Bob Vivant

Mindfulness and Black Pepper Oatcakes

March 2, 2012

tags: emmycooks, self-doubt, yoga, yummy with Champagne, yummy with cheese, Zen

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:

GLAZE (optional):

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

February 24, 2012

tags: crossword puzzles, dancing, Daniel Patterson, Food and Wine Magazine, music, René Redzepi

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:

(Spoil yourself and use the good stuff if you can.)

(If you don’t have any thyme on hand, make the syrup without it.)

POLENTA PANCAKES:

(or all-purpose)

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

February 17, 2012

tags: Craig Claiborne, Fig Newtons, Gorgonzola, Gourmet, Lawry's, New York Times Cookbook, nostalgia, Pierre Franey, Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies, yummy with Champagne

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

fig jam

(optional)

Equipment

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

February 10, 2012

tags: Dorie Greenspan, dreams, fear, Food and Wine Magazine, Freud, Jung, Robert Brault, yummy with Champagne

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

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

February 1, 2012

tags: 101cookbooks, boozy, even better with butter, Ground Hog Day, Heidi Swanson, Lesley Stowe, prognosticating rodent, Punxsutawney Phil, Raincoast Crisps, spring

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

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.

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

Curried Coconut Cashew Rice Krispies Treats

January 26, 2012

tags: ambrosia, Food and Wine Magazine, Food Rules, Michael Pollan, nostalgia, Rice Krispies, The Violet Hour, yummy with Champagne

As a kid, Rice Krispies Treats were indeed a treat, and a rare one at that. I marveled at how something so simple–just three ingredients–and something so easy–ready in ten minutes–could make me swoon. It was my first lesson in the concept of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts though I doubt my ten-year-old self would have described it that way. Adding to the mystique of the treats was the fact that I didn’t care much for marshmallows unless they were blistered in a camp fire with gooey, molten centers guaranteed to burn the roof of my mouth. Now that is a marshmallow. The slippery amorphous goobers buried in my aunt’s unnaturally green pistachio fluff could easily trip my gag reflex. Ditto for the ambrosia salad that found its way onto every family buffet table (Marshmallows and sour cream? Really?). Even worse was the discovery of mini marshmallows suspended like flotsam in the one food I’ve loved to hate for four decades–Jello.

…I went to college. Fell in love. Lost my dad. Got a real job. Moved to Florida. Fell in love again. Went back to college. Had my heart broken into a million pieces. Got a big girl job. Moved to South Carolina. Got another boyfriend. Moved to Chicago. Got a new job and a new boyfriend….

My beloved Rice Krispies Treats fell between the cracks somewhere between Pittsburgh and Chicago. When I had the time, occasion, or adequate kitchen space to make something sweet I gravitated towards baked goods–cookies, cakes, and brownies, the kind of sweets that could fill my tiny living spaces with the scents of chocolate and vanilla and make a 450-square-foot apartment feel like a home. The simple pleasure of my favorite simple marshmallow treat was all but forgotten.

…I fell in love for what I thought would be the last time. Bought a house. Lost my mom. Got married. Got a better job. Went back to college for the third time. Damn near got divorced. Quit my fat job….

One night in 2008, one magical night at the Violet Hour, I was reunited with my first love–Rice Krispies Treats. My eyes told me they were the sweet transcendental treats I’d loved as a child, but my mouth filed a very different report. The squares were sweet, crunchy, and slightly chewy exactly as I had remembered them, but these treats were savory with a surprising bit of heat. I immediately reached for another and then another trying to crack the code of flavors that were exploding in my mouth. Curry!

I’ve made and tweaked my version of curried Krispies treats a dozen times since the night they first blew my mind, starting with the recipe that appeared in Food and Wine Magazine shortly after my Violet Hour visit.

I know, I know, marshmallows are made from lots of the ingredients that Michael Pollan (a man I have nothing but respect for, the same man who taught me that if I’m not hungry enough to eat an apple then I’m not really hungry) and others say we should avoid. I’ve tried with limited, unsatisfying success to make these treats without marshmallows. A mix of egg whites, sugar, and a bit of flour will do the job of holding the rice and nuts together, but the squares are brittle and crumble with the first bite. Yes, I’ve considered making my own marshmallows, but that wrecks the inherent simplicity of these no-bake sweets. For now, I’m sticking with the marshmallows. Besides they’re called “treats” for a reason.

