A Finger in Every Pie

Sunday Sampler

I had a pretty busy time in the kitchen yesterday.   We were going to an Oscar party, and I had promised to bring desserts.  Upon finding out that I had said we would attend, G's comment was a simple and succinct "please kill me now." He's not big on socializing in general, and if the truth be known, he loathes the Oscars -- this in spite of  (or perhaps because of) being rather a film aficionado (he'd hate it that I called him that.  But I can't think how else to describe it.  Film buff?  No, that sounds even worse.  Please don't tell him I called him any of these things).  Back to the subject at hand: cuisine.  I woke up early and began baking.

First I made the gorgeous Trianon Cake that Bakerina posted a while ago.  I've been craving the very idea of it, and promised myself that it was next on my "to-bake" list.  Yes, you're right.  Your eyes don't deceive you.  There are two cakes in that picture.  Okay, okay, I made two, figuring I'd take some to the party and then we could still have some at home for our mean selfish selves.  Always a good plan when baking. 

Then I moved on to Pineapple Upside-Down Cake by request of my hostess, Marcela, who refers to Upside-Down Cake as "Bend-Over Cake".  It's a translation thing, I think.  But it's a name that could catch on.   I used fresh pineapple and dark Muscovado sugar for the topping; otherwise it was pretty standard stuff.  Emily over at Baking Beast posted a good recipe.  I thought maybe the fresh pineapple made the whole thing a bit damper than I would have liked, but it seems to have been a great success, judging by the howls of joy which accompanied its consumption.

As I was doing all this baking, it occurred to me that in addition to ensuring everyone else's sugar coma for Oscar night, I might also make some non-dessert food for us to have in the house during the coming week.  Especially since we're expecting a house guest.  So I made what I always make when I need a fall-back -- a soup.  I can once again sing my song about the virtues of soup, but I'll give it a rest and just say that it's a great thing to make when you don't know if and when you'll be home for dinner.   That's because if you are home, then you've got a no-brainer meal with some good bread and cheese, maybe a salad.  And if you're not going to be home, you can stick it in the freezer in assorted size handy-dandy containers. 

This is a soup I haven't made in quite a while, but I recalled loving it and so decided to give it a re-visit:  Yellow Pepper and White Bean Soup with Sage.  It's a beautiful yet simple soup based on the classic Tuscan flavors for white beans -- garlic and sage.   The recipe is from Sally Schneider's delightful book The Art of Low-Calorie Cooking.  This was the first cookbook I ever bought that had literally mouth-watering photos.  That in itself was a revelation -- and then there was the fact that I wanted to try almost everything in the book -- not my usual reaction to anything billed "low calorie". 

Finally, I made a pecan pie -- also  for the Oscar party, also by request.  The wonderful thing about a pecan pie is that most people adore it, and can't believe that you actually made it.  And no matter how many times you explain that it takes about five minutes to assemble if you use a nice, high-quality pre-made crust, they still behave as if it's an act of genius.  And you are not merely the genius that committed the act of piemaking, but also incredibly kind and altruistic to have brought them said pie.   So I just go with it.  Unfortunately, this time I heard the timer go off, told myself I'd go check the pie in a minute, got distracted and forgot about it.  Luckily it didn't burn, but it turned very dark brown and very, well, crisp on top.  No matter.  Despite my apologies, I heard no complaints.

So we went off to the party, shopping bags in hand.  We had delicious Argentine food prepared by Marcela and her family members.  And the awards turned out fine.  The dinner awards, anyway.  The desserts were voted in by popular acclaim, if not by the Academy.  But the real contender was Marcela's Aunt Graciela.  As far as I'm concerned, she was definitely the winner in the category of Best Empanadas in a Starring Role. 

The Barrio Bakes: La Tropezienne

When we moved to East Harlem from Windsor Terrace in the fall of 2003, we were excited about discovering our neighborhood.  As with any major life change, there were aspects of our new situation that we immediately enjoyed, as well as difficulties.  We loved the lively feeling of the neighborhood, the small Greenthumb community gardens, the good Latin and Mexican restaurants, and our proximity to Central Park and its glorious Conservatory Garden.  In addition, there are several small galleries near us, including that of the street artist De La Vega. 

As I've mentioned before on this site, shopping was more difficult.  Of late we've wandered further afield and have made some great discoveries in the neighborhood.  I still travel to other parts of town for what G refers to as my "Organic Gringo" type groceries, but we've also found some little-known but worthy treasures right here at home. 

One such discovery was La Tropezienne Bakery.  We had for some time mourned our little French bakery in Park Slope, where I liked the buttery apricot danish and G was fond of the apple muffins.  G would occasionally stop off there to surprise me on random days with a miniature cakelet or tiny tart when we lived in Brooklyn.  We missed it a great deal.

But then one day, as we were walking up First Avenue to the venerable East Harlem Patsy's for a pizza, I saw a bright yellow sign and an unassuming little storefront.  I suddenly remembered reading Ed Levine's write up of La Tropezienne in his book New York Eats several years ago.  And there it was, and here we were, right in the neighborhood. 

