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James Peterson’s Mushrooms à la Grecque

February 22, 2008

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.

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.
Sherry Yard’s Fig Bars

February 20, 2008

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?)

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?

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.
Marco Canora’s Beef Bolognese

February 18, 2008

I suppose it's true that every Italian has their version of ragu, a long-simmered meat sauce to be tossed with fresh pasta or layered in lasagna. And all of them (us) think their version is the best, the only one worth spending five hours in the kitchen for, the sauce to end all sauces. (Not all Italians actually make this sauce themselves; they wait until they're home for a visit and it gets made in their honor, further elevating ragu into the stratosphere of heaven-sent manna.) Some people have had their recipes passed down in the family, from great-grandmother to grandmother to mother and so on. But others, like me, got their recipe through other means, like abject begging.

You see, my mother and grandmother, well, they aren't/weren't big cooks. I don't have any recipes in my arsenal that came from my grandmother (unless you count a simple tomato sauce made with onions and carrots that is still the subject of ample controversy between my mother and father. My father insists that my grandmother taught him how to make it; my mother says he's crazy for thinking my grandmother could have ever taught anyone any recipe, ever.). And my mother is so uninterested in what happens in the kitchen that it's probably still a marvel to her that I have ostensibly made my career around the subject.

So when the time came for me to start making my own ragu (sometime in college, this was. Yes, I know, some people spend those years getting high and finding themselves; I started building my recipe arsenal.), I turned outside the family to our dear friend, Gabriella. Gabriella is from Bologna and is possibly, besides my Sicilian uncle, the best cook I know. (You should have yourself invited over to her place sometime when she's making an all-fish dinner. Or a Marchigianian meal. Or, frankly, even just stuffed tomatoes. Good lord.) One summer evening in Torre, I sat next to her and took notes as she carefully told me how to make her meat sauce. And then I went back to the States and proceeded to make it – over and over and over again – until I committed it to memory.

It's "my" sauce now and I love it. It reminds me of my family and Gabriella's and our summers together and my childhood. It makes Ben smile with his mouth full and my friends clamor for the recipe and generally, it's one of the things I know how to make that I'm proudest of.

But you know this post isn't about that sauce. This post is about someone else's sauce. I'll be honest, I'm not really in the market for a new meat sauce. I'm pretty happy with the one I've got. But then I went and read about Marco Canora (he of the addictive red cabbage) and his grandmother's sauce and the fact that it ends up the consistency of pudding (the mind boggles) and before I knew it, there was a little kernel of curiosity planted within me. Plus, I had explicit plans to do nothing but stay home and nest on Saturday. This would give me something to do.

And, boy, did it ever.

Getting the sauce to the point where you just let it simmer for three hours takes more than an hour. You slowly, carefully build layers of flavor – soffritto, minced garlic, diced pancetta, then beef. There's tomato paste and canned tomatoes, red wine and whole milk, even meat stock. It's quite impressive. The sauce gets thicker and richer with each stir. But what puzzled me was the complete lack of herbs: no parsley, no bay leaf. So I decided to add one bay leaf to the pot. After two hours, I felt guilty about it and took it out again. This was Marco's grandmother's sauce, after all, and I wasn't supposed to be messing with it.

The sauce does indeed become quite pudding-y. It practically quivers. It's very rich, and thick with meat. Someone remarked that it tasted like meat sauce made with pot roast and there is something to that. It's as if the sauce took apart the meat, altered the flavor molecules, and then stitched it back together again. It's darn good, I have to say, and makes an impressive amount, which is a relief because then at least you have some leftovers of your hard labor to put in the freezer.

But it almost doesn't matter than this sauce was as tasty as could be. I missed "my" sauce. I missed the minced parsley and the bay leaf. I didn't like the gaminess of the pancetta or the addition of minced garlic. Nothing against Marco or his grandmother, but I think these things end up being more than just a matter of taste, don't you think? They're about family and memory and love and tradition and other intangibles.

