The Wednesday Chef

  • Mark Bittman’s Stuck-Pot Rice with Potato Crust

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    When it comes to Mark Bittman's recipes, I'm beginning to feel like that girl (you know) whose boyfriend is just not that in to her. At first Mark was just this really cute guy, you know? With an adorable nickname and lots of friends and whatever. Then I got to know him a little better and realized that there wasn't all that much there behind his goofy regular-guy facade. But, wham!, with one recipe he totally got me. It was like the best first date ever. And now, I've waited by the phone for him to call for days and when I finally got up the nerve to just call him because who ever got what they wanted from moping around and feeling sorry for themselves, he acted like a jerk and totally blew me off, and now I'm sitting here with this enormous pot of leftovers and I just want to get drunk and forget I ever met him. Sob.

    After waxing rhapsodic about the Minimalist and his Stuck-Pot Rice, I couldn't wait to try the next recipe in that article. To eat alongside breaded-and-mustarded chicken courtesy of Gary Danko (and which probably would have been tastier if I hadn't bought the shrink-wrapped chicken at D'Agostino's, even if it was Bell & Evans and organic and whatever – it still tasted like foulness incarnate), I decided to make the version of stuck-pot rice that included saffron, fennel and sliced potatoes. Yes, I seem to be on some kind of rice-and-potato kick. I. Don't. Know. How. To. Kick. The. Starch. Fixation.

    It all started quite innocently, with the parboiling of the rice and the sauteeing of the fennel. But of course things got hairy. I was supposed to mix together saffron and oil, then dump this mixture with water into the pan. Hmm. The logic of this is still a mystery to me. Because the saffron doesn't really have a chance to soak in the water and get all yellow and fragrant – it just sits limply in its oil bath while the water separates meekly and it all sort of boils together strangely while you lay potato slices on top. Why doesn't the saffron first get immersed in hot water, and then get mixed with the rice? Wouldn't that make the rice prettier and tastier? Be honest, Mark. I just want an honest answer.

    I layered the rice and fennel, which seemed okay at the time, but 45 minutes later, when we were ready to eat, the combination of the soggy fennel (because it was soggy by then, after having been sauteed and steamed, after all) and the bland rice (would it kill you, Mark, to specify the amount of salt needed? Really, kill you? Because it'd be nice, at least for me, to know how much I'm supposed to put in there instead of having to read your mind and potentially get it wrong, which is exactly what happened on Saturday night and I'm sick of it. Sick of it, I tell you!), and the layer of burned potatoes that weren't appetizingly crunchy like the rice from two weeks ago, but were weird-tasting and flabby, made for quite the unpleasant dining experience. And have you (I'm talking to you, kind reader) ever tasted burnt saffron? It's not something I look forward to doing again.

    Ben and I choked down our meal gamely while I cursed ever having forgiven Mark's trespasses. We made up for that sad experience by having brunch at Cookshop on Sunday – replete with spicy gingerbread beignets and piping hot frittatas and the loveliest smooth green teapots that were perfect hand-warmers on such a dreary day. But still, I feel so stupid for having given Mark yet another chance. So, Mark? Stop calling, stop writing. Forget we ever met. We are soooo over.

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  • Lidia Bastianich’s Rice and Potato Soup with Parmigiano Rind

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    These are the three best things about coming home from a business trip you would have gladly paid someone else to take in your stead:
    1. Bumping quickly over potholes in a cab on your way back to Manhattan from JFK at sunset when you can see the skyline bathed in ethereal mauve light;
    2. Seeing your very tall boyfriend walking up the street to meet you at a restaurant and running across the street to jump in his arms like a monkey on a tree;
    3. Cooking your own dinner again.

    In an attempt to purge the memories of drippy, triangled British sandwiches packaged in plastic, and to lighten the load of several multi-course meals in groovy London restaurants, I wanted nothing more than a simple soup and a plate of thinly sliced fennel dressed with lemon juice and olive oil for dinner. The soup I made, though, was so satisfying despite its simplicity that we never got around to the salad. Ben and I each slurped down a bowl and could eat no more. The light broth was filled with chunked potatoes that had been fried in olive oil, diced carrot and celery, and a scattering of rice. Bay leaf, cracked pepper, tomato paste and a generous slab of Parmigiano rind, saved dutifully in wax paper, flavored it all.