We feel pretty lucky to have La Tropezienne (named for a luscious custard-filled pastry, available there in two sizes) as our neighborhood bakery.  It's a great little place.  Perhaps its tarts don't have the insanely buttery fragility of the ones from City Bakery.  Its small pastries and cakes are not as modishly original as those at Payard, and there are no handmade chocolates or ethereal green tea or mocha macaroons.   But that being said, you will find many of your classical favorites here, made with plenty of honest butter and real cream:  eclairs, mille feuille, tarte au citrón; fruit or ganache tarts.  Sometimes there are cups made of chocolate, filled with espresso cream or cream custard and berries. There are puff pastry swans, and chocolate barquettes made to look like mice.  To keep your children amused while you're making up your mind, you can buy iced cookies made to look like a whole menagerie of different animals.  In the summer, they always have icy homemade lemonade with a perfect sweet-to-tart ratio.  This is probably the only bakery in our neighborhood that doesn't use scary ersatz fillings and frostings:  dubious "cremes" and flourescent "fruit" pastes.  And La Tropezienne's numerous breads, croissants and danishes are all absolutely lovely.  I have had many a worse croissant in other places, including Paris.  G has also found a new friend in the apple division, since apple desserts and baked goods are his steadfast favorites.  It turns out that La Tropezienne makes a superb apple turnover.   In addition, you won't pay anything like the sticker prices you'll find in the few high-end bakeries that NYC can actually boast. 

The owner of La Tropezienne is French, but the store is staffed by young people from the neighborhood.  It's been in existence on the same East Harlem block for the past 14 years.   At first it seems rather French -- at least to American eyes.  There are some little cafe tables and chairs, and a comfy cushioned window-seat table as well, along with the obligatory poster of beret-wearing man and child together on a bicycle, with baguettes strapped on behind.  Then you hear the salsa music playing in the background, and the banter in Spanish behind the counter.   The neighborhood people drop in for their morning coffee and pastry, and folks stop off to buy breads and cakes, salads and sandwiches.   Hang out at La Tropezienne long enough, and you'll get a feel for the neighborhood.   People from Haiti and French-speaking African nations often come in, since the bread and pastries are a familiar part of their colonial pasts. 

We went in for brunch the other day.  We ate wonderful Alsatian quiche with smoky ham bits suspended in light custard and a fine croque monsieur and watched the comers and goers:  an elderly couple involved in an intense theological discussion (for me, pastry is proof enough of heaven); a man sitting by himself, completely occupied by his crunchy almond-encrusted breakfast treat and coffee; a father with a beautiful but solemn little daughter, carefully holding her papa's hand.  "You can have any cake you want, cherie.  After all, it's your birthday," he said with a clear French-Haitian lilt.   Her eyes widened with joy and she began carefully inspecting the case.  "This one, " she said, pointing at a sumptuous raspberry mousse cake.  As they boxed it up for her, she twirled around and around in exultation, and it became clear to us that no matter what mood you may be in when you enter La Tropezienne, you always leave happy. 

La Tropezienne Bakery
2131 First Avenue (between 109th and 110th Streets)
New York, NY 10029
212/860-5324

Soupe Au Pistou: Something Good in the World

"When I make soup, I feel like I've really done something good in the world."
          -- Mary Gordon

I love discovering that a writer I admire -- or really, anyone I admire -- is a cook, a reader of food/cooking literature, or  simply a passionate eater.  It confirms something for me -- it makes me feel that I'm not alone, that I'm not foolish to care so much about my food, about G's food, and about feeding people.  Perhaps it's not wrong that one of my greatest pleasures is watching the faces of others as they eat something I've made (when it's one of my successes, anyway.  We won't discuss what the faces look like under other circumstances). 

I've long admired the novels and the writing of Mary Gordon.  Her first book, Final Payments, is the story of a woman who has spent her youth caring for her aging and ill father.  When he dies, she begins the work of constructing a life with herself at the center -- a difficult task particularly for women of certain generations, for whom self-sacrifice is a basic tenet of their way of life.  Many of her subsequent novels and other books have as a theme the struggle between values that people may have been taught are good or right or necessary, and the development of an identity or the preservation of a sense of self.  The desire for a moderately sane yet moral and ethical life amidst the cacophony of religious and cultural impositions is often what drives her characters. 

I believe that those of us who think a great deal about our food may often have a little Calvinist voice in the back of our heads that asks us why we would spend time and energy on something so frivolous -- something that doesn't last, doesn't build up either spiritual or material treasure in the world, but is merely consumed.    When I came across this interview with Ms. Gordon  while making a version of Patricia Wells' soupe au pistou, I felt that the quote above was certainly worth pondering. 

Perhaps I eat too much pastry and indulge in expensive chocolate too often.  Maybe we could lower our grocery bills by cutting back on the more costly items, or I could try to use up some of the esoteric ingredients in the cupboard, instead of constantly buying new ones (Elderflower cordial?  Tamarind paste, anyone?)    But ever since I read what Mary Gordon has to say, it comforts me to think that for all my foodie flaws and extravagances, I do make soup.  Quite often, in fact. 

