In my mind I'm going

Hiatus

2009-03-04T05:45:00.000-08:00

I apologize for my disappearance.

Now for the excuses. First my book took over. I haven't been able to balance the writing of the blog with the writing of my book (and I really need to finish the book).

And more recently, my husband tore his Achilles tendon. So our carefully orchestrated life, which gave me time to cook elaborately and write extensively, has been temporarily altered. The (many) chores he used to do have to be done by someone. Me.

I plan to come back in the summer when life is slower.

I'll keep my fingers crossed that my lovely readers will come back then, too.

xoxo,
NCFoodie

They Call Me Mellow

2009-01-03T11:41:00.001-08:00

It’s important to my daughter that we each have a favorite color. She categorizes us by our preference, making it a simple task when she distributes candy or ceramic mugs, assigning us the shades we supposedly love. Green for DH, Black for DS, and Pink for herself. I don’t actually have a favorite, but when I feel the urge to paint our walls, I’m drawn to some shade of yellow. So in all things that require a preferred tint, DD identifies me as yellow.

It’s true that almost all yellow hues please me: butter, sunshine, canary, citrus, mustard, goldenrod, chartreuse, school-bus, gold, and corn. And while yellow clothes wash me out, I have dreamed of Italian tiles in rich saffron as the future backsplash in my kitchen. (Part of an elaborate fantasy where I get to redesign the cabinets and counter space as well). Yellow also holds a retro mod appeal for me (think rain slickers, Warhol’s banana, and the Beatles’ submarine). It feels cheery and hopeful, but laid-back and effortless, too. But my appreciation of yellow doesn’t mean that I love fire-engine red or lilac blue any less.

When I was pregnant with DS, I craved the perfect lemon frozen treat. Tart and not too sweet, made with fresh citrus, in shaved ice. I went to all the local delis and gelato shops, sampling their sorbets, but everything was either too syrupy or lacking in lemon zest. I even bought an ice cream maker in hopes of creating it myself, only to find my own concoctions failed to satisfy. The right combination of acid and sugar proved just out of reach—making the longing all the more acute and ineffable. In retrospect it seems possible that the flavor I sought didn’t exist.

Lemon curd may not have fulfilled my hankering then, but it captures the tart delight of lemon and the sweet pleasure of yellow. These shortbread cookies will bring a little sunshine to a gloomy winter afternoon. Serve with hot tea, please.

Butter Cookies with Lemon Curd from Fine Cooking

Cookie Dough:

30 Tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

1 cup sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

3 ¾ cups all purpose flour

Lemon Curd:

½ cup fresh lemon juice

2 tablespoons finely grated lemon zest

3 eggs

3 egg yolks

¾ cup sugar

Confectioner’s sugar for sprinkling

In a large bowl, use a mixer to cream the butter at a low speed. As it softens, increase speed to medium, add sugar, until well-blended. Reduce speed and mix until soft dough forms. In a small bowl, whisk egg yolks and vanilla. Add to butter mixture, mixing on medium speed. Add the flour in two stages, mixing each time until combined, about 1 minute. Shape into ball, wrap in plastic and refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour. For the lemon curd, bring a large pot of water to simmer. In a large metal bowl that fits the pot without touching the water, whisk the lemon juice, zest, eggs, egg yolks, and sugar until combined. Whisk over the simmering water, and cook until the foam disappears and the mixture thickens, about 10 minutes. Pour through a fine sieve into a bowl and let cool. Heat oven to 325 degrees and line baking sheets with parchment paper. Cut out cookies and bake for 10-15 minutes. After the cookies cool, spread the curd, and match similar shapes to make sandwiches. Press the cookies gently together, then sprinkle with powered sugar.

On the Road

2008-12-30T10:28:00.001-08:00

We're traveling in the DC area, so I won't be able to post until the weekend. But I'm eager to tell you about some delicious lemon curd cookies I made for Christmas, plus an amazing asparagus appetizer from Thomas Keller's Bouchon cookbook. We'll be eating Burmese food tonight, and we're planning a tapas feast for New Years Day. Stay tuned . . .

A Spoonful of Ginger

2008-12-21T15:08:00.000-08:00

When I was seven, I wrote Disney a letter requesting that they rerelease Mary Poppins. In the days before VCRs, DVDs, downloads, or even HBO (we didn’t own a television at the time), the only way to see a movie was in the theaters. To their credit, Disney wrote me back with a schedule. I only had a few months to wait. A fool for musicals and Julie Andrews, I adored the Hollywood version of Mary Poppins for its spoonfuls of sugar, but it had no familial relationship to P.L. Travers’s books, which I also loved. Sure, Disney featured a nanny named “Mary Poppins” who arrives at the Banks’s house to tend to Jane and Michael, but that’s where the resemblance ends.

In the books, Mary Poppins is not simply stern, she’s cross. She’s a plain-looking woman who never fails to admire her reflection in a shop window. No one ever knows what Mary Poppins thinks, but Jane and Michael (and the younger twins, John and Barbara) love her fiercely. She chides and scowls (like a genuine caregiver), but she’s also full of surprises. She can talk to animals, travel through time, and she knows elemental secrets of the world. The narratives sometimes feel sinister—as when spirit creatures whisk Jane and Michael to the zoo to witness a topsy-turvy night when humans get locked in cages. Mary Poppins opens the door to strange mysteries well beyond the nursery, but they're mysteries only children can perceive.

A favorite chapter describes a trip to an old and dusty bake shop to purchase heavy slabs of dark gingerbread studded with gilt stars. The proprietor, Mrs. Corry, an ancient woman who knew Alfred the Great, breaks off her fingers and feeds them to the twins—“Only Barley Sugar,” she says, laughing. Anticipating the creepy deliciousness of Willy Wonka, Mrs. Corry’s fingers change flavor everyday—sometimes they’re peppermint bars or hoarhound candy. She nibbles on them herself at night. “Good for the digestion,” she cackles. After they eat their gingerbread, Jane and Michael take the golden stars and hide them in their room. That night, Mrs. Corry, her two fat and sullen daughters, Fannie and Annie, and Mary Poppins pilfer their stars and paste them in the sky. With a brush, a pail of glue, and a ladder. It makes sense that Sylvia Plath considered Mary Poppins the fairy godmother of her childhood.

Mrs. Corry’s bony fingers picking out pieces of gingerbread for the children generates visceral Hansel and Gretel images. I held off reading Hansel and Gretel to DD for a little while; it’s not the witch that terrifies so much as the parents, who abandon their children in the woods because they can’t afford to feed them. But I believe children have fears whether we censor their stories or not. Stories with a touch of darkness, a hint of gloom, or a threat of sadness help children identify and name what’s bittersweet. Mary Poppins also conjures the dread of abandonment. The first book ends with Mary Poppins leaving, as she promised, when the wind changes. Jane and Michael sit forlornly at the window, weeping and calling her name, as she floats above the trees.

Like Mary Poppins, this gingerbread recipe feels elemental—dark, rich—primitive even. Each bite brings up ancestral memories of shadowy woods and medieval spices. Leave a trail of crumbs to find your way back home.