    The recipe comes from Lidia Bastianich – cookbook writer, television chef, and restaurant owner – and was printed in the New York Times a few years ago. The whole thing takes less than an hour to make, but has bold and well-melded flavors that belie its quick preparation. Because my pot was almost overflowing, I used a little less broth than called for and it was fine. Today, the soup leftovers are sludgy and stewy, but just as delicious. I'll be finishing them up all weekend while I dance a jig and crow happily, "I'm home again! It's 65 degrees out! The sun is shining! I don't have to go on another transatlantic voyage for at least three and a half months!" Life is good.

    Rice and Potato Soup with Parmigiano-Reggiano Rind
    Serves 8

    3 tablespoons olive oil
    2 large baking potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/3-inch cubes
    2 medium carrots, coarsely shredded
    2 center celery stalks, diced
    salt
    2 teaspoons tomato paste
    10 cups hot chicken broth
    2 2-inch-squares Parmigiano rind, exterior scraped
    2 fresh or dried bay leaves
    freshly ground black pepper
    1 cup long-grain rice 
    1/2 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

    1. In a deep, heavy 4- to 5-quart pot, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add potatoes and cook, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon, until lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Potatoes will stick to pot; adjust heat to prevent stuck bits from becoming too dark. Stir in carrots and celery and cook, stirring, until carrots are softened, another 2 to 3 minutes. Season lightly with salt. Add tomato paste and stir to coat vegetables.

    2. Add broth, Parmigiano rinds and bay leaves. Bring to a boil, scraping up bits of potato on bottom, then simmer. Season soup lightly with salt and pepper. Cover pot and cook until potatoes begin to fall apart, about 40 minutes. Stir in rice and cook until rice is tender but still firm, about 12 minutes. Remove bay leaves, stir in parsley, and check seasoning. Remove rinds and cut into small pieces. Eat them right away or put a piece in each soup bowl and ladle soup on top. Serve.

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  • Regina Schrambling’s Pizzocheri

    Pizzocheri

    My subtitle for this post: A Tale of Two Cabbages. Or rather, A Tale of One Cabbage, Two Ways. Growing up in Berlin, cabbage was a familiar vegetable, to say the least. I had the privileged experience of being enrolled in a school where the lunch menu was something to look forward to. When I have the pleasure of smelling food that reminds me of my school cafeteria it's a fond memory and not a nose-wrinkling one. Cabbage featured prominently there (Kohlrouladen, anyone?), but also at my home-away-from-home where I wiled my afternoons away learning how to bake and sew (and escape sibling-torture to the tune of "I'm going to tie you to this chair with boy-scout knots and you have two minutes to escape, at which point, if you are still bound to the chair, I will tickle you into paralysis while "Stairway to Heaven" rings from the record player") at the knee of my honorary mother, Joan.

    Joan's ways with cabbage are the stuff of dreams: no one who grew up eating her Brussels sprouts, her braised red cabbage with apples or her Savoy studded with tiny bits of salty ham could ever have an aversion to this vegetable. So when Regina Schrambling wrote an article on Savoy cabbage in the LA Times last week, I was thrilled to see that all three recipes she included looked mouth-watering to me. I don't usually find it so difficult to choose which recipe from any given article to cook, but this time around I was stumped. So I made two…and while neither one blew my socks off, I'm determined to make the third one as well.

    Pizzocheri, a northern Italian baked casserole of chopped cabbage, sliced potatoes, chunks of Taleggio, and wide pasta all bathed in a sage-and-garlic scented butter sauce, was a bit too oily and flat for my taste. I had halved the recipe but didn't use a smaller baking dish, and I wonder if it might have been more appealing as a thick casserole. There was something disjointed about the whole thing: potato slices flying about, noodles slipping away, bits of cabbage here and there. I was in too much of a rush to search out buckwheat pasta and settled for egg tagliatelle – I think the dish probably has more character with the former. There was nothing really terribly wrong with it, but I probably won't make this recipe again. It just didn't blow me away.

    But I still had quite a bit of cabbage left over from that meal, so last night I prepared Braised Savoy Cabbage with Anchovies (making the most of the fact that Ben isn't around to have dinner with me and thereby fall over in a dead faint from the sheer outrage of the presence of an anchovy anywhere near his being), while I scurried about my apartment washing clothes and packing for a trip of my own. The recipe required two saute pans, which sort of irritated me, but that was mostly because I didn't feel like having my dinner-for-one become a big deal. I simmered the cabbage quarters in chicken stock, while anchovies and garlic melted in the other pan, then tossed everything together and let it caramelize.

