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    It all looks a little slapdash, I know. A smeared knife, a half-empty ramekin. You can't see the grainy crackers in the background that would give this some context and now you're probably wondering what exactly we're looking at here, anyway. We plowed through that thing so quickly that by the time it registered that I should probably be documenting it for your sakes, it was half-eaten. Would you believe me if I told you that it was the best part of an already delicious Easter lunch?

    It's hard to get better than rosemary-scented roasted lamb, with all its crusty pockets and yieldingly tender meat. It's even harder to best tiny boiled potatoes in their delicate jackets, glistening ever so slightly with a thin coating of freshly melting butter and the grassy flavor of minced parsley. It's practically impossible to top the first asparagus of the season, blistered in spots from a quick run in the oven. Should I mention that we even ended things with a billowing, marshmallowy cheesecake? (More on that next time.)

    And yet it was all we could do to keep from making this fish tapenade our lunch.

    Now, excuse me, but I have to have a word with some of my readers who are giving that first line of ingredients the hairy eyeball, their fingers hovering over their mouse pad, just itching to click away in a flash when the thought of those tiny little fillets gets to be a bit too much for them. I know I've said this before, but I really, really promise you that if you can get over your issues with handling the little suckers, this tapenade doesn't taste fishy in that unpleasant way that I know you're thinking it might. It's smooth and airy and has pleasant depth of flavor. It's subtle, if you can believe it, and creamy and has just the right amount of acidity and balance. Ooh, it's so so good. I would hate for you to miss out on it just because you think you hate anchovies.

    (Now, that might be the most condescending thing I've ever written. Apologies, all. It's not really meant that way. It's just that I've seen, with my very own eyes, anchovy-haters eat things with anchovies in them and freak out with the deliciousness of what they're eating, and so I'd like to help, that's all.)

    I know, if you want, why don't you use this as a gateway to the world of anchovies? Add just one or two to start. Blitz it up and have a quick taste. It needs a little something more, doesn't it? So add a few more. Now you're up to four. Squeeze some more lemon in there, blitz, and taste it again. If you think you've had enough, stop there. If you're surprising yourself by thinking that the tapenade could use a little more oomph, then throw a few more anchovies into the food processor and let down your hair, you wild one.

    Would I lead you astray? You know I wouldn't.

    Fish Tapenade
    Serves 8-10 as an hors d'oeuvre
    Note: Gemma, my friend and upstairs neighbor, is the source of this recipe. She's a nutritionist and thinks the tapenade might be worth attempting without the butter, if anyone is into that kind of experimentation.

    8 oil-packed anchovies, drained
    1 can (6 ounces) chunk light tuna
    7 ounces cream cheese
    4 ounces unsalted butter, cubed
    Juice of 1 lemon
    12 pitted black olives, halved
    1 tablespoon snipped chives, plus more for garnish
    Black pepper to taste

    1. Place all the ingredients in the bowl of a food processor and process until smooth. Spoon into a serving dish and cover with plastic wrap.

    2. Chill the tapenade in the refrigerator for at least one hour. Serve, garnished with snipped chives.

  • Dsc_0050

    Did you all run out to buy buttermilk for those griddle cakes from Edna Lewis? Do you now have a carton of it slouching about in your fridge, wondering if it will be used up before you have to toss it?

    Well, if you're not going to drink a big cold glass of it with your breakfast toast, and frankly that's really more of a hot summer morning thing, here's what you should do with it: make bread. Yes, really. Okay, not really really, but sort of really.

    Instead of spending the next 18 hours waiting for your (admittedly delicious) no-knead dough to proof, just mix that buttermilk with some whole-wheat flour, regular flour, salt, baking soda, and an egg, and – hey presto! – an hour later you'll have a loaf of warm bread. There's no proofing, no rising. Just a simple batter that rises quickly in the oven.

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    Those savvy bakers among you might recognize that the texture and flavor of the bread will be akin to biscuits, albeit more wholesome, nourishing ones, I suppose. So that's what I meant by not really really. This isn't yeast bread, it's soda bread, but it'll do quite nicely if you're in one of those moods where you need something warm and craggy to put a waxy slab of butter on and nothing but fresh bread will do.

    As delicious as it is straight from the oven, you'd better have a few people to help you with the loaf, because it doesn't last for more than a day or two. But while it's fresh and hot, eat the bread with wedges of sharp Cheddar or spread it with good unsalted butter (or good unsalted butter and cherry jam).

