pie in the sky

Potato Bin Elegy

2009-08-13T10:26:00.012-04:00

Gene, one of the great and beloved mentors of my life in Appalachia, passed away last fall. He taught me to grow things, as well as the art of patience, and exuded a sort of grace and quiet empathy that few old men possess. His eyes never ceased laughing.

Today I was reminded of him in an abrupt and tactile moment in the farmers' market, combing through a bin of dirt-flecked potatoes. Suddenly I saw his gnarled hands instead of mine, picking through another bin of potatoes, wedding ring winking in the half-light of the root cellar. My heart felt full and taut.

I wrote the following when I received news of his death this past October, and thought I might share it with those of you who still check this poor old blog now and then. I hope it conveys the love and gratitude I felt, and will always feel, for this strong, gentle grandfather.

Elegy for Gene

By the time I met you –
A Victorian doll clambering up your ragged
Denim knees, kissing silver stubble –
You did not till the earth,
Wear a soldier’s uniform,
Chop wood for the fire,
Touch your wife.
You did quiet, womanish things –
Picked cherries,
Took scraps out to the dogs,
Read a thousand books.
You wore dusty overalls and bragged about
Her pound cakes –
In fact, when you spoke, it was like a bottle uncorked
And the two of you sang folkwise duets
Lyrically impossible, but such sweet melody:
These were the songs of my childhood,
Raising me up in the soil.

It’s been years since you hoisted me into the cherry trees,
Since you fetched potatoes from the root cellar
Or shaved your own face.
Mostly you’ve slept,
Or half-slept in a medicated haze,
Curled on the couch –
Your face cool, but familiar to my kisses.

The last time I saw you
We sat together at the kitchen table in the farmhouse,
Each with a cool jar of water from the well
Though you didn’t drink yours, or even hold it.
You answered my questions sparely,
And didn’t speak beyond them –
How are you feeling?
And, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Later I peeled your white cotton undershirt
Off the weeping yellow lesions burned into your back –
Melanoma, just removed –
And spread antiseptic balm
With my fingers.
I helped you, gingerly, into a new shirt.
One fourth your years, or nearly,
I am for the first time an adult –
For the first time, permitted these intimate acts.
This is not an embarrassment for you, old father,
But an honor for me –
My fingers in your wounds.

I ate a warm wedge of pound cake
And you rolled your wheelchair back and forth
Over the one creaky floorboard,
A minuscule movement
Driving her to feigned distraction –
Exasperation covering her relief
That your playful self was still inside that gory husk
Just as your age and pain
Concealed your mirth.

The hummingbirds suckled a feeder at the window,
Their hearts in their ruby throats
Thrumming, thrumming
‘til the earth.

October 6, 2008

Global Grocer: Imports, Rarity, and the Case for Origin Labeling

2009-05-08T11:04:00.006-04:00

*** Cross-posted from The Green Fork, the official blog of Eat Well - my new place of employment! ***

Like all domestic goddesses born in the midst of the Green Revolution, my mom has a complex grocery shopping technique that has never been never adequately summed up by her explanation, “whatever looks best.” It incorporates all five senses (much to the embarrassment of my twelve-year-old self, when she routinely sniffed the stem-ends of a dozen Costco cantaloupes), and is even synced with the artificial thundershowers in the vegetable section. Dewy, jewel-toned and blemishless, her picture-perfect produce always seemed to have just arrived from some seasonless supermarket Eden.

Which wasn’t far off, if you figure Eden was probably someplace in Mespotamia.

But some ancestral agrarian wisdom – residue of her Tennessee farmgirl past – also nudged her to adhere to the occasional seasonal law: asparagus in spring, summer strawberries, Christmas clementines. These items were dinner table treasures, redolent with rarity…if not always with flavor.

Because it turns out that, according to the new online shopping tool Global Grocer, there’s still a 75% chance that supermarket asparagus was imported from Peru or Mexico, even in springtime. In our supersaturated, season-free food culture, US food imports are rising at dramatic rates (importation of agricultural products has increased 50% since 2004 alone) and decimating domestic family farmers, local economies, the environment, and sometimes our health.

Developed by Food & Water Watch, Global Grocer is an interactive guide to your food and where it might be coming from. Browse the noisy animated aisles, pick your produce item (fresh, frozen or processed), and read the rundown on its origins, including top exporters and the probability that it was imported. Fill up your virtual cart, proceed to checkout, and find out how likely it is that you’ve selected imported fruits and veggies; the array of countries they came from; and how many pounds of jet-setting produce you probably purchase per year.

If these numbers alarm you – and they should – Global Grocer has some advice: shop at outlets that sell local food, and tell your supermarket that you demand country-of-origin labeling.

Though seemingly vestigial in the contemporary supermarket, seasonal impulses like my mom’s could help save small farms and the planet – but only if they’re supported by adequate origin labeling, so shoppers can distinguish between good, local, seasonal food and over-traveled, chemically ripened, unseasonable food.

Any locavore will tell you that embracing rarity, far from being an altruistic sacrifice, is actually a deliciously hedonistic adventure; my mother and I discovered that together – in the garden we learned to grow. But Americans can’t reclaim rarity as a cultural value until we are able make educated decisions about not just what to buy, but where to buy it from – and consequently, when.

Click here to embed the Global Grocer widget on your website.

Not sure what’s in season? Consult Eat Well’s Seasonal Food Map.

New Amsterdam Public Market

2008-07-07T18:46:00.012-04:00

Maybe you remember last December, when I posted about a regional, season market that was held, for one day only, at New York City's abandoned fish market at the South Street Seaport? New Amsterdam Public, the non-profit organization that made Wintermarket a great success, was at it again last weekend!

I won't go into too much detail here about New Amsterdam Public (read my Wintermarket post for more details), but the gist of their goal is to establish a permanent indoor market for regional, sustainable food in the Seaport's historic New Market Building and its neighbor, the Tin Building, which have been the loci of South Street's four centuries of public markets, and which have stood empty since 2006, when the Fulton Fish Market moved to the Bronx. The buildings are currently publicly owned, but governmental inertia and the conflicting interests of Pier 17's contracted developer have created complex politics around the goal of retaining those buildings as a public market. Since popular interest drives many decisions regarding public property and services, New Amsterdam has facilitated and hosted three one-day regional food markets as awareness-raising events. The most recent one was last Sunday, and it attracted over sixty vendors and around 7,000 visitors, who strolled through the stalls tasting exquisite cheeses, artisanal breads, glorious summer produce, and jams, pastas, ice creams and honey from all over the region.

Just about everyone covered this event, but I wanted to share a few words on my experience there as a volunteer. My dear friend Annie, who authors the eloquent blog Thoughts on the Table, works for New Amsterdam and coordinated the volunteers; on Sunday morning I found her scrabbling between booths, distributing smocks and organizing enthusiastic. She handed me an apron and directed me to Rick and Helen of Meadowcreek Diary, who were vending a stunning variety of North American raw-milk cheeses. Not strictly local fare, these exceptional cheeses were, I learned, on tour in New York for evaluation for Slow Food's Ark of Taste; the cheese were were selling were what remained of the winners of the Raw Cheese Presidium tasting. I spent a few hours slicing samples and learning to talk cheese - all while nibbling surreptitious bits of Twig Farm Tomme and Rogue River Smokey Blue.

We sold a great deal of cheese, and customers were uniformly happy to be there, excited about local food. Many were amazingly knowledgeable about cheese - what a different experience from your average supermarket, where shoppers pick foods inside cardboard boxes and cashiers can scan a vegetable without even knowing what it is. Across New Amsterdam Market, customers asked complex questions about cultures, pesticides, ingredients, and recommendations for eating, and the vendors knew all the answers and could even speak for the sustainable practices of the growers and producers.

Before I left, I had a few minutes to tour the market myself, tasting and observing community happen - among visitors, among producers, and between producers and consumers. The only thing that makes me happier than food as community is the absolute genius sweet basil and goat cheese ice cream I tried.

Just as I was leaving, the sky blackened and a Seaport-worthy summer monsoon doused the city with fierce buckets. Under cover of the overpass, the market remained mostly dry, and shoppers huddled together and laughed at their flooded feet.

Daring Baker: Danish Braid (for real)

2008-07-07T17:15:00.013-04:00

(If you don't know who the Daring Bakers are, read my summary at the beginning of this post.)

The Daring Bakers' June Challenge, a Danish Braid, was a wonderful adventure. As with nearly all DB recipes, this one took time, patience, and a little creativity, but paid back with great pictures, new skills, and above all, hardcore deliciousness.

The braid has two elements: pastry dough and a filling. The pastry recipe provided to the circa fifteen hundred Daring Bakers - originally from Sherry Yard's The Secrets of Baking - I followed to the letter, but bakers were permitted to divine a filling of their choice. Since I'm a sucker for sweetened cream cheese (and I suffered a setback with a failed batch of vanilla pastry cream, which was my other choice), I chose a cream cheese custard filling, which I thought would highlight the unusual flavors in the dough.

The flaky bread of the danish braid is different from other pastry doughs because it it made from yeast (as opposed to, say, pie crust) and uses a block of butter, folded in one "turn" at a time, to create distinct layers - similar to a croissant. This recipe, however, included the unique flavors of orange zest and juice, vanilla, and cardamom, which gave the confection delicious complexity and depth. I added orange and lemon zest to both my filling and icing to unify the tastes and textures.

After combining the ingredients for the dough and allowing it to rest, you roll it into a big rectangle and spread it with a creamy butter-flour mixture, then fold into thirds and chill for half an hour, until the butter is firm. Then the dough is rolled out into a large rectangle again and the rolling-and-folding process is repeated three more times - called "turns" - chilling between each turn; each turn triples the number of layers, so that after a total of four turns, there are 81 layers of pastry dough, separated by layers of butter. Cool, right?

Here is my recipe for the Cream Cheese Custard Filling:

8 ounces softened cream cheese
1/4 cup sugar
1 large egg yolk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons freshly grated orange zest
1 teaspoon freshly grated lemon zest
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

I just combined these ingredients in a mixing bowl with a hand mixer, folding in the zest at the end so that it didn't all tangle around the beaters. It was creamy, not too sweet, and the delicate citrus flavors shone though just enough to make it match the pastry dough.

To assemble the danish, the dough is rolled out into a huge rectangle, and the long sides are cut into a fringe of 1/2"x5" strips. The filling is ladled into the center and spread around to fill the length of the danish, then the ends are tucked in and the strips are folded over the filling in an alternating pattern, which creates the braid effect. (One of the hosts, Sass & Veracity, has a great series of pictures of the assembly.)

I made my dough on a Saturday, but I didn't get around to making the whole danish until the following Tuesday; during the interim, the dough was marooned in the fridge, tightly wrapped. Pastry dough freezes well, but bakers do not advise refrigeration for more than 24 hours; I ignored their advice and was pleased to see my dough rise so nicely. In fact, there was so much of it that I made it extra long and was able to trim off some edges during assembly (which is why, I think, my danish came out so geometrically straight and symmetrical). I was ready to scoff at the no-longterm-refrigeration advice publicly, until I noticed how many other participants had made two braids. Two? One was, I felt, challenging enough - why had nearly everyone doubled the recipe? I finally figured out that the dough recipe was meant to be halved, and that perhaps my refrigerated dough had not risen so well as I thought.

After this discovery (which occurred while my braid was in the oven), I was ready for a very dense danish indeed. I kept peering in the oven window to see whether it would leak or morph into a giant super-braid...but it just rose gently, browning in the most perfect way. It even cooked quicker than the recipe stated it would - with twice the dough!

I whipped up a little icing with powdered sugar, water, and citrus zests, and drizzled it over the warm danish, then cut myself a slice.

Absolute heaven. Utterly (and if you know me you'll know I rarely say this) flawless - light, buttery, moist, just the right proportions of pastry to filling (I hate those danishes that don't have enough filling! UGH!), and the citrus and cardamom shone through ever so delicately. I can't think of a better item to serve for tea or brunch - it was so long and elegant, impressive but not impossible, and downright delicious.

I have no idea what will happen if I try and recreate it without the fridge-side downtime. :) Maybe someday I'll let you know... Thanks for another wonderful challenge, Daring Bakers!

Daring Baker: Danish Braid

2008-06-24T20:04:00.011-04:00

My dear readers and fellow daring bakers - I have SO SO SO much to tell you, and I'm a day late for the Daring Bakers (I just typed Darting Bakers, which was a typo, but in retrospect seems appropriate) monthly post, too - but the last four days have been a culinary whirlwind of sipping herbed granité at the Food, Body, Planet benefit, snapping food photos for Pure Food and Wine, selling cheese at New Amsterdam Public's sustainable/regional market, and baking an honest-to-goodness wedding cake (and creating floral arrangements!) for my best friend's wedding last night. My blog is struggling to keep up with all that!

So for now, here are a couple of "teaser" shots of my Cream Cheese Danish Braid, made for the Daring Bakers' June Challenge, with more - and yummier! - images to come with the full post. If you just can't get enough, check out the Daring Baker's blogroll (not sure how recently updated that site is - our new site is under construction) to see many other braids - wonderful work, bakers!

I'll be back soon with stories to tell of cheese, monsoons, and wedding cake...

The Best Mess

2008-06-19T12:33:00.008-04:00

Sometimes praise comes at unlikely moments. Like during a slapped-together Tuesday night "dinner" consisting of a heap of steamed asparagus and a messy bowl of unattractive, sticky-sweet chicken wings.

"This might be my one of my favorite foods you've ever made," J declares seriously, licking sauce off his fingers. He even declines a movie with dinner so he can "concentrate on this amazing chicken."

It's hard not to measure success in moments like these. If only success in pairing oneself with such a generous palate.

Sweet Soy-Glazed Chicken Wings

INGREDIENTS*

1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger
4 cloves minced garlic
3 scallions, chopped into 1/4-inch pieces
1/2 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup ketchup
2 tablespoons white vinegar
1/2 cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons honey
Crushed red pepper, to taste

1/4 cup peanut oil (or other vegetable oil)
8-10 whole chicken wings (about 1 1/2 lbs.)

DIRECTIONS

To prepare wings, take a sharp knife or kitchen shears and cut off the wing tip (I freeze the tips to use later for stock) , then cut at the joint, separating the drummette and the wingette. If desired, trim off excess flaps of skin. (This recommendation is not particularly for health purposes - I just don't care for the texture of extra skin in this recipe.)

Combine fist nine ingredients in a medium bowl, mixing thoroughly until sugar dissolves; Add wings and toss to coat. Cover and marinate for one hour at room temperature, or up to overnight in the fridge (though your scallions will lose some texture).

Remove wings from marinade and place in a separate bowl. Warm up a large skillet or wok over medium-high heat; add oil to the pan. When oil is hot, pour in the marinade; when the mixture begins to foam, arrange the chicken wings in the pan so that they are all touching the bottom. Cover and cook on medium heat for 20-25 minutes or until cooked through, turning wings periodically to prevent sticking. After 20 minutes, if sauce seems thin, cook uncovered for remaining time.

Serve hot, with extra sauce and plenty of napkins.

*I wasn't measuring, so all amounts are approximated. Feel free to do your own estimating!

Local Event: Food, Body, Planet

2008-06-17T11:38:00.016-04:00

Play4Life, a cross-national children's food advocacy organization, is hosting a yummy NYC benefit event on Thursday, June 26, called Food, Body, Planet. If you can afford to snag a ticket, come out and support local food programs and the expansion of this awesome group, Powerful Lifestyles Advancing Youth, whose mission states that:

"Play 4 Life, Inc. is committed to transforming the lifestyles of America's youth by empowering school-age children to use their natural inclination toward play and creativity in the four areas of cooking, movement, conscientious eating and gardening. Our programming encourages community collaboration to advance today's youth in realizing their goals and dreams by teaching that a healthy body can produce and sustain a healthy mind."

Food, Body, Planet focuses on the importance of local, organic eating, and will feature all-star food sustainability scenesters such as prolific food writer Joan Gussow, Slow Food USA's formidable director Erika Lesser, and artist, activist, and outspoken locavore Leda Meredith. Your $95 (or $150 for two) also gets you a local, sustainable food tasting by ten chefs, including health activist and Top Chef Andrea Beaman, local wine and beer tasting (featuring the delightful Peak Organic Brewing Company), and a silent auction of wellness-related products and services, as well as student art. Sound like fun? See you there!

Event: Food, Body, Planet, hosted by Play 4 Life

When: 7-10 PM, Thursday, June 26

Where:
CUE Art Foundation
511 West 25th Street
New York, NY 10001

Tickets: NYCharities.org

I am affiliated with Food 4 Life via the NYC Food Systems Network, a "membership based organization designed to foster communication and cultivate community amongst various stake holders and professionals working across the food system." They're a wonderfully useful network - sign up!

Cakespiration: Round 1

2008-06-05T17:38:00.011-04:00

Let me just cut to the chase and say that I am going to bake my own wedding cake next year. Don't sigh like that! Don't give me that exasperated look! It was hard enough, acknowledging that I probably oughtn't single-handedly prepare dinner for fifty-odd guests on my wedding day. Yes, I know it will be a busy time, I know I will be spazzing out about a million other things, but I am going to make my cake, okay?

Why? Because baking cake is my favorite thing ever. :)

In case you were concerned, the cake pictured above is not my wedding cake. Rather, it is, in traditional bootstraps-in-the-sky fashion, Lesson One in my self-taught series, How to Bake Your Own Wedding Cake! Get ready...

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Lesson One: Structural Integrity

I had never made a stacked cake before, beyond regular layer cakes - never anything tiered. (in fact, last time I made an eight-layer peanut butter cake, the middle layers oozed woefully out one side. A delicious, embarrassing mess!) The point of my first trial cake was to learn the rules of Big Cakery - that is, what makes it stand up? What keeps it from collapsing into itself? How do you stabilize a cake? I decided to focus on these questions and leave fillings and decorating for another trial.

The first thing I learned is that different types of cake are good for different styles. Light, airy cakes like angel food or sponge cake are good for sheet cakes or tall cakes with separate tiers, but bad for stacking, since the cake itself can't provide much support. Shortened cakes (pound cake or any basic butter cake) have a higher density that can make tiers precarious, but is great for stacked layers. For my first trial wedding cake, I wanted to stack - so I went with a shortened cake: Tish Boyle's Basic Golden Cake Layers (The Cake Book, page 120; recipe approximated here). I made one-and-a-half times the recipe for three layers: a five-inch, a seven-inch, and a ten-inch.

I divided the batter to an even depth between the three pans (though, in retrospect, I should have added a bit more to the biggest pan, to give that layer a little extra height), and baked them for 45, 50, and 55 minutes, respectively. I cooled them in the pan for 30 minutes, then removed them onto cardboard circles I had cut out of cereal boxes and covered in foil, and let them cool completely. To make the layers perfectly flat, I used a long, serrated knife to cut the domed top off of each one; then I cut each cake in half horizontally to create two layers.

Obviously, I used the presence of the discarded domes as an opportunity to taste the cake. It was great! I know that some people are picky about having wedding cake be white, which is achieved by excluding egg yolks, but I like the richness and moisture that yolks add, so I used a yolky recipe. The result was an ivory-colored, tender crumb that was just sweet enough and very vanilla-y. Delicious!

Next up: icing. I had never made or worked with fondant before, so even though it isn't my favorite, I decided to give it a go. At the very least, fondant is great for sculpting decorations, so I figured I might as well give learn my way around that chewy confection. But first, the fondant needs a layer of buttercream to help it adhere to the cake and seal in moisture.

I had read that buttercreams containing some vegetable shortening are good for outdoor events - which our wedding will be - because the shortening raises the melting temperature, so I decided to try it out and see how much the shortening affected the taste (I worked from the first recipe from this website, although I made a few minor changes). And, while the icing was easy to work with and didn't get too soft during assembly - despite my steamy summer kitchen - I felt that it was definitely "short" on flavor. I carefully iced each tier, spreading thick between cake layers and very thin on the top and sides, then put the whole lot in the fridge to chill and stiffen up a little, so it wouldn't goosh out the bottom when I applied the fondant.

While the iced layers were chilling, I made my fondant. Now, I find that fondant, by and large, tastes like vinyl, but my soon-to-be-sister-in-law once made J and I an engagement cake with fondant made with marshmallows (rather than the traditional corn syrup), which I found more flavorful and delicate, so I went with that. It couldn't have been easier - I put 16 ounces of mini marshmallows in a large bowl with two tablespoons of water and microwaved it for about two minutes, pausing every thirty seconds and giving it a stir. Once the marshmallows were melted, I poured the warm, sticky mass out onto a heavily-greased counter and kneaded in a pound and a half of powdered sugar (with equally heavily-greased hands - take off your rings or else!). Once the mass looked a bit like gluey bread dough (re-grease hands and counter when necessary), I added in another half a pound of sugar, a little at a time, and a teaspoon of vanilla extract. After about eight minutes, I achieved a firm, elastic ball of doughy fondant. (If it seems like it's tearing easily, knead in a little water, about a half a teaspoon at a time.) It's wise to let it rest for at least thirty minutes here before rolling it out.

Once my fondant had rested, I divided into three balls, which I estimated to be appropriately relative in size. I cleaned my counter top and dusted it with cornstarch, then carefully rolled out each ball to about a 1/8th-inch thickness - some people prefer to work with a greased counter top at this stage, rather than starch, but bear in mind that if your fondant tears, sealing it back together without a line is almost impossible with greasy dough!

About here, it became clear that I had made way too much fondant. I draped each sheet over the chilled cakes, gently shaping the edges with my hands (there's a special tool that makes this process a lot easier and more geometric), and used a serrated knife to trim off the plentiful excess "skirt."

Now for assembly. I inserted four evenly-spaced dowels into each of the bottom two layers to provide support; wooden dowels are advised, but I don't have a saw and I hadn't thought to use drinking straws, which would have been better, so I used sucker sticks, which are made out of tightly-rolled paper. I was worried that they might disintegrate in the moist cake over a period of days, but they ended up working just fine. Anyway, I trimmed each stick to be exactly level with the fondant, then rested the next layer on top. (If this had been an important cake, I would have measured, but my eyeballed efforts looks fine.) The last step is to insert a long, sharpened dowel all the way through the cake from top to bottom, piercing the cardboard cake boards as you go, but I didn't have a long or sharp enough dowel, so I skipped that step and hoped for the best.