    The result was quite pretty and would be tasty as the accompaniment to some simple roast sausages and a dollop of pureed potatoes. But for some reason, the pan brimming with braised cabbage and all those strong flavors was a little overwhelming last night and I couldn't eat more than a forkful or two. So I guess my critique says more about my state of mind than the dish itself. I won't discount it just yet. And with that, dear readers, I leave you for a few days while I fly over the ocean to do some work and eat one too many cheese-and-pickle sandwiches in yet another convention center. When I'm back, I'll get around to the Sausage-Stuffed Savoy Cabbage, if only to relive my memories of being an eager child in the lunchline.

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  • Mark Bittman’s Stuck-Pot Rice

    Rice

    Oh, Minimalist, how thou hast redeemed thyself. Remember when I said I might never try another of Mark Bittman's recipes again? Well, I am a generous and forgiving blogger and I decided that perhaps my blanket statement of refusal might not be wise, not when there were alluring recipes of his winking their little eyes at me, beckoning me over with their promises of simplicity and crunchy rice and aromas of curry and yogurt wafting through my kitchen. Thank goodness I saw the light, or at least chose well this time around.

    The recipe for this rice dish is the kind of recipe you clip and save and then recopy because your clipped copy has gotten illegible with use, and then email to yourself (and all your friends) so you have a cyber copy of it, and then finally laminate and glue into a book so that you will never ever ever lose it. It isn't the world's finest rice, but it's simple and comforting, and interesting too, and very tasty and nice to look at and slightly exotic, but not too much so for a weeknight dinner. So maybe, yes, on second thought, it does deserve a spot in at least the top five of rice dishes (in which this one is included, of course).

    You don't need to go very far for ingredients (though I suggest you search out Liberte 2% plain yogurt because as far as I'm concerned, this is the yogurt we've been waiting for to finally have something to measure up to the gorgeousness of yaourt veloute that the French have had all these years) and although I wish I could be more specific about what "good" curry powder means exactly, I had delicious success with the bottled curry powder from my D'Agostino's. You need a good solid pot (I made it in a cast-iron soup pot) and the ability to control a very low flame, but once those are in place, you can let it all sizzle away while you watch Meg Ryan's tragically enhanced lips (why, Meg, why?) on "Oprah" and have dinner on your plate by the time the anchorman of your dreams comes on.

    My tips? Really do follow the instructions exactly (though I didn't find the towel to be necessary) and remember to salt liberally. When I make this again, I'll try it with half the oil, but that's just because I'm feeling tight in the waist these days (is that the expression I'm looking for?) and not because the rice becomes greasy (it doesn't). I ate this with a pile of steamed broccoli, and reveled in the nutty rice, the faint heat from the curry, the pleasing sour note from the yogurt. And even though I'd much rather have Ben back again to eat dinner with me, I'm kind of thrilled that I have enough leftovers for lunch and dinner today.

    Stuck-Pot Rice with Yogurt and Spices
    Serves 4 to 6

    Salt
    1 1/2 cups basmati rice, well rinsed
    Freshly ground black pepper
    1/4 cup peanut oil, or neutral oil like grape seed or corn oil
    1/4 cup plain yogurt, preferably whole-milk
    1 tablespoon lime juice
    1 tablespoon good curry powder

    1. Fill a medium pot with lightly salted water, and bring to boil. Stir in rice, return to boil and lower heat so water is at a lively simmer. Cook undisturbed 5 minutes; drain, and set aside. Rice will be only partly done. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

    2. In a large mixing bowl whisk together 2 tablespoons oil, the yogurt, lime juice and curry powder. Season to taste with salt and pepper and whisk until smooth. Add rice, and toss gently to coat with yogurt mixture.

    3. Put 2 remaining tablespoons oil in a large heavy-bottom pot with tight-fitting lid, and turn heat to medium-high. Add rice mixture, pressing it down in pan with fork. Wrap clean kitchen towel around lid of pot so it completely covers inside of lid; gather corners on top so they do not fall anywhere near stove. Place lid on pot, sealing tightly. Mixture will sizzle immediately.

    4. When rice and spices are fragrant — in 3-5 minutes — turn heat down very low. Cook undisturbed about 30 minutes; rice should smell toasty but not burned. Remove from heat, and let sit 5 minutes more.