A pot (more like a vat, really) of Soupe au Pistou fed G and myself healthily and well for quite a number of meals.  In addition, I brought soup to our friends whose apartment is up for sale, and who are loathe to use their kitchen since they never know when prospective buyers are going to appear for a viewing.   My soup and I were greeted with such enthusiasm that you would have thought I was the realtor, appearing with news of a sale.  After weeks of take-out and restaurant meals, our friends' gratitude for this simple yet restorative vegetable soup was enormous.  Then I found out that a dear cousin of mine had been ill, and so arranged to visit her -- with soup containers in hand.  I'll give you the recipe on Martha's website, since she has permission to reprint it.

And that's one of the lovely and difficult things about this soup.  It makes an absolutely huge quantity.  So be sure before embarking on this that you have either lots of friends and relatives that need soup, or lots of freezer space, or both.    And even if you don't give any away, you will have had the all the pleasures of handling fresh vegetables and herbs: shelling cranberry beans, cleaning leeks, washing and chopped everything, looking at the play of colors and textures in your pot, watching and stirring and tasting all the changes.  You'll make the glorious pistou, and grate some good Parmigiano or Gruyere or both, to stir into your hot bowl of soup.  Your kitchen will be filled with the scent of basil and garlic, and all that those smells recall for you -- faraway villages dappled in sunlight, a favorite restaurant, your grandmother's kitchen.  You'll be nourishing yourself and perhaps those you love.  You'll be doing something good in the world. 

Happy Blogamonthaversary!

"The next night, after we had moved and arranged about having Al's trunks of books sent from the station,  I looked up the word anniversary in my dictionary and told Madame that it was our first one.  'Impossible,' she shouted, glaring at me and then roaring with laughter when I said 'Month, not year.'"
        -- M.F.K. Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

A Finger in Every Pie is one month old today.  New arrivals in one's life are generally difficult to care for, because you have to learn so much about them.  They require a great deal of love and attention -- but I must say, this baby is already quite rewarding.  Many, many thanks to all who are reading and commenting -- it does make it seem worthwhile.  My month-long free trial period with Typepad is now officially over, and I'm going to start paying for the privilege of doing this -- and I don't say that with irony, truly.  It does feel like a privilege, and the quite nominal fee I'll cough up for the blog is worth every cent. 

What I've discovered is that blogging is a marvelous thing.  It gives me the opportunity to work out a little, stretch my limbs as a nascent writer -- even when so much else is happening all around, to me and because of me.  Our lives constantly clamor for our attention -- loved ones, work, obligations of all kinds -- and many of us find that we need oases.  But there are times when the usual ones -- the "something that's just for me" is lacking in the right spirit.  I go to the gym or even to dance class, which I love, because it's good for me.  It's a release, surely, but it doesn't always give me all the sustenance I need.  In shopping some find their sanctuary, especially in large cities.  For others of us, though, it's fraught with economic ambivalence and the perils of decision-making -- something we do for necessity, not for recreation.  Occasionally, in the right company, I can be persuaded to indulge in a brief bout of retail therapy; for the most part, however,  shopping does not provide the hyacinths that feed my soul.  Making art and/or music are worthy passions, and ones I'd like to be able to pursue more, but don't really have the venues right now -- a class, a choral group, others to create with.  Cooking is wonderful -- it does feel both creative and nourishing on multiple levels.  But this is something else. 

I had thought at one point, more than a year ago, to try to collect a writers' group around me.  I joined a group formed by someone else, but it fell apart with amazing speed.  Something always came up for someone -- or for several someones -- and the whole project just quietly faded away.  I hope someday to have a writers' group, and to have time and space to write about many things:  food, education and its politics, literature for young people, adult fiction perhaps.  For now, however, this works well.  I love writing here, and I love reading comments and responding.  I like the fact that I feel some obligation to post regularly, but that I don't have to meet a deadline or be pressured in any way.  This is a good way to begin. 

As for celebrations -- I've been doing quite a lot of that lately.  And the fact that public schools are closed this week means that my days are free, although I'll have to attend a meeting and teach a grad class tomorrow.    And that, my friends, means Time, blessed time for whatever I want -- which is celebration enough.  It's so breathtakingly precious to have some days to myself.  Today I cleaned out a few kitchen cabinets, straightened up some areas of ongoing cumulative mess and took a damp cloth to bits of grime on walls and fixtures.  I was rewarded with the smug virtuous feeling that comes to those of us who are not cleaners by nature when we actually get off our nether regions and do something.  God knows I'd rather be cooking.  And doing other things.  Later in the week we might actually go see a movie, hallelujah.   