Gingerbread Cookies adapted from Gourmet Magazine

Makes 4 dozen cookies

2/3 cup molasses

2/3 cup packed dark brown sugar

1 tablespoon ground ginger

1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground allspice

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 sticks of unsalted butter

1 large egg, slightly beaten

4 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

Bring molasses, brown sugar, and spices to boil in 5 quart heavy saucepan over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, and remove from heat. Stir in baking soda (mixture will foam up), then stir in butter, 3 tablespoons at a time, letting each addition melt before adding the next until all the butter is melted. Add egg and stir until combined, then stir in 3 1/2 cups flour and salt. Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Transfer dough to lightly floured surface and knead, dusting with as much of the remaining 1/4 cup of flour as needed to prevent sticking, for about a minute. Halve dough and keep at room temperature. Roll out one half of dough at a time into 14-inch round. Cut out cookies, transfer to buttered baking sheets with spatula, about 1 inch apart. Bake two sheets at a time in lower and upper halves of over, switching positions of the sheets halfway through cooking. Bake until edges are slightly darker about 10-12 minutes total.

A Garbanzo Bonanza

2008-12-17T05:26:00.000-08:00

He was the size of a fingertip when DH named him “Chickpea.” Poring over What to Expect and feeling that brand of intense wonder that only new parents experience, we marveled at the size of our son growing in my belly. Little “Chickpea.” Baby bean boy. Our legume of love. Okay . . . I’ll stop. Parenthood makes you goofy.

At age three (if we called him doodlebug, or crunch tater, or pumpkin) he would state, with furrowed brow, “Please call me by my name.” Nicknames struck my serious son as more confusion in a confusing world. Perhaps diminutives robbed him of needed control. But he embraced “Chickpea.” I like to think he heard it in the womb.

Chickpea hasn’t eaten chickpeas yet, but hummus is a staple with Mom and Dad. Easily available at Weaver Street Market, where they make it fresh, we eat hummus at the kitchen counter after a day of work. Weaver Street batches range from smooth and lemony to nutty and thick. I imagine that the task of making hummus is assigned randomly to various cooks in the kitchen—some with more experience, some with specific preferences. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but I like it without any lumps.

In Italy they call them Ceci, and a simple ceci puree was a part of our marathon meal at La Pievina, the family owned restaurant down the road from the agriturismo we stayed at. A simple antipasti, with translucent green olive oil drizzled over the top. Once you sit down at La Pievina, they ask you one question: “Carne, pesce o vegetariano?” And then the games begin. Nine or ten antipasti, four or five primi piatti, two or three secondi piatti, five dolci, all accompanied by wine and finished with grappa and vino santo.

After the seventh antipasti, we begged for mercy, but the food kept coming. Highlights were salmon ravioli, pasta with boar ragu, almond cake, and the purreed ceci. Our hostess, an apple-cheeked older woman in a white apron and mop hat, brought out soft drinks and toys for the children. And then, four hours later, she wrapped the leftovers in paper packages adorned with cherry-laden branches from the trees out in the yard.

You’ll have to eat many bowls of this dish to feel as stuffed as we were. But it’s got those Tuscan flavors. Here’s Pasta e Ceci from Jamie’s Italy:

Pasta e ceci
1 small onion, peeled and finely chopped
1 stick celery, trimmed and finely chopped
1 clove garlic, peeled and finely chopped
Extra virgin olive oil
A sprig of fresh rosemary, leaves picked and finely chopped
2 14 oz cans of chickpeas
2 ¼ cups of chicken stock
3 ½ oz. ditalini or other small Italian “soup” pasta
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Handful of torn basil
Put the finely chopped onion, celery, and garlic in a saucepan with a little extra virgin olive oil and rosemary and cook as gently as possible, with the lid on, for 15-20 minutes, until all the vegetables are soft, without any color. Drain your chickpeas well and rinse them in cold water, then add them to the pan and cover with stock. Cook gently for half an hour then, using slotted spoon, remove half the chickpeas and put them to one side in a bowl. Puree the soup in a food processor, then pour back into a pan. Add the reserved chickpeas and the pasta, season with salt and pepper, and simmer gently until the chickpeas are tender and the pasta is cooked. Add water if the soup is too thick. Add more salt and pepper if needed. Serve drizzled with olive oil. Sprinkle with freshly torn basil or parsley.

Souped-up Salvation

2008-12-09T17:42:00.000-08:00

In the blog world, I prize the well-crafted essay over extemporaneous confession. Not that I prefer all scripted entertainment to “reality”—give me Top Chef over CSI any day. I just don’t equate blogging with journaling. But I’m feeling candid today about my absence.

Hysteria hit on Friday night. We’d just put the kids to bed, and I promptly fell apart. Keep in my mind that I’m a temperamentally balanced person. I rarely have extreme highs and lows. But I also have limits.

Trouble began on Thursday when I got the call at work that my daughter had hurt her arm at recess, and she probably needed to see a doctor. So DH and I raced to the elementary school and then whisked her to the orthopedic clinic. Sure enough, she had broken it.

Friday, I stayed home with DD, her right arm in a cast and sling. And I received two phone calls that afternoon. The pediatric orthopedic surgeon telephoned to inform me that DD would need to go under general anesthesia on Monday to allow them to manipulate her arm back in place and put pins in it, before replacing the cast.

The second call notified me that DS had to be picked up from school. I will omit the details of the pick-up, but it’s traumatic for all involved. Anyone who knows children on the spectrum also knows how things can fall apart. He’s been suspended from school for two days for inappropriate language.

I kept it together on Friday until the kids were tucked in. And then I needed valium.

Instead, I had the next best thing. Soup. In fact, I ate soup for three days straight. It’s not just the only thing I could stomach, but it actually had a restorative effect. It takes no effort to eat: you don’t have to chew or even swallow. It’s steamy and warm. I can feel it healing my spirit and my body. On Friday, I have thick New England Clam Chowder (sweetly fetched by DH from Fresh Market), I have creamy Rosemary and Parsnip Soup on Saturday (homemade at Weaver Street Market), and once I get my head above emotional waters, I make an earthy Porcini and White Bean Stew.

DD’s operation was a success yesterday. We’ve regrouped. And tomorrow both children return to school, and I go back to work. With a lighter heart, I honor what helped me find my way back. Soup, beautiful soup. Soup of the evening, beautiful soup.

Porcini and White Bean Stew adapted from Martha Stewart’s Living

1 ¾ cups chicken stock

¾ ounce dried porcini mushrooms

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 small onion, thinly sliced

2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

½ teaspoon coarse salt

¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper

4 ounces fresh white mushrooms, quartered

3 small tomatoes, coarsely chopped

1 small sprig fresh rosemary, plus more for garnish

1 can (19 oz) white beans, drained and rinsed

Bring the stock and ½ cup water to boil in small pan. Add porcini. Let stand until soft, about 20 minutes. Remove porcini, coarsely chop and set aside. Strain soaking liquid and set aside. Heat oil in medium pan over medium-high heat. Add onion, garlic, salt, and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until onion is translucent, about 3 minutes. Add white mushrooms; cook, stirring occasionally, until tender, about five minutes. Stir in porcini, tomatoes, rosemary, soaking liquid, and beans. Bring to boil. Reduce heat to medium; simmer until cooked through, about 15 minutes. Remove cooked rosemary and discard. Garnish with fresh rosemary sprigs.

