Old recipes and cookbooks can be an endless source of culinary inspiration. Time stops when I’m pouring over an old copy of Gourmet Magazine rife with spritz cookies and other hallmarks of the 80s. Or my worn copy of Craig Claiborne and Pierre Franey’s New York Times Cookbook. Oh the pâtés I’ve seen!

The easier-than-they-look hors d’oeuvres pictured here were inspired by a recipe from a woman I baked with many, many years ago: my mom. I tweaked the savory pastry dough recipe she used for her holiday Pecan Tassies, swapping out the cream cheese for a creamy blue. (If you caught my last post about the cocktail biscotti, you know I’ve been mildly obsessed of late with turning my favorite sweet treats into savory ones.) Pleasant thoughts of mom sprang to mind as I worked the dough into the mini muffin pans. I’ve made hundreds, thousands of pecan tassies over the years. The work is repetitive and tedious at times, but strangely relaxing, the soft dough, so malleable beneath my rough, warm fingers. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Yet, like snowflakes, no two ever look the same. My mind always wanders as I work, and when it returns the muffin pans are ready for the oven.

Later, as I filled my delicate, golden shells with the sticky jam, I tried to plan my outfit for the party that my tartlets and I were heading to later that night. But mom kept creeping back in. What would she think of my figgy treats? I didn’t question whether or not she would approve of them, or me. Thousands of dollars of therapy helped me work that kink out. I simply wondered if she would enjoy them. Were they the kind of party snack that she would love so much she’d wrap a few in a napkin and stuff them into her bulging, tattered purse between a wad of crumpled singles and a stack of lotto tickets? Would a single bite have her fervently prodding the hostess for the recipe, the way she did when she tasted her first ever Seven Bean Salad?

We ate a lot of figs when I was a kid–Fig Newtons that is. I was well into my 30s when I came across my first fresh fig. I suspect mom died in her 60s without ever tasting a fresh fig or fig jam.

Maybe I’ll wear my leopard print wrap dress?

I carefully placed a few toasted walnut pieces on top of the glossy jam. Mom never toasted our walnuts. The raw nuts–always in tiny pieces, seldom, if ever whole–made their way into Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies and banana bread, but never on top of a salad with pears and blue cheese–one of my favorite ways to enjoy them today.

Nah, a dress is definitely overdoing it. Maybe my dark wash Citizens jeans….

I turned the orange in my left hand, while holding the zester in my right. Brilliant orange ribbons spiraled onto the counter. I remembered the frozen orange juice concentrate mom used to flavor her Macaroon Kiss Cookies.

Do those jeans even fit? Crap, I’ll just go with the black ones then.

I held a long sprig of fresh thyme between the thumb and index finger of my left hand and slid the fingers of my right hand along the woody stem, releasing the tiny fragrant leaves. Fresh herbs were something I didn’t appreciate until my 20s. Our parsley was a jar of dried, grey-green flakes nestled between jars of Lawry’s Seasoned Salt and garlic powder.

Eek! When was the last time I had a manicure?

I sprinkled the verdant leaves over the tartlets and loosely covered the tray in plastic wrap. I left my thoughts of mom alongside the tray and hurried upstairs in search of cute jeans that I could button.

Blue Cheese Tartlets With Fig Jam and Walnuts

Blue cheese and fig jam go together like PB&J, but you can make these savory treats with any soft cheese and any filling. Not a blue cheese fan? Make the shells with goat cheese and fill them with a spicy strawberry jam.

Ingredients

3 ounces blue cheese
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup fig jam
1/3 cup walnuts, toasted and roughly chopped
1 orange, for zesting
fresh thyme leaves (optional)

Equipment

Mini muffin pans

Preparation

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly grease the cups of the mini muffin pans, unless you’re using non-stick pans.
2. In a medium bowl cream together the blue cheese and butter. Add the flour and use your hands to bring the dough together in the bowl.
3. Divide the dough into 30 pieces and roll into balls. (If you prefer a more delicate shell, divide the dough into 36 pieces.)
4. Using lightly floured fingers evenly press the dough against the sides of the mini tart pan until the dough rises slightly above the rim of the muffin cup.
5. Bake for 15 minutes, until golden brown. Cool in pans for 5 minutes. Remove shells to a wire rack to finish cooling.
6. Store cooled shells in an airtight container until ready to use. (They freeze well too. Bake frozen shells for 8 minutes at 325°F before filling.)
7. Spoon jam into cooled tartlet shells. Sprinkle with toasted walnuts, orange zest, and thyme leaves if using.

Makes 2 1/2 – 3 dozen.

Here’s another easy sweet yet savory hors d’oeuvre: Stuffed Dates With Citrus Chèvre and Candied Fennel Almonds.

My hands are covered in fresh blood. My gaze drops to my wooly black sweater, it glistens in the moonlight, soaking with blood. I know what I’ve done though I have no memory of committing the act. Two knives sit in the tiny bathroom sink. Blood splashes in every direction as the water runs over them. I’m leaving too many clues; this isn’t how it’s done on TV. I’m without fear, without regret. Someone I knew, and liked, had died at my hands. I was capable of murder.

