We were back in Chicago two weeks ago to dedicate dad’s headstone, and after the service at mom’s we hosted another group, smaller this time, and another identical tray: corned beef, rye bread and pickles, kaiser rolls, cookies and cakes. The kind of spread he loved but we were eating, there in now-just-my-mother’s kitchen, and though we had plenty to feed the crowd I still considered pulling the big red pot from her cabinet and stirring some onion soup. That’s what I see; to another cook full of memories but free of that one, it will be just good soup, but doesn’t that bear repeating? Living with what we have, moving forward, happy to slurp just good soup.

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From December 18, 2008. Original post and comments here

When a person is down – in general, in trouble, or in mourning – friends often say things like “take care of yourself,” and by all means I agree, take care. But how? Some friends say this in summary, a tag line at the door. Wearing winter coats and tying on scarves, they hold you by the arms and look you in the eye. Take care of yourself. Some mean please don’t fall off the edge, others mean stop taking care of others, and the most well-meaning and practical wish you to actually take care of yourself. Physically. As in eat carrots, get sleep, drink more tea.

Good advice, and like most healthy ideas, easier said than done. The unfortunate eating started before my father was even gone, first in a hospital at 3 am, where a meal of M & M’s does not seem like a bad thing. My mom had asked me to find her a Hershey bar – so I wandered noiseless halls for a vending machine, which I found, but without Hershey bars. I studied the candy through the glass – B6, C8, D4 – to decide what substitute would be best. Three Musketeers wasn’t right, Twix too fussy, and Snickers – a bit heavy before sunrise. M & M’s might last us all night, while we watched Dad sleep and snow fall through the dark, one chocolate bite at a time.

By the next evening people filled my mother’s living room, bearing crumb cake and cookies and eager, oversized pies. It was then that I made the ludicrous decision to eat no carbs in that house, no matter what chocolate, rye bread or Bundt cake was put on the counter. It is worth noting that I am generally one with the carbs, and most days I require lots of Saltines, and brown sugar, and oatmeal. But here I was sure that without structure, I’d mindlessly eat through the days and in a week, the fog would lift and I’d regret it. No, I would not comfort myself with the good stuff, and under that dazed plan I found I didn’t even mind the parade of cousins and friends plowing through said good stuff. Annoyed at being shooed out of the kitchen – take care of yourself, don’t do anything! – I contented myself with a pile of breadless corned beef, salty black olives, and sliced cheese.

A few days later we were driving home, and just above the sadness I sensed a small triumph – I had not given in. No cookies, brownies or bread had passed my lips. Aha! Grief meant losing, but not losing control. I stared at winter roads for hours, thinking I miss Dad already. But I will not have to buy new jeans.

Back home, I quickly succumbed to baguettes, then bagel chips, and then biscotti, all brought by friends – until eventually I found myself standing in the kitchen on the phone, nibbling idly at a friend’s turtle brownies while my mother recounted her meeting with the bank. You can make a pretty good dent in a 9 x 13 brownie pan when you’re on the phone, believe you me. This would not do.

I opened the fridge and realized it was empty. Kind friends had delivered all sorts of temptations, but it held no real supplies. A quick trip to the store felt good and routine; filling the shelves felt even better. By the time I was melting butter I knew the answer, and it had nothing to do with jeans. Rules and sadness don’t mix, and being stuffed and served by well-meaning friends, no matter how well, is only part of what you need. In my kitchen, alone with a soft black dog and a blue pot of onions, I could think, and cry, and laugh and dab my eyes over soup. That is doing whatever you need to do, and taking very good care of oneself.

French Onion Cider Soup

2 small onions, thinly sliced
1 Golden Delicious apple – peeled, cored and diced fine
1-2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon flour
16 oz apple cider
1 quart (32 oz) chicken broth
1/2 cup white wine
salt & white pepper
nutmeg

crusty bread
sliced Gruyere (or other Swiss cheese)

In a large pot, melt the butter over medium-low heat and add the onions and diced apples. Stir briefly to combine, then cover to let ingredients steam, about 5-7 minutes, checking and stirring occasionally. Remove cover and stir mixture frequently, until onions are deep golden brown and apples soften completely, almost disappearing.