I know it's absolutely cruel to leave you hanging without a recipe for my meat sauce. I promise I'll write a post on it soon, maybe even combine it with a post about lasagna (in which I shall rail against the forces of evil who made millions of Americans think it's supposed to be made with part-skim ricotta or some such travesty). In the meantime, try Marco's sauce. And try Marcella's. Fiddle with them a bit until what you've got is your very own. Make that sauce so often that it becomes a tradition. Someone's favorite recipe. Something you pass on to your children or your children's children, or the daughter of a friend who always likes sitting near you when you cook, being watchful and quiet, absorbing every little thing you do.

You might realize, then, that food, in a way, immortalizes you.

Beef Bolognese
Serves 6 with leftover sauce

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 ½ cups finely chopped onions
¾ cup finely chopped celery
¾ cup finely chopped carrots
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 clove garlic, minced
1 pound ground beef
1/3 pound pancetta, finely chopped
1 1/3 cups tomato paste
1 ½ cups whole milk
2 cups red wine
2 2/3 cups whole canned tomatoes, drained of juices and torn
2 cups meat stock
Pappardelle, cooked al dente
Grated Parmesan

1. Combine the butter and olive oil in a large, heavy pot set over medium heat. When hot, add the onions, celery and carrots, season with salt and pepper and cook, stirring frequently, until the vegetables start to brighten in color, about 20 minutes.

2. Add the garlic, and just before it starts to brown, add the beef and pancetta. Season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the meat is thoroughly browned, about 25 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and cook for 5 minutes. Add the milk and cook at a lively simmer until the milk is absorbed, 5 to 10 minutes. Add the wine and simmer until the pan is almost dry.

3. Stir in the tomatoes and the stock, scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook for 3 hours, stirring occasionally. Skim the fat off the surface. Toss with al dente pappardelle and serve with grated Parmesan.
Calling All Creatives

February 16, 2008

Through some stroke of incredible good fortune (or plain dumb luck), I seem to have been blessed with a super-fancy account upgrade (free of charge!) over at Typepad.

God only knows what possessed them (something about me being dedicated and -er- influential, my heavens), but before they come to their senses and take all the glory of Advanced Template Hooha and Total User Control Thingy away, I figure I might as well make something of it.

Which brings me to you, dear readers and commenters and lurkers (I know you’re out there, you silent masses, don’t think I don’t seeeee youuuuu). I know absolutely diddly squat about design and Photoshop and making pretty banners and other such hallmarks of a personal Weblog run by someone who actually knows what h-t-m-l stands for. I’ve always just used a plain old Typepad template because it was easy to use and I didn’t have to lift a finger besides choosing a design that looked simplest/plainest/therefore prettiest and then clicking on a "save changes" button.

(Yes, it’s true – I know absolutely nothing about The Internet.)

But I have been bored for a while, itching for a site design that is a little more personal, a little less cookie cutter. Something simple and subtle and pretty, yes! But also something that is all my own. I think we can probably all agree that I/we could use a change around here. Yes?

So.

Hrrm.

Do you have any advice? Tips? Art direction? Are any of you people out there designer-bloggy types who would be willing to share your wisdom? Or actual help? Perhaps some of you have been sitting on your hands each time you read a post from me, wishing you could reach through the computer screen and rearrange fonts/photos/colors/banners/the-whole-damn-thing-so-help-you-God?

If so, please leave me a comment or send me an email. Let’s talk. I need your help.

(Let’s discuss incentivization – Ben told me that was a real word and so I’m using it – offline, though I can already tell you that it will certainly include lots and lots of cookies. Homemade by me. Swear to God.)
Anya von Bremzen’s Potato Soup with Fried Almonds

February 13, 2008

I've just checked weather.com and according to the map over there, not a single part of the continental United States has any sun right now. (Darn Hawaii.) So let's all take a collective breath and remember, February is the shortest month of the year for a reason.