Deceptively Delicious Debates

2008-11-30T12:51:00.000-08:00

DD: “Cream cheese frosting? What’s that? I don’t want it.”
Me: “Oh, did I say cream cheese? I meant delicious creamy caramel frosting”
DD: “Then why did you say ‘cream cheese’?”
Me: “Mommy misspoke.”

I’m not above lying to my kids. In this case, I had made a special pumpkin spice cake with caramel cream cheese frosting for Thanksgiving (recipe below), and DD is fond of all things pumpkin. But she’s also suspicious of anything new. Deceived, she tried the cake and loved it.

But the primary secret of the meal? I put parsnips in the mashed potatoes. When referring to this dish with adults, I adopted a code: “How did you like the potatoes with the . . . other potatoes?” DD happily ate the potato parsnip puree without knowing that her creamy spuds had been adulterated.

But my Jessica Seinfeldian tricks only work on DD. Anyone with an inordinately picky child had to laugh at the whole Seinfeld wife vs. Sneaky Chef controversy. Oh yeah. We’re supposed to believe that these women were the very first mothers ever to slip furtive ingredients into their little one’s meals? How could Mrs. Seinfeld have plagiarized an idea that every desperate mother has come up with on her own?

DS began his life with the kind of nourishing, carefully orchestrated diet that that most babies of overeducated, health-conscious, formerly vegetarian, type-A mommies provide. I mashed sweet potatoes, pulverized avocadoes, and introduced whole grains only. And then, around age 2, DS began to refuse his old favorites. One by one, it seemed, my child was jettisoning the foods of his balanced and varied diet. My former omnivore now ate only a handful of items. Frustrated, I read books on picky eaters, nutrition, and development. (It was only later, when he was diagnosed, that I learned about sensory issues and the restricted palate of kids on the spectrum.) And yes, of course, I attempted to sneak in the veggies.

But unlike the dupes of Seinfeld and Sneaky, DS always knew something was up. “This spaghetti sauce tastes weird.” “I don’t like this ‘milkshake’” “Is this the kind of chicken I usually eat?” Food had become a battle. And as the cliché goes, you have to choose your battles. I decided not to make meals into war. So I chose to ignore those parents who take a “holier than thou” attitude about food, and I opted to “cater” to my picky child.

And what do you know? He’s not so picky anymore. He still prefers a narrow range of foods, but he willingly eats many, many new flavors—from sushi to crab cakes to raw spinach—and I’m confident that he’ll have many more culinary adventures when he’s ready.

As for DD? What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And sometimes (when it’s not frosting), it might make her healthier.

Here are some pictures from our Thanksgiving feast:

Pumpkin Spice Layer Cake
with Caramel Cream Cheese Frosting (from Bon Appetit)

Cake:
3 cups of flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1 15 oz. can pure pumpkin
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 1/4 cups vegetable oil
4 large eggs
2 teaspoons finely grated orange peel

Frosting:
1 1-pound box powdered sugar, divided
1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon heavy whipping cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 8 oz. package of cream cheese, room temp.
1/4 cup unsalted butter, room temp.
Candied orange peel (I omitted this)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour two 9 inch cake pans. Whisk first 9 ingredients in large bowl. With an electric mixter, beat pumpkin, sugar, and oil in another large bowl. Add egges one at a time, beating between. Mix in orange peel. Add flour; beat on low speed just to blend. Divide batter between pans. Bake about 33 minutes, until tester comes out clean.

Frosting: Sprinkle 1/2 cup powered sugar over bottom of small nonstick skillet. Cook over medium heat until sugar melts (do not stir). Continue cooking until sugar turns deep amber, stirring occasionally about 2 minutes. Carefully stir in 1/2 cup cream, vanilla, and salt. Stir until any caramel bits dissolve. Stir in remaining tablespoon of cream. Strain into small bowl. Cool to room temp. Sift remaining powdered sugar into medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat cream cheese and butter in a large bowl. Gradually beat in powdered sugar. Beat in cooled caramel. Cover and chill until firm enough to spread, about 2 hours. Frost cooled cake.

You Should Be Cookin', Turkey!

2008-11-26T05:37:00.000-08:00

Many foodie households began their preparations weeks ago. For me, serious work on Thanksgiving started yesterday, although the planning has taken weeks. So far, I’ve made homemade turkey broth for the gravy, cranberry sauce, and cookies for the kids. Today, I will salt the turkey, bake the sweet potatoes, make the desserts, prep some of the appetizers, and finish the last minute shopping (the oysters need to be fresh, you know!).

What’s the menu, you ask? Why, I’d be delighted to share . . .

For Starters:

Endive with Smoked Trout and Herbed Cream Cheese (Epicurious)

Roquefort Bleu Cheese with table water crackers

Smoked Salmon “Tartare” with lemon and olive oil chips (Epicurious)

Spiced Pecans (Saveur)

The Main Event:

Herb-Roasted Turkey with Shallot-Dijon Gravy (Bon Appetit)

Creamed Potatoes with Parsnips (Epicurious)

Green Beans with Pancetta

Oyster Stuffing (Saveur)

Sweet Potato Casserole (Saveur)

Cranberry Sauce with Dates and Orange (Gourmet)

Yeast Rolls

The Final Countdown:

Classic Pumpkin Pie (Eating Well)

Pumpkin Spice Layer Cake with Caramel and Cream Cheese Frosting (Bon Appetit)

Since I’ve got to get cookin’, I don’t have time for bloggin’ . . .

But I am here to provide a special service. To fill a need you may not know you have. Let’s say you’ve been in the kitchen all day, intensely focused on baking, basting, and brining, and then it hits you . . . What will the folks eat tonight? Some of you have guests arriving, and they’re going to expect a meal. What do you feed people the day before Thanksgiving? Well, I've got an easy, fast, and light solution.

Fast Shrimp Gumbo

2 Cups of frozen okra

2 Cups of frozen corn

2 Cups of frozen lima beans

4 Cups of chicken broth

1 Can of diced tomatoes

1 onion diced

½ green pepper diced

3 tablespoons of olive oil

3 tablespoons of flour

12-16 oz. of fresh or frozen shrimp, cleaned and peeled

salt and pepper and Tabasco sauce to taste

Heat oil in a soup pot, and saute green pepper and onion until soft. Add flour and cook until you have peanut-butter colored roux. Add tomatoes and chicken broth and bring to a boil. Add vegetables and let simmer for 45 minutes to an hour. Add shrimp and serve as soon as they turn pink. Season with plenty of salt, pepper, and Tabasco sauce.

Happy Cooking!

Accidental Joy and Ginger

2008-11-20T07:10:00.000-08:00

Caught up in traffic and dwelling on the difficulties of my book, I arrived home last night in a dispirited mood. The emotional wreckage I found when I walked in the door didn’t help. My daughter started crying because she hadn’t been awarded a certificate or a badge or something at school for being a “super, terrific student.” My son’s teacher had sent notification that DS’s smart-alecky answers on his science homework were unacceptable. So we redid the homework, this time pulling the answers from the reading rather than from our you-know-what. And we made a “you’re a super terrific student” award for DD, complete with curlicues, hearts, and flowers. Temporary peace achieved.