    5. Carefully remove lid and cloth, and turn pot upside down over a platter. If rice comes out in a single crust, terrific. If not, use a spatula to scrape crisp pieces out of pan and onto remaining rice. Season to taste with salt and pepper, and serve immediately.

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  • Amy Scattergood’s Poached Pears with Poached Spiced Figs

    Cooking skills and deftness in the kitchen mean precious little if you are missing either of the two following prerequisities: an attention span of more than .02 seconds and a memory that goes back at least 45 days. The former would have prevented me from scorching a spiced wine sauce into unrecogizable blackness last night and the latter would have reminded me that after all that trouble, I just like my figs plain, please.

    In the LA Times two Wednesdays ago, Amy Scattergood wrote up a few appealing recipes using dried fruit, including Simca Beck's bread pudding, which sounds utterly bewitching even at this early hour. As the sweet end to a meal of cabbage casserole (Swear to God. Stay tuned, it will be blogged about), though, I thought a light and refreshing bowl of poached fruits would be better suited.

    Amy drew her inspiration from Lindsay Shere's Chez Panisse Desserts – a book that makes me lust for an ice-cream machine each and every time I leaf through it – using Lindsay's base recipe for the pears, then adding her own poached figs to the mix. The pears are cooked in a lovely little syrup that's scented with lemon peel and vanilla bean (though the amount of sugar in the recipe took my breath away – I put in a third of what was called for and found it sufficient). I could eat those pears for breakfast every day.

    The figs were an entirely different animal, at least for my addled self. I realized once I arrived at home that I had none of the spices required. I had ground cloves and allspice, but nothing whole and I couldn't get at the peppercorns in my pepper grinder. So instead of just tapping in a dusting of each, I decided to improvise (a bad idea) and flavored the poaching wine with a small piece of cinnamon and star anise, along with the strip of peel. When the figs were soft, I took them out, raised the heat to reduce the syrup, sat down to eat dinner and promptly forgot about the sauce, until it started smoking and bubbling into a terrifyingly sticky morass about, oh, 3 minutes later.

    Frazzled, I decided to serve each pear with a fig perched jauntily on top and a bit of the pear syrup drizzled about it. It looked pretty enough (something quite Zen-like about the whole thing), but I took one bite of my wine-poached fig and it all came flooding back: I just don't like boozy figs. So like the four year-old that I am, I made a face and handed the rest over to my mother, sitting conveniently next to me at the table and making pleasant noises for my benefit.

    This is not to say the poached figs aren't good! After all, my mother liked them (and I won't make a comment now about the fact that she lost her sense of taste in an accident several years ago. Except, oops, I just did.) Prepared with the proper spices and minded over the stove as directed, they're probably luscious. But only for those of you who like your figs poached. Maybe I'll remember that next time.

    Poached Pears with Poached Spiced Figs
    Serves 6

    Poached figs
    1 1/2 cups Zinfandel
    1/2 cup water
    6 tablespoons sugar
    1 (1- by 3-inch) strip orange peel
    6 black peppercorns
    1 whole clove
    2 allspice berries
    1/2 pound dried Calimyrna figs

    1. Bring all the ingredients but the figs to a simmer in a nonreactive saucepan. Add the figs and cook them at a very slight simmer until they are tender when pierced with the tip of a knife, 30-40 minutes, depending on the figs.

    2. Remove the figs to a container with a slotted spoon, raise the heat, bring the syrup to a boil, and reduce by one-third. Pour it over the figs and chill.

    Poached pears
    6 firm, ripe pears, Bosc or Anjou
    1 1/2 cups sugar
    3 (1- by 2-inch) strips lemon peel
    1 vanilla bean, split in half

    1. Peel the pears, leaving the stems on. Core them with an apple corer, then slice a bit off the bottom so they cook upright. Alternatively you can halve them, remove the stems and core them.

    2. Bring 4 1/2 cups water, sugar, lemon, and vanilla to a simmer in a large saucepan, then add the pears. Cook, covered, until the pears are tender but not mushy – 15 to 30 minutes, depending on the ripeness of the pears.

    3. When the pears are done, remove them from the poaching liquid and boil the remaining liquid until reduced by half. Pour the syrup over the pears and chill.