Curried Coconut Cashew Rice Krispies Treats

For road trips I make these in a 9×9-inch pan and cut them into 3-inch square monster treats. For cocktail parties I use a 9×13-inch pan to create bite-sized squares that are perfect companions for a glass of bubbly. Want to glam them up a bit? Try drizzling the squares with melted white chocolate.

Ingredients

You can substitute butter.

yellow curry

Preparation

Lightly grease a 9×13-inch pan with coconut oil.
In a large saucepan melt 3 tablespoons of coconut oil over low heat. Add curry, salt, and marshmallows and stir until the marshmallows are completely melted. Remove from heat.
Add vanilla, coconut, cashews, and rice cereal. Stir until well coated.
Using lightly oiled hands or waxed paper evenly press the mixture into the prepared pan. Let cool at room temperature.
Cut into 1-inch squares and serve.

Makes 9-10 dozen.

White Space and Milk Jam (Confiture de Lait)

January 17, 2012

tags: patience, snow, Viktor E. Frankl, winter

White. In all directions. White.

I’m adrift in a sea of white. My empty porcelain mug. The blanket of snow covering the herb garden that only a week ago was offering me fresh mint and thyme. The milk and sugar simmering in the pan on the stove. The blank page before me, full of promise of what might be, of what I might be. The snow too is making its own promise, a permission slip to go slow and to stay inside. A need to venture out to the market is replaced by a longing to raid my pantry and fridge.

I stare at the falling snow and then the page, then back again at the snow. A black cat approaches from the alley. I scurry to the door and rapidly tap the cold glass with my knuckles to frighten him away, not wanting anything to mar the pristine blanket just outside my door. My warm chair welcomes me back. The blank page is still waiting. I’m reminded of my favorite Viktor E. Frankl quote, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

I’m lingering now in that space. It feels like a long, deep inhalation.

The garage door opens, and Greg slowly makes his way from the garage to the house. His six-foot frame looks small amid the snow drifts. With each step he perforates the lovely blanket. It’s time now to exhale. I fill my mug with hot coffee; its contrast against the white porcelain is unsettling. I plop a vanilla bean into the simmering pot of milk. I pick up my pen and put it to the paper.

Confiture de Lait (Milk Jam)

Confiture de Lait or Milk Jam is a French confection hailing from the region of Normandy. It’s often confused for and compared to the Latin American milk caramel dulche de leche. Both are made with sweetened milk, but confiture de lait is made with vanilla.

Do pardon the hyperbole, but this stuff may be the single best spoonful of anything you ever put into your mouth. As the silky caramel melts across your tongue, every receptor in your brain will flash, “more, more, more.” Spread it on bread or a fresh from the oven vanilla scone. Drizzle a warm ladleful over a bowl of butter pecan ice cream. Drown your poached pear in it. Or simply enjoy it by the spoonful right from the jar. The downside to all this deliciousness is that it’s an excruciating exercise in patience. A “quick” batch can take two hours and will likely be lumpy though every bit as satisfying as a “slower and lower” batch.

Ingredients

Preparation

Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan.
Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then immediately reduce heat to the lowest setting–just below a simmer. The lower the heat, the longer the cooking time, and the smoother the caramel. (If the heat is too high, a shiny skin will form on top of the caramel. This skin will make the jam lumpy. If this happens, don’t despair; simply give the finished jam a quick whirl in the blender to eliminate all signs of your impatience.)
Stir every 20 minutes for the first hour or two. Each time you stir, press the vanilla bean against the side of the pan and scrape the vanilla seeds that accumulate there back into the milk.
Once the jam begins to thicken, stir every 5-10 minutes to prevent scorching.
When the caramel is the consistency of melted chocolate turn off the heat. The caramel will thicken as it cools. (If it’s thicker than you prefer after it cools, simply reheat it and thin it with milk or bourbon or any spirit that pairs well with caramel.)
Remove the vanilla bean. Scrape it with a knife and stir the remaining vanilla seeds into the milk jam.
Whisk or blend until smooth and glossy.
Spoon into sterile jars. Cover when completely cool and refrigerate. The milk jam will keep for several months in sealed jars.