In the interim, I checked in on my blog, out of habit more than expectation. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? A sweet tag from CaptnRachel aka Tha Pizza Cutta. A random act of kindness to buoy my spirits! A random act that calls for random information from me. And then I tag six bloggers, and so on, and so on. Random ripples across the blog-o-sphere.

So here are The golden rules of tagging:
*Link to the person who tagged you
* Post the rules on the blog posted
*Write six random things about yourself
*Tag six people at the end of your post
*Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog
* Let the tagger know when your entry is published

Here are some random facts about NCFoodie:

1) I went to a Star Trek convention when I was 12 (in a year I won’t mention b/c it will date me).

2) I once modeled nude for an art class. (I don’t recommend it.)

3) I love See’s Candy. Nothing’s better than a custom-made box (extra caramel, extra nuts, all dark chocolate) arriving on your doorstep. And I like including a friendly gift-note to my self. Seriously. Something like, "Dear Future Self: You are so going to appreciate me for sending you this candy. Love, Current Self."

4) My high school boyfriend is now a fairly well-known actor on a cultishly popular tv show.

5) I was Tina Fey as Sarah Palin for Halloween. You betcha!

6) I adore frozen margaritas. (Preferably on a beach in the Caribbean but will take them anytime, anywhere.)

I’m happy to tag the following bloggers. Come out and play . . .

http://www.jenniferscooking.blogspot.com/: Beautiful pictures and incredibly delicious sounding recipes. Visit her blog today!

http://www.palatetopen.com/ Jennifer Adams is a terrific writer who knows her wine and food. Her blog is always eloquent and always informative.

http://joiedevivreanamateurgourmetsguide.blogspot.com/ Wonderful personal story, great philosophy, and some very yummy recipes.

http://balancefood.blogspot.com/ If you like your food writer to have a scientific background, balance is the place to visit. Smart entries, great recipes, and a little education along the way.

http://giddygastronome.blogspot.com/ Nazarina A is a food artist. You will be in awe.

http://www.calminthekitchen.blogspot.com/ A relative newcomer who’s hitting homeruns with her recipes. Everything looks tasty!

Thanks, Rachel for making me an "it" girl. Your comments made my day!!

To keep with our theme of haphazardness and its pleasures, I also offer a random cookie recipe, accompanied by six relatively random statements:

1) Don’t use spray oil on the cookie sheets. It gives these delicate cookies an odd aftertaste.
2) The recipe underestimates the amount of crystallized ginger you’ll need. Chop about twice as much.
3) These cookies go well with tea.
4) Add more lemon zest for more lemon flavor. Duh.
5) I had to bake them longer than the recommended time.
6) In the words of Lolcat: “I can has cookeez?”

Ginger & Lemon Cookies
from The Best of Fine Cooking: Cookies

1 Cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 Cup plus 2 Tablespoons sugar
3 Tablespoons finely grated fresh ginger
1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest.
1/4 teaspoon table salt
2 large egg yolks
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 1/1 Cups flour
2 Tablespoons chopped crystallized ginger
1 lightly beaten egg white

Position rack in center of oven and preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line three large cookie sheets with parchment. In a large bowl combine butter, 3/4 Cup sugar, grated ginger, lemon zest, and salt. Using an electric mixer on medium, beat the mixture until well blended and light, 2-3 minutes. Scrape the bowl; add egg yolks and vanilla; continue mixing until blended. Add flour and mix on a low speed until dough is blended and just comes together. Shape balls of dough into 1-inch balls, set them 1 1/2 inches apart on cookie sheets. In shallow dish, mix remaining 2 Tbs. granulated sugar until blended. Press the dough balls flat with the palm of your hand, brush the tops with egg white, sprinkle on the ginger-sugar mixture. Press with bottom of metal measuring cup to ensure that the topping adheres. Bake one sheet at a time for 11-13 minutes. Let cool and store in airtight container.

Crantastic

2008-11-15T17:01:00.000-08:00

As usual, you are right. It will be a challenge. How can I please myself and please everyone else, too? I don’t hide my gourmet ambitions. Hence, this aspirational blog (a neologism I’ve seen everywhere lately). So you’ve probably guessed how I view Thanksgiving. As an excuse to plan an elaborate feast that demands at least three days of cooking. When else do we get a day off from work just to prepare and eat a meal?

Before we had children, DH and I treated this holiday as a day of indulgence. It was “Name your favorite food, and I’ll cook it” Day (with some requisite thankfulness thrown in). So we ate lobster, home-made egg rolls, and chocolate mousse with our grad school pals, while other households waited for their Butterballs to brown. But those wild days are gone. Now Thanksgiving is a time when grandparents visit their grandchildren. And these familial relations, big and small, sit down with expectations. Indeed, for many of the consumers invited to our table, tradition matters more than flavor.

But I welcome the challenge. In those decadent days of mousse and lobster, I was playing without a net. Now I must work within the tight constraints of custom, nostalgia and undeveloped palates. As I flip through the new Bon Appetit, I have visions of fennel and rosemary in the mashed potatoes, pumpkin spice cake instead of pie, and shallots in everything (except the cake).

But I’m well aware that most folks have an unnatural attachment to a specific Thanksgiving dish. More often than not, these ‘must-haves' involve either Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup or marshmallow topping. After checking with DH, DS, and DD, my own net begins to form: apparently, this menu will require gravy, creamed potatoes for the gravy, and yam casserole the way Nana makes it (i.e., with lots of brown sugar). So the obvious questions popping up (like a turkey thermometers in my brain) are . . . Will revolution ensue if I don’t make pumpkin pie this year? Will people fast if I experiment with an Asian-flavored Turkey? And . . . where can I add a chutney, relish, or compote?

Don’t assume my desire to avoid French’s fried onions is food snobbery. I like “cheese in a jar” fer gosh sake. And I’m not innocent of kitschy Thanksgiving longings either. I’ve had, for many years, an inexplicable loyalty to canned cranberry sauce. Yes, I’m talking about the gelatinous, quivery kind that holds its form—ridges and all—when it slips from the tin. I would never kick those perfectly sliced magenta disks off my plate. (And not only because I’m a lady who keeps her feet off the table).

But I know I’ll take more pleasure in planning and cooking a cranberry sauce than I could ever get from opening a can. Maybe this year I’ll add orange peel and dates? Or pears and honey? Mmm, that recipe with port and dried figs looks good . . .

In anticipation of the holidays, I made these incredible Cranberry Streusel Shortbread Bars. Enjoy:

Cranberry Streusel Shortbread Bars

From the Best of Fine Cooking: Cookies:

1 Cup plus 5 Tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled until just warm

1 Cup Sugar

¾ teaspoon Salt

2 large egg yolks

3 Cups plus 3 Tablespoons of Flour

12 oz bag of fresh or frozen cranberries, picked over, rinsed, and drained

1 Cup Sugar

The Crust:

Line a straight-sided 13 x 9 inch metal pan with foil, letting the edges hang over for easy removal. In medium bowl, stir butter, ¾ cup sugar, and salt. Whisk in egg yolks. Stir in the flour to make a stiff dough. Transfer 2 cups of the dough to the prepared pan and press the mixture evenly over the bottom. Prick the dough all over with a fork. Refrigerate for 30 minutes. Then bake in center of oven at 325 degrees for 20 minutes.