    4. To serve, divide the poached pears among 6 bowls and spoon the poached figs over each.

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  • Amanda Hesser’s Hazelnut-Lemon-Ricotta Pancakes

    Pancakes

    I'm sort of torn about The New York Times Magazine food page. There are times when I don't even bother to tear it out, and other times when it's among the best food writing I've read all year. I can't stand the flimsy paper – the recipes end up getting grease-soaked and dog-eared after three minutes in the kitchen – but the stories can be so whimsically interesting and utterly useful (who knew that David Halberstam – my commencement speaker, incidentally – was married to such a great cook? And that deep-fried peaches could be delicious? I'm eternally grateful to Steven Raichlen and his rice perfumed with ginger and coconut. And where, by the way, has Julia Reed gone? Has Vogue swallowed her up entirely? Does she not need to eat anymore?).

    Amanda Hesser's recent piece on lemons and their desert-island qualities was one of those articles that I couldn't read just once. It was my bedtime reading a few times over. Not just because it was practical and informative (though it was) but also because it was a joy to read: "[Lemon] is the pillar of lemon-meringue pie, the sting in tabbouleh, the perfume in genoise, the zip in chicken tandoori, the structure in hollandaise, the clarity in a hot toddy and the fragrance in German hazelnut cookies." People have piled on Amanda Hesser for all sorts of reasons (I think the overarching one is jealousy), but the fact remains that her food writing is smart and lovely.

    She included a recipe she'd developed by combining a recipe for hazelnut waffles from Balthazar with one for lemon-ricotta pancakes from Four Seasons, using a recipe for cottage-cheese pancakes from the Joy of Cooking as the base to work from. After the weekend in Boston celebrating my old man's birthday, I came back to New York laden down with 2 pounds of leftover ricotta (his birthday cheesecake required it), not to mention fresh sun-dried tomatoes from Apulia, salted capers, cruets of basil and lemon oil, Easter eggs of chocolate-cloaked marzipan, and pistachio paste. Yes, folks, my mother's in town. My new-found bounty has me all in a tizzy and I'm washing jam jars frenziedly to prepare them for marinated sun-dried tomatoes. But I digress! We were talking about ricotta.

    In an attempt to use up some of the mounds of ricotta sitting in my fridge (any other ideas, by the way?), I decided to kill several birds with one stone: not only would I make breakfast for my mother, but I'd use up some ricotta, make a recipe for the blog, and break in my very first cast-iron pan. All of this, admittedly, was a bit much to take on a Tuesday morning. But you know me and my morning determination: nothing can get in the way of it. Thanks to the soothing explanation from Sara Kate over at The Kitchen, I seasoned my pan last night (don't think I left it in the oven long enough, though, because it was still a bit sticky when I took it out) and got to work this morning.

    I started by rubbing together lemon zest and sugar (this mixture really is aphrodisiacal – if I ate more sugar, I'd be using this on everything), then stirring it with the dry ingredients that included toasted, chopped hazelnuts. In another bowl, I whisked together milk, vanilla, melted butter, eggs, and strained ricotta (though for the "straining" I had all of 4 minutes – not quite sure this is what Amanda had in mind, but it didn't seem to make a difference). I folded the wet mixture into the dry, then folded in stiff egg whites, before heating some butter in my glorious new pan and gently frying up 1/4 cup portions of pancakes.

    We ate them with a fillip of creamed honey on top, though I'm not sure they even needed it (a barely-there dusting of powdered sugar would be prettier). The pancakes were light and airy from the beaten eggs, nubby and toasty from the pulverized nuts and fragrant with lemon zest and ricotta. They were absolutely delicious and delightfully light (pancakes usually sit in my belly like a lead weight) so if I were you, I'd print out this recipe and laminate it or something.

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  • Donna Deane’s Halibut with Grapefruit and Blood Orange Sauce

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    It wasn't on purpose, but this is my second Donna Deane recipe in one week. And I can think of nothing further to say about this. So! We're starting off nicely, aren't we. This doesn't bode well. The aforementioned apartment hunting, my out-of-town visitors, preparation for non-blog-related professional activities, and the lack of any and all peace and quiet threatens to render me into an inarticulate jumble of limbs, whimpering for mercy. Got a spare basement? I'd like to lock myself in there for a few hours, please.

    It's a good thing I got some cooking in last weekend, because I wasn't able to concoct a single thing all week, what with demonstrating how to eat bulgogi, and going to book parties and gnawing my cuticles over wee little Sasha Cohen (I show my guests a good time, yes I do). And oh! I had a tea with the lovely Shauna. She gave me some much-needed giggles, and isn't it just great when someone you don't know but you think you do turns out to be even better than you thought she would be? Fantastic.