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    And in other news, you can now find this site at www.thewednesdaychef.com, so if you feel like updating your bookmarks or links, go for it. The old Typepad address will still continue to work, however, so don't worry about broken links or anything like that. I have to thank the kind and patient Laura at Typepad for helping me with this. Thanks, Laura!

    Irish Brown Bread
    Makes 1 loaf

    3 cups whole wheat flour
    1 cup all-purpose flour
    1 teaspoon baking soda
    1 teaspoon salt
    1 1/4 cups buttermilk
    1 large egg, lightly beaten

    1. Preheat the oven to 375°. Butter an  8-by-5-inch metal loaf pan.

    2. In a large bowl, whisk both flours with the baking soda and salt. In a small bowl, whisk the buttermilk with the egg; stir into the dry ingredients with a wooden spoon until a rough dough forms.

    3. Transfer the dough to a lightly floured work surface and knead until smooth. Form the dough into a loaf and put it in the prepared pan. Bake for about 50 minutes, until the bread has risen about 1/2 inch above the rim of the pan. Once unmolded, the loaf should sound hollow when tapped on the bottom. Let cool to warm or room temperature, then slice and serve.

  • At the Mahane Yehuda market in Jerusalem, I was transfixed by the mountainous piles of dates I saw, lustrous, dark, and sticky. To be sure, we’d seen dates wherever we went in Israel, but the ones at that market seemed particularly glossy and fragrant, just itching to be bought. They bewitched me in the end.

    I bought two sacks of dates. One was filled with the darkest, fattest, juiciest dates I’d ever seen. They promptly got squashed in my luggage and are now a fudgy lump that I have to gingerly pry apart, but when I do, I’m rewarded with soft, yielding fruit that melts in my mouth. The second bag was filled with caramel-colored dates, slightly wrinkled, and hardier than their brethren. They are not the sensuous joy to eat than the other ones are, but they have great flavor, so I think I might cook with them instead.

    Shall I make a Sticky Toffee Pudding? Or this Date-Nut Loaf? Am I missing out on your favorite date recipe? Do you have to tell me about it, quick, before I go wasting those dates on something not worthy enough? Hurry, tell me what to do!

  • Dsc_0005

    No clues from me… Leave your guess in the comments!

  • On our flight back from Israel, I started thinking about keeping a list of life goals. You know, drive the Ring Road, take a tango class in Buenos Aires, learn Arabic, that kind of thing. Then I saw Maggie’s lists and thought it might be nice to share mine with you. So I narrowed my list to just the food-related (loosely, at least) things.

    1. Make cheese from scratch.
    2. Get a little more educated about wine.
    3. Drive up the Pacific Coast Highway to find taco stands like this woman.
    4. Eat plum dumplings in Vienna.
    5. Make my own sourdough.
    6. Take a week-long cooking class in Vietnam.
    7. Master boning and carving a chicken.
    8. Taste raw milk.
    9. Have dinner at Chez Panisse.
    10. Shop at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market every week for a year.
    11. Plant, tend, and eat from a garden.
    12. Pick wild blueberries.
    13. Cook every recipe in Sunday Suppers at Lucques.
    14. Eat a home-cooked meal in Morocco.
    15. Go to Darjeeling during the tea harvest.
    16. Learn to gather honey with beekeepers.
    17. Harvest the olives on my family’s land in Italy.
    18. Run a lunch catering operation out of my kitchen.
    19. Write a cookbook.
    20. Volunteer in a soup kitchen.
    21. Give my children, when I have them, taste memories that will remind them of me when I’m gone.
    22. Eat the roast chicken bread salad at Zuni Cafe.
    23. Work on a farm for a summer.
    24. Host a holiday meal for my family.
    25. Take a jam class with June Taylor.

    It’s neat to read over them and think about which ones will be easy to
    cross off and which ones won’t. Maybe
    I’ll do an update on this a year from now and see how far I got.

    Now it’s your turn. Share a goal or two in the comments, won’t you?

  • Dsc_0123

    I'm sorry I left so abruptly, without warning. I wanted to tell you about these pancakes before we left, I really did, but you know how it goes with these mid-season vacations: they creep up out of nowhere and smack you out of your tired routine with unexpected strength. Before I knew it, I was as far east as I've ever been, in Israel for a week with Ben and some of his family, and you spent two more weekends (two!) without knowing about these pancakes.