The Streusel:

With your fingers combine the remaining ¼ cup sugar with the reserved dough until crumbly.

The Cranberry Topping:

In a medium saucepan, bring the cranberries, sugar, and ¼ cup water to boil over high heat. Reduce heat to medium and boil for about 8 minutes until liquid is reduced to thick syrup. Let mixture cool for 10 minutes. Spread cranberry mixture over crust. Scatter streusel topping over cranberries. Bake near top of oven at 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Let pan cool completely before removing bars from pan. Lift the foil sides, transfer to cutting board, and separate foil from bars by sliding a spatula between them. Cut into squares.

I am going to make it through this year

2008-11-10T05:52:00.000-08:00

On the Wednesday after the election, DH and I had tickets to see The Mountain Goats. But we didn’t want to go! Don’t get me wrong: I love the Mountain Goats. Had I been guaranteed a place to sit and an 8:00 PM start time, I’d’ve been a menthols ad: alive with pleasure.

But we’d stayed up late on Tuesday, eager to see NC turn blue. Our fatigue was worse for the cruddy cold we couldn’t shake. Even when healthy I nod off at the hour most bands begin. The final nail in the coffin? Twinges in my back warned me not to stand for three hours.

Accepting the limitations of age is not a singular revelation. We don’t just realize we’re old and then live sensibly with the knowledge. Instead, we find ourselves surprised each time we must yield to the pull of aches or weariness.

But don’t feel bad, dear reader. We gave our tickets to the neighbor boy, whose joy (mixed with our relief) countered any lingering stabs of disappointment. When the babysitter arrived, we had new plans. Dinner out to celebrate Obama’s win, then home to a cozy fire. We headed to Panciuto in Hillsborough, a relatively new restaurant, as yet untried. http://www.panciuto.com/index.html

Once we walked in, we saw that the hostess’s request that we arrive before 8:00 PM was motivated by a wish to close early. We were the last table seated in a restaurant sparsely filled. Sure, Hillsborough may roll up its sidewalks at 10:00 PM, but a staff’s desire for a short night should remain unknown to the patrons. Or so says the former waitress in me.

But the restaurant had a welcoming, warm glow, and I love the concept: Italian food with a local, southern “inflection.” Bread and pasta made in-house. And a complimentary glass of prosecco to start the meal. That’s an authentic touch . . . in Rome we watched waiters dodge scooters and cars to pass around glasses of prosecco gratis to customers waiting in the streets.

Too tired to split a bottle of wine, I had a glass of a Super Tuscan red and DH had Gavi de Gavi. We shared a starter: grilled bruschetta with herbed ricotta, prosciutto, fried egg, arugula and vincotto. Fantastic! The creamy ricotta perfectly balanced the salty prosciutto and peppery arugula. The egg was remarkably fresh, with a bright, plump orange yolk; the flavor took me back to Tuscany, where we ate farm-fresh eggs just laid at La Pievena’s farm. If you’ve never had a really fresh, organic egg, you’re missing out. It’s a completely different food than the supermarket sort.

For entrees, I had the black spaghetti with shrimp, calamari, guanciale, and arugula in an oven dried tomato pesto, and DH ordered the butternut squash ravioli, shaved parmesan, wilted chard, toasted pumpkin seeds, sage, and brown butter. Since I had had black ink spaghetti with frutti di mare when we splurged at Corte Sconta in Venice (see “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Squid”), I should have anticipated my disappointment. Panciuto’s dish was too dry (oven dried tomato pesto still needs water and oil to make it silky on the noodles). Even worse, the shrimp and calamari were overcooked. Seasonally, the butternut squash ravioli scored points on ingenuity. The pasta had a respectable texture, but the sauce proved too sweet. Good choice if you like pumpkin pie for dinner.

We shared the pistachio dipped filo cannolis with ricotta-vanilla filling and chocolate ganache. They were fine. A little bland and the ganache could have been thicker, but I’m not the cannoli enthusiast in the family. DH reports that he’s had better in New Haven. One more note of authenticity: they offer espressos but no cappuccinos. As we learned in Italy, only tourists drink cappuccinos after breakfast.

Our conclusion: Panciuto could simplify its dishes and pay more attention to preparation. With its bounty of local meats, produce, and cheeses, the kitchen should rely on showcasing the ingredients without excess fuss (in other words, remove an accessory before going out). It may need more competition than Hillsborough currently provides. Without the demand of many discerning palates, a restaurant can get lazy or negligent, especially if it’s eager to shut down early. I’d return for the bruschetta but not much else.

Nevertheless, we were happy. The Mountain Goats played in the car, we went to bed early, and our mature decision to skip the show made us feel youthful in the morning. Nothing like a good night’s sleep to stoke a feeling of “yes we can.” And what do you know . . . Carolina turned the color it has always claimed to be.

Swimming Upstream

2008-11-02T08:48:00.000-08:00

I’m drinking coffee, eating toasted Irish soda bread, and dreaming of Innisfree, when I glance at the clock on my laptop. It’s an hour earlier! The time fairy, who usually robs me of glow and spring, just gave me a wrapped gift of a daylight-savings hour. The benefit of forgetfulness is the delight of small surprises.

Typically I combat the unredeeming march of time with planning. I plan menus, schedules, lists, dates, goals, and breaks. Our household would fall apart without an elaborate dance of appointments, charts, and diagrams. DD visits her friend, while DS learns guitar, you pick up milk, while I start dinner. We labor to fit it all in, to keep it all running, but what falls away is spontaneity and the leisure of doing nothing. The seeming variety produced by a well-executed schedule turns into a rut after a few weeks.

In all truth, the family broke its routine yesterday, rocking the vote in downtown Chapel Hill. Among the wonders of the day: my ten year old son got a hug from Billy Bragg, played roadie for the dB’s, and acquired Mitch Easter’s autograph. DD ran around with a steady stream of playmates. For grown ups, hanging out is like pulling on a stiff pair of jeans that grow softer as you move. At first, the hours feel stolen and uneasy. But soon time slows down and so does your breathing.

Menu monotony is one effect of our scheduled life. I maintain that habits are comforting. We happily look forward to the same ole meals, relaxed in the knowledge that they’ll be tasty and satisfying.

Salmon tends to be my safety-dish. I order it unthinkingly and rely on it mechanically. And yet (and the revelation sneaks up on us) too much of the same is what made Jack a dull boy. The trick is dressing old things new, as Will puts it, and “Spending again what is already spent.”

Back when I knew how to hang out, I saw the salmon swimming upstream in Galway. And I ate wild salmon served in cream with Irish blokes who knew their Yeats.

Nowadays this cold water fish gets farmed in Latin America, where it wears fewer clothes and more zest. I made a mojito, turned on Astrud Gilberto, and let my northern thoughts thaw as they swam south with this recipe:

Salmon with Pepita-Lime Butter

(from Eating Well Magazine)

2 Tablespoons unsalted pepitas

1 Tablespoon butter

½ teaspoon freshly grated lime zest

¼ teaspoon chili powder

2 Tablespoons lime juice

1 pound salmon filet, skinned, cut into four portions

½ teaspoon of slat

¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper

Toast pepitas for two minutes over medium heat in a dry pan. Place in a small bowl with butter, lime juice, and chili powder. Generously coat a large skillet with cooking spray, place over medium heat. Sprinkle salmon with salt and pepper, add to pan and cook until browned and just cooked through center, 2-4 minutes per side. Remove the pan from the heat. Transfer the salmon to a plate. Add the butter-lime mixture to the hot pan; stir until the butter is melted. Serve salmon topped with sauce.