It is nasty out there today – New York City's streets have those all-too-familiar rain ponds at every street corner and the wind keeps whipping the rain horizontally, so it sneaks under your flabby umbrella and smacks you (gently) in the face. It's one thing to have velvety snow falling in large clumps and turning a loud city into a muffled wonderland. It's another entirely to wake up to flooded subways and dank, drippy shoes.

If I could, I'd stay home on days like today, baking bread and futzing around the apartment in felted slippers, planning trips to warmer climes. Instead, I've decided to just give myself up to the cold and wet. Such is winter, such is life. Why fight it? It'll be gone before too long. I'm grateful right now that I have pretty pink tulips in a vase to come home to, smooth wooden floors underfoot in the morning that feel so fresh and cool, and pure sunshine in the form of potato soup to warm me.

Sunshine? Potato soup? Come again?

My readers in Germany will probably be as perplexed as I was when I first saw this soup come together. After all, we're used to potato soup being a wan and wintry sort of thing. Flecked with parsley and small discs of hot dogs, Kartoffelsuppe is delicious, no doubt, but not a stunner in the looks department. It's rib-sticking in a way that is absolutely essential in the dark winter months, but I wouldn't exactly call it sultry.

This soup, however? Practically flaunts its hot, sunny curves in a mini-bikini by comparison. This is Spain's answer to that northern stuff. Instead of onions and Wuerstchen, it has garlic and silky Serrano. Instead of pallid milk or cream for thickening, it has toasted almonds pulverized to a chewy grit. Shot through and through with gossamer shards of saffron, ground finely in the palm of your hand, this potato soup is gutsy and brazen. It parades around on peep-toe stilettos, shows off its admirable cleavage, practically throws itself at you.

It is, pardon me, the sexiest soup I've ever eaten.

Make it, and your house, so cold when you first came home, will warm quickly with the scent of fried garlic, toasting almonds, and shreds of Serrano giving up their porky oils to the pan. Eat it, scraping the bottom of the bowl most impolitely, and you'll feel your cheeks flush. The texture is both silky and coarse, and the flavor (the flavor!) is irresistibly complex. I don't think I've enjoyed dinner this much in a long time.

Just watch out: it might make you do things you can't be held responsible for afterwards, like booking a last-minute flight to Barcelona. Such is the power of soup like this. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Potato Soup With Fried Almonds
Serves 4 as an appetizer, or 2 for supper

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup whole blanched almonds
6 large garlic cloves
1/3 cup finely diced Serrano ham
1 1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, cut into irregular 1 1/2-inch chunks
4 cups chicken broth
1 pinch saffron, pulverized in a mortar
Salt and pepper
2 teaspoons sherry vinegar (or more to taste)
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

1. Heat the olive oil in a 3-quart saucepan over medium heat. Add the almonds and garlic and cook until golden, 5 minutes. Spoon out the almonds and garlic; reserve. Add the ham to the pan and cook for 1 minute. Add the potatoes and cook for another minute. Pour in the chicken broth and bring to a boil, skimming off any foam that rises to the surface. Reduce the heat and simmer.

2. In a food processor, grind the almonds and garlic. Add all but 2 tablespoons to the soup. Steep the saffron in a few tablespoons of the soup broth for 2 minutes; then add to the soup. Season with salt and pepper and cook until about half the potatoes have disintegrated, about 35 minutes. Skim the soup regularly.

3. Using the back of a spoon, crush some of the potatoes to thicken the soup. Add the vinegar to the reserved garlic mixture and stir it into the soup. Add the parsley. Cook for a minute. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Gabrielle Hamilton’s Chickpea Salad with Four-Minute Eggs

February 10, 2008

I don't know if it's the cold weather or the darkness or the fact that I'm feeling lazier than usual, but we have been subsisting almost entirely on pantry staples for over a week now. Normally, I go to the grocery store almost every day, just to pick up a fresh bundle of greens or a grapefruit or two, a little bit of fish or chicken, or to get quick inspiration from the aisles before I trundle home. But it's been a rough week, I guess, and I haven't had the energy or the stamina for that. So instead I'm working through the cans and sacks in the kitchen and whatever I can find in the crisper drawer or the fridge.