When mixture is a deep golden brown (bottom of pan will also have browning) turn heat to low, then add flour and 1/2 cup of the apple cider, stirring constantly to form a sticky, combined mixture.

Add chicken broth, white wine and remaining apple cider to the pot, deglazing browned pan and stirring onion-apple mixture into broth. When onions have broken up into the broth, partially cover soup and simmer on low for about 20 minutes, or until golden brown, slightly reduced and thickened. Season with salt, white pepper and nutmeg to taste.

To serve:

Preheat broiler. Place oven-safe soup bowls (2-4, depending on portion size) on a rimmed sheet pan.

Place thick chunks of crusty bread (toasted is even better) in bottom of oven-safe soup bowls. Ladle warm soup over bread to almost, but not quite, fill the bowl. Top with slices of Gruyere cheese, allowing a slight overhang. Slide pan with soup bowls under hot broiler to melt cheese. Watch carefully – cheese will frequently melt, brown and bubble in less than a minute. Remove carefully from oven, and serve.

Soup (minus bread and cheese) serves 2-4 and keeps, refrigerated, for several days.*

* this is a good soup to make ahead, as flavor only deepens the next day. Re-warm soup before assembling the bread and cheese bowls, then ladle and serve as directed.

The blog bugs, they still plague us here at Simmer, determined to keep me from bringing you new nonsense. On the plus side, it’s inspiring a rerun you’ll love, Zucchini-Ginger Bread. As baked goods go it’s simple, addictive and, if your counter currently sports heaps of rolling garden green, right on time. From August 21, 2008, please enjoy the recipe and its little coffee shop tale; I’ll be making some myself this week, and setting aside one small loaf as burnt offering to the Internet gods. I mean, whatever it takes.

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Once upon a time my daughter was not a big-shot junior high kid in the know. She was just a toddling moppet – keen on alphabet games, wild for all things A to Z, and this was handy in grocery lines and waiting rooms and 600-mile drives. We played color alphabet (azure), color-animal-alphabet (azure aardvark), color-animal-place-alphabet (azure aardvark in Alabama) and of course, color-animal-place-oh-my-god-please-kill-me alphabet.

But before it came to that we played eating alphabet. All you had to do was name foods from A to Z – simple, but with three people in rotation, some letters could get tough. There are very few “I” foods, for instance, and a notoriously scarce supply of “U’s.” And then there is “Z.” If you had first crack at Z, you were golden – “zucchini” was yours. If you didn’t, there were twenty miles of silence and praying she’d fall asleep.

We never used “zucchini bread,” and – smack! – even now I don’t know why. It’s not my favorite quick bread – easily, banana nut – but it shines as a home-baked savior come the summer garden’s end. Today – true-life, I swear on a stack of candied walnuts – I overheard this conversation at the coffee shop:

(During the busy morning rush, a customer leans on the counter, waiting for her triple soy half-caf, perusing baked goods. There is a line behind her.)

Latte Lady: I don’t know…

Barista Girl: (pulling shots) would you like something else?

LL: I don’t know…I don’t want a scone. (holds up baked good) What’s this?

BG: zucchini bread. Like some?

LL: no….no…I don’t like zucchini. Bread, I don’t like zucchini bread.

BG: really? It’s so good, it’s like the American mom thing, everybody loves it.

LL: um…I don’t know. I’ve never had zucchini bread.

BG: you’ve never had it?

LL: no…

BG: so…how do you know you don’t like it?

LL: um…I just. I just can’t get past it. Zucchini.

(the line is mounting; people are checking watches, shifting feet)

BG: do you like banana bread?

LL: yes.

BG: carrot cake?

LL: oh, yes.

BG: then you’ll like zucchini bread.

(Customers shoot laser glances at her head. I am not even in line – I already have my coffee, and still want to kill her.)

LL: you know, I think it’s Z.

BG: what?

LL: I just don’t like foods that begin with Z.

BG: okay.

(plunks latte on counter)

Then I guess you won’t like zebra bread.