I hadn't intended to decorate at all, but the foil-covered cardboard glimmered out from under each later slightly, so at the last minute I added some bright green food coloring to my leftover buttercream and dabbed on some messy impromptu ruffles with a Ziploc baggie (I haven't bought a pastry bag or decorating tips yet). Suddenly I had something approximating a St. Patrick's Day cake - but that was alright. It was upright, symmetrical, stable! Victory!

We sliced the top layer after dinner. I wasn't anticipating a flavor powerhouse or anything, but like most wedding cakes, the taste was a bit of a letdown. The cake itself was moist and tender (Tish's cookbook never lets me down), but the buttercream was a little waxy, and the fondant...well, it was better than most fondant, but, you know.

A cake that size makes about 40 wedding-size (a.k.a. teensy) slices, so even while pawning off slabs of it to neighbors and friends, I had a few days to see how it aged, which is important, since most wedding cakes are made a day or two ahead of time. My observations are as follows:

- No slipping, sliding or sinking occurred at any point, despite the fact that the cake underwent various forms of transportation over the weekend to a number of friends' houses, without a central dowel. So A+ for structural integrity!

- A layer entirely encased in fondant (no missing slices) stayed very moist and fresh for three days; sliced cake dried out quickly, even when wrapped up or protected with parchment paper.

- The buttercream improved over time as some of the sugar crystallized and acquired a little texture. I also realized that it would have been much improved with an extra bit of salt. Also, most people who ate the cake seemed to like the buttercream more than I did, so maybe I'm just sensitive about shortening.

- Nobody likes fondant, even good fondant. So I guess I'm ruling fondant out, despite its protective qualities. This scares me a little, because the hardest part of making the cake was getting the buttercream even (some tools would help) and keeping it crumb-free. Any advice on how to keep pesky crumbs out of pristine buttercream?

I also think that my brief flirtation with vanilla-all-the-way wedding cake is over; at the very least, I'd opt for a lemon curd filling. I'm definitely ready to discard the White Wonder and move on to more adventurous flavors. Speaking of which - my best friend is getting married in a couple of weeks, and she's commissioned me to make a cake for their informal affair. A red velvet cake! It will be a small crowd - maybe twenty people, tops - so I think I might take the opportunity to try pillars! On the subway! I think my blog has found a theme...?

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Things I want to learn about next:

- using columns;

- the durability of un-fondanted buttercream, whether I can use a cream cheese frosting, and whether the aforementioned options will melt outside;

- How long in advance buttercream can be made;

-How much cake layers are affected by being frozen (should they be iced first?).

Lastly, have any of you readers enjoyed memorable wedding cake (or other-event-cake)? What was special about it?

Here are some beautiful cakes that inspire me. :)

Breadfellows

2008-05-18T10:02:00.012-04:00

Baking bread: that most basic of all acts, despite its complexity.
Baking bread: christening a kitchen, blandishing the restive spirits of good fortune back into the warm corners of your home.
Baking bread: creating in the face of destruction; healing wounds.
Baking bread: remembering.
Baking bread: the fragrant anchor, falling towards earth.

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All of the sentiments I have for baking bread seem too heavy-handed for Spring. As the days lengthen out like lazy cats on a sun-warmed carpet and the trees begin their verdant inhalation, dappled light decorates my floured countertops and I bake bread to remember, to heal, to cajole good fortune out of its hiding places - but mostly, I do it to celebrate. It's an ungainly festivity - long pauses while dough rises and crust browns - and I do it awkwardly, winging recipes, tugging my apprehensive life forward by the reins - but I must say that the inertia, however unwelcome, is worth celebrating. And perhaps I am the one in the bridle. Lingering.

Companion: breadfellow, messmate; from the Latin com- (with) and panis (bread). But any two people can share bread, if they are hungry enough; it takes a special sort of companion to bake it with you. This is what I celebrate: the one who shapes the dough for the second rise, who walks alongside me in the forest, who holds my hand while I tarry.

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Poem
By Gregory Orr

This life is like no other.
The bread rising in the ditches.
The bellies of women swelling
with air.
Walking alone under the dark pines,
a blue leather bridle in my hand.

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Honey Wheat Bread
Adapted from Williams-Sonoma's Essentials of Baking

INGREDIENTS

2 packages (5 teaspoons) active dry yeast
2 cups whole milk, heated to warm (105-115 degrees F)
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1/4 cup honey
2 large eggs
3 cups whole-wheat flour, plus extra for kneading
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons sea salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

DIRECTIONS

In a large bowl, sprinkle the yeast and brown sugar over warm milk and let stand until foamy, about five minutes. Whisk in the eggs and honey; add flour, salt, and butter and stir with your hand or a wooden spoon until combined into a rough dough.

Scrape the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until it is smooth and elastic, about five minutes, occasionally dusting the work surface with only enough whole wheat flour to keep the dough from sticking. Shape into a ball and transfer to a lightly oiled bowl. cover the bowl with plastic wrap or a damp towel and let rise in a warm, draft-free area until it doubles in size, 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

While dough is rising, lightly butter two 9x5 inch loaf pans.

Punch down the dough and divide in half. With each half, evenly flatten the dough with the heel of your hand until it is about one inch thick, then roll the bottom third up onto itself and seal it by pinching the seam together. Continue rolling and sealing until you have an oval log; Place the logs, seam side down, into the prepared pans. Cover loosely with a damp towel and and allow to rise until doubled again, 45-60 minutes.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Dust the tops of the loaves with whole wheat flour and bake int the center of the oven until they are honey brown and sound hollow when tapped on top, 35-40 minutes. Be careful not to overbake, as they will become dry. Carefully remove the loaves from the pans and let cool completely before slicing. (Hot slices are delicious, but much of the bread's moisture escapes via steam - so if you do go in for a hot slice, be sure to stand the loaf up afterwards, cut-side-down against the plate or cutting board, until fully cooled.)

This recipe creates a slightly sweet, springy bread with just a hint of scone-like crumble, due to the higher butter content. It was divine for breakfast and turkey sandwiches alike, and filled the house with an exquisite nut-and-honey aroma.

For those of you curious about/coveting my butter dish: it's a countertop-friendly butter bell (or butter keeper) with a water seal that keeps your butter cool and fresh without refrigeration! It's perfect for those of us who like soft butter handy, but are concerned about spoiling. It works like a charm and has an appealing, antique look. This one was a gift from my FMIL*, but you can find a variety of attractive butter bells online.

*future-mother-in-law :)

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Memes

2008-04-04T09:55:00.024-04:00

I saw this picture meme over at Eyre Affairs and just couldn't wait to try it out, so I took the liberty of tagging myself (Well, Amy had extended an open tag to all bloggers):

1. What is your current relationship status?

2. What is your current mood?

3. What is your favorite band/singer?

4. What is your favorite movie?

5. What kind of pets do you have?

6. Where do you live?

7. Where do you work?

8. What do you look like?

9. What do you drive?

10. What did you do last night?

11. What is your favorite TV show?

12. Describe yourself.

13. What are you doing tomorrow?

14. What is your name?

15. What is your favorite candy?

(That would be a tie between Junior Mints and Bounty Bars.)

So much fun! Thanks, Amy! I feel like this meme has so much potential for refinement - like, you have to take all the pictures yourself, or your images have to have a theme like old movies or animals. Maybe next time...

Anyone who would like to take on this meme: consider yourself tagged. And feel free to add more questions! :)

Daring Baker: Cakes on a Train!

2008-03-30T21:37:00.009-04:00

Nothing about my first post as a Daring Baker is going quite how I planned it.

For those of you who aren't familiar, the Daring Bakers are a group of fearless pastry entrepreneurs - there are some 700 of us now - who, once a month, all bake the same thing at the same time. Founded in 2006 by my friend Ivonne of Creampuffs in Venice and Lis of La Mia Cucina, the growing group vows not to reveal the selected recipe until the prescribed date. This month's recipe, proffered by Morven, is Dorie Greenspan's "Perfect Party Cake" from her cookbook Baking: from My Home to Yours (page 250). You can see several hundred versions of this cake over at the Daring Baker's Blogroll!
So I haven't told you all this, but I'm moving. Or rather, I moved yesterday; I am currently hunching amid towers of boxes in my half-assembled new home (J and I now share an office, so we're presently sitting at our respective desks, back-to-back). Never fear, neighbors and Brooklyn enthusiasts - we are still proud residents of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn...since we only moved five and a half blocks.

It's a long story that I won't get into now. But prior to moving, I was packing, painting and panicking, and frankly, party cake was the last thing on my mind.

To be fair, I wasn't too enthused about this recipe to begin with. I - don't kill me - don't particularly care for Swiss meringue buttercream (egg whites and sugar are whipped over heat until a marshmallow-fluff-consistency meringue develops, then softened butter is beaten in). I find it a little waxy and...oh, i don't know, butter-textured. I knew that a white cake with the light, perky flavors of lemon, raspberry and coconut would be divinely spring-timey, but I guess I was still feeling wintry here in Manhattan, bundled up in my big coat with a lot of things to do.

So I approached this cake with dedication, it being my first attempt as a Daring Baker, but also with a certain amount of brisk, I-can't-be-botheredness that I suppose wasn't really in the spirit of Daring Bakerhood. An occasion to make a cake presented itself - a coworker's birthday - and while I enjoyed the baking and assembly process as much I always do, I think I would have had a better time (and better results!) if I had taken a few moments to experiment (within the strict parameters of DB rules, that is). I didn't do any variations or try anything fancy - this is Dorie's cake all the way.
My cake came out beautifully: snow white, sleekly iced, swathed in a coconut scarf, crowned with a ring of plump raspberries. It survived a crowded and hectic subway journey from Brooklyn to midtown under a glass dome, and elicited several oohs and aahs from adjacent passengers. My coworker was appropriately surprised and (I hope) charmed by its appearance. It sliced like a dream, with crisp, elegant veins of jam running perfectly parallel. I served each of us a picture-perfect wedge. Forks clattered and there were a few appreciative murmurs. I describe the Daring Bakers, by way of making conversation.

"Wait, you made this?" My boss looked confused.

"Yeah," I replied, half-smiling.

"I thought it was store-bought. Very impressive," he nodded and sidled back to his desk.

It was meant to be flattering. But store-bought is pretty much how I would have described this cake too - and the problem I had with it. You see, the pure-white, straight-laced, wax-figure elegance of this cake - which endured virtually unchanged in the refrigerator over the subsequent weekend, store-bought style - lacked that quality that I feel sets a homemade cake apart: ephemeral decadence. There was no toothache-sweet caramel, no dense, moist crumb, no creamy pudding filling - not to mention the absence of wonky icing handwriting and layers all akimbo. This symmetrical white wonder lacked personality and satisfied no particular craving.

So I think I learned something about what it means to be a daring baker. It's not about producing some Platonic Form of the recipe; there's no prize for The Perfect Cake. That isn't even very daring! What's daring is to explore new realms of creativity in appearance and flavor. So I made a store-bought cake at home, and I can't wait for next month. Thanks, Daring Bakers!

Dorie Greenspan's Perfect Party Cake

Words from Dorie
Stick a bright-coloured Post-it to this page, so you’ll always know where to turn for a just-right cake for any celebration. The original recipe was given to me by my great dear friend Nick Malgieri, of baking fame, and since getting it, I’ve found endless opportunities to make it – you will too. The cake is snow white, with an elegant tight crumb and an easygoing nature: it always bakes up perfectly; it is delicate on the tongue but sturdy in the kitchen – no fussing when it comes to slicing the layers in half or cutting tall, beautiful wedges for serving; and, it tastes just as you’d want a party cake to taste – special. The base recipe is for a cake flavoured with lemon, layered with a little raspberry jam and filled and frosted with a classic (and so simple) pure white lemony hot-meringue buttercream but, because the elements are so fundamental, they lend themselves to variation (see Playing Around), making the cake not just perfect, but also versatile.

For the Cake

2 1/4 cups cake flour (updated 25 March)
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ cups whole milk or buttermilk (I prefer buttermilk with the lemon)
4 large egg whites
1 ½ cups sugar
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
1 stick (8 tablespoons or 4 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ teaspoon pure lemon extract

For the Buttercream
1 cup sugar
4 large egg whites
3 sticks (12 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
¼ cup fresh lemon juice (from 2 large lemons)
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

For Finishing
2/3 cup seedless raspberry preserves stirred vigorously or warmed gently until spreadable
About 1 ½ cups sweetened shredded coconut

Getting Ready
Centre a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter two 9 x 2 inch round cake pans and line the bottom of each pan with a round of buttered parchment or wax paper. Put the pans on a baking sheet.

To Make the Cake
Sift together the flour, baking powder and salt.
Whisk together the milk and egg whites in a medium bowl.
Put the sugar and lemon zest in a mixer bowl or another large bowl and rub them together with your fingers until the sugar is moist and fragrant.
Add the butter and working with the paddle or whisk attachment, or with a hand mixer, beat at medium speed for a full 3 minutes, until the butter and sugar are very light.
Beat in the extract, then add one third of the flour mixture, still beating on medium speed.
Beat in half of the milk-egg mixture, then beat in half of the remaining dry ingredients until incorporated.
Add the rest of the milk and eggs beating until the batter is homogeneous, then add the last of the dry ingredients.
Finally, give the batter a good 2- minute beating to ensure that it is thoroughly mixed and well aerated.
Divide the batter between the two pans and smooth the tops with a rubber spatula.
Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until the cakes are well risen and springy to the touch – a thin knife inserted into the centers should come out clean
Transfer the cakes to cooling racks and cool for about 5 minutes, then run a knife around the sides of the cakes, unfold them and peel off the paper liners.
Invert and cool to room temperature, right side up (the cooled cake layers can be wrapped airtight and stored at room temperature overnight or frozen for up to two months).

To Make the Buttercream
Put the sugar and egg whites in a mixer bowl or another large heatproof bowl, fit the bowl over a plan of simmering water and whisk constantly, keeping the mixture over the heat, until it feels hot to the touch, about 3 minutes.
The sugar should be dissolved, and the mixture will look like shiny marshmallow cream.
Remove the bowl from the heat.
Working with the whisk attachment or with a hand mixer, beat the meringue on medium speed until it is cool, about 5 minutes.
Switch to the paddle attachment if you have one, and add the butter a stick at a time, beating until smooth.
Once all the butter is in, beat in the buttercream on medium-high speed until it is thick and very smooth, 6-10 minutes.
During this time the buttercream may curdle or separate – just keep beating and it will come together again.
On medium speed, gradually beat in the lemon juice, waiting until each addition is absorbed before adding more, and then the vanilla.
You should have a shiny smooth, velvety, pristine white buttercream. Press a piece of plastic against the surface of the buttercream and set aside briefly.

To Assemble the Cake
Using a sharp serrated knife and a gentle sawing motion, slice each layer horizontally in half.
Put one layer cut side up on a cardboard cake round or a cake plate protected by strips of wax or parchment paper.
Spread it with one third of the preserves.
Cover the jam evenly with about one quarter of the buttercream.
Top with another layer, spread with preserves and buttercream and then do the same with a third layer (you’ll have used all the jam and have buttercream leftover).
Place the last layer cut side down on top of the cake and use the remaining buttercream to frost the sides and top.
Press the coconut into the frosting, patting it gently all over the sides and top.

Serving
The cake is ready to serve as soon as it is assembled, but I think it’s best to let it sit and set for a couple of hours in a cool room – not the refrigerator. Whether you wait or slice and enjoy it immediately, the cake should be served at room temperature; it loses all its subtlety when it’s cold. Depending on your audience you can serve the cake with just about anything from milk to sweet or bubbly wine.

Storing
The cake is best the day it is made, but you can refrigerate it, well covered, for up to two days. Bring it to room temperature before serving. If you want to freeze the cake, slide it into the freezer to set, then wrap it really well – it will keep for up to 2 months in the freezer; defrost it, still wrapped overnight in the refrigerator.

Playing Around
Since lemon is such a friendly flavour, feel free to make changes in the preserves: other red preserves – cherry or strawberry – look especially nice, but you can even use plum or blueberry jam.

Fresh Berry Cake
If you will be serving the cake the day it is made, cover each layer of buttercream with fresh berries – use whole raspberries, sliced or halved strawberries or whole blackberries, and match the preserves to the fruit. You can replace the coconut on top of the cake with a crown of berries, or use both coconut and berries. You can also replace the buttercream between the layers with fairly firmly whipped sweetened cream and then either frost the cake with buttercream (the contrast between the lighter whipped cream and the firmer buttercream is nice) or finish it with more whipped cream. If you use whipped cream, you’ll have to store the cake the in the refrigerator – let it sit for about 20 minutes at room temperature before serving.

Forbidden Fruit

2008-03-04T10:13:00.007-05:00

Just a quick check-in to share this compelling peek into Minnesota's local food politics. Jack Hedin is a small-time farmer who gets penalized for planting watermelons for local markets on land previously reserved for corn. Because of this violation of "corn-base acreage," not only does he forfeit subsidies (which seems reasonable, insofar as not subsidizing local watermelons is reasonable - which is to say, not at all); he is also penalized for the value of the "illicit" crop.

Federal law effectively prohibits new, small-time cultivation of any crops but the "big four" (corn, soybeans, cotton and wheat) through this cruel and absurd legal system. And, as Hedin points out, consumers are also paying the price - both in produce prices levied to pay for his "violation" and in minimized access to fresh, local fruits and vegetables.

On a large scale, U.S. agricultural policies are shutting down small producers all over the country before they even get a foothold, in order to defend the sovereignty of big fruit-and-vegetable agribusiness in California, Florida and Texas. This is yet another example of federal policy supporting the producers' interests at the expense of consumers.

Note: You might need a New York Times account to view the original article -sign up here. It's free!

Homeland Craving: Irish Currant Scone Cake

2008-02-22T16:49:00.008-05:00

I miss Ireland.

It must be something about my Scotts-Irish genealogy that that made me feel so strangely familiar in that place. I never thought I could feel at ease in a treeless landscape, but those undulating green hills – and, strangely, even more so the limestone crags of Aran – gave me a profound sense of home, a deep singing in my bones for heartland.

On sleeting New York days in February, when the morning’s snow melts into gray lumps and children are walking home looking sullen, when the building creaks strangely and black-eyed shadows shiver and scratch in the walls, days like today, my body aches for that green, wide-open place and for the smell of the sea.

So I make tea. I put milk in it. I fill the house with baking smells.

This tender, not-too-sweet tea cake, with its crumbly biscuit texture and juicy currant speckles, is a slice homesick-for-Ireland sympathy. The sweet glaze, infused with Irish whisky, tastes like the melancholy moan of Uilleann pipes rounding out a late-night pub seisiún. Best paired with tea, a journal and good pen.

Irish Currant Scone Cake
Adapted from Nick Malgieri’s cookbook, Perfect Cakes, 2002

INGREDIENTS

2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour, plus 1 tablespoon
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened but still cool
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, at room temperature
¾ cup buttermilk
¾ cup dried currants
1 tablespoon Irish whiskey, such as Jameson
Hot water
1 cup confectioner’s sugar

2 tablespoons heavy cream
2 teaspoons Irish whiskey
One 2-inch-deep 8-inch round cake pan, buttered and bottom lined with parchment or wax paper

DIRECTIONS

1. Set a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 350°. Butter an 8-inch round cake pan, and line the bottom with parchment or wax paper.

2. Measure currants into a small bowl. Add 1 tablespoon whiskey and just enough hot water to cover the currants, and allow to soak while combining other ingredients.

3. Stir together the 2 1/4 cups flour, the baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl.

4. In a larger bowl, beat the butter until creamy; add sugar and beat on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add the egg, beating until smooth.

5. Decrease the mixer speed to low and beat in half the flour mixture. Scrape down the sides of the bowl; beat in the buttermilk, then the remaining flour mixture.

6. Give the batter a final mix with the rubber spatula, making sure everything is well incorporated.

7. Strain excess liquid out of the currants and toss them with 1 tablespoon flour. Fold them into the batter. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan; dough should be firm, like biscuit batter. Press down into sides of pan and smooth the top.

8. Bake for about 35-45 minutes, or until the cake is well risen and deep gold and a broomstraw inserted in the center emerges clean.

9. While the cake is baking, whisk together the confectioner’s sugar, cream, and remaining whiskey, stirring until smooth.

9. Cool in the pan on a rack for about 10 minutes, then invert the cake onto a plate (I just use my hand, but be very careful not to burn yourself!) and remove the pan and paper. Flip the cake over so it’s right-side up. Spoon the glaze onto the center of the cake and spread evenly over the top, allowing it to drip down the sides. Serve warm or cold, but always with tea.

Durian: King of Fruits

2008-02-21T10:01:00.008-05:00

I first discovered durian as the result of research into its tropical cousin, the mangosteen. I had purchased that little purple fist of a fruit and was investigating its origins when I learned of its yin relationship to durian’s yang: in Southeast Asian tradition, the two are eaten together, since the mangosteen’s “cooling” attributes counteract durian’s warming properties and prevent such symptoms as excessive sweating and “irrepressible libido.”

Needless to say, my curiosity was piqued. I found pictures of a greenish, basketball-sized mace, covered in spikes; I read accounts of harvesters suffering concussions and bloody head wounds from falling fruit. But what compelled me most was the smell.

The fact is that nothing has brought out disagreeable descriptions in culinary writing quite the way the durian has. Its scent has been compared to turpentine, gym socks, civet, and sewage; it is banned from many Thai and Indonesian hotels, despite its local culinary popularity. That’s right, people eat it – and love to! In fact, Thailand holds an annual durian festival, celebrating the fragrant fruit.

Its taste is described with intense variety, comparisons ranging from onion sauce to almonds to vanilla ice cream. These gulfs of opinion are widened by the differences in durian varieties; indeed, culinary use does nothing to illuminate the true nature of this fruit, for while it is prepared in savory sauces in Sumatra, in the Philippines it is used exclusively for desserts such as cakes and candy.

