Real March Madness and Crispy Cream Blueberry Blondies
Blooming tulips. Blossoming fruit trees. Sturdy tufts of chives peppered across my herb garden. Vibrant rhubarb stems peeking out from the gritty soil. Our honeybees returning to the hive loaded down with pollen. It’s a perfect picture of spring. Except that until today, it wasn’t spring; it was winter. And this is Chicago. Forget brackets and hoops, this is March Madness for real.
My trusty Sorel snow boots are standing at attention by the back door, two fur-clad soldiers ready for battle should Old Man Winter come a knockin’. My favorite flip flops, the ones I rescued from storage two weeks ago, are carelessly piled next to my boots. It’s a study in contrasts to be sure. The strangeness of it all is magnified when I glimpse a few honeybees buzzing by the door mere inches from my dusty boots separated only by a sheet of glass.
“Don’t you think it’s time to put these away?” Greg asked, motioning toward my boots with his own sandal-clad, pasty foot.
So much for hoping he wouldn’t notice. Greg’s threshold for stacks and stuff not in its proper place is higher than mine. In fact, I wasn’t sure he even had a threshold, because my own fervent desire for stuff to be put in its place–and it all has a place–always prevails. His question lingered as my big boots became the elephant in the room.
“If I put them away, I’ll be jinxed, and it will snow,” I said with absolute conviction though I couldn’t look him in the eye when I said it. It was crazy talk. I knew it even as I spoke. What’s crazier yet is that I still believe it. I’m not usually the superstitious type, but I’m certain that if I put my boots away, Old Man Winter will at long last unleash his fury and the verdant beauty outside my door will be no more.
Record setting high temperatures may be to blame for my slide into the realm of superstition, but they also get partial credit for our new favorite blondies. (Yes, even better than a blondie loaded with chocolate chunks.) That credit is duly shared with my go-to butter and sugar muse Christina Tosi, the genius pastry chef at Momofuku’s Milk Bar. I’ve been toying around with Christina’s recipes ever since her Compost Cookie recipe blasted into cyberspace in 2010. These blondies started out as my version of her Blueberry and Cream Cookies, but when I fired up the oven, the kitchen suddenly filled with warm sunlight. I stared at my boots and then at my flip flops. Another bee buzzed by as if daring me to follow her. It was time to shift my cookie making into fast-gear and get outside lest Old Man Winter come for me and my boots.
Crispy Cream Blueberry Blondies With Macadamia Nuts
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These treats are oven ready in a half hour. The blondie batter was adapted from Mark Bittman’s Butterscotch Brownie recipe in How to Cook Everything. The Crispy Cream Crunch was inspired by Christina Tosi’s Milk Crumbs.
Ingredients
CRISPY CREAM CRUNCH:
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3/4 cup white chocolate, melted
3/4 cup crispy rice cereal
1/3 cup nonfat milk powder
BLONDIES:
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1 cup unsalted butter, melted (plus more for greasing the pan)
2 cups light brown sugar, firmly packed
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups white whole wheat flour (or all-purpose flour)
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup dried blueberries
2/3 cup salted and roasted macadamia nuts, roughly chopped
Preparation
- Preheat oven to 350°F.
- For the Crispy Cream Crunch, line a large baking sheet with waxed paper. Combine ingredients in a medium bowl; stir with a fork until the rice is evenly coated. Spread the clusters onto the prepared sheet and refrigerate until ready to use.
- Line a 13 by 9-inch baking pan with heavy duty tin foil, pushing it firmly into the corners and up the sides. Let the excess foil hang over the edges of the pan. Grease the pan with butter.
- In a large bowl, beat melted butter and brown sugar until smooth. Beat in the eggs and vanilla extract.
- In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the flour to the wet ingredients. Stir in dried blueberries, nuts, and Crispy Cream Crunch.
- Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, spreading evenly with a spatula.
- Bake for 25-30 minutes until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out with a few moist crumbs attached. Cool on a wire rack for 30 minutes. Using the foil overhang, lift the blondies from pan and return them to the wire rack. Let cool completely. Cut into squares and serve.