LL: zebra bread?

BG. oh, yeah – it’s a little chunky, and all that black and white fur. It’s totally an acquired taste.

LL: oh my god.

BG: can I get you a scone?

LL: peach is fine.

Zucchini-Ginger Bread

This fine-textured zucchini bread has a gentle ginger bite. I’d planned to top this with a little lemon icing, but one bite told me it didn’t need it. Cold milk – or a triple soy half-caf whatever – will do just fine.

2 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
3 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 tablespoon powdered ginger

1 ounce fresh ginger, peeled and grated fine (about 1 – 1 1/2 tablespoons)*
2 cups finely shredded, unpeeled zucchini, packed*
optional: 1 cup finely chopped nuts
1 tablespoon vanilla

* I use a fine-holed grater to both shred the zucchini and grate the ginger, for the smallest bits possible. When grating the ginger, be sure to use only the “puree” you’ve scraped from under the grater, and discard the fibrous parts left in your hand.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Use baking spray (and parchment paper, if desired) to prepare at 9 x 5 loaf pan or a 10-inch tube pan. If you make the 9 x 5 loaf, you will have a small amount of batter left over: make a mini-loaf or a few zucchini muffins.

Using an electric mixer, beat the sugar, oil and eggs together for a few minutes, until thick and a slight yellow ribbon falls from beaters.

In a separate bowl, sift the flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and powdered ginger together.

Fold the zucchini, fresh ginger and optional nuts into the sugar-egg mixture. Fold in the flour mixture and vanilla until thoroughly combined.

Pour batter into prepared pan (or pans), filling large loaf pan 2/3 full.

Bake on a center oven rack for about 1 hour (check smaller items sooner), or until tester comes out sticky but mostly dry. Store, wrapped in plastic, for several days at room temperature.

We’re back from a week of Chicago eating, and running around windy, early tornado-season Kansas has shaken out my high-calorie spring break. I’ve got things to do: plan a bat mitzvah, finish a book proposal, work off the winter blahs, and oh, yes – reconnect with my favorite readers. It’s time to get down to business, so might as well make it delicious. Hope you’re all well, and I will see you tomorrow. Fresh.

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Our 15th anniversary was November 13, 2008; I commemorated it with a tale of the most important cake I never made. Original post found here.

We’d insisted on a November wedding – autumn, crisp and comfortable – but now, standing in satin heels before a seated crowd at the Knickerbocker Hotel, I thought, what the hell does it matter what month it is, except that I’m wearing long sleeves? We are inside.

That was my view in 1993, but this long day had actually begun in 1985, when my parents drove away from the dorm and I carefully stood my mixtapes in a red plastic crate. Greg and I became friends that day, and found push me-pull you love after that, fueled by talk and turntables and parties, sunrises and vodka and dancing – sloppy dancing, no thoughts of time, money, or aching feet.

Even now – mortgage, silverware, thank-you notes – we still floated on a hazy and curious feeling of promise, still carried the remnants of a beer-soaked dance floor, and they would remain our guide on this day, when one “I do” minute might make the world briefly irony-free.

Or “I will,” or whatever – seconds later I thought, isn’t dinner going to be in this room? Thirty rows of family down there would be whisked away into cocktails, and return here for dinner. Would the room be ready? Would there be enough ice? Could I get a snack?

The staff would in fact transform the space – currently holding one bride, one groom, a rose-covered chuppah, a photographer, a video guy, a Rabbi and two hundred guests – back to a regular ballroom in time for soup. The grand old 1920’s girl, with her gilded ceilings and lighted dance floor, had seen both Al Capone and my parent’s prom night.

They knew what they were doing. By the first toast, draped tables and clinking china hugged the smoky mirrored walls. In the center, the dance floor built for Capone was lit for our newly married entrance, and at the other end of the ballroom, calling me, was our cake.

As an overeager apprentice pastry chef, I’d planned to make my own wedding cake. I fought everyone’s warnings, including chatty taxi drivers – don’t even think about it, baby – up to the last minute. Consumed by important tasks like hot-gluing 400 tiny peach satin roses to 200 place cards, I finally admitted defeat, and though it killed me to do it, I reluctantly turned the job over to a well-known European bakery.

