These jam-filled lovelies were just seen in January, but captured enough fancy to bring them back. Original post found here.

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At the coffee shop the other day, Greg was looking for a slice of banana bread, like he always does. I glanced through the tiered pastry baskets – on top, pumpkin bread, zucchini bread. Bottom, sugar cookies.

“No banana.” I checked one more basket, and held something up. “Banana muffin?”

Greg took the muffin. Locally baked and individually wrapped, the sticker read:

BANANA BREAD

He turned it over a few times. “But… it says Banana Bread.” He looked at me. “It’s a muffin.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Technically, it’s the same thing, I mean, pretty much the same batter. Just a different shape.”

He was still turning it over. Oh, dear.

I looked to our friend Barista Girl, behind the counter. “I don’t know,” she said. “They’re just labeling them like that now.”

All three of us looked at the muffin-bread. I imagined a stream of banana bread lovers, weak from confusion.

“They shouldn’t do that,” she offered.

“No,” I said. “they shouldn’t mess with names like that. Muffin is muffin and bread is bread.”

We agreed. I mean, you can’t just change names. You can’t decide that stick is suddenly leaf or dog is now called table. There are rules about these things. Peoples’ heads will explode.

Back home I was baking, and thought, there are exceptions to the name thing, even delicious ones, like these Two-Bite Jam Tarts. Are they a cookie or a tart? They use Cream Cheese Dough, one I frequently roll into rugelach and other cookies. But, as I noted to Josie, they have little edges. They stand up and hold jam. And they’re flaky, too – all clearly pointing to tart.

Josie had a mouthful of crumbs and raspberry. “Cookie,” she said.

“Oh, no, tart. I think – see, see how it’s like a little galette, with the edges…”

In a flash there was cold milk, three more treats and she was gone, leaping two steps at a time. Name talk over.

“Whatever,” she threw down behind her, “they’re just good.”

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These mini tarts – I’m making the call here – are little gems. They tip the happiness scale because the easy-to-satisfaction ratio is so absurdly high. A one-step dough, simple rolling skills and a bit of jam are all you need to enjoy warm two-bite tarts. Flaky little cookies. What you call them matters not, because whatever they are, they don’t last long.

Almost-done preserves and jams sitting around? This is their moment.

Ziplocs make handy disposable pastry bags: fill with jam, cut a small opening, and pipe about a teaspoon onto each circle.

Pull up and pinch edges all around jam, pinching and overlapping slightly to seal. No uniformity necessary – just pinch and have faith.

Optional pistachio version – for Greg the pistachio-lover, who just wants banana bread to look like banana bread.

Baked, and they’re sunny perfection – actually, imperfection. Just look at those nooks, those crannies, the lopsides and jam spills! Even my orderly self embraces their sweet mess. A sifting of powdered sugar, however…

…brings them right back to perfect.

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Two-Bite Jam Tarts

click me, I’m a printable recipe!

1 recipe Cream Cheese Dough (below)

Jam or Preserves, your choice – I like blackberry, raspberry and orange marmalade

pistachios or pecans, chopped (optional)

powdered sugar, for sprinkling

Dough: make Cream Cheese Dough as directed. After kneading lightly, cut dough in half. Wrap and reserve half for another use (snacking is good.)

Roll remaining half of dough on lightly floured surface to about 1/8″ thick. Using a medium-round fluted cutter – I use a 2 1/2″ round – cut circles from dough, re-rolling scraps and cutting circles until done.*

Preheat oven to 375 F.

Fill Tarts: line baking sheet with parchment paper or foil. Transfer dough circles to baking sheet, fitting as many as you can – as you fill and pinch the tarts, you’ll have room for more.

Place jam (how much you have is up to you) in a ziploc bag. Keeping top open, twist tightly over jam and cut small opening at the tip. Hold tip facing upwards until you are ready to pipe! Standing over baking sheet, place tip just above one dough circle and release about one teaspoon of jam in center. Working quickly, repeat with remaining circles, changing jam as desired.

(alternately, you can spoon jam onto dough – but once you get the hang of piping, you’ll appreciate the speed)

Pinch Crusts: using both hands, pick up edges of dough circle and pinch together and upwards, working all the way around until complete, resembling a pie crust or raised bottlecap. Repeat with all mini-tarts until done.