Sprinkle Some Sugar on Me

2008-10-24T06:07:00.000-07:00

Armed with a cardboard shaker of salt, Albert seasons the yolk, before eating his cream cheese-cucumber-and-tomato sandwich on rye bread, a pickle, and the egg so they all come out even with the milk in his thermos. When Frances brings her own elaborate lunch to school, she sets a tiny vase of violets on a doily before unpacking: cream of tomato soup, a lobster salad sandwich, celery, carrot sticks, black olives, plums, and cherries. To finish, she has a vanilla pudding with chocolate sprinkles.

Bread and Jam for Frances was probably my very first encounter with food writing, and it left a deep impression. First, the lunches struck me as tasty. I might have tweaked the menu a little (cold fried chicken, anyone?), but the sharp tang of rye bread with the mild and sweet flavors of cream cheese and tomato sounded perfect. (As “Harriet the Spy” knew, very few pleasures surpass the perfectly ripe tomato sandwich.) While the lobster salad sandwich was clearly an instance of one-up-manship on Frances’s part, the inclusion of black olives was genius. A little girl badger after my own heart.

But the deeper pull of these descriptions tugged at something other than the palate. I was fascinated with the implied labor of preparation (Frances's mom put her cherries in a tiny basket), the ceremony of eating (nibble egg, bite sandwich, taste pickle, sip milk), and the finishing touches (the disposable salt shaker, the chocolate sprinkles). (Molly Ringwald opening her sushi bento box in The Breakfast Club provided a similar thrill many years later).

While Albert had me at rye bread and salt, it’s the non pareils that won DD’s heart. She’s my little Frances (think pasta and butter, instead of bread and jam), so the olives, and lobster, and pickle failed to resonate with her.

Of course, sprinkles have a baseline appeal. Kids love 'em. But if we move beyond their superficial allure (sugary taste; crunchy texture) and ignore their nutritional offenses (HFCS, dyes), then we might see that Sprinkles (a.k.a. jimmies, sanding sugars, non pareils, fairy dust, pixie dust, angel dust . . . wait, that’s not right) harbor something more. They hold the same aesthetic and ritualized charm of Frances’s vase of violets. They transform a plain cupcake into a festive one. They invite the smallest hands to the decorating table. And their sparkle is superfluous, giving the decorator license to be rebellious, tasteful, or tacky, as she pleases. Reason not the need.

Plus, they’re pretty.

Here’s the cookie recipe that DD and I bejeweled with sprinkles, adapted from The Best of Fine Cooking, Cookie Edition:

Classic Cut-Out Cookies
2 Cups of unbleached flour
1 ½ teaspoons of baking powder
½ teaspoon of kosher salt
¾ Cup of unsalted butter, softened
¾ Cup of granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 Tbs of heavy cream
½ teaspoon of lemon zest
Whisk flour, baking powder, and salt in small bowl. With mixer, in a large bowl, mix butter and sugar until well-creamed. Add vanilla, cream, and lemon zest until well combined. With mixer on low, gradually add flour mixture until well combined. Portion the dough into three disks, wrap in plastic, and then refrigerate from 2 hours to overnight. Grease cookie sheets. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Flour a work surface and roll out one disk at a time to ¼ inch thick. Cut out cookies, add sprinkles, and bake for 9-10 minutes until edges turn golden.

Unhousing the Crab

2008-10-17T20:04:00.000-07:00

As my Mom tells it, we were leaving San Francisco for good that day. The car was packed (a little red hatchback, missing its backseat), and we had driven across town to say good-bye to J, the man who would later become my stepfather. But when it came time to hit the road, the engine wouldn’t turn over.

So we moved into J’s one-room basement apartment.

Someone (an old girlfriend? A previous tenant?) had thought stripes of red and black paint would improve the cement-block walls. I slept on the floor of a closet curtained with hanging beads. At night, banana slugs would creep through the kitchenette window, leaving glossy trails on the formica counter.

After a month at the neighborhood school, it became evident that the white teacher was ostentatiously favoring me as the only white kid in the class. So my mom concocted a scheme. Friends of friends owned an essential oils and incense company called “Flash” in our old neighborhood, and its street address would become my new, false place of residence. With the deep and rigid morals of a first grader, I felt cramped with fear that my teacher would ask me where I lived. At the end of the school day, I’d walk to “Flash,” where I’d wait for my mom to pick me up, filling the time with wary sniffs of patchouli, sandalwood, and eucalyptus.

J, who is six years younger than my mom, had just returned from Vietnam, and Vietnamese restaurants began to appear in the city. I can’t remember, but we must have eaten at Thanh Long, which became a local phenomenon when it opened in the early 70s. I know I always ordered the spicy Vietnamese roasted crab.

If you had asked me then, “What’s your favorite food?” I probably would have answered crab—cracked crab—the real San Francisco treat. I did love it. But I also knew that my love of crab was strange (and, I thought, sophisticated) for a kid. I think my mom and I got a kick out of how other patrons responded when her little girl sat tall and ordered her own plate of the Dungeness crustaceans. I enjoyed the ritualistic labor that crab demands, with its very own tool-set: a nut-cracker, a tiny trident, a little spear. And what’s the reward for penetrating its orange armor? A squeeze of lemon, dripping butter, and a delicately sweet meat.

A few years later, in the bicentennial, we moved to Maryland. Since my parents couldn’t afford to buy a house, we lived with J’s newly divorced sister, Annie, in Silver Spring. In those days, before she moved back to Oklahoma to raise Basenjis, Annie was a clothes buyer for Hecht’s department store. She read Harlequin Romances, drank Tab, and watched Star Trek religiously. It was Annie who introduced me to fried soft-shell crabs at Crisfield’s. Crunchy, juicy, and delicious. It felt primitive to eat the critter’s house, but it’s such a tasty exoskeleton.

After many inedible experiences, I won’t order crab cakes in a restaurant unless we’re on the Chesapeake Bay. But we regularly have what the kids call “crabby patties” at home.

(Be sure to keep this recipe from the eye of Plankton):

Crab Cakes

1 lb Crab Meat (I use Phillips Special Crab Meat, pasteurized, available in the fresh fish section)

½ Cup of Panko bread crumbs

1 egg

1 Tablespoon of mayonnaise

A few dashes of Tabasco sauce

2 teaspoons of Old Bay seasoning

Juice from ½ lemon

1 scallion, chopped

1 tablespoon of diced green pepper

Salt and pepper

1 Cup of Panko bread crumbs

canola oil

Squeeze any excess moisture out of the crab meat. Mix all of the ingredients thoroughly, minus the final 1 Cup of Panko bread crumbs and the canola oil. Divide the crab meat mixture into 5 evenly sized balls. Pat these balls into patties, and then dredge in the remaining Panko bread crumbs. Chill the cakes for at least one hour. Heat about a ¼ inch of canola oil in a skillet. Fry the crab cakes, about four minutes a side, until they’re golden brown.