And now the haughty not-my-cake taunted me from across the ballroom. During the reception I’d sneak peeks at it, and hug guests on that side of the room to get closer, edging across the floor; finally, my train rustled against the table’s skirting, and there it was.

We eyed each other. That cake was wearing nothing but an ivory buttercream robe and a wholly indecent – no, completely insane – shower of white chocolate curls.

I pursed my over-lipsticked lips. Really, it’s over the top. Kinda gauche, a bit much. Surely it could have used a more restrained hand, you know, say, mine, and then…the damn thing winked at me. Winked like Alexis Carrington in four tiers and frosted shoulder pads. Dark chocolate perfume and white ruffled lashes. I kid you not, the sly thing smiled.

I stifled the impulse to laugh – I’m nuts, I thought, I’m married and freaking nuts – but out came a giggle, then a chuckle, and a full-on, doubled-over, can’t-talk guffaw. Aunt Ruth, Aunt Margaret, Aunt Rose – all the aunts watching the bride clutching her princess-waist, teary and gasping, likely whispered “dear batty little thing…she’s overcome.” And I was.

Overcome with all this more, all this larger-than-life more that was suddenly now. I stared at the cake thinking this is it. This is me and I’ll be cranking out many happy endings like this one – big, moussed, and circa ‘85 – and each time I do I’ll think of us, sharing endless runs for cheap, hot doughnuts in the dark.

Now we fed each other chocolate cake on forks in the air, white curls falling from our lips as petals, laughing and laughing at this hilarious circus, laughs you belt out once or twice in life and never see again – all the while cameras clicking and crumbs dropping. Our private delicious laughter, and one sound moment for a sweet life ahead.

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.”

———————-

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.

In anther lifetime I lugged hundred-pound bags of flour, I hadn’t met hair-smoothing heat tools and I ran a business called Scone on the Range.  Scone opinions may vary – but for tastefully sentimental reasons, these will always be my choice. Original post, from April 2008, found here.
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It seems like I’ve been around scones forever, but for years I only read about them, in lacy novels and high-tea books, until I was twenty-two. I went to work for a very gourmet food shop, answering phones and typing menus, and I did it two steps from a busy kitchen door.

When that door swung toward my desk, I could catch another world, and when I wasn’t confirming the luncheon for trophy wives, I began to sneak small bites: salty prosciutto and runny brie, streaky pancetta and French green beans, currant butter and fresh-baked scones - melting sugar that was never too sweet, glorious buttery bread that oh my god was not bread at all.

I stopped going out for subs and started lunching at my desk, crumbly scone-currant butter-prosciutto sandwiches, munched on napkins with sips of Orangina. After the first scone I was hooked, and instead of trying to beat them, I’d spend the next twenty years trying to join them.

Now scones are an everyday thing, and they inspire strong feelings; more exotic than a biscuit, more homey than cake, always utterly delicious. We didn’t invent them, but there they are in our coffee shops, our groceries, our airports and kitchens. Are they ours? The British would hmph and the Scots would say they are not even scones, but what of it? Holding a tray from the oven, arguments disappear and the scones do too.

I should tell you that the gourmet shop fired me, and I’d never been fired before, or since, and when that swinging door kicked me it broke my hungry heart. But it also pushed me into the kitchen for good, and eventually I would spin that first taste into a business called Scone on the Range.

And that is a story for another day.

Hmph…now I’m all worked up. Let’s make some scones.

Scones aren’t a perfect science, so don’t fret about all the steps – after a few rounds of mixing, cutting and eating, it’s like riding a bike. A very warm, buttered bike.

We’re making Orange Chocolate Chip Scones, and to get them truly orang-ey, we need orange zest.

You can finely chop thin strips of orange peel, or use a fine-holed cheese grater, or spend seven hours with a shmancy zester. But if you’re an extremely zesty girl – like me – consider investing in a Microplaner. It is a heavenly efficient tool.

Whisk together the eggs, heavy cream and vanilla.

Mmm. I’m thinking eggnog.