Optional nuts: before baking, sprinkle finely chopped pistachios or pecans over tarts

Bake: bake tarts at 375 F for 15-18 minutes, until edges and bottom are lightly browned, and jam is bubbling. Remove from oven and cool slightly.

Serve: sift powdered sugar lightly over tarts, and serve. Or just…eat. Enjoy!

* with this flaky dough, a fluted round cutter will produce a raised pattern along the sides and create a terrific little “tart crust.”

makes about 30 two-bite tarts (or cookies. Your call.)

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Cream Cheese Dough (also found here)

8 oz cream cheese, cold
8 oz unsalted butter, cold
2 cups all-purpose flour
pinch salt

Food Processor Method: Place flour and salt in food processor and process a few seconds, to blend. Chunk butter and cream cheese in pieces over flour, then process, using on-off motion, until dough just forms a ball. Turn out onto floured surface and knead lightly into a smooth mass.

Roll, shape and bake into tart crusts, sweet turnovers, rugelach, and other cookies. Keeps several days wrapped in the refrigerator, and freezes well.

* note 3/5/09: tonight at a restaurant I was sipping sangria – and minding my own business – when a friend came tearing over to greet me. That is what Alice does. She tears. Anyway, she’s a spunky old friend but a brand new reader, and lately she’s been working through the archives. “Enjoying the blog?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “but I am SICK of that little paragraph. We’re on a special-project work break, blah blah blah…enough already!”

Alice my love, hang tight and put up with the insipid intro just a wee bit longer. I promise you and all of you, too, dearly missed readers, that I’ll be back simmering as soon as I can.

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Today’s feature hails from early January, 2009. With pulled teeth comes wisdom, French Toast, and apparently, Jell-O. Original post found here.

Here’s the thing: I don’t love Jell-O, and most of America does. I’d bet that even foodie elite, people who’d never be caught with a two-tone wiggler, dig strawberry banana when no one’s looking – I believe it. There are a few distinct groups of Jell-O lovers – 50′s kids who grew up with it, like my parents; crafty cooks who make projects of rainbow parfaits; and the rest, like my daughter, who just plain like its slippery cool. And in there, there we have it. The only time I like Jell-O is when I’m sick – when I’m good and sick and low, those unnatural tones look like comfort, and taste easy. A delightful slide down, and too smooth to refuse.

Josie had some oral surgery done last weekend, the poor thing. Whenever she’s legitimately sick or injured – antibiotics or 100 degrees, whichever comes first – she will get tucked into our bed with quilts, movies, and the dog, and luxuriate in being The Poor Thing. A diminished state will also make her The Nice Thing – a fever or post-anesthetic haze will do that to a kid, I guess. She lays positively docile, sipping Gatorade and following orders, her parents stroking hair or bringing treats. What – a – trouper.

Can we get you something, something soft? Jell-O? Okay. The lime kind, and Donald? Sure. You just wait right there.

That’s right. When in need of true comfort, dental or otherwise, we call on The Donald. Promise not to tell her friends; she’d kill me. With the spoon.

Anyway, as soon as you could say Tylenol 3, the two full days of Jell-O, soup and yogurt made her bored with movies, sick of codeine, restless and newly charged as The Crabby, Hungry Thing. She was starving, she said, we were starving her. I believe that’s called taking care of you, I said. You wanted Jell-O. Well yeah, but now – now she was just mad to have missed the whole weekend, sure that she was wasting away, and maybe she would like a large steak. Or a dozen buffalo hot wings. And celery. The dog leaped off the bed, and the spell was broken. She was feeling better.

Not wishing to undo the surgeon’s work, I nixed the chewing, but offered real food. How about…French toast?

Eh.

I looked around the kitchen. A banana in the fruit bowl straightened, hopeful.

Okay. How about French toast…with caramelized bananas?

Ooh.

Aha! Soft for the mouth and sweet on the tongue. Now we were talking, and even better, healing. There’s still Jell-O in the fridge, and sore mouth or not, she’ll eat it. Me, I’ll wait for the fever.

Caramelized Banana French Toast

This method lets you use one pan for both the French toast and the bananas; just make sure it’s good and non-stick.