Makes about 2 1/2 dozen, 2-inch squares.
A Mutt and Her Almost Irish Spice Bread
Arán Spíosraí is Irish for spice bread, er, or maybe it’s spiced bread. Spices bread?
Let’s get this out of the way though it’s likely obvious by now: I’m not Irish. This translation was sprinkled over the internet and verified by Google’s imperfect translator. I’ve never been to Ireland. And to my knowledge I’ve never tasted Irish spice bread. Further complicating my kitchen tribute to St. Patrick is that none of my second generation Irish friends had ever heard of arán spíosraí. For the record, they don’t speak Irish either.
Craving something sweeter than soda bread and perhaps convinced I could reap the luck of the Irish through baking, I persevered. I’d found the original recipe at Irishabroad.com. A subsequent search for variations proved fruitless. Countless aggregate recipe sites, Irish or otherwise, listed recipes for arán spíosraí, but with minor exceptions, they were all the same. What if arán spíosraí is a mythical creation like the Leprechaun?
To meet my “must be sweet” and “must be Irish” criteria, I considered a tried and true sticky toffee pudding, but I’d already been seduced by the notion of my arán spíosraí’s spicy sweetness perfuming the house. (In the interest of full disclosure, my friend Melanie makes an other-worldly sticky toffee pudding that I will likely never be able to replicate.) Besides, this was an opportunity to try something new and gain insight into a country and culture I’d admired only from afar.
I’m drawn to foods steeped in history, foods that speak of a specific time and place even if I’ve never experienced that place first hand. Perhaps my own lack of family history is the reason for this. I’m what genealogists, or maybe just my husband, call a mutt. I don’t know when my ancestors arrived in the U.S., or how they got here. I don’t who was on which boat across the Atlantic or who checked in and misspelled our name on Ellis Island. My surname is supposedly German though I’m not certain my dad even knew that. (Yes, I gleaned that nugget from the internet too.) As the story goes, my great grandmother on my mom’s side was a Blackfoot Indian, which of course rules out the boat in one instance. I lost access to my family history when my parents died. By the time I was curious enough to ask the important questions, they were gone.
Being a “mutt” has never bothered me except in the matters of food. As a child I watched my friend Karen’s mom roll out tortillas by hand, something she had learned to do from her mother when she was a young girl. She laid them directly on the gas burner of her stove where they would puff slightly over the bright blue flame. After a few seconds she’d grab the hot tortilla between her calloused thumb and forefinger and quickly flip it on the makeshift cook-top. When it was ready she plucked it from the stove and dropped it on a plate. A little butter. A quick sprinkle of cinnamon and sugar. I was glued to her side the whole time. (The magic was lost on Karen. She envied my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese casseroles.)
For years I longed for that kind of history, to have learned the art of strudel dough at the knee of a German grandmother. But more recently as I reflect on fifteen years worth of recipes that fill my five recipe journals, I can appreciate that being without a history that I was obligated to repeat has freed me to explore other cultures and traditions. I’m not locked into the cold, Polish breakfast foods that my in-laws serve every year for Easter though I deeply respect the tradition, their tradition. I stuff my pierogis with farmers cheese. And I also stuff them with roasted butternut squash and caramelized onions. I’m equally satisfied putting together a mezze platter loaded with muhammara, hummus, and warm pita as I am a cheese board. My Indian curries find their way into my all-American cheesecakes. Swedish Limpa bread makes its way into our bread rotation on a regular basis. And I’m adding saltandserenity‘s lovely Jewish hamentashen to my Christmas cookie list for 2012.
Munching on my sweet and oh, so satisfying Irish spice bread, I’m already thinking about Easter. Last year I made my first-ever Kulich, a Russian yeast bread. This year, I’m torn between a Polish babka or an Irish Simnel cake. Or maybe I’ll make them both.