    Excuse me, griddle cakes. There. Doesn't that sound even better?

    The batter sturdy and thick, impossibly so, and tangy with buttermilk, the cakes cook up into fluffy, flavorful rounds. A mixture of whole wheat and regular flour gives them added heft. But what really makes them is a gentle dousing in warm berry sauce and cool-from-the-fridge maple syrup.

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    They're our new favorite breakfast. I should tell you that I particularly like them if I've gone to bed reading The Taste of Country Cooking (thanks to Molly for the recommendation) and imagining that I can hear little Virginia birds waking me and my growling tummy in the morning for breakfast. It's somewhat alarming to admit this, but we – the two of us – ate almost all the pancakes, save two, when we made them. So much for freezing leftovers. And for restraint and modesty. Ahem.

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    Sour-Milk Griddle Cakes
    Serves 6

    1 1/2 cups sifted flour
    1/2 cup whole-wheat flour
    1/2 teaspoon salt
    1/2 teaspoon baking soda
    2 teaspoons Royal Baking Powder (see below)
    1 egg, beaten
    1 tablespoon melted butter
    2 cups sour milk or buttermilk

    1. Sift flours, salt, soda, and baking powder into a mixing bowl. Add beaten egg and melted butter. Mix well by stirring. Add milk and stir well. Do not over-mix or the cakes will be tough. The batter will be quite thick.

    2. Pour on sizzling-hot greased griddle in largish spoonfuls. When the cakes become quite puffed and show tiny bubbles, turn and cook a few minutes more. Serve with stewed berries and maple syrup.

    Stewed Berries

    2 cups berries, fresh or frozen (blueberries are what Edna Lewis recommends; I used black raspberries, because they're what I had in the freezer)
    1/3 cup sugar
    1/3 cup water

    1. Place the berries, sugar, and water into a quart saucepan. Set the pan over a medium flame and bring to a boil. Turn the flame down, leaving the berries at a quiet, rather gentle boil for 3 to 4 minutes.

    2. Turn the heat off until the pancakes are ready to serve. Then reheat the berries so they will be hot (do not let them boil) and spoon them onto the cakes. Leftover berry sauce keeps in the fridge and can be used to stir into yogurt or drizzle on ice cream.

    Royal Baking Powder

    Mix 2 parts cream of tartar with 1 part baking soda (for example, 4 teaspoons cream of tartar with 2 teaspoons baking soda). Use quantity as directed in the recipe above. Store the remaining mixture in an airtight container indefinitely.

  • Dsc_0141

    Okay, brace yourselves. This one's going to be short and sweet and to the point. Because we all have something else we should be doing – making these peas. You could be wondering why, and I'll tell you. They're likely the only way I will ever cook frozen peas again.

    Woah. That's a bold statement, I know. It's even making me a little nervous, to bandy about with superlative threats like that. I mean, I like a regular old boiled frozen pea, lacquered with the barest hint of unsalted butter, just fine and all. Who doesn't? In fact, up until last week, that was the only way I ever ate frozen peas. (Well, except for the time when I threw half a bag into a fake chicken tikka masala. Details, details.)

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    But these peas, sweetened and mellowed by a barely-stewed onion and trailing the mystical scent of mint and grassy olive oil, are enough to make me put the butter away and declare myself the president and first official member of the Peas-with-Olive-Oil-and-Mint club. Do you think I should start a themed group on Facebook? Or take out an announcement in the paper? Maybe even hire a plane to write a tribute in the sky?

    I mean, seriously, where have these peas been all my life?

    Not to be a total boss, but I think you should make them for dinner tonight.

    Peas with Olive Oil and Mint
    Serves 2 as a side dish

    4 tablespoons olive oil
    1 1/2 cups frozen green peas
    1 small onion or shallot, sliced into paper-thin rings
    2 sprigs fresh mint
    Salt

    1. Pour the oil into a medium saucepan and add the peas, onion slices, and mint. Add the salt and one tablespoon of water, and cover with a lid. Bring to a boil, then turn down the heat and simmer over low heat for 6 to 7 minutes. Shake the pan occasionally. Serve hot.