Yesterday was certainly a celebration of time to do what we will.  G and I went for a long, beautiful snow walk in Central Park.  I wanted to experience The Gates first hand, rather than just in passing.  G can't stand them -- not his kind of art.  To him they feel like an obstruction, an intrusion.  And although I think the scope of the project is heraldic and rather glorious, I could see his point.  At one point we wandered into a ravine where there were no bright safety-orange Gates.  We followed the little stream that flows through the park, trickling over rocks and through old natural stone bridge tunnels designed by Vaux and Olmsted.  We saw one cardinal, then several.  I pointed out the differences between the male and the female.  We realized that we were actually surrounded by cardinals -- and then we saw a downy woodpecker, right there in the middle of our city of eight million people.  Perhaps one of the lessons of the Gates is that we'll appreciate the spine-melting beauty of our park even more once they're gone. 

Earlier in the day I had made the delightful Cardamom-Cinnamon Buns posted by the extraordinary Moira over at Who Wants Seconds? (Her photo of these buns, by the way, is up for  Does My Blog Look Good In This?  Check it out.)  I won't post my own photo of them, since both the actual buns and my picture of them are to Moira's what The Crackers are to The Gates.    

In any case, the buns are quite, quite delicious, especially after a cold snow walk, especially with a cup or so of rich hot chocolate made with whole milk, a soupçon of cream, bittersweet chocolate and good cocoa...and topped with no less than 3 marshmallows per cup.  We knew we could have that many, because we deserved them.  The woodpecker and the cardinals told us so. 

The Remains of the Cake(s), Part II

"A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman's birthday but never remembers her age. "
    --Robert Frost

Don't say you weren't warned.  The birthday continued...and continues.  Let's just hope the aging process doesn't proceed at the same hectic pace as the celebratory events.

Here's the cake they had for me at work the day after my birthday.    Why? you ask, and rightly so.   Didn't they just give you that cake with the pink flowers that you posted about on your actual birthday?  Are you so special that your workmates simply had to have another cake in your honor? 

Well, no.  It's just that I have several workplaces.  Four, to be exact.  And yes, I go to all of them every week.  On different days.  There are days when I go to two of them.  I often have to remind myself where I'm going, and what subway I need to take, especially if it's early in the morning.   I drink a lot of coffee; trust me, I need it. 

At a couple of my workplaces they probably wouldn't care if I were giving birth in front of them, much less having a birthday.   But at one of the public schools where I consult, and  at my home base, an education institute at one of the city's colleges, cake was duly provided, along with sincere good wishes.    I felt the love, and I have to say, it's nice when people A) remember you and B) celebrate you.

Here's a piece of the glorious chocolate-espresso cake with caffe latte cream made by my friend Ernestine, who is to be found commenting as "Ernie" with some frequency on this blog.  The loyalty of friends is a beeyooteeful thing.

This cake was served at my friend Andrea's house on Saturday, where she hosted a dinner at which four of us all cooked different dishes from Nigella's latest book, Feast.   Everything, and I mean everything, was delectable.  Andrea made Pork Cinghiale, Heather made Maple Parsnips, Ernie made Parma Ham Bundles as well as the cake, and I made Daisy Saatchi's Potato Patties and Green Fattoush Salad -- a fantastic dish, I've made it four times now, gotta blog about that later.

Although there were no candles, Ernie assured me that this "counts" as one of my birthday cakes, and so I'm permitted to post it here.   The recipe is of course in Feast, in the "Chocolate Cakes Hall of Fame" section (the book is worth it for that chapter alone).  Ernie swears it's dead easy, and I know I'm going to have to give it a shot, because it was absolutely wonderful -- one of those dense-yet-light chocolate cakes, laced with coffee and coffee liquer flavors.  I took some home with me, as well as the fabulous caffe latte cream served with it, and plated it all up for your delectation on one of my prized Limoges limited edition Jean Cocteau dessert plates.    I tried to make sure that both a good portion of the drawing and Jean's signature were visible.  Hence, my food photography suffered a little.  But patience, patience, I'm still in the learning stages here.   

On Friday, my darling girlfriends Adrienne and Marcela took me out to dinner at Ravagh Persian Grill, my pick.  Rumor has it that there's no good Persian food to be had in New York, and judging from my last dinner at Persepolis, I would have agreed.  But Ravagh was delightful, both in service and in food.  Warm pita bread was brought to the table with a plate of radishes, butter, onions and fresh mint.  We had marvelous appetizers (Sanbusek, like samosa stuffed with chick peas, served with coriander chutney; Mirza Ghasemi, a wonderful warm eggplant dip), delicious mains (perfect kebabs; sparklingly fragrant Persian rice and sumptuous Fesenjan, chicken with pomegranate and walnuts), ta-dig upon request (a uniquely Persian delicacy:  crisp rice from the bottom of the pot, covered with a savory stew or gravy), and a delectable sort of baklava made of pistachio paste for dessert.   (I apologize for the lack of pictures here...but I don't have the moxie to carry a camera into a restaurant and take pics of my food.  That will have to wait until for an actual digital camera, since I'm still using G's video camera set for stills.  That thing is way too big for nice incognito shots.)