Of course, I was absolutely besotted with the idea of experiencing a food compared to eating "blancmange in a lavatory.” But where would I find one? Wikipedia assured me that durians had made their way to Western markets – mellow breeds whose scent could be contained by careful packaging – and that I could find them in “specialty markets” for five dollars a pound, or about $25-35 each. I skipped the specialty markets and headed straight for that den of strange fruits, Chinatown.

I found litchis, dragonfruits, more mangosteens, and a dozen other things I didn’t recognize – but no durians.

A year went by, and the durian lingered in my subconscious like a banana kicked under the fridge. I even forgot what it looked like, but preserved the desire to experience this powerful, evocative food. Which must be why yesterday, I found myself standing outside a bodega on Canal street, staring down into a box of football-shaped plastic bags, and having a sudden thought: could there be durians in there?

(It could have been the rotting apple smell that did it.)

The shopkeeper didn’t know the English word for what was in the bag, but my nose confirmed that this must be it – my elusive durian. I paid her six dollars for the five-pound fruit, which she carefully double-bagged after wrapping it in several layers of newspaper.

I was relieved, if a little disappointed, that mine was your American-market-variety durian; nobody looked at me funny or changed seats on the train. I could smell it in my lap, through the layers of paper and plastic, but it wasn’t an unpleasant smell, really – sort of like an aging jack-o-lantern filled with bananas, with maybe a slight hint of morning-breath. No civet, though, and definitely no sewage.

An hour later, the barbed obscurity lay prone on my cutting board, and, poised to slice, I realized I didn’t really know what to expect. Would it be like a pineapple inside? Like a kiwi, or a coconut? Would juice spill out? Would there be a constellation of little seeds, or a giant pit like an avocado or a peach?

I sawed cautiously through the spiny armor and pulled back a wedge of the inch-thick hide. It made a sucking sound, revealing…what?

I’m going to be candid. Durian flesh looks like organs. Like a pancreas, actually, or a liver, if a liver were a buttery yellow color. I slid my hand under the “pod” of durian meat, and as I lifted it out of the husk, I had the distinct sensation of dissecting a body. Mesmerized, I laid the slick, yellow mass on the counter and split open its thin membrane.

A creamy custard oozed out, pudding-like, vanilla-colored. This wasn’t like any fruit I had ever seen before – not even an avocado or a mashed banana comes close to this pure, decadent texture. The scent became more complicated, sweeter, but still carrying undertones of that strange musk. I dipped a finger in and spread the yellow cream on my tongue.

Crème brûlée without the brûlée, was my first reaction. My second reaction was something like, Holy crap! I’m comparing something that smells like compost to my favorite dessert!. Vanilla ice cream, banana milkshake…I could not have been more astonished – durian tastes good! Really good! It makes me overuse italics! I sampled another dollop of the sweet custard. This time I experienced more of the odor, and the flavor, though still predominantly vanilla-banana with maybe just a touch of onion, was less satisfying. In fact, with each subsequent nibble – though still charmed by this strange fruit – I became less certain that I had discovered the new Eden.

In the center of each buttery node I found a soft, pliable pit, ostensibly edible when cooked (or so claims Wikipedia). I wrung the flesh into a bowl, discarding pits and pulp; I gently strained the resulting mass through a fine sieve, and marveled at the velvety, sunshine-yellow pudding – some two cups or more – that remained.

And then I had no idea what to do with it. The idea of eating more of it was unappetizing. I put it in the freezer.

My retrospective analysis of durian is inconclusive. Was it good? I’m not sure. But it was completely, entirely new – and I find that the more of a foodie one becomes, the rarer those experiences are. Like the first time you try cardamom or bleu cheese ice cream or truffles, that strange, wonderful newness sates your palate, changes you a little. Unlike cardamom and truffles, however (say what you like about the ice cream), durian’s reputation is a site for struggle that’s full-out theatrical – not allowed indoors by some, celebrated in festivals by others, the durian has long stood as a symbol of the subjectivity of beauty and ugliness. An Indonesian saying, translated as “getting a fallen durian,” means receiving unforeseen good fortune; nevertheless, standing under a tree full of ripe durians remains inadvisable.

So, I have plans to make ice cream with it later, maybe, or durian crème brûlée…or…does anybody need any fresh-squeezed durian?

P.S. This is my 100th post! I am so grateful, everybody, for your readership, love, and support over the past two years. Pie in the Sky has been a life-changing creative space for me, and has given me access to a whole world of online friendships that I am continually blessed by. You all mean so much to me. Thank you!!!

Clementines and Rarity (Orange-Anise Scallops)

2008-02-13T14:36:00.003-05:00

At Christmastime, my mom likes to tell stories about her penny-saving childhood in rural Tennessee in the 1950s. Each year, her stocking contained treasures like a dollar bill (“That’s four trips to the movies!” she emphasizes), a bag of black walnuts, and a sweet, juicy clementine, bright as a ball of sunshine.

I think it’s important for people to start eating local, sustainable food, but I think it’s just as important that we return to a mindframe that values rarity. We oughtn’t to have everything we want, all the time – artichokes in March, strawberries in December. Fiddleheads and wild onions are coveted because they are rare, uncultivated and therefore uncertain. Asparagus, that herald of spring, is delicious because its season is so brief, and its crisp sweetness so ephemeral. Clementines are Christmas treasures because they are rare, exotic imports. If we had them every day, they wouldn’t taste nearly so good.

“I’m not very scientific,” Tony Kushner says in his play, Bright Room Called Day. “I really believed once that oranges prevented colds because they stored up hot sunlight in the tropical places they grow and the heat gets released when you eat one.” That pretty much sums up how I feel about those gleaming clementine crates when I’m battling winter blues.

Most people who’ve eaten a meal with me know that I’m a sucker for wacky, sweet-savory flavor combinations – whether it’s fruit in sushi, lavender pesto, or rhubarb over pork chops, I’m always craving crazy combos. Now, the Greenmarket never ceases to amaze me with its impressive variety of December produce. Hardy apples, squashes and onions aside – with greenhouse technology offering chard and bok choi and even the occasional lettuce, local winter eating has lost its cellar stigma. That said, this time of year, when fruit is scarce and I’ve eaten about as much kale and potatoes as I think I can handle, my local-only ambitions usually cave and I buy one of those decadent Christmas crates of clementines. Merry, tart, irresistible clementine, how I adore thee!

This light, zesty dish offsets typically heavy winter fare, and creates complex flavors from a simple preparation. You can use local sea scallops, available year round from Blue Moon Fish at various NYC Greenmarket locations, as well as local leeks, an oniony winter staple. Berkshire berries even offers honey cultivated on NYC rooftops!

Orange-Anise Scallops and Melted Leeks
(Adapted from Bon Appétit, January 1999)

Ingredients:

1 cup fresh-squeezed clementine juice
4 whole star anise
3 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon cornstarch

1 tablespoon plus 4 teaspoons peanut oil
1 tablespoon 1/2 x 1/8-inch clementine zest strips
4 medium leeks (white and pale green parts only), rinsed, halved, and cut crosswise into 1/3-inch pieces
16 sea scallops

Directions:

Pat scallops dry and lightly salt.

Simmer clementine juice and star anise in saucepan for seven minutes or until juice is reduced by one-third. Remove star anise and reserve; whisk honey and cornstarch into juice and simmer one minute. Remove from heat.

Pat scallops dry and lightly salt. Heat two teaspoons oil in heavy large skillet over medium-high heat. Add scallops; sauté until opaque in center, turning once, 2 ½ -3 minutes.

Heat 1 tablespoon plus two teaspoons oil in a separate skillet over medium-high heat. Add orange peel strips to skillet and sauté 1 minute. Add leeks; sauté until tender, about 6 minutes. Add juice mixture; boil until sauce thickens slightly, about 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.

Arrange 4 scallops on each plate; spoon leeks around scallops and drizzle sauce over. Garnish with reserved star anise. Enjoy!

Serves 4 appetizer portions.

True Grits and Tall Tales

2008-02-05T22:49:00.000-05:00

Cookbooks have powerful personalities. Some are coy and beguiling, ornamented with dozens of glossy photographs; others are exotic foreigners with stilted language skills, each complex recipe packed with unfamiliar ingredients and italicized terms. Many are sensible, no-nonsense paperbacks - unillustrated, reliable friends who rarely invite guests for dinner. Others are pretentious, conceited volumes, putting on airs with trussed-up recipes anybody with a keen eye would recognize as regular, homespun fare. Some cookbooks are even obsessive collectors, geeky experts with fixations on lemons or bacon or olive oil, and all of their unlikely uses.

True Grits is a funny old lady, and in the beginning, I wasn't sure we were going to get along. You see, at first, I took her for a regular southern belle – well-bound, handsome fonts, the occasional full-color photo of a pound cake or a tea service. He cover purports her content to be “Tall Tales and Recipes from the New South,” and if the pictures are ill-lit and not particularly appealing, well, at least it’s a large, solid book, pleasant to hold, whose inside cover is engraved with the Atlanta skyline. Just don’t anticipate much more than a respectable peach cobbler recipe and some gussied-up instructions for fried chicken.

Oh! I spoke too soon!

True Grits may dress like a prim square, but on the inside, she’s worldly, sensual, dangerous. Sometimes she puts on her dancing shoes and takes you out for Seared Duck Breast with Port and Grapefruit; other times, she lets down her hair in a casual cascade of Fettuccine with Scallops. There’s Espresso and Black Bean Chili, Crawfish Lasagna, Salmon with Basil Champagne Cream…and if the occasional cornbread or Georgia peach salsa recipe makes its way in, it’s with corporeal, sexy nostalgia and a wink.

But flighty, she isn’t. This dame is reliable. From Jumbo Lump Crab Cakes to Bourbon Pound Cake to Lemon Ginger Shrimp, her alluring promises inevitably lead to blissful repast. This seductive recipe is packed with unusual ingredients like coffee and cinnamon, and turned a pound of shimp into a pound of pure pleasure. Oh, True Grits, how could I have judged you so? You’ll always be the prize of my cookbook shelf!

Lemon Ginger Shrimp
(adapted from True Grits by the Junior League of Atlanta)

INGREDIENTS

1/4 cup butter
4 shallots, finely chopped
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, grated fine
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon minced lemon zest (about 1 lemon)
1/2 cup brewed dark roast coffee
1/3 cup lemon juice (about 1 1/2 lemons)
2 pounds shrimp, peeled, deveined
2 1/2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 cup fresh sugar snap peas (optional)
Salt and pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS

Melt butter in wok or large saucepan over medium-low heat. Stir in the shallots, ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. Cook for 5 minutes, or until the shallots are translucent and tender, stirring constantly.

Add garlic, lemon zest, coffee, and lemon juice; bring to a simmer. Add shrimp and sauté until just barely cooked, 1 1/2 - 2 minutes. Remove shrimp to a platter with a slotted spoon; continue cooking liquid until reduced to 2 -3 tablespoons.

Return shrimp to the pan. Add brown sugar (and peas, if using) and toss to coat. Cook until sugar melts to glaze the shrimp, about 1 minute. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and serve immediately over white rice.

I bet you're dying for the actual "Heavenly Grits" recipe...

Buy True Grits: Tall Tales and Recipes from the New South, presented by the Junior League of Atlanta, on Amazon (the used copies are a good deal!).

Weekly Random Roundup - Rock the VOTE

2008-02-05T10:50:00.001-05:00

Heidi from 101 Cookbooks brings us her best-ever curried egg salad. With apples, pecans, yogurt, curry and chives - and Heidi's careful instructions on how to cook up the perfect hard-boiled egg - I was compelled to whip up this recipe moments after reading. Delicious!

Chocolate & Zucchini's Clotilde snaps shots of her gorgeous homemade Guimauve a la Rose et au Chocolat (Rose and Chocolate marshmallows).

My idol and dopplerganger Jamie (a New-Yorker turned Georgia farmer) gets a big goose-egg over at 10 Signs Like This.

Sam at Becks & Posh discovers an unlikely favorite Super Bowl party snack...wiener sputnik?

Everyone's favorite Chubby Hubby, Aun, laments in-flight dining.

And finally, Jen Lemen ponders hope and compassion today - Super Tuesday! Get out and VOTE!

CRAVE: Sour Cream-Blueberry Crumb Cake

2008-01-31T19:45:00.000-05:00

Okay, I know I said it wasn't a Diet...but I'd be lying if I wasn't sad about denying myself this moist, buttery coffee cake. (I took these pictures last time I made this a few months ago, and seriously guys, that top image is worth enlarging - regard the golden, tender crumbitude.) WANT!

Sour Cream-Blueberry Crumb Cake
(From Tish Boyle's The Cake Book)

INGREDIENTS

Crumb Topping:
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

Sour Cream Blueberry Cake:
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup fresh blueberries
1 cup sour cream
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs

DIRECTIONS

Make the topping:

In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, sugars, cinnamon, and salt. Add the melted butter and mix with a fork, stirring until the butter is absorbed and the dry ingredients are uniformly moistened. Set aside.

Make the Cake:

Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 350 degrees F. Butter and flour the bottom and sides of a 9-inch square baking pan.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt until well blended.

In a medium bowl, toss the blueberries with 1 tablespoon of the flour mixture until the berries are coated; set aside. In a small bowl, whisk together the sour cream and vanilla extract; set aside.

Beat together the butter and granulated sugar at medium speed until light and fluffy, 4 to 5 minutes. Beat in the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition nad scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary. At low speed, beat in the flour mixture in three additions, alternating it with the sour cream in two additions. Using a rubber spatula, fold in the blueberries. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top with a spatula. Sprinkle the crumb topping evenly over the batter, breaking up any large lumps with your fingers.

Bake the cake until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 45 minutes. Place the cake in the pan on a wore rack and cool completely (Note that I never, EVER obey this last instruction).

Cut the cake into squares and serve from the pan.

Makes 9 servings.

Resolved, Or, Orange-Scented Green Beans with Maple Glazed Pecans

2008-01-29T11:38:00.000-05:00

(Image pilfered from Busy Moms Recipes)

First, let's get some business out of the way: I can't take any pictures of my recipes because my house is, well, littered with broken cameras. Until I can afford to have one of them repaired (see doe-eyed "donate" button at right!), I'll just be supplementing posts with stock photos and images pillaged (gratefully and with all credit due!) from teh internets. Aside from these, you'll just have to use your imagination.

Alright, moving along. ;)

January rolled around, and I thought the world was finally taking long-awaited revenge on my appetite. The holiday season had stretched into two months of delightful, ridiculous gluttony, during which time J and I went to a pie party, helped cook up an absurd Thanksgiving feast, and gorged on truffles, pork belly, oysters, vanilla custard, wassail, and Christmas morning casserole until we resembled soft, fluffy versions of our former selves. Thankfully, the New Year arrived with all its resolve; the midwinter farmers markets finally thinned down to jam-and-onions skeletons of themselves; and a new bike and a high-impact canoe trip in the Everglades jump-started us into an exercise regimen. We have become, for this brief moment in time, carb-eschewing, push-up-doing people.

I thought it was really going to suck. I mean, I haven't really exercised since college, and my favorite food is pie. I figured within a fews weeks, we'd be another statistic: 92% of Americans either fail in their resolutions, or don't even bother to resolve anything.

Maybe it's too early to tell, I'll grant you that - but I'm totally having a great time! I feel good, I have tons of energy, I'm coming to appreciate different kinds of food a lot more. Even better, I'm somehow cooking more while eating less, in an effort to plan meals ahead. Limiting the variety of foods you eat demands creativity in preparation, too - so I'm dusting off old cookbooks (the ones hiding behind The Good Cookie and The Cake Book) and experimenting with new flavors. Also, I'm grilling like a...grill-bandit.

(Note that I have purposefully omitted that dreaded "D" word - diet. We're not some South-Beach-following calorie nazis over here or anything - just creating some new habits and taking better care of our bodies. Omitting pasta from the menu doesn't mean I don't slather my chicken in Charley Biggs' Sweet Bourbon BBQ sauce.)

But don't think I'm resisting my passion for baking! I still get to watch cakes rise and enjoy that warm vanilla smell (and perhaps lick the occasional bowl) by baking constantly - and giving away the goods! This hobby ends up benefiting everybody because it has engendered a little informal economy; cakes and pies are exchanged for fresh seafood at the fishmonger, a bike tuneup at the hardware store, and...well, I do my best to refuse the outpouring of generosity, in the form of zeppoli and calzones, offered by the local pizza place. But communities are knit and everyone is fed and happy.

What all of this means for you readers is that a) I'll be trotting out a bunch of new recipes that focus on lean meats and fresh vegetables (and the occasional whole grain) - but b) I'll still be baking pies and cakes and talking about those too. Once again, everyone benefits.

It's funny how, with some foods, I have a whole variety of preparations stored up - like Forrest Gump says, "there's shrimp kebabs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo, pan fried, deep fried, stir fried...pineapple shrimp and lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup..." But with other, overlooked foods, there's just one standby preparation in my mental recipe folder. Pan-seared pork chops. Sauteed spinach with garlic. Green beans, boiled with a slice of bacon or a ham hock.

So now that the vegetable is less of a forgettable "side item" and more of an important part of the meal, I'm in search of a diversity of textures and flavor combinations. Here's a stellar recipe, adapted from Cook's Illustrated, for Orange-Scented Green Beans with Maple Glazed Pecans - rich, complex, sweet-salty flavors with a couple of kinds of crunch. You might not think that the candied pecans, sitting atop the beans like glossy gems, really go - but wait until you take a bite.

Orange-Scented Green Beans with Maple Glazed Pecans

INGREDIENTS

¾ cup pecans
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons maple syrup
Salt
2 medium shallots, minced (about ½ cup)
1 teaspoon grated zest plus 1/3 cup juice from 1 large orange
Pinch cayenne
2 teaspoons all-purpose flour
1½ pounds green beans, stem ends trimmed
2/3 cup chicken broth

DIRECTIONS

Toast the pecans in a large skillet over medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Remove from heat, and stir in 1 tablespoon butter, maple syrup, and 1/8 teaspoon salt. Return to medium heat and cook, stirring constantly, until nuts are dry and glossy, about 45 seconds. Transfer to plate and set aside.

Rinse out skillet. Heat remaining 2 tablespoons of butter to medium; when foaming subsides, add shallots, orange zest, and cayenne and cook, stirring occasionally, until shallots are softened, about 2 minutes. Stir in flour until combined, then toss in green beans. Add chicken broth and orange juice; increase heat to medium-high, cover, and cook until beans are partly tender but still crisp at center, about 4 minutes. Uncover and cook about 4 more minutes, stirring occasionally, until beans are tender and sauce has thickend slightly. Off heat, salt to taste, transfer to serving dish, sprinkle evenly with pecans, and serve.

Serves 6.

Chef's Notes:

You might as well go ahead and double the pecan part of the recipe - you're going to eat most of them before the rest of the dish is done, and you'll be craving more to munch on the next day.

Alternately, you could coarsely chop the pecans first, for a more evenly distributed texture.

I liked a touch more cayenne than this recipe requires.

Others have seasoned the finished dish with black pepper and chopped fresh sage. I felt that sage would overpower the orange essence, and preferred to let the sweet-savory, nutty-fruitiness of the dish shine all by itself.

Enjoy!

Wintermarket

2008-01-23T14:37:00.001-05:00

It’s not every slushy day in late December that five thousand New Yorkers delay their last-minute Christmas shopping to brave outdoor crowds in ice-cold rain. But on December sixteenth, droves of be-wellingtoned foodies enthusiastically slogged down to Manhattan’s southmost point, their three-dollar umbrellas glistening like black bubbles, in search of culinary New York’s premiere attraction: Wintermarket.

Hosted by the non-profit group New Amsterdam Public, Wintermarket is an off-season attention-grabber – for, to shoppers who frequent NYC Greenmarkets, burgeoning business in December seems like an oxymoron. Not so for the purveyors occupying South Street’s historic stalls this day! As Greenmarket booths thin down to jam, onions, and particularly durable apples, Wintermarket shines like a Blue Pointe pearl: between gray heaps of old snow, pots of seaweed stew billow fragrant steam, nutty artisanal breads drip with cheese, and potential buyers warily sniff local truffles. Local truffles?!

One vendor with an Irish brogue deftly handles a shucking knife as he details the Long Island location of his oyster beds, doling out halfshells for a dollar apiece. Visitors slurp the briny delight straight from the shell. A few tables down the row, Mario Batali mugs behind his whole porchetta, dramatically brandishing a carving knife. Customers bump and jostle, competing for samples and exclaiming in perplexed glee at these fanciful gastronomic pleasures so frequently absent from their usual local markets.

For Wintermarket is a local market as well. Though its definition of “local” is less strict than NYC Greenmarkets’ 200-mile rule, every item, from red-shelled Nantucket scallops to upstate New York cheddar from Saxelby Cheesemongers, comes from the northeast region.

New York’s oldest marketplace, the South Street Seaport has been a site of gastronomic trade since 1624, when oyster boats and European traders unloaded their bounty there. This legacy came to an end in 2005, when the Fulton Fish Market, once the largest wholesale seafood purveyor in the hemisphere, officially moved to Hunts Point in the Bronx, leaving the New York Maritime Museum as the seaport’s only historical relic among a throng of clothing stores and chintzy tourist attractions. The cobbles gradually gave up their fishy scent, and the ancient, empty market buildings – now publicly owned – languished. Their fate is uncertain; some developers propose condominiums; others, a mall.

New Amsterdam Public has a better idea. Its founders, Robert La Valva and Jill Slater, propose that the halls be converted into a permanent, year-round public market featuring regionally-sourced, sustainable food. “This civic institution will be a permanent venue to promote sustainable agriculture, strengthen our regional food system, drive rural and urban economic development, incubate small businesses, and teach all New Yorkers how to buy, cook and eat healthy food,” claims their mission statement – a laudable mission indeed! They conceived Wintermarket as an awareness-raising event, designed to give attendees a taste of what the New Amsterdam Public Market might be like – literally. And New Yorkers took the bait: in spite of proximity to the holidays, miserable weather and no convenient subway stop, attendance exceeded their most optimistic expectations.