8 slices bread (I like to use stale baguette bread, cut on a thick angle)
4-5 eggs *
1/4 cup milk or cream
splash orange juice (optional)
dash of cinnamon
dash of nutmeg

1 tablespoon canola oil, or butter, for frying

1-2 bananas, in thick slices
1 tablespoon butter
1 1/2 tablespoon sugar
splash orange juice

In a large bowl, whisk the eggs, milk or cream, orange juice, cinnamon and nutmeg until smooth. Add bread slices to bowl, turning pieces to coat with egg mixture. Leave slices in the egg mixture 5-15 minutes (thick, dry bread can take longer) or until bread is soaked through, but not falling apart.

Using a large, non-stick frying pan, melt oil or butter over medium-high heat. Add soaked bread slices and cook 1-2 minutes per side, turning, until evenly browned. Remove French toast from pan and set on a paper-towel lined plate.

Leaving heat at medium-high, immediately add sliced bananas and tablespoon of butter to the same non-stick pan, shaking pan as you add to keep bananas moving. Sprinkle sugar over bananas, then the splash of orange juice. Keep the pan moving as they cook, using a heatproof spatula to help turn bananas fast. Both sides of bananas should brown quickly, melting the sugar and juice together, about one minute total cooking time.

Set French toast on plates, spoon warm bananas over the top, and serve.

* so, what’s with “4-5 eggs?” Well, eggs will vary in size, volume, and how long they’ve been in your fridge. Start by whisking up four – if there’s enough liquid to generously cover the bread, stop there, and if not, add another.

serves 3-4, depending on your own Hungry Things

Today’s feature hails from February, 2008, a cautionary tale of Bartletts and pest control. Original post found here.

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Why I’m Afraid of Pears

It’s true.

I’m a little bit afraid of the most painterly fruit – and all this M-Word talk has brought sweet paranoia tumbling back to me like three baskets full of lovely but rotten green ones.

Why, you say? You ask what kind of sane, grown woman doesn’t want to admire a shiny pear?

Well. Let’s hop to another time, years ago, when Josie was but a rosy-cheeked toddler and I ran a dessert company, The Happy Ending, out of our 1929 home.
I’d had the county health department inspect my cleaner-than-restaurants kitchen, and we’d made a few necessary modifications to operate on the level.

One thing we installed was a fairly industrial, high-heat dishwasher with a powerful food grinder. It felt very solid, very official. It could quietly chew up an entire rump roast, were I to throw one in there.

And that thought comforted me as I went about my busy business. It was serious equipment. I thought of the machine as a stainless steel shield, my protector in the new worlds of business and motherhood.

I worked in our tiny kitchen, and it doubled as catering center and family feeder. On any given day you’d see the fruits of both labors: butter cookie trays stacked and cooling in the sun room, Josie’s favorite sweet potatoes browning in the oven, layered hazelnut mocha cakes on the dining room table.

Josie also loved pears, and snacked on them in every form – raw, roasted, pureed, and, depending on the day’s work, occasionally poached in red wine and dotted with vanilla beans. One hotel I worked for required weekly deliveries of pear-and-almond tarts.

So it was a lot of fruit. And I spent many prepping hours standing at my little butcher block table, watching Josie with one eye, tumbling cheerfully over 50-pound flour bags while I peeled, cored, poached, sliced, diced and tarted up a veritable orchard of pears.

There was an odd, controlled chaos between the ganache and the Legos, the snack bowls and the meringues, but my kitchen was clean, so clean. So clean that on the day I noticed a slight odor coming from the dishwasher, I was thrown.

“It smells,” I told my husband.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“He said it’s fine,” I’d repeat to Josie, who giggled. Funny daddy. “It SMELLS , but it’s fine. Ugh.”

In 24 hours the faint off-odor in the dishwasher had become a mild stench. I would hold my breath, crack the door, and do a jam-and-slam; that is, jam in the plate, slam the door and run. I would later exhale in the hallway. Soon, Greg was starting to come around

“Yes,” he pronounced one night, two days later, “it smells.”

O Merciful Olfactory Gods! If we can arrive at the golden spot where we agree that something smells, that smell will surely be found. I had seen nothing yet. I’d furtively rattled and prodded the racks, but could not find the source. When the insistent green cloud started spreading out for real, I got bold.

Armed with a flashlight, I swung open the dishwasher door. Oh! I should have had a gas mask. But I went in.