I opened my eyes surprised to be on my back. The room was dark. I felt for my sweater expecting my hand to grab hold of the cold, wet wool. Instead my trembling hands found soft cotton against my flaming skin–Greg’s worn t-shirt, my favorite nightie. Consciousness slowly washed over me, but the dream remained. There was no going back to sleep. It was 4 a.m.; my day had started. I eased out of bed careful to not wake Greg. He was probably somewhere over the Smoky Mountains on his magic carpet. I slid into my slippers and padded downstairs to fire up the coffee pot.

Murder.

Murderer.

I stared desperately at the slowly burbling pot as if a simple cup of joe could release me from the grip of my dream. I was counting the drips when a favorite quote from writer Robert Brault popped into my polluted mind:

“Stored away in some brain cell is the image of a long-departed aunt you haven’t thought of in 30 years. Stored away in another cell is the image of a pink pony stitched on your first set of baby pajamas. All it takes to get that aunt mounted on the back of that pony is to eat a hunk of meatloaf immediately before going to bed.”

I considered the meal that Greg and I had peacefully shared the night before: Lentils with sausage and escarole. Good sausage, sweetly spiced with fennel, made on a sunny afternoon with my father-in-law. French green lentils, simmered in rich mushroom broth. Garlicky, silky greens. Lightly toasted hazelnuts. It was hardly the kind of meal that drove one to murder.

I knew it was only a dream. Still, I was unnerved by what lurked in the shadows of my mind. My dreams are often strange, sometimes frightening, and always puzzling. The plane is invariably about to crash. Sometimes we’re over water, sometimes land. A cargo plane, an MD-80, a puddle jumper, no matter, we’re always in a tail spin. My mom often has a starring role in my dreams. My dad will make the occasional cameo appearance, à la Hitchcock in Rear Window. I can never make out the face of the prowler who is climbing our stairs and will certainly find me quivering under the bed. Old boyfriends drop in every now and again. And then there was that thigh-burning dream about Angelina Jolie that for weeks had me wondering about what “team” I was really on.

What might Freud or Jung have to say about my dreams? I gave up on interpreting them long ago, happier to return the dark thoughts to the corners of my brain that they’d crawled from. Greg and I sometimes share our dreams over breakfast, but it can be downright exasperating for me. The same night I’m tussling with a faulty flotation device on a plunging Airbus, Greg is being carried on a golden throne through the cobbled streets of a medieval city in celebration of his coronation. Fortunately, when my dreams are particularly fitful, King Greg will wake from his joyful slumber and save his queen before the imaginary faceless intruder covers her eyes and mouth with duct tape.

My coffee cup was empty, and the bloody dream lingered. I picked up my notebook and opened it to the recipe I’d been working on the day before–cornmeal biscotti. My thoughts turned to Christmas and the anise and almond biscotti I’d made and devoured in mere days. Another door in my brain slid open and out came the memory of a Food and Wine Magazine article featuring Dorie Greenspan’s sweet and savory cookies. Sesame seeds. Tarragon. Parmesan cheese. Flaky salt. My mom’s giant-sized cheddar pecan cheese ball rolled out of another dust-covered place in my mind. The memory comforted me in a way that it never had before and pleasant thoughts filled my head. Sharp, rich cheddar slathered on a Ritz cracker. One. Two. Three. Last one, I promise. Happy holidays. Family. Friends. Laughter.

I turned on the oven and reached for a mixing bowl. It was still an hour before dawn, but the darkness had finally lifted.

Cheddar Pecan Cocktail Biscotti

The variations for this recipe are endless. Black pepper and Parmesan. Thyme and Gruyere. Blue cheese and walnuts, maybe some dried figs. Goat cheese and citrus with a bit of rosemary. Take these wherever your memories and dreams may take you.

Ingredients

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cornmeal
1 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt
4 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1 cup pecans, lightly toasted
3 eggs
2 tablespoons whole grain mustard
2 tablespoons honey or maple syrup
1-2 tablespoons milk

Preparation

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F.
2. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
3. In a large bowl whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder, cayenne pepper, and salt. Stir in the grated cheese and pecans.
4. In another bowl, combine the eggs, mustard, honey, and 1 tablespoon of milk. Beat until thoroughly blended.
5. Add the wet ingredients to the dry. Mix until the dough is too stiff to stir. Use your hands to bring it together in the bowl. Add the second tablespoon of milk if it’s too dry.
6. Form the dough into two 3-inch-wide loaves. Place about 3 inches apart on the lined baking sheet. Smooth the loaves with damp hands.
7. Bake for 25-30 minutes, until lightly golden. Cool for 20 minutes.
8. Reduce the oven temperature to 300°F.
9. Cut the cooled loaves into 1/2-inch-thick slices. Place on baking sheet. Bake for 10 minutes. Turn the cookies over. Return to oven and bake for another 10 minutes, or until golden brown.
10. Cool on a wire rack. Store in an airtight container.

Makes 3-4 dozen.

