers. And, at intervals along the wrapped, thick wood counter, little brown bowls of chopped fresh onions and their relish waiting for you along with, what else, ketchup. It was a place for a believers - of what, I don't know. But the smell of this ketchup was so much like the inside of that bar, I just may believe in time travel.
Spicy Tomato & Horseradish Ketchup
from The Cook's Book, makes about 3 cups
4.5 lb ripe plum tomatoes, cut into large pieces
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 cup finely chopped onion
2 cups peeled, cored and chopped tart apples
6 whole cloves
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 cinnamon stick, broken in pieces
1/2 tsp celery seeds
1 cup distilled white vinegar
3 tbsp coarse sea salt
1 cup packed light brown sugar
3 in piece of fresh horseradish root, peeled and grated
Put the tomatoes, tomato paste, onion, and apple in a nonreactive pot with the cloves, mustard seeds, cinnamon stick, and salt. Slowly bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer.Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes are soft and pulpy and the mixture has reduced by one third, about 1 and 1/2 hours. Using the back of a ladle, press the mixture through a fine sieve and into a clean pan.
Add the remaining vinegar, the sugar, and horseradish. Cook over low heat until the sugar dissolves, then simmer until the ketchup is thick (it's going to be a little watery compared to what you're used to, folks), 40 minutes or so. Pour it into a sterilized mason jar and seal, then let cool before using. It can keep for up to six months in a cool, dry place. Once you open it, you have to refrigerate it. That's just the way it goes.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
(Bomb)olone
So this one Thanksgiving it was our family's job to make the pies, and my small duty was to get the cloves. I went to the food store, I grabbed the first thing I saw with the word "cloves" on it, and I hurried home thinking my work was done.
Well, sort of. I had bought whole cloves, instead of ground. Whole cloves may be dried flower buds, but their name comes from the Latin word clavus, for nail. It’s indicative. They’re small, rock-hard, spiky little creatures that are good for piercing the skins of oranges and bringing spicy back to your mulled cider. But you really can't make our pumpkin pie until you've ground the suckers.
Thwarted from returning to the store by horizontal rain, it became clear that we would have to make do. We had no mortar and pestle. We had no coffee grinder. I've never forgotten the fury of grinding a handful of cloves one at a time in an American Girl doll mortar and pestle I had unearthed from the back of my closet. That day I labored with "colonial" kitchen gear made for a 24-inch doll named Felicity. Pumpkin pie kind of lost its magic.
Now, this weekend I wanted so badly to make bombolone, the Italian donut I learned at culinary school. (The day we failed at panettone we were consoled by fluffy donuts piped with jam and pastry cream. Not bad.) The thing is, all my recipes from culinary school are in grams, and I don't have a scale. Can you see where I’m going with this?
My dad has a grain scale for measuring arrowheads (oh yeah). It’s, uh, hand held and decidedly not digital. I clipped a plastic bag to it and measured and converted… oh, it’s not even worth explaining the tedious details. It was the clove incident of 2002 all over again. Anyway, it came out all wrong, because after I let the batter proof and cut it into little discs, it fried without poofing up into a flaky doughnut. More like a dough-puck, I’d say.
Still, they tasted fried and with a dusting of confectioner's sugar, a little jam and pastry cream -- well, who wouldn't be happy with even a donut-like thing on Sunday morning? What I've got of the recipe is pretty much what you can see in the photograph. Fry the disks in a mild vegetable oil for just a short while until they rise to the surface, puff up (hopefully) and turn a nice golden color. Better luck than I, my scale-toting friends.
Well, sort of. I had bought whole cloves, instead of ground. Whole cloves may be dried flower buds, but their name comes from the Latin word clavus, for nail. It’s indicative. They’re small, rock-hard, spiky little creatures that are good for piercing the skins of oranges and bringing spicy back to your mulled cider. But you really can't make our pumpkin pie until you've ground the suckers.
Thwarted from returning to the store by horizontal rain, it became clear that we would have to make do. We had no mortar and pestle. We had no coffee grinder. I've never forgotten the fury of grinding a handful of cloves one at a time in an American Girl doll mortar and pestle I had unearthed from the back of my closet. That day I labored with "colonial" kitchen gear made for a 24-inch doll named Felicity. Pumpkin pie kind of lost its magic.
Now, this weekend I wanted so badly to make bombolone, the Italian donut I learned at culinary school. (The day we failed at panettone we were consoled by fluffy donuts piped with jam and pastry cream. Not bad.) The thing is, all my recipes from culinary school are in grams, and I don't have a scale. Can you see where I’m going with this?