The rotting smell of – of what, of what, a thousand trout guts? old jockstraps in ammonia? – hit me square in the face as I swept the light toward the back. The smell got stronger, and I saw the shadowy outline of a chunk – pears, I thought – down toward the bottom. Blinded, perhaps, by stench and the fact that I was crouched in a wet dark corner of my dishwasher, I did the unthinkable. I reached.

And I poked it, with my finger, and in a frozen instant knew that it was not a pear. Not pear, not pear, not pear! I thought, heart racing. I yanked away at the speed of light, whacking my head as I backed out, sending cartoon stars around my head and the sprayer arm spinning, leftover dish water dripping on both me and the slimy, unknown chunk.

I grabbed the closest tool, some cooking tongs. Summoning every breath of calm, I turned the flashlight back towards what I now knew was death, death in the dishwasher, a dishwasher death chunk.

I moved in, only partially secure that whatever it might be, it was, at least, not moving.

There, stuck between a stainless steel ring and the wet nether regions of the grinder, was a mangled piece of…well, with the shaky light, I could just make out a pointy grayish shape, with a small round…oh my god, ear…and then…an eye. A tiny black fixed bead of an eye, staring straight at me, unmoving.

I should have expired. I should have dropped cold right there on my kitchen floor, but instead I reached in with the tongs. In my career, these particular metal tongs had lovingly browned coq au vin. They had turned peppery steaks and plated buttery parslied new potatoes, but not that day.

That day, guided by my shaking hands, they would perform the ultimate service – a service no kitchen tool ever wants to perform. Today, they would scrape out the remains of – now clearly visible in the kitchen daylight – a waterlogged, festering, three-day old mouse head.

I had poked my naked finger into the squishy entrails of a dead mouse head. Not a pear, I thought, oh, why could it not have been a rotting pear?

The head and the tongs were thrown into a bag, and then tied up in another bag, and then frantically stuffed in the trash. I then sanitized the dishwasher five times and washed my hands for a week, and probably threw out the trash can, too. If I could replace my finger, I would.

I shed no tears for the mouse’s untimely end, only for my tainted finger and the heroically lost tongs. He had scampered into the jaws of death on his own accord. My dishwasher-shield was just doing its job. But…the pears. So sure was I that the death chunk was pear that even today, it’s hard to separate the vision of soaked, torn rodent head from a nicely peeled Bartlett.

If it’s sliced up in green salad with walnuts and blue cheese and vinaigrette, I might overlook it. But no poaching. If that pear is in a soft state, a state that some people adore, and happily eat with vanilla creme anglaise, that’s when I check out.

My dining companions won’t see it at the table, but inside, while they feast on dessert, I will be doing a full-body shudder, remembering the cold, cold surprise of wet, beady-eyed, furry not-pear.

Today’s rerun, from July 2008: when I messed around with eggs and Edies, I found myself Eating My Words. Original post found here.

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When Josie was a toddler, I dutifully subscribed to family-activity-type magazines – and who knows why, because I always started with with “Look! We should go to that family tree-climbing resort in Costa Rica!” and finished by hurling it at the wall.

What ticked me off in those glossies were the food projects. Every kids’ activity involved turning string cheese into castles or candy bars into costumes. Why would they waste all that food, I’d demand to Josie, why? The poor thing would just flip the pages, dreaming of processed cheese. With people starving, why do they need to paste lettuce into hats?

Well, people, today I eat my words. Jean over at Renovation Therapy is hosting a Grey Gardens contest.* (update – contest over!) The Grey Gardens ladies are quite a sensation – but if you’re not familiar with Grey Gardens, it’s the true story of Big Edie and Little Edie Bouvier Beale, two Jackie O. cousins who lived out their splendorous, manic days in a decrepit Hamptons mansion.

Big Edie and Little Edie Beale, going bats

Made famous in a 1975 documentary, their story was also told in a Broadway musical and soon, a feature film. For her contest, Jean asked everyone to get in touch with their inner Edie and for most people, this meant donning scarves and faux furs. At my house, we tried something different.

Little Edie wonders: will I ever get away?

Don’t ask me why I had to make Edible Edies. It seemed like a stunning idea at the time – but last night, as I wrapped green apple-scarves and flattened bread into minks, it occurred to me that I was dressing eggs. And the photo shoot? If my neighbors had peeped through the window at ten, they would have spied me posing and shooting two hard-boiled dames. Work with me, Edies!