The Hardest Hue to Hold

2008-10-14T11:28:00.000-07:00

Her blood sugar was low, so the tantrum was to be expected. When I suggested long pants, she insisted on shorts. To stem the bickering, I left her room, but over my shoulder I said, “Pick out your own clothes.” Five minutes later, I turned the corner in the hall, and she was hiding behind the door, dressed in long pants. Thinking it best that I keep my mouth shut, I walked by without a word. And then she began to cry. “Why are you crying?” “Because you don’t appreciate me,” she said.

Her articulation brought me to a standstill. I didn’t know my five year old daughter even knew the word “appreciate.” The precision of her observation—such a careful match between her feelings and her language—made me, ironically, appreciate her. The littlest one, in a family of know-it-alls, had just demonstrated an incisiveness with her words that not only persuaded me to concede her point (I should have praised her for her acquiescence), but it also generated a well-lit spot of time. In the future, when she slays me in arguments and dazzles me with her verbal dexterity, I’ll remember this moment as a sign of wondrous sparks to come.

It’s fitting then, that DD plans to be “Word Girl” for Halloween. If you’re not up on your PBS kid shows, “Word Girl” is a ten year old superhero who fights crime while enhancing her community’s vocabulary. We’ve been planning the details for weeks—red unitard, yellow cape, gloves, boots—and practicing Word Girl’s slogan, “Word Up!”

What’s not to love about Halloween? You get to dress up, go out at night, and people give you free candy. Candy corn, peanut butter cups, licorice, and mini-chocolate bars. Houses are glowing with golden pumpkins. You eat harvesty, nutty food, with apples and squash and cinnamon. People are merry. It’s the best holiday of the year, far out-stripping Christmas (which tends to generate tension and dissatisfaction, the inevitable consequences of cupidity).

As an aspiring actress who imagined herself in remakes of Flying Down to Rio and Top Hat, I adored Halloween as a child. Halloween meant elaborately planned and glamorous costumes: a Rita Hayworth-like movie star, a flapper with spit curls and fringe, Shirley Temple. As an adult, DH and I would attend parties as literary figures (I was Belinda from “Rape of the Lock”; he was James Boswell) or movie characters (I was Janet Leigh in a blond wig, bullet bra, and pencil skirt; he was Norman Bates in a dress).

And it’s appropriate that we outfit ourselves in elaborate gear at a time when Nature does the same.

Emily Dickinson says it better . . .

The Maple wears a gayer scarf—
The field a scarlet gown—
Lest I should be old fashioned
I'll put a trinket on.

Here in the south, October is nestled between the heavy heat of summer and the creeping grey of November. The sun shines without a glare. The month is golden and calm, yet we’re buzzy and excited (for Halloween, for school, for change). We don our best clothes: plaid wool skirts, boots, and nubby tights, feeling prepared, capable, and productive.

I purposefully chose October as my wedding month 19 years ago. On the day, the weather was crisp enough for the velvet in my dress but temperate enough to have the ceremony outside. Leaves of gold and red and yellow adorned the trees, with a few on the ground, crunching beneath our feet.

October speaks a language that prompts me to appreciate.

Here’s the perfect recipe to accompany an autumnal mood (first eaten on our first anniversary in October many years ago):

Pumpkin and Cream Cheese Muffins

Cream cheese mixture:

1 8 oz. package of cream cheese, softened

¼ Cup of sugar

1 egg beaten

Bread:

1 ¾ cup flour

1 ½ cup sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

1 cup canned pumpkin

½ cup melted butter

1 egg beaten

1/3 cup water

Combine cream cheese mixture until well-blended and set aside. Combine dry ingredients. Add pumpkin, butter, egg, and water, mixing until just moistened. Reserve 1 ½ cups pumpkin batter. Grease muffin tins, or use papers. Fill cups about half full. Put in a dollop of cream cheese mixture. Cover with the rest of batter. Bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes. (Can also be made as a loaf: fill loaf pan about half way full, add cream cheese mixture, top with reserved batter. Cut through the batter a few times with a knife to swirl it. Bake for 70 minutes)

Bacon for Brinner

2008-10-09T11:54:00.000-07:00

We all know one. They’re faithful vegetarians . . . except when it comes to bacon. Bacontarians. Why do they slip? It’s not really their fault. For the pig has preternatural power.

As Homer exclaimed (in what may be the most over-quoted Simpsons' line in our household), “What is this magical animal?” Magical indeed. Pork fat can even get sleeping children and partners out of bed on a lazy Sunday. “Are you cooking bacon?!!?” my daughter will yell from the top of the stairs.

To me, the smell of bacon or sausage in the morning is both comforting and rousing; the sizzle and the scent create a sense of coziness. It makes me feel safe and cherished, even when I’m the one doing the frying!

When we’d visit my grandparents in Dallas, and I was about five or six, my grandfather would wake up at dawn. Soon after, a slightly smoky air would waft into my room, and I’d scurry to get my slippers on. Those early mornings were for me and him. He’d make link sausages and sweet rolls—the most decadent and delicious breakfast imaginable. I loved to see my grandpa at the stove. He was a tall, almost regal man, and he always wore a chef’s apron to keep his clothes neat. And he bestowed upon me that pure adoration that only grandparents can give. I would bask in his attention, happily munching on sweet rolls and sausage, and feeling absolutely content with the world.

Here’s the only cult I’m not ashamed to join (and the source of my opening picture) . . . http://www.royalbaconsociety.com/blog/

As Jamie Oliver points out, this recipe includes eggs, sausage, and bacon, so it’s a lot like having breakfast for dinner. In our house, we call it “brinner.”

Sausage Carbonara

(Linguine all carbonara di salsiccia from Jamie’s Italy)

4 organic Italian sausages

Olive oil

4 slices of thickly cut pancetta, chopped

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

1 lb. dried linguine

4 large egg yolks, free range and organic

½ cup of heavy cream

3 ½ oz. freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Zest of 1 lemon

1 sprig of fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped

Extra virgin olive oil

Slit the sausage skins to pop the meat out. With wet hands, roll little balls of sausage meat, about the size of marbles. Heat a large frying pan, add splash of olive oil. Fry the sausage meatballs into golden brown, add pancetta and continue cooking until golden. Start a pot of boiling, salted water, add the linguine and cook according to package directions. In a large bowl, whip egg yolks, cream, half the grated Parmesan, the lemon zest, and the parsley. Drain the cooked pasta, reserving a little pasta water, and immediately toss the pasta with the egg mixture in the pasta pot. Add the sausage and pancetta, and toss together. The sauce should be smooth and silky. (If it gets too sticky, add a little reserved cooking water). Sprinkle the rest of the Parmesan on top, season if necessary, drizzle a little olive oil, and serve.

So Much Does Depend on Chicken (if it's Fried)

2008-10-06T05:49:00.000-07:00

Even as a kid, I wasn't a big fan of burgers. When I was in second grade, we lived in a flat in San Francisco above a closed-down “doll hospital.” The sign above the shop still advertised its former use, but butcher paper covered the windows. The space had been rented by the hamburger joint down the street, “Bill’s Place,” and late at night, you could hear restaurant workers chopping onions and grinding meat. Perhaps it was the amalgamation, in my seven year old mind, of broken dolls parts and sides of beef that led to my eventual choice to avoid cow. (Certainly it explains those nightmares involving cleavers and pouty ceramic faces.)