My dad has a grain scale for measuring arrowheads (oh yeah). It’s, uh, hand held and decidedly not digital. I clipped a plastic bag to it and measured and converted… oh, it’s not even worth explaining the tedious details. It was the clove incident of 2002 all over again. Anyway, it came out all wrong, because after I let the batter proof and cut it into little discs, it fried without poofing up into a flaky doughnut. More like a dough-puck, I’d say.
Still, they tasted fried and with a dusting of confectioner's sugar, a little jam and pastry cream -- well, who wouldn't be happy with even a donut-like thing on Sunday morning? What I've got of the recipe is pretty much what you can see in the photograph. Fry the disks in a mild vegetable oil for just a short while until they rise to the surface, puff up (hopefully) and turn a nice golden color. Better luck than I, my scale-toting friends.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Tack attack, brandish your angel keychains
It's sentimental. It's Sandra Lee. It's like a good cry to Boyz II Men. Generally, I think food should look like what it is and avoid gimmick. But, lord, I've discovered that prosciutto and pea shoots kind of look like a rose if you wrap them together right. And I like it. Over to the dark side go I.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Running from lawnmowers
Everything green makes me sneeze, itch and feel perturbed. Oak pollen covers the screens. A lawnmower circles our little house like it's riding out the dawn of a new, sheared age, careening and sending clouds of allergens into the air. I'm allergic to the earth.In an effort to remember that I like living with other living things, I've been searching for redeeming green. For example, Silvie brought home limes from the co-op in profusion, and I like putting brown sugar on them and just suckling. What's more green than limes? And mâche, oh mâche, pictured above, which I just learned is also called lamb’s lettuce, is incredible. And green tea – I've been drinking Arogya's Organic Dragon’s Well tea made from Chinese Long Jing leaves. I even took a cup of it and sat outside! In the grass!
So, generally, I think green tea is an overplayed and overrated ingredient right now (case in point: the soured green tea frozen yogurt I tasted in an sterile New York shop yesterday), but I had some old (really old) matcha in the pantry and saw a recipe from Marc at No Recipes for matcha green tea frosting, and I wanted to adapt it.
But then, of course, frosting needed something to frost, so I found an old recipe from Gourmet magazine, the first recipe I ever really made by myself – chocolate chip cookies. This time I left out the chocolate chip cookies and about ½ of the butter, from which the simplest cookie resulted. Then Anna, Andrew and I proceeded to take some artistic liberties with the matcha frosting.
Never before have such grotesque scenes alighted the faces of cookies. The greenish slop was so unappetizing that Anna pushed two cookies together so as not to see the celadon drops – and a sandwich was born. They actually didn't look that bad. After a fine dusting of confectioner’s sugar and powdered matcha tea, they even looked purposefully, uh, cute.
So we ate them and watched Planet Earth, and that made me feel both better and worse about being allergic to our planet. Caves are so cool. Sugar solves most everything.
Simple Butter-Sugar Cookies1/t tsp baking soda
¾ teaspoon salt
1 cup all-p flour
2/3 cup white sugar
½ stick butter
1 large egg
1/2 tsp vanilla
½ tsp hazelnut extract (it’s your call on this)
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Mix the wet ingredients, then add the dry ones. I don’t remember how long I cooked them – maybe 10 minutes.
Matcha Green tea frosting
Stir together:
1 tsp. matcha
1 tbsp. water
1 tbsp. cream
1/3 cup confectioner’s sugar
It's critical that you let the cookies cool before adding the frosting otherwise it will get runny and even more ghastly unappetizing.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sweet reading
Wesleyan's library offers a small section on food tucked away on the second floor of the science center. Not even the perspecuity of science could help you find your way there. But I've hansel and greteled my route and return during study breaks when I need a fix. Recently, I found this small book there -- it's entirely in French, and I can't read a word of it. But I love it already. La cuisine de marguerite. Maybe I'll try to make some transliterative concoctions by guessing what the short recipes detail.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Bittersweet
The thing about cake is, it's bittersweet. This is the centripetal cake of birthdays, of homecomings and goings. Layered. Frosted. Cut and laid on its side. It’s full of meaning, but saccharine sweet. That is to say, something is always lost in the utter joy of cake, its insufferable celebration swallows disparity.
This blog is a little like cake. Who's to say that this is truth? It's certainly not all of the truth. Life hits the internet and is sweet, whole and designed.