That same week, Lower East Side and Chinatown residents – theoretical neighbors to the New Amsterdam Public Market – protested the closing of a local Pathmark; the property could be sold to a luxury-condo developer for $250 million, depriving yet another low-income neighborhood of healthy, affordable food choices. The proximity of these two events demands comparison and consideration. Will New Amsterdam be a new and improved food resource for low-wage downtown residents – teaching, as they state, all New Yorkers about healthy food? Or will it be another gentrified, high-end, specialty market (the downtown area has a surprising variety of them, including nearby Zeytuna and Jubilee), this time with a trendy sustainable twist?

Founder Jill Slater claims the former, insisting that New Amsterdam Public Market will offer community support in the form of everything from acceptance of food stamps to youth apprenticeship programs. In addition, the market will host a daily “market meal,” made from fresh, seasonal produce and designed to be “affordable to all.”

In the meantime, the New Amsterdam Public Market needs New York’s support in order to become a reality. To donate, volunteer, join the mailing list, or find out how to make a request to the mayor or your local city council member, visit http://www.newamsterdampublic.org/.

My Maine Squeeze

2007-10-18T11:33:00.001-04:00

"Now, if we catch a female with a carapace longer than this little gal here," says Captain John Nicolai, ambiguously brandishing a small measuring instrument in one hand and a live two-pound lobster, claws snapping angrily, in the other, "What do we do? We throw her back. There you go, little lady,” he murmurs, gently lobbing the thrashing crustacean over the side of the little boat, Lulu. “In less sustainable fisheries than Maine, you catch a five, six – heck, once I caught a twelve pounder – you sell it on the market for a good sum, but you’re killing your cash cow.” He goes on to explain that a larger lobster lays exponentially more eggs than a small one, and that large lobsters keep populations up in heavily fished places like Bar Harbor. “Now, what do we do if we catch a great big male? Any guesses?” (A little boy, the youngest of Lulu’s fifteen or so passengers, shouts “eat it!”) “Nope! We throw ‘em back. Why? Because a great big female can only pair up with a great big male. Every lady lobster’s got to find her perfect match.”

I imagine the lucky demonstration female, briefly and bizarrely airborne before sinking slowly down to her murky bed, perhaps to seek her perfect match. (Then I imagine the tender, salty-sweet lobster meat on a toasty, butter-saturated bun that I gleefully consumed on the roadside in Wiscasset the previous day, and admit that both images fill me with a similar warm-and-fuzzy contentment.)

Captain John brings the boat up alongside Egg Rock, a tiny islet harboring an old-fashioned lighthouse and a colony of seals, lounging in the low tide like absurd, great-eyed lumps. J squeezes my hand, and I feel the gentle pressure of his too-big engagement ring between my fingers.

Indeed. This lady lobster’s found her perfect match. Let me tell you how it went.

Bar Harbor, Maine, got its name from a sand bar connecting the mainland village to Bar Island, a small forested hilltop rising out of the sea no more than half a mile offshore. The bar itself, however, is only exposed at low tide, when it becomes a sandy path some forty feet across, lined with mussel beds that bubble and wheeze when the tide goes out.

We crossed the bar around three in the afternoon, collecting seashells and prodding at tidal pools as we went; by three-thirty we mounted Bar Island’s little slope and followed a dirt track through glades of apple trees to a field of long, sweet-smelling grass. We lounged there and talked softy and seriously, eating bruised sour fruits and watching a heron cross the wide blue sky. We laughed for a long time and then lay quietly, watching the autumn leaves turn to fire as the light changed.

Finally, we made our way back down to the beach. At first we thought that we had come out the wrong side and that the expanse of unbroken ocean before us was a mistake, but no – the bar was gone, the tide was coming in.

I started unlacing my boots. “Come on!” I shouted.

“What?” he asked me.

“We have to cross!”

“What?” he asked again.

“The tide just started coming in, right? So it can’t be too deep – we’ll just walk across like Moses! What, do you really want to call the Bar Harbor police station and have them send the coast guard? Or should we just wait here until this time tomorrow?”

My sense of tides, it turns out, was woefully wide of the mark – tides go in and out not once but twice a day, and this far north of the equator, it’s a nine-foot difference between high and low. But J, though not an aquatically-inclined person, was no better informed than I – and, after successfully suppressing mild panic, he took off his boots and began to roll up his trousers.

I didn’t even hitch up my skirt - we anticipated no more than knee-deep. I should add that we were dressed for a romantic day of lobster-eating and window-shopping, not beachcombing and certainly not ocean-fording. But we resolutely tied our boots together, slung them around our necks, perched purse and camera bag on our shoulders, and felt the icy bite of the North Atlantic.

In no time we were up to our waists, and a half-mile of indeterminate sea stretched out before us. And it was really, really, really cold. By this time, a small crowd of tourist onlookers had congregated on the far shore and were waving and snapping photographs. J was beginning to panic – but we gripped hands, breathed in resolve against the cold, the current and the rising tide, and crossed the sea like Moses.

We emerged to applause, dripping wet and relief. After stripping down to our wet underwear, we climbed into our rental car, cranked up the heat, and laughed until we were warm again.

That night, under a sky filled with more stars than I have ever seen – and meteors streaking across them like a code only we could decipher – J asked me to marry him.

That was two weeks ago – and even after we left that land of vanishing islands, lobster love and autumnal fire, my life continues to be more vibrant, more delicious. My heart is full of gratitude, and I’m so looking forward to this season of celebrating – the harvest, the spooks, the fire in the hearth, and all our love for one another. Thank you all, as we reach for each other across these ephemeral high-wires, for being here to celebrate with me.

In Praise of Salmon

2007-06-27T13:55:00.000-04:00

Once, a long time ago, in a much greener place called Ireland, a young servant boy named Fionn mac Cumhail was preparing a fish for his master's supper. Now, his master wasn't just any master - he was Finegas, the legendarily wise Irish poet - and Finegas had spent seven years on the banks of the river Boyne, daily dropping hook, line and sinker in hope of catching the Salmon of Knowledge.

This one particular afternoon, seven years since he had cast his first line into the river Boyne, Finegas had caught that coveted fish, and brought it to Fionn mac Cumhail to prepare for his supper. Wanting the knowledge for himself, Finegas warned young Fionn not to eat a single bite.

Always a dutiful servant, unwitting Fionn obeyed, frying the fish just the way his master liked. But the salmon's flesh was rich and tender, and the buttery skin popped and sizzled in the pan, spattering Fionn's thumb. He gasped with pain and instinctively put his thumb in his mouth to cool the burn, tasting the savory salmon skin.

And that is how Fionn mac Cumhail became the wisest of the Gaels, leading their warriors ever to victory with his fantastic powers of perception.

So, maybe is isn't just those omega-3 fatty acids that make salmon the ultimate brain food! It is true, at any rate, that while farmed salmon plays host to dangerous levels of harmful chemicals like PCBs, an array of pesticides and antibiotics, dubious chemical color enhancers, and lower levels of omega-3s - not to mention hefty environmental risks - wild-caught salmon is pretty much the healthiest meat around. It's low in fat, high in protein, and full of healthful fatty acid chains that combat inflammation, heart disease, diabetes, arthritis, some types of cancer, blood clots, and even depression. So much good-for-you-ness...and it still manages to be delicious!

All that said, wild-caught fish are not risk-free, especially environmentally speaking. Many fish (though, notably, salmon is the exception) have an extremely high mercury content, which can lead to nerve-poisoning and irregular development of the nervous system in babies; also, nearly all species of fish - especially the big ones like cod and salmon - have rapidly diminishing wild populations. Wild Alaskan salmon, which is certified sustainable by the Marine Stewardship Council, is your best bet, according to Seafood Watch; other Pacific salmon (Washington, Oregon, California) is a decent alternative. Farmed and Atlantic salmon should be avoided. You can download their free printable wallet-sized nation seafood guide here; they also offer regional guides. In January, Dingle Town's burgeoning tourism industry is still a faint glimmer on the horizon, and in the early hours of a brisk Irish morning, the steel-gray clouds match the pavement of the town's empty streets. Seabirds wheel over the fishing boats; a lonely vendor peddles oysters, halibut, and glistening slabs of fresh-caught Atlantic salmon out of a cart on the pier. A brilliant rainbow appears, and J and I take it as a sign of good fortune - we couldn't resist, the Seafood Guide be damned.

Visiting small towns in Ireland in January has its perks - we were the only occupants of the Grapevine Hostel, which had beds for at least thirty. Its generous manager built a cozy coal fire in the hearth and let us have the run of the place; we made good use of a well-stocked kitchen, a local grocery store packed with Irish potatoes and $1/lb KerryGold butter ("This costs eight dollars in New York!" I shrieked, to J's general embarrassment), and a weathered copy of a paperback cookbook called Festive Food of Ireland. The recipe, as best as I can remember it, essentailly called for poaching the salmon in saltwater and serving it with a sauce made from egg yolks, butter, lemon juice and parsley. I pan-seared the fish in olive oil with salt and pepper, and adjusted the sauce as follows:

Salmon in Irish Butter Sauce

INGREDIENTS

1 plus 4 tablespoons butter
1 small shallot, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 cup dry white wine
1/4 cup cold whipping cream
1 egg yolk
Juice if ½ lemon
1 tablespoon freshly chopped parsley
½ teaspoon dried tarragon
Salt and pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS

Melt 1 tablespoon butter in medium saucepan over medium-low heat. Add shallot; sauté for 1 minute. Add minced garlic; sauté for 1 additional minute, or until garlic begins to brown.

Add wine; increase heat to medium and let simmer until wine is reduced by half, about five minutes.

Reduce heat to low. Whisking continuously, add cream; add egg yolk while mixture is still cool. Add remaining butter, one piece at a time, whisking continuously, adding more as the previous piece dissolves. Mixture should thicken slowly (if it thickens too quickly or begins to “scramble,” remove from heat and add lemon juice immediately).

Remove from heat when all butter is melted and sauce is sufficiently thick. Stir in lemon juice, herbs, and salt and pepper to taste. Serve over poached or pan-seared salmon fillet.

Serves 2.

We enjoyed it with Irish mashed potatoes, stewed mushrooms and brown bread, next to the fire, while the rain fell on the roof.

Six months later, salmon continuous to play a fortuitous role in my life; good fortune comes in the form of Annie, the proprietor of my local fish market in Brooklyn, just around the corner from my house. J and I eat Annie's fish about once a week, but I find myself visiting almost daily, just for the company - fittingly enough, my friendship with Annie began with an Irish barter: a fillet of her salmon for a loaf of my Irish Soda Bread.

Annie explains her business this way: she and her husband had planned to retire, but after less than a year - and these are her exact words - they were bored, so they opened the fish market in Bed-Stuy, whose burgeoning Caribbean community demanded good fish at good prices, and a lot of it. Today, boredom isn't the problem: Annie's husband fetches fresh fish from the Bronx fish supplier every morning - at 1:00 AM! "You have to be there early to get the best fish," she explains.

And they certainly do have the best fish. In early spring (before the summer heat made eating thawed raw fish from the market inadvisable), I sliced Annie's brightly-hued wild salmon filets and cured my own gravlax with this simple recipe:

Home-Cured Instant Gravlax

INGREDIENTS

1 salmon filet (no skin, about 12 oz.)
1 tsp. fine sea salt
¼ tsp. sugar
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon chopped dill, if desired

DIRECTIONS

Thinly slice filet into about ten slices. Spread out a two-foot-long piece of plastic wrap on the counter.

Mix salt, sugar and pepper in a small bowl; sprinkle half the mixture over one side of the plastic wrap. Arrange salmon on top of salt mixture so that no slices overlap; sprinkle remaining mixture evenly over the top, along with dill or other herbs, if desired. Fold plastic wrap over and wrap edges up to seal.

Place package on a platter or baking sheet and refrigerate for at least two hours or up to one day. Weight package with a griddle iron, or other heavy refrigeratable items (I use pickle jars!) to expel liquid and hasten the curing process.

To serve, remove plastic wrap and garnish with capers, olive oil, sliced red onion, or crème fraiche – or serve with cream cheese and a fresh bagel!

This recipe takes less time to cure than most gravlax recipes because the fish is pre-sliced, rather than cured whole. If you are concerned about the safety of eating raw or home-cured fish, read this informative guide.

And finally, for those of you inclined to fully cook your fish before you eat it, let me refer you to this excellent recipe for Grilled Salmon with Tomato-Olive Salsa - a simple, delicious alternative to the usual butter-lemon-parsley number than gets prepared all too often in my kitchen. Eat up!

I Missed You, Too

2007-06-20T15:54:00.000-04:00

Sometimes a place can steal your words. Not even from your lips - like a breathtaking sunset - but from your heart: that warm little room whose walls and ceilings you thought you could define with well-arranged, concise sentences. But then suddenly a cathedral or an island or a mountaintop slips in and detonates the whole thing, exploding all that subject-verb chinking you've so meticulously laid into place, as the understanding of place makes new room for itself.

Ireland silenced me for awhile. I hope to be able to share glimpses of that saturated green-and-grey place with you as the words come back.

Then changes set into my life at a pace rivaling puberty - from the moment I stepped off the plane in New York with a four-foot-tall backpack and no home to come home to, or even enough American money to use a pay phone and arrange a hospitable couch.

In those first three weeks we slept on several couches (bless you, dear friends, if you're reading) and the floor of a temporary sublet, inspected nearly forty apartments, found a home that suited us, and J started work - all while still living out of the same backpacks that had sustained us through two months of traipsing through Europe! (It's a good thing his office is generous about their dress code.) Though we promptly moved our possessions out of storage, these consisted mainly of books, clothes, and an appalling assortment of kitchen appliances - we had sold what little furniture we had along with our old three hundred-square-foot apartment in the Village. We spent a week sleeping on a heap of coats while we went about acquiring furnishings and arranging various means of transporting them. (This was no small feat.)

Finally, weeks later, in a place I can call "home" for the first time in awhile, I began to grow things in my garden. Between cultivating my home, my neglected friendships, my connection with a new neighborhood, and my impressive diversity of herbs and flowers - there hasn't been much time to grow my culinary acumen or myself.

And yet (my sitemeter tells me) you've been waiting for me. You continue to visit Pie in the Sky, to leave imploring treatises in the comments. Thank you for caring. Sorry I've been MIA for good long while. I think I'm back now.

Life is pretty good - I'm happy, I love Brooklyn ( more on that later), I'm cooking a lot, and I'm enjoying this stint at homemaking and gardening. But I'm trying not to stagnate. Maybe you folks can help. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I suspect Pie in the Sky will be undergoing some serious renovations in the coming weeks - my paltry offering in exchange for your patience and loyalty. I'm teaching myself web design! We'll see where that goes.

I've also invented the #1 Best Chocolate Chip Cookies Recipe EVER. So don't touch that dial, folks...

Fortified: Carcassonne to Catalunya

2007-02-19T09:51:00.000-05:00

There's nothing quite like a taxi driver dropping you off at the entrance of a castle under a full moon and giving you the directions just over the drawbridge, second left past the fountain. You can't miss it, it's just next to the outer wall of the fortress.

Carcassonne, a hilltop city in France's Languedoc region that has been fortified in various permutations since 100 BC, is straight out of a medieval fairytale, complete with moat, two rings of ramparts, and 53 turreted towers. The historic buildings along its cobbled, narrow streets house thriving shops and restaurants that range from a few embarrassingly touristy spots to traditional French cafe fare to bistros sporting Carcassonne's signature dish, cassoulet, a white bean stew regionally served with duck confit or partridge. But, having developed a certain mistrust for regional French cuisine after the bouillabaisse incident (and knowing that we would need our appetites for local cuisine in good form for Ireland), we limited our dining in Carcassonne mostly to the confections of a nearby patisserie. We spent three days inside the castle walls, exploring the 9th century basilica and reading medieval fantasy novels to each other in the archery-nooks of the outer walls (Wizard of Earthsea, for you curious readers - an indulgent slice of fiction between Apollinaire and Joyce/Swift/Heaney. J and I try to make regional narratives a part of traveling whenever we can, but after Rimbaud, we needed a break from French literature.)

Our one futile expedition beyond the castle walls and out into the Lower City proved that we should have stayed inside. We were trying to see a movie - an American movie - at the local cinema. We had had wonderful success with this in Paris when we saw "Babel" - the trick is to make sure that the movie is in its original format and subtitled in French, rather than dubbed. "Babel" was particularly interesting because, though much of the film is in English, a lot more of it is in French (Moroccan), Japanese and Spanish. So we had to interpret those parts as best we could with the French subtitles, which might have been more annoying if the movie's theme hadn't been the problems that exist in inter-cultural communication. Anyway, I digress - at the theatre, most of the films (READ: every one but ours) were marked "V.O." As a voice-over artist myself, I was familiar with this abbreviation and assumed, naturally, that it indicated that those films were dubbed. Thankfully, the movie we wanted to see was V.O.-free, so we bought an armload of movie snacks* and settled into our seats.

Short version: "V.O." means version originale. Thankfully, they congenially made fun of us and refunded our tickets. We went back to the castle.

*Best snack EVER: Nutella Snack & Drink. A healthy serving of Nutella that puts the frustratingly teensy smear in Cheese 'n Cracker Snack Packs (with the little red stick) to shame; crispy bread sticks to dip in it; and peach iced tea to wash it all down. All neatly packaged in a sexy cylindrical canister, complete with straw. I love Europe.

***

We watched the French coastline turn into the Spanish one from the train. The hills dried out and the roof tiles turned orange, but the sea was still the same radiant blue. We stopped for our first Spanish lunch in Port Bou, just across the border.

After the collective hours we had spent in France looking for something we could afford on menu after overpriced menu, Port Bou was a Catalonian heyday. Wedged into a booth at a local diner, we found ourselves drowning in sumptuous gambas al ajillo, ham and cheese croquettes, crispy baked chicken, garlicky mushrooms. The baguettes had gone bad at the border, but everything else was salty, delicious and mercifully cheap. For dessert we had a regional specialty, creme catalan, which is sort of a less delicate, flan-ier version of creme brulee. I loved it.

Barcelona was cooler than we were. Every beautiful Catalonian was out in slender, well-dressed, dredlocked regalia; our bright-hued hostel was packed with weekending teenaged Belgians and Australians in town to party. I felt old and tired during this part of the trip and attracted a brief cold that dampened our adventuring somewhat. But I do remember Barcelona's food! What diverse decadence we enjoyed there - from creamy gelato to sparkling cava.

Getting sick makes me want sushi. I guess that not everybody shares this particular craving, but there's something about the simple, healthy flavors of fresh fish, seaweed, miso and green tea that restore me a bit. So we sought out a sushi bar for lunch on the pier, just across from the enormous monument to Columbus. It was early, but we were so hungry that we had a round of tapas at a bar next door while we waited for the Japanese restaurant to open. What a mistake! The Japanese "lunch buffet" advertised outside for €7 was, in fact, a circular conveyor belt dotted with what was effectively Japanese tapas. It efficiently circumscribed the room and passed back into the kitchen to be refurbished with fresh sushi rolls, slices of salmon, steamed dumplings, seaweed salads, spring rolls, fried rice, butterfly shrimps.

That afternoon, we wandered through Barcelona's largest outdoor market, the Mercat de la Boquería, where we saw ostrich eggs and braces of conies and I tasted a mangosteen (thanks, Phil and Deborah, who told me to try them!).

My other choice culinary memory in Barcelona was dinner at Botafumeiro, benefacted yet again, in celebration of the eve of J's 21st birthday. Renowned for its seafood, Botafumeiro offers a dozen kinds of shellfish - all displayed in tanks at the entrance - and a delightful array of fish dishes. J ordered the some of the best cured salmon I have ever had (and a certain reader who cures her own salmon knows that I have had some really good lox). I ordered a half-dozen oysters that were good but unremarkable, and also a platter of sauteed baby artichokes that were, honestly, my favorite part of the meal. J's idyllic gambas al ajillo (redux) were almost lobster-like in flavor, and to top it all off, the generous and attentive maitre d' supplied a complimentary bottle of cava (Spanish sparkling wine) in J's honor. The celebrating continued when we returned to the hostel to a chorus of slurred voices in a cacophony of accents belting out happy birthday.

Migration

2007-02-12T13:03:00.000-05:00

An artery through Provence, the Rhone river fans out at its mouth into a marshy spread of ventricles to the sea. This region, called the Camargue, is host to a wildly different sort of habitat - and tourism - than much of the rest of France. Southward beyond Arles, industrial farmlands give way to an expansive mix of freshwater and saltwater marshes; they are home to the muskrat's whiskery cousin the ragodin, dozens of species of migratory birds, and a pure-white breed of wild Arab horse that, along with the hulking black bulls tended there, has made the area famous for its gardiens, or cowboys.

It was through this unexpectedly wild place that we sought our seaside treasure, Saintes Maries de la Mer. This sleepy beach town, popular in tourist season for its oceanfront horseback riding, has another more pious claim to fame: it is said to be here that the three Marys (Mary Magdalene, Mary Salome, and Mary Jacobe) came ashore after witnessing the empty tomb and the resurrection of Christ. Two of them apparently became beloved members of the community, and the weathered stone chapel (previously a Roman church, and a Celtic worship site before that) houses their relics. But a fourth character in the story remains a mystery: the beautiful Saint Sarah (also known as Sara-la-Kali, or Sarah the black). Her reliquary, as well as a beautiful wooden sculpture of her, are housed in the chapel's dark crypt amid a shrine of flickering prayer candles, and date back to the same interminable time as those of the two Marys. Her origins are unknown, but sources speculate variously that she was a servant to the Marys, another follower of Christ, or an African queen. The reasons for her sainthood are likewise unknown, but she has become the patron saint of gypsies, and each May there is a ritual gypsy pilgrimage to Saintes Maries de la Mer. Saint Sarah's reliquary is lowered from the chapel ceiling, and those visiting nomads reach for the healing power a touch is said to confer. Sarah's statue is then paraded outside, along with the statue of the two Marys in their little boat, which is taken down to the sea in a great procession.