My meal of choice at that age was Kentucky Fried Chicken, well before it became “KFC.” San Francisco had very few fast food restaurants at the time (in fact, my only knowledge of McDonalds came from an avid devotion to Mad Magazine). If we ate out, we’d get Mexican, Chinese, Vietnamese, or Bill’s hamburgers. So Kentucky Fried Chicken was birthday food. Left to my own devices once a year, I chose fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and chocolate cake. The perfect meal.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but fried chicken probably conjured up the extended family I barely knew. My mother rarely made fried chicken. Instead, it was the meal I ate when visiting my father’s relatives in East Texas. My grandmother and great aunt cooked. Surrounded by aunts, and uncles, and cousins who knew my name, I ate fried chicken and drank sweetened iced tea in their tiny kitchen. My appetite made them happy; it was a sign that I belonged.

For DH, fried chicken also meant family. As a child, his nickname for his grandmother was “Maw Maw Chicken Bone,” in honor of the favorite drumsticks she made him. In the early years of our marriage, we spent every Sunday at his grandparents’ house in Durham. Once we finished eating lunch—almost always fried chicken, butter beans and corn, and biscuits—his Maw Maw would say, with a wink, “Let’s leave the dishes. If the preacher comes, we’ll run back to the table.” After supper, DH would do the laundry and watch NASCAR with his grandfather, drinking Pepsi and talking about the drivers. I, meanwhile, learned the Zen of Sunday rest (not an easy lesson for me, but the whirring sound of stock cars had a meditative effect). We named our son after DH’s grandfather. A tender-hearted man who lost his leg in WWII. Thinking about his smile brings tears to my eyes today.

So that I can eat fried chicken once a week, I make a healthy version, adapted from The Eating Well Magazine. You’d never know it wasn’t fried.

Oven Fried Chicken

2 Cups of Flour
1 Tablespoon baking powder
2 teaspoons thyme
2 teaspoons oregano
1 Tablespoon paprika
1 teaspoon of salt
freshly ground pepper
1 cup milk
1 Egg
A couple dashes of Tabasco sauce
Spray oil (canola)
8 Chicken wings (or your favorite parts)

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Spray a baking sheet with oil. Mix dry ingredients in a shallow bowl. Mix milk, egg, and Tabasco in another bowl. Working piece by piece, put the chicken first in the egg mixture, and then dredge in the flour. Place the pieces of chicken on the baking sheet. Spray the chicken well with canola oil. Cook for 50 minutes, turning all the pieces over half-way through the cooking time.

Some chicken love quotations from the family:

DH: “Fried chicken is the only food that will get me to dress like a cow” (in reference to the Chik-Fil-a dress-like-a-cow day).

DS: “According to Dee Snyder, man cannot live without chicken nuggets."

DD: "Do chicken nuggets come from chickens?"

What I've done to Stevens!

2008-10-03T05:38:00.001-07:00

I'm delighted to report that my silly poem about squid brought out UPenn's Prof. Filreis's snark:

afilreis.blogspot.com/2008/10/in-my-mind-im-going.html

Apparently Pound and William Carlos Williams don't get this kind of shabby treatment. Nobody ever parodies "The Red Wheelbarrow."

Back to food on Sunday . . . because so much depends . . . on the white chickens I'll be cooking.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Squid

2008-10-01T20:10:00.000-07:00

Fried Calamari and Potato Salad

[If you're here for the poem, don't miss my follow-up post: "What I've done to Stevens!" to get a sense of its critical reception]

With true literary geekiness, I've penned a poem. It's an imitation devoted to squid.

And with even greater literary geekiness, I've included footnotes.

Recipes to follow.

Thirteen ways of looking at a squid
(with sincere apologies to Wallace Stevens)

I
Among snowy cephalopods
The only moving thing
Was the blade of my cleaver. (1)

II
I was of eight minds,
Like a squid
On which there are eight squid arms. (2)

III
The squid once whirled in the aqua sea.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Eat food.
Man and woman and hot calamari
To eat.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of crispy rings
Or the beauty of tentacles,
The kraken sizzling
Or just after. (3)

VI
Tentacles filled the long platter
Of Venetian glass.
The shadow of the black ink
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the butter
An indescribable taste. (4)

VII
O men of Italy,
How did you imagine golden squid?
See the frito misto di mare
Swim around the oil
Of the olives about you? (5)

VIII
I know calamari
And crunchy, indescribable squid rings;
But I know, too,
That tentacles are involved
In what I know.

IX
When the black ink flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
On sight of calamari
Swimming in the green oil,
Even the cooks of linguine
Would cry out sharply.

XI
We rode over from the Lido
In a fast boat. (6)
Once, hunger pierced us,
In that we mistook
The shadow of the vaporetto
For sea squids.

XII
The water is moving.
The kraken must be swimming.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was dinner
And we were going to dine.
The fried squid sat
On our dinner plates.

(1) I actually use a knife to slice the squid into rings, but I liked the euphony of “cleaver.”
(2) I thought the arms were tentacles, but squid, in fact, have only two tentacles and eight arms.
(3) The Kraken is a mythical creature often compared to a giant squid.
(4) Here the poem shifts to a memory of our trip to Venice, where we ate at a beautiful restaurant, Corte Sconta, known for its seafood. One dish was made with black squid ink pasta.
(5) We also had their special, frito misto di mare, mixed fried seafood, which included calamari.
(6) We stayed on the Lido to save money, so we took the water buses to Venice. We needed the extra money to pay for our meal at Corte Sconta.

Fried Calamari

2 cups of Flour

2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon pepper

2 teaspoons paprika

2 pounds of cleaned squid

Olive oil or Canola oil

Lemons

Slice the bodies of the squid into half-inch rings, leaving the tentacles whole.

Mix the flour in a shallow bowl with salt, pepper and paprika.

Fill frying pan with about three inches of oil. Heat to 350 degrees.

Working in small batches, dredge the squid in the flour, shake off excess flour, and fry in the oil.

Each batch will take 2-3 minutes. Fry until golden and crisp. Transfer to a paper-towel lined plate. Serve with lots of lemons.

***

Potato Salad with a Zing

(adapted from Julia Child’s French Potato Salad in The Way to Cook)

1 ½ pounds of boiling potatoes

1 red chili pepper minced

2 scallions chopped

Salt and pepper

¼ cup of potato cooking water

1 ½ Tablespoons wine vinegar

2-3 Tablespoons chopped cilantro

2-3 Tablespoons of light olive oil

Peel potatoes and slice into ¼ inch thick pieces; keep in cold water until ready to cook. Place potatoes in a pot with clean cold water to cover. Add a couple teaspoons of salt. Bring to simmer, and simmer for 2-3 minutes until the potatoes are just tender. Drain but save ¼ cup of potato cooking water. Turn the warm potatoes in a bowl with scallions, salt and pepper, chili pepper, cooking water, vinegar, and cilantro. Let steep for 10 minutes, tossing gently several times. Correct seasoning, and then add some oil before serving.