My family’s joke is that my aunt gets cake from a bakery in Boston’s Chinatown where they don’t speak very much English, so no matter what frosting-inscribed message you ask for, you always get, simply, “Happy.” Imagine, a cake that asks so little of the moment and yet, so much – just happy.
Never have I had a cake that quite delivered on that word, happy. It makes me wonder. What is it that we want to give others when we make food for them? Is it happiness? Or nourishment? Or pleasure? Moreover, what are we asking for when we make and give food? Food in return? Control? Praise? Recognition of enacted womanhood?
Can I ever just bake a cake? Even if I’m the only one who eats it, is it already for someone else? When I chronicle some of the food I make and eat, is it like giving it to you? Are we responsible to each other?
Do I owe an explanation when I choose to write in the denigrated gendered genre of confessional food writing? Do you owe me the understanding that I am something more than woman - baker, feeder, caretaker of man?
It's with these questions that I give you cake.
Chocolate Layer Cake with Raspberries
for slow meditation on the nature of gender
The génoise cake is adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking With Julia.
3 tablespoons hot clarified unsalted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder
4 large eggs
2/3 cup sugar
Place a rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat to 350 degrees. Fit the bottom of two 4-inch cake pans with parchment paper and set aside. Pour the hot clarified butter into a bowl with the vanilla and also set that aside. Also, sift the flour and cocoa powder when you measure them, and then sift them together a few times, too.
In the bowl of a heavy duty mixer, whisk the eggs and sugar together. (You could also do this all by hand in a heatproof bowl.) Set the bowl over another bowl of simmering water on the stove. Whisk constantly until the eggs are warm to the touch. Remove the bowl from the heat and, working with the mixer's whisk attachment, beat the eggs on high speed until they're cool, have tripled in volume, and hold a ribbon when you lift the whisk.
Sift one third of the dry ingredients over the eggs and gently fold it in with a rubber spatula. Then add the rest of the dry ingredients and do the same. Spoon one cup of this into the hot butter and vanilla mixture. Stir this around, then add it back to the bowl of batter. Gently fold this all together.
Pour the batter into the two prepared cake tins and bake them for about 20 minutes. While they cool, whip 2 parts heavy cream and 1 part sugar together to make whipped cream. Then, make this chocolate ganache frosting recipe from Smitten Kitchen.
½ pound semisweet chocolate chips
½ cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon light corn syrup
1/4 stick unsalted butter
In a small saucepan bring cream, sugar, and corn syrup to a boil over low heat, whisking until sugar is dissolved. Remove the pan from the heat and add the chocolate, whisking until melted. Cut the butter into pieces and add it to the frosting, whisking until smooth. Transfer frosting to a bowl resting in an ice water bath and cool, stirring occasionally, until spreadable.
Take the cake layers out of their tins when they have completely cooled. Put one cake on a plate. Spread chestnut puree (you can get this at It's Only Natural - so good on toast) over the top, then follow with the whipped cream. Place the second cake on top. Now spread the ganache frosting over the top and sides of the cake with a spatula. Arrange raspberries around the top, and dust with confectioners' sugar.
This blog is a little like cake. Who's to say that this is truth? It's certainly not all of the truth. Life hits the internet and is sweet, whole and designed.
My family’s joke is that my aunt gets cake from a bakery in Boston’s Chinatown where they don’t speak very much English, so no matter what frosting-inscribed message you ask for, you always get, simply, “Happy.” Imagine, a cake that asks so little of the moment and yet, so much – just happy.
Never have I had a cake that quite delivered on that word, happy. It makes me wonder. What is it that we want to give others when we make food for them? Is it happiness? Or nourishment? Or pleasure? Moreover, what are we asking for when we make and give food? Food in return? Control? Praise? Recognition of enacted womanhood?
Can I ever just bake a cake? Even if I’m the only one who eats it, is it already for someone else? When I chronicle some of the food I make and eat, is it like giving it to you? Are we responsible to each other?
Do I owe an explanation when I choose to write in the denigrated gendered genre of confessional food writing? Do you owe me the understanding that I am something more than woman - baker, feeder, caretaker of man?
It's with these questions that I give you cake.
Chocolate Layer Cake with Raspberries
for slow meditation on the nature of gender
The génoise cake is adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking With Julia.
3 tablespoons hot clarified unsalted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder
4 large eggs
2/3 cup sugar
Place a rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat to 350 degrees. Fit the bottom of two 4-inch cake pans with parchment paper and set aside. Pour the hot clarified butter into a bowl with the vanilla and also set that aside. Also, sift the flour and cocoa powder when you measure them, and then sift them together a few times, too.