Nigel Slater's Real Fast Food has been helping us out nicely – I made a seriously abbreviated and yet totally delectable Chicken Tikka Masala on Wednesday that had us hunched over our plates in glee, though we ate it up so quickly I couldn't take a photo for you; and I've got big plans for a bag of frozen peas and an onion come Monday or Tuesday. (The excitement! I know, you can barely stand it.) There are other things, too – our old workhorse: pasta with tomato sauce, and our new favorite, Molly and Brandon's black beans, which has been our Saturday lunch for the past three weeks and counting.

(It's kind of amazing, all the things you can do with well-stocked cupboards and some inspiration…)

And then there is this chickpea salad, which does an amazing job of cleaning out your entire fridge (what do you mean, you don't have a bundle of parsley, a handful of green olives, a couple of eggs, and some dodgy-looking radishes hanging around like a bunch of thugs in the back? Who are you?) in addition to tasting pretty darn good, packing a nutritional punch and looking much like spring on a plate, which is a highly desirable thing in the miserable depths of winter when all you can do is think long and hard about how uncomfortably hot it will surely get, once again, just be patient, mmhm, mmhm.

You layer smashed and unsmashed chickpeas, dressed with a sharp lemon vinaigrette, with a spiky little salad of parsley leaves, quartered radishes, green olives and some scallions for good measure (though those were the one things that I didn't have, and I wasn't exactly going to go out and buy some, was I, so I did without – you can, too). Then you balance wobbly eggs cooked to molten-yolk perfection on top. With crusty bread waiting in the sidelines, you gleefully use your fork to split open the egg and watch the yolk ooze around the plate, dressing the salad with its sweet, sticky, yellow self.

It's quite a strange little meal, and I mean that in the best way possible. It's a kitchen-sink salad, and though I don't usually like kitchen-sink salads, this one's different, somewhat special, weird and funky, strange but tasty. More than anything, it's fresh. Which might seem funny considering that all of the ingredients had been knocking around my kitchen for longer than anyone would care to think, but that's the odd genius of it.

So tell me, readers: what are your favorite pantry meals? What do you cook when you just can't bear going outside to the store again and you have to make do with what you've got?

Chickpea Salad with Four-Minute Eggs
Serves 4

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper
One 19-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
2/3 cup small green olives, pitted
10 small red radishes, quartered
2 cups flat-leaf parsley leaves
3 scallions, white and light green parts, finely chopped
4 large eggs, at room temperature

1. In a medium bowl, whisk the lemon juice with 4 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. In another medium bowl, lightly crush half of the chickpeas; mix in the whole chickpeas. Add half of the vinaigrette to the chickpeas and toss. Add the olives, radishes, parsley and scallions to the rest of the vinaigrette and toss. Spoon the chickpea salad onto 4 plates and top with the parsley salad.

2. Bring a medium saucepan of water to a boil. Add the eggs and boil over moderately high heat for 4 minutes. Drain, then rinse the eggs under cool water for 1 minute. Using the back of a spoon, gently crack the eggs all over and peel the shell off.

3. Set an egg on each salad and drizzle with the remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Sprinkle the salads with salt and pepper and serve immediately.
Banana Chocolate Walnut Bread

January 31, 2008

I know it's only Thursday. I know we technically have a whole new day to get through before we can collapse in good conscience. But in the last four days, I've battled a fever and a cold and a smattering of seriously evil hormonal swings, so I've decided that this week is done. Done and over with. Move along, week. We've had enough of you here. Wake us up when it's next week and we can go back to speaking, walking, and living like normal people again.