Put the dry ingredients (except the sugar) in a mixer bowl, and add the cubed butter. Yes, you can make perfectly good scones without a stand mixer – but this leaves me one hand to push Cleo off the counter.

Cutting in Butter Like biscuits, you want the butter to disappear into the flour. Here, we do it by running the mixer on low – and I mean low, or it’s hello, white volcano - until the butter is reduced to large floury crumbs.

Grab those lovely whisked eggs. With the mixer on low, slowly pour in the liquid…

…turning the mixer on and off, on and off, like the ‘pulsing’ of a food processor.
Before the dough comes together, add the sugar, chocolate chips, and orange zest.

Keep mixing on low, on and off, until it just comes together…

…like so. Is it slightly wet and sticky, is there flour at the bottom? Does it look shaggy and uneven and not done? Good – you made scone dough!

Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Using floured hands or a bench scraper – a metal pancake turner works, too – turn it over a few times, pressing lightly but not kneading, until it just comes together, soft, thick, and smooth.

Beware of lurking labs. They are a scone’s natural predator.

Pat dough 1/2″ to 1″ thick (thicker = higher, but fewer scones) and cut as desired. You can cut wedges or use a floured cookie cutter to stamp out rounds. Below, I’ve cut fluted triangles…

…because the tall wavy edges make me happy. Can you spot the lucky butter chunk?

For a ‘browner’ scone, brush lightly with cream or milk. Then sprinkle the remaining sugar in a thick layer over the tops. See that imperfect scone in the corner? That’s for Josie. She can spot an earmarked leftover blob a mile away.

It’s the homeliest, the tastiest, and the first one gone.

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Scone on the Range Scones, Orange Chocolate Chip

(click here for a printable recipe)

makes about 1 dozen large scones

4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
6 oz. cold butter, cubed (12 tablespoons)
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
4 large eggs
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

1 1/2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
finely grated zest of one orange

extra sugar for sprinkling

———————

Preheat the oven to 400 F.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, and baking soda in large mixing bowl or stand mixer bowl.

Cut in butter – you can do this two ways:

Electric stand mixer With the flour mixture in the stand mixer bowl and the paddle blade attached, turn on the slowest speed and slowly add butter chunks, mixing to a coarse meal texture and only a few floury crumbs of butter remain.

(or)

By hand Using a sharp-bladed pastry cutter tool, or two knives, “cut” the butter pieces into the flour mixture until you have a coarse meal texture.

In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, cream, and vanilla.

Add liquid mixture to dry ingredients by hand or with stand mixer on low, using “on-off” mixing. Stop just long enough to add sugar, chocolate chips, and orange zest, then continue mixing briefly to form a soft and sticky dough. Scrape dough onto lightly floured surface and turn over a few times to combine, adding flour if necessary.

Form scones You can divide dough in half, form each piece to a 1″ thick round, and cut into equal wedges, or you can pat to 1″ thick and use floured cutters for rounds or triangles.

Transfer scones to cookie sheet pan, preferably lined with parchment paper.

If desired, brush the top of each scone with a small amount of milk or cream. Sprinkle the extra white sugar thickly over tops. Bake 15-18 minutes, or until set and tops are golden brown. Cool on baking sheet a few minutes, then transfer to racks, and serve.

Anyway – just two more reruns and I’ll back and simmering, more stewing than ever. As always, thanks for hanging around.

This caramelized little story is from last July; as I recall, the combination of sugared bananas, chocolate, ice cream and pecans set off a round of summer drooling. Original post found here.

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July is an upside-down month – as in steaming outside, freezing inside. It’s too hot to cook, but I’m starving. I couldn’t eat another bite, but…a little something cold for dessert?

Oh, summer desserts. With a damp ponytail and flip-flops, you’d think I’d keep it simple, but no. That scoop of specked vanilla, it’s purity in a bowl. It needs nothing more, but it’s a backdrop-in-waiting; ice cream clearly welcomes the company of fruits and candies and other sweet bits.

My family’s always a little whacked in the heat, but if a gallon of ice cream appears we turn positively nuts – and bananas, too.