But in the winter, this quiet little outpost confers a secret sanctity that goes deeper into the earth than even the chapel crypt, and farther out into the sea than the holiest vessel, as the rituals of human migration intersect those more ancient sacred patterns of beasts, seasons, and the sea. Strange encounters happen between migrants in Saintes Maries de la Mer, that hallowed place for travelers - tourists among them.

The first strange and wonderful thing that happened was at dinner. As we finished sopping crusty baguettes in the garlicky broth at the bottom of a steaming pot of local mussels, a pleasant, if limited, dialogue began between the adjacent table, who spoke little English, and ourselves. An older couple from north of Arles visiting their seaside home in Stes. Maries, they were excited to practice their English and happy to offer us advice about how to see the Camargue. (Our delightful hostess, who dropped everything and knocked a cat off a table with a menu, aided in this endeavor, and drew an extremely unhelpful map on a napkin.) Conversation continued through dessert (delicious île flottante - an ethereal meringue "island" floating in vanilla custard), and we found ourselves invited over for aperitifs and conversation. Since aperitifs and conversation are what one does in France after dinner, we accepted.

What a cottage it was! Scarcely larger than the 300-square-foot apartment we left in New York, it had a traditional thatched roof, a blazing hearth, and a porthole-shaped window overlooking the sea. We sat in front of the fire and talked about the town, politics in France and America, the philosophy of education, the promise of our youth, the catastrophe of global warming, and the merry lives of our hosts, Jacques and Jeannette - all with squints of concentration as we strained to decipher the others' language. The two of them had retired from happily multifaceted lives to a small farm in the mountains west of the Luberon, where, as Jacques put it, "Jeanette cares for ten animals: one horse, one donkey, four hens, three cats, and myself." The mention of France's 1968 student uprising prompted Jacques to proclaim that it was "certainly not a revolution! One person dies - only one!" - at which point I had the opportunity to form my single most coherent, intellectual French sentance of the whole trip: "La mort n'est pas la revolution, monsieur." It was a long, splendid night, full of happy incomprehension and general goodwill, and a truly unique experience for a pair of young foreign travelers.

The next morning we set off on foot for the Camargue Ornithological Center, a bird sanctuary a few kilometers inland. We encountered a fair bit of wildlife along the way: the warm, white flanks of a Camargue stallion; several leggy egrets; a number of species of ducks; a pair of ragodins paddling through the marsh; and a black-and-white, robin-sized bird that we have since seen in every town we have visited (in France, Spain, and now today in Dublin). But the real surprise came just as we approached the Parc d'Ornithologie, when we heard a powerful squawking.

Most experienced tourists will tell you that visiting France in February is inadvisable. While we don't agree, and have found many reasons to visit France in wintertime (not the least of which is the lack of tourism), the benefits of summer visiting had not gone unnoticed: there was a chill, and many things were closed, and there weren't any flowers in Provence. Even truffle season was in its final, overpriced throes. The fermé feeling had been heightened during the hotel fiasco at our previous destination, and by the time we arrived in Stes. Maries, we had just about come to the conclusion that though we were certainly making the best of the "off" season, we weren't in France at exactly the right time for anything.

We were wrong.

We were in France - in the South of France, in the Camargue, in tiny Saintes Maries de la Mer, at the ornithological park - at exactly the right time for the flamingo migration. Not only that, but the freshwater ponds in the park are their winter breeding grounds for one month in January, and apparently the only one in France. There were literally thousands of them, shrieking and stalking along on their hot pink legs and turning their awkward heads from side to side and proclaiming their fiery wingspans like an absurd dance from Fantasia. Most improbably, they flew in pairs and trios across the sunset like pink sticks with wings. The whole display was deafening, showstopping.

(And we saw some other cool birds, too.)

All this we considered later, perched on the long, rocky promontory extending out into the sea: the chance meetings of migrants in Saintes Maries. Or maybe Saint Sarah arranged them, a traveler's blessings, the promise of good fortune for the next phase of our voyage.

Fermé (and Truffles)

2007-02-07T15:23:00.000-05:00

We weren't sure our losing streak was over yet on the morning we prepared to leave Roussillon. Having come to terms with the fact that we had overpacked and were hauling around unnecessary kilos, we had sorted out the items we could part with and were taking them to the post office to send home (that's right, mom - nothing exciting in that box, don't even bother opening it, it's just sweaters). From la poste, our plan was to hike - with newly lightened packs - the fourteen kilometers to Gordes, the last of our semi-inaccessible Provençal destinations. But, after bidding a breakfastless adieu to our kind hotel proprietors and marching the uphill mile to town by five after twelve, la poste was, like everything else in town, fermé, closing its doors a purported five minutes earlier. Not a soul was in sight.

We deliberated what to do. All options were too expensive - the way to Gordes via several modes of transportation, another night at the hotel (a slightly more upscale splurge to celebrate surviving Parisian hostels and the Marseille ordeal), lunch at the one ouvert restaurant in Roussillon. But could we make it to Gordes on foot with such heavy packs? We decided that we would have to try.
It was an amazing seven-mile walk: a gentle sloping descent into the valley, a stroll through acres of vineyards, each vine trimmed into a gnarled winter fist. Gordes came into sight a long way off, white stone crests of chateau and cathedral against azure sky. The climb up was perilous and exhilarating; buildings hundreds of years old emerged out of the rock and sank back in again like unfinished sculpture. It took us a long time to ascend that last vertical mile into the city square, where little flotillas of ice drifted in the basin of an archaic fountain and dusk painted the white stones gold.

Every hotel in Gordes was fermé. We watched the sun set like a dissolving coin and felt the cold drift in under the moon, a day past full. We looked for caves to sleep in.

In the end, we were rescued by the only other tourists we ever saw in all of Provence - a Taiwanese family of five who were leaving scenic Gordes to go find sustenance in relatively nearby Cavaillon. They offered to take us to a cluster of hotels that was "just down the hill" and "very close by"; we accepted gratefully and piled into their small car with our large luggage. But we soon realized that they had meant "very close by" by driving standards, and that it would be an exhausting hours-long hike back up to Gordes in the morning. We exchanged a look of panic and requested exit at the first available lodging - a Best Western, radiating fluorescent welcome.
Abandoned in the parking lot, we weighed the eighty-euro fee, a full day's spending allotment and more, by our budget. We looked down the road after our benefactors' taillights; we looked up the mountain to Gordes; we saw only the cold dark of intermittent hotels and restaurants fermé for the off-season in both directions. Brave adventurers though we were, we had not packed for sub-freezing camping. Best Western it would be. And so a full 24 hours passed whence we ate naught but spoonfuls of marmalade from a jar in my pack, and two teabags from the reception stretched over several cups of tea.

The good fortune in all of this was that the Best Western turned out to be half a mile from a (miraclously operational) bus route to Gordes. Two buses daily - at 6:00AM and 6:00PM - and we were on both. We arrived back in Gordes before the sun, and followed our noses to the one un-fermé storefront at that hour: a patisserie, drawing the morning's first baguettes from the ovens. We sank our teeth into hot chocolate croissants and watched the sun rise over the chateau. What could be better?

I'll tell you what - A five-course Provençal truffle tasting menu and a bottle of local rosé with the person you love. We had discovered the Auberge Carcarille just outside Gordes on our way up the mountain, and went back for lunch the next day to indulge our truffle obsession. It began with an amuse bouche of truffled foie gras ravioli; the appetizer was a simple, exquisite plate of truffled scrambled eggs and butter-soaked toast. For my main course, I ordered a truffled fillet of Saint Jacques (a local French fish that I think is a bit like cod) with winter vegetables. The veggies were great, but I didn't care as much for the fish; the simplicity of the preparation (designed to flatter the truffles) left it bland and a bit dry. J, however, ordered lavander-honey-glazed pork loin with sautéed trumpet royal mushrooms, and it was truly spectacular. A large wedge of brie de meau followed, its core shot through with an aromatic vein of truffle. Dessert was a tower of chocolate cream with a ganache "truffle" center, drizzled with Grand Marinier syrup. We finished the wine and giggled a lot, driven by truffles into those conversational realms accessed only through potent fungi and long-aged cheeses (as well as a very few wines and the occasional risky slice of blowfish) - ponderances of the narrow way these delights tread between eroticism and death. We only accomplished a third of the walk home before collapsing in an olive grove and dozing for an hour in the afternoon sun. Such was the most indulgent afternoon of our trip - a tantric and philosophical exploration of the truffled palate.

Bouillabaisse Is the New Pancakes, or, How Things Went from Bad to Worse

2007-02-04T12:52:00.000-05:00

I don't particularly care for pancakes, as it happens. I find them gummy, too sweet, and generally over-filling and unpleasant affairs. I know this. But on many a hungry late-morning in a New York diner, their large, sweet simplicity becomes fleetingly appealing, and left to my own devices, I invariably order them. They arrive, thick and bland, covered in artificial syrup, and by the end of brunch the only thing I am full of is regret. Now, as I am otherwise not a person who often misorders, and never with any repetition, this phenomenon of ordering the wrong thing knowing that you won't like it has come to be known between J and I as "pancakes" - as in, "Mahi-mahi? Are you sure that won't be pancakes?"

That in mind, here is the story of how we took five kinds of transportation to get to one place, and how I had a meal I would have traded for a two-foot stack of poisoned flapjacks.

***

We left Avignon early in the morning after a day of laundering and general recuperation. Saddled with two forty-pound backpacks, we shuffled through a pile of train schedules, trying to plot the route to our next destination, Roussillon - a tiny hilltop town known for its local ochre-based masonry and overall quaintness. Practically inaccessible by public transportation, we knew getting there might involve a complicated series of steps...but little did we know just how complicated.

Theoretically, the way involved a train from Avignon to Apt, via Marseille. From Apt, we would take a taxi ten kilometres to Roussillon. We boarded the train, full of croissants and optimism.

Many reliable sources had advised us to avoid Marseille - and we fully planned to - but a two hour layover there made us think of lunch. And lunch made us think of Marseille's claim to culinary fame, bouillabaisse. Our handy Lonely Planet guidebook directed us to a string of restaurants on the Old Port, which we found without incident. In fact, Marseille's metro was impressively efficient! We strolled along the quay in the afternoon sun, reading menus and comparing bouillabaisse prices, salivating, until we found the joint specifically recommended by Lonely Planet. It was an expensive dish at €22-28 (depending on whether you ordered an additional half-lobster); this meal would be one of the few decadent splurges we would take on our trip, and would mean a couple of bread-and-cheese-only days to compensate. As we lumbered toward the door with our packs, a waiter waved from inside, Non, non! Fermé! We looked at our watches: two-thirty. Our faces fell, for the first thing we had learned about France was that the French eat at the strictest and most absolute times. Lunch is from 12:30 to 2:30 and no later; restaurants reopen at 7:30 and close at 9:30. Bistros that remain open all afternoon often only serve drinks between dining hours. We were not to have our bouillabiasse, after all.

But we were absolutely fixated on the idea. We elected to take a later train and stick around in much-warned-against Marseille, just for dinner. We passed the afternoon quarreling and sweating under our pack straps. At seven-thirty, we were back at the door of Le Merou Bleu.

Our waiter grimaced at our packs and had us shove them in a dirty corner. He sat us, recommended a wine, and didn't bring it. Twenty minutes after ordering, he informed us that they were out of the shrimp appetizer J had ordered. But we were hungry and forgiving, salivating over the promise of five-fishes bouillabaisse with scallops, mussels and jumbo shrimp in a decadent saffron broth, served with butter-soaked croutons and house-made saffron aioli.

The dish that arrived bore absolutely no resemblance to that description. Lumps of gritty fish flesh sat like oily islands in the yellow broth they'd been simmering in for hours. There were two mussels and one unchewable scallop; a tiny, sad shrimp, shriveled inside its shell, perched in the center of the bowl like a dead pink insect. The waiter returned and, with a flourish, presented me with an additional enormous bowl of the evil-smelling yellow-grey broth, as though the quantity in my orginal bowl might not be enough, that I might want to sop up this extra half-gallon of vile brine with my baguette.

Repellent, repellent bouillabiasse. Tragically disappointing; a new, crueler world of pancakes. At least he gave me a free dessert when I didn't eat it.

The Marseille metro, it turns out, closes at nine, and the only cabbie we could find (most reasonably eating a pizza, we thought) charged us ten euros to take us the three kilometres to the station because of our baggage. Naturally, we missed the last train. Lonely Planet recommended a hotel nearby; let us just say that we bolted the door, didn't go barefoot, and the next morning, I threw away Lonely Planet.

Our next destination, Apt, was interrupted by an inspiration to detour through Aix-en-Provence, incited by the "July" chapter of Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence. We were under the impression that a bus from Aix to Apt would be available; upon our arrival, evidence was to the contrary. We spent a forlorn hour in the Aix station planning an alternate strategy, followed by a comforting breakfast of croissants and hot chocolate to make our fate go down easy; to get to Apt from Marseille, we had to go back to Avignon.

So we did, by bus, and as there were no further buses to Apt, we stayed the night, a block away from our original hotel. Le sigh.

After that, things slowly got better. We passed the following morning in what had become our "usual haunt" - Pizza Rush, where we ordered large, steaming slices of pizza au saumon, creme fraiche et champignons. Made with a mix of mozzarela and gruyere, pizza in France is invariably quite good and more affordable than most other cuisines.

The bus to Apt got us there without interruption, and in Apt we found a taxi without too much difficulty. The B&B I had arranged turned out to be a bit of an uphill hike from Roussillon proper, but it was pretty and clean and the proprietors were wildly friendly. That evening we shopped for diner at a little market on a quiet street, tramped home, and enjoyed a fabulous spread of fresh baguettes, local saucisson and fromage, chocolate-orange marmalade, and a very enjoyable bottle of €3 red wine from the next valley over. It wasn't pancakes - or bouillabaisse - at all.

***

It should be noted that I've backlogged a bit, and that I have several additional updates that took place after this one. Fear not! Wonderful adventures - and truffles - yet to come!

Check-In

2007-01-29T10:40:00.000-05:00

Not much to report, just a lazy Sunday wandering around Avignon yesterday, since bus travel is futile on Sundays. Today we did laundry (!!!), imbibed oodles of hot chocolate (which comes in varieties here - even from automated dispensers - including chocolat chaud (hot chocolate), chocolait (a pun, hot chocolate with milk), and a third one that comes in powerful, brown-black half-cups. Chocolate, in fact, has become its own food group in France, and a main staple of my diet - often swaddled in a buttery, flakey croissant (the worst of which are still better than the good ones in New York).

Tonight we take on Marseille in search of bouillabaisse!

La Tour d'Argent, and other tours

2007-01-24T16:17:00.000-05:00

The shower at Aloha hostel has a button your have to push to start the water running. Like one of those automatic sinks in an airport, the water runs - with amiable temperature and decent pressure - for seven seconds, and stops. You have to push it again to keep it going. And again. And again. Your shower, ultimately, consists mostly of pushes.

Renting sheets tacks two extra Euros onto the price of each bed in a six-person dorm, a price you already feel is inappropriately high, considering the quality of the mattress. Instead, you elect to make do with the complimentary itchy wool shroud folded neatly there; you grimace as you recall a friend who contracted scabies in a hostel in Iceland; you reason that scabies live in mattresses and thus sheets, however clean, would not protect you; you assure yourself that bed pests are equally acquirable in fancy hotels and put the whole discussion out of your head. You roll over on your top bunk as carefully as possible (to keep the bed's wrenching shrieks to a minimum), plug your ipod forcibly into your ears as a barricade against the violent snoring of one of your (otherwise impeccably well-mannered and sweet) three Malaysian roommates, scroll down your "sleeping in hostels against all odds" playlist, select "peaceful ocean surf," and drift off.

Such is student accomodation; one expects nothing less from accounts of someone's requsite post-college whirlwind tour of Europe. One might not expect, however, a description of accommodations like these from a customer at that famous bastion of Parisian culinary history, La Tour d'Argent.

Lunch at La Tour d'Argent was awarded us by a generous family member; we had packed especially for the occasion, and got out of the push-button shower to don skirts and suit jackets. Our roommates looked at us with bewilderment.

A stroll along the Seine under the stern gaze of Notre Dame brought us to the door of La Tour, which seemed to open by itself as a swarm of staff came to greet us. Our ratty backpack was immediately snatched from us and sequestered in a coatroom/Room for Unsightly Items, and we were ushered through a lavish parlor dotted with the signatures of every sort of celebrity and political figure and into a manned elevator. Upstairs, we were whisked to a gorgeous windowside table for two overlookng the Seine; hors d'ouvres arrived immediately - little variations of puff pastry with unimaginably delicious fish mousses - along with a thousand-page tome of a wine list, and a large-nosed, humming sommelier with very resonant sinuses. I imagined him having different areas of them for sensing different fragrances in the wine. Several embarassing faux-pas later, we ordered from the prix fixe menu, which was itself an embarrassing €70. I started with a bowl of clarified lobster broth swimming with jullienned seaweed, transparent shavings of jerusalem artichokes, and tiny, boulliant cubes of foie gras ( I know, I know - but come on, guys! I'm in France! Foie is like its own food group here!). Following that, I ordered La Tour's famous canard - each duck is served with its own numbered certificate. My duck was something like duck number 1,187,000. I asked whether there had been une grande fete when they had reached a million; he replied that there had been.

My duck, served with roasted glazed pears, sweet potato puree, candied orange zest and a rich brown sauce, was exquisite. A parade of desserts followed, each more fanciful than the next. We refused €8 coffee and an impressive array of aperitifs, but in a courageous display of faux-aristocracy, J inquired as to whether we might have a look at the wine cellar.

Our obliging waiter arranged a tour, and down the elevator we went. It deposited us in front of an iron gate in an almost unlit room; the bellboy swung the chain of an ominous bell and left us in the dark. Moments later, a cellar-keeper (for what else would you call him?) trundled out of the shadows. He led us through cool, dark tunnels with high walls of dusty bottles; the oldest of which dated back to the 17th century. Altogether, the cellar's two subterranean floors amount to some 11,000 square feet, and by the time we got to the end of the tour, I was recollecting Edgar Allen Poe's dark tale, "The Casque of Amontillado," where a drunken intruder is bricked into one of the walls in a vast underground cellar. I was relieved when the elevator came back in sight.

***
Aside from these events, our days in Paris were full of the usual sights - the Louvre, the Musée Rodin, Sacre Coeur, a brisk night in the icy wind atop La Tour Eiffel. Café, kir and pastis. Cold expeditions in search of affordable dinner with no results; croissants and warm baguettes and crepes and croque monsieur instead.

Yesterday, we took the TGV (high-speed train) to Orange in the South of France. For the first hour of our ride, the broad countryside out the windows was blanketed in fresh snow, but by the time we arrived at our destination, the sky was bright and blue and the temperature a shade above freezing. We were in Orange, an otherwise rather unnotable town by tourist standards, to see first century Roman ruins. We were not disappointed - we were the only visitors that day, and had full reign of the quiet magnificence of that place.

The evening found us in Avignon, just to the south, regretting our choice of hotel, which turned out to be some seven kilometres outside the city. J found us a perfect new place just inside the ancient walls of the old city while I shivered in the depot; once we got settled, he went out and returned with a provençal pizza, which was smeared with crème fraiche instead of tomato sauce. It was hot and delicious.

Today we walked all over the Old City, taking in the narrow alleys and ancient stones; We explored the breathtaking Palais du Papes, where 9 popes resided between 1300 and 1400 AD. We ate pleasure-spasm-inducing French onion soup (which, of course, is simply called onion soup here) and a simmering vat of three-cheese fondue. It has been a wonderful day.

Tonight it's cold and I'm ready for warm blankets, a mug of tea and a game of Scrabble (our third so far). Have I mentioned the wind? The Mistral, the local winter gale and bane of all Provençal, is born from the collision of warm Atlantic currents and frigid Siberian ones, which collide in a frenzied torrent and blow south with enough force to topple over buildings and drive people mad. It arrived with us, belated in the season, a last winter kiss goodbye to Provence. Next week promises warmer temperatures.
I can't babble like this at every internet cafe or I'll run out of money before we reach Ireland! To everyone who offered advice in the comments on the previous post, THANK YOU, and keep it coming. I'm also always email-able at KATECROFT AT GMAIL.COM.

More soon!

First Day in France

2007-01-23T06:27:00.000-05:00

The morning finds me on the steps of Sacre Coeur, the carousel whistling an infectuous tune, a camera in one fist and a baguette avec la confiture du marmalade au chocolat in the other.

Our plane arrived only a little late yesterday, and we made it to our hotel in Montmartre without incident (apart from some minor difficulty understanding how to aquire Metro tickets). My dormant middle-school French is serving me rather better than I expected, and we wandered around the arrondissement, observing the bizarre proximity of the pricey upper-class neighborhoods to the notorious sex district surrounding the Moulin Rouge. Looking for dinner in mid-afternoon on a Monday proved difficult (the French eat at eight or nine, and many restaurants close on Mondays), but we finally stumbled across a welcoming (if empty) Italian establishment. We ate here out of starvation, despite every guidebook's warning that Italian food in Paris is not to be trusted. We were not disappointed - though, if anything, J's trois fromage pizza tasted, well, French, and was dotted with lumps of tangy gorgonzola and brie rinds. My escargots were a little earthy, but the gorgonzola ravioli was better than many an East Village nook. My favorite part was the complimentary kir, a popular French aperitif made with champagne (or sometimes white wine) and cassis syrup or liquor.

We slept a shocking fourteen hours as a result of our jet lag, and woke barely in time to grab an underwhelming breakfast in the hotel dining room. Our plans for today consist mostly of finding our hostel (where we'll be for the next three nights) and a good cafe. After that - well, I'll let you know.

I hope this suffices as an intermediary return to blogging. If anyone has suggestions and/or recommendations for Paris, Avignon/Provence more generally, the coastline west of Marseille, Carcassonne and the Languedoc region, or Barcelona (this gets us to Febrary 10th) - please let me know.

Until next time,
Your Intrepid Explorer

Out in the World, Home in My Blog

2007-01-20T19:20:00.000-05:00

Friends:

A (strange) fresh start.