Almost Irish Spice Bread
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The pronounced sweetness in this “bread” pushes it closer to the cake category though with half the fat of most cakes. None of the recipes I found suggested a frosting, but the dry crumb of this intensely flavored bread-cake called for a little something creamy. If you’re not a fan of whiskey, substitute orange juice and double the amount of vanilla extract. Or skip the frosting and slather it with some Kerrygold butter instead. Éirinn go brách!
Ingredients
BREAD:
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2 cups white whole wheat flour (or all-purpose)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup raisins
1/4 cup candied citron, chopped
1/2 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup honey*
1/3 cup molasses*
1 large egg
1/4 cup milk
GLAZE (optional):
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1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 cup powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
3 tablespoons Irish whiskey (or orange juice)
pinch of sea salt
Preparation
- Preheat the oven to 325°F.
- Line a 9×5-inch loaf pan with parchment paper or grease it with butter. (I sometimes like making two smaller loaves–one to enjoy now and a second to stow in the freezer for unexpected guests. The smaller loaves also seem to bake more evenly.)
- In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients. Stir in the raisins and candied citron. Make a well in the center.
- In a small sauce pan, melt the butter. Remove it from the heat and stir in the brown sugar and your liquid sweetener(s) of choice. Beat in the egg and milk.
- Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir until just combined. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan(s).
- Bake for 50-60 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. (Adjust the baking time if you are using smaller loaf pans.)
- Cool on a rack for 20 minutes then remove from the pan. Allow to cool completely before glazing.
- To make the glaze, melt the butter in a small saucepan. Remove from heat and whisk in powdered sugar, vanilla, and whiskey or orange juice. Allow the glaze to cool and thicken for 15 minutes. Spoon the glaze into a pastry bag fitted with a large tip or into a sturdy plastic bag with a 1/2-inch opening in the corner. Pipe glaze in a zigzag pattern across the top of the bread.
* The original recipe calls for golden syrup, a product made in the process of refining sugar cane juice into sugar. With no golden syrup in the pantry, I substituted equal parts honey and molasses. You can also substitute light or dark corn syrup.
Ready for more almost Irish baked goods? Try this Rosemary Rum Raisin Soda Bread.
Absence and Coconut Chow Mein Butterscotch Cookies
For two weeks this big bed hundreds of miles from our home has felt empty. I wake too early, the rural silence unsettling for this city girl. I reach for you in the darkness like I always do, a twelve-year habit that I can’t bare the thought of breaking. My hands meet a cold, crisp sheet. Where are you? Where am I? The sleepy haze begins to clear, and I remember that you’re at home in our bed, so far away. I fumble for the light. I miss you less once my day has started; the light holds so many distractions. But in the dark, awake, all I feel is your absence.
I’ll be home tomorrow. It’s so close now I can almost feel your arms around me, welcoming me back. The house will smell like brown butter when you open the back door and find me in the kitchen making cookies especially for you–sweet and just a bit savory–the way you like them. While you debate having a second cookie, I’ll tell you all about Austin–the silky smoked yellowtail at Uchi, the sage funnel cake at barley SWINE, the red velvet from Hey Cupcake!, the crazy cowboy gear at Allen’s Boots, and too many stories about Claire and Carmen. You’ll take in every detail even if you’re bored, because you missed me too. Then you’ll show me the projects you found time for while I was gone–the window trim, the rebellious oven door, and the delicate seedlings–our future garden–sprouting under the grow lights. I’ll remember for the third time just how lucky I am. And later that night in the darkness, I’ll reach for you and find you at last.
Coconut Chow Mein Butterscotch Cookies
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Decades ago my mom made a no-bake cookie that I loved: melted butterscotch morsels, chow mein noodles, done. Combining the ingredients in a straight up cookie dough has been on my “must try” list ever since I tasted my first Momofuku Milk Bar “Compost Cookie,” the sweet meets savory brainchild of pastry chef Christina Tosi. Further inspired by memories of baking with mom (Mom ALWAYS made us mix cookie dough by hand.) and too weary from traveling to drag out the Kitchen Aid, I made these without a mixer. The result was a jam-packed cookie that screamed with flavor.