Makes about 2 cups.

Want more gooey caramel goodness? Try these Sea Salt Vanilla Caramels or Salted Caramel Pecan Cheesecakes.

New Year, Same Me and Rosemary and Orange Magdalenas

January 9, 2012

tags: balance, madeleines, New Year's Resolutions, perfect partner for coffee, Spain

Recipes for brothy soups, kale salads, and hearty grain dishes have smacked me in the face at every turn ever since the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve. To my horror, one of my favorite baking and pastry bloggers even posted a recipe for chicken soup.

Enough!

I love a piping hot bowl of miso soup (especially when it precedes a platter of hamachi sushi partnered with a generous dollop of brilliant wasabi). Kale in any form–roasted chips or shredded with apples in a salad–tickles my food fancy. And hearty grains have been a part of my regular diet for years now.

My growing resentment is rooted in the stark contrast between these “healthful” foods and the butter-laden ones I spent the last two weeks indulging in. I’m a big fan of grapefruit, but I can’t pretend to be excited about it for breakfast when I’ve been feasting on shortbread with my coffee for days on end. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to say good-bye to mid-week, mid-day champagne toasts (for now). And while my ill-fitting jeans say otherwise, I simply can’t muster up the gumption required to jump on the detox bandwagon this year. Yes, it’s hard to resist the New Year’s hype and the promise of a New Year and a New You. Last year Greg and I jumped on the wagon with a thud, ringing in 2011 with a raw food cleanse. Raw food, of course, equaled cold food, and suffice to say that cold salads and lukewarm tomato sauce in January can do more harm than good specifically to your relationship with your mate. We lasted four days on cold soups before throwing in that towel of good intentions.

This year I’m not buying the hype. Several of my close friends and family members were touched by sickness and tragedy as 2011 drew to a close, which suddenly made many of my New Year’s resolutions seem downright petty. New Year, New You? I’m not sure I want a new me. Arguably the old me isn’t perfect and has ample room for improvement. But instead of changes, drastic or otherwise, what I really need is to embrace the imperfections and the old me. Living on shortbread and champagne is sadly unsustainable. And for me, so is living on a daily dose of pink grapefruit. What I’m really seeking is the balance between the two. We’ve returned to our go-to, pre-holiday breakfast of peanut butter and a smidge of jam smeared on homemade whole grain toast. I’m saving my grapefruits for a new marmalade recipe I’m itching to try. For dinner we’ve eliminated the meat centerpieces and “roast beasts”, instead warming our spirits and over-stretched tummies with steaming bowls of garlicky cannellini beans and broccoli raab with a few chunks of Italian sausage thrown in for good measure.

These lovely magdalenas (Spanish “cupcakes” typically enjoyed for breakfast) are another nod to balance. They’re light and slightly sweet. And they’re made with olive oil rather than butter. Magdalenas are also small, which makes them the perfect guilt-free sweet to enjoy as you continue to ween yourself off of salted caramels and fudge.

Here’s to a peaceful, prosperous, and healthy new year rich with good tidings, good friends, and good food. Cheers!

Rosemary and Orange Magdalenas

Magdalenas are considered by some to be the Spanish cousins of the famed French madeleines. Country of origin aside, the biggest difference is that magdalenas are made with olive oil while madeleines are made with butter. I’m an equal opportunity baker: I baked my mini Spanish cakes in a French madeleine pan.

Ingredients

Equipment

madeleine pan

Preparation

In a small bowl whisk together the flour, salt and baking powder.

In a large bowl whisk the eggs and sugar until pale yellow and thick. (I used an electric mixer with a whisk attachment.)

Beat in honey, vanilla, orange blossom water, rosemary, orange zest, and olive oil. Gently fold in dry ingredients.
Cover bowl with plastic wrap and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Coat the insides and rim of a madeleine pan with olive oil.
Fill the cups of your pan almost full with batter. (Each cup of my madeleine pan holds one tablespoon of batter.)
Bake for 8-10 minutes or until the cakes spring back when pressed lightly. Invert immediately onto a dry, clean towel. (If you turn them onto a wire rack, you’ll likely end up with some unsightly dimples on your delicate treats.)
Cool completely. Dust with powdered sugar before serving.