If you've not yet been stricken by this miserable plague making the rounds of the Tri-State area, bless your lucky stars, then rush rush rush into the kitchen to bake something, preferably this banana cake. Trust me, it'll be the one bright and shiny spot in an otherwise miserable week when you, too, are felled by this winter ailment and need to eat something other than yet another half a grapefruit, a dusty Ricola lozenge, and that never-ending thermos of mint tea. (Oh yeah. It's coming for you. Don't think you can escape it.)

I happen to like baking my banana cake in a loaf pan, and if it's baked in a loaf pan, then I happen to like calling it banana bread instead of cake. You know? The butter versus oil debate is secondary to the pan debate and while it's true that all of this is semantics, yes, it's about the only thing my fever-addled brain can handle at this moment.

In fact, I don't even really seem to be capable of stringing coherent sentences together anymore, at least not without going cross-eyed and yelping feebly at the computer screen, so with that I leave you, folks. I'm going to bed and if my prayers are answered, I'll be waking up in about 72 hours.

Over and out.

Banana Chocolate Walnut Cake
Serves 8
Note: I made a few changes from the original recipe, like eschewing the whole streusel thing Gourmet's version has going for it by incorporating the cinnamon, walnuts and chocolate directly into the batter. Oh, and reducing the sugar a little. Just a little! Yeesh.

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 stick unsalted butter, softened, plus more for the pan
3/4 cup sugar
2 large eggs
1 1/4 cups mashed very ripe bananas (about 3 medium)
2/3 cup plain whole-milk yogurt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped (I used Trader Joe's chocolate chips)
1 cup walnuts, toasted, cooled, and coarsely chopped

1. Preheat oven to 375°F with rack in middle. Butter a loaf pan.

2. Stir together flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt.

3. Beat together softened butter (1 stick) and the sugar in a medium bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy, then beat in eggs 1 at a time until blended. Beat in bananas, yogurt, and vanilla (mixture will look curdled).

4. With mixer at low speed, add flour mixture and mix until just incorporated. Fold in the chopped nuts and the chocolate. Pour the batter into the cake pan, smoothing the top.

5. Bake until loaf is golden and a wooden pick inserted in center of cake comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool loaf in pan on a rack 30 minutes, then turn out onto rack and cool completely.
Focaccia di Patate

January 27, 2008

I'd like to tell you that I spent the past week elbow-deep in dough, slaving away at the oven for your sakes, but in reality I spent most nights after work watching The Best of Youth. It started out slow, but my God, by the end I was a hot mess of heaving sobs and heartache. You know when you want to jump right into the television set and hug someone that that thing you're watching is good, good cinema indeed.

So it's actually kind of ironic that this week turned out also to be the week I finally figured out that darn focaccia I kept going on about after I got back from Europe. Yes! It took me four tries and close to a month, but I finally got it. Victory has never tasted so sweet. Or, actually, salty and pliant and herby and mmmm.

Turns out that most of my problems with the three previous focaccie I made had to do with the amount of fresh yeast I was using. A little research into other people's potato breads and some choice advice from the Internet (thank you!) got me on the right path. I rejiggered the yeast and the temperature of the oven and suddenly everything starting falling into place.

Oh, and I found Italian oregano. Well, really, Sicilian oregano (those are two different things, wink wink). At a grocery store in the Hudson River Valley. Weird, right? Only that I've also seen that exact package at Dean & Deluca in the city, so keep your eyes peeled, city folks. Herb nirvana is at your fingertips. The oregano, instead of being stripped from its stalks and packaged in little pots and sachets, is gathered and packaged into large plastic sacks, so you can strip the leaves and buds yourself and your oregano isn't turned to dust by someone else's fingers. This oregano is incredibly fragrant and worth seeking out. Hop to it!