I’ve always had a thing for eggs, perhaps due to a conspicuous lack of Easter. Plenty of eggs at Passover to be sure, but…different. Not so decorative. So when I first worked in bakeries and Easter rolled around, I was thrilled to join the party, and hit the bunny trail with a vengeance. My co-workers would look over and say oh, my…um, elaborate. I’d look up and say what. Don’t all egg cakes get a working chocolate carousel?

With apologies to every family magazine that ever advocated graham cracker choo-choos, these are the materials I used for Edie Eggs:

two hard-boiled eggs
semi-sweet chocolate (glasses and eyes)
two yellow Skittles (brooches)
one pink Skittle (lips)
glittery sanding sugar (brooches)
three peppercorns (brooch)
three chocolate jimmies (brooch)
one corn husk (shirt)
corn silk (Big Edie’s hair)
one potato peel (collar)
one slice of Health Nut bread (mink)
one Granny Smith peel (turban)
one cherry tomato peel (lips)

So I went and wasted all that food – surely someone will miss their Skittles tonight – and now I’m not even sure they look like the Edies. More like a 1920′s flapper and an egg-shaped Harry Potter, but whatever. It was fun.

Now – if you’d like to see two adorable Edie dogs, one precious Edie baby and several hilarious Edie adults, run over to Renovation Therapy and vote. And remember, don’t play with your food.

* contest over! Time for a new one, Jean.

Today’s rerun features noodles, sisters and one family’s assumption, corrected. From October 2008, the original post can be found here.

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Noodle kugel is a humble dish with an outsize name – a funny name, good for comedians and grandmas and giggling kids. Kugel is ripe with pronunciation – koo-gle or kuh-gle or whatever, just pass-me-that-stuff-now. It’s found on Jewish holiday tables and in deli case pyramids, golden twisty egg noodles cut in thick and improbably square slabs, bound by sour cream and more eggs, cottage cheese and drifting sugar. My family’s kugel is found on this 3 x 5 card.

Wearing butter stains and cinnamon age spots, the card appears each holiday in my mother’s kitchen – first under a fridge magnet (“I need to know where it is”) and eventually, on the counter. She could probably make kugel in her sleep, but it sits there, near the Pyrex, guiding the process like a curious lucky charm.

Most Jewish families pass down a kugel and inevitably a kugel family “secret,” some earnest addition like peaches or carrots or even chocolate chips. Kugel-lovers divide into “sweet” or “savory,” and at least in the matter of kugel, I stand with the sweet. I like my kugel luscious, sugared and cheesy, with distinct overtones of blintzes and dessert.

My mom received the Selectric-typed card long ago from Aunt Rose, as dear a lady as there ever was, and it was fondly known as “Aunt Rose’s Kugel” for decades, right up to the shocking family moment when it was revealed to be Aunt Ruth’s. My Grandma Trudy had three sisters – Ruth, Rose and Florence – and all four lived close, wore curlers, shopped sales and checked in by phone before ten. The four Weinstock girls – actually “LaVin,” lost at Ellis Island – were bound by love so fierce that it often excluded their husbands but extended monumentally, and quite judgmentally, to each other. At one time or another, they all baked and served this kugel.

Florence and Rose were the better cooks – my Grandma never met a Cantonese menu she didn’t like – and though Rose’s dish may be as sweet as Ruth’s, there was, of course, satisfaction in setting the recipe record straight. Enjoy noodling around on your own, and repeat the motto with me – never attribute a kugel to the wrong sister.

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Noodle Kugel

1 lb (16 oz) wide noodles (egg noodles)
4 eggs
1/2 pint sour cream (8 oz)
1 lb cottage cheese
1/2 cup milk
1/4 lb (one stick) butter
1 small can crushed pineapple – optional
1/2 box raisins (golden raisins are perfect) – optional
3/4 – 1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon (my mom’s addition – Aunt Ruth is still alive, so let’s keep that between us)

Preheat oven to 350 F. Coat a 9 x 13 pan with baking spray.

Melt butter, and set aside to slightly cool.

Cook noodles in boiling water until done; drain and slightly cool, placing noodles in a large bowl.