Everything I own is in an 8x10 storage unit in Brooklyn. I have eight minutes left on my card in an internet cafe to explain it all -

So the short version is that though I may be leaving the country for five weeks, I'm returning to the blogosphere immediately. In some capacity.

The next five weeks hold in store (among many undiscovered things): a croissant on the steps of Sacre Coeur in Paris, a biscuit on the bullet train to Avignon, truffles served in every manner possible in Provence, boullabaise in Marseille, a morsel in Barcelona, a Guinness in Dublin on J's birthday, Irish breakfast in Dingle, a hot tea on the cliffs of Moher. And home again.

And I'll keep you updated at every internet cafe. Time's up!

I love you all,
Kate

*Update: I am happy to say that every one of these culinary feats was accomplished. Hooray!

Important message to my few remaining (lovely, dedicated) readers: I'M SORRY.

2006-12-19T22:23:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry it's been awhile.

Okay ...*cough*... more than awhile.

I'm sorry I failed you on Thanksgiving, I'm sorry I haven't helped with Christmas dinner plans. (Yes, I got your disillusioned, reproachful emails, and I probably didn't respond to many of them, and I'm sorry for that, too. But thanks for sending them anyway because they made me feel cared about and missed.)

I have my reasons, but they're probably not super good ones, so I won't bother with them.

Blogging will recommence forthwith.

*Whimper*

Collective Baking: Creamy Pumpkin Cheesecake with Ginger-Pecan Crust

2006-10-25T20:15:00.000-04:00

I've developed a useful new blogging technique: I'm typing along, adding decadent pictures and describing, say, the perfect balance of sweet creaminess and spicy heat in my Creamy Pumpkin Cheesecake with Ginger-Pecan Crust, when I start to doubt the authenticity of my praise. Was it really that good, I wonder. I am thus required to trot over to the fridge, slice a wedge of cheesecake with the knife conveniently located there, and reassess...ah, yes, it is that good! This process (I call it "Requisite Taste Assessment," or "R.T.A.") repeats itself three or four times over the course of a post, for the most accurate of cheesecake portrayals. *smack smack*

My favorite Creampuff and I share a mutual reverence for a certain cookbook - The Cake Book by Tish Boyle. (My experience so far suggests The Cake Book's slight inferiority to Ms. Boyle's masterpiece The Good Cookie, but cake is better than cookies, so it all evens out.) Recently, Creampuff suggested that we make the same recipe from Ms. Boyle's collection and blog about our respective results. What an honor to blog alongside Creampuff - and when I discovered she'd invited two other talented bloggers, Peabody and Alpineberry, I was delighted. We jointly settled on a recipe and picked a date - today!

Despite the "two-slice" difficulty rating (out of a possible four) Boyle gave this recipe, making it was no piece of cake. General two-slice difficulty was abetted by my resolve to use a real pumpkin, rather than a can of pumpkin puree. I've had some of my first experiences with butternut squash this season, and they were very pleasant and successful, so why not a pumpkin?

First I had to learn about choosing a pumpkin. Any old jack-o-lantern, it turns out, won't do for pie - some pumpkin flesh is tough and stringy. Sugar pumpkins (also called "pie pumpkins") are best for pie, so I picked up a local organic sugar pumpkin at the Greenmarket on Sunday, and brought it home to make puree.

How to make your own pumpkin puree: break off the stem of your sugar pumpkin and cut the little guy in half. wrap the cut side of each half in aluminum foil and place them on a baking sheet, cut-side up. Roast in a 325-degree oven for one hour, or until tender. Remove foil and cool completely (or at least enough so you don't burn yourself!). Scrape pumpkin flesh into a large bowl; contents will be stringy. Puree in batches; strain puree through a chinois (or use a regular strainer and a rubber spatula).

Whew! So that's one ingredient... Seriously, though, I was really excited to have accomplished this part of the process. The pumpkin yielded more than twice as much puree as I needed, and I'm looking forward to putting the rest to another use (pumpkin ravioli, anyone?).

From there, making the cheesecake wasn't so difficult - and very rewarding! The crystallized ginger in the crust adds a beautiful dimension of flavor, and I added cloves and additional cinnamon for extra zing. The filling was light and creamy (none of that New York-style density), and the pumpkin flavor was freshly present without being overwhelming. Boyle suggests garnishing a slice with a dollop of freshly whipped cream, but I opted for a caramelized crust instead (after having such success with the delicious Apple Cheesecake Brulee from the same cookbook). Nothing makes you feel more like a real cook than using a butane torch! (In her post, Peabody also added a crunchy finish with a very elegant pumpkin seed brittle.)

A note about the cinnamon pumpkin seeds - Tish calls for hulled seeds (the green ones). But if you're using the seeds from your own pumpkin...then that would mean hulling them yourself. And that's absurd, if not totally impossible. And I like them better with the shells anyway.

Creamy Pumpkin Cheesecake with Ginger-Pecan Crust

INGREDIENTS

Crust
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup (1.2 oz) pecans
1/4 cup (1.4 oz) chopped crystallized ginger
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, diced
1 tablespoon cold water

Filling

1 cup pumpkin puree*
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 1/2 -2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 lbs (567g) cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch
4 large eggs
Turbinado sugar (such as Sugar in the Raw)

Spiced Pumpkin Seeds

1/2 cup raw pumpkin seeds
1 egg white
pinch of salt
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

DIRECTIONS

Crust:

Position oven rack in the center and preheat oven to 350F. Lightly grease the bottom and sides of a 9x3-inch springform pan. Wrap the outside of the pan in an 18-inch square piece of heavy-duty aluminum foil to protect leakage in the waterbath; if you don't have big enough sheets of foil, cinch two together by stacking the sheets and folding in one edge multiple times, then opening the two sheets and pressing the seam flat.

Finely grind pecans and crystallized ginger in food processor. If you have a large processor, add flour, sugar and salt and process until combined; add butter and pulse until the mixture forms coarse crumbs. If combining ingredients by hand, combine pecans and ginger with flour, sugar and salt in a medium-sized bowl; cut in the butter and rub it into the flour mixture by hand. Add the cold water slowly until the dough just comes together. Press the dough in an even layer into the bottom of prepared pan. Bake for 25-30 minutes until the crust just starts to brown. Cool completely on a wire rack.

Filling:

Reduce oven temperature to 325F. In a medium bowl, whisk together pumpkin, heavy cream, vanilla, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves, and salt. Set aside.

Beat the cream cheese with an electric mixer (using the paddle attachment if using a standing mixer) on medium-low speed until creamy, about 2 minutes. Gradually add the sugars, scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary, and beat on low speed until well combined. Blend in the pumpkin mixture; add the cornstarch and mix just until blended. Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing after each addition, scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary.

Pour batter into the cooled crust. Place the foiled springform pan in a large roasting pan or baking pan; carefully pour enough hot water into the large pan to come 1 inch up the sides. Bake for 70 to 80 minutes until the center is set but still a bit wobbly (the cake will set completely when chilled).

Remove cheesecake from water bath to a cooling rack. Carefully remove the foil and run a thin knife tip around the edge of the cake to prevent cracking. Cool completely at room temperature. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours before serving.

Immediately before serving (no more than one hour before), remove sides of springform pan and sprinkle turbinado sugar over the top of the cake in a thin, even layer. Caramelize the sugar using a butane kitchen torch, holding it about two inches from the surface of the cake and moving it slowly over the top until the sugar melts and turns golden brown (the sugar will not carmelize evenly, so be careful and patient).

Spiced Pumpkin Seeds:

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. lightly grease a baking sheet.

in a small bowl, whisk egg white just until frothy. add just enough of the egg white to the pumpkin seeds to coat them (it's not very much!). Add salt, sugar, and cinnamon, and toss to oat the seeds.

Spread in a single layer over the prepared baking sheet. Bake, shuffling them occasionally with a metal spatula, for 15 to 20 minutes, or until they are dry and beginning to color. Place the pan on a wire rack and cool completely.

With your fingers, separate clumps of seeds. Store in an airtight container for up to a week.

Baking as a Feminist Act, Part II: Kiss the Cook

2006-10-18T14:34:00.000-04:00

It seems I'm not the only one baking as a feminist act! On October 10th, political funnyman Stephen Colbert (of The Colbert Report) interviewed feminist activists Gloria Steinam and Jane Fonda - in the kitchen.

Steinam and Fonda appeared on the Colbert Report to advertise their new radio/telecast network for women, GreenStone Media, which arose in response to American womens' disinterest in regular talk radio. The name of the station comes from a short story by reknowned author Alice Walker titled "Finding the Greenstone," where "the green stone stays lit only as long as the owner is true to her authentic self" (GreenStone FAQ); the station describes itself as being "about honesty, fairness and ethics." GreenStone features female hosts, a women's news and media center, an online discussion forum, and coverage of issues ranging from world politics to child raising. Click below to watch Gloria and Jane get in the kitchen with Stephen Colbert and teach him that feminism is as American as apple pie.

After seeing this amazing clip, I couldn't resist baking my own Feminist Apple Pie with extra cinnamon! This is an easy pie for the modern woman (yes, I used pre-made pastry dough) full of tart and flavorful Honeycrisp apples that retain a pleasant crunch even after baking.

Feminist Apple Pie

INGREDIENTS

Juice of 1 small lemon, plus apple juice to make 1/4 cup total liquid
1/2 cup brown sugar
4 tbsp butter at room temperature
4-5 large Honeycrisp apples, peeled, cored and thinly sliced into wedges
1/2 cup golden raisins
2 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves

2 refrigerated ready-made piecrusts
1 egg for brushing, lightly beaten
Sugar and "more cinnamon" for dusting

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350°F. Soak raisins in just enough boiling water to cover them.

Combine lemon juice mixture, sugar, spices and butter in a bowl. Add cornstarch an mix thoroughly, breaking up any lumps. Pour mixture over apples and toss to coat.

Place one piecrust in a 9" pie pan and fill with mixture. Lay second crust over top of mixture; pinch edges to fasten to bottom crust. Brush top of pie with egg and sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon. Cut small vents in dough with a sharp knife. Bake 55 minutes or until golden brown, rotating pie halfway through baking.

Let cool at least 15 minutes before serving warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Rainy Day Breakfast

2006-10-17T11:57:00.000-04:00

Nothing like food that's not only delicious, but also adorable, to cheer you up on a gray morning.

Miniature Egg Souffles

INGREDIENTS

2 eggs (preferably brown, organic, free-range), plus two additional egg shells (4 shells total)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup grated gryuere cheese
1/8 cup fresh grated parmesan, plus additional cheese for dusting
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon finely chopped leeks or scallions
Pinch of nutmeg
Pinch of fresh grated black pepper

Special tools: egg stands, or build your own eggs stands out of aluminum foil.

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Sit egg stands inside the cups of a muffin pan, to prevent spillage.

Gently tap small end of each egg against countertop; chip away shell one-quarter of the way down. Pour two of the four eggs into medium mixing bowl; reserve other two eggs for another use. Gently rinse out egg shells and shake dry.

Lightly spritz inside of egg with olive oil and dust with finely grated parmesan. Tap out any extra cheese. Set shells on egg stands.

Mix 2 eggs and all remaining ingredients in mixing bowl with electric mixer until light and thoroughly combined, about 2 minutes.

Pour mixture into shells, as full as they go. Carefully place muffin tin in oven on middle rack. Bake 20-25 minutes without opening oven door (souffle will fall), until mixture has doubled in size and has just begun to brown on top. Garnish with sea salt and herb of choice and serve immeidately with fresh bacon.

Today's WikiLesson: The Chicken or the Egg?

Macaroons and Applewood: Two Years of Love...and Great Food

2006-10-13T12:55:00.000-04:00

Sweets for my sweet!

Yesterday, J and I celebrated two years of love and friendship together. What a fabulous time it's been! I arranged this lovely bouquet of organic flowers for him; he gave me a fancy bottle of organic, seasoned olive oil; he gave me a card painstakingly made on an 1890's printing press; I gave him a batch of homemade vanilla-coconut macaroons. Aren't we just perfect for each other?!

These little mouthfuls of decadence are sugar-crisp on the outside and tender as vanilla custard on the inside. They're a snap to throw together and make great autumn gifts.

Vanilla-Coconut Macaroons

INGREDIENTS

2 large eggs
1 cup granulated sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 cups (9 oz) sweetened shredded coconut

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly grease an insulated baking sheet with shortening (if you don't have an insulated baking sheet, stack two cookie sheets on top of one another).

Whisk together eggs, sugar, salt, flour, and vanilla until thoroughly mixed. Switch to a wooden spoon and stir in coconut until evenly coated with egg mixture.

Drop the dough in one-tablespoon mounds (Tish recommends using a melon baller; a regular spoon is fine, but be sure they pile high) 1-2 inches apart on greased baking sheet. Bake for 14-16 minutes, until the edges of each macaroon begin to brown along with the top few strands of coconut. Rotate sheet once in middle of baking time.

Allow macaroons to cool completely on the pan on a wire rack before carefully removing with spatula. Enjoy!

Makes about 25 macaroons.

Recipe adapted from The Good Cookie by Tish Boyle.

Last night he took me on a surprise date, too - to Applewood, a restaurant in Park Slope owned and run by a husband-wife team that features all local, organic foods, hormone- and antibiotic-free meat and poultry, and wild-caught local fish. Laura and David Shea are ardent devotees of the Slow Food movement and endeavor to put ethical eating first in their business.

Applewood's atmosphere aligns with its ethical tenets and farmer connections: a small, cozy-yellow room with shelves of ragged cookbooks and prints of blooming orchards (all taken by local photographers), sturdy maple tables, firewood neatly stacked out front, presumably to feed the central fireplace in the dining room. But the menu deviates from the anticipated straightforward, wholesome country meal - from biodynamic choices on the wine list to creamy lobster broth (which our server described as having "terroir of the sea") to house-churned honey ice cream for dessert, fine dining at Applewood was a unique, distinguished experience form start to finish.

I couldn't help but opt for the four-course tasting menu as I sipped my spiced pear whiskey sour with cinnamon and pear purée. Chewy french bread began our meal along with a generous dish of French-whipped butter, paprika-lentil puree, and Long Island duck paté, which was aromatic and quite delicious. J started with the completely stupendous creamy lobster broth mentioned above (the soup differs from a bisque in that the shells are pureed into the broth, providing the aforementioned terroir), while my tasting began with an amuse bouche of whipped salted cod on a crostini and poached maine lobster, served cold tossed with crispy grated parsnip over fire-roasted patty pan squash. I thought the cilantro flavors in the dressing overpowered the lobster, which was served cold, but the squash was fantastic and very elegantly plated. Next we shared my rouget with mussels over bulgur - this dish was extremely salty, but the fish (which I'd never had before) was perfectly crispy, served atop a mound of steamed mussels out of the shell and tender bulgur aswim in the paprika-spiked mussel broth. For his entrée, J ordered seared arctic char with purple potatoes and garlic purée - an ideal dish for his palate! The salmon was cooked to perfection, garnished with glittery crystals of sea salt, and the potatoes were tender and flavorful. There was too much garlic puree on the plate for my taste, but J loved it and devoured every bit. I was served pork belly over pickled red cabbage and housemade pancetta. The cabbage was actually my favorite part of this dish - seasoned with the pancetta, it was sweet, savory, and tangy-tart. There wasn't enough pancetta on the plate, though (I ate one bite and realized there was no more left to share with J!). It was my first experience with pork belly, and though it was very flavorful and prepared well, the fatty parts were a little rich for me. Finally, I was brought a tempting taste of honey ice cream with poached plum and crumbled pastry - my favorite bite of the whole meal! Jeremy ordered an apple crisp with apple cider ice cream.

Overall, though not everything was prepared exactly to my tastes, I had a wonderful, romantic dining experience at Applewood - mostly due to their passionate devotion to sourcing organically, locally, and ethically. The freshness of the flavors in everything proved that Slow is the way to go!

Besides, they put anniversary candles on our desserts. =)
Applewood ($$$)
501 11th St., Brooklyn, NY 11215
(between 7th and 8th Ave.)
718-768-2044

Lemon-Soaked Ginger Pound Cake: Baking as a Feminist Act

2006-09-27T23:33:00.000-04:00

This morning, on my Day Off from my forty-hour-workweek job where I serve affluent people dinner, I filled a bowl with granola and honey, closed the bedroom door on a kitchen full of household responsibilities, and curled up in bed with a book – For Her Own Good, by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English. Chronicling “150 years of the experts’ advice to women,” this treasure chest of feminist nonfiction traces the “Woman Question” – what does a woman do with her life? - from the era of industrialization to the present (relatively speaking – For Her Own Good was originally published in 1978).

As women struggled to reorient to a new, market-centric industrial society, the sun rose and spilled through the bamboo slats of my bedroom blinds. Unable to face the host of chores a Day Off might allow me to accomplish, I instead lounged in heaps of down comforter and studied the plight of the ethereal Victorian invalid female, how doctors attributed her misery not to her cinched waist or caged lifestyle, but to her impious “wandering uterus.” Pre-war housewives suffered bored isolation in the home and developed a new, expanded definition of domesticity as W. and I occupied our respective rooms, poring over our respective feminist literature, our respective dishes languishing in the sink.

And then…I felt an impulse to make a cake.

Now, this wasn’t the sort of cake-baking impulse that Julienne Moore has in “The Hours,” where she comes out of her isolated domestic anguish to bake the perfect birthday confection and then goes off the kill herself. But what else is a modern girl to do on her Day Off? In The Feminine Mystique, Betty Friedan describes the frustrating predicament of the contemporary superwoman who is expected to simultaneously be a thriving career professional and a graceful, competent mother/wife/ cook/domestic laborer. While my job hardly qualifies me as a "career professional," and I have no kids and am not solely responsible for home maintenance (not to mention the relative ease of maintaining 350 square feet of New York apartment compared to a sprawling four-bedroom in the suburbs), I still experience the inherent contradiction of a Day Off and the weekly surfeit of awaiting domestic responsibilities. How is it that, fifty-three years after Friedan articulated the impossibility of the superwoman, I still find myself in that same paradox?

I feel that women of my generation face actually face an intensified version of Friedan’s dilemma. Bred by traditional families and mothers dedicated to the science of homemaking, we feel the impulse to dedicate all our energies to keeping immaculate, welcoming homes filled with healthful foods and relief from the commercial world (living in bustling New York City makes this last bit especially essential). Likewise, we are the daughters of the equal rights movement and are encouraged from childhood to develop skills and drive to hold the stations in the Market those women achieved for us. The stakes are then raised additionally by our modern addiction to consumption – to things, which imparts further pressure to make not just money, but lots of money. (Certainly, both men and women experience the ever-tightening stays on the job-market’s waistline.) On the other hand, industrialization has proceeded so far since the turn of the (last) century that very little specialization is essential. While the consumer market blooms with things, very few lucrative jobs exist anymore – and certainly none that would also allow us to flourish as homemakers.

I try to alleviate these various pressures somewhat by avoiding a consumption-driven lifestyle, by living in a manageably small place, by choosing a partner that willingly shares domestic burdens, and by forgiving myself daily for not meeting my own expectations. And by making cakes when I perhaps ought to be doing other things.

Recently, in response to my overwhelming enthusiasm for The Good Cookie by Tish Boyle, my favorite Creampuff alerted me to the existence of another cookbook by the esteemed Ms. Boyle, The Cake Book. Upon its arrival, The Cake Book filled me with an awe and pleasure not dissimilar to that I experienced reading For Her Own Good this morning - what comprehensive understanding of the issues at hand! Such clever writing, such authority and wit! How compelling, appealing, how tantalizing, this ardent feminism...this cake!

And so, this morning, my wayward uterus compelled me (or so Victorian doctors say; I’m inclined to believe it was my stomach) to bake…Lemon-Soaked Ginger Pound Cake. This is one of those delicious, easy cakes that's still just difficult enough, with a soaking syrup, to make you feel like a professional. My prowess in the Domestic Sciences also allowed me to make two small adjustments: I used crème fraiche instead of sour cream for a slightly buttery-er flavor and a softer crumb, and I substituted candied ginger puree for finely chopped candied ginger, because I don't like all those little chewy nibs in my cake. The subtle heat and snappy tang of the ginger and lemon commingle in a very unfeminine surge of palatal pleasure.

Lemon-Soaked Ginger Pound Cake

INGREDIENTS

2½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup cake flour
2½ teaspoons ground ginger
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1¾ cups granulated sugar
4 large eggs at room temperature
2 tablespoons peeled and grated fresh ginger
½ cup finely chopped crystallized ginger, OR 3 tablespoons candied ginger puree
2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup sour cream OR crème fraiche

1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
2/3 cup granulated sugar

Confectioners’ sugar for dusting

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a 10-inch Bundt pan.

Sift together in a large bowl: flours, ground ginger, baking powder and soda, salt. Set aside.

Beat butter in a separate bowl until light and creamy, about 2 minutes. Gradually add the sugar at medium-high speed until the mixture is light in color and texture, about 3 minutes (I found this to be a lot, but Tish usually knows what she’s talking about, so…). Beat in one egg at a time, beating 30-40 seconds after each addition and scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary. Beat in grated ginger, crystallized ginger or puree, lemon zest, and vanilla extract.

At low speed, add the sifted mixture in three additions alternating with sour cream (or crème fraiche). Scrape batter into prepared pan and smooth with a spatula.

Bake the cake for 50-55 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean. Cool in the pan on a rack for ten minutes, then invert the cake onto another rack. Slide a baking sheet under the cake to catch the glaze drippings.

While the cake is baking, combing the lemon juice and sugar in a small, nonreactive saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring, just until sugar is dissolved remove from heat.

Using a pastry brush, dab the syrup generously all over the surface of the warm cake, allowing it to soak in before reapplying. Use the whole pan of soaking syrup and dab any extra that has dripped onto the baking sheet over the cake again.

Dust the top of the cooled cake with confectioners’ sugar just before serving.

Now, domestic instincts and skilled professional ego sated, I'll settle in for a slice.