This might be one of the easiest yeast doughs you'll ever make. And it's so quick that you can start the dough after getting home from work and eat focaccia for dinner that same night. Bliss, I tell you. Make a big salad or a pot of braised vegetables to round out your meal and you'll have contented eaters all around. I suppose you could also make this for a dinner party and cut it into wedges to serve as an aperitif, but it feels so nicely rustic and humble that I kind of prefer it just hacked into pieces at the cozy dinner table.

There's an agreeable chewiness to the damp crumb from the potato, which also gives the focaccia a delicious sweetness and heft. Sweet, juicy tomatoes explode gently here and there, and unexpected crystals of salt provide a welcome flavor and textural balance. Oh, it's just so good. I hope you think so too.

Potato Focaccia
Makes one 8-inch focaccia

1 medium Yukon Gold potato
2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more as needed
1 teaspoon fresh yeast
A pinch of sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons salt, plus more for salting water
2/3 cup warm water
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 pint of cherry or grape tomatoes, sliced crosswise
1 to 2 teaspoons dried oregano
Coarse sea salt

1. Wash the potato and place in a small saucepan along with enough water to cover the potato by an inch. Place the pot over high heat, covered, and bring to a boil. Add a handful of kosher salt to the water. Simmer until the potato is tender when pierced with a knife, around 20 minutes. Drain the potato and let it cool. Peel the potato and mash finely with a fork. Set aside.

2. Put the yeast in a large mixing bowl along with a pinch of sugar. Add the warm water in a thin stream over the yeast, using a fork to help dissolve the yeast entirely. Let the mixture stand for a few minutes.

3. Pour the flour into the yeast water and stir with a fork, then add the mashed potato and the salt. The dough will be relatively thick and shaggy. Use the fork to incorporate the potato into the flour. Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil and begin to knead the dough by hand. It will come together quite quickly. Knead against the bowl for a minute or so, until it is relatively smooth. Add more flour if the dough is too sticky to handle. Form the dough into a ball and let it rest, covered with a kitchen towel, in the bowl for an hour.

4. Cut a piece of parchment paper to fit the bottom of an 8-inch cake pan. Using your fingertips, gently release the puffy and risen dough from the bowl and place it in the cake pan. Gently tug and pat it out so that it fits the pan. Cover the top of the focaccia with the tomato halves, distributing them evenly. Sprinkle the oregano and a large pinch of coarse salt over the tomatoes, drizzle with the remaining tablespoon of olive oil, and let it rest for another hour.

5. While the focaccia is resting, preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Place the cake pan in the oven and bake for 40 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through. Let cool on a rack for 20 minutes before removing the focaccia from the pan.
Regina Schrambling’s Salmon Rillettes

January 17, 2008

I don't know about you, but all I want to do in January is snuggle up on the couch wearing woolly socks, with a pot of soup on the stove and a movie on the television. Maybe, too, some low-intensity creative projects and quiet reading, but that's it. The hyper-insanity of December leaves me so exhausted that I'm quite relieved to not leave my cozy living room for a while, with the windows all fogged up and candles burning blurrily in the corner of the room.

But we can't exactly hibernate until the buds come out and the birds chirp again, can we? It wouldn't be much fun in the long run. Instead I invite people over, figuring that the equation's not half bad: we ply our friends with good food and plenty of wine and in return, they don't make us venture out into the chilly evening – at least not for a while. Everybody wins.

Planning the menu for an evening like that is always a bit of a challenge. Cooking for two is a cinch, cooking for four is pretty easy, cooking for six starts to get a little hairy, and by the time you get to eight whole people it's tough to keep your head on the ground. You don't want to be stuck in the kitchen the entire day, making things that are too time-consuming, too complicated, too harrowing. The larger the group, the simpler the food should be.