In a separate bowl, lightly whisk together eggs, sour cream, cottage cheese, milk and melted butter. Toss egg mixture together with the noodles to combine, then add sugar and cinnamon, mixing to coat. If you are using the optional pineapple and raisins – and let me add it’s delicious to do so – toss them in now.

Place noodle mixture in prepared pan and bake until the top is lightly browned, 45 minutes – 1 hour. Cool until safe to handle, then cut into squares and serve warm. Leftovers freeze and reheat well.

And now for the winner.  In a rigorously fair ceremony overseen by – um, Cleo – I  tossed all your names into a giant white egg-shaped tumbler.  I cranked the the egg beater-shaped handle a hundred times and then opened the tumbler door. A L’eggs pantyhose egg rolled out and cracked open to reveal…a Silly Putty egg.  I pulled that one apart and found…a Cadbury egg.  Which I ate.

Delicious creamy goodness.  Still, I managed to save the chocolate-covered name of the big winner, who is…Jayne, from Dainty Digs!

Congratulations, Jayne.  Send me your details and little Mr. Egg Whisk will be headed your way.  For the record, Jayne noted that she likes her scrambled eggs “with cottage cheese and salt and pepper,” and sometimes, with a little dill.

In the meantime, let’s play Cracker Butter Honey.

Long-time readers – um, all three of you – may remember that we’ve played this game before. But when I moved the blog, the comments disappeared, and no comment loss depressed me more than the missing chatter from Cracker Butter Honey. I recall a huge number of crazy snack creations including some form of toast - and any excuse to see Renovation Therapy Jean’s yummy Banana Toast Tutorial is a good one.

Let’s refresh the idea: for me, saltines, butter and drizzled honey, no – golden, puddled honey – is a snack I can’t live without. It’s crunchy, creamy, salty and goofy, but it’s all mine.

It takes a farmer’s market worth of Lawrence honey – and maybe a small dairy farm of butter-producing cows – to make me happy. What snack – established, outrageous or just plain odd – can you not live without?

So, why is there still something about putting away the produce…

…that makes me think I can rhumba?

Today the topic was Last Meal.

Our family has played “Last Meal” many times – what would you eat, and how would you choose? How many courses do you get? Lilly was intrigued, so Josie quickly showed her hand.

“I would start with dim sum,” she said.

“What?” said Lilly.

“You know, the Chinese appetizers. Dumplings and stuff.”

“Oh right! I would have dumplings too. Chicken.”

Josie continued. “Then, a big sausage and mushroom pizza from Lou Malnati’s. And their salad.”

That’s my girl. The tomato-gorgonzola salad is to die for.

Lilly swung in. “Sushi,” she said, “that Crunchy Munchy roll from Yokohama.”

“I LOVE that! Crunchy Munchy is so awesome.”

“I like the Crunchy Munchy roll, ” I said, turning left, “the spicy crab is good, huh?”

Silence. Okay, shut up and drive.

“What should we drink?” Lilly said. “I love ginger ale. Not too much ice, though.”

“Yeah,” Josie said, “we should have ginger ale. Do we get an after-dinner thing? Hot chocolate?”

Lilly thought they could have an after-dinner thing. Why not? It was their last meal.

“Okay then,” said Josie. “I want a big chai latte.”

I turn up the radio, boring NPR. Wow. Precocious darlings, or spoiled brats?

“BUFFALO WINGS!” Josie screamed. “We forgot WINGS!!”

“Wings!!!” Lilly shrieked, “but with mild sauce.”

“I want mine super Buffalo hot,” Josie said, “we’re getting different meals.”

“So for dessert I want tiramisu,” said Lilly. “Isn’t that like, made from cheese?”

Yes, it’s cheese. Red light. Christ, can this meal end?

Josie picked key lime pie, “a whole one.” As we turned toward the parking lot, she wrapped it up.

“Okay. We’ve got sushi, pizza, dim sum, dessert, drinks – did we miss anything?”

“But it’s all from different places,” Lilly said, “will we be able to get all that stuff together?”

They looked at me. Oh sure, now they need me, now they need the driver because she knows the rules.

“You can get anything for your Last Meal,” I said, putting the car in park, “from anywhere. Do you guys want to hear mine? I’d have deep dish pizza too, and…”

They grabbed their bags and jumped out.

I turn off NPR. Hmm. Where can I get dumplings at 8 am?