Things to Eat Before You Die

2006-09-15T13:02:00.000-04:00

When Melissa over at The Traveler's Lunchbox started this meme, I had only one response: this is the best meme EVER. Nothing makes me feel more warm and fuzzy inside than imagining foodie bloggers around the world perched in front of their computers pondering their favorite foods and salivating, pecking out a hurried Top Five, then dashing away to satisfy their singular cravings for a ripe fig, Brie de Meaux, a hot Krispy Kreme donut (I feel you on that one!).

Like everyone else, I've had a terrible time narrowing it down to five... in fact, I couldn't do better than ten. I know, I know, it's cheating...and I considered employing all the ways that others have cheated - making five categories, etc. - but finally I came to the conclusion that my readers wanted my extra five faves more than Melissa wanted me to play by the rules, dammit!
So I made two lists: a top five for Melissa, and a top ten for the rest of you:

Five (to Ten) Things to Eat Before You Die:

1. A perfect slice of key lime pie. No jiggly green jelly or mounds of Cool Whip here - we're talking smooth, creamy, tart key lime ecstasy; tender homemade graham cracker crust packed with butter; all accompanied by a dollop of whipped cream so fresh it still has sugar crystals, and a teeny twist of candied key lime zest. Heaven!

2. Seawater-fresh, plump, sweet oysters on the halfshell over ice - preferably eaten within sight of the beach, with wind in your hair. Malpeque, Blue Point...it doesn't matter as long as they're fresh, briny and delicious.

3. The warm goat cheese salad at Gnocco in New York. Inexplicably, this particular dish isn't featured on the online menu of this little East Village jewel - but I've had it dozens of times and still develop powerful midnight cravings. The farm-fresh herbed goat cheese is baked atop a thin, crisp round of flaky pastry, then served abed baby arugula and frisée tossed with golden raisins and toasted pine nuts, and drizzled with honey.

4. Lobster hot from the pot and served with salty clarified butter. Ain't nothing better.

5. Warm, flaky croissants with homemade blackcurrant jam and butter-straight-from-the-churn on the patio of a Provencal farmhouse. Some of my best food-memories are still from a trip I took with my parents to Provence when I was fifteen; we stayed at a little farmhouse called Mas de Gres in Isle sur Sourge. The owners and chefs, Thierry and Nina Crovara, prepared uniformly extraordinary breakfasts and dinners from their own farm and from local markets.

Those are for you, Melissa. Thanks for letting me participate in your wonderful meme/project!

And now, for the really dedicated readers, 6-10:

6. Homemade lemon curd on a hot, buttery scone. Lemon curd is one of life's simple, decadent pleasures. The scone is yummy but not necessary; curd is just as good on a spoon (or your fingers...).

7. Fondue at Dante's Down the Hatch. Call me crazy, but even after all my sophisticated New York dining experiences, eating a pot of Swiss cheeses with garlic and white wine with a loaf of crusty brown bread aboard a pirate ship with alligators circling below you is still one of my favorite gustatory adventures. Call three days in advance and you can order the astronomical honey-based Chocolate Fondue, served to a minimum of six guests. I grew up eating at least once annually at Dante's with my best friend, who was family friends with the illustrious Dante himself!

8. My mom's caramel cake. Fluffy white cake, tooth-achingly sweet caramelized sugar icing - this stuff is like crack.

9. A bellini made with fresh Georgia peaches in July. My two favorite things - Georgia peaches and champagne! But really, no matter how they were served (in a cobbler...in a paper bag...), those peaches would make this list. Nothing beats a juicy summer peach from Mercier Orchards in Blue Ridge, Georgia.

10. An excruciatingly hot cup of jasmine tea on a cold, rainy morning. You curl up on the couch under the softest of all possible blankets, open a good book on your lap, and listen to the rain pound against the window while the floral steam licks your face. Be sure to buy premium tea with whole jasmine blooms; I get all my teas at Dragonwater.com.

Now I have to go make a pot...

Butternut Squash: Autumnal Optimism

2006-09-12T13:56:00.000-04:00

Mom, a week ago: "You need to post right this minute. I just know you're losing all your readership...every time I click on Pie in the Sky, I just see that stupid Mac 'n Cheese, and it makes me go ugghhh."

J., two days ago: "You have to blog. Tonight, so you won't disappoint anyone else."

Email from Anonymous reader/straw that broke the camel's back, last night: "What's the deal, Kate? Don't you eat pie anymore?! I'M DYING OVER HERE"

I'm back and blogging, kids. Sorry for the hiatus.

There's so much to catch up on! Autumn, NEW-new employment, blueberry crumble, butternut squash (I just discovered it properly)...

Let me begin by saying that I'm feeling very optimistic about this season. There's something about seeing September hit the Greenmarkets like a steroid that puts me in frantic squirrel-joy-mode - So many acorns! I must collect ALL of them to store in my nest for winter!!!

My apartment isn't really suited to massive canning endeavors, preparation- or storage-wise (to my vast disappointment), so I can't stock up for winter with local tomatoes and green beans the way I'd like to, but I'm really looking forward to putting my winter diet into seasonal focus. Though for the last few years I've been passionate about local, seasonal eating, I must admit a little voice in the back of my head was always adding, except in winter, of course. I had this idea that in New England, surviving winter on the fruits of harvest wasn't really possible. How wrong I was! W. and I have just discussed continuing our CSA membership through the winter months, and enjoying the fruits of December: onions, turnips, potatoes, squashes, garlic, dried beans, granola...the best! And of course we'll continue getting eggs, yogurt, and cheese. So must potential for roasted root veggies and yummy soups...like the one featured here:

Butternut Squash Soup

INGREDIENTS

1 2-lb. butternut squash
1 t. olive oil
1 t. sea salt
fresh-cracked black pepper, to taste

1 large shallot, coarsely diced
2 T. plus 1 t. salted butter
1 t. chopped fresh sage leaves, plus 5-10 fresh sage leaves for garnish
1½+ cups chicken stock (or vegetable stock, if you want ot keep this dish vegetarian)
1/2+ c. heavy cream
1/4 cup fresh-grated parmesan cheese
1/4 t. freshly grated nutmeg
Salt and pepper, to taste

DIRECTIONS

Cut squash in half and scoop out seeds. light oil cut sides of squash; sprinkle with salt and place cut-side-down on baking sheet. Bake at 370 degrees for 40-50 minutes, or until squash is very tender when pierced with a fork. Cool slightly; scoop out pulp, discarding the skin.

melt 1 tablespoon of butter in a small sauté pan over medium heat. When butter begins to froth, add onions; cook three minutes; add chopped sage. sauté for 2 more minutes, or until onions are tender and translucent. Melt additional butter in pan; add 1 cup stock and bring just to simmer. Remove onion mixture from heat and stir into squash pulp; puree in food processor in batches, adding more broth as necessary.

Pour pureed mixture into medium saucepan. Over low heat, stir in heavy cream, nutmeg, parmesan, and salt and pepper to taste (be sure to salt after adding cheese, which is salty itself!). Remove from heat.

Melt remaining teaspoon salted butter in small sauté pan over medium heat; lay whole sage leaves in butter and fry until frizzled and slightly brown. transfer to paper towel to drain; garnish soup with crispy sage leaves. (Hint: frizzle ribbons of prosciutto with the sage for a special garnish!)

Aside: nobody come visit me at Candela (the anonymous restaurant pictured in the Mac 'n Cheese post that makes my mom go uuggghh)...because I won't be there! I took a similar position at a different establishment...but more information on that later. Get very excited - we're talking NUMBER TWELVE on the New York Times' "Top 100 Places to Dine in New York" list!

Regular (twice-weekly, approximately) blogging is promised from here on out.

Love y'all.

Rosemary-Brie Mac 'n Cheese

2006-08-29T12:04:00.000-04:00

Someone in my building has been playing the theremin, or possibly the saw, for six consecutive days now. For at least five hours each day, the tremulous, mournful whine navigates a path through the raindrops and into my window, along with September's calling card: the damp chill that settles on sofa cushions and bloats doors until they groan in their frames. To the doleful duet between warbling theremin/saw and congested gutters slopping rainwater into the alley, W. takes practice-GRE tests sequestered in her room; I perch at my computer and wonder what to write.

I got a job serving at an upscale restaurant in the Union Square area. I'm continuing to pursue other avenues of employment more closely related to my various long-term ambitions, but this gig will definitely pay the rent without breaking my back, and also offers good food at a generous discount. I feel it would be inappropriate to write a review for it during my tenure as an employee (particularly since my superiors can consult my resume for the blog address); suffice it to say, then, that the restaurant is particularly known for its candle-lit ambiance (featured below).
I'm enjoying it so far (and will be even more so when my training is over on Thursday and I actually get to keep my tips); the consistent patterns of set-up, glass-filling, and reciting specials make me feel rhythmic and at ease. The job also offers a welcome opportunity for me to expand my knowledge of wine; and besides, being any part of a process of providing people with good food is very satisfying to me.

All that said, I haven't cooked a stitch or snapped a photo in two weeks; lately, I've been eating questionable staff meals at the restaurant, but the only thing I've bothered to make at home is another round of this self-devised "French" mac 'n cheese (or should I say, "mac et fromage"?) that I made, ostensibly for my passel of nieces and nephews, at the beach. I think the adults enjoyed it more than the children, but all-around I'd say it was a success and worth repeating.

Rosemary-Brie Mac 'n Cheese

INGREDIENTS

2 cups small elbow macaroni, or similar pasta as desired
1/2 cup panko flakes or other breadcrumbs
4 tablespoons butter
1 ½ tablespoons all-purpose flour
2/3 cup whole milk (be prepared to add more as necessary)
7 oz. Brie, rind removed
5 oz. gruyere, cut into ½-inch cubes
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
5 oz. fresh shitake mushrooms, sliced and sautéed in 1 teaspoon butter
1 cup diced fresh figs
salt and pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS

Cook macaroni in medium saucepan of boiling salted water until tender but still firm to bite. Drain.

Melt 3T butter in large saucepan; melt remaining tablespoon in small saucepan. Mix panko or other breadcrumbs into small saucepan; remove from heat and set aside.

Add flour to large saucepan; whisk over medium-low heat 2 minutes. Gradually whisk in milk. Add rosemary and bring to boil, whisking constantly. Whisk 2 minutes longer. Remove from heat. Add cheese, mushrooms and figs; stir until melted. Add more milk if necessary for thick, creamy consistency.

Preheat broiler. Mix macaroni into sauce. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Spoon into Pyrex (or, for more crunchy surface area, spoon into 9-inch pie plate); sprinkle crumbs over. Broil until crumbs brown, about 2 minutes, and serve hot.

Now that I'm not frantically job-hunting or penny-pinching so ferociously (not to say that I won't continue to be an expert on dining in the East Village for ten dollars or less for a good while yet), I hope to get back to blogging with some regularity/continuity. After all, the CSA keeps pouring in, the Greenmarket still spreads its welcoming arms every Sunday, and I continue to be hungry. Thank you for your patience and support!

The Dragonfruit Blues

2006-08-20T18:11:00.000-04:00

Meh.

You know how things can seem really promising, and then, after a lot of excitement and anticipation, they just don't pan out? Like when you look back over what was supposed to be a lavish, exhilarating, fulfilling summer and see that, even after all that planning, you just spent too much time on the couch wishing for air conditioning, you forgot about the cardamom-ginger pie crusts and left them in the oven all day, your washing machine still isn't working after four months and eight visits from the repairman, you look fat in all your beach pictures, your bank account is empty, your food photos are all coming out like crap because you don't have a decent way to light them, you boiled spaghetti in forty dollars' worth of Chianti but added too much water so it came out grey, you can't afford a pedicure to make yourself feel better and apparently after graduating from college you're underqualified to be a waitress in New York City?

Well, that's sort of like dragonfruit - lots of exotic, hot-pink promise; tastes like an over-ripe kiwi from WeightWatchers.

But - when life gives you bland, mushy dragonfruits...make key lime pie with a stiff layer of sweet meringue. And potpourri.

Key Lime Pie

INGREDIENTS

1 1/4 cup graham cracker crumbs
1/4 cup sugar
1/3 cup butter, melted and cooled
1 tsp. cinnamon

4 large egg yolks
1 (14 oz.) can sweetened condensed milk
1/2 cup + 1 tbs. key lime juice

4 egg whites
1/4 tsp. cream of tartar
1/3 cup sugar

DIRECTIONS

Mix together crumbs, sugar, cinnamon and butter; press into bottom and sides of 9" pie pan and bake at 375 degrees for 6 to 8 minutes. Place on rack to cool. (Do not pour filling into an uncooled crust.)

Beat egg yolks with electric mixer until thick and light yellow, about 3 minutes. Add sweetened condensed milk. Stir in half of the juice until blended. Add remaining juice and blend in. Pour mixture into pie shell.

Beat egg whites and cream of tartar with electric mixer on high until stiff peaks form; add sugar and beat just until combined. Spread meringue over pie filling, making sure it touches the crust on all sides.

Bake at 350 degrees for 12 to 15 minutes until set.

Let cool to room temperature; chill and serve, garnished with twists of candied lime zest.

Spread your leftover key lime rinds on a baking sheet and dry them out in the oven at 150 degrees for four to five hours. They make the kitchen smell lovely and are a beautiful addition to a bowl of potpourri.

Now, maybe not all dragonfruits are bland and disappointing; I've only tried it once, after all. Maybe I just haven't learned how to single out a ripe, sweet dragonfruit yet. But I'm a very competent slice of pie if I do say so myself, and I'm sure I'll get it right the next time.

Crossing my fingers for autumn.

Thank you to everybody who emailed to say they missed me; your love, support and enthusiasm are very important to me and are deeply appreciated. Keep cooking =)

A Breath of Sunshine

2006-08-02T16:30:00.000-04:00

Oh, dear!

A nasty flu segued from one trip into another, and I'm off again to my family vacation in Grayton Beach, Florida! Please forgive my weeks of absence while I lay claim to the blogging hiatus which is appears to be contaigious in August's blogosphere. Frankly, without air conditioning and with record summer highs of 100 degress here in NYC, not only is it too hot to cook in my kitchen or even blog at my computer (also in my kitchen), it's almost too hot to venture out of sequestration by the window unit in the bedroom to get a glass of water.

In Grayton this coming week, as you may remember, my mojito skills will be put to the test. I'll also be preparing a Tuscan meal for eleven adults and nine children, so expect reports on that as soon as I get back - I'm very excited about the menu I planned. (Hint: it has several elements that had been featured before on Pie in the Sky!) In fact, since the week's dinner structure is that each of my siblings (and/or their spouses) prepares a meal for everyone, I ought to have lots of yummy recipes to report!

In the meantime, I shall be browning in the sun like a pie in the oven and reading Julie and Julia. And playing marco polo with nine enthusiastic little opponents. See you on the 16th!

In the meanwhile, I leave you with a simple, refreshing summer beverage and a Tuscan teaser:

Cucumber Water

INGREDIENTS

1 large cucumber
1 pitcher water

DIRECTIONS

Peel cucumber; remove ends, slice in half and scoop out seeds. (Alternatively, simply ppel and slice a small English cucumber, which is seedless.) Chop into quarter-inch slices. Combine with water and chill.

Ice-cold cucumber water is a summer essential in my fridge - its delicate flavor and crisp tang make it twice as refreshing as a regular glass of H20.

Lemon Olive Oil Cake

INGREDIENTS

3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus additional for greasing pan
2 lemons
1 cup cake flour (not self-rising)
4 large eggs plus one additional yolk
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease 9-inch layer pan or springform pan lightly with olive oil.

Grate 3 teaspoons lemon zest with a fine rasp. Toss zest with flour. Squeeze and reserve 3 tablespoon lemon juice.

Beat together yolks and 1/2 cup sugar in a large bowl with an electric mixer at high speed until thick and pale, about 3 minutes. Reduce speed to medium and add olive oil and lemon juice, beating until just combined. Using a wooden spoon, stir in flour mixture (do not beat) until just combined.

Beat egg whites (from 4 eggs) with 1/2 teaspoon salt in another large bowl with cleaned beaters at medium-high speed until foamy, then add 1/4 cup sugar a little at a time, beating, and continue to beat until egg whites just hold soft peaks, about 3 minutes.

Gently fold one third of whites into yolk mixture to lighten, then fold in remaining whites gently but thoroughly.

Transfer batter to springform pan and gently rap against work surface once or twice to release any air bubbles. Sprinkle top evenly with remaining 2 tablespoons sugar. Bake until puffed and golden and a toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean, about 45 minutes. Cool cake in pan on a rack 10 minutes, then run a thin knife around edge of pan and remove side of pan. Cool cake to room temperature, about 1 1/4 hours. Remove from pan and transfer cake to a serving plate, top side up.

Recipe adapted from Gourmet via Epicurious.com

This is a light, delicately flavored pound cake with golden olive oil overtones. Fabulous with gelato or fresh fruit.

A Trip to Pie Country

2006-07-15T20:07:00.000-04:00

Beloved readers and friends,

Just a note to let you know that I'm taking a small blogging hiatus to head Southward for a friend's wedding. All kinds of culinary delights will occur in the interrim, and I promise to report them upon my return (the 25th). In the meantime, I beg your pardon for my absence with this, my first attempt at challah. I didn't let it rise long enough (which is why it looks a little stretched out in the picture), but it was delicious. A mixer fitted with a bread hook is descibed in the directions, but I did all the mixing by hand, and the consistency turned out fine. Next time I'll try using fresh yeast instead of dry. Good luck, and I'll see you after the 25th - with a lot of catching up to do!

Much love,
Kate

Challah Bread

INGREDIENTS

1/2 cup plus 2/3 cup warm water
2 tablespoons dry yeast (I don't know the conversion of dry yeast to fresh yeast...anybody?)
1 tablespoons plus 3/4 cup sugar

5 large eggs
3/4 cup vegetable oil
(1/4 cup honey - my addition)
1 teaspoon salt
7 1/2 cups (about) all-purpose flour

1 large egg yolk
1 tablespoon water

DIRECTIONS

Combine 1/2 cup warm water, yeast and 1 tablespoon sugar in large glass measuring cup and stir until yeast dissolves. Let yeast mixture stand at room temperature until foamy, about 10 minutes.

In large bowl of heavy-duty mixer fitted with whisk attachment, beat 5 eggs until blended. Add oil, salt and 3/4 cup sugar and beat until pale yellow and slightly thickened, about 4 minutes. Beat in 2/3 cup warm water (and honey). Add yeast mixture and beat until blended. Remove whisk and fit mixer with dough hook. Add enough flour 1 cup at a time to form smooth dough, beating well after each addition. Beat on medium speed until smooth and elastic, about 5 minutes, adding flour by tablespoonfuls if sticky. Turn out onto floured surface and knead 2 minutes.

Lightly oil large bowl. Add dough, turning to coat with oil. Cover with plastic wrap, then with clean kitchen towel. Let dough rise in warm draft-free area until doubled in volume, about 1 hour.

Punch down dough. Cover with plastic and clean kitchen towel and let rise 30 minutes.

Grease 2 large baking sheets. Turn out dough onto lightly floured surface. Divide dough into 2 equal portions. Divide each portion into 3 equal pieces. Roll each piece into 9-inch-long rope. Braid 3 ropes together; pinch ends together to seal. Repeat with remaining dough pieces, forming 2 braids. Place each braid on baking sheet. Cover with towel . Let rise in warm area until almost doubled, about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 400°F. Whisk yolk with 1 tablespoon water to blend. Brush dough with egg mixture. Bake 10 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350°F. Bake until bread is golden brown and sounds hollow when tapped on bottom, about 35 minutes. Transfer loaves to rack and cool.

Makes 2 loaves.

This recipe comes straight to you from Bon Appétit, courtesy of Epicurious.com.

Doesn't This Look Like Honey to You?

2006-07-14T21:24:00.000-04:00

...Because it did to me. And now I want to die.

J and I were wandering around the luxurious ABC Carpet & Homes today, searching for a wedding gift, when we found that they've recently inducted a fancy chocolatier in the back: Chocolat Michel Cluizel. The rear anteroom of ABC, where the chocolate bar is, opens onto three adjacent restaurants (Lucy Latin Kitchen, Pipa Tapas y Mas, and my personal favorite, Le Pain Quotidien), and when ABC closes at night, the chocolatier is only available via those restaurants, speakeasy-in-the-back-room style. They have cute little cafe tables, live music in the evening, thick hot cocoa you can buy in seven-dollar mugs or two-dollar "hits," and a beautiful array of expensive, elegant confections. They don't carry many organic chocolate products or anything free-trade, soI won't be frequenting it (as I can find more ethical chocolate elsewhere), but J and I didn't leave without a frothy, creamy mug of homemade chocolate milk over ice. Mmm!

Back up a short staircase and into bustling ABC proper, a tiered display of Savannah Bee Blackberry Honey adorned a table. Now, I've had Savannah Bee honey. In fact, I keep sea salt in the empty bottle - a glass bottle similarly shaped to this one. It's marvelous clover honey. So how excited I was to discover a blackberry version! And in a bottle with a squirt-top - how inventive! And with a tester! How generous!

So I squirted some onto my fingers. And then I ate it.

I didn't have time to read that barely-legible, squiggly-cursive text reading "hand soap" before I garbled to J (who was about to sample the hand soap himself) "It's not honey!" and bolted for the door, so as to avoid potentially vomiting all over ABC's overpriced carpet & home decor. I frantically dug in my purse, feeling around for some Kleenex to spit in, but if you read my recent meme post you'll notice that there aren't any Kleenex in my purse...so let's just say that sudoku torn out of the newspaper came in handy. Then my throat started burning and I chugged an entire Diet Coke to keep from yakking and all the bubbles made my stomach feel like an overfilled washing machine on the wash cycle and I WANT TO DIE.