    That wild-looking meal up there (the contrast between the white-fleshed halibut and the sanguine-colored sauce is bringing up some heretofore unexamined associations that I'm not willing to delve into here) was quite nice. I baked a few fillets of halibut that had been briefly marinated in thyme, oil, garlic and grapefruit juice. For the sauce I simmered together more grapefruit juice, blood orange juice, and sauteed shallots. When the mixture had reduced to a syrupy sauce, I whisked in a few lumps of cold butter. This classical French preparation was delicious, but far too rich for my taste. If you like buttery sauces or want a striking plate for a dinner party, this is a perfect recipe to use.

    And on that note, I'm sailing off into the weekend, preparing myself for a week in which I will no longer be using Ben's camera for my blog photographs because he's going on vacation, lucky dog, and leaving me with a perfectly gorgeous substitute, but since I'll miss him and I hate change and I need sleep and did I mention the jumble of whimpering limbs I threaten to become any minute now, I'm convinced that my photos next week will be glaring eyesores that will render this blog utterly and totally unreadable. Happy travels, darling! Oh, and I'll be raising a glass to my father who turns 60. Hip hip!

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  • Blue Ribbon Bakery’s Flaxseed Bread

    Bread_1

    Can it be? Finally, after a spate of splendiferous food, a recipe that I plan on chucking into the garbage straight after I write this post? I can scarcely believe my eyes. Okay, well, it's not like this was inedible. But what's the point of throwing a few flaxseeds into a straight-up white-bread bread? I'd rather my toasted flaxseeds could spend their days nestled into the whole-grain beauty of a whole-wheat loaf, cuddled up next to more wholesome ingredients than just white flour and honey and water.

    The LA Times printed this recipe from Blue Ribbon Bakery last June in an article about artisan bread in New York City. Something about flaxseed sounded virtuous and good, so I couldn't help but print out the recipe and place it on my desk to wait patiently for months. To provide a respite from the harried apartment hunting and to have fresh bread around the house for my visitors from Berlin this week and next, I set to making this last weekend.

    You make a starter with yeast (I used fresh), water, honey and bread flour and let that stand for 24 hours. I decided to halve the recipe, so after 24 hours, I weighed the fermented starter and scooped out half into a new bowl, to which I added dry yeast, toasted flaxseeds, water, bread flour, and salt. I kneaded it into a satisfyingly smooth and dry ball and let it rise until it practically rose out of my bowl. I shaped half of the dough into a loaf and the other half got plopped into a pan to rise again before being sent to the oven to bake until golden brown.

    This is a workhorse bread – one you toast in bulk for breakfast or smear with mustard for utilitarian sandwiches. It provides an innocuous canvas for sprightly marmalades or sliced deli meat. But this bread…it lacks personality, it lacks soul. It doesn't taste bad, but it's not my kind of bread. And an eighth of a cup of flaxseeds doesn't exactly infuse a loaf with wholesome goodness. Instead, those few random seeds are almost like a taunt.

    (And briefly, while we're on the subject of Blue Ribbon Bakery, can I just say how ridiculous I found Ed Levine's selection of a recipe to include with his large piece on the diversity of chicken soups in New York City yesterday? There he was, telling us about Sichuanese chicken soup and Momofuku's chicken soup and Sripraphai's chicken soup, and yet the only recipe he feels like printing is yet another bubbeleh's version of matzo ball soup? I can't be alone in wishing he'd been a little more adventurous with his choice.)

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  • Donna Deane’s Raised Buckwheat Belgian Waffles

    Waffles

    My dear Ben is a bit discombobulated as of late. He must, you see, find new living quarters. The era of living in style and being my neighbor in Chelsea is coming to an end, quickly. And if there's anything worse in the world than giving up your home, especially one that you love, to find a new one – one that can never really measure up, especially in New York or any of the outer boroughs – well, then you've got to tell me about it. Because as far as I'm concerned (and I think Ben agrees), this search is akin to the innermost circle of hell.

    We spent most of the weekend traipsing around town, looking at places in different neighborhoods, trying our best to imagine Ben's daily walk to the subway, or what it would feel like for him to come home there at night. We saw shared lofts with no central heating, two-bedroom apartments next to (and I mean, looking out at) the BQE, and studios with peeling walls and astronomical fees. To fortify ourselves throughout these treks, we had a perfectly cooked meal of Dominican rice and beans with fried eggs and plantains at Hurricane Hopeful in Williamsburg, and our first Vietnamese sandwiches, crunchy and warm, in the East Village.