But I do like to choose recipes that I wouldn't get to make ordinarily – it is a party, after all. So I pull out the binders that have appetizers and hors d'oeuvres recipes tucked away in them – roasted, spiced chickpeas or pickled shrimp or home-cured olives – and I pore through them, delighting in my choices. The recipe I alighted upon last weekend was one that I'd actually meant to make at Thanksgiving – salmon rillettes.

Now doesn't that trip just beautifully off the tongue? Rillettes, rillettes. Ree-yett. We don't eat much salmon around here – Ben doesn't like it and since there are so many other types of fish that we both really love, I'm happy to forgo salmon most of the time. But this recipe had lodged itself in my mind ages ago (briefly supplanted by Thomas Keller's somewhat more complicated version) and I just couldn't shake it. Ben would have to eat olives instead.

It's such a lovely little recipe: you very briefly cook wild salmon in vermouth (or wine, as I did), then mash it up with smoked salmon, chopped chives, lemon juice and creme fraiche. The fresh salmon tempers the smoky stuff beautifully and the creme fraiche gives it some elegance without getting goopy or rich. The few drops of hot sauce are a genius touch – the heat sasses the rillettes right up. No Plain Jane pate here, move along now. The mixture is bright and flavorful, improves with a few hours in the fridge, and best of all, can be arranged on good bread by your guests.

I read somewhere once (was it Laurie Colwin? No. Someone else. Who, though?) that a good dinner party can always be guaranteed if you enlist your guests' help in the kitchen just after they arrive. It keeps them busy, so you can finish up whatever else you're still working on without having to worry that they're all standing around in the living room feeling bored, and it keeps your stress levels down, because now at least someone else is dealing with the hors d'oeuvres and you can stop worrying that the whole meal is going to hell in a hand basket in about three seconds flat.

Arm them with a glass of champagne while they're at it, and who knows – they might even want to come back next time.

Salmon Rillettes
Serves 8 to 10

2 cups dry vermouth or white wine
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
4 white peppercorns
8 ounces fresh wild salmon, skinned and boned, cut into 1-inch cubes
8 ounces wild smoked salmon, minced
3 – 4 tablespoons crème fraîche (or more to taste)
4 tablespoons chopped chives, divided
4 tablespoons lemon juice (or more to taste)
Hot sauce to taste
Salt and white pepper to taste
2 ficelles, thinly sliced

1. Combine the vermouth or wine, bay leaf, sea salt and peppercorns in a nonreactive saucepan and bring to a simmer. Add the salmon cubes and cook 15 seconds exactly. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain well, then place in a mixing bowl.

2. Mash the salmon cubes with a wooden spoon until chunky-smooth. Add the smoked salmon, crème fraîche, 2 tablespoons chives and the lemon juice and mix well. Taste and add the hot sauce, salt and pepper. Add more lemon juice and/or crème fraîche if you like. Chill 1 hour to meld flavors. Makes about 3 cups.

3. Return to room temperature before serving. To serve, spread on ficelle slices and sprinkle with the remaining chives.
Pichet Ong’s Squash Pie

January 13, 2008

I'll just start this post by saying that, after taking a few bites of this squash pie last night, my friend Andy put down his fork and said, "This is the best dessert I ever ate." He then picked up his fork again, and through bites said I could quote him, in fact that I must. So there you have it, readers. This pie blew Andy's mind.

It's pretty darn good, I'll say. I was going to make it for Thanksgiving, but my father took one look at the cream cheese in the ingredient list and put the kibosh on it right quick. (Who knows – he's a bit of a mystery.) So instead I saved it for the dinner party we had last night and it was a resounding – nay, stunning – success.

The recipe comes from the now-defunct The Chef column that used to run in the The New York Times. I miss that column. You too? I got so many good recipes from it, like a chicken liver sauce from Judy Rodgers and a Breton butter cake from Gabrielle Hamilton. (I'm still waiting for Gabrielle's memoir with recipes to be published, by the way. This year, I think!)