Ingredients
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1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups white whole wheat flour (or all-purpose flour)
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
3/4 cup chow mein noodles
1 cup butterscotch morsels
flaky sea salt (I use Maldon, but any coarse salt will work.)
Preparation
- Preheat oven to 350°F.
- Beat butter and sugars until creamy. Add egg and vanilla extract.
- In a separate bowl combine the flour, baking soda, salt, and coconut. Add the dry ingredients to the wet. Stir in noodles and butterscotch chips.
- Roll dough into balls about the size of golf balls (approx. 1 1/2 tablespoons of dough) and place two inches apart on ungreased baking sheets. Flatten the tops slightly with a glass. Sprinkle lightly with sea salt. Bake for 12-15 minutes or until lightly browned but still soft. (I prefer mine slightly under cooked.)
- Cool slightly on baking sheets. Remove to wire racks to cool completely.
Makes 2 dozen.
And for the chocolate lover, try these Ultimate Chocolate Chip Cookies.
Mindfulness and Black Pepper Oatcakes
I have yoga to thank for these crackers.
I was on my back, my arms at my sides, palms facing up with my legs straight–Savasana or Corpse pose as it’s known in yoga. To the untrained eye I probably looked at peace, maybe even corpse-like. My body was still; my mind was anything but. It was racing like a gerbil spinning on a wheel. This is always the hardest pose for me. I can lie still now without fidgeting for at least five minutes, which is significant progress to be celebrated. But the mindfulness part of the pose–where I clear my head–is impossible except for when I’m tired and I fall asleep, but that’s not the point either. I took a deep breath and tried to exhale the mind chatter. I expelled the parchment paper that I forgot at the store, but the void quickly filled with the RSVP I didn’t mail, the one that was due on Monday.
My nose itched, but I suppressed the urge to scratch it. Yes, progress!
Does an itchy nose really mean that someone is talking about you? Who would be talking about me at seven in the morning? Shoot I forgot to call my sister back. Do we have bread for breakfast? Crap, Greg needs a lunch packed for today. Weren’t they supposed to deliver the wine yesterday? Today is Wednesday, right? No, it’s Thursday, duh, that’s why I’m at yoga. When was the delivery scheduled for? Will I ever see the sun again? I’m out of vitamin D. Do those supplements even work? Okay, parchment paper, vitamin D supplements, and…. What else? There was something else I needed from the store. I know it. Stop, stop, stop. Make it stop.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. There, now that’s better.
What was that? Is someone snoring? Greg? I need to start getting to bed earlier. Damn it, there I go again. What is wrong with me? Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. But the tape in my head begins again.
Crackers.
I was thinking about crackers as our yoga teacher Kat eased us out of our final Savasana and into our busy days. Perhaps I could tolerate my mind’s chatter if it went on about something of vital importance. But no, I was thinking about making crackers and slathering them with the creamy blue that was tucked away in the cheese drawer at home, hardly the stuff Nobel Prizes are made of. Did I mention that it was 7 a.m.? The nurturing voice in my head—one of many voices—reminded me to stop flogging myself, but I couldn’t help but feel as though I had failed, again.
I was over it–the self-flagellation that is–by the time we sat down to breakfast, but I wasn’t over my craving for these perfectly spiced, toasty oat treats. Later that day, I whipped up a batch while my blue cheese softened on the counter. The dough felt good in my hands–the coarse oats against my worn palms. I added a splash more of the cold water until it felt right–supple, cohesive, but not clingy. A light sprinkle of wheat flour on the counter. Back and forth, back and forth. Turn. Back and forth, back and forth again. The dough complied with each pass of the old wooden rolling pin, transforming into a smooth canvas. I marveled at the contrast of the black pepper against the flecks of oats. It reminded me of a moonless night sky in Montana.
At last, my mind was quiet.