I have a seasonless weak spot for bananas that was sealed long ago. Right after college I worked as an editor by day and in a bookstore at night, often skipping dinner but never missing a snack. By the 8 pm break I’d bolt from the store, run three doors down to Love’s Frozen Yogurt and demand sliced bananas over Double Chocolate Dutch. Seven minutes of frozen peace, a one-minute trudge back to work.

Ever get on such a jag you think you might never get off? That whole year I set my watch by frozen yogurt. Standing at the register at 7:58, I was sure that if I didn’t taste chocolate and bananas soon, I’d poof into flame and take the book browsers with me.

And that, my friends, is a jag.

We tend to replace little obsessions with new ones. I no longer require two quick scoops at eight, but I still love chocolate and bananas, especially in summer, when they’re so sweet together they’re practically going steady.

Now, at a darn-close 100 degrees, I’d be crazy to sizzle bananas and dip pecans – but a few minutes at the stove won’t keep me from hot banana caramel and salty chocolate nuts. Which brings us to another upside-down summer thought: I do want to go the pool…I do not want to put on that suit.

Caramelized Banana Sundaes with Salty Chocolate Pecans

vanilla bean ice cream

2-3 bananas, slightly green, not quite ripe
3/4 cup light brown sugar
2 tablespoons butter
dash of cinnamon

1 cup pecan halves
semi-sweet chocolate, about 3 oz
sea salt, for sprinkling

salty chocolate pecans:

Place semi-sweet chocolate in small microwave-safe bowl and use microwave to melt, heating at intervals of no more than 35 seconds each. Remove from microwave after each interval, two or three times, stirring to smooth. Dip each pecan halfway in melted chocolate, and place on a parchment or wax-paper lined sheet. Before chocolate sets, sprinkle chocolate pecans with sea salt. Place in refrigerator to set before serving.

caramelized bananas:

Slice bananas in thick chunks. Place a large non-stick frying pan over medium-high heat – when hot, sizzle one tablespoon of butter for a few seconds, then add bananas.

Do not stir or move bananas for about 30 seconds; allow to brown. Use a heat-proof spatula to turn bananas over, then add brown sugar, cinnamon, and remaining tablespoon of butter. Shaking pan to keep bananas moving, cook about one minute more, until sugar is melted and bananas are caramelized, but still solid. Remove from heat and serve.

Scoop ice cream into bowls. Top with generous amounts of warm caramelized bananas and chocolate pecans. Get out of the way fast, and serve.

serves 2-4, depending on serving size

This post originated in a steamy July kitchen, and cemented my belief that oatmeal cookie fans are as rabid, loyal, and sweet-toothed as they come. Original post found here.

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My daughter was headed to a pool party the other night, and I was supposed to send cookies. I opened the pantry door, and from a tall cylindrical box a man wearing a Quaker hat said “Pool party? Thou shalt need oats, of course.”

So I made oatmeal cookies.

There are as many oatmeal secrets in America as there are splattered recipe cards – everyone seems to have a grandmother’s trick or a magazine shortcut to oatmeal bliss. Me? Forget fancy training and hand-kissed organics, because I’d never abandon this pleasure: pulling back the Quaker Oats tab with a satisfying “whh-ch,” getting a nice wholesome whiff, and then turning over the recipe to make Vanishing Oatmeal Cookies.

Oh, there are more glamorous recipes, more wholesome recipes, certainly more interesting recipes. But when it comes to oatmeal cookies, I don’t mess with the oven gods. Simple is best, and tradition rules. Still – one gets creative, and on this particular day I sorely tempted Quaker man’s patience by mixing a handful of white chocolate chips into the dough. He looked at me sternly as they went into the bowl. “Dude,” I whispered, “come on. It’s a pool party.”

I say keep the base traditional – it can hardly be improved – and when white-haired guy’s not looking, throw something delicious in for fun. Here are 25 ways to trick out your oatmeal cookies – not necessarily ground-breaking, but all tasty and all in one place. I guarantee they’ll vanish.