The girls gave me presents and we had laughs, and went out looking for a bar afterward in the bitter, bitter cold.  I won't tell you of our misadventures at Dewey's Flatiron, but perhaps it's enough to say that the dominant ethos of the place can be summed up by their phone number, 212-696-BEER.  Shortly thereafter we were lucky enough to find ourselves in the neighborhood of  the Bread Bar, which is the downstairs of Danny Meyer's lovely restaurant Tabla.  (At some point, I'll post about this restaurant at length, since it's one of G's and my absolute favorites in all NYC.)   We came in shortly before closing and were nonetheless treated like visiting royalty by the bartender and the line cooks who work the open kitchen behind the bar.  The bartender made me a special drink, since I wanted something hot -- chai latte with brandy, which was both comforting and seductive, like a hot spicy milk punch.  And when Marcela blurted to one of the flirting chefs that it was my birthday, he gave us a remarkable dessert -- a Jaipuri ginger pudding topped with whipped cream and lots of crunchy, ginger-toasted pistachios.  Creamy, spicy, crunchy...all I can say is I'd give a lot to be able to figure out how to make those pistachios.    Finally got poured into a taxi, and got home without any mishaps.  Nothing like a night out with the girls. 

Still to come:  Dinner with some more girls, this time for Moroccan food and a special dessert-themed side trip!  And dinner with my brother at the Modern, Danny Meyer's new restaurant in the Museum of Modern Art, with chef Gabriel Kreuther at the helm.  That one may take a while...I think our rezzie is a little way off, since it's kind of a hot ticket at the moment. 

Don't touch that dial.

IMBB 12: Yes, We Love No Banana Cake

"To understand the true quality of people, you must look into their minds, and examine their pursuits and aversions."
    - Marcus Aurelius

What does experimenting with IMBB 12:  Food Taboos reveal about our own "true qualities" ?  What do our taboos or dislikes have to tell us about ourselves?  In my case, I think the jury's still out.  In any case, kudos to Carlo of my latest supper for hosting this unusual edition of everybody's favorite food meme. 

This is my first IMBB, since my blog isn't even a month old.  I've got to admit that the theme is quite a challenge.   At first I thought about experimenting on my heart's companion, the enigmatic yet loveable G.   I thought about all the things he doesn't like to eat.  But short of torturing him with an onion-olive-avocado-mushroom sandwich (I know, it sounds good to me too), I couldn't come up with a suitable experiment.  And I didn't even want to try to get him to agree to it.  He probably would have eventually; he's very good-natured.  But he puts up with a fair amount, and does a lot of dishes, so I figured I'd let him off the hook.    His suggestion was that we trick my vegetarian sister-in-law into eating meat, and even offered to help.  I gently explained that hoodwinking someone into eating a taboo food was not exactly the spirit of the idea. 

So I had to go with something I wouldn't like.  I've done unusual meat -- I've eaten guinea pig in Peru, etc.  I hate offal, but I simply couldn't get myself to go find a butcher that would provide me with brains or kidneys (not to mention the risk of prions, mad cow, etc).  I figured that even if I could bring myself to actually buy the stuff, I  would then spend a lot of time trying to find an appealing  way to cook this awful offal.  I would still hate it, G would hate it, and we would end up wasting time, money and effort since the repugnant resulting dish could only end in the trash. 

There are not a lot of foods that I hate.  I'm a pretty brave taster, and am willing to go with unusual combinations and try new things.  There's just one sort of nice, homey, everyday food that everyone else seems to like, but which I simply loathe. 

Banana cake or bread:  I just hate it, I don't know why.  I don't hate bananas.  I'm fond of them in cereal or yogurt; I love chocolate ice-cream with sliced bananas.  I even like some forms of cooked bananas -- sweet fried bananas or maduros are great, and I love Bananas Foster -- as long as there's no banana extract or banana liquor or anything that has that concentrated banana oil smell.   That's what gets me, that smell-taste of concentrated banana oil that you find in banana baked goods or banana-flavored items.  It just makes me want to gag.

But why not conquer this irrational abhorrence?  Then I could join the happy hordes of those who rave over Nigella's banana bread.  I could go to bake sales without a surgical mask.  I could attend my graduate class end-of-term potlucks without having to pretend to eat some hapless student's banana loaf, proudly shown off and generally described as a treasured family recipe which is then offered to me.  I usually make polite, non-committal noises, hoping that my shudders are not noticeable while thinking that it would be really sad if they were trying to bump up their grades this way.

While not exactly a phobia or maybe even a true taboo, it seemed to me that an antipathy like this fit the necessary criteria for the challenge.  I decided that this would be my culinary bête noire to play with for IMBB.   I figured that at the very least, even if I hated what I made, G would eat it since banana baked goods are not one of his aversions.

I found a lovely recipe for Banana Maple Upside Down Cake, by that inimitably wonderful Aussie cook Bill Granger.  What's not to like?  I like upside-down cake.  I like maple syrup a lot.  I like bananas when they're not in cake.  Maybe if they were trapped in yummy maple-caramel they would taste like Bananas Foster and wouldn't pollute the cake part with the banana smell.  And at least it 's an easy cake; it wouldn't take too much time or work.