  • Dsc_0101

    I find it unendingly ironic that, even though we live in the most diverse borough of New York City where 44% of our neighbors are foreign-born, our choice of good ethnic food for takeout is severely limited. We love Forest Hills, we really do. We love our apartment and our view, our neighborhood grocery stores, and the quiet streets. We love the crusty pizza at Nick’s and the pierogies at Just Like Mother’s. If we’re up for a little journey, we can hop in the car and be the only white people in a stuffed-to-the-gills Korean restaurant or a Chinese dim sum hall or an Indian buffet in just a few minutes.

    But this isn’t really enough.

    What I mean is, we’re New Yorkers. We expect good ethnic food to be brought to us, still hot, in under half an hour. It seems like it should be one of the small benefits of living in New York. Yes, we’ll put up with noise and filth and cramped quarters and expense in return for  old black-and-white movies at Film Forum, the incomparable experience of walking from the West Village to the Lower East Side on a warm spring morning, and authentic immigrant cuisine at a moment’s notice.

    But since we left the aforementioned filth and noise and cramped quarters for the comparative expanse of Queens, does that mean we also forfeited our right to good takeout? Because, surprise or no surprise, Forest Hills has been downright disappointing in that area. We’ve ordered mediocre Thai from the same little place so often that Ben finally told me this weekend that he is officially putting it on the No-Order list, along with the sub-par, yet expensive, Indian down the road, and the creepy Chinese that definitely resembles no other Chinese food I’ve ever come into contact with. And that’s it. That’s all we’ve got. So we’re in a bit of a pickle, I’d say.

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    One that requires taking matters into our own hands. When I read about Irene Wong’s Burmese noodles (can we talk for a minute about how much I am liking this new New York Times column, One Pot?) last week, though, I realized, suddenly gripped by a burning urge to make them, that I could just stop whining and simply make my own takeout.

    And truthfully, in the time it would have taken to make the phone call and then wait for food to be delivered, the dish came together one, two, three. It was delicious: earthy and slick at the same time. At first I thought it odd that the highly seasoned, turmeric-stained chicken (well, er, tofu, actually – I took one liberty there) mixture didn’t get incorporated into the noodles, which were relatively bland upon first tasting them. But then, as we ate, the tastes all started to mix together pleasantly in our bowls and it turned out to be just the right amount of flavors and spice.

    Paired with an ice-cold beer or two you might even start to think that life without takeout is livable, indeed.

    ***

    We’re planning a trip to Israel quite soon and I’m wondering, dear readers, if you have any tips for interesting markets or bakeries or other food-related visits? If so, please leave them in the comments. Thank you!

    Panthay Noodles
    Serves 2

    6 tablespoons canola or other vegetable oil
    Salt and freshly ground black pepper
    7 ounces fresh Asian noodles or dried egg noodles
    5 ounces skinless, boneless chicken thighs or extra-firm tofu, cut into slices 1 1/2 inches long by 1 inch wide by 1/2-inch thick
    1 medium onion, diced
    1 1/2 teaspoons (about 2 cloves) minced garlic
    1 1/2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger
    1 teaspoon curry powder
    1 teaspoon paprika
    2 teaspoons fish sauce
    8 ounces baby bok choy, cut lengthwise into pieces 1 1/2 to 2 inches wide
    1/4 cup peeled, finely slivered carrot
    1/2 cup chopped cilantro leaves
    2 to 4 lemon wedges, for serving 

    1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil
    and add 1 tablespoon oil and a sprinkle of salt. Boil noodles until
    barely tender, 2 to 4 minutes. Drain, rinse thoroughly under cold water
    and drain again. Set aside.

    2. Season
    chicken pieces with 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper; set
    aside. Place a medium skillet over medium heat and add 2 tablespoons
    oil. Add onion, garlic and ginger, and sauté until lightly browned,
    about 2 minutes. Add chicken, curry powder, paprika, fish sauce and 2
    tablespoons water. Cover, reduce heat to low and simmer until chicken
    is cooked, about 5 minutes. Turn off heat and keep warm.

    3.
    Place a large skillet over medium heat and add remaining 3 tablespoons
    oil. Add bok choy and sauté until wilted, 3 to 5 minutes. Season with a
    pinch of salt and pepper. Add carrots and noodles and sauté until well
    heated, 2 to 3 minutes. Adjust salt and pepper to taste.

    4.
    To serve, divide noodle mixture between two warm plates. Top each
    portion with half the chicken mixture. Garnish with cilantro and lemon
    wedges.