    And to keep our spirits up, I cooked for comfort this weekend. Pasta with tomato sauce and peas. Cheeseburgers, with organic beef on toasted English muffins, oozing with juice and ketchup. Ben's smile as he chewed his way through one was the best part of an exhausting day. And fulfilling a longstanding desire of mine to finally use the gorgeous waffle iron my stepmother so kindly gave me last year, we also made breakfast yesterday. Of course, it wasn't all easy. Batter sticking to (nonstick, oiled nonstick, I tell you) waffle iron grids was enough to send me over the edge, but Ben calmed me down and we got through this sticky patch just fine (har). Here was my sweetheart, almost homeless, making me feel better because of a damned waffle.

    Donna Deane wrote a piece in the LA Times a few years ago about Belgian waffles and how sophisticated they've become as of late. She included a few recipes, one of which just jumped straight out at me. You make a yeasted batter with buckwheat flour that ferments overnight. The waffles are barely sweet, and you serve them with honey butter and toasted sunflower seeds. (Though I skipped both and served the waffles with maple syrup and my new favorite thing: maple cream. It's maple syrup that's been cooked down and then creamed into a solid state, much like honey. It's unctuous and spreadable and tastes like what I imagine angel food tastes like. I'm in love. New Yorkers, I got it at the greenmarket in Union Square.) Whatever you can't eat, you can freeze. Which I did.

    The most difficult part of the process is figuring out your waffle iron: how much batter does it take? Will it stick? How do you prevent this from happening? But this isn't exactly rocket science: you'll figure it out if you haven't already. And the waffles? They were delicious. Light and airy, crunchy outside, tender within. Each batch gave us a different texture. The last ones were, of course, the best. I love buckwheat: its wholesome, otherworldly flavor is indescribably appealing to me. It reminds me of my childhood, when my father would make buckwheat pancakes for breakfast on special mornings. I can only hope that the comfort I used to derive from them was somehow channeled into the waffles I made for Ben yesterday, making him feel that no matter where he ends up, my place is always his home away from home.

    Note: I've noticed that some of the recipe links in early posts are no longer valid (curse you, LA Times archive). If you ever desire a recipe that I've linked to and that no longer appears, please tell me and I'll do my best to scrounge it up for you.

    Raised Buckwheat Belgian Waffles
    Serves 6 to 8

    1 package yeast
    1/4 cup hot water (100 to 110 degrees)
    2 tablespoons plus 1/3 cup honey
    2 cups buttermilk
    1 tablespoon oil
    1 cup cake flour
    1 1/4 cups buckwheat flour
    1 1/8 teaspoons salt, divided
    1/2 cup butter, softened
    2 eggs, lightly beaten
    1/4 teaspoon baking soda

    1. Sprinkle the yeast over the water and stir until the yeast is completely dissolved. Let it stand until bubbles begin to form. Stir in 2 tablespoons of honey, the buttermilk and the oil.

    2. Combine the cake flour, buckwheat flour and 1 teaspoon salt. Stir in the yeast mixture just until blended. Cover and refrigerate overnight.

    3. For the honey butter, combine the softened butter, the remaining honey and 1/8 teaspoon salt. Cover and set aside until ready to serve.

    4. A half hour before cooking, remove the batter from the fridge and let it stand at room temperature. Then stir in the beaten eggs and baking soda. Combine thoroughly.

    5. Heat a nonstick Belgian waffle iron and spray with cooking spray or brush with oil. Pour the recommended amount of batter onto the waffle iron. Close the lid and cook until the waffles are browned and release easily from the iron. Repeat with the remaining batter. Break or cut the waffles into sections. Spoon the honey butter over the hot waffles and eat immediately.

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  • On Tom Douglas’s Seattle Kitchen Radio Show

    0688172423

    If you’re near a computer with high-speed Internet on Saturday afternoon (or evening, depending on where you live), tune in to Tom Douglas‘s radio show on 710 KIRO Seattle to hear an interview I did with Tom and his friend Thierry last week.

    Their show is on from 4pm to 8pm, Pacific time. My segment will be aired from 5 to 5:30pm (that’s 8 to 8:30pm, Eastern time). I’ll be listening with my fingers half-stuck in my ears to protect them from the horrors of hearing my own voice.

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