As you can see, I was making a sincere effort to set this up so that it might be something I'd like.  I was really trying to meet banana cake at least halfway.  But to be honest, I did have a sneaking suspicion about the outcome.   And there was a factor which only added to the trauma of cooking something I was pretty sure I wouldn't like.  Due to time constraints,  I was baking this cake on my birthday, when I would have much preferred to be baking the Chocolate Trianon Cake that Bakerina posted the other day. 

It came out perfectly well, the bananas glazed in their lovely maple coating.  The cake was light and beautifully risen.  I plated it with strawberries, crème fraîche and banana slices.  I took pictures. 

I hated it.  I hated it on my birthday, when I served it warm from the oven as Bill Granger suggests.  I ate an entire (albeit slim) slice, just to give it a fair chance.  I hated the smell of it yesterday, and I hated it tonight, when I cut a nice big wedge for G to have with his tea.    It has exactly that particular scent and flavor that I loathe about banana bread and cake. 

But the banana slices dipped in crème fraîche were absolutely delicioius. 

The Remains of the Cake

"You say it's your birthday?  It's my birthday too!"
             - John Lennon/Paul McCartney

This is what's left of the cake they got me at work today.  It was nice and spongy, filled with real custard and coated with real whipped cream.   The technicolor roses were fun too.

My birthday celebrations (which always seem to end up spanning a fairly long period of time, "like a Polish wedding" my mother used to say) began earlier in the week when some cousins took me out to dinner at a restaurant in their neighbohood, which, it turns out, always has a "foie gras special" on the menu.  So that was what I ordered, along with a spinach salad and a delightful glass of Sineann Pinot Noir from Oregon.  The foie gras was absolutely exquisite, served on a nice wintry celery root and apple purée with a pomegranate reduction: a great way to begin a birthday.

Today:  first there was the cake at work.  Then when G got home, he handed me this. That delightful chocolate-brown bag is always a good sign. 

Inside was this.

 

                 And inside that, was this. 

And now that we've just finished a dinner which may have been the best Thai food I've eaten in New York (Sala Thai, 1718 Second Ave. btw 89th & 90th Sts) , I'm going to eat it.   You can't see it in the not-so-good photo, but for such a tiny jewel of cake, it contains many layers of biscuit and mousse and ganache and apparently something raspberry as well. 

There are several other eating activities and baked goods that have apparently been planned for the next several days, so I'll probably have to do an ongoing birthday round-up to keep you posted on the debauchery.

Growing Up in the Kitchen or The Best Chicken in the World

"We learn from the company we keep."
    - Frank Smith, The Book of Learning and Forgetting

Each semester, I ask my graduate students, who are learning how to be schoolteachers, to write about a learning experience they had.  This is a prelude to thinking about how real, memorable, non-rote learning actually happens.  I ask them for a memory of learning which was not based on formal schooling; rather, they recount a time when they learned something easily and pleasantly, simply by being in the company of someone they wanted to be with.  And their memories are usually of someone who knew how to do something well and transferred that information to them.  When we go around the classroom and read these stories, I share too.  Almost invariably, my memory is about cooking with my mother.   Jennifer at Domestic Goddess provided the impetus for this post with her call for fond food memories.

I learned how to cook from my mother.  She didn't teach me; it was just one of our ways of spending time together.  She was a busy working mom; my parents had a small business and often worked six days a week and sometimes evenings in order to keep things going.  On Sundays, so, we would cook.  We laughed and played in the kitchen.  My mother was a woman of remarkable warmth, beauty and humor, and it was from her that I learned that it doesn't matter so much where you are when you're with your loved ones -- it's how you spend the time you have together.  My mother had tremendous political convictions, and was a merciless and gifted mimic.  So we had "important" discussions, shared jokes, and talked in funny voices, using our own family short-hand.  My brother, who is an excellent cook, was there with us in the kitchen much of the time too.  My father kibitzed from the doorway, asking us why we were adding various ingredients.  My brother and I used to call him "the backseat chef" since he almost never did any of the cooking, but simply enjoyed a bit of interference here and there. Often we made soups or stews, so that there would be food in the house for the week.  That way my parents could come home from work, relax a bit, and then together we would heat up the good things we'd made over the weekend, set the table, and have dinner, complete with daily doings, laughs, spirited arguments and ocassionally a doozy of a fight.

One of our favorites was a dish my mother called Potted Chicken and Meatballs.  It's not potted in the sense of a preserved meat, but rather gently simmered or braised, like a pot roast.  This is a homey, easy but somewhat time-consuming dish to prepare.  It gives great dividends, however, in its fragrant gravy, chicken as tender as mother-love, and delectable meatballs.  It was a perfect family meal for us, since my father wasn't fond of chicken, although he loved that gravy, which is perfect over mashed potatoes, rice or kasha.  Mostly he ate the meatballs, and we the chicken, with a meatball here or there for variety.   

One weekend when I was about 10, we went up to Massachusetts to visit my aunt and uncle, as we did several times a year.  You can imagine my surprise when my Aunt Emma pulled a big pot of chicken and meatballs out of the oven, a dish I thought unique to my mother.  My mom explained to me that she had learned the dish from my paternal grandmother, and that it was a family recipe, which is why my Aunt Emma, who was my father's sister, would make it too. 