  • Dsc_0027

    Languorous cooking times, afternoons spent in the kitchen, and a honorary membership to the Slow Food movement may be all well and good, but give me quick, something-out-of-nothing meals that come together in less time than it takes to make a plate of pasta and I'll be seduced, every time.

    Who hasn't stood in front of their fridge with the door open, stomach rumbling and hands feeling trembly with hunger, wishing that a little bewinged creature trailing pixie dust would swoop in, pluck out all the edible bits and pieces, and conjure up a quick meal in less time than it takes to say "I believe in fairies!"?

    Just this past week, I have made bread in less than an hour (honest-to-God – more on that next time), fragrant lentil stew in under thirty minutes (red lentils, people, they're the ticket), and then these mushrooms – culled, nearly-forgotten, from the bottom of the fridge – in almost no time at all.

    It's like I've been charmed, or something.

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    Lightly glazed with their own juices fortified by a splash of wine, a fillip of lemon juice, and a smattering of coriander seed, the mushrooms have a luscious, silky-firm quality that belies the speed with which they were cooked, and a hauntingly delicate flavor. The dish comes together so fast it will surprise you – you might barely have time to open your mail, grill bread and set the table.

    But what a relief, then, to sit down so soon after you started, and have a meal, a good one. No bowl of cereal, no peanut butter-smeared water crackers, no desperate dialing to the mediocre take-out place. Though we ate ours plain and unadorned except for the parsley, I think a softly poached egg would be spectacular on top, the swirling yolk enriching the flavors and adding ballast to the meal.

    Real fast food*, indeed.

    *With thanks to NS for that one.

    Mushrooms à la Grecque
    Serves 4

    1/2 pound small white button mushrooms
    1/2 pound small cremini mushrooms
    1/4 cup dry white wine
    1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
    2 tablespoons olive oil
    1 teaspoon coriander seeds
    Salt to taste
    Freshly ground pepper to taste
    8 slices country white bread, for grilling (you might like brushing a peeled garlic clove ever-so-lightly over the bread)
    2 teaspoons finely chopped parsley

    1. Slice off and discard the mushroom stems. Rinse and drain the mushrooms. If the mushroom caps are larger than three-quarters inch in diameter, cut them in half vertically. Put the mushrooms, wine, lemon juice, olive oil, coriander seeds and one-fourth cup water in a 3 1/2 – or 4-quart pot. Cover the pot and bring to a simmer over medium heat, gently shaking the pan a few times during the first few minutes of cooking. Simmer gently, covered, for 12 minutes to cook through.

    2. Using a slotted spoon, remove the mushrooms from the pot and put them into a bowl to cool. Return the mushroom liquid to a good simmer, adding any remaining liquid that the resting mushrooms have released back to the pan to reduce. Simmer until the liquid is reduced to one-fourth cup, then remove from the heat.

    3. Pour the reduced liquid over the mushrooms and season with salt and pepper. Cool to room temperature. The recipe to this point can be made ahead and the mushrooms stored, refrigerated, for 1 to 2 days.

    4. Heat a grill over medium heat. Grill both sides of the bread until lightly browned. Divide the mushrooms with the juices among four small bowls. Sprinkle each with fresh parsley and serve with the bread.

  • Dsc_0079

    I normally am not a fussy-cookie kind of girl. I like them plain and simple, dropped from the edge of a spoon. A bit of vanilla extract here, or a few good chunks of chocolate there, a sparkle from buckwheat flour or a nubby bit of ginger, and that's all. The crunchier the better, since those kinds are best dipped in tea, but I'm democratic: I'll eat them even if they're soft and chewy. I guess the only requirement I have is that they be easy to make. I spent one evening before Christmas years ago awake all night dealing with the nightmare that is the production of Zimtsterne and while I love those little things with a hot, burning passion, I will never make them again. Uh-uh, life's too short.

    So while the idea of homemade fig newtons always appealed to me, the reality of all that cooking and processing and rolling and filling seemed like far too much work for such a layabout like me.

    And then. (There's always that, isn't there?)