In the bowl of a heavy duty mixer, whisk the eggs and sugar together. (You could also do this all by hand in a heatproof bowl.) Set the bowl over another bowl of simmering water on the stove. Whisk constantly until the eggs are warm to the touch. Remove the bowl from the heat and, working with the mixer's whisk attachment, beat the eggs on high speed until they're cool, have tripled in volume, and hold a ribbon when you lift the whisk.
Sift one third of the dry ingredients over the eggs and gently fold it in with a rubber spatula. Then add the rest of the dry ingredients and do the same. Spoon one cup of this into the hot butter and vanilla mixture. Stir this around, then add it back to the bowl of batter. Gently fold this all together.
Pour the batter into the two prepared cake tins and bake them for about 20 minutes. While they cool, whip 2 parts heavy cream and 1 part sugar together to make whipped cream. Then, make this chocolate ganache frosting recipe from Smitten Kitchen.
½ pound semisweet chocolate chips
½ cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon light corn syrup
1/4 stick unsalted butter
In a small saucepan bring cream, sugar, and corn syrup to a boil over low heat, whisking until sugar is dissolved. Remove the pan from the heat and add the chocolate, whisking until melted. Cut the butter into pieces and add it to the frosting, whisking until smooth. Transfer frosting to a bowl resting in an ice water bath and cool, stirring occasionally, until spreadable.
Take the cake layers out of their tins when they have completely cooled. Put one cake on a plate. Spread chestnut puree (you can get this at It's Only Natural - so good on toast) over the top, then follow with the whipped cream. Place the second cake on top. Now spread the ganache frosting over the top and sides of the cake with a spatula. Arrange raspberries around the top, and dust with confectioners' sugar.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
It's summer in my backyard
Smoothies make me think of buying saccharine drinks from the town mall's Orange Julius when I was too young to buy anything more than cheap lip gloss with sparkles and frosted eyeshadows. I suppose I thought the Orange Julius was an accessory itself. The drinks had their faddish moment, and we sipped them slowly, so we could be sure to be seen walking with them. I drank them because my friends drank them, or rather, we heard that people were drinking them.
A smoothie as we know it is a relatively new thing, but it's always been cool. The Oxford English Dictionary dates the word's most recent use to 1977. Before that the word was used to denote someone suave, cultured and debonair. As the Princeton Weekly Review of May 24, 1929 says, "Smoothie..indicates savoir faire, a certain je ne sais quoi... Clothes do much to make the smoothie."
How intuitive was I at thirteen! And the smoothie that I made today is all that - a vivacious combination of frozen cherries, blueberries and raspberries. Now, I like my smoothies like my milkshakes - really thick, so thick I always consider using a spoon to eat it and then ultimately decide it's less fun that way. That being said, you could add some orange juice (Ã la my eighth-grade self) and that would make it a perfect slurping consistency. You could also add flax meal if you're feeling saucy.
Smoothie
1/2 cup frozen berries
1 ripe banana
1/2 cup plain yogurt
smashed ice
Smash your desired amount of ice (maybe 3, 4 ice cubes) in the food processor. Then add the rest of the ingredients and blend until the mixture is still a little bit chunky.
A smoothie as we know it is a relatively new thing, but it's always been cool. The Oxford English Dictionary dates the word's most recent use to 1977. Before that the word was used to denote someone suave, cultured and debonair. As the Princeton Weekly Review of May 24, 1929 says, "Smoothie..indicates savoir faire, a certain je ne sais quoi... Clothes do much to make the smoothie."
How intuitive was I at thirteen! And the smoothie that I made today is all that - a vivacious combination of frozen cherries, blueberries and raspberries. Now, I like my smoothies like my milkshakes - really thick, so thick I always consider using a spoon to eat it and then ultimately decide it's less fun that way. That being said, you could add some orange juice (Ã la my eighth-grade self) and that would make it a perfect slurping consistency. You could also add flax meal if you're feeling saucy.
Smoothie
1/2 cup frozen berries
1 ripe banana
1/2 cup plain yogurt
smashed ice
Smash your desired amount of ice (maybe 3, 4 ice cubes) in the food processor. Then add the rest of the ingredients and blend until the mixture is still a little bit chunky.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Another lunch for one
Sundried tomato pesto and sprouts on homemade honey wheat bread (a take on the loaf I just wrote about). The pesto recipe is from a great, recent New York Times article by Eric Asimov on wine bars in the city.