Black Pepper Oatcakes
I started with James Martin’s recipe. The first two times I made these I cooked them on a griddle. They were crisp and delicious, but the edges of my crackers always curled.
Ingredients
OATCAKES:
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2 cups rolled oats
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
cold water
GLAZE (optional):
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2 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon granulated sugar
coarse sea salt
Preparation
- Preheat the oven to 325°F.
- Place one cup of rolled oats in the bowl of a food processor. Process until very fine like a flour.
- Add the remaining cup of oats, butter, salt and pepper. Pulse until coarse crumbs appear.
- With the processor running, slowly add enough water just until the mixture resembles large curds. Don’t wait for it to form a ball and ride on the blade, or you risk overdoing it.
- Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured board. Bring it together with your hands adding more water if necessary. You want a soft, cohesive dough that isn’t sticky.
- Roll the dough out to an 1/8-inch thickness. Using a pastry cutter, cookie cutter, or knife cut the dough into any shapes you like. Transfer the crackers to a large baking sheet.
- Combine the milk and sugar in a small bowl stirring to dissolve the sugar. Brush the tops of the crackers and sprinkle with salt.
- Bake for 20 minutes, until the bottoms are lightly browned.
- Allow crackers to cool on the sheet for five minutes then remove to a wire rack.
- Store in airtight containers when completely cool.
Makes 3 dozen 1.5-inch crackers.
These Whole Wheat Crackers are my other go-to whole grain crackers.
As it turns out, I’m not the only one smitten with oatmeal and black pepper. I can’t wait to try these Savory Oatmeal Cookies with Rosemary, Black Pepper, and Parmesan from emmycooks.
Dancing and Lemon Scented Polenta Pancakes with Blueberry Thyme Syrup
Mornings feel like dances to me, the kitchen my dance floor. Weekday mornings start well before the sun is up. They’re fast paced like a cha-cha or maybe a clumsy tap dance. Shuffle, ball change, slice the bread for toast. One hop and the jam goes on the table. Another hop for the peanut butter. A toe stand as I reach for the plates. The dance continues in this way. Vitamins. Kombucha tea for two. And a black coffee for me. The music seldom changes though I never tire of it. The creaking floor overhead. The faint buzz of Greg’s electric razor. The hum of running water in the shower upstairs. The toaster oven dings always reminding me of the bell on the pink Huffy I had as a kid. The spurt and gurgle of my twenty-year-old espresso maker (Yes, Jen it’s still working–thank you!). Clink, clink go the heavy glasses on the stone counter. The tinkling of silverware as it’s gathered from the drawer. This is my weekday soundtrack. I’m wide awake even before my first sip of coffee, yet I could easily do this dance in my sleep.
A brief intermission comes as Greg joins me at the table for breakfast. We sit. We sip. We savor. It’s all done with a well-rehearsed efficiency. One eye on the clock another on the suet bird feeder just outside the window. Our resident woodpecker, “Woodette”, takes her spot at the feeder, so close we could touch her if we weren’t separated by the cold glass. It’s over too fast, always. Greg is out the door. I finish the dance the way I started it–alone. The music fades as I close the dishwasher and exit stage left, making my way to my office upstairs.
On weekends, Greg and I dance together, slowly. I mix the batter–pancakes, maybe waffles. My partner warms the griddle, the waffle iron. All is quiet overhead; today my partner is by my side. This is our adagio, each step slow and deliberate. The crossword puzzle waits at our table while we dance. We glide through a languid cloud of browning butter and lemon. I reach to stir the burbling syrup. Our arms graze as Greg flips the first cake. The teapot whistles, a low pleasant hum. I twirl reaching for the warming plates. Greg’s steeping Earl Grey tea, a weekend only ritual, mingles with the lemon butter perfume. Our dance speeds up a bit at the end: hot tea, steaming hotcakes, and simmering syrup–it all comes together at once.