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    I had express instructions to myself to do nothing – but nothing – this past weekend. To stay home, keeping the kitchen warm, detaching from every single possible thing outside the confines of the four walls of my apartment. But you know, five hours of cooking meat sauce only takes you so far. Plus, I happened to have all the requirements for a homemade fig newton in the house already, meaning I wouldn't have to leave the house for a single thing. (I told you I was lazy.) And then I considered the fact that, since I refuse to eat commercial fig newtons anymore, I haven't had one since my freshman year in college. Which is far, far too long to have gone without a fig bar, wouldn't you say?

    I'd even argue that the fig-filled cookie is one of America's greatest contributions to the cookie lexicon. (Or perhaps the derivative hermit.) Along with the graham cracker and the chocolate chip cookie, of course. Am I leaving something out?

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    Anyway, all of this to say that, yes, fig bars are more work than a simple drop cookie. But they are also worth that work if you have an afternoon to spare, one in which the skies darken prematurely – requiring cuddles and cookies to keep you warm. (I happen to think fig bars are paired best with a glass of cold, cold milk. Biscotti can have their hot tea. Newtons need their milk.) Plus, while they are more work, they are not necessarily harder work, which can be an important differentiation.

    The vanilla-speckled dough (so, so pretty) is flecked with little shreds of orange peel and the luscious fig filling (of which, luckily, there is too much, so you can eat it for breakfast on toast or stirred into yogurt all week long) is crunchy and aromatic and just exactly what you'd imagine a homemade fig newton to be filled with.

    If it at all possible, and I know that it might not be, try to resist eating all the newtons at once. Because kept overnight, they sort of transmogrify into an even better version of themselves – the cookie softens somewhat, the filling squidges just so. The different parts of their anatomy all sort of coalesce perfectly in the night, leaving you with the best newton you ever ate – yielding, fragrant, simple, delicious.

    You might find yourself converted then, as fussy-cookie-loving a girl as they come.

    Fig Bars
    Makes 40 (1-inch) cookies
    Note: This recipe makes more fig purée than is needed for the cookies; the extra can be spread on toast and will keep for 1 week refrigerated.

    1 cup (12 ounces) finely chopped dried Black Mission figs, packed
    1 cup apple juice
    3/4 cup sugar, divided
    1/8 plus  1/2  teaspoon grated orange zest, divided
    1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, softened
    1 large egg white
    Seeds scraped from 1/2 vanilla bean
    1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
    1 1/2 cups flour

    1. In a medium saucepan, combine the chopped figs, 1 1/2 cups of water, apple juice and one-fourth cup of sugar and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low and cook at a bare simmer for 1 hour, until the figs are so soft that they're spreadable. Transfer to a food processor fitted with the steel blade, add one-eighth teaspoon orange zest and process until smooth. Remove and allow to cool to room temperature.

    2. While the figs are cooking, cream together the butter, remaining one-half cup sugar and one-half teaspoon orange zest in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or in a large bowl with a hand mixer) for 2 to 3 minutes on medium speed. Scrape down the bowl and paddle or beaters. Add the egg white, vanilla bean seeds and vanilla extract and beat in. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and the paddle. Add the flour and beat on low speed until the dough comes together. Shape the dough into a flat rectangle, wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours.

    3. Place racks in the middle and lower third of the oven and heat the oven to 350. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper.

    4. Unwrap the dough and center it on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper measuring 12 inches by 16 inches. Lightly flour the surface of the dough and place a large piece of plastic wrap over the dough to prevent it from sticking while it is rolled out. Roll out the dough to the dimensions of the parchment; it will be less than one-eighth-inch thick.

    5. Cut the dough lengthwise into four (12-by-4-inch) strips. Spoon a line of filling down the center of each strip, leaving one-half-inch of room on either side. To roll the dough over the filling: Gently lift the long edge of the parchment under the first strip and roll it, along with the dough, over the filling, carefully peeling the parchment away as you go. You should have a sort of log-shaped roll. Because the dough is thin, it may crack; if this happens, allow the dough to sit so it warms a little, then try again, being gentle and using the parchment under the dough to force it to fold over. When the roll is complete, gently slide a flat cookie sheet under the log and transfer it to the parchment-lined cookie sheet. Pinch the ends of the log closed. Repeat with the three remaining strips, placing 2 logs lengthwise per cookie sheet.

    6. Using a serrated knife, slice each log on the diagonal into 10 cookies. Bake, rotating the baking sheets from top to bottom and from front to back halfway through, for 20 to 25 minutes, until golden. Remove from the oven and allow to cool on a rack. The bars will keep, stored airtight, for 2 days.