Sundried Tomato and Walnut Pesto
adapted from Jody Williams
1 cup shelled walnuts
1/4 cup grated Parmesan
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
3 sprigs of thyme
a pinch of salt
splash of sherry vinegar
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons minced sundried tomatoes
It's a simple as blending this in a food processor to your desired consistency, and I do mean desired. It's delicious.
Sundried Tomato and Walnut Pesto
adapted from Jody Williams
1 cup shelled walnuts
1/4 cup grated Parmesan
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
3 sprigs of thyme
a pinch of salt
splash of sherry vinegar
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons minced sundried tomatoes
It's a simple as blending this in a food processor to your desired consistency, and I do mean desired. It's delicious.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
On bread and wonder
Have you been wondering? This blog's title isn't just a name, I actually do make bread. And this loaf - well, this one has butter in it. Two things have happened recently: I've decided to try Dorie Greenspan's book, Baking with Julia, one recipe at a time. And I’ve stolen Jesse’s Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer! Which means it’s time to experiment. I thought I would start as simply as I could – with white bread.
Around the time I found this recipe, a short trip to the Oxford English Dictionary online turned up this gem for the meaning of “bread and butter,” our titular phrase:
4. a. attrib.; spec. Of or pertaining to the age when bread-and-butter is extensively consumed; boyish, girlish; esp. (cf. quot. 1817 in 1) school-girlish.
It’s perfect. This recipe is for exactly the kind of bread I imagine packing up in a little kid’s lunch, Cheddar cheese and ham in-between its easy crumb. Or, rather, this is precisely the kind of bread I wished my sandwiches were on when I was a little schoolgirl myself (aside from my penchant for Portuguese rolls, whose flour coating would so satisfyingly scatter over you when you bit into them).
Now, I learned to make French bread from my Dad. Then I got a little schooling in yeasts and seeds and patience from a boy, Corey, I went hiking with the summer I turned fifteen. And finally, I met Claudia. She taught a class on bread-making that I took last summer in Florence. Claudia is someone I think of often. She was… like the perfect loaf of bread, hard and crusty on the outside (I mean, she hit people) and yet all soft and crumb on the inside. She was caring and sensitive and yet she pulled baked loaves out of the oven with her bare, callused hands. Meet Claudia.
Claudia also made obscene faces at the bread machine in the corner of the room. Her accent was such that every time she told us to use the sheeter to flatten a dough, it sounded like she was commanding us to the “shitter.” Machines just weren’t the point of the class. We were there to use our hands, to feel the dough – “our babies,” she called them. And if you were bad to your baby, well you knew what was coming and you were afraid.
So it was with this in mind that I approached the Kitchen Aid mixer last week. It was metal. It was leaking oil. And it was mine to play with. Real ambivalence took hold. I broke, and made this recipe by hand. It was good – it was great! - but the curiosity was getting to me. So a week later I made the recipe again, this time with the machine. Mary Claire came downstairs at the height of my anxiety. I hovered over the bowl. I couldn’t feel the dough, I couldn’t tell what was happening. Still, somewhere around the seventh minute it started to look like bread dough. And sure enough, when I felt it, it was.
I couldn’t say whether either method produced a better loaf. I liked kneading the first time; I liked how fast it all was the second. Suffice it to say, there are some breads that are meant for hands, and arms, and the whole torso working into the dough. And then there are some for the thrill of electric convenience. I think I'll take both.
White Loaves
from Dorie Greenspan's Baking with Julia
2.5 cups warm water
1 tablespoon active dry yeast
1 tablespoon sugar
7 cups (aprox.) unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon salt
1/2 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
Pour 1/2 cup of the water into the bowl of a heavy-duty mixer, sprinkle in the yeast and sugar, and whisk to blend. Allow the mixture the rest until the yeast is creamy, maybe 5 minutes.
Working in the mixer with the dough hook in place, add the remaining 2 cups water and 3.5 cups flour to the yeast. Mixing on low speed, add another 3.5 cups flour. Increase the mixer speed to medium and beat, stopping to scrape down the bowl and hook as needed, until the dough comes together. Add the salt and continue to beat at medium speed for about 10 minutes, until the dough is smooth and elastic. Then add the butter one tablespoon at a time, and beat until incorporated. Don't worry if the dough comes apart when you add butter, beating will bring it back together. If you're doing all this by hand, it's going to take you about 25 minutes. Be patient.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and shape it into a ball. Place it in a buttered bowl that can hold twice the amount of dough. Turn the dough around to cover it in the butter, then cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and let the dough rest at room temperature until it doubles in size, maybe 45 minutes to an hour.