My mother died more than three years ago.  She had a very good death; she knew she was dying, chose to have no further surgery and gathered us serenely around her hospital bed.  She told us that she had loved her life, and she wanted us all to love our lives.  Lucky, lucky us, to have such a benediction.   I missed her so intensely and so heart-breakingly that for a good while, I wore her clothes, her jewelry, and cooked dishes that reminded me of her almost every day, invoking her and keeping her as close as I could.  I asked my brother if he thought I was nuts to wear her clothes.  "No, " he said staunchly.  "If anything of hers would fit me, I'd wear it too."  And so a tearful moment turned around, as the image of my big brother wearing my tiny, elegant mother's clothes dissolved us in laughter.    I still wear her things and cook her food, but not quite so obsessively, for although I miss her without ceasing, I've come to understand something that a director of mine at my job told me during that time.  Crying in her office about 6 weeks later, I said "Marcie, when will I get over this?"  Marcie looked at me gently.  "You don't get over it.  You just get on with it." 

Not long ago I made a large casserole of Potted Chicken and Meatballs, and took it up to my father's apartment for a visit.  My brother was there too, and we all ate together.  My father smiled and patted my hand, happy for the visit and the familiar food.  My brother, who is an omnivore but lives in a pesce-vegetarian household, couldn't stop eating.  He eats meat in restaurants, but doesn't get a homemade chicken or meat dish all that often.   When the potatoes were gone, he went into the kitchen for bread to sop up more of the gravy -- a habit he usually avoids, since he's a moderate carb-watcher.  He grinned at me as he swished the bread around his plate.  "It tastes exactly like Mom's," he said, his eyes glistening slightly. 

Potted Chicken (and Meatballs):  An Heirloom Recipe

I sometimes make this without meatballs, just in the interest of time and not making more food than we're likely to eat in a few days.  But honestly, it's not quite the same.  The meatballs add a lot to the flavor of the sauce, and they're delicious in their own right, since they also benefit from their bath with chicken and gravy.   On the other hand, if I'm serving a crowd, want to bring some to my dad or I have freezer space, I double it.   It's definitely at its best a day or two after being made.

Out of curiousity, I've searched for similar recipes in Jewish cookbooks to see if I could find the provenance, but have never come across a recipe similar to this.  It's not uncommon to see the chicken and meatballs together, but they're usually in a tomato sauce or a "fricassee", whatever that is. 

These are estimated quantities; like all dishes one learns to cook by watching, I do this by feel rather than by quantities. Friends have made it using these measurements and were very pleased with the results. 

1 chicken, cut into 8 serving pieces
1/2 cup flour
salt and pepper
a little Bell's seasoning; any other herb or spice blends you like w/chicken
2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1 large or 2 medium onions, chopped
3 cleaned stalks celery, chopped (you can include some chopped celery leaves as well)
3 cloves minced garlic
2 shallots, minced
1 cup white wine
2 cups rich chicken stock
sprigs of fresh or dried thyme
1 bay leaf
other fresh or dried herbs to taste

Optional:  your favorite meatball recipe, made with about a pound of ground beef or turkey. 

Preheat the oven to 325F.

Mix flour with seasonings in a large bag; toss chicken in and shake until well-coated.  Heat  vegetable oil in a large sauté pan, and brown chicken well on all sides.  Remove to a dutch oven.  Sauté  chopped vegetables until soft and golden in the same pan as you did the chicken; put them in the dutch oven over the chicken.  Deglaze the pan with wine and stock; pour over the chicken and add herbs.  Make sure the chicken is almost covered with liquid; add a bit of water if necessary.  Cover, and cook in the oven for 1 1/2 to 2 hours.  Check every so often.  You want to achieve chicken that's incredibly tender, almost falling off the bone but not disintegrating, in a rich aromatic gravy.

If you want meatballs:  Once you've put the chicken up, make a batch of meatballs with about a pound of ground meat, using your favorite recipe.  Roll them into golf ball sized balls, brown them lightly, just enough so they'll hold together, and put them in the dutch oven to cook along with the chicken. 

Serve with mashed, rice or my favorite, kasha varnishkas -- and a nice green vegetable and/or salad.
 

Flopovers

We love popovers.  I make them on the weekends with some frequency, using a recipe from a stained, beat-up copy of the Tassajara Bread Book -- vintage 70s.  I do everything right -- I mix the batter in advance and let it sit for a while in the fridge, like Martha says to, I heat the buttery super-greased muffin tins in the stove, I don't peek while they're baking (and that's the most difficult thing of all -- I'm an inveterate peeker, at least at baked goods).

And they always come out looking like this.   Notice the lack of puffy tops, and the big indentations in the middle.

They never look like this.  Notice the miniature air-balloon shape, the big puffy top, and the delightful fresh flowers in the background.

I'm convinced that it has to do with the lack of a popover pan.  I just bought a brand-new, heavy-duty muffin pan, hoping that that would provide the cure.  You see the results in the first photo. 