At last we sit alongside Woodette, today without an eye on the clock, without reviewing our calendars. We lose ourselves in four-letter words for finito and Oscar winners from the 60s until at last our mugs are cold and empty and our bellies are satiated. The final part of our dance begins as we clear the table. Greg’s thigh brushes against mine. I rinse. He stands at my left and loads the washer. I’m touched by a familiar sadness as the remains of our dance washes down the drain. Come Monday, I’ll be back to dancing alone.
Lemon Scented Polenta Pancakes with Blueberry Thyme Syrup
These silky little cakes were inspired by a recipe in Food and Wine Magazine for Cornmeal Pancakes–the brainchild of chefs Daniel Patterson and René Redzepi. The cornmeal lends a subtle crunch to the creamy but cake-like centers. The slight tartness of the blueberries keeps the dish from being overly sweet.
Ingredients
BLUEBERRY THYME SYRUP:
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1 cup maple syrup (Spoil yourself and use the good stuff if you can.)
2 cups blueberries, fresh or frozen
a few fresh thyme sprigs (If you don’t have any thyme on hand, make the syrup without it.)
POLENTA PANCAKES:
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1/2 cup cornmeal
1 1/4 cups cold water
1 1/4 cups milk
1 egg
2 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup white whole wheat flour (or all-purpose)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
zest of 1 lemon
unsalted butter, for the griddle
Preparation
- Put the syrup, blueberries, and thyme springs, if using, into a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer while you make the pancakes. Remove the thyme sprigs just before serving.
- In a medium saucepan, combine the cornmeal and cold water. Bring to a boil, whisking constantly. Simmer over medium heat until thickened, about 4 to 5 minutes.
- In a small bowl, beat together milk, egg, honey, and vanilla. Add to the polenta.
- In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, and lemon zest. Make a well in the center and stir in the polenta custard.
- Heat a large griddle and brush it with butter.
- Ladle enough batter onto the griddle for 4-inch cakes. If the batter is too thick to spread on its own, add a bit more milk. Cook the pancakes over moderate heat until bubbles appear on the surface and the top of the pancake looks dry. Flip the pancakes and cook until puffy and browned on the bottom, about 2 minutes.
- Transfer to warm plates and repeat with remaining batter. Serve with warm blueberry syrup.
Makes 12, 4 to 5-inch pancakes.
Hungry for more sweet breakfast treats? Try these Whole Wheat Pumpkin Pecan Pancakes.
Blue Cheese Tartlets With Fig Jam and Walnuts
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
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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
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Mini muffin pans
Preparation
- Preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly grease the cups of the mini muffin pans, unless you’re using non-stick pans.
- 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.
- Divide the dough into 30 pieces and roll into balls. (If you prefer a more delicate shell, divide the dough into 36 pieces.)
- 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.
- Bake for 15 minutes, until golden brown. Cool in pans for 5 minutes. Remove shells to a wire rack to finish cooling.
- 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.)
- 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.
Of Dreams and Cheddar Pecan Cocktail Biscotti
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
- Preheat the oven to 350°F.
- Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
- In a large bowl whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder, cayenne pepper, and salt. Stir in the grated cheese and pecans.
- In another bowl, combine the eggs, mustard, honey, and 1 tablespoon of milk. Beat until thoroughly blended.
- 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.
- 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.
- Bake for 25-30 minutes, until lightly golden. Cool for 20 minutes.
- Reduce the oven temperature to 300°F.
- 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.
- Cool on a wire rack. Store in an airtight container.
Makes 3-4 dozen.
A Groundhog and Rosemary Rum Raisin Soda Bread
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
- 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.
- When you’re ready to bake the bread, preheat the oven to 375°F.
- Coat a baking sheet with olive oil and lightly dust it with flour, or line it with parchment paper.
- In a large mixing bowl whisk together the flours, baking soda, salt, and rosemary. Stir in the toasted pecans.
- In a separate bowl combine the raisins with the rum, the yogurt, and honey.
- 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.
- 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.).
- 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.
- Bake for 40-45 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean. When you tap the loaf, it will sound hollow.
- Cool on a wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature with a generous slather of butter.