Butter two 8.5 by 4.5 inch loaf pans and set them aside. Turn the risen dough out onto a lightly floured work surface, and deflate it (gently! no punching!).
Divide the dough in half and work with one piece at a time. Using the palms of your hands or a rolling pin, pat the dough into a large rectangle about 9 inches wide and 12 inches long, with the short side facing you. Starting at the top, fold the dough about two thirds of the way down the rectangle and then fold it again, so that the top edge meets the bottom edge. Seal the seam by pinching it. Turn the roll so that the seam is in the center of the roll, facing up, and turn the ends of the roll in just enough so that it will fit in the loaf pan. Pinch the seams to seal, turn the loaf over so that the seals are on the bottom, and plump the loaf in your hands to get a sort of even shape. Drop the loaf into its pan, seam side down, and repeat with the other piece of dough.
For the second rise, cover the loaves with oiled plastic wrap, and allow them to rise in a warm place (about 80 degrees) until they double in size again, growing over the tops of the pans, maybe 45 minutes. While they’re rising, center a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 375 degrees.
When the loaves have risen (you should be able to poke the dough, and the impression will remain) bake them for 35 to 45 minutes, or until they’re honey brown. Remove the loaves from their pans as soon as they come out of the oven, and let them cool almost completely before cutting them.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The camino and the cake
I've been making this cake for years since I found it on the internet somewhere. In a plethora of questionable online recipes, this one is golden. The cake is small, it's a whole lot of nut, and there's nothing saccharine about it. Yet even with spelt flour it's light because of the beaten egg whites. I also add hazelnut extract and rosewater, but you don't have to. In the summer, I top the cake with fresh whipped cream and berries or small slices of plum. But Friday's version was inspired by Mary Claire's stories of walking the Camino in Spain, where the local people would feed her cheese and honey in-between long stretches of hiking. It was her idea to put the ricotta cheese on the cake, and oh, was she right.
Almond Cake
for Dad's birthday and dinner with new friends
Make sure the rack is in the middle of the oven, preheat to 400 degrees.
Pulse the almonds with 1/3 cup sugar in a food processor. In a large bowl, add the almond sugar mixture, yolks, flour, salt, milk, vanilla, hazelnut extract, and rosewater. Whisk together.
Now, beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt to get soft peaks. Slowly add the other 1/3 cup sugar with the beaters on medium speed until you get stiffer peaks. Then add the egg whites to the batter in thirds, by gently folding in to the center of the bowl.
Pour this into a buttered and dusted 9x2” pan – whatever you have. Bake the cake for 18 to 20 minutes, depending on your oven. Cool it for five minutes, invert it onto rack and wait for it to cool fully. Then spread the top with ricotta cheese and pour drips of honey all over it. If you want, caramelize some walnuts by frying them in a pan with sugar and butter, and put them on top.
Almond Cake
for Dad's birthday and dinner with new friends
Make sure the rack is in the middle of the oven, preheat to 400 degrees.Pulse the almonds with 1/3 cup sugar in a food processor. In a large bowl, add the almond sugar mixture, yolks, flour, salt, milk, vanilla, hazelnut extract, and rosewater. Whisk together.
Now, beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt to get soft peaks. Slowly add the other 1/3 cup sugar with the beaters on medium speed until you get stiffer peaks. Then add the egg whites to the batter in thirds, by gently folding in to the center of the bowl.
Pour this into a buttered and dusted 9x2” pan – whatever you have. Bake the cake for 18 to 20 minutes, depending on your oven. Cool it for five minutes, invert it onto rack and wait for it to cool fully. Then spread the top with ricotta cheese and pour drips of honey all over it. If you want, caramelize some walnuts by frying them in a pan with sugar and butter, and put them on top.
Friday, April 11, 2008
To table, college-aged and hungry
The New York Times has discovered the alluring and the alarming of campus gastronomy, all detailed in an article from Wednesday that announces “Latest College Reading Lists: Menus with Pho and Lobster.” Oh my! As if the ivory tower needed a little more ivory. Left, the glittering chandeliers over a dining hall at Virginia Tech, where students can order a grilled rib-eye plated to perfection. And right, mussels in steaming green curry from Bowdoin, not without spring onion garnish.
The article reads: “as palates grow more sophisticated and admissions become more competitive, many top colleges are paying attention to dining rooms as well as classrooms.” In many ways, this a blog about being a college student and eating. So, first, let’s be clear. The main concern for most coeds is not whether the campus plates match their sophisticated palates, but that the food at school is simply palatable at all.