Why do I keep making them, you ask?  Because they're still absolutely delicious, despite their unlovely appearance.  They're light, airy, eggy -- everything you want in a popover.  Except the big puffy top, and the  mysterious empty inner space.  If you close your eyes, you'd swear you're eating a perfect popever. 

I'm open to any and all suggestions in the popover department. 

"The Gates": An Homage in Squash

The big excitement in town this weekend is the opening of Christo and Jeanne Claude's "The Gates" in Central Park.  Throughout the entire park along a great number of the paths and walkways, these huge doorways have  been erected, each with its flapping pleated curtain.  They're all the same color -- an extremely bright shade that's being referred to in the press as "saffron".  Trust me, it's not really saffron.  It's a brighter orange than saffron.  It's more like squash.  Only "squash" doesn't sound nearly as literary as "saffron" does, does it.  I know it looks somewhat  saffron-y in this photo, but it needs color correction (as do my own photos, I know.  I'm hoping to get a new camera soon;  meantime I'm using G's video camera). 

Of course "saffron" made me think about food.  What would I cook this weekend to honor the opening of "The Gates"?  I thought long and hard about risotto -- maybe a classic risotto milanese.  But that's yellow, a stubborn little voice kept saying.   These banners or curtains or whatever they are are orange, more like.   And I know that this isn't the first time I've seen this shade called saffron.  People used to refer to the Hare Krishnas' "saffron-colored" robes, and they were orange, like this.  But saffron itself is red, when it's in its little pistils or threads.  And then the food it flavors and colors turns yellow, certainly a deep, rich yellow if you use enough.  But I'm not sure I've ever seen anything flavored with saffron that was orange.  I know I'm belaboring this, but accuracy, thou art a gem.

I didn't go to the park yesterday, but I passed through it on the way to dance class, so I saw them for myself.  Everyone was talking about it in class, too.   One woman was wearing orange shorts in honor of it.  Another woman talked about how much she hated it, how they had taken over "her" park, and how imposed-upon she felt.  Another said "What a waste of 21 million dollars."  Apparently she didn't realize that the Christos are paying for it themselves, and that the revenue from all posters and other items for sale will be donated to Nurture New York's Nature.  It's also projected to bring many millions to NYC in the usual economic doldrums of the post-Christmas season.  Most others, however, said they thought it was great.  One woman brought a snippet of the actual fabric.  Turns out they were giving away little squares as part of the day's festivities (this we found out after she'd been accused of taking scissors into the park and stealing it).  Ahhh, New Yorkers.  We're so opinionated.  But so loveably opinionated.  At least we think so.  And if you don't agree, you know what you can do, don't you?

So I was able to verify from close-up range that the color of "The Gates" is definitely orange.  Judge for yourself -- here are some better pics.   And I decided to make squash, butternut squash to be precise.  I have a recipe for a purée that is loosely adapted out of one of those old Cuisinart manuals from the 70s.  It's one of those simple, never-fail, I-didn't-know-squash-could-taste-so-good kinda things.  As it turns out, it's more the color of the raw squash, or even the plain baked squash, that's close to the tone of "The Gates".  Once it got puréed with the other ingredients (especially the parsley, I think), its orangey-ness was toned down somewhat, and its final color was closer  to...saffron.

Butternut Squash "The Gates"

1 large butternut squash
2 good sized shallots
1/2 cup flat-leaf parsley
2 Tbsp. butter
2 Tbsp. crème fraîche
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat the oven to 400F.  Saw the squash in half lengthwise (use a decent knife and be careful of your fingers).  Scoop out the seeds from the cavities.  Cut the cavity bulb halves off the long solid neck pieces, and cut those pieces in two.  So you now have 6 chunks of squash.  Sprinkle them with salt and pepper.   Bake the squash chunks, cut sides down, on an oiled or buttered baking sheet, with a couple of splashes of water so that they steam a bit and don't get too dry.  The baking time will depend on the size of your squash.  Check after twenty minutes -- the round cavity pieces will be done long before the thicker stem ends, which will need at least 10 to 15 minutes more.  They should be very tender when you test with a knife -- the knife should sink right in (no, I'm not going to go any further with that phrase).  Let the squash cool a little while you do the next bit. 

Put the parsley and the peeled, halved shallots in a food processor fitted with the chopping blade.  Whiz them till finely chopped.  Peel the still-warm squash chunks (get all that skin off) and dump them into the processor on top of the chopped shallot-parsley mix.  Add butter, crème fraîche, salt and pepper, and whirr it all together until delightfully smooth.  At this point, you can eat it immediately, or remove it to a buttered casserole, top it with buttered crumbs, and bake it at your leisure.  Either way it's good stuff, being not only addictively tasty, but a luscious color as well and full of those good vitamins and things that only yellow-orange vegetables can give you.

This squash will be quite fetching tonight on a plate to be eaten with some extraordinarily delicious and crunchy oven-baked chicken adapted from a recipe by the late great Laurie Colwin (and if you haven't read Bakerina on the subject of Laurie Colwin, you must), and some very plain simple lovely palate-refreshing steamed green beans.    (Late-breaking news: and so it was...)