25 ways to trick out your oatmeal cookies

1. add extra cinnamon and chocolate chunks
2. add dried cherries, crystallized ginger and a dash of powdered ginger
3. add chopped dried pineapple and toasted coconut
4. add finely chopped granny smith apple
5. add dried currants plumped in orange juice, and the zest of one orange
6. add chopped toffee bits and toasted almond slices
7. add dried wild blueberries and nutmeg
8. add chocolate chips and pecan halves
9. add white chocolate chips and toasted walnuts
10. add a few handfuls of any Trader Joe’s trail mix
11. add a tablespoon of powdered espresso and cocoa nibs
12. add chopped dried pears and white chocolate chunks
13. add chopped candied orange peel
14. add dried cranberries and pumpkin pie spice
15. add chocolate chunks and salted peanuts
16. add grated raw carrot and toasted walnuts
17. add chopped dates and toasted coconut
18. add chocolate chips, chopped walnuts & mini-marshmallows
19. add about a cup of Rice Krispies cereal
20. Chocolate-Dipped: Bake jumbo cookies and allow to cool. Cut cookies into quarters and dip each pointed end in melted semi-sweet chocolate. Allow chocolate to set, and serve.
21. Oatmeal Black and Whites: bake large oatmeal cookies and cool. Make chocolate and white icings (try these icing recipes). Frost one half of each cookie with dark icing, and the other half with white.
22. Oatmeal Faux Macarons: make small, puffy oatmeal cookies and sandwich two with chocolate ganache. Allow ganache to set, and serve.
23. Orange-Glazed Oatmeal Cookies: make a light glaze by mixing 1 cup powdered sugar, 1 1/2 tablespoons orange juice, and pinch of grated orange zest. Drizzle over cookies and allow to dry.
24. Oatmeal Cookie Dip: Bake mini oatmeal cookies, and make chocolate yogurt dip: whisk one cup vanilla yogurt with one tablespoon of cocoa powder and one tablespoon brown sugar. Chill for an hour, then serve with cookies and fresh strawberries.
25. Brandied Cherry Oatmeal Ice Cream Sandwiches: soak dried cherries in brandy and drain. Add to oatmeal dough; bake jumbo cookies and cool. Sandwich with good-quality cherry ice cream and freeze.

Quaker Oats Vanishing Oatmeal Cookie

1/2 pound (2 sticks) margarine or butter, softened
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt (optional)
3 cups Quaker® Oats (quick or old-fashioned, uncooked)
1 cup raisins (optional)

Heat oven to 350°F. In large bowl, beat margarine and sugars until creamy. Add eggs and vanilla; beat well. Add combined flour, baking soda, cinnamon and salt; mix well. Add oats and raisins (if using raisins); mix well.

Drop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheets. (or cookie sheets lined with parchment paper) Bake 10 to 12 minutes or until light golden brown – do not overbake. Cool 1 minute on cookie sheets; remove to wire rack. Cool completely. Store tightly covered.

makes approximately 4 dozen, depending on size of cookie

This Monday rerun is from just around the corner, January 2009 – but I think we can all agree that you don’t see oven-mitt puppetry every day, and it’s worth another look. I recall that one particular reader – I’m looking at you, Average Betty – noted that I’d “brought the crazy,” thrilling words for a buttoned-up broad like me.  Original post – with very amusing comments – found here.

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Today, we bid farewell to an old friend. It pains me to say so, but it’s time. Yes.

Oven Mitty has pulled out his last banana bread.

I know. It’s not easy for me either, buddy.

We’ve worked in the trenches together for so long. How long? Let’s take a look.

Good times, and not always pretty. But – look past the scars. This kitchen helper was more than just useful, more than burnt batting – a mitt with real oomph. Sure, he’d run into a burning oven for you. But he could also be tender…

…bashful even.

And the talent! Always with the clowning in the kitchen.

There was The Manatee…

…the Jumbo Jet…

..and of course, The Diving Orca. After the Broiler Grab Incident of ’99, that one was never the same.

If I had my druthers, he’d never go to that big Bed Bath in the sky. But…it’s time.

I salute you too, my friend. I will warmly remember you forever.

Or at least until trash day.

* 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.