However much we love to gripe (about trifling issues and matters of real concern about expense and not being able to get off the meal plan), Wesleyan does have its culinary moments - and the Times article recognizes this. In the article, the University promises not haute cuisine, but political positions that motivate food choices:
“Jenna, an 18-year-old vegetarian from St. Louis, Mo., was particularly impressed by Wesleyan University. ‘I heard a lot about organic food co-ops and the little organic store where you can use your dining card, and those things are important to me,’ she said of its offerings.”
Calling Weshop a "little organic store" is a bit of a stretch, but I'll grant that they do sell a fair amount of organic products. And I had dinner with the people who run that co-op the other night, Tressa and Ellie, who also set up the farmers’ market last week. There are a lot of people here who care about eating really delicious food, and still more who are deeply committed to organic and local farming and food-making. I think the campus and the community benefit from the critical thought and work they put into food.
Case in point: even at this time of year, last week's market was lovely. Fabulously speckled Araconda eggs, hydroponic greens, jams from that sweet and informative couple, Dick and Dot Wingate of Studio Farm Products in Voluntown, whose relish I once told you about, lunch prepared by the River Tavern of Chester, and the always impressive Bloomsday cheese from Cato Corner in Colchester. The father-daughter pair of Meriano’s Bake Shoppe of Guilford gave me a fresh cannoli with the ricotta filling piped in right in front of me. Whoa.
And last weekend's Shasha Seminar for Human Concerns, "Food: Power and Identity," led by Government professor John Finn, was wonderful. Over the course of a few days over 100 attendees enjoyed lectures, discussion panels and meals together, asking questions like: What kind of food are we eating, and what kind should we be eating? What should we teach about food? And also, what can food teach us? This blog wants to continue to ask some of those questions. And! As a contributing reporter for the Argus, I got to interview some people in the food world that I've read and respected for years. You can read my article on the seminar from Monday’s Argus here.
The article reads: “as palates grow more sophisticated and admissions become more competitive, many top colleges are paying attention to dining rooms as well as classrooms.” In many ways, this a blog about being a college student and eating. So, first, let’s be clear. The main concern for most coeds is not whether the campus plates match their sophisticated palates, but that the food at school is simply palatable at all.
However much we love to gripe (about trifling issues and matters of real concern about expense and not being able to get off the meal plan), Wesleyan does have its culinary moments - and the Times article recognizes this. In the article, the University promises not haute cuisine, but political positions that motivate food choices:
“Jenna, an 18-year-old vegetarian from St. Louis, Mo., was particularly impressed by Wesleyan University. ‘I heard a lot about organic food co-ops and the little organic store where you can use your dining card, and those things are important to me,’ she said of its offerings.”
Calling Weshop a "little organic store" is a bit of a stretch, but I'll grant that they do sell a fair amount of organic products. And I had dinner with the people who run that co-op the other night, Tressa and Ellie, who also set up the farmers’ market last week. There are a lot of people here who care about eating really delicious food, and still more who are deeply committed to organic and local farming and food-making. I think the campus and the community benefit from the critical thought and work they put into food.
Case in point: even at this time of year, last week's market was lovely. Fabulously speckled Araconda eggs, hydroponic greens, jams from that sweet and informative couple, Dick and Dot Wingate of Studio Farm Products in Voluntown, whose relish I once told you about, lunch prepared by the River Tavern of Chester, and the always impressive Bloomsday cheese from Cato Corner in Colchester. The father-daughter pair of Meriano’s Bake Shoppe of Guilford gave me a fresh cannoli with the ricotta filling piped in right in front of me. Whoa.
And last weekend's Shasha Seminar for Human Concerns, "Food: Power and Identity," led by Government professor John Finn, was wonderful. Over the course of a few days over 100 attendees enjoyed lectures, discussion panels and meals together, asking questions like: What kind of food are we eating, and what kind should we be eating? What should we teach about food? And also, what can food teach us? This blog wants to continue to ask some of those questions. And! As a contributing reporter for the Argus, I got to interview some people in the food world that I've read and respected for years. You can read my article on the seminar from Monday’s Argus here.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Lunch for one
I'm behind on posts that I've been meaning to put up - bear with me while I get my footing after this glorious past weekend, which I'll write about soon enough! Left-over frozen peas, kalamata olives, thyme and lemon juice make an impromptu tapenade, and pea shoots and tomato accompany a fried egg over lightly on freshly baked bread.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
We fed Beach House
When you’re cooking for musicians, remember: an empty stomach does not a good show make. At the same time, it’s not about a long and elaborate meal. You want the food to be ready just before sound check is done, so they can come in, eat a warm meal, and then go get ready. Eating well is always nice, but - though I may be thinking about this stuff all the time - it’s really not what the night’s about. Simplicity is paramount.