Greg and I are going to get into an argument tomorrow morning. If you happen to be passing by, listen for it to begin around 6:30 AM Central Standard Time. And if history serves as any indicator it will likely begin with the words, “He’s just a groundhog.”

I don’t have extraordinary psychic abilities; I’m not known for being prophetic in any way. Our February 2nd face-off is an annual tradition that stems from a decade long disagreement. For Greg, the day is merely the second day of the shortest month of the year. For me, it’s perhaps the single most important day of the year: Groundhog Day.

“He’s just a groundhog,” Greg said on our second date. I nearly choked on my burrito. Those words and the nonchalance in his tone made my lips curl. As the blood rushed to my face I thought, “maybe he’s not the one.”

Just a groundhog?
Was Old Yeller just a dog?
Was Seabiscuit just a horse?

Punxsutawney Phil is no ordinary groundhog. He’s the world’s most famous prognosticating rodent. With Phil comes the chance of an early spring and salvation from the icy clenches of Old Man Winter. If he sees his shadow when he emerges from his hole on Gobblers Knob in Punxsutawney, PA, we can expect six more weeks of winter. Then Phil and I both crawl back into our holes and wait it out. No shadow and spring is just around the corner. This year marks Phil’s 126th prognostication. According to the data Phil predicts an “early spring” only 13% of the time.

“But there are always six more weeks of winter after the second of February. The vernal equi-”
“I know when the vernal equinox is!” I’d said, cutting his science lesson short. “You’re missing the point.” I knocked back my margarita and slammed the glass on the table. We ate the rest of our dinner in silence. A third date seemed highly unlikely.

Growing up in Pennsylvania I assumed Groundhog day was a national holiday. Imagine my surprise and horror when I fell for a Midwesterner who thought that Groundhog Day was only a 90s Bill Murray movie. When I said, “I do,” I expected Greg would eventually come around where Phil was concerned. Instead he relishes the annual opportunity to argue the finer points of forecasting, psychology, and mammal behavior, “I just can’t understand how someone with so many degrees can let their emotional well-being hinge on a twenty-pound rodent.” Each year, I promise myself that I’m not going to take the bait–that we will at last agree to disagree and go on with our day peacefully. And each year, when Groundhog Day arrives, and Greg starts in on Phil before the sun in Chicago is even up, I go a little mad.

Thanks to global warming I won’t be looking at Phil with the crazy eyes I had last winter. (He saved me with the rare early spring prediction last year.) Still, this unusually warm winter weather has left me in a state of waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. In 126 years, Phil has never predicted an early spring two years in a row. As I eagerly await Phil’s forecast, I’m stocking up on rum-soaked raisins. If he predicts a long winter, I’m going to crawl back into my hole with a warm loaf of this boozy soda bread and a stick of salty butter.

Rosemary Rum Raisin Soda Bread with Pecans

I’ve had a fondness for soda bread ever since I discovered Heidi Swanson’s recipe for Six-Seed Soda Bread from 101cookbooks.com. Play around with the flours and the mix-ins. Figs and walnuts, dried cranberries and pistachios, dates and almonds–you decide. This version was inspired by Lesley Stowe’s Rosemary Raisin Pecan Raincoast Crisps. It’s an addictive flavor combination. And finishing the bread with anise seeds adds just the right amount of spice.

Ingredients

1/2 cup raisins
1/3 cup dark rum
2 cups all-purpose flour, plus 2 teaspoons for dusting the pan
2 cups whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, finely chopped
1/2 cup pecans, toasted and roughly chopped
1 1/2 cups plain yogurt
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon milk
3/4 teaspoon anise seeds (optional) (Sesame seeds or rolled oats are nice substitutes, if you’re not an anise lover.)

Preparation

1. Combine the rum and raisins in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil. Simmer for 30 seconds, then remove from heat. Cover and allow the raisins to macerate for at least 4 hours, but preferably overnight.
2. When you’re ready to bake the bread, preheat the oven to 375°F.
3. Coat a baking sheet with olive oil and lightly dust it with flour, or line it with parchment paper.
4. In a large mixing bowl whisk together the flours, baking soda, salt, and rosemary. Stir in the toasted pecans.
5. In a separate bowl combine the raisins with the rum, the yogurt, and honey.
6. Add the wet ingredients to the dry. Mix until the dough is too stiff to stir. Use your hands to bring it together in the bowl. Add additional yogurt one teaspoon at a time if it’s too dry. You want a stiff, slightly tacky ball.
7. Turn dough onto a lightly floured board and shape into a round loaf. (Don’t over-knead the dough. Too much kneading will produce a tough bread.).
8. Transfer the loaf to the prepared baking sheet. Use a sharp knife to make deep slashes across the top of the loaf, 4-6 cuts about half way through. Brush the top with milk. Sprinkle with seeds or oats if using.
9. Bake for 40-45 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean. When you tap the loaf, it will sound hollow.
10. Cool on a wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature with a generous slather of butter.

My other favorite soda bread: Heidi Swanson’s Six Seed Soda Bread