Chocolat Michel Cluizel,
ABC Carpet & Home
888 & 881 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
212 473 3000

CSA Week #5: Summer Pasta

2006-07-14T13:23:00.000-04:00

What came in our CSA this week:

(all organic)
Red lettuce
Komatsuna
Kale
Spring onions
Fresh garlic
Cucumbers
Fava beans
One dozen farm-fresh brown eggs
Palatine extra-sharp cheddar cheese
Creamline maple yogurt

After enjoying the fava beans with a little pecorino, olive oil and sea salt, I whipped up this easy, summery pasta dish with fresh basil from my fire escape, glowing tomatoes from the greenmarket, and - my favorite - a handful of crisp, summy squash blossoms. (Squash blossoms are also great in salads, quesadillas, or stuffed with cheese and tempura-fried.) Most of the tomatoes and garlic in this dish aren't cooked, so that zesty tomato tang and spicy raw garlic flavor shine through, along with the zing of basil added at the end. With fresh veggies and almost no oil, this pasta is a delicious, healthy summer treat.

Summer Pasta

INGREDIENTS

4 garlic cloves
4-5 sun-ripened tomatoes
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1/2 teaspoon plus 1 pinch salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
2/3 cup komatsuna, chopped into ribbons
8-10 squash blossoms, bases removed and coarsely chopped
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 lb. dried capellini (angel-hair pasta)
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil
Olive oil for drizzling (optional)

DIRECTIONS

Finely mince garlic with a pinch of salt using a large, heavy knife.

Core 3 tomatoes and coarsely chop. Halve remaining tomatoes, then rub cut sides against a grater into a large bowl, discarding skin. Toss pulp with chopped tomatoes, garlic, lemon juice, vinegar, salt, sugar, and pepper. Let stand, unrefrigerated, until ready to use, at least 10 minutes.

Warm a small skillet over medium heat. Add olive oil and swirl in pan; add 1/2 cup tomato mixture. When mixture begins to sizzle, add komatsuna, squash blossoms, and a pinch of the fresh basil; saute until wilted but still brightly colored, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.

While sauteing, boil pasta in a large pot of salted water, uncovered, until desired texture is reached (3-4 minutes). Drain in a colander and transfer to serving dish. Immediately add tomato mixture and kotsuma mixture. Sprinkle with rest of basil; toss to combine. Drizzle with oil if desired and serve hot.

Coffee and Memes and the Java and Me...

2006-07-13T16:22:00.000-04:00

A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup...ahhh!

Memes are perfect for coffee hour - a creamy café au lait, a crisp wedge of biscotti, and just enough time for a quick chat full of extraneous information.

Like a valentine from a crush in my glorified kindergarten shoebox, I got tagged for the 5 Things Meme by Helios over at Tales from a Veggie Kitchen. So now, without further ado, the 5 Things Meme...and a recipe for some delicious Pistachio Biscotti.

5 Things in My Freezer

Two litres of homemade chicken broth, leftover from the chicken rice adventure
Kate's Sea-Salted Butter (doesn't she look like Baby Kate?)
A pint of Ciao Bella's Blackberry Cabernet Sorbet with a solitary spoonful left in the bottom
Lemon zest
E3Live blue-green algae, which I take every day

5 Things in My Closet

A buckwheat pillow
A satin prom dress I bought on sale and never wore
A skirt I got and silk-screened at the Swaporamarama (and if you look carefully, I think you can see the back of my head in the background of this video)
A polyester red cowboy shirt I got at the dollar store years ago and don't throw away because I can always envision a scenario in which I might need it
One of those jangly belly-dancer things

5 Things on My Bookshelf

Hungry Planet: What the World Eats by Peter Menzel and Faith D'Aluisio
Reweaving the World: the Emergence of Ecofeminism by Irene Diamond and Gloria Orenstein
Prodigal Summer (and all other books) by Barbara Kingsolver
Book of photographs by Richard Avedon
Three editions of the game Scrabble, including the original Scrabble, Super Scrabble, and Travel Scrabble

5 Things in My Purse

A wad of receipts
Burt's Bees lip shimmer in "nutmeg"
A cloth grocery bag
A sudoku torn out of the newspaper
Little gribbly bits

Pistachio Biscotti

INGREDIENTS

2 cups all-purpose flour
¾ cup granulated sugar
1½ teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1½ cups shelled unsalted pistachio nuts (about 6.5oz)
2 large eggs
¼ cup honey
¼ cup high-quality olive oil Grated zest of 1 large navel orange

(Note: If you can only find salted nuts, rinse them in a sieve under cold running water and dry thoroughly before use.)

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Stir in pistachios and set aside.

In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, honey, olive oil, and zest. Use a fork to stir the egg mixture into the dry ingredients, stirring until the dough clumps together.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and press the dough together. Divide in half. With lightly floured hands, gently shape each half into a log 13-14 inches long. Carefully transfer the logs to the prepared baking sheet, placing them at least 3 inches apart. Bake for 25-30 minutes, until logs are well risen and firm. Set the baking sheet on a wire rack and cool the logs completely. Reduce the oven temperature to 325 degrees.

Peel away the parchment paper and transfer the logs to a cutting surface. Using a serrated knife, cut the logs on the diagonal into half-inch slices. Line the baking sheet with clean parchment paper and place the biscotti, standing up, on the baking sheet.

Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until dry. Set the baking sheet on a wire rack and allow to cool completely.

Yields about 35 biscotti.

This recipe is brought to you from The Good Cookie by Tish Boyle. For more of Ms. Boyle's beautiful recipes incarnate, visit Ivonne at Creampuffs in Venice; she introduced me to this marvelous cookbook.

CSA Week #4: Zesty Garlic Scape Pesto

2006-07-05T21:41:00.000-04:00

What came in our CSA this week:

Beets
Garlic scapes
Bibb lettuce
Mesclun greens, mixed
Sugar snap peas
Cucumbers
Spring onions
Tatsoi

The farm seems to be in a precarious state of recovery, with more rains potentially imminent, but I think the excessive moisture has made all the greens that didn't drown robust and crunchy. The lettuces in particular are delicious.

I did another cooking demonstration at distribution today; the featured item was garlic scapes, so I made two varieties of pesto - a buttery one with pine nuts and parmesan, and a tangy, zesty one without.

Zesty Garlic Scape Pesto

INGREDIENTS

1/2 cup garlic scapes, coarsely chopped

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 cups grated parmesan cheese

1 teaspoon freshly grated lemon zest

Salt, to taste

DIRECTIONS

Combine scapes and lemon juice in a food processor or blender and process about 1 minute, or until scapes are very finely chopped. With food processor running, add oil in a stream and blend another minute, . Add parmesan, lemon zest, and salt; process until desired consistency is acheived.

Serve as a dip or tossed with hot pasta. Enjoy!

4th of July Cherry Pie

2006-07-05T20:35:00.000-04:00

Apple pie may be the flavor that comes to mind in conjunction with the phrase "all-American," but apples are far from in season on Independence Day. The fruits ripe for pie on the fourth of July are cherries, blueberries, and peaches.

This fourth, we had a small grilling get-together on the rooftop of my teensy Manhattan apartment. I definitely traded square footage for location, roof access, and a great view when I rented this place - my building overlooks the treetops in Tompkins Square and out onto the midtown skyline. Both the Midtown and Seaport fireworks displays are viewable from the roof; we grilled everything from tofu to sirloin and listened to the booming explosions ricochet off the skyscrapers.

After fireworks, we tramped downstairs for a cold, sweet bowl of vanilla ice cream and a slice of red, white and blue Cherry-Blueberry Pie.

This pie is filled with an assortment of tart red cherries and sweet golden cherries, plus a big handful of the juicy blueberries that have just come into full fruit here in New York. I made the crust with butter, rather than shortening, which made it a little harder to maneuver but was worth the tender, flaky crunch.

Cherry-Blueberry Pie

Crust:

I made a butter crust using this recipe, which has very specific directions for crust-making and latticing; my only caution would be that I made the quantity of dough the recipe calls for in a 2-crust 9-inch pie for my lattice, and it was still not quite enough. If you're going to make a lattice, I advise you to make the full two-crust amount, just in case. I also added about 2 tablespoons of sugar to the dough, which gave it a sweet, crispy flake.

Filling:

1 cups fresh sour cherries, pitted
2 cups fresh sweet cherries, pitted
1 cup fresh blueberries
1-2 teaspoons lemon juice
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon lemon zest (optional)

Directions:

Combine fruit, lemon juice, zest, and sugar; stir in cornstarch and let stand while rolling out crust. Pour filling into bottom crust and lay lattice over top. Brush lattice with egg white and sprinkle with sugar.

Bake pie at 400 degrees on top rack of oven for 20 minutes (put a heavy baking sheet on the lower rack for more even baking). After 20 minutes, tent edge of crust with foil collar to prevent further browning and bake for an additional 20-30 minutes, or until lattice is golden. Cool for about an hour to allow the liquid to set; serve warm with ice cream.

This was my first bash at homemade lattice crust, and though it had its trials and tribulations (try rolling out chilled dough on hot kitchen counters in the summer with no air conditioning!), the end result was definitely worth it. I appreciated the explicit directions in the recipe (from The Pie and Pastry Bible), which protected me from the usual errors of overkneading or adding too much water. The recipe, which has a split-butter strategy where you cut in about two thirds of the butter and then toss in the other third in big chunks, explains that this keeps the flour from absorbing too much water and creating gluten, which causes the crust to be chewy and elastic. The bigger bits of butter are rolled out into flakes, which add dimension and texture to the crust. All the fresh fruit made the pie very juicy - perhaps a little too much so - but everyone gave it rave reviews, and it was the perfectly sweet end to an evening of fire and festivities.

CSA Week #3: Chicken Cheddar Omelette

2006-07-01T14:50:00.000-04:00

What came in our CSA this week:

(all organic)
1 dozen large brown eggs
Palatine extra-sharp cheddar cheese
Creamline lemon yogurt
Tatsoi
Napa cabbage
Bibb lettuce
Red lettuce
Sugar snap peas (!)
(conventional)
Dark cherries
Strawberries
Lemon-apple juice

The incredible bounty of this week's share surprised me; I was expecting less, based on reports that Norwich Meadows Farm (and much of upstate New York) has been suffering from terrific flooding. The water has swamped some of their fields and left almost all of them unnavigable by tractor, so all harvesting has to be done by hand. They're short-staffed and in need of help, so if anyone feels like taking a daytrip to Norwich, NY, let me know...

Anyway, the flooding, understandably, delayed distribution until Thursday, but this week I had the pleasure of doing a cooking demonstration of my Sugar Snap Peas with Lemon-Mint Gremolata at distribution, as sugar snaps were the featured item in this week's share. I got a lot of positive feedback, and I had so much fun cooking in the fabulous kitchen in NYU's food studies department!

Anyway, this morning I cracked open the first speckled egg and spilled its dark golden orb into the pan. In went grated cheddar, diced chicken (leftover from a Singaporean experiment), and a handful of crisp baby lettuce from last week's mixed greens. A little salt and red pepper, and voila - a healthy, delicious omelette as sunny as today turned out to be.

"I am going to make a peanut butter sandwich."

2006-06-29T10:53:00.000-04:00

Allow me to introduce you to precocious epicurian prodigy Baby Kate. In this blast from the past, little Kate (here at the promising age of four, in a nautically-themed outfit) will give you step-by-step instructions on how to make that famous culinary item beloved by children everywhere, the peanut butter and honey sandwich.

(All italicized text is a direct quote from Baby Kate's gastronomical premiere in 1988, available on home video. Please try to ignore 80s kitchen decor.)

"You get some bread and put some honey on it..."

"Then you get some peanut butter and put it on the other side. Then you smooth the peanut butter. I am just getting all the peanut butter off so I can get some more..."

"Then you put it on..."

"...and eat it! Mmmmm...I sure do know how to make 'em!"

I believe that in this video I go on the feed the sandwich to the cat.

Thanks to mom for digging out the old camcorder and capturing these stills! Also, my apologies for my recent absenteeism - next life goal: to get responsible living to coincide with responsible blogging. My heartfelt gratitude goes out to all of you who asked after me this week - thank you for making this slice of pie feel special!

More updates very soon. 'Til then,
- (Grownup?) Kate

CSA Week #2: Sautéed Collard Greens

2006-06-22T20:45:00.000-04:00

I will be the first to admit that Southern-style collards are not for everyone. Called "slow-cooked" collards, they are traditionally boiled to death at low temperature with a ham hock and a measure of salt. At the end they're salty, wet, and sort of grey-green. We didn't eat a lot of collards in my house.

So when I opened our CSA bounty-bags this week and got to see collards in their natural, uncooked form for the first time, I realized that they might still have potential. The recipe I came up with is a simple sauté that utilizes those delicious, in-season garlic scapes and makes the collards tender while retaining a toothsome crunch.

Sautéed Collard Greens with Garlic

INGREDIENTS

About 2 lbs. collards
1 tbsp. unsalted butter
1 teaspoon olive oil
2 chopped garlic scapes, or 1 tablespoon minced garlic cloves
1 teaspoon lemon juice
Salt to taste

DIRECTIONS

Rinse collards well. Stack leaves, 3 at a time, and tightly roll lengthwise into a cigar shape. Slice crosswise into 1/2-inch strips; discard stems and center ribs as desired. Set chopped collards aside.

Combine butter and olive oil in a sauté pan and melt over medium heat. Add scapes or minced garlic and sauté briefly, about thirty seconds. Add collard greens; sauté, turning frequently, about 5 minutes or until crisp-tender. Add lemon juice and cook 1 more minute. Remove from heat, salt to taste and serve immediately.

Serves 4.

What came in our CSA this week:

Collard greens
Bibb lettuce
Red lettuce
Mesclun salad (mixed greens)
Radishes
Napa Cabbage

...And one collard-happy slug who survived, unbeknownst to us, overnight in the refrigerator, before being discovered and returned to the great outdoors. Bet you never see that in a supermarket!

Herbal Update #5

2006-06-22T20:32:00.000-04:00

My cucumber plant is finally hermaphroditic!

I don't know whether you all remember my upset last week at the unfortunate monosexuality of my fire escape cucumber plant. What happened was that it occurred to me that all alone on a 4th story fire escape in New York, a vegetable might have trouble attracting enough pollinators to bear fruit. I thus began researching hand-pollination, and learned the logistics: basically, many varieties of cucumber plants produce both male and female blossoms (you can tell them apart easily because the female blossoms have tiny little cucumbers-to-be at the base), and insects and the wind help them pollinate one another. In the absence of pollinators, pollinating can be done by hand with a Q-tip or similar item. So I got my Q-tip at the ready and crawled out to investigate my plant...and found that it had all male flowers! Dismayed, I researched further and learned that sometimes plants behave this way in response to transplant truama or cramped root systems. Since my little cukes are in a pot on the fire escape, I figured that the size of the pot was surely the problem, and that I'd not have any cucumbers this year. So i tried my best to just enjoy the flowers in all their perky little beauty.

But then yesterday - at noon on the summer solstice, no less - I leaned out the window to water the spearmint and what should I spy but a lovely lady blossom!

On further inspection, I found three others. Cucumbers may be had this summer, after all.

CSA Week #1: Braised Bok Choy with Garlic Scapes

2006-06-17T11:59:00.000-04:00

Across food politics media the debate rages: organic or local? On the one hand, organic foods contain no pesticides, antibiotics, chemical by-products, or risky genetic modifications. On the other, local foods don't pollute the environment or contribute to global climate change traveling hundreds of miles from farm to table; they support local farmers; and retain much more of their nutrient value by not languishing for days or weeks in trucks and storehouses. Both organic and local foods benefit the environment; both benefit human health. Which should be the priority - when you're standing in the produce aisle at Whole Foods, should you buy the organic artichokes from Brazil, or the conventional ones from a farm less than a hundred miles away?

The answer, increasingly, is that you don't have to choose, due to the rising popularity of Community Supported Agriculture, or CSA (no, not the Confederate States of America). Shares in a CSA can usually be purchased and/or exchanged for volunteer time assisting with farm work or distribution. CSA farmers are local and typically provide a weekly delivery or pick-up of a share of vegetables, fruits, and perhaps other farmed items like milk, yogurt, eggs, cheese, etc. Farms that provide CSAs are small-scale, often organic, and frequently utilize environmentally sound methods of production - resulting in both a healthier consumer and a healthier planet.

This is my second year participating in the Washington Square CSA, provided by Norwich Meadows Farm in upstate New York. (At right: Zaid, our farmer.) The CSA runs from mid-July to November and provides 7-12 lbs. of organic, seasonal veggies weekly for around $10/week. For additional cost, shares of fruit, milk, eggs, yogurt, cheese, and even chicken can be purchased. In fact, seasoned veterans of Pie in the Sky may remember one of my first posts, which accounted for the varied uses of whole chickens that had accrued in the freezer over the course of the CSA (the chickens were fantastic, but we couldn't manage to eat one bi-weekly and I've got limited freezer space, so we won't be doing chicken this year).

Anyway, this year I'm splitting my share with J and new roomie W, and we've signed on for veggies, cheese, yogurt, and eggs. I've had the (amazing delicious perfect creamline) yogurt and the cheese before, but this is my first time with eggs, which are organic and free range and have fiery orange yolks - the result of healthy chicken diets full of vitamins. We got our first share on Wednesday (we walk a few blocks to pick it up) and have already made use of its bounty with omelettes, a fantastic salad, and this delicious Braised Bok Choy with Garlic Scapes.

Before I tell you more about this recipe: what is a garlic scape? A scape is the tender stem of certain varieties of garlic that curls up and bears a pretty little seed-like bud. They're garlicky-tasting, but more subtle and buttery than garlic, and are usually sautéed, put in pesto, or eaten raw in salads, but can also be steamed, pickled, etc. A seasonal delicacy, their harvest time is brief but well worth it!

As with any CSA item, taking a fresh, crisp head of bok choy (Chinese cabbage) - harvested only hours before - and cooking it to death would be ludicrous. This quick braise retains the crispness while infusing the leaves with buttery garlic flavor. The result: deliciously crunchy, flavorful bok choy, served in a fragrant broth.

Braised Bok Choy with Garlic Scapes

INGREDIENTS

2 heads bok choy, sliced in half lengthwise and washed
1 cup chicken stock
1 tablespoon butter
2 garlic scapes, diced
1/2 teaspoon sesame oil
Pinch of cracked red pepper
Salt to taste
Toasted sesame seeds (available in Chinese markets and many supermarkets)

DIRECTIONS

Melt butter in large sauté pan over medium heat. Add scapes and stir-fry to soften, about 1 minute. Add stock and bring to a simmer. Arrange bok choy in pan and cover, simmering for about five minutes or until tender.

Transfer bok choy to serving dish and cover to keep warm. Bring remaining broth and scapes to a boil and reduce to 1/2 cup or less. Stir in sesame oil and pepper; salt to taste. Pour over bok choy and sprinkle with sesame seeds; serve hot.

Serves 2.

To find a CSA near you, visit localharvest.org, which provides "a definitive and reliable nationwide directory of C.S.A.’s, farmers’ markets, family farms and other local food sources." (Michael Pollan)

Other useful and insightful links and resources:

(These were taken from this post in Michael Pollan's New York Times blog, which is not viewable to non-subscribers.)

SITES:

Center for Informed Food Choices (informedeating.org) advocates a diet based on whole, unprocessed, local, organically grown plant foods; its Web site contains a useful F.A.Q. page about food politics and eating well, as well as an archive of relevant articles.

Eat Well (eatwellguide.com) is an online directory of sustainably raised meat, poultry, dairy and eggs. Enter your ZIP Code to find healthful, humane and eco-friendly products from farms, stores and restaurants in your area.

Eat Wild (eatwild.com) lists local suppliers for grass-fed meat and dairy products.

Food Routes (foodroutes.org) is a national nonprofit dedicated to “reintroducing Americans to their food — the seeds it grows from, the farmers who produce it and the routes that carry it from the fields to our tables.”

Heritage Foods USA (heritagefoodsusa.com) sells mail-order ‘traceable’ products from small farms — maple syrup, pole-caught tuna, grass-fed Kobe beef — whose labels provide every detail about how they were produced.

Just Food (justfood.org) works to develop a just and sustainable food system in the New York City region through projects including City Farms (a New York community garden program) and community supported agriculture (which connects regional farmers with produce-hungry city dwellers).

Local Harvest (localharvest.org) offers a definitive and reliable nationwide directory of C.S.A.’s, farmers’ markets, family farms and other local food sources.

Locavores (locavores.com), based in San Francisco, encourages people to eat only foods produced within a 100-mile radius of home. Their Food Web page offers an abundance of additional resources, including books, articles and Web sites.

Organic Consumers Association (organicconsumers.org), a research and action center for the organic and fair-trade food movement, maintains a comprehensive Web archive of articles about genetically engineered foods, cloning, food safety, organics and globalization.

Seafood Watch (mbayaq.org/cr/seafoodwatch.asp) — a program of the Monterey Bay Aquarium designed to raise consumer awareness about the importance of buying seafood from sustainable sources — offers a downloadable, pocket-sized, region-by-region guide to eco-friendly seafood.

Slow Food USA (slowfoodusa.org) is a nonprofit educational organization dedicated to ecologically sound land stewardship and food production and to living a “slower and more harmonious” life.

Stone Barns Center for Food & Agriculture (stonebarnscenter.org) is a hands-on educational center and restaurant that aims to demonstrate, teach and promote sustainable, community-based food production on a working farm 30 miles from Manhattan.

Sustainable Table (sustainabletable.org) offers an introduction to the sustainable food movement and the issues surrounding it, plus resources for further investigation (the links for ‘Introduction to Sustainability’ and ‘The Issues’ are good places to start).

The U.S.D.A. Agricultural Marketing Service (ams.usda.gov/farmersmarkets) includes a state-by-state listing of farmers’ markets across the United States.

BOOKS:

“This Organic Life: Confessions of a Suburban Homesteader,” by Joan Dye Gussow

“Local Flavors: Cooking and Eating From America’s Farmers’ Markets,” by Deborah Madison

“Coming Home to Eat: The Pleasures and Politics of Local Foods,” by Gary Paul Nabhan

Farmer John’s Cookbook: The Real Dirt on Vegetables, by Farmer John Peterson and Angelic Organics.

“Holy Cows and Hog Heaven: The Food Buyer’s Guide to Farm-Fresh Food,” by Joel Salatin