My pell-mell career as an occasional caterer for rock stars big and small has taught me that much. Usually Anna, who's the one making the concerts happen, and I dish up pasta with homemade sauce and a salad. But what to cook for a band like the Baltimore phenomenon of Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand, Beach House?
To me their music is tinged with nostalgia, lush and uncanny, and it made me want to make them an exciting meal. A few nights ago, I was reading an old copy of Gourmet, and it had a glorious spread of Middle Eastern food. The colors were at once saturated and muted, all burnt pistachios and rosewater. It seemed so right for the concert. (This may or may not be because of the now indelible falafel cart outside Eclectic.) I wanted to make an assortment of dishes that they could sample, and pitas to hold everything together so that we could eat with our hands. Spices and sweets together. Textures and temperatures playing off one another. I had 50 dollars to cover dinner for eleven.
I made a list. The day of the show, Mary Claire and I woke up early in the morning to go to the Super A&P, which always makes me think of Updike, in search of the sweet spot between dirt cheap and delicious.
I would start with an eggplant dish. That would be the linchpin of the meal – substantial and hearty. I would cut a few eggplants up and roast them with tomatoes and onions, cumin, turmeric and nutmeg, pouring olive oil over it all generously. Then I wanted something cool, a response. I would make a kind of tzatziki – as easy as some chopped cucumber, minced dill, Greek yogurt and salt. What next? Hummus. Bon Appetit’s latest issue has a recipe for pea tendril hummus. And I thought, “Well, I’m on a budget here, so I’ll just buy some frozen peas and some hummus tahini, and one fancy hummus with lemon zest.” And I threw it all in the food processor and showered it with paprika and scallions. Mary Claire made a savory couscous with raisins and cinnamon. Some marinated olives, lettuce, and pitas held it all together. And for dessert, I halved dates and quartered oranges, drizzled them with balsamic and honey, and baked them, adding some mint leaves on top.
I ate with Beach House and the band they tour with, Papercuts. They were lovely and appreciative and cracked some very dirty jokes. We talked about the aphrodisiac powers of dates, the perils of diner breakfasts, and the long and sassy history of the glove slap. May they always come hungry and make such sweet music.
My pell-mell career as an occasional caterer for rock stars big and small has taught me that much. Usually Anna, who's the one making the concerts happen, and I dish up pasta with homemade sauce and a salad. But what to cook for a band like the Baltimore phenomenon of Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand, Beach House?
To me their music is tinged with nostalgia, lush and uncanny, and it made me want to make them an exciting meal. A few nights ago, I was reading an old copy of Gourmet, and it had a glorious spread of Middle Eastern food. The colors were at once saturated and muted, all burnt pistachios and rosewater. It seemed so right for the concert. (This may or may not be because of the now indelible falafel cart outside Eclectic.) I wanted to make an assortment of dishes that they could sample, and pitas to hold everything together so that we could eat with our hands. Spices and sweets together. Textures and temperatures playing off one another. I had 50 dollars to cover dinner for eleven.
I made a list. The day of the show, Mary Claire and I woke up early in the morning to go to the Super A&P, which always makes me think of Updike, in search of the sweet spot between dirt cheap and delicious.
I would start with an eggplant dish. That would be the linchpin of the meal – substantial and hearty. I would cut a few eggplants up and roast them with tomatoes and onions, cumin, turmeric and nutmeg, pouring olive oil over it all generously. Then I wanted something cool, a response. I would make a kind of tzatziki – as easy as some chopped cucumber, minced dill, Greek yogurt and salt. What next? Hummus. Bon Appetit’s latest issue has a recipe for pea tendril hummus. And I thought, “Well, I’m on a budget here, so I’ll just buy some frozen peas and some hummus tahini, and one fancy hummus with lemon zest.” And I threw it all in the food processor and showered it with paprika and scallions. Mary Claire made a savory couscous with raisins and cinnamon. Some marinated olives, lettuce, and pitas held it all together. And for dessert, I halved dates and quartered oranges, drizzled them with balsamic and honey, and baked them, adding some mint leaves on top.
I ate with Beach House and the band they tour with, Papercuts. They were lovely and appreciative and cracked some very dirty jokes. We talked about the aphrodisiac powers of dates, the perils of diner breakfasts, and the long and sassy history of the glove slap. May they always come hungry and make such sweet music.
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