Pichet Ong, he of P*ONG and The Sweet Spot, delivered the recipe for the squash pie. It's thick with cream cheese, flavored strongly with cinnamon and nutmeg, and nestled in a completely addictive crust that you should commit to memory for any number of other things, like cheesecake or banana cream pie or key lime pie (though I still think this Grape-Nuts crust version via Gemma takes the cake (groan) for that).

The pie is silky and creamy and really, really easy to make. A crumb crust is a joy to make, an uncomplicated antidote to all those hand-rolled pie crusts of the holiday season. Plus, it means you'll end up with a few extra graham crackers knocking around in your cupboards, which is a very good thing indeed.

Also, though the recipe calls for a Kabocha squash to be steamed and peeled and pureed, canned pumpkin works beautifully here. Yes, Kabocha would have been lovely, all sweet and dry and tasty, but Pichet himself says that butternut squash and cheese or sugar pumpkins (which is what are usually found in those cans – remember to only buy the "pure pumpkin" ones, not the cans that are labeled "filling"!) are a good substitute, so cut those corners, come on.

Lastly, with no brandy in the house (I know! A crying shame. But you might not have any either, so let's be brandy-less together.), I substituted a splash of pure vanilla extract. It perfumed the pie ever so subtly.

Whatever you do! Make sure you serve this with creme fraiche. (You like how I did that, told you how to make your own, and then told you how to use it all up? You're welcome! A pleasure, really.) The cold, slightly sour cream cuts the sweet richness of the squash pie just perfectly and rounds out the flavors a bit. I'd say, honestly, that the pie just isn't right without it.

So serve up the pie, let your guests do the dolloping, then sit back, put your feet up, and let the compliments just wash over you. After all, wouldn't you, too, like to be responsible for the best dessert someone ever ate?

Squash Pie
Serves 8

For the filling:
1 medium kabocha squash, about 3 pounds, or 2 1/2 cups of canned pumpkin (skipping the steps below for roasting and pureeing the squash)
10 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
3/8 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg (about 1/4 of a nutmeg)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 tablespoons brandy or 2 teaspoons of pure vanilla extract
2 eggs at room temperature

For the crust:
3/8 cup (2 ounces) walnuts
1/2 cup packed, light brown sugar
3/8 cup graham cracker crumbs (about 7 crackers)
Grated zest of 1 lime
3/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
3/8 teaspoon salt (I'd use less salt next time, just 1/8 of a teaspoon)
1/4 cup (2 ounces) unsalted butter, melted
Crème fraîche, for serving (optional)

1. For pie filling, bring an inch of water to a boil in a large covered pot fitted with a steamer basket or rack. Put in squash, cover and steam, replenishing water as needed, until fork tender, about 1 hour. Turn squash over halfway through steaming. Set squash aside until cool enough to handle.

2. Heat oven to 325 degrees. For crust, place walnuts on a baking tray, and toast in oven, stirring once or twice, until fragrant, about 15 minutes. Let cool. Reduce oven temperature to 300 degrees.

3. In a food processor, combine walnuts with a few tablespoons brown sugar and pulse a few times, until nuts are coarsely ground. In a large bowl, whisk nuts with graham cracker crumbs, remaining brown sugar, lime zest, spices and salt. Pour melted butter over this mixture, and mix with your fingers until butter is distributed. Press evenly into a 10-inch glass pie plate. Bake crust until lightly browned, about 12 minutes, then set aside. Keep oven at 300 degrees.

4. When squash is cool, cut it in half and scoop out seeds and pulp. Scoop squash flesh into a measuring cup until you have 2 1/2 cups.

5. In a food processor, process cream cheese with sugar, spices and salt until light and smooth. Scrape down bowl, add squash and process until smooth. Mix in brandy and then eggs, one at a time. Finish mixing with a rubber spatula.

6. Place pie plate on a baking sheet and scrape filling into crust. Bake until just set in center, about 1 hour. Let cool, then serve topped with crème fraîche.

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